I managed to sleep through last night, but the night before, I couldn’t catch a wink—and it wasn’t the first time I’ve stayed awake until dawn during the past fifty days. Ever since the nightly airstrikes began targeting the southern suburbs of Beirut, where I live on the outskirts, sleep has become elusive.

In the early days, I spent the nights pacing between my balcony, my phone, and the television, trying to pinpoint the sites hit by the airstrikes. The same images cycled through multiple channels and social media pages, accompanied by identical reports repeated across broadcasts. I stayed awake, alert, and on edge until the explosions ceased and daylight broke, signaling the end of one day and the start of another.

This exhausting routine couldn’t last forever. Over time, I developed a grim familiarity with the attacks—their sounds, timing, and aftermath. Gradually, I learned to manage the anxiety they caused. I found myself able to sleep, even while knowing that a strike could occur nearby at any moment.

I clung to the hope that my area would remain spared from direct targeting for the time being. This fragile sense of security allowed me to fall back asleep quickly, even when explosions woke me in the middle of the night. I trained myself to resist checking the news immediately and postponed that ritual to the morning, confident that no imminent threat loomed over me.

However, this fragile balance was disrupted in recent days. The airstrikes, which had been confined to nighttime, began to occur during the day. Initially, the skies over the southern suburbs buzzed only with reconnaissance drones, their incessant hum a constant reminder of surveillance. But soon, the Israeli warplanes returned, casting their fiery destruction onto buildings they claimed housed weapons, ammunition, or Hezbollah assets.

The daytime strikes brought new hardships. They robbed people of brief moments of rest and made it nearly impossible for displaced residents of Dahieh to return to their homes to retrieve essentials or simply reconnect with places filled with memories. Morning warnings from the Israeli army’s spokesperson, Avichay Adraee, instructed residents to evacuate specific areas in the southern suburbs, adding a new layer of fear. This was not common: In one instance, young men fired rounds of bullets into the air near the threatened sites, an improvised effort to warn anyone in the vicinity to leave immediately.

I had heard the gunfire several times before understanding its purpose. What helped me grasp its function was that, just two days ago, I benefited from it when I was on my way back home via a road that passes through the Ghobeiri area. I convinced myself that the chances of being hit by a missile while stuck in traffic in the city—due to the displacement—were higher than the chances of being targeted if I quickly cut through one of the bombed roads. I had convinced myself that a morning airstrike on the southern suburbs was unlikely.

This attempt at outsmarting fate almost led me into the target zone, which I wouldn’t have realized was being evacuated, had it not been for the bursts of gunfire. Since then, those bursts of gunfire would go off every time Avichay Adraee issued an evacuation alert on X (formerly Twitter), whether day or night. This is what happened two nights ago, disrupting my plan to escape the anxiety and insomnia and fall into a deep sleep that would ease the impact of the explosions on my ears and my psyche. Just as I fell asleep, I was awakened by a series of intense gunfire bursts at 1:00 AM. They continued, and I reluctantly got up to check the sites listed in the alerts. An hour passed before the airstrike finally ended, allowing me to return to sleep, only to be awakened by gunfire again at 3:00 AM.

This time, the gunfire was closer, more intense, and lasted longer. Thanks to it, I realized that one of the targeted sites was no more than 500 meters from my home. I rushed to open the windows and doors as wide as possible to avoid the glass breaking if the force of the blast was stronger than the windows could withstand. The airstrike didn’t happen until after 4:30 AM, and luckily, my windows survived. Only then was I able to sleep for a few hours, compensating for the sleepless night before.

Had it not been for the gunfire, I might have been able to return to sleep after the first strike, only to be woken by the second one, which was larger and closer, accompanied by the barking of neighborhood dogs and the sound of car horns. I might have had a stretch of sleep until 4:30 AM, which would certainly have been better than the sleepless night I endured. Despite everything, I feel nothing but gratitude towards those firing the shots.

I never imagined the day would come when I wouldn’t be angry about the stray bullets fired into the air. I used to be angered when they were shot in celebration or mourning. I resented them when they marked the appearance of a politician or a leader, seeing them as a danger to innocent passersby. But now, I’m grateful for them because they alert many people to the danger surrounding them.

For the first time, I see in these gunshots compassion, care, and a sense of responsibility toward others—like a protective, paternal instinct trying to shield people. I used to feel sorrow when I saw how the Israelis reacted when hearing sirens, lamenting that our people were left to fend for themselves. Those who weren’t connected to the internet or didn’t receive urgent news alerts had no way to protect themselves from the strikes. If they were hit, they would be counted among the collateral damage, their survival or death no different when calculating losses and victories.

The feeling of helplessness in the face of this disregard for people’s lives weighed heavily on me. That’s why the bursts of gunfire became an alternative to the sirens, showing that someone cared.

For all these reasons, I am grateful to the young men firing the shots because now, I, along with others, can finally let go of our phones, stop staring at our screens, and free our minds from the constant worry about the danger. We can surrender to sleep, reassured that there are those watching over us, ready to warn us if Avichay Adraee sends an alert about our areas—this sadistic figure with a broad grin that reveals how much he enjoys tormenting us by keeping us awake and denying us the peace of sleep.