Cause of death in Lebanon: Motorcycles, weapons, or your own bank account

You see it everywhere, even on highways, or the rugged, narrow, and winding roads that take you to the mountains. Beirut's streets and alleys are deteriorating; manholes are open, their covers stolen. It's a miracle if you manage to dodge them. Every day, there seems to be a new police or security report that someone has fallen "martyr" to such traps.

On my way to the bank, traffic is at a stand-still on Hamra Street, at the crossroads to the American University Hospital. The wait might be a blessing in disguise; it gives me time to check out a kiosk selling newspapers at Rossa's coffeeshop (previously Horseshoe, then Costa's).

I catch a glimpse of An-Nahar's headline: Terrorisation with Drawn Arms: Assassination in Ain Ibel and Sedition in Kahhaleh. Underneath, I read: Mansouri throws the reform ball to the government's court. (For those who are unaware, Wassim Mansouri is the first vice governor of the Banque du Liban, since August 1.)

Indistinguishable deaths

While my eyes scan the words, a motorcycle driver shouts near my window, "Come on, come on, Honda; traffic is moving." We inch forward like turtles. The slow crawl gives me plenty of time to ponder the idea that these motorcycles – in Beirut and Lebanon – are no less dangerous than any major threat facing the country.

They pose imminent death, perhaps even worse than booby-trapped cars and the more widely discussed security risks, which have prompted embassies in the capital to issue warnings to their citizens. 

Causes of death in Lebanon are many and the difference between them is irrelevant, so long as the death is "insured" and certain: a motorcycle, ammonium nitrate, kidnapping (as in Ain Ibel), an "opposed" gun, an "opposed" truck (like the one that overturned on Kahhaleh's turn), a robbed bank account...

These thoughts plague me as I arrive at the bank. Its iron gates are hot to the touch, thanks to the sun. Inside, the AC hits me. An employee delivers a few honeyed words, respectful and cordial: "Sir, you shouldn't leave your accounts like this. Interest is accumulating."

Stunned, I ask, "What interest? I'm not a borrower. You stole our deposits and continue to withhold what's left of people's money."

"Sir, there are fees due on your joint accounts with your parents, wife, and company (which, in actuality, has been closed since 2019) – $5 per dollar or euro account, and LL200,000 per pound account," he says. "Since most accounts are still open and empty, you will be charged 14% interest."

I try to keep my cool. But how can I? I find my voice booming before I can help it. "You freeze our money on one hand and charge fees and interests on the other! What kind of logic and injustice is this?"

He remains cool. Cold, even. "You can pay the fees in 'fresh' dollars or pounds or from existing accounts where each dollar is equal to LL15,000 (which, in actuality, is LL90,000 at any currency exchange)." In essence, what he's suggesting is what is known as a "haircut", and an ongoing voluntary deduction of the depositor's money.

Spiked prices

I ask him for a printed statement. One per account, to see what I'm going to do about the fees and interests.

"Sir, you shouldn't," he says. 

But why not?

"You'd have to pay $10 in 'fresh' money per statement. We now charge fees for printouts."

I go quiet. I feel lightheaded, stupid and filled with regret. I look at the employee and remember the days when his bosses would have visited me in my office to get my signature on documents, open accounts for me, issue credit cards, and offer me free insurance. I recall how those bankers supported governance, transparency, customer rights and CSR.

Somewhere in my periphery, I hear a customer tell his friend, who's in his 20s, "Man, I can't find a table reservation for dinner. Hotels and restaurants are fully booked for weeks." He keeps going. Apparently, admission to Sporting (a renowned Beirut beach) has gone up from $20 to $30. Prices have spiked everywhere. In dollars.

"Where are people getting their dollars from?" he demands, adding, "Meanwhile, Amin Salam (the minister of economy) wants Kuwait to rebuild our wheat silos with 'the strike of a pen!'"

My feet carry me to the exit of their own accord. I'm on autopilot now. A security personnel opens the door for me while watching me like a hawk.

At that moment, a strange thought occurs to me. On my flight back from Lebanon, I read that Lebanon's "opposed" minister of culture banned 'Barbie', the movie...

I recall the bank employee, or maybe the security personnel, telling me on my way out: "Close the accounts, sir. Liquidate them. Whatever. And close the doors to Lebanon, too. There's no hope."