“Today, we live on 250 euros per month for five”

Count, save, then recount. For a year now, the life of the Shemaly family has come down to this obsession. “As recently as this morning, I was already wondering how I was going to fill the gas cylinder for cooking”, sighs Haddla, 62 years old. Sitting on a plastic chair in the shade of the chestnut tree that springs into the middle of the garden, this mother of nine children, who has dedicated her life to looking after them alone, has tired features. When asked about their age, she hesitates, amused, then assures: “I think it’s 23 to 43 years old.”

Like many families in the Bekaa Plain, the Shemaly have long earned their living by cultivating the land. Covering 4000 km2, this valley is surrounded by the mountains of Mount Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon. Despite the aridity of the climate, the passage of the Litani and Oronte rivers have long earned it the nickname of “agricultural granary”. “My husband was a farmer. In our 2 km2 field, we planted all kinds of vegetables that we sold or ate”, says Haddla.

In these fertile fields, the Shemaly produced different types of wheat, onions, basil, coriander, cucumbers, tomatoes … “We were making around 1 million Lebanese pounds, which was maybe $ 1,000 at the pre-crisis rate.” Today, with the crisis, the field is no longer enough. The children who remained in Lebanon all lost their jobs and returned, willy-nilly, to the family home. “Now, we live on 250 euros per month for five people minimum”, she laments.

From daybreak until nightfall, the daily life of the Shemaly is a succession of renouncements. “Where do you want me to start?”, Haddla asks, annoyed, bringing a tray of cups of kahwe, the traditional Lebanese coffee. It begins with electricity, this daily concern for many Lebanese. “Because of the rationing, we have cuts every day. About 5 hours at night and 2 hours during the day”, explains Haddla.

There is indeed a private generator, which the inhabitants of the district share. But with the rise in the price of fuel oil, the bill exploded, going from 200,000 pounds to more than one million per month (from 10 euros to around 50 euros at the black market rate *).

“Before, as soon as I got up, I turned on the television and it stayed on all day. The same with the radio, we listened to music all the time. Now everything is turned off to save electricity.”

Haddla shemaly

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At the end of October, the temperature in El Marj, the city of the Shemaly, is around 25 degrees, but usually, “it’s cool and we turn on the heating”. This year, Haddla plans to wait “the last moment” to use it.

The lack of electricity is so severe that the matriarch is given checks that she never thought she would do in her life. “I always check that the light bulbs are off. I wait until the washing machine is full to start it. Before, I could make one with two T-shirts”, she illustrates, by linking Cedars cigarettes, a famous Lebanese brand. On this point, she confides jokingly: “I would like to quit, for my health and to save money, but I can’t! I love smoking too much!”

Another daily anxiety: food. Before the crisis, the Shemaly used to go to the supermarket to supplement their harvest of vegetables. Today everything has become inaccessible. “A kilo of potatoes is 10,000 pounds [environ 50 centimes d’euro au taux actuel*]. Before, it was 200 pounds! And yet it is a staple food “, indignant Haddla. Sunday, reunion day for the whole family, finished the table loaded with meat for the barbecue or halloumi cheese that is melted on the embers.

Before, my children ate meat when they wanted. Now it’s fifteen times more expensive, we can’t afford it anymore. And yet, it’s so good! “

Haddla shemaly

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These deprivations are experienced as humiliations, especially when it comes to changing habits. To pass marks “of good quality” to those low-end, until now reserved for the most modest. “The Picon [du fromage frais en portions], I bought it all the time. But since it is an imported product, it has become very expensive. I don’t even look at it on the shelves anymore “, Haddla laments. The same goes for the Nido powdered milk or the box of Nescafé Gold. “Fortunately, my son who lives in Saudi Arabia brings us some, because this coffee is so good!”, she slips mischievously.

Busy by his side chasing the hens who try to peck the walnut kernels on the table, his son Rabeh adds: “I no longer drink Red Bull, but Dark Blue, a sub-brand”, he said wryly. Stocking up has also become a norm. “Now, with summer vegetables, we prepare preserves for the whole winter”, Haddla continues, describing the jars of pickles and jam she keeps in a cupboard.

One of his daughters, Hanin, who passes with his son in his arms, slips saddened: “We must not forget children’s birthdays. We don’t celebrate them anymore. And if the children insist, we bake the cake ourselves, whereas before, we liked to buy it.”

The fall was particularly brutal for Rabeh. At 23, the youngest of the family had set up his own business in electricity after high school. But the shortage of construction sites has gradually forced him to close shop and dismiss his two employees. “I was making 1000 dollars a month, now I barely have enough to charge my phone”, he says, bitter. In 2019, exasperated, he joined Thawra, the revolutionary movement against the government. But the mobilization was quickly weakened by the Covid-19 epidemic.

The motorcycle he loved so much? Rabeh sold it and replaced it with a cheaper scooter. The meals he made without counting in the chic restaurants of Zahlé, the largest city of Bekaa? Completed for several months.

“Before, I didn’t save. I spent my weekends at the sea, in bars in Beirut. Now I have to ask my mother for money to live.”

Rabeh Shemaly

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Rabeh has thought about going to the capital to find work, El Marj is only an hour away by car, but there are no needs there either. “With the price of fuel rising, transportation would cost me too much anyway”, he recalls.

The Shemaly now rely only on the financial support of the two elders who left to work in the Gulf countries. In a khaki puffer jacket and sock slides, Hadi Omar is just passing through. Clear-eyed like everyone in the family, he sits aside and whispers jokingly: “My mother shouldn’t hear me – luckily she doesn’t understand English – but I hate coming back here!”

For five years, Hadi Omar has been running a restaurant in Kuwait. An opportunity unearthed after having climbed the steps of the same sign in Lebanon, from diving to management. “I earn around 150 dinars (around 430 euros) per month. Depending on what I spend, I manage to send a good part of my pay to my family”, he counts. There, Hadi Omar leads a life far from the daily tensions of those close to him. He will not be more expansive on the subject. “I am writing, I would like to publish my book”, he confides all the same, quoting Agatha Christie and the Lebanese poet Gibran Khalil Gibran. “I write about how I feel, about religion or about my relationship to others.”

In Kuwait, I have time and mental space to write, to think. In Lebanon, you only think of day by day, of surviving everyday. “

Hadi Omar Shemaly

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Even far away, Hadi Omar feels the pressure of having to insure for his family. “I would like them to go and live in another country, but my mother is too old”, he explains. When he comes home, he always has this shameful feeling of wanting to leave right away. “I am happy, because they are happy to see me again. But I can see that they are not happy, that they are tired, that they look good. Money has taken an inordinate place in their life”, he regrets.

Scattered around the house, playing in the tree or on the swing, the children observe with curious eyes the conversations of the adults. Through his various marriages, Haddla has 30 grandchildren and Omar Hadi 40 nephews and nieces. “They are small but they understand the situation very well. One of my sons asked me the other day if he should break the bank to give me the few books he had.”, says Fatima, a daughter-in-law.

The grandmother nods. “I am very worried about my grandchildren. They are even starting to run out of teachers at school because of the drop in salaries. We are making a lost generation,” she says. Sometimes she remembers the civil war and reassures herself that it was worse, that people got used to it. Rabeh the cut, fatalist: “No, we don’t adapt. We will never adapt.”

* The official exchange rate is 1500 Lebanese pounds to 1 US dollar. On the black market, the rate is 20,800 pounds to the dollar. It is this rate which is used on a daily basis and which has soared with the crisis.