I hate pity. I hate this feeling wrapped in a hopeless, helpless sigh. It is a quiet thief. It slips in, uninvited, offering nothing but empty sympathy wrapped in resignation. Pity is tricky. It’s a hollow nod to defeat.

By Adriana Lebbos
It is also a presumption that the battle is over before the final word has been spoken. Pity doesn’t lift or move; it sits stagnant, reinforcing a quiet verdict that whispers, “You’ve lost.” It’s a quiet, damning acknowledgement that there’s nothing left to be done.

In its gentlest form, pity masquerades as mercy, as if it’s softening a blow. But it does nothing of the kind. Pity drains all colour and vibrancy from whatever it touches, turning the subject into a figure trapped in amber, frozen in some sad, helpless state. It shrinks people, places, and things into caricatures of their suffering, denying them any complexity, strength, or potential.

Pity is patronising, smug in its judgment. It declares a quiet victory over hope, grit, and any fight that might still exist. It says, “I’m sorry for you,” with a tone that’s already closed the door, already decided there’s nothing worth trying for.

In that way, pity is a betrayal. A betrayal of faith, hope, and every raw, unfinished edge that refuses to give up. A betrayal of any belief that things could be different, that they could pull through.

When I feel pity for someone, I feel like I’ve accepted they’re beyond hope, past any real change. And I hate that with all my soul. It’s a feeling I want to strangle. It’s a feeling I want to crush.
And now I am pitying Lebanon. That feeling I despise, empty, unhelpful, has crept in.

I hate it. When I think of Lebanon now, pity is there: not pride, not strength, just pity.

I hate pity, but I can’t shake it off. And I hate that that’s what’s left, that a place so amazingly complex is now something to feel sorry for. A sad story. Another headline of misfortune.

And maybe that’s what hurts most. That pity is all that remains, swallowing everything else I once felt.