The Syrians have arrived

In Lebanon I am ajnabi – a foreigner. Foreigner carries overtones of strange, unusual and in this country that loves foreigners, welcome guest.

I suppose in its favour, the word is much more empathic than the American one – Alien – as well as being more accurate post Ridley Scott and Sigourney Weaver. Although I’ve lived nearly a third of my adult life in Lebanon, I’m still a foreigner and that means I need to obtain permission from the powers that be to stay here from time to time. The time recently came round again.

I duly collected all the required paperwork, passport (to prove I’m me), marriage certificate (to prove I have a legitimate reason to be here), my Lebanese wife’s identity card (to prove she’s who she is) my wife’s ikraj qaid, a document without British equivalent  which goes back to Ottoman Empire days and records her family history (it proves that the marriage certificate is registered as part of her family history and has therefore  been properly processed and is legitimate), property deeds (to prove I have somewhere to live), bank statements (to prove I am of independent means), two photographs (of me!) and, finally, my previous and now expired permit.

Armed with all the above, in duplicate or triplicate as required, together with a sum of money, I headed off to my local General Security Office. I noticed a queue of people four abreast on the pavement, stretching back hundreds of yards and held back by Police. I walked into the courtyard and found another huge queue, which I was invited to jump and did so. The lobby of the building was heaving. I had to give up my iPhone and, seeing it heaped on a pile of cell phones, feared that I would never see that trusty instrument again. I climbed the stairs (no chance of getting into a lift) and on the appropriate floor found a melee that would have done justice to a local football derby with the turnstiles closed.

This was nothing like anything I’d seen on previous pilgrimages to General Security. I asked myself “what is going on?” And then the penny dropped. Everyone was Syrian, except me and an Iraqi woman who’d come to study for a Ph. D. in computer science. The Syrians are all fleeing from the civil war there and many are applying for residency in Lebanon. Some would want to re-occupy the second homes they already have, some to stay with relatives, some to seek the assistance being offered by the already heavily indebted Lebanese Government. All want the chance to stay alive and have a life.

No-one can be sure, but word has it that a million people have arrived from Syria since last summer; as is the way, half a million have registered and the remainder is a guess.

It is a still unfolding tragedy bringing this about, but is there a worse tragedy in the making? Water, electricity, roads, housing and food all have to be supplied and there weren’t enough of some of these to go round the three million Lebanese before the human tsunami gathered strength; the waste all has to be disposed of too.  How can any country absorb an increase of one third in its population without warning in less than a year? Imagine the entire population of the Netherlands arriving in England. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against either the Syrians or the Dutch, indeed I have considerable admiration for many that I’ve met, but there is enough of a good thing. While Lebanon has an amazing track record of absorbing displaced peoples, one thinks of the Armenians and Palestinians in the last century alone, this Syrian exodus is likely to change forever the demographics of a country already an uneasy patchwork of religions and ethnicities.

While the news is full of the waging of war and the consequent appalling destruction of humans and buildings, that is just the bloody and violent tip of the iceberg made up mainly of quiet but emotionally distressing human suffering. I have now seen it for myself in the lines of people, waiting for the chance of a new life.

I would like to say I waited quietly amongst these sufferers for my turn at the overcrowded hatches. It wasn’t like that. I was spotted and asked to go into the captain’s office, where we chatted while he had one of his staff fill out my form and check all was in order. He told me that they were coping and holding to the system, but only just. I say we chatted, but it was while he was signing papers from a continual human stream and rapidly issuing instructions to assorted staff in person and over two ‘phones. I asked him how he kept sane amidst the stress of continuous interruptions. “It’s the physical that’s difficult, I keep getting sick and I’m sure it’s being exposed to strains of bugs I’m not used to”. While he could well be right, I think the stress is much more a factor.

As proof the system still worked, I was reunited with my iPhone when all was finished.

At current course and speed, how long before foreigners become the norm, even the majority and will we all still be welcome guests?