And I will not merely raise my voice; I will also take speech itself down into its deepest layers, where language is no longer a cry but becomes an act of deconstructing the catastrophe at its very core. What threatens Lebanon is not only political, nor even historical in the usual sense. It is an ontological threat: the threat that an entity might slip out of existence, not as a geographical space, but as a meaning.

Lebanon was never just a state. In its fragility, it was a radical experiment in making contradiction livable. It was a rare, perhaps unique attempt to hold together what normally cannot be held together: individuals, groups, tribes, sects, and ideas without reducing them; languages without erasing them; memories without wiping them out; and differences without turning them into permanent war.

What is collapsing today is not a system, but that very possibility.

If we are to name what is happening precisely, it is a shift from “being-with-others” to “non-being-together”: from the possibility of living despite impossibility, to the impossibility of living despite necessity.

Here lies the deepest danger: that Lebanon would fall not merely as a political failure, but as a universal announcement that the very idea of plurality has failed.

At its core, every entity rests on an unwritten agreement with time: that it will continue, not because it is strong, but because it is meaningful. Once it loses this meaning, time is no longer its ally; it becomes a force of disintegration.

Lebanon today is not only being destroyed but being emptied. Its meaning is being stripped away layer by layer until it becomes, in the end, a hollow shell, a name without reference, a place without necessity. This is more dangerous than destruction itself, because destruction reshapes what exists, while emptying erases it. And abandonment, the decisive concept here, is not a political event but an existential structure.

To abandon an entity means to strip it of the world’s recognition of its necessity. And recognition is not a courtesy; it is a condition of existence itself. Entities, like human beings, do not die only when they are killed, but when others stop seeing them.

Lebanon is now being pushed toward this form of death: a death by silent complicity, where everyone becomes a witness without memory. Yet the most horrifying part—and here the catastrophe reaches its peak—is not disappearance itself, but blindness to its consequences. When an entity of this kind disappears, it does not disappear alone. It pulls along with it an entire network of meanings it once carried. If Lebanon disappears, what will fracture is not only its borders; its disappearance will not be the end of a country, but the breaking of a hypothesis. And here, the world itself enters a deeper tunnel: a tunnel of lost alternatives.

In philosophy, it is said that the true catastrophe is not what happens, but what makes what happens seem necessary. Lebanon is approaching this threshold: its disappearance risks becoming, in the eyes of many, not a crime but an outcome; not a tragedy, but a “natural development.” And this is the final fall: when the ability to name evil as evil is lost. Therefore, the warning here is not only moral but also epistemological. It is directed at the structure of understanding itself: if it is not understood that what is happening in Lebanon is a final test of the impossibility of plurality, then the world will wake up too late—not to the ruin of a country, but to the shrinking of an entire horizon of human possibility.

This is the statement in its final form: Lebanon does not vanish as an entity, but as a point of resistance against nothingness. And if this point falls, what spreads will not be only ruin, but the belief that ruin is the only possible form.

Very well, very well, ladies and gentlemen.

What I am saying about Lebanon can be grounded philosophically at the edge of what is called being in the world. An entity like Lebanon is not merely an object among others, but an opening toward meaning. When this opening collapses, what occurs is not a mere change, but a closure of existence itself. Lebanon, in this sense, is not just a country, but a space of disclosure: a place where multiplicity can appear without being reduced. If this space closes, we do not lose a country, we lose a mode of being. Here the argument intersects with the idea of politics as appearance in the public sphere: catastrophe does not begin when a human being is killed, but when they are denied appearance, pushed into political nonexistence.

Lebanon is being driven today toward this form of disappearance: toward large-scale war, but more profoundly toward the fading of meaning, toward a silent exit from the stage of the world.

But to grasp the full gravity of this tragic abandonment, I must go further, to where ethics begins in the face of the other, and where abandonment is not mere neglect, but a rupture of the relation that makes a human being responsible for another.