Once, Lebanon was known for the blue of its sea, the green of its olive groves, and the red of its tiled rooftops. Today, our eyes have grown accustomed to a far harsher palette: the terrifying flash of orange that seizes the horizon, followed by suffocating clouds of concrete-gray dust that swallow everything in sight.
Perhaps writing about Lebanon today is no longer merely an attempt to describe the Israeli war. It is also an attempt to understand what these years have done to people’s relationship with life itself. Successive crises and wars have not only destroyed buildings; they have also corrupted people’s ability to notice beauty in the everyday and to see life in all its colors. It is as though a country once defined by its vitality and diversity has gradually been confined to a narrow spectrum, one shaped by a growing familiarity with devastation.
Amid war, recurring explosions, and relentless crises, life is no longer measured solely by what happens but by the speed at which it happens. Time itself has become exhausting. The pace at which the world races from one event to the next often outstrips our ability to slow down, find calm, and appreciate the richness and nuance that life has to offer. It is as if every moment pushes us forward without pause for reflection, leaving us trapped in a constant state of reaction to a harsh reality rather than living a human experience open to depth, complexity, and color.
In the visual and digital world, millions of shades exist between black and white. For generations, Lebanese people used them to express their identities, emotions, and ways of life. Color was woven into the fabric of the Lebanese landscape, reflecting a society rich in movement and diversity: from the hues of nature to boldly painted homes and cars, from vibrant storefronts to flowers hanging from balconies and window sills.
Today, the phrase “Your rooftops are red, your roads are green” feels as though it is gradually fading into black, grey, and white. Israeli airstrikes have not only destroyed buildings; they have also stripped Lebanon of its ability to live in color. Under the weight of fear and exhaustion, many Lebanese seem to have lost something of their appetite for color, gravitating instead toward tones that mirror the fatigue and uncertainty of their reality.
When we think of Lebanon’s villages and rural landscapes, we imagine a canvas filled with vivid colors: stone facades, old houses, the red-tiled roofs that give buildings their distinctive character, green olive groves, and clear blue skies. This image has long been part of Lebanon’s identity, shaping both its collective memory and cultural heritage.
But as the country became trapped in cycles of conflict, those colors began to change. The red of rooftop tiles gave way to the grey of rubble. The green of fields darkened into the black of scorched land. The blue of the sky was obscured by smoke. The world’s attention shifted to the orange flash of explosions captured by the camera, followed by the familiar images of dust, ash, and destruction.
Color is not merely a visual element; it also carries psychological weight. Through color, living beings distinguish themselves, and human societies, in particular, have built cultures and sensory worlds rich in meaning and symbolism. Entire bodies of thought have explored the significance of color, perhaps most famously in Theory of Colors by the German poet and thinker Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
Goethe associated orange with warmth, vitality, and joy. Who could have told him that, in Lebanon, that warmth would come to resemble fire, and that joy would begin to feel more like a curse? A color once linked to energy and optimism has been transformed into a flash of light that many fear may reach them before they can find shelter.
As for green, Goethe viewed it as a color born of the balance between yellow and blue, one that evokes harmony, calm, and contentment. Who could tell him of the anxiety many Lebanese now feel whenever they look upon a stretch of green that may soon be lost? Or of the sorrow that comes with watching those landscapes gradually darken, their vibrant hues giving way to a suffocating and deadly blackness?
As Lebanon’s colors continue to fade, the only ones many Lebanese seem to engage with today are the blue glow of a phone screen, the red of evacuation alerts, and the green of WhatsApp messages confirming that loved ones are safe. It is as though the colors of life have been reduced to this harsh triad, no longer symbols of joy or ordinary human connection, but signals of survival, anxiety, and waiting.
Recently, many people around the world have become fascinated by comparisons between life in the 1990s and life today. Images from that era often show homes painted in cheerful colors that seemed to reflect their inhabitants’ personalities, along with furniture that brought warmth and character to a space. Even cars came in bold shades that conveyed vitality and carried deeper emotional associations.
Today, by contrast, many cities appear to be drifting toward a colder, more subdued palette: uniform concrete buildings, grey facades, and blue-tinted glass windows that reflect the sun with a sterile coolness. Even cars increasingly seem to come in just two default colors, black or white.
If colors truly express identity and emotion, has the world become so burdened by sadness that black now dominates the landscape? Has it become so emotionally depleted that white has taken over? It is as though globalization, rather than bringing people closer while preserving their differences, has succeeded in standardizing the world’s appearance, stripping away some of the striking diversity that once gave it character and richness.
Lebanon is not immune to this trend, but its reality is far harsher. Instead of rows of grey buildings, rubble is everywhere, to the point that it becomes difficult to tell which fragments belonged to which home. Everything collapses into a single indistinguishable mass: scattered chunks of concrete and walls stripped of the colors, identities, and memories they once carried.
The Lebanese landscape has shifted from a vibrant mosaic shaped by diversity to one defined by the traces left behind by crises and war, dust, debris, and endless repetition. Colors no longer speak only of life; they speak of what remains after it has been shattered.
But perhaps more troubling than the transformation of the landscape is our growing familiarity with it. This is where the concept of the Overton Window becomes relevant. It describes how ideas, images, or realities once considered unacceptable, extreme, or even unthinkable can gradually move into the mainstream and become normalized through repetition.
This is how the eye becomes accustomed to orange and grey. The colors of explosions pass as just another daily headline, while rubble becomes part of the ordinary scenery. And when that happens, we are no longer just losing colors. We begin to lose sight of something deeper: the human right to live a dignified life, one rich in nuance and variety, vibrant with the energy and joy people once took for granted. A life that exists beyond black, white, and grey, and embraces every possible shade in between.
