I wish I had the opportunity to leave. This country is unlivable.
For twenty months, Lebanon has been unraveling — not suddenly, but through the slow accumulation of decades of corruption and mismanagement that have finally come due. In Beirut and beyond, ordinary people like taxi driver Ibrahim Arab begin each day not with purpose but with survival calculations: where to find fuel, where to find formula, how to stretch a currency that has lost nearly all its worth. What is unfolding in this small, import-dependent nation is not merely an economic crisis but a civilizational stress test — a question of how long a society can hold together when its institutions have hollowed out and its people have been left with nothing to choose from.
- Lebanon's currency has collapsed by 95% in purchasing power, leaving workers unable to afford food, medicine, or fuel even when those goods can be found.
- Hospitals are shutting off air conditioning and running out of diesel for backup generators, turning a once-celebrated medical system into a place of dangerous scarcity.
- Fuel stations have become flashpoints of desperation — fistfights are routine, a man was shot dead at a pump in Tripoli, and workers describe their shifts as 'a job of mass destruction.'
- Citizens are improvising survival: paying strangers to wait in fuel lines, flying abroad to stockpile medicine, installing solar panels, and seizing tanker trucks to distribute gasoline for free.
- The government has operated without a functioning cabinet since August 2020, and proposed fixes — subsidy cuts, ration cards — are expected to drive prices higher and deepen poverty further.
- With no political resolution in sight and more than half the population already living in poverty, Lebanon is edging toward complete economic paralysis and a mass exodus of its people.
Ibrahim Arab is up before dawn, joining the line of cars that stretches down a Beirut street in the summer heat. He waits hours for enough gasoline to run his taxi, then spends the rest of his day hunting pharmacies for baby formula his seven-month-old son can tolerate. He has learned not to be choosy. There is almost nothing left to choose from.
For twenty months, Lebanon has been collapsing under the weight of decades of corruption and mismanagement. The Lebanese pound has lost nearly all its value. Banks have frozen withdrawals. The country cannot pay for fuel, electricity, or medicine. Hospitals that once ranked among the region's finest now run backup generators on dwindling diesel, switching off air conditioning even in heat waves. The director of Rafik Hariri University Hospital put it plainly on Twitter: 'We are really in hell.'
Arab's income has lost 95 percent of its purchasing power. He works a second job at a grocery store and lives in constant fear of a medical emergency his family could not survive financially. He is far from alone. Across Lebanon's six million people, days without fuel, medicine, or basic goods have become ordinary. Bakeries warn of closure. Internet flickers. Electricity cuts stretch for hours.
The desperation has turned violent. At gas stations, fistfights break out over places in line. In Tripoli, a shooting at a fuel pump killed a station owner's son. Young workers describe thirteen-hour shifts managing hundreds of cars, each limited to twenty liters, with police sometimes needed to hold back crowds who waited all day and left with nothing.
People are adapting in ways that measure the depth of the collapse. Some pay others to wait in lines for them. Others work from laptops inside their queued cars. Those with connections abroad receive medicine by mail or fly to neighboring countries to stock up for months. Solar energy businesses are booming — people have stopped waiting for the government to fix the power grid. Some hoard fuel out of fear, worsening the shortage. Others smuggle it to Syria, where it sells for five times the price.
In recent weeks, residents have begun taking matters into their own hands — blocking roads, seizing tanker trucks, distributing gasoline and powdered milk directly to neighbors. The government approved fuel imports at a higher exchange rate, and prices jumped 35 percent almost immediately. A proposed ration card system for the poorest families would trigger further subsidy cuts and steeper price increases. More than half the population already lives in poverty. The central bank's reserves are falling. There is no political solution in sight.
Arab recently paid more than twice the minimum monthly wage to repair his car — and he knows the temporary measures keeping him afloat will not hold. 'I wish I had the opportunity to leave,' he said. 'This country is unlivable.' Around him, millions are thinking the same thing, watching their currency vanish, their hospitals dim, and their children go hungry, wondering how much longer they can hold on.
Ibrahim Arab starts his day before dawn, joining the line of cars that snakes down the Beirut street. He waits there for hours in the summer heat, engine idling, to buy enough gasoline to work his taxi. When the sun gets too high, he leaves the queue and drives to pharmacies across the city, hunting for baby formula his seven-month-old son can tolerate. The last brand made the boy violently ill, but Arab has learned not to be choosy. There is almost nothing to choose from anymore.
For twenty months, Lebanon has been collapsing. The crisis began in late 2019 and has only deepened, fed by decades of corruption and mismanagement that left the government drowning in debt and the economy entirely dependent on imports. The Lebanese pound has lost nearly all its value. Banks have locked down withdrawals. Hyperinflation has taken hold. The shortage of dollars means the country cannot pay for fuel, electricity, or medicine. What was once among the region's best hospital system now runs on fumes—literally. Backup generators that kept the lights on during the country's chronic power cuts are running out of diesel. Air conditioning units are being switched off even during heat waves. The director of the country's leading hospital, Rafik Hariri University Hospital, tweeted simply: "We are really in hell."
Arab's monthly income, paid in Lebanese pounds, has lost 95 percent of its purchasing power. To survive, he works a second job at a grocery store. He worries constantly about what would happen if his children became seriously ill. The hospitals are struggling to function. There is no margin for emergency, no safety net. He is not alone in this fear. Across Lebanon's six million people, a new reality has settled in: days without fuel, without medicine, without the basic goods that once arrived reliably from abroad. Bakeries warn they may have to close. Internet connections flicker out. Electricity cuts last for hours. The country is being slowly strangled by its own inability to import anything.
The desperation has turned violent. At gas stations, men fight over their place in line. In the northern city of Tripoli, a shooting at a fuel pump killed the son of the station owner. Workers at gas stations describe their shifts as "a job of mass destruction." Ahed Makarem, twenty-four, works a thirteen-hour shift at a station south of Beirut, starting at six in the morning. He activates pumps for hundreds of cars, each limited to twenty liters. Fistfights break out regularly. When the station closes at seven, police sometimes have to hold back angry customers who waited all day and got nothing. The government has been without a functioning cabinet since August 2020, when Prime Minister Hassan Diab's administration resigned days after a massive explosion at the Beirut port killed 211 people and injured more than 6,000. That blast—caused by nearly 3,000 tons of improperly stored ammonium nitrate—seemed to break something fundamental in the country's ability to govern itself.
People are adapting in ways that reveal the depth of the crisis. Some pay others to wait in the fuel lines for them. Others sit in their cars for hours with laptops, working from inside the queues that have become known as "the queues of humiliation." Those with money abroad ask relatives to send medicine and formula. Those who can afford it fly to neighboring countries for a day or two to stock up for months. A solar energy worker says his business is booming—people have given up on the government's decades of broken promises to fix the power grid. Some hoard fuel out of fear prices will double, which only makes the shortage worse. Others smuggle fuel across the border to Syria, where gasoline costs five times as much, draining Lebanon's supply further.
In recent weeks, angry residents have begun seizing control. Groups blocked roads in protest. In northern Lebanon, residents seized tanker trucks and distributed gasoline for free. Another group confiscated a truck carrying powdered milk and handed it out to passersby. The government, trying to ease the crisis, approved financing fuel imports at a higher exchange rate, effectively cutting subsidies. Prices shot up 35 percent almost immediately. Lawmakers are working on a ration card system that would give about 500,000 poor families between ninety-three and 137 dollars a month—a move that would trigger even steeper price increases and smaller subsidies. More than half of Lebanon's population already lives in poverty. The central bank's reserves are dropping. There is no political solution in sight.
Arab recently had to repair his car's brakes and replace an engine part. The cost was more than twice the minimum monthly wage in Lebanon. He is bracing for the moment when the temporary measures collapse and the crisis deepens further. "I wish I had the opportunity to leave," he said. "This country is unlivable." Around him, millions are thinking the same thing, watching their currency evaporate, their hospitals dim, their children go hungry, and wondering how much longer they can hold on.
Citações Notáveis
We are really in hell— Firas Abiad, director general of Rafik Hariri University Hospital
Our business has become a job of mass destruction— Ahed Makarem, gas station worker in Damour
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does a fuel shortage in one country become a question of whether hospitals can function?
Because Lebanon imports almost everything—fuel, medicine, electricity generation equipment, food. When the currency collapses and the country runs out of dollars, it can't pay for any of it. The hospitals have backup generators for the constant power cuts, but those generators need diesel. No diesel means no backup power. No backup power means no air conditioning, no refrigeration for medicines, no reliable operating rooms.
And the political system just... stopped working?
The government resigned after the port explosion in August 2020. Since then, there's been no functioning cabinet. No one to make decisions, negotiate with creditors, or implement reforms. It's paralysis at the moment when the country needs decisive action most.
What does it actually feel like to live through this? Not the statistics—the day-to-day?
You wake up and decide: do I wait three hours for fuel today, or do I skip work? If your child needs medicine, you drive to five pharmacies hoping one has it. You work two jobs and your salary is worth almost nothing. You're calculating whether you can afford to eat and heat water. You're asking relatives abroad to send you baby formula because what's in the stores might poison your infant.
The violence at gas stations—is that desperation or something else?
It's desperation turning into rage. Men who have been waiting for hours, who have families depending on them, who see no end to this. When someone cuts in line, it's not just about fuel. It's about the feeling that the system has abandoned you completely, that there are no rules anymore, that you have to fight for survival.
Is there any sense that this could turn around?
Not really. The central bank's reserves are depleting. Lawmakers are discussing ration cards—which would mean even smaller subsidies and prices that most people can't afford. People who can leave are thinking about it. The ones who stay are bracing for it to get worse.