Haret Hreik is one of the worst hit areas of southern Beirut. It is said to be the seat of Hizballah.

As far as one can see into the neighbourhood from its northern edge – perhaps 250 yards – it appears empty and abandoned. An assortment of men on mopeds whiz back and forth on the main road, a few are sitting talking, but no one appears to be coming from or going into the heart of Haret Hreik. The southward streets leading in are blocked with cement barricades, and piles of dirt and debris.

Near the eastern corner of the sector stands a large placard picturing Hassan Nassrallah and another, older-looking cleric with the Hizballah flag. The street looks passable. Before entering the neighbourhood to photograph the destruction, we stop next to the placard for a few shots.

Immediately, two men arrive on a moped. They are un-uniformed, but one, at least, has a Berretta stuffed in his jeans. It is a few minutes before 5 p.m.

They ask – very politely – for “Bitaqa,” which means card, referring to press credentials.

We produce passports and attempt to explain that we are freelance, selling photos to stock agencies and pieces to small newspapers and magazines in North America. They examine our passports and ask us to wait. One of the men places a call on a cell phone.

My partner turns back to me and in a unique piece of gallows humour says "Well, I hope they don't kill us." I laugh softly and mumble something in reply, although none is necessary.

There is a commotion to the left. A 1970s vintage Mercedes has struck a moped and the moped is now sliding noisily down the pavement on its side. The Mercedes speeds off; the driver of the moped is rolled up in a ball on the side of the road. One of the men verifying our credentials – the one with the Berretta – runs over to see if the victim is alright.

He returns approximately 3 minutes later, and I ask if everything is alright. He signals that the man was cut on the forehead, and says that he will be taken to hospital.

The men say that if we are journalists, we should return at 11 a.m. the following morning for a press conference in Arabic. This is reassuring: Seemingly, we will be allowed to leave. Before we are given the OK to leave, however, there is a sudden powerful blast.

There was no warning before the blast. We heard no aircraft.

The sound of the blast is loud and heavy, but also sharp, unlike the low rolling thunder of explosions heard from a distance. The shockwave hits me powerfully in the chest, and I can see window panes oscillating in a nearby building. A cloud of inky, grey smoke billows out from between the buildings at the end of our line of sight, down the road we thought of taking.

The two men run for the centre of an intersection, away from the buildings. Imagining they know best, I follow them. When after about 15 seconds there is no further blast, we run back to our bikes. They speed off on the moped, leaving us alone with a momentary opportunity to take photographs. But the double threat of the men’s proscription and the air-strike carries the day: We speed off empty-handed.