I was eight years old when bloody and brutal conflict erupted in Lebanon, and 23 when the guns at last fell silent. The war was an unbearable nightmare for me, but was also - how could I deny it? - an excellent schooling in life lessons. Ernest Hemingway wrote that "any war experience is priceless for a writer". He was right. Without the war, I would have been another man. All my life I will undoubtedly regret not having had a peaceful childhood and having often seen death from too short a distance. But these regrets, these trials, have given me a new understanding of life.

In 1990, I thought war was finally over, that this nightmare would never come back and that Beirut would finally experiment with peace. I observed with joy my city being rebuilt, rising from its ashes, with a lot of hope in the future. I used to walk downtown, saying to myself that, yes, Beirut really is the last sanctuary in the east where people can dress up with freedom.

After the departure of Syrian troops last year I was happy to see freedom and democracy ruling again over the country, although the price paid for this victory was cruel - the martyrdom of former prime minister Rafiq Hariri and the assassination of two brilliant journalists, Gibran Tueni and Samir Kassir. Later, I was pleased to notice the satisfaction of tourists visiting the country, discovering its numerous archaeological sites, from Byblos, cradle of the alphabet, to the famous Roman remains of Baalbeck, and the enthusiasm of foreign investors willing to participate in the reconstruction process.

In the 60s, Lebanon was called "the Switzerland of the Middle East". Little by little, this was becoming a reality. But suddenly, a week ago, violence burst forth again. How and why, nobody knows. Is it the responsibility of Hizbullah, who decided solely, without any preliminary consultation with the Lebanese government, to provoke Israel? Is it the fault of Israel, which always retaliates mercilessly, without taking into consideration collateral damage? What we all know, at present, is that innocent people are being killed, that ports, airports, bridges and schools are being destroyed and that the "international community", if it ever existed, is washing its hands of us.

I look around and the streets are empty and full of rubble. Schools are opening their doors to host refugees coming from all around the country. People are asking when it is going to stop. I keep silent - the previous war lasted 15 years. Everybody has his or her own opinion, founded on some personal analysis or on rumours collected here and there. Some think that Hizbullah is heroic and is fighting for the Palestinian cause and for Arab honour. Others believe that Iran and Syria are using Hizbullah to divert attention from their own problems. Some think that Israel has decided to eliminate Hizbullah under the cover of enforcing United Nations resolution 1559, which calls for all militias to be disarmed.

People here think that the evacuation of British and French citizens means that the Israelis plan to escalate their attacks. They fear the worst. I hear sirens everywhere: ambulance crews and firefighters are the only people working today in this ghost town called Beirut. I close my eyes and old memories come back up to the surface. I remember the dull roar of the cannonade, shelters, snipers, barricades, and how my mum used to lie to me, pretending that explosions were fireworks. This transformed the noise of shells exploding above our house into a carnival.

Of course, when I grew up, I discovered the truth and felt a retrospective fright, stirred up by the awareness of my casual attitude towards shells. What should I tell my children now? Should I use the same lies to stop their fear? And how can I explain to them the indifference of the world? Is there a quota for the value of human lives, like on the stock market?

Last night, I asked myself whether Lebanon was a damned country. I read once in the Bible a terrible prophecy of Ezekiel about Tyre, a port in the south of Lebanon. It predicts that many nations will attack this city and that Tyre will be "scraped flat like the top of a rock". Then I remembered my father when 13 shells destroyed our house, all except for the cedar tree - the symbol of Lebanon - in the garden. When people visited him to express their sympathy, my father did not show any sadness. He used to say to them: "Yeah, but the cedar is still standing."

· Alexandre Najjar is a lawyer and one of the most famous living Lebanese writers. He recently published a literary memoir, The School of War (Telegram, 2006). He lives in Beirut.

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