Back to the Land: Lebanese Family Turns to Farming to Survive Crises

Qassem Shreim, 42, picks tomatoes growing in a greenhouse in Bani Haiyyan village, southern Lebanon June 7, 2022. Picture taken June 7, 2022. (Reuters)
Qassem Shreim, 42, picks tomatoes growing in a greenhouse in Bani Haiyyan village, southern Lebanon June 7, 2022. Picture taken June 7, 2022. (Reuters)
TT
20

Back to the Land: Lebanese Family Turns to Farming to Survive Crises

Qassem Shreim, 42, picks tomatoes growing in a greenhouse in Bani Haiyyan village, southern Lebanon June 7, 2022. Picture taken June 7, 2022. (Reuters)
Qassem Shreim, 42, picks tomatoes growing in a greenhouse in Bani Haiyyan village, southern Lebanon June 7, 2022. Picture taken June 7, 2022. (Reuters)

In a remote village in southern Lebanon, Qassem Shreim crouched low to examine his wheat crop. Food costs have soared amid a global wheat crisis and Lebanon's own economic meltdown, but the builder-turned-farmer feels shielded by his self-sufficiency.

Like many families in crisis-plagued Lebanon, Shreim turned to farming after the local pound began to slip in 2019, making his construction work scarce and his grocery runs ever more costly.

"We couldn't work, so what did we do? We turned to agriculture," the 42-year-old told Reuters in his home village of Houla, near the border with Israel.

Food prices have jumped 11-fold since Lebanon's crisis began, the World Food Program says. Lebanese authorities have incrementally increased an official price cap on loaves of the staple pita bread and fears of a wheat shortage have grown since Russia's invasion of Ukraine derailed grain shipments.

That crisis feels worlds away in Shreim's humble home, where slices of melon picked from their garden glisten in the afternoon sun and the kitchen is stocked with flatbread baked by his wife, Khadija, using wheat from their land.

Their front patio and hallway have been turned into a makeshift shop, where wooden stalls made by Khadija bear fat watermelons and jars of freshly-pressed grape leaves.

"Self-sufficiency starts at home. I used to buy everything from the shops. Today all the vegetables I need are available here," said Shreim.

No going back
Over the last three years, his family has planted everything from wheat and lentils to tiny eggplants and curled green chili peppers.

The plots are at a lower altitude, where water is more plentiful, and regularly rotated to replenish nutrients in the soil while maximizing the number of harvests.

But Shreim wasn't born with green fingers: he learned how to set up greenhouses by watching YouTube videos and has gathered tips and tricks from other farmers.

Khadija, 39, has also relied on technology to run the shop.

She sends daily grocery prices every morning to the women of al-Houla through a WhatsApp messenger group by 9 am, and they message back with their requests.

"They call me the mayor of the village here, I know everyone," said Khadija.

For her, sustainability goes beyond farming. She encourages customers to come with their own fabric bags to minimize use of plastic bags and researches preserving techniques on YouTube.

"As the crisis worsens, I invent new things. For example, I turned what I had remaining from the small eggplants into jam. You wouldn't believe it - people would tell me 'what do you mean by eggplant jam?' I couldn't keep up with orders," she said.

Still, Shreim's operation is not entirely untouched by Lebanon's crisis.

Their home gets one hour of state-provided electricity every day and another four hours from a private generator, which limits how much water they can pump into their gardens.

Rains were plentiful last winter but Shreim fears a drier winter this time around could wreak havoc on next year’s crops.

They have cut back on vitamins and some pesticides for cost reasons. Before the crisis, farmers often trucked their produce to Beirut, where they could sell at higher prices.

"Today, it's different - if I want to take products down to Beirut's wholesale market for fruits and vegetables, and assuming the car doesn't break down, the cost of fuel would be what I earn in an entire season," Shreim said.

The tractor he uses to plough his fields runs on diesel and he counts "every second" that he runs it.

But Shreim shrugged off such worries.

"I won't go back to my old job... I want to continue. Farming has a future," he said.



Told to Fix Notorious Prison, Israel Just Relocated Alleged Abuses, Detainees Say 

Israeli security personnel stand outside Ofer military prison in the West Bank on Feb. 8, 2025. (AP) 
Israeli security personnel stand outside Ofer military prison in the West Bank on Feb. 8, 2025. (AP) 
TT
20

Told to Fix Notorious Prison, Israel Just Relocated Alleged Abuses, Detainees Say 

Israeli security personnel stand outside Ofer military prison in the West Bank on Feb. 8, 2025. (AP) 
Israeli security personnel stand outside Ofer military prison in the West Bank on Feb. 8, 2025. (AP) 

Under pressure from Israel’s top court to improve conditions at a facility notorious for mistreating Palestinians seized in Gaza, the military transferred hundreds of detainees to newly opened camps.

But abuses at these camps were just as bad, according to Israeli human rights organizations that interviewed dozens of current and former detainees and are now asking the same court to force the military to fix the problem once and for all.

What the detainees’ testimonies show, rights groups say, is that instead of correcting alleged abuses against Palestinians held without charge or trial — including beatings, excessive handcuffing, and poor diet and health care -- Israel’s military just shifted where they take place.

"What we’ve seen is the erosion of the basic standards for humane detention," said Jessica Montell, the director of Hamoked, one of the rights groups petitioning the Israeli government.

Asked for a response, the military said it complies with international law and "completely rejects allegations regarding the systematic abuse of detainees."

The sprawling Ofer Camp and the smaller Anatot Camp, both built in the West Bank, were supposed to resolve problems rights groups documented at a detention center in the Negev desert called Sde Teiman. That site was intended to temporarily hold and treat fighters captured during Hamas’ Oct. 7, 2023, attack on Israel. But it morphed into a long-term detention center infamous for brutalizing Palestinians rounded up in Gaza, often without being charged.

Detainees transferred to Ofer and Anatot say conditions there were no better, according to more than 30 who were interviewed by lawyers for Hamoked and Physicians for Human Rights-Israel. AP is the first international news organization to report on the affidavits from PHRI.

"They would punish you for anything" said Khaled Alserr, 32, a surgeon from Gaza who spent months at Ofer Camp and agreed to speak about his experiences. He was released after six months without charge.

Alserr said he lost count of the beatings he endured from soldiers after being rounded up in March of last year during a raid at Nasser Hospital in Khan Younis. "You’d be punished for making eye contact, for asking for medicine, for looking up towards the sky," said Alserr.

Other detainees’ accounts to the rights groups remain anonymous. Their accounts could not be independently confirmed, but their testimonies – given separately – were similar.

The Supreme Court has given the military until the end of March to respond to the alleged abuses at Ofer.

Leaving Sde Teiman

Since the war began, Israel has seized thousands in Gaza that it suspects of links to Hamas. Thousands have also been released, often after months of detention.

Hundreds of detainees were freed during the ceasefire that began in January. But with ground operations recently restarted in Gaza, arrests continue. The military won’t say how many detainees it holds.

After Israel's Supreme Court ordered better treatment at Sde Teiman, the military said in June it was transferring hundreds of detainees, including 500 sent to Ofer.

Ofer was built on an empty lot next to a civilian prison of the same name. Satellite photos from January show a paved, walled compound, with 24 mobile homes that serve as cells.

Anatot, built on a military base in a Jewish settlement, has two barracks, each with room for about 50 people, according to Hamoked.

Under wartime Israeli law, the military can hold Palestinians from Gaza for 45 days without access to the outside world. In practice, many go far longer.

Whenever detainees met with Hamoked lawyers, they were "dragged violently" into a cell — sometimes barefoot and often blindfolded, and their hands and feet remained shackled throughout the meetings, the rights group said in a letter to the military’s advocate general.

"I don’t know where I am," one detainee told a lawyer.

Newly freed Israeli hostages have spoken out about their own harsh conditions in Gaza. Eli Sharabi, who emerged gaunt after 15 months of captivity, told Israel’s Channel 12 news that his captors said hostages’ conditions were influenced by Israel’s treatment of Palestinian prisoners.

Regular beatings

Alserr said he was kept with 21 others from Gaza in a 40-square-meter cell with eight bunk beds. Some slept on the floor on camping mattresses soldiers had punctured so they couldn't inflate, he said. Scabies and lice were rampant. He said he was only allowed outside his cell once a week.

Detainees from Ofer and Anatot said they were regularly beaten with fists and batons. Some said they were kept in handcuffs for months, including while they slept and ate — and unshackled only when allowed to shower once a week.

Three prisoners held in Anatot told the lawyers that they were blindfolded constantly. One Anatot detainee said that soldiers woke them every hour during the night and made them stand for a half-hour.

In response to questions from AP, the military said it was unaware of claims that soldiers woke detainees up. It said detainees have regular shower access and are allowed daily yard time. It said occasional overcrowding meant some detainees were forced to sleep on "mattresses on the floor."

The military said it closed Anatot in early February because it was no longer needed for "short-term incarceration" when other facilities were full. Sde Teiman, which has been upgraded, is still in use.

Nutrition and health care

Alserr said the worst thing about Ofer was medical care. He said guards refused to give him antacids for a chronic ulcer. After 40 days, he felt a rupture. In the truck heading to the hospital, soldiers tied a bag around his head.

"They beat me all the way to the hospital," he said. "At the hospital they refused to remove the bag, even when they were treating me."

The military said all detainees receive checkups and proper medical care. It said "prolonged restraint during detention" was only used in exceptional cases and taking into account the condition of each detainee.

Many detainees complained of hunger. They said they received three meals a day of a few slices of white bread with a cucumber or tomato, and sometimes some chocolate or custard.

That amounts to about 1,000 calories a day, or half what is necessary, said Lihi Joffe, an Israeli pediatric dietician who read some of the Ofer testimonies and called the diet "not humane."

After rights groups complained in November, Joffe said she saw new menus at Ofer with greater variety, including potatoes and falafel — an improvement, she said, but still not enough.

The military said a nutritionist approves detainees' meals, and that they always have access to water.

Punished for seeing a lawyer

Two months into his detention, Alserr had a 5-minute videoconference with a judge, who said he would stay in prison for the foreseeable future.

Such hearings are "systematically" brief, according to Nadia Daqqa, a Hamoked attorney. No lawyers are present and detainees are not allowed to talk, she said.

Several months later, Alserr was allowed to meet with a lawyer. But he said he was forced to kneel in the sun for hours beforehand.

Another detainee told the lawyer from Physicians for Human Rights that he underwent the same punishment. "All the time, he has been threatening to take his own life," the lawyer wrote in notes affixed to the affidavit.

Since his release in September, Alserr has returned to work at the hospital in Gaza.

The memories are still painful, but caring for patients again helps, he said. "I’m starting to forget ... to feel myself again as a human being."