Past the Breaking Point: Beirut in Crisis
Beirut is often described as an urban behemoth, a regional powerhouse of culture, innovation, and finance. Yet today its streets are empty — and the pandemic is only partly to blame. The larger issue is that the Lebanese economy has collapsed thanks to corruption: over several years, Lebanese private banks transferred their depositors’ dollars to the Central Bank for which they received Lebanese Liras at hyper-inflated rates, making them millions in profit. The Central Bank, in turn, gave those dollars to the government which used them to pay for unserviceable and failed state projects. The political establishment in both parliament and the government secured profitable contracts for these projects. The national debt grew to over $100 billion while as of today, the Lebanese Lira has devalued by 1600% against the dollar, contributing to runaway inflation. These events have been described as nothing short of a Ponzi scheme.
Figure 1. Commuters at the Wardieh gas station in Hamra, Beirut, as they wait for workers at the station to begin filling cars, August, 2021. Courtesy of Zeead Yaghi.
The most jarring consequence for Beirut today is an unnerving stillness. The grid has reduced its already limited hours of operation. Diesel generators, a crucial supplement, run only intermittently, leaving the city quiet and with cleaner air but often pitch black. Shops have closed. Construction in the center has crept to a standstill; the city's skyline is draped with idle cranes. So too has expansion of the city into its southern and eastern suburbs. Even Beirut’s notorious traffic is gone. Taxis and rideshares have disappeared, as fares barely cover life expenses. Public transportation, too, has ground to a halt. Long touted for its resilience, Beirut now feels beyond repair: a stark reminder of the fact that even in the so-called urban age, cities remain fragile.
Prior to the financial crisis, Beirut, like most of Lebanon, was saturated with gasoline stations, welcoming motorists with neon lights and plastic signs. Today, stations are often empty. The dearth of hard currency during the crisis has meant that gas importers need to buy dollars from the Central Bank in order to restock. Dwindling reserves of hard currency, however, have forced the Bank to lend less to gas importers. Over the summer, this meant severe shortages, with most stations open just once or twice a week.
Figure 2. This barricaded gas station in Badaro, Beirut, is one of many that have been forced to close due to unavailability of gas, November, 2021. Courtesy of Zeead Yaghi.
Figure 3. Commuters seeking to fill their cars swarm the Wardieh gas station in Hamra, August, 2021. Some have waited over four hours in the queue. Courtesy of Zeead Yaghi.
In the meantime, as the economic crisis grew, the Lebanese security state established its dominance over stations under the pretense of maintaining order, transforming the stations into militarized zones. When they are open, lines often stretch for miles — and hours — wreaking havoc on what little traffic remains. Cement blocks and barbed wire line perimeters. Large burly men with two-way radios patrol the edges, controlling access.
Adding to the instability is yet more corruption, as state security forces and sectarian militias — that have reasserted a rigidly segregated sectarian geography over the city[1] — have become the principal agents of chaos and violence. Stations have turned into checkpoints where negotiation and graft are imperative to moving through the queue. There are separate lines for the well-connected, and yet others for security officers and their staff. And you can skip the lines entirely if you have relations with the security managing a station or are willing to bribe. Dare to complain about the long wait, though, and you can find yourself subject to their violence.
Figure 4. The Wardieh gas station closed and barricaded on a day when gas is unavailable, Hamra, August, 2021. Courtesy of Zeead Yaghi.
Since October things have grown yet stranger. Early that month, the government ended subsidies for gas, leading many car owners to give up driving entirely. The melee at stations subsided, but the physical landscape around them remains alienating and securitized.
The gas shortage has altered the rhythm of the city. By the end of each week, Beirut becomes slow and bleak; by the end of each month, with people short on funds, it’s almost empty. Any traffic you will find is near the few open gas stations, in the mornings. Even public-sector workers have stopped going to work, citing the lack of gas among other reasons.
Figure 5. Damaged store front placed for rent, Gouraud Street, Gemmayze, Beirut, November, 2021. The store was heavily damaged during the Beirut Port Explosion on August 4th of 2020. Courtesy of Zeead Yaghi.
Beirut used to be a place where you could buy whatever you wanted or needed. Economic activity thrived. The city was inundated with small businesses, restaurants, and commercial enterprise. The currency collapse has decimated all this. Today, some of the busiest streets and commercial hubs sport more “For Rent” signs than businesses. Ouzai Street in Barbeer, West Beirut, for instance, a neighborhood that once boasted many jewelry and clothing stores, is a shadow of its former self. The only activity you will find now is a few men lining the street in front of the remaining currency exchanges, holding wads of cash and whistling and shouting favorable exchange rates at the dwindling number of drivers.
“By the end of each week, Beirut becomes slow and bleak; by the end of each month, with people short on funds, it’s almost empty.”
Neighborhoods like Gemmayze that were destroyed last year during the Beirut Port explosion have not yet recovered and an eerie sense looms over the landscape. Usually flush with restaurants and pubs, Gemmayze is a shell of its former self, with barely a third of storefronts occupied. Here and elsewhere in East Beirut, the streets have been swept, new windows installed and boarded up, and some businesses have returned; yet blown out terraces remain, scaffolding sits idly, while many residents have not moved back, generating a sort of elegiac topography.
Figure 6. Another “For Rent” sign at the entrance of a building in Mar Mkhayel, Beirut, a neighborhood also heavily damaged by last year’s blast, November, 2021. These signs now plaster many store fronts in the city. Courtesy of Zeead Yaghi.
Figure 7. Scaffolding placed to protect and repair a Neo-Ottoman heritage building in Gouraud Street, Beirut, November 2021. Damaged by last year’s blast, the building also houses the local Lebanese Red Cross unit. Courtesy of Zeead Yaghi.
The crisis has made it impossible for the state to afford fuel for the electric grid, which at present provides power just one or two hours a day. The entire country would have plunged in darkness were it not for a private network of generators. But these run on diesel. And as the cost of diesel, like gasoline, has skyrocketed — now even more with the removal of subsidies — so have energy bills, rendering the system less reliable. At best, generators only provide ten to twelve hours of electricity a day.
As with gas stations, the breakdown of order has also left the system susceptible to corruption. Generator owners backed by state security and politicians have carved Beirut into zones of influence, leaving some neighborhoods well-lit and air-conditioned — a crucial comfort in the humid summer — at least some of the day, while others are shrouded in darkness and heat.
Figure 8. Boarded up front of a store destroyed by the Beirut blast and unoccupied since, November 2021. Courtesy of Zeead Yaghi.
The electricity crisis has, in turn, prompted those who can afford it, including many entrepreneurs, tech workers, and journalists, who typically get paid in dollars, to flee for more quiet and quaint villages, often in the mountains or at the beach, such as Batroun and Anfeh in the north. If they can’t have electricity in the city, why suffer its heat and gas lines? The influx of these wealthier Lebanese and to the countryside and coast has caused rents there to skyrocket, further disrupting those local economies.
The dire financial situation has shattered Beirut’s well-earned reputation for robust and creative endurance in the face of constant crisis. Its unravelling is also a warning. Planners, elected officials, and city bureaucrats have long heralded cities for their capacity to withstand disaster. But over the past two years, Beirut — unlike cities ravaged by COVID-19 — has proved unable to steady itself. Those in power, shielded by narratives of resilience, offer weak mitigation strategies while quietly sowing chaos and avoiding structural reforms.
Notes
[1] Hiba Bou Akar, For the War Yet to Come: Planning Beirut’s Frontiers (Stanford University Press, 2018).
