Forget a new government; most Lebanese I know dream of Ikea opening an outlet in Beirut, where we can blissfully push a trolley around flat-pack-filled aisles in a bid to create that lifestyle. Apparently the US$35 billion Swedish DIY giant has signed some sort of memorandum of understanding with a Lebanese franchisee but has yet to give the go-ahead until it is convinced that there is genuine demand (trust me; there is).
Ironically Ikea has already tested the Lebanese market but not with its coveted coffee tables, shelving units or side lamps. The company’s corporate social responsibility arm announced some months ago that it had teamed up with the United Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR) to supply its very own refugee shelters made of lightweight, insulated plastic panels that snap into a metal frame and which needs one of Ikea’s infamous Allen keys to assemble it.
Designed to house up to five people, the shelters have solar panels and plugholes and are made from a special fabric sheeting that reflects heat during the day and traps warmth at night. They cost $1,000 each and are meant to last five years – half the period the typical refugee spends outside their country.
So with Lebanon experiencing what is arguably one of the most catastrophic refugee crises in recent history and with thousands of Syrian refugees currently freezing, in some cases to death, in the bitterly cold Bekaa Valley and the northern region of the Akkar, you might think Ikea’s nifty huts were just the ticket. But the Lebanese government has apparently said no thanks, they’re doing fine.
Well they aren’t. In what we are told will be a particularly harsh winter, these wretched people are typically making do with hammered-together wooden structures covered with not very special plastic sheeting, while the heating system is more often than not an empty olive oil drum that has been converted into a makeshift brazier, using anything, including plastic rubbish, to generate warmth.
They rely on modest financial handouts from the UNHCR but as the numbers swell the NGOs are having to vet those most in need of financial aid: the elderly and those women who are pregnant or with infants get the money, while healthy men of working age have to fend for themselves.
I reckon a mere $30 million would give every Syrian currently eking out an existence in a shack relative warmth and comfort. But the Lebanese government equates tents and camps to permanence and the enduring legacy of 500,000 Palestinians still resonates. It is, if you want, one of the many elephants in the Lebanese room.
So instead we allow them be exploited by unscrupulous landlords – $100 a month for a 40 square metre garage with no running water in the Bekaa is typical – while they look for work. This generates resentment among the Lebanese who are priced out of the job market. Indeed, for every Lebanese family with a conscience that is collecting clothes and other life-enhancing material for the refugees this Christmas, there are others whose main breadwinners – builders, joiners, tillers, painters and the like – have been undercut by newly arrived and desperate Syrian labour.
The Lebanese government, or what is left of it, has blamed the Syrian regime for not doing enough for its people. It has also called on the international community to get out its chequebook, but the simple and shameful fact is that no one can be sure that any money given to the Lebanese governmental agencies will be properly disbursed.
In short we are considered too corrupt to handle the money. It’s hardly a ringing endorsement. What is coming in is being funnelled through NGOs. Italy, one of Lebanon’s biggest trading partners – we love their white goods – pledged another $50m last week, but even that is still not enough – we need $2bn and we need it now.
As one long-time foreign correspondent told me last week, the country is like an old house. It’s not being maintained and it’s starting to fall apart. For the Syrian refugees, the water is already coming through the ceiling.
Michael Karam is a freelance writer based in Beirut
