جلسة مع مجموعة من النازحين من الضاحية وصديقين في البيال
Masdar Diplomacy
By Marlene Khalife
Once a symbol of grand exhibitions and seaside celebrations, Beirut’s BIEL waterfront has become the stage for one of the starkest expressions of human suffering. Here, where sea winds batter fragile nylon tents, around 300 Lebanese families and 150 Syrian families—displaced from the inferno of bombardment in Beirut’s southern suburbs and villages of the south—now face a different kind of hell: total exposure, the absence of the state, and a daily struggle for survival.
A Crisis of Hygiene
Walking among the tents, you meet Ali, a young man cradling his infant nephew. Ali does not speak of big dreams, but of a “can of milk” and “diapers” he hopes a charity might provide. Yet his deepest anguish is not hunger—it is hygiene. In this vast encampment, there is only a single toilet for nearly 450 families—and worse still, no place to bathe.
Ali says bitterly that he has not showered for a very long time, preferring not to specify how long out of embarrassment at a reality imposed upon him. A resident of Ghobeiry, he partially lost his home when its سقف collapsed, rendering it uninhabitable. He replaced concrete with a sheet of nylon that offers neither protection from heat nor cold.
This hardship weighs even more heavily on women and children. The lack of privacy and absence of bathing facilities turn basic daily routines into ordeals more difficult than securing food and water.
At around 4:00 p.m., we observed a group of displaced people gathered in line outside a small tent distributing sandwiches. The scene was surreal: the food handed out in the late afternoon was “breakfast”—labneh and mortadella. Supplies are scarce, the crowds are large, and initiatives remain individual and uncoordinated.
In another corner, Youssef, also displaced from Ghobeiry, recounts the ordeal of his “broken tent.” Fifteen days ago, strong winds tore it apart. When he asked a tent distributor for help, he was refused for unknown reasons. Youssef and others sleep on wooden pallets with thin mattresses, in conditions that lack even the most basic standards of physical comfort.
Nine Children in a Single Tent
Ghinwa, who suffers from breathing difficulties, endures harsh conditions with her nine children. All of them sleep in a single cramped tent, deprived of oxygen and privacy. She says, with anguish, that she desperately needs a second tent to separate her children—but “no one is listening.”
Elham, displaced from the Laylaki area with her three children, says that support has sharply declined after Ramadan. “Everyone is fending for themselves,” she says—a phrase that sums up the current reality. Aid that once flowed has dried up, leaving Lebanese displaced persons feeling abandoned.
The “Aid” Dilemma: Lebanese Feel Marginalized
One of the most striking observations shared by several Lebanese displaced individuals is a sense of discrimination in aid distribution. Youssef and others point out that some relief organizations—including the Makhzoumi Foundation—focus their assistance on Syrian displaced persons, often excluding Lebanese families.
One displaced woman recounts how a batch of pajamas was recently distributed, with the majority going to Syrian families, who “crowd in and take more,” while Lebanese—less accustomed to pushing forward—are left empty-handed.
Wael, displaced from the border town of Khiam, captures the hardship of rising rents. “Displacement is hard, but what’s worse is people exploiting it. We couldn’t rent a home in Beirut because of the exorbitant prices,” he says. Wael owns a house in Chiyah, but does not dare return due to ongoing Israeli threats targeting the southern suburbs and their surroundings.
Elsewhere, you meet Fadi, Mahdi, Abbas, and Mostafa—relatives and friends from the village of Siddiqine. Abbas recounts riding his motorcycle for seven hours from the south to reach BIEL under the weight of fear. Mahdi remembers how they spent two nights sleeping on the roadside in Sidon before making it here. Once owners of “homes and even mansions” in their villages, they now find themselves living by the harsh rule: every man for himself.
A Total Absence of the State
What unites all those we met is a shared consensus: the complete absence of the Lebanese state and its relief agencies. No official institutions are present at the BIEL complex. Government aid—if it exists—is directed only toward displaced persons housed in public schools. As for those left out in the open at BIEL, they have effectively “fallen off the radar” of the Higher Relief Council.
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