Lebanon’s shambolic response to the Beirut blast is fuelling countries like France to push for real political reforms
Macron returns to the Lebanese capital this week, writes Bel Trew. But his hopes to persuade sectarian groups to choose a new, legitimate administration may be dashed
I have been both privileged and lucky enough to have never been the target of humanitarian aid. Until this month.
Twice, in the chaotic aftermath of the 4 August blast which devastated swathes of Beirut, well-meaning soldiers turned up at my door trying to offload precious supplies of cooking oil, bread and pasta, that I did not need.
Similar stories were echoed by friends who were also being offered litres of cooking oil and packets of flatbread, despite being comparatively well off or unaffected by the blast. One was even asked to pose for a photograph while the supplies were being handed over. Meanwhile, now-homeless Syrian refugees just a few hundred metres away from my front door, told me they were desperate for nappies and baby milk but faced discrimination at some community-led aid drop off points because they are Syrian.
As a reporter covering conflict, you become well versed in the depressing mess of disaster response – mired by well-meaning mistakes or something more sinister. But it was bizarre to watch it unfold in my own neighbourhood.
The Lebanese government ended up resigning as anger mounted over how little they had done to help hundreds of thousands of people impacted by the explosion, which killed more than 190 people and injured 6,500.
In weeks after the blast, there were no government-run surveys of who needed what support or aid and no guidance on what compensation would be forthcoming. There was also no coordinated clear up plan for the residential districts where some 50,000 houses, nine hospitals and 178 schools had been damaged.
No government-organised shelters opened for the 250,000 made homeless either. While most of the medical costs were absorbed by the cash-strapped hospitals after the blast, families are now crowd-funding to pay for long term reconstructive surgery or hospital care for those seriously injured. Similar initiatives have been set up by small businesses to pay for their shops, cafes or restaurants to be rebuilt. There was, as far I am aware, no state-led initiative, bar the military’s 10 days on, to distribute food.
Instead, volunteers armed with brooms, water and sandwiches came to clear up the streets, now forlorn reefs of shipwrecked buildings. In two instances, I saw people badly injured by falling masonry because, unqualified and unequipped, they were jumping around structurally unsound flats.
There are makeshift cordons across all the blast-hit neighbourhoods due to collapsing buildings. Everyone looks up when they walk down the street.
Young volunteers with the Lebanese Red Cross, local notaries and some civil society organisations still go from street to street in hard hats with questionnaires to try to assess damage to homes and belongings.
Three weeks in, the army also have begun their own assessment – again knocking on my door.
But these efforts are not being coordinated and no one knows what the end result will be.
One month on from what is being called one of the largest non-nuclear explosions in modern history, no one knows what compensation or help with reconstruction they can expect to get from the authorities, who knew about the dangerous stockpile of explosive materials in Beirut port before it ignited, eviscerating swathes of the city.
This has only stirred a melting pot of troubles.
Fights have erupted between landlords and tenants living in the bombed-out flats over who pays for the destroyed windows and walls. In the poorer neighbourhoods, some homeowners have taken to standing guard over the rubble of their houses and businesses, in case any items left are looted.
Property sharks have meanwhile zeroed in on destroyed homes, looking to snap up prime seaside real estate to build tower blocks.
Distraught homeowners said they have been bothered and in some instances threatened by property developers trying to convince them to sell the land the rubble is lying on, or their hollowed-out apartments in buildings they are hoping to take over.
These companies have been offering much-needed dollars that are incredibly rare in Lebanon, a country grappling with an unprecedented financial crisis that has already seen the Lebanese lira lose 80 per cent of its value and food prices triple. The United Nations said last week more than half the country was now living in poverty, double the rate last year.
Amid that pressure, banners have appeared across the capital reading “Beirut is not for sale”.
And so it is no surprise that many are looking to the outside for a miracle to put Beirut and the country back on its feet.
French president Emmanuel Macron returns to the Lebanese capital this coming week – after his visit in the immediate aftermath of the blast not only made him the first foreign leader to visit the bombed-out residential areas but the first leader full stop, as the Lebanese premier and president steered clear.
He warned on Friday that the country risks civil war, as it is ruled by a system earned in “vested interests” leading to “a situation… where there is almost an impossibility of carrying out reforms.” Sectarian clashes had already erupted just south of Beirut the night before he spoke.
Jean-Yves Le Drian, his foreign minister, had said in the days before that Lebanon is on the brink of collapse and at risk of “disappearance” unless major reforms are made.
And so foreign powers like the French hope to leverage international reconstruction aid to persuade Lebanon’s factions to choose a new administration that isn’t tainted by corruption.
Talks between political parties in parliament to choose the next prime minister kick off on Monday and much is resting on their choice.
But in Lebanon, few have hope.
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