In a deeply fragile and divided society, the Iran-Israel war is reflected in Lebanese social media sarcasm, less about humor and more about survival: a clever, cynical coping mechanism for a country where the only thing more divided than the population is the electricity grid. So next time you see a snarky meme or a biting tweet, remember: behind that laughter is a nation desperately trying to make sense of a senseless situation, one sarcastic post at a time. So yes, laws exist against defamation, but in Lebanon’s social media jungle, they’re about as effective as a paper umbrella in a thunderstorm—ignored, forgotten, and occasionally used as a prop in the next viral meme
As Iran and Israel played God of War over the Mediterranean, Lebanon’s social media scene was, as usual, a masterclass in sarcasm and collective eye-rolling. With 91.6% of the population online and nearly 69% actively using social media—about 4.02 million Lebanese as of January 2025—you’d think consensus might be possible, but no, the only thing uniting the country is the art of the meme. Lebanese sarcastic usage on social media is basically the country’s unofficial national sport—a dazzling display of wit that perfectly reflects the deep divides and, let’s be honest, the utterly unsound practices that keep Lebanon spinning its wheels in the mud. It’s like watching a soap opera where every character is both hero and villain, and the plot twists come faster than the power cuts.
Scroll through any Lebanese Facebook or Twitter feed, and you’ll find sarcasm dripping from every post like the last drops of overpriced olive oil. It’s the language of choice for a population that’s simultaneously fed up, confused, and somehow still entertained by the chaos. Whether it’s mocking politicians who promise reform while pocketing the cash, or lampooning factions that claim to represent “the people” but can’t even agree on what “the people” want, sarcasm is the only way to survive the madness without losing your mind.
The irony? This sarcastic banter isn’t just harmless venting: it’s a mirror held up to a society fractured by sectarianism, corruption, and endless political theater. It exposes the absurdity of a system where everyone’s shouting “change” but no one’s quite sure what that means, and where the only thing more unstable than the government is the Wi-Fi connection.
Social media weeks’ bests
Viral last week were sarcastic comments that tread a fine line—while they aim to highlight absurdity, their humor is barely funny and veers into macabre and ethically questionable territory, given the sensitive nature of the subjects involved.
On the viral posts reflecting dark humor and sarcasm a photo showing traditional rings of Shia Imams all stacked in one hand, captioned as if they were all “murdered.” The post insinuated: “Oh wow, look at that! The ultimate ‘Shia Bling Collection’—each ring representing a murdered Imam. Because nothing says ‘fashion statement’ like a history of tragedy and martyrdom. Next up: a limited edition ‘Martyrdom Starter Pack’ with matching keffiyeh and tear stains. Honestly, who needs Netflix when you have centuries of drama and plot twists right on your finger? Again, the sarcasm here is sharp but barely funny, touching on a macabre reality that makes light of genuine loss and grief, which many may find unsettling.
Viral also was a post claiming the late Nasrallah is welcoming a high-level delegation, framed as a “clear statement” about the murdered Iranian leaders, the significance is obvious—because apparently, even the dearly departed have VIP guest lists and diplomatic meetings now. Next thing you know, we’ll have ghost summits and spectral press conferences. Maybe the ‘afterlife alliance’ will finally solve all the earthly problems. Meanwhile, back in reality, the only thing being welcomed is another round of ‘Who’s Next?’ tweets in this never-ending tragedy series.
Another Meme-Style viral post was the picture of a cat wearing a suit with the caption: “When you’re supposed to mourn, but also gotta flex your martyrdom rings and host ghost delegations.
The dark humor highlights absurdity but also underscores how close such jokes come to insensitivity.
On Facebook, 3.15 million users scrolled past presidential condemnations and regional outrage, pausing only to share a Lebanese proverb—“if words are of silver, then silence is of gold”—with the kind of biting irony that’s become a national pastime. Instagram’s 2.5 million users, split perfectly between men and women, were busy posting stories of missile trails and coffee cups, while 1.6 million Messenger users debated whether the next strike would finally get someone to fix the electricity.
TikTok, now the top social app in Lebanon, saw a surge of videos—some acting out resistance front drama, others just dancing through the chaos. WhatsApp groups, which have replaced the town square, reflected the country’s fragile entente: one group plotting evacuation routes, another sharing conspiracy theories, and a third just spamming cat videos in army helmets.
Even President Joseph Aoun wasn’t spared; as he joined Arab leaders in condemning the strikes, meme-makers wondered if he’d brought back holy water from the Vatican or just more empty statements. Meanwhile, LinkedIn’s 1.3 million “professionals” pretended to network while really just looking for jobs in Dubai.
In Lebanon, where social media is both battleground and therapy session, every crisis is another episode in a never-ending tragicomedy—where the punchlines are sharp, the memes are savage, and the only thing more resilient than the resistance is the national sense of irony
As Iran and Israel traded fire and fury, Lebanese timelines exploded with the kind of posts that could only come from a country where existential confusion is a national sport. The mood? Think “I’m not sad that Iran got hit, but I’m happy when Iran hurts the enemy.” If cognitive dissonance were an Olympic event, Lebanon would sweep the medals.
The schizophrenic scroll and sarcasm: the national language
Take a stroll through Lebanese Twitter, and you’ll find a digital bazaar of hot takes that would make even Freud throw up his hands. One minute, a user is lamenting the “escalation” and praying for peace; the next, they’re gleefully sharing videos of Israeli air raid sirens, captioned: “Karma’s a drone, habibi.”
A viral WhatsApp voice note sums it up: “I’m not with Iran, but I’m with anyone who gives Israel a headache. But also, can everyone please stop fighting, my cousin’s wedding is next week.”
Sarcasm isn’t just a coping mechanism—it’s the mother tongue. Instagram stories pair footage of missile trails with the classic proverb, “If words are silver, silence is gold,” followed by a poll: “Should we try silence for a change?” (Results: 92% No, 8% ‘LOL’).
Interesting to follow the pro-revolution and “change” groups of 2019—those noble champions of justice who once marched with fiery slogans and dreams of a better Lebanon. Fast forward to today, and it’s like watching a soap opera where every character forgets their own script. These groups have become the ultimate honor society for any cause that crosses their path—whether it’s defending a corrupt politician one day or railing against the very government they once idolized the next. They’ve mastered the art of losing the plot so spectacularly that you half-expect them to start endorsing alien invasions or the return of the Ottoman Empire just to keep things spicy. Loyalty? Principles? Consistency?. Those are so 2019. Now it’s all about hopping on whatever bandwagon offers the loudest megaphone, with a side of performative outrage and a sprinkle of “wait, what are we even protesting again?” The revolution, it seems, has evolved into a circus—and everyone’s fighting for the last clown hat.
If you really want to witness schizophrenia at its finest, just dive into the WhatsApp group called OUNSA. What started as a fiery revolutionary hub back in October 2019, demanding sweeping change and a better Lebanon, has since morphed into a bizarre political chameleon—now a staunch follower of a particular political party, though which one exactly is anyone’s guess.
The group’s admin, a character straight out of a political thriller, is none other than Hunsbank—a celebrity bodyguard to a notorious banker infamous for having killed a man in broad daylight in Achrafieh. Allegiances in OUNSA are as clear as mud: anti-president, anti-government, anti-Iran, anti-Middle East, and basically anti-everything else you can think of. One minute they’re railing against corruption, the next they’re defending the very figures they once vilified. Scrolling through the chat is like watching a surrealist play unfold. Revolutionary slogans clash with party propaganda, memes mocking the establishment sit side-by-side with conspiracy theories about foreign interference, and heated debates erupt over everything from the latest government scandal to who’s responsible for Lebanon’s electricity crisis. Yet, no one seems to agree on anything except their collective talent for contradiction. OUNSA embodies the fractured, schizophrenic political landscape of Lebanon itself—a place where yesterday’s heroes become today’s villains, and the only consistent stance is inconsistency. It’s a digital microcosm of the country’s impossible entente, where loyalty is fluid, truth is subjective, and the chaos is as endless as the WhatsApp notifications pinging in the background.
The national schism and the art of contradiction
WhatsApp groups are a microcosm of the national mood disorder. In one, a heated debate rages over whether to support “the resistance,” while another group plans a beach day, war or no war. Nowhere is Lebanon’s fractured psyche more apparent than in the comments section. Meanwhile, Facebook groups debate whether President Joseph Aoun’s latest speech was “historic” or just “hysteric,” while Telegram channels circulate memes of regional leaders Photoshopped into the cast of “Game of Thrones,” with Lebanon as the ever-suffering, perpetually confused Jon Snow.
“I hate what Iran is doing to Lebanon, but I love seeing the enemy sweat.”
“I’m tired of wars, but at least the fireworks are free.”
“May God protect Lebanon from its friends, enemies, and especially its politicians.”
Even the influencers can’t keep it straight. One TikTok star, after a 30-second rant against Iranian influence, ends with a wink: “But if they want to send free petrol again, I’m not saying no.”
Screenshots of contradictory posts are passed around like family heirlooms:
“I’m not pro-Iran, but I’m anti-anti-Iran.”
“If Israel wins, we lose. If Iran wins, we lose. If Lebanon wins…wait, has that ever happened?”
Another case in point is the WhatsApp group FREEDOM FORWARD—a shining beacon of decorum and respect, where the press attaché of the president’s office was politely advised to “go sleep,” which, in the charming local slang, translates roughly to “buzz off and stop bothering us.” Naturally, this group has taken it upon themselves to repeatedly condemn President Aoun’s speeches and moves, as if their collective outrage could single-handedly rewrite the constitution or at least reboot the national Wi-Fi.
Meanwhile, other groups like FRIENDS OF LEBANON juggle revolutionary zeal with political party loyalty so seamlessly it’s like watching a circus act where the clowns keep switching costumes mid-performance. And don’t forget the “Change Now” brigade, who once marched for justice but now seem to champion whichever cause trends on Twitter that day—whether it’s anti-government, anti-Iran, or just anti-boredom.
The only consensus: irony not the laws
Is there any law that condemns such blatant disrespect? Absolutely yes. But the authorities, bless their overwhelmed souls, seem to have misplaced their “enforcement” hats somewhere between the endless stream of social media vanguards and the national electricity blackout. After all, how do you police a population armed with smartphones, hashtags, and a seemingly infinite supply of sarcasm?
If there’s one thing everyone agrees on, it’s that nothing makes sense. With 4 million Lebanese on social media, the only true resistance is against boredom. As one viral meme put it: “Lebanon: Where you can be for, against, and indifferent to the same thing—all before breakfast.”
So as the missiles fly and the politicians pontificate, Lebanon’s social media keeps doing what it does best: laughing at the chaos, mocking the madness, and finding comfort in the shared absurdity of it all. Because in a land where the only thing more divided than the country is the opinion on who’s to blame, sarcasm isn’t just a shield—it’s the last line of defense.
In this digital madhouse, every insult, meme, and viral rant is a badge of honor, a proof of participation in the great Lebanese sport of “Who Can Out-Sarcasm the Other.” The only thing more abundant than the political contradictions is the sheer volume of WhatsApp notifications flooding every phone, ensuring nobody sleeps, nobody agrees, and everyone’s just a little bit more exhausted by the day.
In short, Lebanese social media sarcasm is less about humor and more about survival—a clever, cynical coping mechanism for a country where the only thing more divided than the population is the electricity grid. So next time you see a snarky meme or a biting tweet, remember: behind that laughter is a nation desperately trying to make sense of a senseless situation, one sarcastic post at a time. So yes, laws exist. But in Lebanon’s social media jungle, they’re about as effective as a paper umbrella in a thunderstorm—ignored, forgotten, and occasionally used as a prop in the next viral meme.
Maan Barazy is an economist and founder and president of the National Council of Entrepreneurship and Innovation. He tweets @maanbarazy
The views in this story reflect those of the author alone and do not necessarily reflect the beliefs of NOW
