In February 2025, I documented the funeral of Hassan Nasrallah in Beirut. His death marked a major shift in Lebanon and the region, drawing massive crowds into the streets of the capital.
Southern Beirut was packed with mourners. Black banners hung from buildings, and Nasrallah’s face was everywhere—on posters, flags, and balconies. Chants filled the air, and the crowd moved as one behind the coffin draped in Hezbollah’s yellow flag. Some wept, others raised their fists.
The ceremony took place in a packed stadium, heavily secured by armed Hezbollah fighters. As the speeches went on, the deep roar of fighter jets suddenly cut through the air. At first, I thought it was part of the display—a show of strength or a symbolic gesture. But then I saw the reaction of the people around me. Some flinched, others ducked instinctively, and for a brief moment, panic spread through the crowd. It was an Israeli flyover. The tension was visible in every face, even among Hezbollah's own security.
A second flyover came later, lower and louder. This time, no one mistook it for anything else. The message was clear—a reminder of power, a warning. Yet the ceremony continued. Grief turned into defiance, and chants against Israel grew louder.
The funeral wasn’t just about mourning a leader—it was a moment that exposed the deep fractures and uncertain future of Lebanon.
