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Lebanese Teachers Flee as Financial Crisis Builds

An empty classroom is pictured at College des Freres Sacre-Coeur in Beirut, Lebanon, June 25, 2021. REUTERS/Mohamed Azakir
An empty classroom is pictured at College des Freres Sacre-Coeur in Beirut, Lebanon, June 25, 2021. REUTERS/Mohamed Azakir
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Lebanese Teachers Flee as Financial Crisis Builds

An empty classroom is pictured at College des Freres Sacre-Coeur in Beirut, Lebanon, June 25, 2021. REUTERS/Mohamed Azakir
An empty classroom is pictured at College des Freres Sacre-Coeur in Beirut, Lebanon, June 25, 2021. REUTERS/Mohamed Azakir

Sorbonne-educated Chryssoula Fayad spent nearly two decades teaching history and geography at Lebanon's elite French schools, ultimately heading departments.

Now she is a substitute teacher in Paris, part of an exodus from an education system on its knees.

Fayad left behind her home and life savings in August 2020, at 50 years old. Days earlier, the hospital where her husband worked and his clinic were damaged along with swathes of Beirut when chemicals exploded at the port - the final straw.

Corruption and political wrangling have cost the local currency more than 90% of its value in less than two years, propelling half the population into poverty and locking depositors like Fayad out of their bank accounts.

Despite her straitened circumstances, she has no regrets.

"I always say thank God that we had this chance to come here," she said. "Unfortunately I know I made the right decision when I see how things are in Lebanon now."

Lebanon's educational sector, prized throughout the Middle East as a regional leader, was once ranked tenth globally by the World Economic Forum's Global Competitiveness Report.
Now it is unclear how schools will manage when the new academic year starts in October.

"When the crisis erupted in 2019 it took the educational sector by surprise," Rene Karam, the head of the Association of Teachers of English (ATEL) in Lebanon, said.

At the start, some private schools laid off higher-paid teachers, around 30% of staff, to save money, but as time went on many others left of their own accord, with half of the 100 teachers in his association now in Iraq, Dubai and Oman.

Salaries starting at 1.5 million Lebanese pounds a month are now worth less than $90 at the street rate in a country where they used to be $1,000.

"We are in a real crisis," he told Reuters.

Private schools make up 70% of the educational sector, with upwards of 1,500 institutions. Rodolphe Abboud, head of the syndicate for private school teachers, said every school has lost between ten to 40 teachers so far, with some staying at home because they can no longer afford childcare.

"We are at the stage of just staying alive, the necessities," he said. "There is not one school now that is not advertising for jobs."

Children from several grades have already been put together for some subjects and daily power cuts and shortages of basic materials also make it difficult for schools to operate.

This week the education ministry cancelled final middle school examinations in response to pressure from parents and staff who had argued economic conditions made them impossible.

"The minister wanted to conduct exams but didn't he know that in Lebanon there is a shortage of paper and ink and teachers can't work for free and schools can't operate without fuel for electricity generators?" Karam said.

The education ministry said it had secured extra pay from donors for teachers supervising exams but most had pulled out.

"The majority of teachers gradually withdrew from supervision and this is what made it impossible to conduct the middle school exams," Hilda Khoury, a director at the ministry, said by email, adding that senior school exams would take place.

Father Boutros Azar, secretary general for Catholic Schools in the Middle East and North Africa, said parents at many of its 321 schools in Lebanon were struggling to pay annual fees that range from 3 million to 8 million pounds.

"But we have made a decision to continue and do whatever it takes to keep schools open," he said.

A government employee said no one had paid the fees for next year yet at the school attended by her two sons, aged 10 and seven. The school had demanded $600 for each child in dollars in addition to 12 million Lebanese pounds.

"Where does anybody get fresh dollars to pay these days? We all get paid in local currency so how are we supposed to get this amount?," she said, declining to be named due to the sensitivity of her job.

Abboud, sitting in one of 130 schools that were damaged by the port blast, said some parents were voting with their feet, putting pressure on the small state sector, or moving abroad.

"We are seeing families going from private schools to public schools and others moving outside of Lebanon to Arab countries or Europe and the US and Canada and this creates a problem."

More teachers are also preparing to leave.

"There is a vast difference between now and two years ago," said 25-year old Joy Fares who has been teaching for five years.

"Then I would say no I want to stay with my family ... but now, no, it makes sense to just go."

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In Assad's Hometown, Few Shared in His Family's Fortune. They Hope they Won't Share in His Downfall

A defaced portrait of ousted president Bashar al-Assad hangs on the wall of a building in the capital Damascus on December 17, 2024. (Photo by Sameer Al-DOUMY / AFP)
A defaced portrait of ousted president Bashar al-Assad hangs on the wall of a building in the capital Damascus on December 17, 2024. (Photo by Sameer Al-DOUMY / AFP)
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In Assad's Hometown, Few Shared in His Family's Fortune. They Hope they Won't Share in His Downfall

A defaced portrait of ousted president Bashar al-Assad hangs on the wall of a building in the capital Damascus on December 17, 2024. (Photo by Sameer Al-DOUMY / AFP)
A defaced portrait of ousted president Bashar al-Assad hangs on the wall of a building in the capital Damascus on December 17, 2024. (Photo by Sameer Al-DOUMY / AFP)

On the walls of the palatial mausoleum built to house the remains of former Syrian President Hafez Assad, vandals have sprayed variations of the phrase, “Damn your soul, Hafez.”
Nearly two weeks after the ouster of his son, Bashar Assad, people streamed in to take photos next to the burned-out hollow where the elder Assad’s grave used to be. It was torched by opposition fighters after a lightning offensive overthrew Assad's government, bringing more than a half-century rule by the Assad dynasty to an end, The Associated Press said.
The mausoleum's sprawling grounds — and the surrounding area, where the ousted president and other relatives had villas — were until recently off limits to residents of Qardaha, the former presidential dynasty's hometown in the mountains overlooking the coastal city of Latakia.
Nearby, Bashar Assad’s house was emptied by looters, who left the water taps running to flood it. At a villa belonging to three of his cousins, a father and his two young sons were removing pipes to sell the scrap metal. A gutted piano was tipped over on the floor.
While the Assads lived in luxury, most Qardaha residents — many, like Assad, members of the Alawite minority sect — survived on manual labor, low-level civil service jobs and farming to eke out a living. Many sent their sons to serve in the army, not out of loyalty to the government but because they had no other option.
“The situation was not what the rest of the Syrian society thought,” said Deeb Dayoub, an Alawite sheikh. “Everyone thought Qardaha was a city built on a marble rock and a square of aquamarine in every house," he said, referring to the trappings of wealth enjoyed by Assad's family.
In the city’s main street, a modest strip of small grocery stores and clothing shops, Ali Youssef, stood next to a coffee cart, gesturing with disdain. “This street is the best market and the best street in Qardaha and it’s full of potholes.”
Families resorted to eating bread dipped in oil and salt because they could not afford meat or vegetables, he said. Youssef said he dodged mandatory military service for two years, but eventually was forced to go.
“Our salary was 300,000 Syrian pounds,” a month, he said — just over $20. “We used to send it to our families to pay the rent or live and eat with it" while working jobs on the side to cover their own expenses.
"Very few people benefited from the former deposed regime,” Youssef said.
So far, residents said, the security forces made up of fighters from Hayat Tahrir al-Sham — the main group in the coalition that unseated Assad, and which is now ruling the country — have been respectful toward them.
“The security situation is fine so far, it’s acceptable, no major issues,” said Mariam al-Ali, who was in the market with her daughter. “There were a few abuses ... but it was fixed.” She did not elaborate, but others said there had been scattered incidents of robberies and looting or threats and insults.
Al-Ali called Assad a “traitor,” but she remained circumspect about her Alawite community's position in the new Syria.
“The most important thing is that there should be no sectarianism, so there will be no more blood spilled,” she said.
Dayoub, the Alawite sheikh, described “a state of anticipation and caution among all citizens in this area, and in general among Alawites,” although he said fears have started to ease.
At the town’s municipal building, dozens of notables sat on bleachers discussing the country' s new reality and what they hoped to convey to the new leadership.
Much was centered around economic woes — retired public servants' salaries had not been paid, the price of fuel had risen, there was no public transportation in the area.
But others had larger concerns.
“We hope that in the next government or the new Syria, we will have rights and duties like any Syrian citizen — we are not asking for any more or less,” said Jaafar Ahmed, a doctoral student and community activist. “We don’t accept the curtailment of our rights because the regime was part of this component.”
Questions also loomed about the fate of the area's sons who had served in Assad's army.
Since the army's collapse in the face of the opposition advance, residents said several thousand young army recruits from Qardaha have gone missing. Some later turned up on lists of former soldiers being held at a detention center in Hama.
“These are young guys who are 22 or 23 and they never took part" in active combat, said Qais Ibrahim, whose nephews were among the missing. Over the past few years, active combat was largely frozen in the country's civil war. “We send our children to the army because we don’t have any other source of income.”
Um Jaafar, who gave only her nickname out of fear of reprisals, said the family had no information about the fate of her two sons, stationed with the army in Raqqa and Deir Ezzour, though one son's name later turned up on the list of those imprisoned in Hama.
“My children got the best grades in school, but I didn’t have the ability to send them to the university,” she said. “They went to the army just for a salary that was barely enough to cover their transportation costs.”
Syria's new authorities have set up “reconciliation centers” around the country where former soldiers can register, hand over their weapons and receive a “reconciliation ID” allowing them to move freely and safely in Syria for three months.
But Ahmed, the doctoral student, said he wants more. As the country attempts to unify and move on after nearly 14 years of civil war, he said, “We want either forgiveness for all or accountability for all.”
Ahmed acknowledged that during the war, “rural Latakia was responsible for some radical groups,” referring to pro-Assad militias accused of widespread abuses against civilians. But, he said, opposition groups also committed abuses.
“We hope that there will be either an open process of reconciliation ... or transitional justice in which all will be held accountable for their mistakes, from all parties," he said.
"We can’t talk about holding accountable one ... group but not another.”