I’ve just arrived in Beirut. We cleared immigration quickly, got our luggage, and the first thing that strikes me as a bit different from my last visit was that the inevitable person that offers to help with the bags has a Syrian accent. I politely decline.
We hop into a waiting SUV and are on our way. As we pass just north of the airport, there's a vacant lot on the right. I note that that was the site of the former USMC barracks that was bombed in '83. There is no marker there, not even a plaque. I say a silent prayer. We enter the throng of traffic in Dahieh, the Shia district in south Beirut. It's maddening, traffic is always heavy and chaotic here, but this time of year it's worse. Handcarts and mopeds weave in and out of the flow of traffic, as cars compete for position. We're narrowly missed a few times, it's just normal.
We enter a bridge, with traffic walls on both sides, and a clearance of maybe half a meter on each side. Cars are speeding by, yet there are children here, children waving objects in the air. As we get closer, I realize that they are trying to get the passing motorists to stop and buy tissue paper. My host confirms my suspicions, they are Syrian refugee children, and they are everywhere.
Apparently, vans drop them off at key points each day, then collect them again long after dark, as well they collect the money the poor kids have earned. The scheme is organized and run by a gang. The youngest looked about five, the oldest maybe eleven. I counted nine kids in one short stretch.
There are now well over a million Syrian refugees in Lebanon, a country of four million. They are desperate, hungry, and everywhere. Something’s got to give.