Facing new hardships, Lebanese weigh safety vs. ‘living this life’

The tragedy of a capsized boat of asylum seekers en route from Lebanon to Italy last Wednesday is reverberating still in Lebanon and the Arab world, with entire communities in mourning.

One hundred men, women, and children – Lebanese, Syrian, and Palestinian – drowned, one of the deadliest boat disasters in the Eastern Mediterranean.

It highlighted not only the widespread desperation in a country whose capital, Beirut, was once coined the “Paris of the Middle East,” but the lack of legal pathways for people to emigrate, and the mortal dangers facing those who try.

And yet Beirut vendor Mohamed, like many, is eager to take the same route.

“It is a tragedy and a catastrophe that has touched every one of us,” the 29-year-old says via WhatsApp. “But the only chance for a dignified life is to leave Lebanon. Rather than expecting the best and hoping their boat doesn’t sink, people will now be expecting the worst and hoping their boat is the one that succeeds.”

Stark and difficult choices face many in Lebanon: settling for relative safety in a country with limited electricity, hyperinflation, little income, and no prospects for relief – or risking their lives for dignity and a living wage.

For other Lebanese with their backs to the wall, their options include risking their freedom to take back their money by force.

Without a functioning state, amid political paralysis and as the international community looks to other crises, residents in Lebanon say they have been left to find their own pathways – and sacrifices – to a secure life.

Wartime hardships

Lebanon’s economic implosion began in late 2019 because of government mismanagement and insolvency, which has only spiraled further.

The economy has contracted 60%, currency has lost more than 90% of its value against the U.S. dollar, and banks do not allow people to withdraw from their own accounts. If they do, it is for pennies on the dollar. Hunger is on the rise; half of Lebanese children rely on humanitarian aid.

“Imagine a situation where you have lost your savings and pension. If you do still have a job, your salary is worth nothing, you can’t provide for your children or afford transportation,” says Halim Shebaya, Beirut-based analyst and non-resident fellow at the Arab Center Washington DC.

“The effects of the crisis since 2019 on society can be compared in some aspects to wartime. It has been downright cruel and has showed no mercy,” he adds.

The economic pain is being acutely felt among Lebanon’s most vulnerable communities, who make up the bulk of those trying unsafe sea escapes. Attempts to flee Lebanon by sea are up 72% in 2022 from 2021, according to the United Nations. 

Among them are 500,000 Palestinian refugees who have lived in Lebanon for generations. They have long been denied full rights, largely working in the informal labor sector due to government restrictions, and were skirting the poverty line even before the country’s economic collapse.

Today, 90% of Palestinians in Lebanon are living in poverty and 65% are unemployed, according to UNRWA, the U.N. organization for Palestinian refugees. Of those employed, only 10% were on a written contract.

The Nahr al-Bared camp in northwestern Lebanon, one of 12 Palestinian refugee camps in the country and home to many of the victims of last week’s capsizing, is in mourning.

There, many camp residents say they now rely on a daily meal of potatoes, or beans and a few vegetables when they can afford them. Many say they skip meals. Residents collect scrap metal and clean homes for income.

Those with more stable income worked in restaurants and the service industry, which have been battered by the national economic crisis. This has led many to sell their cars and belongings to gather the $4,000 to $6,000 fees charged by smugglers for boat passage to Europe.

“For young men and women in the camp, fleeing outside Lebanon has become the only path to ensure their future,” says one Nahr al-Bared resident via Facebook, who preferred not to be named.

“Most camp residents are now struggling to secure their daily food, and that is a dangerous indicator for the days ahead,” the resident says. “This is why they prefer to risk dying at sea to living this life.”

Cuts in assistance

Funding gaps dating from the pandemic have widened with donor attention on Ukraine, which has impacted U.N. agencies’ ability to support the most vulnerable in Lebanon.

A monthly multipurpose cash assistance provided by UNRWA to vulnerable Palestinian refugees in Lebanon was cut in December 2021 from $100 per family to $50.

“Palestine refugees in Lebanon feel they have nothing left to lose and that if they can make it to the other side, they have higher chances of a more dignified life,” says Huda Samra, UNRWA’s spokesperson in Lebanon.

“If Palestinian refugees had a lifeline of food, access to health care, minimal cash assistance, or a decent job, they might not rush out to the sea. But the reality is there are very, very few prospects for a Palestinian refugee in Lebanon these days,” Ms. Samra says.

There are also limited options for the estimated 1.5 million Syrians in Lebanon, 90% of whom live in “extreme poverty,” according to the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees.

Unless it fills a $15 million funding gap, UNHCR will be forced to cut assistance for 160,000 refugee families as of October.

“The increased onward movement from Lebanon on such risky journeys is a clear illustration of the desperation that is setting in amongst refugees in Lebanon,” Rula Amin, spokesperson for UNHCR’s Middle East North Africa office, writes via email.

On Facebook pages, Syrians in Lebanon ask each other whether refugee resettlement processes have stopped, about areas where they can erect tents at cheaper rates, and whether a boat ride or a return to Syria is a viable option.

“We live in a tent, we are not allowed to hang curtains, install a shower or a heater, we have no internet connection,” Jenny, a mother of five, says of her tent outside Beirut. “The smallest, cheapest apartment is $80 per month, and the international community still gives us assistance in Lebanese pounds.”

“By God almighty, those who died in the ocean saved themselves from this life.”

Taking matters into their own hands

Mired in an economic implosion that the World Bank describes as “orchestrated by the country’s elite,” who bankrupted the country with the misappropriation of public funds, some Lebanese citizens are increasingly taking matters into their own hands.

Sali Hafiz, a 28-year-old who took part in the youth-led 2019 democratic protest movement to oust the sectarian political class, said she came under pressure when her sister sought costly cancer treatment to save her life.  

After being refused by bank staff to access her life savings, she hatched a plan: a bank heist to withdraw money from her own account.

On Sept. 14, armed with a handgun water pistol she took from her young nephew, Ms. Hafiz stormed the bank and demanded a withdrawal.

She walked out with $13,000 of the $20,000 in her account, enough for travel expenses and a month of treatment for her sister.

Ms. Hafiz is now living a life on the run from the authorities, while her sister traveled and began treatment.

“We are in the country of mafias. If you are not a wolf, the wolves will eat you,” Ms. Hafiz told Reuters about her decision-making while in hiding last week. The Monitor was unable to reach her.

The “heist” captured the imagination of Lebanese and inspired six copycat heists at other banks, forcing Lebanese banks to close for a week.

“Ordinary people who would never see themselves doing something illegal now see they have to go into the bank and try to get their money back by force,” says Mr. Shebaya, the analyst.

“If the situation continues without any serious reform or corrective measures by the government,” he warns, “it will not be surprising to see more people resort to such irregular measures.”

As Lebanon’s members of Parliament voted Thursday for a new president to replace the outgoing Michel Aoun, whose mandate ends in October, Lebanon’s social media were replete with messages: “Sali Hafiz for president.”

The vote did not result in a new president; blank ballots came out on top in the tally, with 63 out of 122 votes.

Some in Lebanon saw a clear metaphor.

“There is no plan, there is no functioning government, no one is coming to help us, we are on our own,” says Mohamed, the Beirut vendor. “We have to make our own decisions and our own plans to survive.”