An uncanny silence enveloped Beirut following the relentless Israeli airstrikes that targeted the southern suburbs, a Hezbollah stronghold and home to hundreds of thousands of civilians. Hassan Nasrallah, the group's long-standing leader, was reportedly killed in the initial barrage, an event that set off nearly 48 hours of continuous bombardment. Alongside him, scores of top commanders and officials perished, and it is feared that many civilians also lost their lives.

More than a day after Nasrallah's remains were retrieved from the crater created by the devastating bombs, no funeral has been announced—a stark deviation from Islamic customs that emphasize swift burials. The delay in appointing a successor to the secretary-general role has confounded expectations of a swift transition plan, casting a shadow of doubt over Hezbollah's operational capabilities. The once-dominant Lebanese Shia militant group now seems to have vanished into thin air, its leadership and contingency plans seemingly decimated by Israel's precision strikes.

"Rumors of his death are baseless," insisted a tearful Hezbollah supporter named Hassan, leaning against his moped. "He will reappear and astonish us all." Abu Mohamad, a Shia man displaced from southern Lebanon to the streets of central Beirut, echoed a different sentiment: "Whether he lives or dies is irrelevant, for leaders like Nasrallah live on within us. We will continue his path and reclaim our homes."

Nasrallah's legacy elicits a spectrum of emotions in Lebanon, from adoration to abhorrence. Yet, all Lebanese are grappling with the seismic shifts in the nation's political landscape and the humanitarian crisis it has unleashed. Authorities estimate that nearly 1,100 lives have been lost and approximately one million people displaced by Israel's intensified campaign, a response to Hezbollah's rocket attacks that began on October 8, following Hamas's assault.

Lebanon's border villages have been emptied of around 100,000 residents due to Israeli retaliation. Despite this, Hezbollah remains committed to its rocket attacks until Israel's offensive in Gaza ceases. The southern suburbs, once bustling, are now in ruins, with the displaced seeking refuge in the affluent western parts of the capital.

The city's Corniche, a seaside promenade known for its Mediterranean views, is now lined with mattresses and blankets of the displaced. On the night Israeli bombs fell, west Beirut's streets were filled with people, some chatting on the curbs, others sleeping on benches, while children roamed in their pajamas through the parked cars.

In the commercial district of Hamra, a crowd gathered outside an abandoned building, bringing traffic to a standstill. A man pulled down an iron gate, allowing a tide of displaced people to seek shelter within. It was the early hours of the morning, and the news of Nasrallah's assassination, though unconfirmed, had left many of his supporters trying to maintain a brave face.

Days later, a sense of trepidation pervades. Many of the displaced have lost loved ones but have little time to mourn as they scramble for shelter and sustenance. Those untouched by the conflict must now navigate the uncertain future following Nasrallah's death and the loss of his senior cadre.

"The assassination of Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah has inflicted a deep wound on the heart of Lebanon," said the Patriarch of the Maronite Church, Bechara Boutros al-Rahi, during Sunday Mass. Despite his past criticisms of Hezbollah, Rahi condemned the "culture of death" that has brought only imagined victories and real defeats to the nation.

Even Nasrallah's Sunni adversaries have denounced the assassination. "This act has thrust Lebanon and the region into a new era of violence," stated Lebanon's former Prime Minister Saad Hariri. "We may have disagreed with Nasrallah, but Lebanon is a tent for all, and in these challenging times, our unity and solidarity are paramount."

Lebanon's intricate power-sharing structure often leads to internal strife and paralysis. Yet, Israel, viewed as an "enemy state," has historically united the divided nation, if only temporarily. Meanwhile, civilians seeking safety bear the brunt of this new conflict.

In central Martyr's Square, under a poster declaring "Beirut will not die," barefoot children covered in black dirt and families sleeping on straw mats are a stark reminder of the human cost. "We sleep on sidewalks because we have no choice," lamented Umm Fawzi, a woman from southern Beirut who fled with only the clothes on her back. "There was not a soul left in the neighborhood."