Shadia no longer has rice for her family of nine.
The Syrian mother hoped the five kilograms she bought last week would be enough to feed them for the draconian national exclusion imposed by Lebanon on January 14 in response to the growing number of coronavirus cases.
More than a week later, however, there is little food left in the family’s single bungalow. There is a 24-hour curfew in place, with residents only allowed outside for what are officially considered ’emergencies’. Supermarkets across the country have closed.
The shutdown, which was initially scheduled to last 11 days, has now been extended to Feb. 8, leaving Shadia, 33, and her husband furious about how their family will survive. In addition to the lack of food, the terracotta roof of their house collapsed, causing the family to gather on the floor under blankets to stay warm.
“As a mother, I do not know what to say to you. I can not afford anything for my children, not even daily food,” she said on a WhatsApp call from Dahiyeh, a suburb south of Beirut.
Shadia’s fears resound across Lebanon, where more than half of its 6 million inhabitants live below the poverty line. Decades of political corruption, severe inequality and a persistent economic crisis have brought coronavirus concern to a backseat for other challenges – especially after a massive explosion in the Beirut port warehouse in August killed 200 people and left a third of the capital destroyed. Now, however, millions of impoverished people are struggling in the closure.
On Wednesday and until Thursday, anger descended in violence in the northern city of Tripoli when thousands of protesters clashed with the army over lock-in rules for a third night’s riots. Citizens threw grenades at security officers and water cannons and tear gas were used by officers to suppress the crowd. According to The Associated Press, at least one protester was shot by live ammunition and more than 70 were injured.
“We’ve heard people say, ‘I’d rather die of Covid than starve,'” said Lebanese activist Dayna Ash, founder of the non-profit organization Haven for Artists.
Shadia does not have a residence permit in Lebanon, a country with more than 1.5 million Syrian refugees, and she asked that her surname not be published for fear of coming under the authorities’ attention and possibly being deported .
Shadia and her husband fled Idlib, Syria, during the Syrian civil war in 2014, along with their four biological children and three orphans they call their own.
Before the closure was announced, her husband was able to earn money by doing odd jobs on the street, and Shadia saved up buying an extra phone to improve her children’s education. The children, aged 6 to 15, share one mobile phone to attend school online.
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The evening clock cut off the source of income, and Shadia now has to choose between educating her children and putting food on the table.
“When the quarantine took place, everything went up. They increased the price of bread,” she said. “I will not allow them to go hungry to educate them.”
The government relaxed social distancing measures during the Christmas and New Year holidays to boost the troubled economy. As a result, Covid-19 cases have skyrocketed to record numbers, with more than 5 percent of the population currently infected.
Frontline workers are overwhelmed while hospital admissions get out of control. Photos of people being treated in their cars went viral on social media.
According to the World Health Organization, the number of daily deaths in Covid-19 is more than five times higher than in July.
When supermarkets are closed, people who want to leave their homes to go to hospitals or pharmacies, including doctors, must fill out a consent form approved by the government. Workers from local NGOs said the government was rejecting their requests to deliver food and supplies to vulnerable families.
“They live because we send them food,” said Maya Chams Ibrahimchah, founder of the Lebanese charity Beit el Baraka. The nonprofit usually provides essential supplies to 226,000 people through its free grocery store. “It’s not normal today to tell NGOs that you are not allowed to work, but most people with houses that exploded during the blast still have no roof over their heads.”
Ibrahimchah said she has been making hundreds of calls a day as families ask her for diapers, milk and food.
Despite the restrictions that were put in place, aid workers continued to distribute necessities. Ash left her home several times and pretended to go to the pharmacy as a pretext to deliver food cabinets.
According to local media, the local Libyan army has distributed essential supplies to thousands of vulnerable families. But charities said the government did not have the means to reach more than a fraction of the needy.
The Lebanese Ministry of Information did not respond to several requests for comment.
Many store owners are concerned about the survival of their businesses in an already turbulent time for the economy. Barbel Basil, the head chef and owner, reopened Le Chef, a beloved restaurant, last month after it was destroyed by the explosion. Now the closure forced him to close the store again.
“I feel like someone who flies a plane and is forced to land,” Basil said.
The government has obtained an emergency loan from the World Bank to help those hardest hit by the pandemic. But as public confidence in the government is severely undermined, store owners in the Mar Mikhael neighborhood in Beirut, an area facing the greatest pressure from last summer’s explosion, are skeptical that support will come.
“We’re still waiting,” said Guy Doniguian, a printing company owner, laughing. “Today, tomorrow, after tomorrow, after one year, after 10 years, after 100 years, no one knows.”
The Associated Press reported.