"Blackened machinery, smoke, shattered glass and fallen cement were the only signs left of the raging inferno that engulfed the Jamhour power plant the night before. A few civil-defense personnel walked around in a haze".

“This is where a man burned to death,” a man said as he pointed to a huge converter that was still smoking. “And this is where another also met his fate.”

He had just finished picking up the dismembered parts of a colleague. Only a torn fireman’s jacket on the ground bore testimony to the firemen who had given their lives the night before. Early Friday morning, two blackened bodies were recovered.

Those who managed to escape the blaze were taken to nearby hospitals. “The "Israelis" knew we were in there,” said Danny Abu Daher, 22, as he lay bandaged in his bed at Sacre Coeur Hospital. “They’d already bombed the place twice. Like firefighters in their own country, we were only there to put it out and protect people. We don’t even carry weapons. Why do this to us?”

Abu Daher and his team were preparing to hose down the converters when the missile struck. “There was a sudden explosion and I was thrown to the side, my clothes just flew off,” he recalled. “I looked up to see two of my friends thrown into the fire. I started running, and then I saw Daniel just standing in the middle of everything in shock.”

Daniel Habib, 26, lay in the next bed. “Everything just stopped,” he said. “I felt my back burning but I didn’t know if it was or not. I couldn’t move. It was like I was frozen.”

Abu Daher hauled him to an ambulance. Habib’s back, it turned out, was indeed on fire.

In the next room, Michel Meshreq, 23, shook his head. “I don’t remember anything,” he said. “The last thing I remember doing is preparing to water down the area. I saw a light and remember running. The next thing I knew I was in hospital.”

Hilal Kheireddine, 24, was silent, a piece of shrapnel lodged in his vocal cords.

“Please save my husband, oh please do something,” cried Therese Boutros. “He’s sacrificed so much to save others. I beg you, help him now.” Her husband Kamel, 45, and 51-year-old Anwar Moughabbat ­ the squad leaders ­ remain comatose. Boutros was to pick up his daughter, who he hasn’t seen in three years, from the airport that afternoon.

All the wounded were visited earlier in the morning by President Emile Lahoud.

Meanwhile, officials had just informed a mother in Ras al-Nabaa that her only son, Wissam Shaaban, had burned to death.
A disheveled Badira Shaaban ran into the street. “My son, my son,” she screamed as she ran toward the mosque where funeral prayers were underway. “I want to see him. Oh, God, how could you do this? He’s only 22 years old. It’s too early.”

Relatives tried to hold her back, but she broke away and ran after civil-defense ambulances. “May God strike down the "Israelis",” she cried.

Despite several attempts at restraining her, Shaaban made her way through the crowd to the Basta cemetery.

“I want to see him, I want to see my baby’s face,” she continued to yell as chants of “Allahu Akbar” rose from the funeral procession made up of firemen carrying the coffins of her son and another civil-defense member, 49-year-old Talal Diyya.

But since Wissam’s face was burned beyond recognition, her request was refused.