Lebanon Power Plant Sparks Cancer Fears

Experts and residents believe air pollution contributes to higher rates of cancer and respiratory disease in Zouk Mikael. AFP
Experts and residents believe air pollution contributes to higher rates of cancer and respiratory disease in Zouk Mikael. AFP
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Lebanon Power Plant Sparks Cancer Fears

Experts and residents believe air pollution contributes to higher rates of cancer and respiratory disease in Zouk Mikael. AFP
Experts and residents believe air pollution contributes to higher rates of cancer and respiratory disease in Zouk Mikael. AFP

After losing four relatives to respiratory illness, Zeina Matar fled her hometown north of Lebanon's capital where she says a decaying power plant generates little electricity but very deadly pollution.

Thick black smoke sometimes billows from its red-and-white chimneys, leaving a grey haze in the air above the Zouk Mikael industrial district where the toxins remain trapped by a nearby mountain chain.

Zeina, aged 40, says she lost her younger sister and a cousin to pulmonary fibrosis and that two of her uncles died of lung cancer years earlier.

They all lived near the plant where, experts and residents believe, air pollution means people are more likely to develop cancer and respiratory disease than anywhere else in the crisis-torn country.

"We could die tomorrow," said Zeina, who has relocated to Lebanon's south to escape the plant's emissions.

A Greenpeace study found that the surrounding Jounieh area ranked fifth in the Arab world and 23rd globally for cities most contaminated by nitrogen dioxide, a dangerous pollutant released when fuel is burnt, AFP reported.

The environmental group's 2018 study singled out the Zouk plant, built in the 1940s, as well as cars on a busy motorway and privately owned electricity generators as the main causes of pollution.

The walls of Zeina's balconies in her old Zouk Mikael home are blackened by the smoke, and laundry she used to hang outside would be damaged by toxic chemicals emanating from the plant, she said.

"Whenever they refill the station with fuel oil, we would close the windows," Zeina said. "The smell is unbearable."

Lebanon's economy has been in free-fall since a financial crisis hit late in 2019, with authorities now barely able to afford more than an hour of mains electricity a day.

The Zouk Mikael plant, one of the country's largest, now runs at minimum capacity when it operates at all, but still its emissions are causing high rates of pulmonary disease, experts warn.

Among them is Paul Makhlouf, a lung doctor at the Notre Dame du Liban Hospital in Jounieh, who said he abandoned his local apartment after noticing a rise in respiratory disease among patients.

In 2014, he found that lung ailments had increased by three percent in patients living near the plant compared to the previous year, an annual rise he estimates has now doubled.

"When I saw the results, I moved from there," he said. "I fled."

Makhlouf mainly blames the type of fuel burnt at the Zouk Mikael plant, which he says is rich in sulphide and nitric oxide -- carcinogenic chemicals that affect the respiratory system and the skin.

Compounding the problem, he said, is the fact the seaside plant is located at a low altitude, with heavy smoke trapped in the densely-populated area by nearby mountains that overlook the Mediterranean.

Pictures went viral online last month of thick black smoke again billowing from the Zouk plant as it burnt low-quality fuel oil to produce just one hour of power that day.

The energy ministry said the plant had been forced to use heavy fuel to "keep supplying the airport, hospitals and other vital institutions" with electricity.

Since then, the plant has mostly operated at night.

"Sometimes, we wake up to a loud noise in the middle of the night" when the station kicks into action and burns fuel oil, said Zeina's 80-year-old aunt Samia, who still lives near the plant.

Elie Beaino, who heads the Zouk municipality, said a second plant, built without authorization in 2014, runs somewhat more cleanly on higher-quality fuel or gas, but that it has stopped working as its operators cannot afford those higher-quality hydrocarbons.

"Most residents want the power plants to close down," he said.

Lawmaker Najat Saliba, an atmospheric chemist, said residents near Zouk are at least seven times more likely to develop cancer than those of Beirut, citing a 2018 study she helped author for the American University of Beirut.

She said the heavy fuel oil it uses releases harmful chemicals. "The solution is to import quality fuel oil and gas," she said, adding however that Lebanon cannot afford those fuels.

"We have two options today," she said. "To switch the lights off at the airport and in hospitals, or to sit under a black cloud in Zouk."



Damascus: ‘Pandora’s Box’ Opens for Its People and the World

Damascenes’ vitality quickly returns to the heart of Damascus (Asharq Al-Awsat)
Damascenes’ vitality quickly returns to the heart of Damascus (Asharq Al-Awsat)
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Damascus: ‘Pandora’s Box’ Opens for Its People and the World

Damascenes’ vitality quickly returns to the heart of Damascus (Asharq Al-Awsat)
Damascenes’ vitality quickly returns to the heart of Damascus (Asharq Al-Awsat)

Visitors to Damascus today can’t miss the city’s busy, fast-paced rhythm. Traffic jams clog the main entrances, intersections, and markets, while schoolchildren dart around their parents, backpacks in hand, at the end of the school day. These scenes bring a sense of normalcy, showing that daily life continues despite the challenges.

Cars with license plates from across Syria—Raqqa, Homs, and Idlib—mix with Damascus vehicles at intersections and working traffic lights. “This is new for us,” said a local. “We didn't see cars from these areas before.”

Amid the congestion, as drivers jostled for space, the man joked: “An Idlib plate now means ‘government car’—we’d better make way.”

With traffic police largely absent, a few members of Hayat Tahrir al-Sham have stepped in at key intersections to direct the flow. Still, residents seem to manage on their own, relying on self-organization.

As night fell, parks, cafes, and the bustling Shaalan Street in Damascus filled with families and young people. Crowds moved between juice stands, sandwich shops, and shisha cafes, many with foreign or English-inspired names.

The famed adaptability of locals is evident in small but significant changes. People quickly adjusted to using foreign and Arab currencies, garbage collection resumed swiftly, and even rules for non-Syrians buying SIM cards were amended.

Previously, foreigners had to register with an entry stamp and local address. Now, with Syrian border controls relaxed and monitoring left to the Lebanese side, new measures ensure SIM cards remain traceable without complicating the process.

The “revolution flag” now covers private cars, taxis, and shop entrances in Damascus. Many stores are offering discounts on clothing and shoes to celebrate “victory,” while street vendors eagerly sell the new flag, urging people to buy it with cheers and congratulations.

It’s unclear who genuinely supports the change and who is simply going along to stay safe, especially among small business owners. What is certain, however, is that public spaces have moved on.

From the Lebanese border to the heart of Damascus, slogans praising Assad and the “eternity” he symbolized have been wiped away.

Posters and billboards have appeared across Damascus, especially in Umayyad Square, with messages like “Syria is for all Syrians” and “Time to build a better future.” The slogans call for unity and a shared future for all citizens.

It’s unclear if this is part of an organized campaign by Hayat Tahrir al-Sham or just political improvisation.

Umayyad Square, now a “revolutionary site,” draws crowds day and night, eager to take photos near the historic monument and the abandoned statue of Hafez al-Assad. The scene speaks volumes about untold stories.

Once a key landmark of Damascus, the square is now Syria’s gateway to the world. Syrians from inside and outside the country flood social media with joyful images, while journalists and TV teams from around the globe report in multiple languages.

The atmosphere feels like the opening of “Pandora’s Box,” revealing both the good and the bad.

Journalists in the square, whom you later find in small local restaurants and hotel lobbies, bring to mind post-2003 Baghdad—another capital at a historic turning point, filled with people and emotions.

Like Baghdad, hotel lobbies here are full of contradictions, with journalists playing just a small role.

In these grand spaces, diplomats, UN staff, and translators sit alongside businessmen and contractors eager to capitalize on economic opportunities. While Damascus itself hasn't changed much, its need for basic services, especially electricity, is huge. Entire neighborhoods have been destroyed, with forced displacement, hunger, and fear almost touching the city's hotels and restaurants.

In these hotels, which have become a microcosm of Syrian society, Damascenes are meeting for the first time faction leaders and fighters from the north. Many of them, due to their circumstances, had never seen the capital or entered a hotel.

Their sense of victory is clear, but so is the confusion in their eyes and actions. For example, one might hesitate in an elevator, unsure whether to step out or stay, then greet you politely while avoiding eye contact.

In their military uniforms, with visible weapons and long beards, the fighters stand out in these historic hotels, with their elegant decor and refined staff.

This contrasts sharply with the ordinary Damascenes who visit hotel cafes and restaurants simply for peace and privacy. The fighters bridge the gap with their serious, guarded demeanor, though it softens with a joke from a friend.

Locals feel their “bubble” has burst, and their way of life has changed forever. Yet, most agree that nothing will be worse or last longer than what they’ve already experienced.