They sat on their picnic chairs, music blaring, not a care, it seemed, in the world. The bronzed men are regulars on Beirut’s Corniche, a seafront boulevard that overlooks a rocky shore stretching for miles.

“Are you worried?” I called out to them from the broad sidewalk above.

“Do we look worried?” one shouted back, beaming with drinks in hand.

The residents of Beirut go to the Corniche to swim, to sun, to run, to bike, to stroll with the family, to enjoy the fresh air, a cool breeze and the beauty of the Mediterranean. As a student in boarding school here in the 1970s, my classmates and I regularly skipped lessons to cool off in the sea.

For a hot afternoon in August there were perhaps fewer people out than usual, but it was hardly abandoned. Life goes on.

War, rumours of war, unrest and violence have long loomed over Lebanon. People follow the news closely, analyse and passionately discuss the latest developments, but at the same time, try to stay calm and carry on.

I was in Lebanon in April 1975 when the civil war broke out. It began in fits and starts – a week of fighting followed by a truce and a few weeks of quiet only to broken by another spasm of violence. As time went on, the periods of fighting grew longer, the pauses shorter and shorter. Even then, the war was localised. People went about their business just a few blocks away from street battles.

Since last October, following Hamas’s surprise attack on Israel, Lebanon has been on an emotional rollercoaster. Fear of war spikes, then plummets, only to spike again. Now the danger of full-scale war between Hezbollah and Israel, and perhaps a regional war, has never been greater.

Yet there is no sense of real panic in Beirut.

Whatever preparations that could be made for the worst – stocking up on non-perishable goods, fuel, medicine, etc, was done long ago.

“What do we need to do that we haven’t done already?” asked Ramzi, a friend explaining why there isn’t a rush on stores or petrol stations or pharmacies.

Yet the skyrocketing tensions are having an effect. Summer is normally when hundreds of thousands of Lebanese expats come home to reconnect with family, spend money and have a good time. Despite the spectre of war, the summer tourism season started off well. In June, restaurants and hotels were crammed. Within the past two weeks, however, all that changed. Looming over everything was fear of a repeat of the Israeli airstrike on Beirut’s airport at the start of the 2006 Hezbollah-Israel war. Hotels and restaurants have emptied as the summer visitors rush for the exit.

Embassies have been sending out messages to their nationals to leave while flights are still available and the airport is still open. Several airlines have already suspended flights to Beirut.

If the threat of war weren’t enough, for the past five years Lebanon has been in the grip of a profound economic crisis. In late 2019, the once famed Lebanese banking sector crashed as a government-designed pyramid scheme, which attracted depositors with unreal interest rates, suddenly collapsed. Soon afterwards the Covid-19 pandemic shut the country down and, on 4 August 2020, Beirut was rocked when 2750 tonnes of highly volatile ammonium nitrate exploded in the port, killing more than 200 people and laying waste to several neighbourhoods in the east of the city.

One brutal shock after another, yet there was no chaos. Society didn’t collapse.

The Lebanese are often praised for their resilience, the ability to somehow endure so much and still be able to savour life – good company, good food, good weather. But perhaps it’s not resilience, but rather resignation – if you can’t change the bad things in life, at least enjoy the good things.

Last Sunday, thousands of people marched from Martyrs Square at the heart of Beirut to a highway overlooking the port, a protest marking the fourth anniversary of the blast, an anniversary of sorrow and anger.

Liz Nicholas, a therapist, moved to Dubai, but comes back every year to take part in the August 4 protests, to voice her frustration with the political elite.

“We have been trying to get them out of the government for so long,” she told me. “They don’t represent me. I don’t think of them as my government or my leadership. They just exist.”

Most of the marchers I spoke with oppose Hezbollah, have no desire for war with Israel.

But there is no unanimity here. Some hate the Iranian-backed group, others are ardent supporters.

In a crowded hall in Beirut’s southern suburbs, hundreds of people attended a ceremony to mourn Israel’s assassination of senior Hezbollah military leader Fouad Shukr. As they waited for a speech – broadcast from a secret location – by the group’s leader Hassan Nasrallah, I spoke to a man in the audience.

“The message, take it to the world,” he told me. “If you kill a leader, every kid is a leader!” He picked up the boy in his lap, perhaps 3 years old, and thrust him in front of the camera, his voice rising. “You got the answer you’re searching for? We are undefeatable! We are Hezbollah!”

Samer Othman works at Beirut’s airport, but on this day he’s walking shirtless down the Corniche.

Are you worried about war? I ask him.

“The country is used to problems and shocks,” he says, “We can’t live in fear. Fear only prevents you from living. It won’t prevent death.”