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."



Flashy Villas, Cars and Drugs: Assad’s Legacy in Latakia

A man climbs a staircase in the damaged house of Hafez Munzer al-Assad, a relative of ousted Syrian president Bashar al-Assad, in the western port city of Latakia on December 15, 2024. (AFP)
A man climbs a staircase in the damaged house of Hafez Munzer al-Assad, a relative of ousted Syrian president Bashar al-Assad, in the western port city of Latakia on December 15, 2024. (AFP)
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Flashy Villas, Cars and Drugs: Assad’s Legacy in Latakia

A man climbs a staircase in the damaged house of Hafez Munzer al-Assad, a relative of ousted Syrian president Bashar al-Assad, in the western port city of Latakia on December 15, 2024. (AFP)
A man climbs a staircase in the damaged house of Hafez Munzer al-Assad, a relative of ousted Syrian president Bashar al-Assad, in the western port city of Latakia on December 15, 2024. (AFP)

The drive winds between manicured lavender-lined lawns to a crescent-shaped home with a gleaming swimming pool on the Syrian coast: Bashar al-Assad's holiday hideaway disgusts those who now come here.

"To think that he spent all that money and we lived in misery," spat Mudar Ghanem, 26.

He is grey-skinned and his eyes are sunken after spending 36 days in a Damascus jail, accused like other suspected dissidents of "terrorism" against the ousted president's rule.

Now he had come "to see with my own eyes how they lived while other people had no electricity", Ghanem told AFP, standing by the windows of a huge white-marbled living room.

"I don't care if the next president lives here too," he added, "as long as he looks after the people and doesn't humiliate us."

The Assad holiday home is in Latakia, Syria's second largest port after Tartus. It is in an area that is the heartland of the Assad clan's Alawite sect.

On Sunday, a week after the deposed president fled Syria a lightning opposition offensive after his family had ruled for more than five decades, curious people came to see how Assad had lived.

This was just one of three Assad villas on the outskirts of the city.

In scenes that were unimaginable just days ago, Syrians wandered through the luxury home that is now guarded by a handful of fighters.

There was no air of triumphalism, just stupefaction and anger at how Assad had lived a life of luxury in this idyllic seaside spot.

Over the past week the house itself has been ransacked, stripped of its last doorknob, but the grandeur of its rooms and the antique mosaic adorning the entrance bear witness to its standing.

- Showroom -

The land used to be owned by Nura's family.

"They chased us away. I didn't dare come back" before now, the 37-year-old said, adding that she intends to seek legal redress to get her property back.

Most people who spoke to AFP on Sunday, like Nura, spoke freely but preferred not to give their full names. Despite its downfall, the fear instilled by the Assad name is still there.

"You never know -- they could come back," said 45-year-old Nemer, after parking his motorbike outside a flashy villa.

The house belonged to Munzer al-Assad, a cousin of the former leader.

Along with his brother, who died in 2015, Munzer ran the notorious "shabiha" militia, known for its abuses and trafficking operations.

"It's the first time I've stopped here," Nemer said. "In the past the guards would chase us away. We weren't allowed to park."

The two-storey house had also been stripped. Chandeliers, furniture, stucco moldings... all gone. Family photographs ripped up and portraits torn from now bare walls. The looters had been busy.

"I get 20 dollars a month. I have to do two jobs just to feed my family," Nemer said, bitter at the memory of Assad clan convoys that used to speed through the city streets.

Munzer's son Hafez ran a car showroom -- Syria Car. Now just a single vehicle sits there among the broken glass.

The car won't start, so people have been pulling it apart, destroying its bodywork, windows and upholstery. A young couple pretended to get behind the wheel.

- On a mission -

Lawyer Hassan Anwar, another visitor, was on a mission. The 51-year-old inspected the premises, searching for any documentation that could be later used in court.

He said this was because Hafez was well known for confiscating cars or buying them for well below market price before selling them on.

"Several complaints have been filed," Anwar said.

"Syria Car" was in fact one big money-laundering operation to mask the family's trafficking operations, the lawyer said.

On the pavement outside, two passers-by stopped beside a sewer grating. They lifted it up and scooped out hundreds of small white pills.

This was captagon, a banned amphetamine-like stimulant. It became Syria's largest export, turning the country under Assad into the world's biggest narco state.

They said massive quantities of the drug had been found nationwide after Assad fell.

Lawyer Anwar said pills had been exported from Latakia inside clothing labels.

Accompanied by two young opposition fighters newly arrived from Idlib province, Anwar entered the building beside the showroom, stepping through its broken window. As he did so, a young guard, Hilal, appeared.

In the basement, Hilal had discovered brand new scales still in their boxes -- "for weighing drugs", he said -- along with box after box of glassware, pipettes and tubes he said were used to manufacture amphetamines.

"I'm shocked by the scale of these crimes," said 30-year-old Ali, one of the two fighters from Idlib.

As Ghanem said at Assad's sumptuous holiday villa, standing there and looking out to sea, "God will have his revenge."