One knows this before he/she comes here to Beirut, and what follows is not a matter of trying to make people feel uncomfortable or merciful. It is a question of describing a global phenomenon that also affects the West and which some refer to as the ‘precariat’. The so-called “middleclass” shrinks every day and hides the increasing impoverishment of the society. The broadness of the social divide in Lebanon shocks the visitor. This all the more given that the recognised main cause is a government incapable of tackling the problems, because these are largely driven by private interests at home and public interests abroad.
The neighbourhood where I am is not a wealthy one, even though a few large, very comfortable apartment blocks rise up here. In the neighbouring streets, dozens of people can be seen sitting all day on a chair – either in front of a car park, a building entrance, a shop, or with friends – waiting for customers whilst scrolling through Instagram. Further on, street children, displaced people from the south, or elderly people try to sell packets of tissues or toilet paper one by one. Others beg with their children in their arms. The restaurants are open, but barely, if at all, full. In the poorest neighbourhood of the historic centre, cars that look as though they’ve come straight from the scrapyard somehow manage to get about, whilst others – gleaming and occupied by several well-built men – make their rounds; one in three shops sells scooter spare parts or serves as a mini repair workshop. Scooters weave their way through the traffic at breakneck speed, honking their horns as they deliver takeaway meals. The official unemployment rate is around 12 per cent, but there is a lack of statistical data; other sources put the figure at over 30 per cent.
And then, right below my block of flats, overlooking the sea and covering a vast area, stands another world – an oasis of luxury and academic excellence: the American University of Beirut (AUB). Eight thousand students pass through its gates every day. Founded in the mid-19th century by Protestant missionaries, it is the country’s finest university and a source of national pride, alongside other Lebanese universities. The country’s many communities rub shoulders peacefully there and, in fact, interact for the first time in their lives, as compulsory schooling takes place within the 18 communities. A swimming pool, athletics and football pitches, an indoor sports hall and top-of-the-range facilities – everything here meets the highest Western standards. Closed to the public, it is a secure campus. It was secularised after the civil war. Since then, no theology has been taught there. The church building, which stands at the heart of this enormous campus, has had its cross (inside) removed and is used solely for large gatherings, concerts and ceremonies. But the benches have remained. Every building on campus is named after an important figure in the university’s history, including the founding pastor and the first translator of the Bible into Arabic. Nowadays, nobody knows what these names refer to. Unlike the surrounding neighbourhood, there are trees and well-maintained greenery everywhere, even recycling points for all types of waste (a major problem in the city), which are used correctly and passed on to an NGO responsible for processing them. But this comes at a price: $15,000 a year. That’s excluding accommodation and personal expenses (add another thousand dollars a month). It just goes to show how elitism breeds elitism. All communities are represented there, even though Christians are in the majority.
And what about the rest? You need at least 30 per cent of the median wage to pay for the generator and the electricity supplied by the state (which runs for about three hours a day). And then there’s the water bill to pay, delivered by tanker because the pipes are so dilapidated. One person I spoke to told me about the weddings that people continue to hold despite everything, out of tradition and for the family’s honour: a bill of at least fifty thousand dollars for a ‘small’ wedding of a hundred guests… Many go into debt for life because of this. But the banks haven’t lent any money for the past seven years. The medical student who got me into AUB because the warden owed her a small favour tells me that her family (who work in the medical profession) lost, overnight in 2019, everything they’d managed to save during the country’s period of robust growth since 2006: nearly half a million dollars. She hopes to soon be able to attend the world’s leading university in her field, in the USA. As well as her full-time studies, she works for two NGOs to earn a bit of money, one of which is involved in welcoming and supporting Syrian refugees. It’s against the rules, but the university turns a blind eye, because everyone is forced to do it. Here at NEST, too, students do odd jobs for three dollars an hour.
The other side of the reality awaits us too at the town’s French-speaking congregation. It meets in a park that is also the former German and French cemetery, right on the ‘green line’ that separated the factions during the civil war. The parishioners are mainly African domestic workers and maids employed by the wealthy. You see them everywhere too, especially on Sundays in the streets: Ethiopians, Filipinos, Pakistanis, Indians… Here, the around sixty women attending the service come from Madagascar, Burkina Faso and West Africa. Despite their extremely precarious circumstances, they come dressed in their finest dresses. The service is joyful; everyone greets one another warmly. The choir sings powerfully; they lead the readings and prayers. They earn a maximum of four hundred dollars, three-quarters of which they send to their families. Some have no contract with their employer, nor any papers. In principle, they are allowed to attend church, as a law prohibits anyone from being prevented from participating in a religious service in Lebanon. The pastor listens to their stories, which are often tragic, though sometimes heart-warming. Recruitment agencies in their home countries lure them here. ‘You were sold; you didn’t come here of your own will,’ exclaims one of them. Some have children; the fathers have disappeared. If they are here illegally, they have no access to healthcare (unless they pay an astronomical sum to secure an appointment) or to school. A charity – funded from abroad – is trying to help them. That day, after the service, they gather outside to pray together for one of their number who has just suffered the sudden and unexpected loss of her father, who had remained back home. “What will become of my mother and my sisters?” Shortly afterwards, joy returns and they begin to dance and celebrate another woman’s birthday with a cake and candles. Life goes on. That’s the way it goes.