“It’s like an apocalyptic world,” Sydney-born Yasmin Kassis describes. “You can’t fathom the despair and destruction.”

Kassis, an English teacher, is one of thousands of Beiruti residents who have been on the streets, cleaning the shopfronts and homes devastated by Tuesday’s blast. “When people have lost their homes and families, you don’t think twice. You do what you can.”

In the face of such catastrophic ruin, the only option local residents had was to help. Horrific scenes of carnage on 4 August have given way to an enormous display of humanity’s strength, strangers shoulder to shoulder beginning the daunting task of renewal.

For Melbourne-born Alia Melki, that urge to help hit her as immediately as the blast itself.

“I came to my apartment to see the damage. All the windows were broken, the doors blown up,” she says. “I said to myself, I can’t see this anymore, there’s nothing I can do here, I’m just going to go to the hospital to give blood and see how I can help.”

The earth-shattering explosion, caused by the unsafe storage of 2,750 tonnes of ammonium nitrate at Beirut’s port, damaged every part of the city of 2 million people. The blast flattened the neighbourhoods closest to the port, such as Gemmayze and Mar Mikhael – tourist hotspots and the heart of Beirut’s famous nightlife, now as haunting as Stalingrad. Within these neighbourhoods lies the ravaged home of award-winning Lebanese-Australian journalist Rania Abouzeid.

“I’m still in a state of shock. I can’t tell what some of the things are in the photos, what they once were. It’s just a mess.” Abouzeid was in Melbourne at the time of the blast, relying on relatives to send photos of the destruction.

“The damage is extensive, like all the other apartments in the area. Glass was blown out … blown out with such a high velocity that there are shards of glass embedded in some of my furniture, almost dagger-like,” she says.

The latest death toll stands at over 150 but is expected to climb. Among them is one Australian, with as many as 300,000 made homeless. The devastation has profoundly touched Australia’s 250,000-strong Lebanese community, with the immediate sense of despair now transitioning to a desperate urge to assist.

“The passion is there and so is the willingness to help,” Rebecca Maakasa, a 23-year-old Melburnian, says. Confined at home due to Victoria’s lockdown, Maakasa has taken to social media to connect with others in the Lebanese diaspora across the world and offer assistance however she can.

“The way we have been connecting is through Slack, getting visuals out on social media to attract people’s attention, and direct people in a very structured way as to how they can help,” she explains.

With Covid-19 restrictions preventing Lebanese Australians from holding in-person activities, such as fundraising events and protests, local activists like Maakasa are relying on Instagram and Facebook to generate support.

“Social media has been very important – pages connected to diaspora networks create a ripple effect, which helps spread the word and mobilise the Lebanese diaspora across cities and continents.”

Much of that support is being directed virtually to a grassroots online fundraising drive based in London. Impact Lebanon has raised over £5m (A$9m) since it launched its disaster-relief fundraiser immediately after the blast.

“Our initial goal was £10,000. It’s just amazing to see how much traction it got,” Diana Abbas, director of Impact Lebanon, says.

Many of these diaspora networks, including Impact Lebanon, emerged following mass anti-government protests in Lebanon in October 2019. The protests inspired Lebanese abroad to get involved, prompting would-be activists to connect virtually and volunteer.

“We started with 10-12 members, now we have 160 members and so many volunteering requests,” Abbas says, adding that the membership has spread to diaspora communities in numerous countries, including Australia.

Worldwide pandemic lockdowns have only made it easier for Lebanese expats to coordinate. “With all of us getting used to working on Zoom and Slack, it’s become easier to work with people from different cities.”

Diaspora aid to Lebanon is meticulously processed to avoid funds falling into the hands of government officials and intermediaries accused of corruption, with support being sent directly to vetted NGOs, such as the Lebanese Red Cross. That concern was also reflected in the Australian government’s own pledge of $2m this week, with foreign minister Marise Payne announcing the money would be evenly split between the UN World Food Programme and the Lebanese Red Cross.

Taxpayers can be assured their money won’t end up in the pockets of corrupt officials, according to Lex Bartlem, who served as Australian ambassador to Beirut between 2010 and 2014.

“In my time there, Australia gave millions [to aid efforts in Lebanon],” he says, explaining that Australian funds are transferred directly through the head offices of UN agencies or humanitarian organisations.

“My understanding was that the relevant agencies would report back to Australia, either through our UN office in Geneva or New York, how they spent that money, and the government would see that as being accountable to the Australian taxpayer,” he says.

The former ambassador is no stranger to Lebanese corruption, having fielded astonishing requests from Lebanese officials in his time there seeking Australian aid money for self-fulfilling purposes.

“A former minister once asked me, ‘hasn’t the Australian embassy got a little aid budget?’ I asked what for, he said he wanted to put new street lighting on his street.” Bartlem says that request was one of many, which included a Lebanese politician seeking all-expense-paid trips to Australia. Surprised by Lebanese officials audaciously asking for Australian money for personal reasons, Bartlem refused to process their requests further.

“I wouldn’t even put the request through to Canberra that the Lebanese government wanted direct funding, because it would go nowhere.”

That level of overt corruption is only too familiar for ordinary Lebanese, who blame government negligence and mismanagement for the devastating blast. As the French president Emmanuel Macron toured the devastated scenes in Beirut on Thursday, a Lebanese woman could be heard urging the president to “not give money to the corrupt government.” Macron replied, “I guarantee you, this aid will not go to corrupt hands.”

Still, the enormity of the tragedy requires a monumental effort to rebuild the shattered city. With Lebanon’s economy in tatters, led by a government widely accused of corruption, international donors and diaspora networks are the only hope for desperate Beirutis facing a food shortage and lack of shelter.

“I’ve been a journalist for 20 years and I’ve covered some really tough stories, I’m no stranger to these sorts of violent upheavals, but this one feels different,” Abouzeid says. “The sheer scale of it, and that it sounds like it was completely avoidable. And that it happened because of incompetence and corruption.”

For thousands of Lebanese Australians residing in Lebanon, the opportunity to return to Australia at any point provides a psychological safety net. Will this be the catalyst that prompts the move home?

“I’m Lebanese Australian and I’m proud of both parts of my identity. I live in the hyphen between those two identities,” Abouzeid says, now en route to Beirut to salvage her home. “I will clean up, I will repair what I can repair, and then I’ll live there. I won’t be packing up.”

For Melki, staying in Lebanon isn’t simply about a place of residence, it’s about justice. “Knowing this much corruption gives me more reason not to leave Lebanon. I’ll work till the end to help save this country from this corrupt mafia government.”