The last of the Lebanon crisis: Syrian refugees welcomed in a country on the verge of collapse
"Every night, before I go to sleep, I dance," confesses Gayda Said Ahmed. She came to Lebanon ten years ago fleeing the horrors of the war in Syria. Dance, he says, helped him cope with the harsh winter nights. She dances to get warm, but also to escape from the one around her. Her movements allow him to forget her aspirations for a while, locked in a refugee camp in a country on the brink of collapse. She, dancing, travels to "other worlds" that she cannot reach.
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Know moreBefore the outbreak of the conflict in her country, she lived in Daraa, a city located 100 kilometers south of Damascus, near the border with Jordan. "I had great goals that have been reduced to this hut," laments Gayda Said Ahmed as she opens the doors of the shack where she lives in the refugee camp, Yasmine, located in the Bekaa Valley, 30 kilometers east of Beirut. The settlement, managed by the Lebanese NGO Union of Relief and Development Associations (URDA), is home to around 220 families.
While she prepares some infusions, Geyda boasts that she has conditioned the plastic tent in which she lives with the help of her husband, her daughter, her daughter-in-law, a friend and her two grandchildren. The carpet and the fabrics of the cushions and mattresses that serve as a sofa show bright colors. The golden reflection of the cloths that adorn the few pieces of furniture in her shack becomes the closest thing to a light during the usual blackouts in the area. She does not want to return to Syria: "There the war is not over."
At 47 years old, she wears a long dress and a teal veil that frames a face that highlights an intense look drawn by kohl [cosmetic created with ground galena]. Before she was a teacher, she lived in a house with a garden and had her family close. "Here I feel that my life has come to a standstill and that I have not been able to erase everything we suffered under the bombings," she sighs. "Music has become my therapy. We live in a really dramatic reality that we see no way out of."
Taking refuge in a Lebanon on the verge of collapse
The country of cedars hosts around 1.5 million Syrian refugees and half a million Palestinians. The 2021 Lebanese Syrian Refugee Vulnerability Assessment (VASyR) has revealed that nine out of ten Syrian families live in extreme poverty. 60% of them live in dangerous, poor or overcrowded accommodation.
The survival of the most vulnerable is now complicated in a Lebanon that is going through the worst economic and political crisis in its recent history. Its currency has lost 90% of its value against the dollar; its GDP, according to the World Bank, has fallen by as much as 40% since 2018, and inflation has risen 200% in the last two years. To this must be added the consequences of the pandemic and the devastating explosion in the port of Beirut in August 2020.
In addition, it does not overcome the chronic political crisis caused by the sectarianism and corruption of its leaders: "There are 18 political factions connected with the interests of third countries. The wars abroad take their toll internally. The political system has reached its limits and the current class Lebanese politics showed inability and apathy to find an alternative solution and, much less, to manage the reception of refugees", explains Ziad Abou Hoch, president of URDA Spain. "The 'as you welcome we will help you' has remained in the air," he adds that a country in these circumstances, too, has been abandoned by the international community.
"We know that everything is bad here and that the situation is difficult, but we didn't come for pleasure. I think the other countries have abandoned us, but also Lebanon," Geyda's husband interrupts. His name is Munir Naif Omar, he has just turned 50 years old. He is tall and slim. He entertains himself playing with his grandchildren. "The little boy calls me dad because his father went to Libya and from there he crossed the Mediterranean, now he is in Italy." The three sons of the couple have left.
Munir shows a bottle of drugs that he should take every day because he has heart surgery. "I haven't been able to take these pills for months. Now they cost five times more and we can't find a job here either." Medicines in Lebanon have become a luxury good and some are not even found.
At six in the afternoon it is already night. The 220 families who live in this camp are hiding from the cold. The light is conspicuous by its absence in a country that has been going out for more than two years. Gas and wood fireplaces are insufficient to heat these homes built with materials that neither insulate against the cold nor withstand the heavy rains so frequent in this region. Only the little that the moon illuminates is perceived, while thousands of people live in the open between valleys and mountains in the area.
Boys and girls who can only imagine school
It dawns and the mantas catch. Despite the low temperatures, the little ones have fun running around the flooded path that runs between the two rows of white tents, while a group of kids play soccer.
"We don't have a school," says five-year-old Hayat. Marwa takes our notebook and draws the classroom inside the bus where they take classes twice a week. "We take turns so all the kids can get on the bus and learn," she says. "I want to study hard," she insists as she signs her print.
Most of the refugee children in Lebanon can only imagine school. Organizations such as Human Rights Watch (HRW) have repeatedly denounced the obstacles that the Ministry of Education has imposed on students from Syria. Those who manage to fix the papers find that their families cannot afford the educational expenses. "Transport is expensive and many families have stopped sending their children to school. For this reason, the idea of the bus is to try to bring them closer to the classrooms and, in addition, provide them with psychosocial support," explains Abou Hoch.
The 2021 Syrian Refugee Vulnerability Assessment confirms that children bear the brunt of the crisis. "30% of children of school age have never been to school. Attendance at primary education fell by 25%," the report indicates. In addition, it denounces the worrying increase in child labor and that one in five girls got married in the last year.
The women who push the camp
In this place where time seems to be frozen by the cold, where nothing happens and nothing changes, women are the engine of survival. Iham Basiri has a small vegetable garden behind his shack. "I have broccoli, spinach, onion…" she lists. Like her, there are 70 women who work in the garden. They have a WhatsApp group to organize the products they need and, later, make deliveries. They lead life in the refuge: "Many men have left. They allow themselves to emigrate or even return to Syria, but we stay with our children and in front of everything," says Iham.
Over time they have also learned to create a space for themselves. Among several settlements is Dar Salam (the house of peace) where dozens of women come every day to make handicrafts with recycled plastic. Rabaa Elgaidiri is the coordinator and the teacher of all: "We started recycling plastic bags and turning them into beautiful things." Bags, accessories or decorations for the house, she shows her, proud of what they have achieved. "There is something that you will not see and it is everything that we have talked about and shared. We come here and forget about the monotony of our lives and the condemnation of the shelter," she tells Elgaidiri. "We have a lot of strength. Many women are alone, they lost relatives and their husbands in the war."
Life is complicated for them. They face the problems related to their refugee status, but also the weight of traditions and religion that already fell on their shoulders.
Outside the settlements, life in Beirut's neighborhoods is much more precarious for the most vulnerable people. "Outside the camps they have to pay rent whose price has skyrocketed and with the crisis many people ask us to return to the settlements," says the president of URDA Spain.
According to UN data, 80% of Lebanese live below the poverty line. The increase in poverty in the local population has led to an increase in attacks against those who arrive looking for a safe place, the refugees.
"The worst enemy that a humanitarian cause can encounter is oblivion" concludes Abou Hoch. "Since ten years have passed, we will stop importing," agrees Geyda. Because ten years are many and nothing at the same time. Life has stopped, is still waiting and does not move forward.
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