Abedel, a 38-year-old Bangladeshi laborer, stands in front of one of the field hospitals that provide medical services in Beirut’s Mar Mikhael district. His wounds were minor, or they might have not been serious if they were treated promptly, but he did not go to the hospital immediately after he was injured in the August 4 explosion that rocked the Lebanese capital's port, and his wounds have become infected.
"I was in Bourj Hammoud, and the glass fell on me," he says, using the few Arabic words he knows and pointing to his hand. He was afraid of going to the hospital because he did not have the money and because of his illegal status.
Many of these workers speak of a similar fear to that of the Lebanese, but for them it was doubled. Some of them suddenly recognized that they could not speak the language, others wanted to flee, only for fear of security forces or the army discovering they were staying in the country illegally. As for the gravest fear; it was to die without someone recognizing them, as one worker said in broken Arabic: “My family is not here. Who will know my name.”
Dozens of workers visit the rescue tents that were set up in the squares near the site of the explosion on a daily basis. Most of them did not receive appropriate treatment despite the Ministry of Health’s decision to treat all victims at its expense without discriminating between Lebanese and non-Lebanese, but this decision, of course, did apply to them. So, most of them decided to "bite the wound” in other words, treat it at home, like Hamza, another Bangladeshi worker, who was injured in his face and hand in the Nabaa suburb and decided a week after the explosion to treat his injuries in one of the field clinics because they are free of charge.
The explosion claimed the lives of 11 Bangladeshi, Filipino and Ethiopian nationals.
Unlike Abedel and Hamza, 24-year-old Mekdes, an Ethiopian worker in a beauty shop in Gemmayze, was not panicking about going to the hospital, but about dying before being found.
"I heard a loud sound and glass shattering. Everyone ran away and I was left alone on the shop floor. I didn't know what was happening and why I couldn't move." I did not think of anything except that I was alone, abandoned and forgotten, as if I were nothing," she said, stuttering.
Mekdes was able to go to the hospital with the help of a friend, but she was unable to get immediate treatment even though she had a head injury. “Take a (Panadol) pill, your injury is minor”, a hospital employee told her. He then added: "You should go to (Rafic Hariri) Hospital." She then went to another hospital, where she was treated.
Mekdes considers Beirut her second home. She has been working here for more than seven years. She is saddened by these words, but she says, with a smile: “Beirut is beautiful and will bounce back and become more beautiful. Perhaps, treating me is not a priority because I am Ethiopian."
Hundreds of workers lost their homes or part of them due to the explosion, especially those who live in areas close to the port, such as Nabaa, Sin el-Fil and Karm al-Zaytoun.
They had already been suffering from problems that were exacerbated by the dollar crisis and then the coronavirus epidemic. This had already pushed many of them to return to their country, and those who remained, either because they couldn’t buy tickets, as is the case for Abedel, or because they chose, like the Lebanese, to confront whatever comes next, as Mekdes said.
