There is fury in Beirut. But a writer who has been living in the city senses a second, different explosion: of determination that there can be no return to the status quo; and beside the anger, a strange serenity and a defiant hope

At first we thought it was Israeli jets. For two or three minutes, a low roar tore the air between the clouds, the sea and the mountains. People had come out on to their roofs and balconies and were facing the port, many of them filming with their phones. But we couldn’t see, the windows didn’t face that way – a fact that probably saved us.

“It’s a fire!” they shouted to us when we asked. They were grinning that uncontrollable grin of someone witnessing an awesome spectacle, in the literal sense of the word. “This is not what Lebanon needs,” I say to my friend Bashar. We’d been sitting in their Airbnb just 500 metres (under half a mile) away from the port, our feet up on the coffee table, ­having a cold beer. Bashar had just been telling me that he had left his job at a bar because his daily salary was now worth less than $7 (£5). His girlfriend Kate had popped out with their small dog to get some cigarettes. (Bashar and Kate are not their real names.)

Then there was a bang and a change in air pressure. The building vibrated slightly but perceptibly. “An oil tank?” I suggest. A few seconds passed in silence. Then a boom that was incomprehensibly loud filled the air, the walls seemed to implode and the whole building shook as if we were in an earthquake. We were on the seventh – and top – floor, and immediately rushed to the stairs. We thought the building would collapse, especially if there were to be another explosion. We joined other dazed people navigating their way down stairs strewn with broken glass and mangled window frames.