In a country with less than two hours of public electricity a day, citizens are looking for alternatives to spend their days with dignity
When suddenly the power goes out in a bar, no one stops talking. Everything continues as if the electricity continued to work. They don’t even flinch. Conversations don’t stop. “Welcome to Lebanon& rdquor ;, the locals sardonically say to the tourists alarmed by the blackness that suddenly invades the place. There is no electricity in the adjoining premises either, but that does not prevent the succession of toasts, laughter and confessions along this bustling street in Beirut, where you can drown your sorrows in alcohol. And it is that the Lebanese are a people accustomed to the dark. They have no other choice. In a country with less than two hours of government-provided electricity per daymore than four million people try to live in dignity.
Umm Rafi remembers her long days as a seamstress. In her house with its high ceilings and pristine floors in the Beirut neighborhood of Mar Mikhael, she displays a whole collection of creations. Many of her most elaborate embroideries have been done by hand. His neighborhood, very close to the port, was one of the most affected by the explosion on August 4, 2020. which killed at least 215 people. Umm Rafi kept her life – “but in what way? & Rdquor ;, she wonders – although she lost, among many other things, her work tool: her sewing machine. “I really want to work, I just need the machine, but neither can my children buy me a new one nor can any NGO provide it for me & rdquor ;, she affirms.
For this reason, this 77-year-old Lebanese-Armenian spends her days cooking, cleaning and praying. With no electricity at home, there’s not much else you can do. “Sometimes, the government provides us with an hour or half an hour of light a day, although nothing has come for a couple of weeks & rdquor ;, he denounces. When, without announcing it, the beeps start to sound from the electrical appliances, Umm Rafi runs. Even if it’s early in the morning, she takes the opportunity to put on a quick washing machine program or to turn on the heater for a while. She doesn’t know when the lights will go out again.
private generators
Those Lebanese who can afford it use a private generator that runs on oil. The economic debacle has launched three out of four citizens of Lebanon under the threshold of the poverty, so fewer and fewer are privileged. Since the end of the civil war (1975-1990), the population has had to live with a weak public electricity system. The situation worsened after the 2006 Israeli-Lebanese conflict when Électricité du Liban’s poor infrastructure and large volume of debt forced them to implement a three-hour daily blackout.
Many people survived without a generator, even though those 180 minutes a day were a reminder of mismanagement and corruption endemic to his political class. Now, the collapse of the financial system and the ungovernability force the Lebanese to fend for themselves in electrical matters. But having a generator does not mean electricity 24 hours a day, and Lebanon suffers constant periods of shortage gas. For this reason, the always decisive Lebanese society is forced to find alternatives.
$2,000 bills
“Recently we installed solar panels to reduce the cost of our generator& rdquor ;, explains Jad Hamdan, the operations manager of the iconic Mezyan restaurant in the vibrant Hamra neighborhood at the foot of the Mediterranean. Venues like this are forced to invest a large part of their income in ensuring that the current flows to keep their products fresh and, therefore, their reputation intact. Many others have had to close. “Many restaurants are suffering due to electricity: some only have power for 10 hours a day, so they order their products daily to avoid damage,” Hamdan acknowledges for El Periódico, from the Prensa Ibérica group.
Until now, the electric bill for the Mezyan’s private generator has run as high as $2,000 to $2,500 to finance the fuel that runs it. “We hope that the solar energy help us cut it in half or even less& rdquor ;, explains this family man hopefully. In many homes, they have also seen the need to install solar panels to take advantage of the 300 sunny days a year from Lebanon. Even so, its installation is a luxury for a few, since the bill amounts to a handful of thousands of dollars in a country whose currency has lost 95% of its value.
refrigerators as cabinets
In most houses, actually, refrigerators are used as cabinets. The heaters are full of dust, and the sunset forces many to end their day. As she heats water in a pot to take a shower, Umm Rafi strokes her hip. She still feels the impact of the explosion from more than two years ago. She is recovered but has limited movement and prevents her from leaving the house. “I am afraid that I will fail to walk and fall with the boiling water”, he confesses. “I am also terrified of tripping at night on the way to the bathroom and that no one will notice & rdquor ;, she admits.
Darkness already stains the entire landscape of Lebanon. Streets that used to overflow with partying and light now languish in darkness. Walking through iconic avenues of the capital at night causes fear and insecurity as crime increases protected by blackness. In the public and private spaces, the Lebanese try to live their lives clinging to the resilience that characterizes them. But they are fed up. “Only when I die can I rest”, laments Umm Rafi.