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.



Palestinian Children in East Jerusalem Could Lose Their Schools as Israeli-Ordered Closures Loom 

Laith Shweikeh, 9, sits at his desk at the UNRWA Boys' School run by the UN agency for Palestinian refugees in the Shuafat Refugee Camp in east Jerusalem, Tuesday, April 29, 2025. (AP)
Laith Shweikeh, 9, sits at his desk at the UNRWA Boys' School run by the UN agency for Palestinian refugees in the Shuafat Refugee Camp in east Jerusalem, Tuesday, April 29, 2025. (AP)
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Palestinian Children in East Jerusalem Could Lose Their Schools as Israeli-Ordered Closures Loom 

Laith Shweikeh, 9, sits at his desk at the UNRWA Boys' School run by the UN agency for Palestinian refugees in the Shuafat Refugee Camp in east Jerusalem, Tuesday, April 29, 2025. (AP)
Laith Shweikeh, 9, sits at his desk at the UNRWA Boys' School run by the UN agency for Palestinian refugees in the Shuafat Refugee Camp in east Jerusalem, Tuesday, April 29, 2025. (AP)

Standing in the east Jerusalem school he attended as a young boy, Palestinian construction worker Ahmad Shweikeh studies his son’s careful penmanship. This classroom may be closed Friday, leaving 9-year-old Laith with nowhere to study.

Shweikeh, 38, says he wants Laith — a shy boy, top of his class — to become a surgeon.

"I never expected this," Shweikeh said. "I watched some of my classmates from here become engineers and doctors. I hoped Laith would follow in their footsteps."

The school is one of six across east Jerusalem run by the United Nations agency for Palestinian refugees called UNRWA. Israeli soldiers in riot gear showed up at the schools last month and ordered them to shut down within 30 days. Now parents worry that their children will lose precious opportunities to learn. And they fret for their children's safety if they are made to enroll in Israeli schools.

The closure orders come after Israel banned UNRWA from operating on Israeli soil earlier this year, the culmination of a long campaign against the agency that intensified following the Hamas attacks on Israel Oct. 7, 2023.

UNRWA is the main provider of education and health care to Palestinian refugees across east Jerusalem, which Israel captured in the 1967 Mideast war. While UNRWA schools in the Israeli-occupied West Bank have not received closing orders, the closures have left in limbo the nearly 800 Palestinian students in first through ninth grade in east Jerusalem. Israel has annexed east Jerusalem and considers the entire city its unified capital.

Israel says it will reassign students to other schools The Israeli Ministry of Education says it will place the students into other Jerusalem schools. But parents, teachers and administrators caution that closing the main schools for the children of Palestinian refugees in east Jerusalem promises a surge in absenteeism.

For students in the Shuafat refugee camp, like Laith, switching to Israeli schools means crossing the hulking barrier that separates their homes from the rest of Jerusalem every day.

Some students aren’t even eligible to use the crossing, said Fahed Qatousa, the deputy principal of the UNRWA boys’ school in Shuafat. About 100 students in UNRWA schools in Shuafat have West Bank identifications, which will complicate their entry past the barrier, according to Qatousa.

"I will not in any way send Laith to a school where he has to go through a checkpoint or traffic," Shweikeh said.

In a statement to The Associated Press, the Israeli Ministry of Education said it was closing the schools because they were operating without a license. The agency promised "quality educational solutions, significantly higher in level than that provided in the institutions that were closed." It said that it would "ensure the immediate and optimal integration of all students."

Qatousa fears the students will lose their chance to be educated.

"Israeli schools are overcrowded and cannot take a large number of students. This will lead to a high rate of not attending schools among our students. For girls, they will marry earlier. For boys, they will join the Israeli job market," Qatousa said.

Laith remembers the moment last month when the troops entered his school.

"The soldiers talked to the schoolteachers and told them that they were going to close the school," Laith said. "I don’t want the school to close. I want to stay here and continue to complete my education."

His teacher, Duaa Zourba, who has worked at the school for 21 years, said teachers were "psychologically hurt" by Israel's order.

"Some of the teachers panicked. They started crying because of the situation, because they were very upset with that, with the decisions. I mean, how can we leave this place? We’ve been here for years. We have our own memories," Zourba said.

Israel claims that UNRWA schools teach antisemitic content and anti-Israel sentiment. An UNRWA review of textbooks in 2022-2023 found that just under 4% of pages contained "issues of concern to UN values, guidance, or position on the conflict."

An independent panel reviewed the neutrality of UNRWA after Israel alleged that a dozen of its employees in Gaza participated in Hamas’ Oct. 7 attacks. The panel issued a series of recommendations, including that UNRWA adopt a "zero-tolerance policy" on antisemitic views or hate speech in textbooks.

The Israeli Education Ministry says parents have been directed to register their children at other schools in Jerusalem. Parents told the AP they have not done so.

Zourba said she still plans to hold exams as scheduled for late May. UNRWA administrators pledged to keep the schools open for as long as possible — until Israeli authorities force them to shut down.

The day AP reporters visited the school, Israeli police fired tear gas into the school’s front yard as boys played soccer outside. The gas billowed through the hallways, sending children sprinting indoors, drooling, coughing and crying.

Police spokesperson Mirit Ben Mayor said the forces were responding to rock-throwing inside the camp but denied targeting the school specifically.

As gas filtered through the school, Zourba donned a disposable mask and ran to check on her students.

"As teachers in Shuafat, our first job has always been to ensure the protection and the safety of our kids," she said. "Whenever there’s a raid, we close windows. We close doors so that they don’t smell very heavy tear gas."

"The goal," she said, "is for the kids to always think of this school as a safe place, to remember that there’s a place for them."