lebanon

According to the World Bank the economic collapse of Lebanon, is likely to rank in the top 3, most severe global crisis since the mid-nineteenth century.
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I returned to Lebanon in the winter cold and rain to shoot the stories of lives lived away from the media spotlight of an impending European war, to bear witness to the Lebanese people, crippled by dizzying inflation and political unrest. Home to the world’s largest refugee population per capita, the country seemed to be in political and economic free fall, ignored on the international stage.

Most of the captions below are excerpts from my journal.

‍Tripoli

‍We head north to Lebanon’s Tripoli, in torrential rain and hailstones. Arriving at a grey intersection, the town looks broken and angry. I don’t want to get out of the car, have had enough of so little hope. Getting out, we wander on uneven pavements, water still pouring from the edges of roofs without gutters. Poverty stares out from the buildings, cars and streets. But the orange trees seem unwittingly abundant and untouched. Why does no one pick them?

Walking through, is like stepping back in time – there is no advertising, few signs or street furniture, and it reminds me of another Tripoli where the billboards only showed Gadaffi. On the way back to the car, a figure sits in an ancient Mercedes, through a hazy window, wrapped in a kaffir, his hands gripping a briefcase. Unseen, I start shooting. He slowly turns, and I shoot him blank faced. I drop my camera and then he smiles back. I nod my thanks.‍

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On the way back to the car at the corner of the street, a misty figure sits in an ancient mercedes, seen through a hazy window, wrapped in a kaffir, his hands gripping a briefcase. Unseen, I start shooting. He slowly turns to me, blank faced, and I watch as he smiles and I nod my thanks.

Sunrise in the Beqa Valley. A Syrian refugee, a farmer, stands with his herd. Father of 10 children he started with 2 goats, 3 years ago.

The two families in the car tell me they spent this morning scavenging bins for food. I give them the little cash I have, always a disappointment. The man says he used to be a wedding singer, but now few can afford a celebration. Then he became a taxi driver, but few can afford the fare. They came to load their car with driftwood to heat their home.

The boy stops again, and I watch as he drops the bag, jumps up and dives head first into a bin that swallows half his height. Upside down, legs apart, laces undone, half a minute passes as he excavates the waste. I want to know who he is and find a passer by who is enthusiastic to translate for me. Everyone wants to tell the story of what’s happening to this country, even if it’s someone else’s

Moussa, a skinny, filthy twelve-year-old boy, who gets less than a dollar a day for 10 hours’ work. 3 cents for every kilo of salvaged plastic. At his age in 1970s London, I earned his daily income for every car I washed.

I see a boy. He carries a huge sack three times his size. Using my limited Arabic and some gesturting I want to know what’s inside. He’s collecting plastic bottles and metal cans. He carries on regardless of my presence. Large uncovered industrial sized bins await him - I hold my breath as I walk by. He rips open the coloured plastic bags, food waste and rot spills out as he rapidly sifts through it. When he’s done he struggles to lift his sack that looks like he is shouldering a heavy grey cloud.

One of the men I shot earlier tells me he hasn’t worked in 3 years. The last job was filling gas for $70 a month. This slim young man, 21 and married with a child is now dressed in a black embroidered tunic. He picks up a crook shaped stick and dances. Bent and swirling, elevated and arms apart, he jumps. In the air he is released from his burden and smiles, free.

81 year old man being treated for prostate cancer.

I’ve found Moussa again and we’re going to visit his family. With rain pouring from bent buildings, broken awnings and cut-off drainpipes, we meet his mother by the mosque and follow her into the darkness. In their home, dim and cold, the family of twelve are living in one room. There is no power. They need $200 a month to survive and bring home $30. They’ve already sold the washing machine to pay for their rent and they still owe two months. They’re trying to find somewhere smaller.

As half the country descends into poverty, the rooftop nightclubs still open and thrive. Teenagers que with easily faked ID’s and escape in the crowd.

One of Mohammeds grandchildren is pushed into helping tie up goats for milking

In Tripoli, Lebanons poorest city, a bunch of kids are bundled into the back of a car after a swim. As they pulled away they gave me the middle finger

With only 2 or 3 hours of State electricity a day, even the light from her screen illuminates her face in the early evening

A premature baby born at 28 weeks is cared for by a paediatric nurse. She has worked for 20 years at the hospital and is now only working for only 10% of her salary. She earns only $150 a month.

A grocers daughter

Armenian gold traders waiting for clients in the district of Bourj Hammoud.

I’ve found Moussa again and we’re going to visit his family. With rain pouring from bent buildings, broken awnings and cut-off drainpipes, we meet his mother by the mosque and follow her into the darkness. She is draped in black and, as we fumble on the staircase, she lights up her phone. Like the light of Galadriel, everything is seen, and she guides us up the stairs – damp and green with beige walls.

Through the night election results come in slowly to members of the political group, Minteshreen. A young progressive social liberal party who hope to build a secular state in Lebanon

Mohammed a 64 year old Syrian refugee and farmer, at the wedding in Zahle

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Street mural in the wealthy district of Achrafieh.

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