In darkened Lebanon, it’s hard to imagine the future
As my half-empty flight descended into Beirut recently, I took a deep breath, as I was about to embark on a trip that probably should have been cancelled weeks before.
My fellow passengers were almost exclusively Lebanese expatriates visiting family members suffering through what is possibly one of the world’s worst economic crises since the mid-1800s. As a result, the local currency has lost 90 per cent of its value, plunging close to half of the once middle-class population into poverty.
Electricity and fuel have in recent times become extremely scarce, and large swaths of the city are still destroyed from the Aug. 4, 2020, port blast, which was one of the largest non-nuclear explosions in history and allegedly the result of gross negligence by the authorities. Add to the mix that Lebanon has not had a government in over a year, and it’s no wonder that the country is now being dubbed “Lebanzuela.”
What first struck me about Beirut was the literal darkness. Most buildings only receive a few hours of electricity a day, and we would often drive through dark tunnels and roads without street lights. I was warned on multiple occasions not to eat dairy or meat, as the incessant power outages cause food to spoil. The lights were even off at the headquarters of the national electricity company.
Most gas stations are not operating, forcing the Lebanese to park their cars at night in a line outside of the few functioning gas stations, returning in the morning in time for them to open. It was not uncommon for the locals I spoke to, including soldiers and nurses, to spend an entire working day in their car lining up for gas, only to be turned away once the pumps run dry. The gas stations are guarded by the military, who force them to sell their fuel, rather than hoard it for resale on the black market. I watched machine-gun-wielding soldiers break up potentially violent brawls between agitated drivers at the pump.
It’s hard to imagine a future in a country where within the span of a year, one’s monthly income has been reduced from $1,000 to $100. Every young person I spoke to expressed desperation to leave Lebanon, including the soldiers who took my group on a helicopter tour for $63, a new initiative to raise fresh dollars for the military.
Most Lebanese I met expressed a desire to move to Europe, Canada or Australia, but not once was the U.S. mentioned. When I asked a young Beirut taxi driver why he didn’t want to move to the U.S., he said without a hint of irony, “It’s too unstable there.”
Experiencing Hezbollah-controlled territory in South Lebanon, near the border with Israel, took me back to my travels in Iran. The towns we drove through were alcohol-free, yellow Hezbollah and black Shia flags flapped in the wind and posters of Iran’s Ayatollah Khomeini adorned the town squares.
Hezbollah has been designated as a terrorist organization by Canada since 2002, and our visit to the movement’s museum began with a 15-minute propaganda film narrated by its leader, Hassan Nasrallah. We were then guided by an English-speaking Hezbollah member to various artistic installations displaying seized Israeli tanks entangled in metal spiderwebs, an artistic homage to Nasrallah’s famous saying, “This Israel, and I promise, is more fragile than a spider’s web.”
Despite the daytime misery, Beirut still lives up to its reputation as home to the Arab world’s best nightlife. Watching DJs play international hits and partygoers dance on tables in trendy bars, you almost forgot that you were in a country tearing apart at the seams. Despite the despair of their everyday existence, Beirutis appear to have successfully compartmentalized their harsh daily reality when out on the town. The Lebanese have too much to worry about on a daily basis and party at crowded indoor nightclubs like it’s 2019.
This was my first overseas trip since the pandemic, and boy, did it feel like jumping into the deep end. I returned to Canada heartbroken by what is happening to the Lebanese people, immensely touched by their hospitality despite the circumstances, and grateful for having won the birth lottery.