Infrastructure and the Vulnerability of Palestinian Refugees in Lebanon: The Story of Shatila Camp’s “Electricity Martyrs”

Street view of Shatila, by hardscarf via Wikimedia Commons. Street view of Shatila, by hardscarf via Wikimedia Commons.

Infrastructure and the Vulnerability of Palestinian Refugees in Lebanon: The Story of Shatila Camp’s “Electricity Martyrs”

By : Dana Abi Ghanem

[This article is drawn from a paper presented by the author at the Vulnerability, Infrastructure, and Displacement Symposium held at University College London on 12-13 June 2019, as part of the panel on “Networks and Circulations: Waste, Water, and Power.” Click herehere, and here for other articles drawn from the same panel.]

Lebanon’s electricity provision is unreliable. This is despite the fact that significant investments in electricity have been ongoing since the civil war ended in 1991—a conflict which debilitated the country’s infrastructure. As such, scheduled power outages and frequent electricity cuts have become the norm.[1] The country’s residents do not suffer these outages equally—Beirut’s residents receive twenty-one hours of electricity compared to the twelve to sixteen hours a day that inhabitants outside the capital receive. The weakness of Lebanon’s power supply is also evident in the inability of the utility company, Électricité du Liban (EDL), to redeem payments from its customers. Furthermore, its dispersed legal agency results in inaction to address theft or achieve reform. As a result, informal electricity provision is prevalent across the country. Private providers offer costly monthly subscriptions, and mostly use diesel-based generators.[2] Co-owned or household-owned means of electricity generation are more common in higher-income apartment blocks and gated residences.[3]

The unreliability of electricity provision underscores the vulnerability of Palestinian refugees living in Lebanon’s overcrowded camps.[4] Planners did not design these camps for long-term settlement, nor with sufficient consideration for residential needs. Living conditions, as such, were precarious from the very beginning. The camps were entangled in the Lebanese Civil War (1975-1991), further complicating their existence within the country’s political landscape.[5] Until today, the government has resisted any effort to address these issues, under the premise that any form of infrastructural investment could translate into Palestinians’ naturalisation.[6] This has exacerbated the situation for those living in the camps, insofar as basic services are concerned.

Understanding the vulnerabilities of Palestinian refugees in relation to electricity requires a better understanding of how electricity provision takes shape both inside and outside the camp.

Understanding the vulnerabilities of Palestinian refugees in relation to electricity requires a better understanding of how electricity provision takes shape both inside and outside the camp. Across the country, one can easily observe the chaotic spread of wires that criss-cross the skylines of urban neighbourhoods, intermingling with telephone, internet, and cable television connections. The overcrowded Palestinian refugee camps contain an excessive number of hanging wires—suspended far lower than in other parts of the country. These dangling wires often become tangled, making their maintenance increasingly difficult.

In this paper, I highlight the story of the electricity martyrs in the Palestinian camps. As part of a larger film-making/research endeavour to understand electricity services through the lens of the conflicts in Lebanon,[7] I explore the experience of Palestinians with electricity. My interlocutor in Shatila camp was Hamid,[8] a young man in his early twenties. Hamid is part of an initiative led by the camp’s popular committee (from here on the “Group”), composed of young men with the responsibility of maintaining the electricity network in the camp, and who are often on-call to respond to problems that arise. Like many in the Group, Hamid has no formal training in electrical engineering, but shows us how the national grid connection to the camp works, how the Group constantly  clears out and organizes wires in different neighbourhoods, and how the wires mangle again when people reconnect them and bring in new connections themselves.

Banners of various political parties, and pictures of martyrs and leaders, decorate the alleys of Shatila. Among those, a picture confounds us: a young Palestinian boy, distinct from the mostly older martyrs. It is a picture of Karim, an energetic boy, and a volunteer in the Group, who responded to a call about a wire dangling on the ground one November morning. Heavy rain had strewn the ground with water puddles, and as pedestrians walked by, the exposed wires gave them electric shocks. The wires killed Karim as he was fixing them, making him an “electricity martyr” in the service of his people.

Karim was not alone in meeting this fate, and I present the story of the electricity martyrs here as a material expression of the vulnerability of Palestinian refugees in Lebanon. As Ramadan points out, the camps are a “permanent-temporary reality” for Palestinians, that grew into “permanent-temporary landscapes of exile.”[9] They have become spaces where informality dominates service provision, which has striking implications for their inhabitants’ quality of life. Without the citizenship required to access services from formal institutions,[10] refugees rely mostly on informal services and non-governmental organisations.[11] Academic literature has highlighted the comparability of camp dwelling to the slums of the urban poor across the globe, and the similarity by which access to electricity services and maintenance relies on informal structures,[12] namely “do-it-yourself mechanisms”[13], of which the electricity provision and the work of the Group in Shatila are examples of. 

To understand the flow of infrastructure services in the camps, this contribution adopts the concept of space as relational, where the space of the camp is a product of interrelations.[14] The concept of relational ontologies informs this thinking; [15] the notion of assemblage emphasizes the socio-materiality of services and infrastructures like electricity. Assemblages are “not simply a spatial category, output or resultant formation, but signify performance and events.”[16] We should not simply understand the Palestinian camps as spaces of exception,[17] devoid of law and order, but rather as the result of the interrelations and interactions within them, and the practices of individuals, households, and organisations.[18] Seen this way, processes of exclusion from public services, and practices of provision prevalent in the camp, reproduce precarity for displaced Palestinians in relation to electricity.

The organisation of Palestinian camps in Lebanon relies on a committee structure, as per the Cairo Agreement of 1969.[19] These are semi-formal structures that enjoy some level of legitimacy, and organize services for Palestinians in the camps. They serve as coordination points with different non-governmental organisations that provide services and aid. The camps exist beyond the sovereignty of the Lebanese state,[20] as does the provision of electricity in the country. We should understand the management of electricity in Lebanon as a form of hybrid sovereignty of the state over its infrastructures,[21] and the resulting informality of electricity provision across different junctions of everyday life[22] in this context. Whilst insights into urban informality can shed light on how these services flow into people’s homes,[23] questions remain as to how we account for the vulnerability of the displaced, and how inadequate infrastructures subject them to institutional violence.

Falling under the jurisdiction of the Mount Lebanon governorate, the EDL’s Mount Lebanon distribution network intermittently serves Shatila camp. The EDL sometimes provides maintenance, but the service does not extend beyond fixing the main lines. This leaves the popular committee to manage and maintain distribution to homes, while the role of the Group is to ensure homes are safely connected. Additionally, camp residents rely heavily on informal sources of electricity from private generators. However, whilst outside the camp such provision is subject to legal protections and control, inside the camp, vulnerabilities are compounded. Overcrowding and the enclosure of homes and buildings within the confined grounds of Shatila, as well as the inability (or unwillingness) of the EDL to organise connections, means that most of the wiring has become increasingly unsafe, hanging too close to the ground and always external to buildings. The semi-legality of many practices in the camp results in theft from the formal and informal electricity networks, leading to loose and exposed wiring. For that reason, the Group intervenes regularly to “clean up” the wires. However, resource limitations and internal political strife curtail their efforts.

By interrupting descriptions of electricity provision in the camps with the story of Karim in Shatila, I intend to render the former as a process and a continuing dynamic that shifts the landscape from that of hybridity and local control (the functional), to moments fraught with death and danger (the dysfunctional). Seen this way, infrastructure expands to constitute the supply and network, the wire connections and disconnections, the comings and goings of the Group, the authority of the committee, and electricity martyrdom. This lens underscores the vulnerability of the camp’s residents, and prevents us from dismissing these tragedies as isolated incidents. Instead, it makes us see them as co-constitutive of the vulnerabilities and violence that the condition of hybrid sovereignty entails. The notion of assemblage should also preclude us from isolating the camps from their surroundings, and instead consider the vulnerabilities inherent in the supply of electricity on a continuum with the precarity of everyday life in Lebanon. This also points to the politics of service provision in a country where the role of the state in infrastructure prevails in everyday politics.[24]

To conclude, understanding the spaces and services of the camp from an assemblage perspective expands the view of what gets enacted on electricity infrastructure, how, and by whom. Whilst conceptualisations of informality accurately describe what takes place with regards to the supply of electricity, they are not always helpful in explaining the vulnerabilities that these systems of provision produce. The hybridity of the electricity infrastructure in Lebanon, and the various socio-material interrelations that it constitutes inside and outside the camp, are important junctions that should be further understood in order to inform strategies for overcoming them, and to avoid further tragedies.




[1] Dana Abi Ghanem, “Electricity, the city and everyday life: Living with power outages in post-war Lebanon,” Energy Research and Social Science vol #, no. 36 (2018).

[2] Dana Abi Ghanem, “Electricity, the city and everyday life: Living with power outages in post-war Lebanon,” Energy Research and Social Science vol #, no. 36 (2018).


[3] E. Verdeil, “Beirut, Metropolis of Darkness and the Politics of Urban Electricity Grids,” in Geographies of the Electric City, ed. Andrés Luque-Ayala and Jonathan Silver (London: Routledge London, 2016).

[4] Exiled Palestinians started arriving in Lebanon as of 1948, upon the establishment of the state of Israel, and initially lived in informal camps across the country, of which twelve camps managed by UNRWA remain today. R. Siklawi, “The Dynamics of Palestinian Political Endurance in Lebanon,” The Middle East Journal 64, no. 4 (2010).

[5] R. Siklawi, “The Dynamics of Palestinian Political Endurance in Lebanon,” The Middle East Journal 64, no. 4 (2010).

[6] Daniel Meier "Al-Tawteen": The implantation problem as an idiom of the Palestinian presence in post-civil war Lebanon (1989-2012)”, Arab Studies Quarterly 32, no. 3 (2010).

[7] This research was supported by the UK’s Arts and Humanities Research Council, ref. AH/N00812X/1, www.followingthewires.com.


[8] All names have been invented to protect interlocutors’ anonymity.


[9] A. Ramadan, “Spatialising the refugee camp,” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 38 (2013).


[10] R. Sanyal, “Urbanizing Refuge: Interrogating Spaces of Displacement,” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 38, no. 2 (2014).


[11]  N. Yassin, N. Stel, and R. Rassi, “Organized Chaos: Informal Institution Building among Palestinian Refugees in the Maashouk Gathering in South Lebanon,” Journal of Refugee Studies 29, no. 3 (2016).


[12]  R. Sanyal, “Urbanizing Refuge: Interrogating Spaces of Displacement,” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 38, no. 2 (2014).


[13] A. Bayat, “Un-Civil Society: The Politics of the ‘Informal People’,” Third World Quarterly 18, no. 1 (1997).


[14] D. B. Massey For Space (London: Sage, 2005).


[15] Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, (London: Athlone Press, 1988).


[16] C. McFarlane, “The city as assemblage: dwelling and urban space,” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 29 (2011).


[17]  Giorgio Agamben, State of Exception (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005)


[18]  A. Ramadan, “Spatialising the refugee camp,” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 38 (2013).


[19]  R. Siklawi, “The Dynamics of Palestinian Political Endurance in Lebanon,” The Middle East Journal 64, no. 4 (2010).


[20] S. Fregonese, “Beyond the ‘Weak State’: Hybrid Sovereignties in Beirut,” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 30 no. 4 (2012).


[21]  Ibid.

Ziad Abu-Rish, Lawson, O., Nucho, J., Verdeil, E. and Dana Abi Ghanem, “Roundtable on the past and present of electricity in Lebanon (Part 2),Jadaliyya, May 2019, http://www.jadaliyya.com/Details/38637.


[22] Dana Abi Ghanem, “Electricity, the city and everyday life: Living with power outages in post-war Lebanon,” Energy Research and Social Science vol #, no. 36 (2018).

[23] Bayat 1997.

[24]  E. Verdeil, “Beirut, Metropolis of Darkness and the Politics of Urban Electricity Grids,” in Geographies of the Electric City, ed. Andrés Luque-Ayala and Jonathan Silver (London: Routledge London, 2016).

Response to Papers of Panel on “Vulnerability and the (Built) Environment”

[This article is drawn from a discussion of three papers presented the Vulnerability, Infrastructure, and Displacement Symposium (2019), as part of the panel on “Vulnerability and the (Built) Environment.” Click herehere, and here for the articles based on papers presented at the same panel.]

The question around which this panel pivots is how to constitute refugee vulnerability in ways that take account of the social links, economic disparities, and political relations that form the context of refugee life in the Global South more broadly and in Lebanon more specifically.  I want to use the framework offered by Hanna Baumann to think through manifestations of infrastructural vulnerabilities in two neighbourhoods in Beirut where I myself used to live. 

Hanna offers a very thoughtful re-formulation of vulnerability in ways that can help us see that the reduction of the concept to individualised need, or even categorical deprivations necessitating aid, does not allow us to address the structural conditions that shape inequality, deprivation, and vulnerability.

Looking through this lens, we see Samar Kanafani and Nadine Bekdache’s presentations as astute analyses of the broader conditions under which both refugees and elderly Lebanese citizens live precariously, and suffer inferior and insecure housing conditions. In this response, I show the spatial/historical continuities of the condition of vulnerability within Lebanon—between refugees, migrant workers, and impoverished citizens—and highlight a number of common themes that emerge in the three papers.

First and foremost, what distinguishes Lebanon from most other states in the Middle East and beyond is that long before the concept of “neoliberalism” became a mainstay of political economy analyses, the Lebanese state displayed neoliberal characteristics. It was a state at the service of the bourgeoisie, guaranteeing free movement and the free flow of capital across the Syrian-Lebanese border, and a more restricted conduit for the flow of labour across the same border. The Lebanese state’s support for the bourgeoisie and the orientation of its resources toward entrepreneurs is a further characteristic of neoliberalism. Lebanon’s neoliberal characteristics since its inception have meant that there have always been workers, migrants, and refugees who have had neither the protection of citizenship nor ownership of property. 

A second element seemed particularly salient to me: the discussion of how Syrian workers/migrants squatted in precarious and often derelict ruins. When I first lived in Lebanon more than twenty years ago, what really struck me was that it was difficult to tell whether buildings were ruins or in the process of being built. What also struck me was that in so much of Beirut, and particularly in Ras Beirut, so many of the Syrian workers that were helping rebuild post-war Beirut actually lived on-site, and used tarpaulin and mudbrick to turn these ruins/half-built habitations into places they could inhabit until their employers no longer allowed them to do so.

It seems to me that this same precarity is a condition of life in Beirut today, where landowners maintain marginal spaces of squatting and derelict housing in reserve, in ways that guarantee the accumulation of capital.

It seems to me that this same precarity is a condition of life in Beirut today, where landowners maintain marginal spaces of squatting and derelict housing in reserve, in ways that guarantee the accumulation of capital. If, in the past, such spaces had served to accommodate a disciplined and deportable labour force, today construction workers essentially hold a building in reserve until it can become the object of property speculation. What distinguishes the displaced from the phalanxes of migrants and refugees is their routine encounter with experts and vulnerable groups, and the constant exposure to an outside gaze. 

In some ways, this provides a segue into Nadine’s research. She shows us how these processes of capital accumulation constructed around property and housing do two things simultaneously: they are processes of dispossessing significant parts of the population and they consolidate regimes of private ownership. Sometimes, they consolidate privatisation of public spaces; at other times they provide new property regimes which create property out of thin air (i.e., building permits which allow the construction of additional floors on top of pre-existing buildings).

That developers use property deeds to demarcate ownership—and with it belonging and personhood—is significant in some places. Think of, for comparison, Palestinians fighting the invasion of their homes by Israeli settlers. However, it is important to note that the property deeds can also be a means of upward redistribution of wealth or means of consolidating systems of capitalist ownership, accumulation, and development. This begins with John Locke, who sees in property ownership alone a fundamental and necessary condition of civilization. It continues in Hernando De Soto, whose solution to radical inequality and poverty in informal settlements in Latin America is the provision of land deeds (and presumably privatisation of state lands) to the poor. 

Today, these particular views promote a technical solution to questions of reconstruction; they enshrine private property ownership as a natural or naturalized process. What they ignore is the very things that Samar’s and Nadine’s papers have highlighted: the unravelling of social relations, the erosion of the kind of convivial human relations that are crucial to survival in a neoliberal city, the hardening of communitarian divides, and wildly uneven urban planning approaches in two neighbourhoods separated by a road or a cemetery. This characterizes, for example, Tareek al-Jdeede. This also results in the strengthening of the power of sectarian institutions, which act as nodes of redistribution of social welfare.

I think what Samar’s and Nadine’s papers show in generous and textured ethnographic detail, and which Hanna exhorts us to understand is that the forms of vulnerability generated here are not individual. They are not even categorical, or “inherent to certain groups” as Hanna writes, whether these groups are elderly women without social security or Syrian migrant squatters. Rather, on the one hand, these vulnerabilities shine a light on longer-standing forms of structural injustice, and on the other hand, on the aggressive neoliberal solutions offered to these inequalities and injustices, including the pernicious discourse of resilience which Hanna spoke about.