Sana Malik

Image by Ana Sonia Vinatea

My appreciation of Lebanon begins with recognizing its style, its ability to meld culture and renegade art, the behind the scenes political discussions, the sporadic displays of cosmopolitanism amidst mental and physical rubble, and even the excesses of the luxurious jet set that lend to its enduring cool.  But there are things about Lebanon that are tainted and easily eclipse the joie de vivre the Lebanese purport to specialize in.   The things about this country that frustrate are not simply disruptions to my personal comforts – daily electricity outages, ubiquitously slow Internet, dismal public transport, heavy noise pollution and sticky smog. If anything, these chaotic interruptions are kind of rejuvenating and comforting reminders of my childhood in Pakistan.   The things that create more discomfort about Lebanon’s mentality as a society is the blatant segregation of outsiders.

Lebanon, while a more hedonistic (as CNN, most recently, played on) bikini-clad Mediterranean cousin of Europe, is nonetheless a part of the “troubled Middle East” that fascinates yet frustrates the Occidental psyche. This is the image many Lebanese like to evoke when trying to describe their complex political and social innuendos. Internally, however there’s a system that breeds a continual reinforcement of an injurious “we belong, they don’t” attitude – trying to reclaim some lost sense of Lebanese identity, perhaps. Unless, of course, you are from a richer Western country that is.

In practical terms, non-Lebanese are not governed by any kind of legislation to protect their rights, a fact that makes itself most apparent among the hundreds of thousands of foreign domestic workers in the country. The issue of foreign domestic workers in Lebanon is hardly a case promoting optimistic labour migration, akin to the situation in the Gulf and Arab Emirates.  Simply seeing the dejection faced by thousands of migrants from parts of Africa, South and Far East Asia places this hierarchical and racist mentality into context.

I recently watched a short film entitled Conversations at the Salon at the Lebanese Film Festival, a cinematic essay with the simple premise of recording a few privileged, middle aged Lebanese woman discussing public (religion, travel in foreign countries) and private (plastic surgery, being a good wife) affairs over coffee and sweets.  The repertoire provided an amusing, but disheartening look at the mentality of the Lebanese elite, distrustful and quite complacent in the prejudiced system of inviting foreign workers into Lebanon and denying them basic rights.  This is a huge problem among the over 200 000 migrants now in the country, shunned from even the most basic things such as access to public beach clubs that are hugely popular all over the country.

The Palestinian Impasse:

On the other side, the right to work legally is denied to the 400 000 Palestinian refugees who’ve lived in 12 official United Nations Relief and Works Agency camps and unofficial gatherings all over Lebanon since 1948. Well documented in left-leaning publications in Europe, but blindly folded up and pushed aside as a troubling underworld of Lebanon, the camps have been the heartbeat of  Palestinians in Lebanon since the Nakba.   But the passive documentation of European news sources does little to inclusively report what exactly is going on behind the walls of these microworlds. Largely ignored and rejected politically and socially, the Palestinians that inhabit subterraneanesque, poor condition dwellings have attained “a nation within a nation” status – negatively associating many campsites to “islands for terrorists”.

The neglected prospect of improving circumstance and capturing the potential of Palestinians who are right out refused work in over 25 professions is nothing short of a travesty.  Granting rights for the Palestinians who’ve been encamped all over Lebanon for over 60 years isn’t even on the minds of politicians.  A tragic recourse for being prominent characters in the theatrics of civil war, blamed for igniting the flame that set the torch of the internal conflict.

Poverty is never a given choice, but in Lebanon it’s a prison sentence based on national identity.  No one from the camps can set foot in the proverbial homeland, but there are wringing reminders about the right to return – just as there are creative spurts emboldening the Palestinian identity.  All the while, conditions get worse – UNRWA is reportedly cutting back on essential services, and the Lebananese government, other than clashing with Political parties and crushing civilian infrastructure as it did in the Northern camp of Nahr-el Bared camp in 2007, will not step in to grant citizenship or any basic social rights to the Palestinians. The citizenship question is evaded based on issues of sectarian balance and maintaining a policy on the “right to return”.

While NGOs sprout up on a daily basis to empower and create some sense of semblance in communities where people are not legally allowed to be employed, the images of ill-equipped schools, hospitals and poor infrastructure do little to persuade the Lebanese about taking steps and encouraging positive integration of the Palestinians. Self-reliance is an embedded trait among Palestinians - a cornerstone of resilience.

Bourj el Barajneh, a camp notorious for some of the worst living conditions, yet easily accessed within the suburbs of Beirut is a site of pseudo “poverty tourism” for outsiders wishing to indulge in the life of the forgotten people of Palestine. Thick barrages of electrical wire, open sewers and labrynthine alleyways captivate the lenses and pens of photojournalists and independent researchers on a daily basis year-round. In fact, it’s so common to see outsiders take turns reveling at the extreme conditions of the camps, that inhabitants hardly blink an eye at Converse sneakers and cargo shorts cramping the alleys. As a passive observer, conditions are bearable in short spurts. They are easily captured on film to reflect a dark underworld  of hidden secrets. These images are meant to endure a sense of unease, but life within the camp doesn’t ooze with a sense of misery. Instead, resilience under impossible circumstance, echoed in the makeshift and adaptive entrepreneurial culture in the camps and embedded in Palestinian identity.

In my discussions with youth, activists, and families who call some of these camps home, I see the sense of sustained community and resourcefulness.  Finding ways to occupy their time, groups of young men inventively ply codes and break internet zoning laws to start their own broadband services.  Another group of boys have created their own tattooing equipment and parade their matching tattoo art amidst sleeveless t-shirts. Young adults perfect their English through songs, movies and any books (usually political) they can get their hands on. Family is also paramount - everyone is family in the camp. The kinship ties extend beyond generations, beyond tribe, beyond nationality - they are essential to survival.

Pockets of hope and joy emerge in small doses, but the macro situation continues to frustrate. As a young man from Ain el Helweh camp conveyed to me, “Lebanon is beautiful, it is my home… but here, I cannot be free. My view from here is blocked and the Lebanese are asleep to all the beautiful things they have to see.”

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SANA MALIK is one of the founders and editors of This is Worldtown.  Born in England and raised between there, Pakistan and Canada, she is constantly intrigued by the quirks and accompanying baggage of immigrant life. She lives in London where she is completing her Master’s in International Public Health.