Young Palestinians in Lebanon Dream of a Future Abroad

In this picture taken on April 19, 2023, Nirmeen Hazineh, a young Palestinian refugee in Lebanon, poses atop a rooftop at the Shatila camp for Palestinian refugees in the southern suburbs of Beirut. (Photo by ANWAR AMRO / AFP)
In this picture taken on April 19, 2023, Nirmeen Hazineh, a young Palestinian refugee in Lebanon, poses atop a rooftop at the Shatila camp for Palestinian refugees in the southern suburbs of Beirut. (Photo by ANWAR AMRO / AFP)
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Young Palestinians in Lebanon Dream of a Future Abroad

In this picture taken on April 19, 2023, Nirmeen Hazineh, a young Palestinian refugee in Lebanon, poses atop a rooftop at the Shatila camp for Palestinian refugees in the southern suburbs of Beirut. (Photo by ANWAR AMRO / AFP)
In this picture taken on April 19, 2023, Nirmeen Hazineh, a young Palestinian refugee in Lebanon, poses atop a rooftop at the Shatila camp for Palestinian refugees in the southern suburbs of Beirut. (Photo by ANWAR AMRO / AFP)

In Lebanon's impoverished Palestinian refugee camps, young people say they dream of leaving a struggling country where their families took refuge generations ago and where their futures remain bleak.

Nirmeen Hazineh is a descendant of survivors of what Palestinians call the Nakba -- the "catastrophe" -- when more than 760,000 Palestinians fled or were forced from their homes by the 1948 war over Israel's creation.

She proudly considers herself from Jaffa -- now south of Tel Aviv -- and talks as if she has lived there all her life, instead of in the ramshackle Shatila refugee camp south of Beirut.

"Emigration has become the main solution for young people," said Hazineh, 25.

"Whoever you speak to, they'll tell you 'I want to leave', whether legally or illegally, it doesn't matter," she told AFP.

Lebanon has been grappling with a devastating economic crisis since late 2019.

Most of the population is now in poverty, according to the United Nations, and many Lebanese have quit the country for better prospects abroad.

Hazineh is a sociology graduate but is not allowed to practice in her field, as Lebanon bars Palestinians from working in 39 professions, including as doctors, lawyers and engineers.

Instead she helps to raise awareness of the dangers of drugs, which add to the daily misery of Shatila.

"There is a kind of despair among young people in the camp," said Hazineh, who despite the difficulties maintains a radiant smile.

She said she wanted to live "in a country that respects me, that gives me a chance, a job".

Tiny Lebanon hosts an estimated 250,000 Palestinian refugees, according to UNRWA, the UN agency for Palestinian refugees, while almost double that number are registered for the organization's services.

Most Palestinians, including more than 30,000 who fled the war in neighboring Syria after 2011, live in one of Lebanon's 12 official camps, now bustling but impoverished urban districts.

Shatila is a warren of tumbledown homes where tangled electricity cables criss-cross tight alleyways.

Walid Othman, 33, says he spends his spare time in political activism with the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, which is banned in Israel.

Othman said he would have liked to study political science and dedicate his life to "defending the Palestinian cause on an international level".

But he had to stop his studies because of "the difficult economic situation" and instead became a blacksmith.

In Lebanon, Palestinians' "denied right to own property... further complicates employment and income generation activities", said Dorothee Klaus, director of UNRWA affairs for Lebanon.

Lebanon says restrictions on Palestinians are justified by their right to return to their country.

In neighboring Syria, some 400,000 Palestinians are registered with UNRWA, where they have access to the job market.

In Jordan, more than half of the around 10 million population is of Palestinian origin, while some 2.3 million Palestinians are registered with UNRWA but have the same rights as Jordanians.

"With no prospect of meaningful future", Palestinian refugees in Lebanon have "attempted to migrate whenever possible", Klaus said.

But their travel documents "may not be recognized", and they may be "required to file visas related to stateless persons", she added.

Mohammad Abdel Hafiz lamented that Palestinians in Lebanon "don't even enjoy the most basic rights".

"Everybody is born in a country, while we are born where our heart is," said the 29-year-old, who volunteers for the Palestinian civil defense in Shatila.

As he zips through its alleys on his moped, he dreams of leaving, but his chances of getting a visa to a Western country are slim.

And he is haunted by the memory of three young camp residents who drowned when a boat carrying would-be migrants sank off the Lebanese coast last year.

"They died because they wanted to have a future," Abdel Hafiz said.

"Here, our aim is just to survive."



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.