by Kim Ghattas, reporter, Beirut, 4 October 2005

I had been filing on the story for more than 24 hours, almost non stop, before the enormity of what had happened hit me.

Lebanon’s former prime minister Rafik Hariri had been killed in a huge blast the day before, along with another 20 people – the worst political crime this small, troubled country had seen since the assassination of president Renee Moawad in 1989, in the final years of Lebanon’s civil war.

I had landed in Beirut an hour after the huge plumes of smoke started rising above Beirut, returning from a 10-day trip to Saudi Arabia, where I had been covering the first landmark municipal elections and an international conference on terrorism.

The minute I heard what had happened, still on the tarmac of Beirut airport, I knew that for months to come Beirut would no longer be the quiet but trendy base that, for the past four-and-a-half years, I had used mostly to rest in between trips to other parts of the Arab world.

Thanks to my Lebanese passport, I have travelled to opaque, slightly inaccessible countries, such as Iraq under Saddam and Syria.

A one person show

But back to Beirut on February 14. From the minute I sat down at my desk in my makeshift BBC bureau (my flat’s dining room) I filed relentlessly, racing from the office, where I was doing radio on the satellite phone, to the bomb site where all the live tv cameras were located.

Being the Beirut stringer for the BBC is a one-person show and without a producer or assistant, juggling between radio and tv on breaking stories can be a challenge.

But there’s always the reward of a fabulous meal after a day’s work in the food capital of the Middle East.

After surviving for a day and a half on coffee, crackers and tinned baby potatoes, (my fridge was empty after two weeks away), I finally had a few minutes to call my favourite restaurant to order some home delivered food.

The Lebanese speciality eatery is open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. But when I called them the day after the assassination there was no answer.

I rang back several times before it suddenly dawned on me that the three days of mourning declared in Lebanon were actually, unusually being observed – the country had simply shut down.

Raining bombs

Beirut is the city that never sleeps, where almost everything, from dry-cleaned clothes to three course meals, can be delivered at home at all hours of the day; a country where doing business is a way of life.

Even when it was raining bombs during the civil war, you could still nip out to buy smoked salmon at a delicatessen shop.

It was hard to believe that anything could bring Lebanon to a halt, but the assassination of Mr Hariri changed this country deeply.

Of course it also changed the way we cover Lebanon and I have travelled little in the last six months.

Covering the massive anti-Syrian street demonstrations, the landmark Syrian troop pull out and continuing political assassinations, has left little time to book plane tickets.

We’ve probably had more tv coverage of Lebanon in the last six months than the last six years.

The BBC has become, more than ever before, a source of valuable information for people here but also for millions of Lebanese who live abroad.

Never have I seen so many BBC colleagues in Beirut. I have greatly enjoyed meeting them all but especially enjoyed taking them to all the great restaurants in town.

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