Amid Lebanon Blackouts, Dark Comedy Offers Glimmer of Light

Buildings are seen at night during a power cut in some areas in Beirut, Lebanon July 6, 2020. Picture taken July 6, 2020. (Reuters)
Buildings are seen at night during a power cut in some areas in Beirut, Lebanon July 6, 2020. Picture taken July 6, 2020. (Reuters)
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Amid Lebanon Blackouts, Dark Comedy Offers Glimmer of Light

Buildings are seen at night during a power cut in some areas in Beirut, Lebanon July 6, 2020. Picture taken July 6, 2020. (Reuters)
Buildings are seen at night during a power cut in some areas in Beirut, Lebanon July 6, 2020. Picture taken July 6, 2020. (Reuters)

Without electricity for air conditioning or fuel to reach the beach, two comedians are keeping cool in crisis-hit Lebanon by splashing around in an inflatable pool - in their living room.

“When the generator comes on, we’ll crank up the light to get a tan,” one of the women quips, part of a new wave of Lebanese opting to laugh in the face of disaster.

As the economic downturn deepens, Lebanese are increasingly turning to caustic comedy to mine humor from the everyday chaos, be it the rampant power cuts, hours-long lines at gas stations or the 90% currency devaluation.

“We’re showing how far we’ve fallen,” said Nathalie Masri, an advertising executive who launched the “Coffee Break” page with friend and associate Nadyn Chalhoub in 2018 with the tagline “Sarcasm is our means of survival”.

Their first posts were mostly social commentary, but when Lebanon’s financial collapse began a year later, the pair turned to the widespread daily shortages that shape daily life.

“Why do you need cooking gas? Just rub two rocks together and you’ll make a fire,” said Chalhoub in a May 2020 video.

Their “Lebanese 2021 Starter Pack” came with a logbook to track planned electricity outages in rationing and a generous handful of “anti-anxiety pills from abroad” - as most Lebanese pharmacies can no longer afford to stock them.

No laughing matter
Nor are they alone in finding humor in the new reality, with Lebanese social media awash with gallows humor.

The anonymous author of @Lebaneselira - whose Twitter bio declares “I’m collapsing” - posts quips about the lira’s volatile exchange rate on the black market.

WhatsApp chats, too, are filled with sardonic asides: jokes about the new “fashion trend” for half-ironed shirts amid all the power cuts or mock pride at Lebanon achieving zero carbon emissions as empty tanks keep cars home.

In a mock tutorial on Instagram, Farid Hobeiche shows his 156,000 followers how to turn fridges into extra clothes closets since blackouts had rendered them useless for food.

“It’s not about inspiration; it’s reality,” Hobeiche told the Thomson Reuters Foundation from his hometown of Ghazir, north of Beirut.

More than a jokey escape, he said the posts offer people a collective coping mechanism in a crisis the World Bank classifies as one of the worst in 200 years.

“I’m not doing comedy to make people laugh so hard that they pass out... But to make them feel hope - when they see someone still standing, still joking,” he said.

Countless studies show how humor helps the brain cope with hardship - even for Holocaust survivors or prisoners of war.

A 2014 study published in the Journal of Consumer Research found that “humorous complaining” could help people by reframing dire situations in a less negative way.

“When we share the pain and the reality, we cry together, but we can also laugh together at the absurdity of it,” said Shaden Esperanza, a stand-up comedian.

She has even joked about the exorbitant cost of imported feminine hygiene products, a subject that can still be seen as taboo in Lebanon.

“Viagra is subsidized by the government, but not tampons? I’ll gush blood all over you,” Esperanza repeated to the Thomson Reuters Foundation.

Darker days ahead
But with Lebanon’s economy in freefall, even its most playful observers feel it resembles a race to the bottom.

“What I used to be able to make fun of two weeks ago, I can no longer laugh at today - because the crisis is getting so much worse,” said Hobeiche.

Posting online may soon not even be an option, as shortages of fuel at telecomms centers have forced Lebanon’s state internet provider to cut connectivity in swathes of the country.

“I guess I’ll have to send my CV around,” he ribbed.

The “Coffee Break” hosts spoke to the Thomson Reuters Foundation from an office with no electricity, through a cellphone with a precariously dwindling battery.

The pair said they were considering working abroad as power and internet cuts had derailed work deadlines, while other shortages had prompted health worries for their young children.

“We want to be able to write, ‘I hope this email finds you well,’” joked Chalhoub.

“And have the email actually send,” Masri filled in.



In Beirut, Volunteers Race to Help War Displaced

People in Beirut are stepping up to help tens of thousands of Lebanese displaced by Israel's aerial bombardment © Anwar AMRO / AFP
People in Beirut are stepping up to help tens of thousands of Lebanese displaced by Israel's aerial bombardment © Anwar AMRO / AFP
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In Beirut, Volunteers Race to Help War Displaced

People in Beirut are stepping up to help tens of thousands of Lebanese displaced by Israel's aerial bombardment © Anwar AMRO / AFP
People in Beirut are stepping up to help tens of thousands of Lebanese displaced by Israel's aerial bombardment © Anwar AMRO / AFP

Beirut is buzzing with activity as volunteers scramble to aid the tens of thousands displaced by Israel's intense bombardment of Lebanon this week.

Despite an economic crisis that has gripped the country for years, people in the capital are stepping up, finding shelter, cooking meals and gathering essentials.

In a cramped soup kitchen, dozens of volunteers wearing aprons and hairnets stir steaming pots of tomato bulgur and pack hundreds of meals into plastic containers.

"When people began fleeing the south, I had to help in any way possible," said Mehyeddine el Jawhary, a 33-year-old chef originally from Sidon.

"The first thing that crossed my mind was to cook meals," said Jawhary, whose parents refused to leave the southern city despite nearby air strikes.

This week Israel dramatically intensified its attacks, mostly on south Beirut and southern and eastern Lebanese areas, killing more than 700 people, according to the health ministry.

'Help each other'

The International Organization for Migration estimates that around 118,000 people have been displaced by the flare-up in just the past week.

Schools turned makeshift shelters are overflowing, and those who can afford it are renting apartments or staying with family.

"Now's not the time to say, 'It's not my problem'," said Jawhary. "The state is unable to help us, so we have to help each other."

His cooking crew delivered 1,800 meals in a single day, part of a grassroots network of community kitchens feeding those in need since the onset of the economic collapse in 2019.

Lebanon's government, strapped for cash, is offering little assistance, forcing communities to organise their own aid.

Social media is flooded with people offering free apartments or running donation drives for food and essentials.

Engineer Ziad Abichaker has raised enough money for 600 mattresses and blankets and is pushing to reach 1,000.

Helping was a "moral duty", he told AFP.

'We could all become displaced'

In Beirut's Badaro district, a group of mothers collects clothes, blankets and baby formula at Teatrino, a pre-school turned donation hub.

Sorting through piles of clothes inside the facility, paediatric dentist Mayssa Blaibel said she had stopped working at her clinic this week to become a full-time volunteer.

"It's not easy because demand is very high. We're just ordinary people trying to help, but it seems the crisis will last," said the 36-year-old.

"Because I have children, I feel it's my duty to do something. We cannot expect our society to be good if we're not giving a good example ourselves."

More than 20 kilometres (12 miles) away, in the lush Shouf mountains, Hala Zeidan has been sharing her home free of charge since Monday with a displaced family of three.

"This is our homeland and these are people who were displaced from their villages," said the 61-year-old teacher living in the Druze town of Baakline.

"We could all become displaced... we should be compassionate and work hand in hand."