A Distinctly Lebanese Approach to Power Cuts and Violent Conflict

My first indication that something was up was the special detail officer who prevented me from taking my usual route home from work. He was polite but adamant – there was no way I could pass through Ouadi Abu Jamil, the upscale residential street running from downtown Beirut to the Clemenceau neighbourhood in the city’s western half. I like Ouadi Abu Jamil. It’s quiet, comparatively green, with chirping birds and large sidewalks. It is also the shortest possible distance between my office and yoga studio, and on this particular Tuesday I was running late for class.

The problem with Ouadi Abu Jamil, from a pedestrian’s point of view, is its residents – or more to the point, one resident in particular: Former Prime Minister Saad Hariri, the son of the assassinated Rafiq, lives there. As a result, the street is a checkerboard of private guards in expensive suits, uniformed soldiers, and officers from Lebanese General Security.  Most of the time they are apparently bored stiff, seated on plastic chairs or leaning against the walls of their booths, and only too happy to exchange a few pleasantries with an obviously foreign young women engaged in the very un-Lebanese activity of walking.

Hence my surprise, and no little irritation, at being redirected. I had been looking forward to the chirping birds and chatty men in uniform. It was the following day before I understood why: indictments from the Special Tribunal for Lebanon were imminent, and as a figure closely associated with the Court, Hariri’s security had obviously been increased. Cue internal cursing, in a suitably colourful mix of English, French and Arabic. Not only was my walk home going to be significantly longer, my Ras Beirut neighbourhood would also likely be affected if tensions rose. I felt distinctly inconvenienced by the possibility.

And it was then that I realised I was becoming part of the problem.

If that seems unclear, here’s another example: around the same time as I began taking the long way home, I was editing a research paper on reforming the Lebanese electricity sector. The author pointed out that one of the key obstacles to change is private generators, which provide electricity to subscribers during Lebanon’s  daily power cuts. I happen to live in a building without a generator, but then I also live in a decent part of Beirut, where cuts are scheduled for only three hours a day. In some higher-end neighbourhoods – I would venture Ouadi Abu Jamil is among them – 24 hour coverage is rumored. Meanwhile in other cities, cuts are less predictable and can last longer, sometimes totalling six or eight hours per day. And in most rural areas, electricity is intermittent at best; and those unable to afford or access generators are faced with serious day-to-day challenges as summer temperatures continue to rise.

Many people in Europe and North America have never had to think about how long food will keep in a refrigerator that has been turned off, or how long children and the elderly can safely be exposed to temperatures hovering around 40 degrees centigrade. The point made in the article was that Lebanon’s wealthy and influential classes don’t have to think about these questions either – and so power cuts remain no more than a quaint inconvenience for those with the power to do something about them, while the people most affected have no way of pressing for change.

Perhaps the best contrast is with the problem of Lebanon’s slow internet connection speed, which affects everyone with access to a computer, and which no one can so far buy their way out of. Compared to the electricity crisis, the fact that it takes ten minutes to load a YouTube video is a joke, a non-issue. But there has been an overwhelming public outcry on the subject, including several very well-managed publicity campaigns – and recent legislative and political progress, including Lebanon’s connection to a regional highspeed cable, would indicate that this kind of public engagement can yield results. The reason internet speed got a successful PR offensive and electricity reform so far has not is because Lebanon’s rich, influential, educated and cosmopolitan classes actually have to deal with slow connection speeds. Because of private generators and unequal electricity coverage priveledging wealthier and more built-up areas, they are not required to experience the consequences of the ongoing electricity crisis except in a very peripheral way.

Similarily, Lebanon’s more fortunate – its well-to-do, its legions of dual passport holders, and its Beirut-centric expat community (of which I am a member) – have the luxury of viewing endless cycles of political tension, violent outbreaks, and even war as no more than a series of greater or lesser inconveniences. Raised tensions may justify a quick trip out of town, perhaps to a family beach house or a friend’s chalet in the mountains. The threat of limited violence – street battles, etc – inevitably leads to a spike in airfares to adopted cities such as Paris, London and Montreal. And in the worst case scenario, if the airport is closed, expats and dual citizens face the supreme inconvenience of registering with their embassy for evacuation. Which is to say, with enough money and/or connections, the threat of civil unrest or even war becomes relatively manageable – kind of like a power cut. And this inevitably weakens the impetus to deal with the conflict’s root causes.

The experience of a long and cruel civil war, followed by seemingly endless instability, has taught the Lebanese to construct their lives with as many escape hatches as possible. When the situation takes a turn for the worse, there is little instinct to work towards a lasting resolution, so much as ‘pull the kids out of school and get on the next plane’. And no one can lay blame – who would want to put their family at unnecessary risk? But Lebanon’s most vulnerable populations have no foreign passports, and no means to afford international travel, or in some cases even internal migrations towards safer regions. These are the people left exposed to the daily risks of material damage to their homes, livelihoods, loved ones and selves imposed by violent conflict. And, exactly as is the case with Lebanon’s electricity crisis, these are the people least capable of having their voices heard – or their interests represented. It’s something to keep in mind as Lebanon’s thermometers (both political and mercury-based) look set to shoot upwards, once again.

Erin O’Halloran

Photo: Naeem Meer