Collapse: Inside Lebanon’s Worst

Economic Meltdown in More

Than a Century
Aug. 4, 2021

TRIPOLI, Lebanon — Rania Mustafa’s living room recalls a not-so-

distant past, when the modest salary of a security guard in Lebanon
could buy an air-conditioner, plush furniture and a flat-screen TV.

But as the country’s economic crisis worsened, she lost her job and
watched her savings evaporate. Now, she plans to sell her furniture to
pay the rent and struggles to afford food, much less electricity or a
dentist to fix her 10-year-old daughter’s broken molar.

For dinner on a recent night, lit by a single cellphone, the family shared
thin potato sandwiches donated by a neighbor. The girl chewed
gingerly on one side of her mouth to avoid her damaged tooth.

“I have no idea how we’ll continue,” said Ms. Mustafa, 40, at home in
Tripoli, Lebanon’s second-largest city, after Beirut.

Lebanon, a small Mediterranean country still haunted by a 15-year civil

war that ended in 1990, is in the throes of a financial collapse that the
World Bank has said could rank among the world’s worst since the
mid-1800s. It is closing like a vise on families whose money has
plummeted in value while the cost of nearly everything has
skyrocketed.

Since fall 2019, the Lebanese pound has lost 90 percent of its value,
and annual inflation in 2020 was 84.9 percent. As of June, prices of
consumer goods had nearly quadrupled in the previous two years,
according to government statistics. The huge explosion one year ago
in the port of Beirut, which killed more than 200 people and left a large
swath of the capital in shambles, only added to the desperation.

Many gathered, held pictures of the dead and demanded answers from their government
at a ceremony paying tribute to the year anniversary of the catastrophic port explosion in
Beirut, Lebanon, that killed more than 200 people.

On Wednesday, Lebanon observed a day of mourning to mark the

anniversary of the blast, and government offices and most businesses
were closed for the occasion. Large crowds gathered around Beirut to
commemorate the day and denounce their government, which has
failed to determine what caused the explosion and who was
responsible, much less to hold anyone accountable.

After a moment of silence on the highway overlooking the port,

thousands of protesters marched toward downtown, where some fired
fireworks and threw stones near the Parliament at security forces, who
responded with volleys of tear gas.

The blast exacerbated the country’s economic crisis, which was long
in the making, and there is little relief in sight.

Years of corruption and bad policies have left the state deeply in debt
and the central bank unable to keep propping up the currency, as it
had for decades, because of a drop in foreign cash flows into the
country. Now, the bottom has fallen out of the economy, leaving
shortages of food, fuel and medicine.

All but the wealthiest Lebanese have cut meat from their diets and
wait in long lines to fuel their cars, sweating through sweltering
summer nights because of extended power cuts.

A woman with a single light on her balcony in an otherwise dark and impoverished
neighborhood in the northern Lebanese city of Tripoli last month.

Mustafa Nabo, a tailor from Syria who lives in Beirut, used to work long days on his
electric sewing machine, but he can’t afford the supplemental power from a generator
anymore.

Spots of light in a Tripoli neighborhood indicate who can still afford to pay for private
electricity generation.

The country has long endured electricity shortages, a legacy of a state

that has failed to ensure basic services. To cover the gaps left by the
state power supply, residents rely on privately owned, diesel-powered
generators.

But the currency collapse has undermined that patchwork system.

As imported fuel has gotten more expensive, power cuts from the grid
have stretched from a few hours a day to as long as 23 hours. So
demand for power from generators has risen, along with the cost of
the fuel to run them.

The resulting price hike has turned a utility essential for business,
health and comfort into a luxury many families can afford only in
limited quantities, if at all.

Private electricity distribution wires in Beirut. A utility essential for business, health and
comfort has turned into a luxury many families can afford only in limited quantities, if at all.

Working to maintain one of six large generators in a residential building in Beirut last
month.

A tangle of electrical wiring that sends power to different sections of a neighborhood in

Beirut on the wall of a private electricity-generating operation.

Mustafa Nabo, from Syria, used to work long days on his electric
sewing machine, powered by the grid and supplemental power from a
generator.

Now, the price for generated power is nearly 10 times what it was
before the crisis began, so he rushes to work as much as he can
during the two hours he gets power from the grid. But less work
means less money, and he has cut back on food.

“It is better to bring food than to pay for electricity,” Mr. Nabo said.

Across Lebanon, the fuel shortages have led to long lines at gas
stations, where drivers wait for hours to buy only a few gallons, or none
at all if the station runs out.

Lining up to purchase gas at a station near Beirut last month. Drivers often wait for hours
just to buy a few gallons.

A gas station near Beirut last month. The bottom has fallen out of the economy, leaving
shortages of food, fuel and medicine.

Pushing a car in a line for gas near Beirut last month. Shortages mean fuel often runs out,
rendering hourslong waits futile.

The supply of medicines has also become unreliable. The state is

supposed to subsidize imports, but the crisis has strained that system,
too.

At a pharmacy in Tripoli, a line stretched from the sidewalk to the cash

register, where anxious shoppers sought medicines that are now
scarce after long being easy to obtain, such as pain killers and blood
pressure medications. Other products had disappeared altogether,
such as drugs to treat depression.

One shopper, Wafa Khaled, cursed the government after failing to find
insulin for her mother and paying five times as much as she would
have two years ago for baby food and seven times as much for
formula.

“The best thing for us would be for some foreign country to come
occupy us so we could have electricity, water and security,” she said.

A line stretched out to the sidewalk at a Tripoli pharmacy, one of the few still open.

The emergency ward at the American University of Beirut Medical Center. Reduced
salaries and the impact of Covid-19 have contributed to an exodus of doctors and nurses.

The crisis could do lasting damage to three sectors that have

historically made Lebanon stand out in the Arab world.

In a country once billed as the Switzerland of the Middle East, the

banks are largely insolvent. Education has suffered a blow as teachers
and professors seek better opportunities abroad. And health care has
deteriorated as reduced salaries have caused an exodus of doctors
and nurses.

The emergency ward at the American University of Beirut Medical

Center, among the country’s best, has gone to seven physicians, from
12, and lost more than half of its 65 nurses since July 2020, said
Eveline Hitti, the head of the department.

They were driven out by waves of Covid-19, declining salaries and the
explosion in the Beirut port last year, which flooded the ward with
casualties.

“You ask yourself, why should I survive this?” said Rima Jabbour, the
head nurse.

Now, Covid cases are increasing, as are food poisonings caused by

poor refrigeration and alcohol overdoses.

The ruins of cars and a gas station after the Aug. 4, 2020, explosion at the Beirut port.

A protester draped in the Lebanese flag who took part in a demonstration in Beirut last
month against the government’s handling of the financial crisis.

Buildings in Beirut that were damaged in the port explosion remain derelict and
abandoned a year after the huge blast.

The country’s political leaders have failed to slow the economic

meltdown.

Officials have hampered the investigation into the port explosion, and
a billionaire telecoms tycoon, Najib Mikati, is currently the third
politician to try to form a government since the last cabinet resigned
after the blast.

Mustafa Allouch, the deputy head of the Future Movement, a

prominent political party, said, like many other Lebanese, that he
feared that the political system, intended to share power between a
range of sects, was incapable of addressing the country’s problems.

“I don’t think it will work anymore,” he said. “We have to look for
another system, but I don’t know what it is.”

His greatest fear was “blind violence” born out of desperation and
rage.

“Looting, shooting, assaults on homes and small shops,” he said. “Why

it hasn’t happened by now, I don’t know.”

A chef prepared meals at a charity kitchen in Tripoli last month.

Lining up for food at the charity kitchen. One Lebanese politician said that his greatest
fear was “blind violence” born out of desperation and rage. “Why it hasn’t happened by
now, I don’t know,” he said.

Many of the newcomers to the charity kitchen represent a new kind of poor: soldiers, bank
employees and civil servants whose salaries have devalued.

The crisis has hit the poor hardest.

Five days a week, scores of people line up for free meals from a charity
kitchen in Tripoli, some equipped with cut off shampoo bottles to carry
their food because they can’t afford regular containers.

Robert Ayoub, the project’s head, said demand is going up, donations
from inside Lebanon are going down, and the newcomers represent a
new kind of poor: soldiers, bank employees and civil servants whose
salaries have lost the bulk of their value.

In line on a recent day were a laborer who had walked an hour from
home because he couldn’t afford transportation; a brick layer whose
work had dried up; and Dunia Shehadeh, an unemployed housekeeper
who picked up a tub of pasta and lentil soup for her husband and three
children.

“This will hardly be enough for them,” she said.

The graffitied facade of Lebanon’s central bank in Beirut. Since fall 2019, the Lebanese
pound has lost 90 percent of its value and annual inflation in 2020 was 84.9 percent.

The gutted and abandoned interior of Jamal Trust Bank in Tripoli, seen through a
shattered window. Lenders in Lebanon are largely insolvent.

Sifting through trash on a Beirut street corner.

The country’s downward spiral has set off a new wave of migration, as
Lebanese with foreign passports and marketable skills seek better
fortune abroad.

“I can’t live in this place, and I don’t want to live in this place,” said
Layal Azzam, 39, before catching a flight to Saudi Arabia from Beirut’s
international airport.

She and her husband had returned to Lebanon from abroad a few
years ago and invested $50,000 in a business. But she said that it had
failed and that she worried they would struggle to find care if their
children got sick.

“There’s no electricity. They could cut the water. Prices are high. Even
if someone sends you money from abroad, it doesn’t last,” she said.
“There are too many crises.”

Bidding farewell at Beirut’s international airport last month. Lebanon’s downward spiral
has set off a new wave of migration, as those with foreign passports and marketable skills
seek better fortune abroad.

Drone footage by David Enders and Bryan Denton. Hwaida Saad

contributed reporting.