Lebanon Crisis Brings Mixed Legacy for Riad Salameh

FILE PHOTO: Lebanon's Central Bank Governor Riad Salameh reacts after a news conference at Central Bank in Beirut, Lebanon November 11, 2019. REUTERS/Mohamed Azakir
FILE PHOTO: Lebanon's Central Bank Governor Riad Salameh reacts after a news conference at Central Bank in Beirut, Lebanon November 11, 2019. REUTERS/Mohamed Azakir
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Lebanon Crisis Brings Mixed Legacy for Riad Salameh

FILE PHOTO: Lebanon's Central Bank Governor Riad Salameh reacts after a news conference at Central Bank in Beirut, Lebanon November 11, 2019. REUTERS/Mohamed Azakir
FILE PHOTO: Lebanon's Central Bank Governor Riad Salameh reacts after a news conference at Central Bank in Beirut, Lebanon November 11, 2019. REUTERS/Mohamed Azakir

Touted as the guardian of Lebanon’s monetary stability, he steered the tiny country's finances for nearly three decades, through post-war recovery and bouts of unrest.

Now, Lebanon’s central bank governor is being called a “thief” by some anti-government protesters who see him as a member of a corrupt ruling elite whose mismanagement has driven the country to the edge of bankruptcy.

The changing fortunes of Riad Salameh, a 69-year-old former investment banker, mirror the rise and fall of Lebanon’s post-war banking sector, which he personally oversaw, The Associated Presse reported.

Last year, as economic conditions worsened and Lebanon was engulfed in mass protests, banks began imposing limits on cash withdrawals and limits on transfers abroad that continue to deprive depositors of access to their savings. In recent weeks, the Lebanese pound — pegged to the dollar for more than two decades under Salameh — lost 60% of its value against the dollar on the black market.

Protesters rioted, hurling firebombs and smashing ATM machines. Metal barriers rose up around the banks.

“They are like thieves, hiding behind their fortifications,” said Ahmad Rustom, 46, a self-employed carpenter standing outside a local bank in Beirut recently. “The fact that they are fortifying means they don’t intend to give people their money back.”

At the center of this tumult is Salameh, one of the world’s longest-serving governors. Prime Minister Hassan Diab's government has singled him out, blaming the bank's “opaque policies" for the downward currency spiral over the past weeks.

Salameh has declined an AP request for an interview but defended himself publicly against what he described as a “systematic campaign” against the central bank, blaming successive governments for the crisis.

“Yes, the central bank financed the state, but it is not the one that spent the money,” Salameh charged in a televised speech.

In perhaps the starkest warning to Salameh, the head of cash operations at the central bank was charged earlier this month with violating banking laws and money laundering, allegations the central bank denied. The official, Mazen Hamdan, was later ordered released on bail.

Salameh’s supporters say he did his best to keep the economy afloat and is being made a scapegoat.

David Schenker, the US assistant secretary of state for Near Eastern affairs, has weighed in, saying Salameh has credibility and that Washington has “worked well” with him.

Nassib Ghobril, chief economist at Lebanon's Byblos Bank, the country's third-largest lender, said Salameh "used the tools at hand to maintain the currency stability for so long, despite the fact that only the monetary policy was functioning” in the country.

Salameh is credited with preserving financial stability at critical junctures.
In 2009, he became the first Arab central bank governor to ring the bell at the New York Stock Exchange.

“I hope that through my work I have benefited Lebanon and its banking sector but for sure this is not an individual effort but that of a team at the central bank,” he once said in an interview.

Successive governments, however, did little to enact reforms or improve Lebanon’s infrastructure, while continuing to borrow heavily, accumulating one of the world’s largest debts reaching $90 billion, or 170% of GDP.

With Lebanon in constant need of hard currency to cover its massive trade balance deficit — it exports way too little and imports almost everything —Salameh helped attract deposits to local banks by offering higher interest rates than those of international markets.

When the flow of hard currency dropped, beginning in 2016 — in large part because falling oil prices reduced remittances from Lebanese working in Gulf Arab nations — Salameh responded with a so-called “financial engineerings” debt policy. This encouraged local banks to obtain dollars from abroad by paying high interest rates, to keep the state's finances afloat.

This approach is what his detractors now say proved too costly for the country. An economic recovery plan recently adopted by the government showed that the central bank had $44 billion in losses over the past years, the result of losing financial operations.

In the months before anti-government demonstrations erupted last October, panicked depositors pulled billions of dollars from banks, which subsequently closed for two weeks and later imposed stringent restrictions on withdrawals.

Protesters now shout insults at Salameh outside the central bank, surrounded with concrete walls and barbed wire on Beirut’s Hamra Street.



Flashy Villas, Cars and Drugs: Assad’s Legacy in Latakia

A man climbs a staircase in the damaged house of Hafez Munzer al-Assad, a relative of ousted Syrian president Bashar al-Assad, in the western port city of Latakia on December 15, 2024. (AFP)
A man climbs a staircase in the damaged house of Hafez Munzer al-Assad, a relative of ousted Syrian president Bashar al-Assad, in the western port city of Latakia on December 15, 2024. (AFP)
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Flashy Villas, Cars and Drugs: Assad’s Legacy in Latakia

A man climbs a staircase in the damaged house of Hafez Munzer al-Assad, a relative of ousted Syrian president Bashar al-Assad, in the western port city of Latakia on December 15, 2024. (AFP)
A man climbs a staircase in the damaged house of Hafez Munzer al-Assad, a relative of ousted Syrian president Bashar al-Assad, in the western port city of Latakia on December 15, 2024. (AFP)

The drive winds between manicured lavender-lined lawns to a crescent-shaped home with a gleaming swimming pool on the Syrian coast: Bashar al-Assad's holiday hideaway disgusts those who now come here.

"To think that he spent all that money and we lived in misery," spat Mudar Ghanem, 26.

He is grey-skinned and his eyes are sunken after spending 36 days in a Damascus jail, accused like other suspected dissidents of "terrorism" against the ousted president's rule.

Now he had come "to see with my own eyes how they lived while other people had no electricity", Ghanem told AFP, standing by the windows of a huge white-marbled living room.

"I don't care if the next president lives here too," he added, "as long as he looks after the people and doesn't humiliate us."

The Assad holiday home is in Latakia, Syria's second largest port after Tartus. It is in an area that is the heartland of the Assad clan's Alawite sect.

On Sunday, a week after the deposed president fled Syria a lightning opposition offensive after his family had ruled for more than five decades, curious people came to see how Assad had lived.

This was just one of three Assad villas on the outskirts of the city.

In scenes that were unimaginable just days ago, Syrians wandered through the luxury home that is now guarded by a handful of fighters.

There was no air of triumphalism, just stupefaction and anger at how Assad had lived a life of luxury in this idyllic seaside spot.

Over the past week the house itself has been ransacked, stripped of its last doorknob, but the grandeur of its rooms and the antique mosaic adorning the entrance bear witness to its standing.

- Showroom -

The land used to be owned by Nura's family.

"They chased us away. I didn't dare come back" before now, the 37-year-old said, adding that she intends to seek legal redress to get her property back.

Most people who spoke to AFP on Sunday, like Nura, spoke freely but preferred not to give their full names. Despite its downfall, the fear instilled by the Assad name is still there.

"You never know -- they could come back," said 45-year-old Nemer, after parking his motorbike outside a flashy villa.

The house belonged to Munzer al-Assad, a cousin of the former leader.

Along with his brother, who died in 2015, Munzer ran the notorious "shabiha" militia, known for its abuses and trafficking operations.

"It's the first time I've stopped here," Nemer said. "In the past the guards would chase us away. We weren't allowed to park."

The two-storey house had also been stripped. Chandeliers, furniture, stucco moldings... all gone. Family photographs ripped up and portraits torn from now bare walls. The looters had been busy.

"I get 20 dollars a month. I have to do two jobs just to feed my family," Nemer said, bitter at the memory of Assad clan convoys that used to speed through the city streets.

Munzer's son Hafez ran a car showroom -- Syria Car. Now just a single vehicle sits there among the broken glass.

The car won't start, so people have been pulling it apart, destroying its bodywork, windows and upholstery. A young couple pretended to get behind the wheel.

- On a mission -

Lawyer Hassan Anwar, another visitor, was on a mission. The 51-year-old inspected the premises, searching for any documentation that could be later used in court.

He said this was because Hafez was well known for confiscating cars or buying them for well below market price before selling them on.

"Several complaints have been filed," Anwar said.

"Syria Car" was in fact one big money-laundering operation to mask the family's trafficking operations, the lawyer said.

On the pavement outside, two passers-by stopped beside a sewer grating. They lifted it up and scooped out hundreds of small white pills.

This was captagon, a banned amphetamine-like stimulant. It became Syria's largest export, turning the country under Assad into the world's biggest narco state.

They said massive quantities of the drug had been found nationwide after Assad fell.

Lawyer Anwar said pills had been exported from Latakia inside clothing labels.

Accompanied by two young opposition fighters newly arrived from Idlib province, Anwar entered the building beside the showroom, stepping through its broken window. As he did so, a young guard, Hilal, appeared.

In the basement, Hilal had discovered brand new scales still in their boxes -- "for weighing drugs", he said -- along with box after box of glassware, pipettes and tubes he said were used to manufacture amphetamines.

"I'm shocked by the scale of these crimes," said 30-year-old Ali, one of the two fighters from Idlib.

As Ghanem said at Assad's sumptuous holiday villa, standing there and looking out to sea, "God will have his revenge."