Capitalizing on the Pandemic: Party Responses and the Need for Grassroots Organizing in Lebanon

Protesters in Lebanon occupy the Ring Bridge that divides Christian East Beirut from Muslim West Beirut as a symbol of unity against the government (28 October 2019 ). Photo via Wikimedia Commons. Protesters in Lebanon occupy the Ring Bridge that divides Christian East Beirut from Muslim West Beirut as a symbol of unity against the government (28 October 2019 ). Photo via Wikimedia Commons.

Capitalizing on the Pandemic: Party Responses and the Need for Grassroots Organizing in Lebanon

By : Nadim El Kak

Over the past three months, the Covid-19 pandemic has exposed the global neoliberal logics which make most societies unable to manage the ensuing socioeconomic and health crises. Between the ramifications of highly privatized healthcare systems and the lack of social safety nets, corporate interests, and weak state institutions are detrimental to the welfare of populations around the world, particularly the most vulnerable. 

The impacts of, and responses to, the pandemic in Lebanon provide us with a particularly interesting case study into the manner by which political authorities instrumentalize crises. It also uncovers the lack of organizational structures through which working classes can push for universal social protection. In turn, this piece is concerned with examining Lebanese political parties’ responses to the overlapping health, socioeconomic, and political crises. It also seeks to shed light on emerging alternatives and the urgent need for class-based organizing.

Responding to Covid-19: Clientelism, Charity, and Repression


Lebanon has been on partial lockdown since 15 March. In a country already dealing with soaring unemployment rates, a depreciating currency, pay cuts, business closures, unsustainable inflation, and banks running out of liquidities, the already precarious living conditions of Lebanese residents are going to be further tested. Rather than rely on the state to devise a comprehensive and thorough plan to help its population, political parties saw an opportunity to further their interests by rebuilding their clientelist networks and reminding people that they have no one but them.

As such, parties deployed what resources are at their disposal, and made sure to advertise their efforts. For instance, each party had its own quarantine centers, and local news stations provided extensive coverage for these initiatives. On 27 March, the Lebanese Broadcasting Corporation International (LBCI) had a full segment in which it outlined the number of centers and rooms each party was provided to citizens. Meanwhile, parties also deployed the municipalities they controlled: a number of videos were circulated on social media showcasing volunteers, vehicles, and trucks branded with the logos of their respective parties. 

The state implemented a cash assistance program for the most deprived, amounting to 400,000 depreciating Liras, yet many protesters rejected it as an unsustainable and insufficient solution. Rather than treat the socio-economic crisis as a systemic and structural issue in need of radical reforms, politicians and business elites instead resorted to charity. Most notably, during the infamous “Sar el Wa’et” talk show, more than 3.2 billion LBP were reportedly donated from political and business leaders. The likes of billionaires such as Saad Hariri and Najib Mikati, as well as the Progressive Socialist Party (PSP) leader Walid Jumblatt, also made donations. In addition, the Association of Banks in Lebanonthe group representing the interests of those withholding people’s depositsmade a six million dollar donation to the government.

Political parties did not only capitalize on the crisis through their clientelist networks: they also cracked down on protesters and symbols of the uprising. On 27 March, when the country’s curfew measures came into effect, riot police tore down dozens of protesters’ tents in Downtown Beirut, which had been up since the first week of the uprising. Nearly a month later, members of political parties raided other symbolic structures in Martyrs’ Square. More recently, on 3 May, the Lebanese army removed protesters’ tents from the side of a road in Baalbek, following similar occurrences in other squares associated with the uprising.

When protesters sought to express their opposition to the measures undertaken by political parties, they were met with aggression by security forces. On 29 March, Ghaith Hammoud, a protester in ‘Akkar, was arrested by the Internal Security Forces after expressing his opposition to the clientelist practices of parliamentarians in his district. Supporters of Member of Parliament Walid al-Baarini shot at Ghaith and his friends during the protest, yet none of them were arrested by the Internal Security Forces.

Despite these events, protests were rather limited during most of the lockdown period. However, what is being touted as the second wave of the Lebanese uprising began the night of 27 April. Riots in Tripoli and Saida were at the forefront of the news. Violent responses by the army in Tripoli led to twenty-six-year-old Fawaz Fouad al-Samman succumbing to gunshot wounds. Meanwhile, reports of some of the worst kinds of torture have emerged from protesters detained by security agencies in Saida.

Emerging Alternatives and Class-based Organizing


This crisis has once again exposed the Lebanese state’s systemic violence and unwillingness to cater to its most vulnerable citizens. The Lebanese working class has been pushed to the brink, with modest estimates placing unemployment at thirty percent, not to mention the prevalence of unprotected and informal labor across sectors. Soaring inflation has also made basic necessities inaccessible to many. Under such conditions, it is imperative for communities to find alternatives to the clientelist networks of political parties. Non-governmental organizations and charities filled some of the gaps left by the state throughout the postwar period, yet such alternatives were mere band-aids to a much larger wound. Not only do they ignore systemic and structural ailments, but they also depend on these conditions for their survival as top-down institutions.

Considering these realities, many mutual aid initiatives have emerged since the start of the uprising and cultivated solidarity networks that are community-driven and non-hierarchical. For instance, Facebook groups like LibanTROC and, more recently, “Kitfi bi Kitfak” (Shoulder to Shoulder) have become platforms for people to exchange basic goods, raise money, or resolve personal issues as a community. Essentially, these groups are functioning as alternative forms of grassroots safety nets.

Class-based organizing has always posed a threat to Lebanese elites, because it undermines their sectarianization efforts, both materially and ideologically.

Meanwhile, initiatives such as the Habaq Movement are seeking to develop self-sustainable local economies by encouraging cooperative farming, while others like the Housing Monitor seek to guarantee housing rights by documenting violations and advocating for radical legal reform. These various initiatives, alongside many others, reflect how people recognize the state’s inability and aversion to developing formal safety nets. They also uncover a larger move towards communities taking matters into their own hands, as highlighted by the emergence of various new political groups and unions. 

Historically, labor unions were the main vehicle through which the working class sought to obtain its rights. Class-based organizing has always posed a threat to Lebanese elites, because it undermines their sectarianization efforts, both materially and ideologically. In the prewar period, particularly the early 1970s, industrial and agricultural workers were well organized and radicalized, engaging in multiple mobilizations against capitalist elites. During the 1990s, the General Labor Confederation (CGTL) was the key player opposing neoliberal policies and the growing rentier economy dependent upon clientelism.

Ever since unions were co-opted in the late 1990s, they have lacked the independence required from political parties to be effective. As recently as 2011-15, a teachers-led movement sought to reinvigorate the labor struggle, only to be defeated yet again by the sectarian establishment. With that historical context in mind, and recognizing the need to rebuild labor networks for the success of the uprising and beyond, various actors took advantage of the revolutionary momentum in 2019 to mobilize workers across sectors and found alternative unions. These groups came together under the umbrella of the Lebanese Association of Professionals (LAP), which includes professionals in the health sector (medicine, dentistry, and pharmacy), engineers and architects, lawyers, social workers, journalists, economists, writers, artists, and university professors.

There is a dire need for such grassroots-based groups. Indeed, the pandemic has further exposed the lack of social safety nets, the ensuing need for systemic reforms, and the fact that citizens lack the organizational structures needed to push for these rights. The only mobilizations in the Arab region which have turned into relatively successful revolutions occurred in Tunisia and Sudan, and both were led by strong labor movements.

The LAP is far from ready to carry such a role, but it is a promising initiative that reflects people’s growing will to organize politically. There are various other emerging groups, such as LiHaqqi and Kafeh, that have similar ambitions and that are committed to class-based and grassroots-driven approaches to political organizing. Such initiatives can eventually come together as a broader coalition of progressive revolutionary forces, such as the Forces of Freedom and Change in Sudan. However, the key for the short-term is to expand their presence on the ground and become viable alternatives that the larger public can trust and support. 

In turn, the foundations for alternatives to the political and economic status quo are in the making. However, such efforts require time and experience to develop the capacity needed to become viable nationwide. In the short-term, mutual aid initiatives and emerging political groups can help meet some basic needs while curtailing clientelism and pushing for systemic reforms. At a time when the Lebanese state is moving closer towards an International Monetary Fund assistance plan, pressure must be exerted to guarantee progressive reforms that prioritize the social protection of the most vulnerable.

This entails opposing austerity measures that further deplete the capacity of state institutions, while pushing for progressive taxation, accountability and transparency mechanisms, and public investments in healthcare, education, and local productive sectors. A combination of these complementary short-term and long-term measures, alongside the growth of class-based organizing, is the sole solution to mitigate the damage of Lebanon’s overlapping crises and to establish a solid foundation for future recovery, social justice, and sustainable growth. 

[This article was originally published on fes-lebanon.org.]

Occupy Gezi as Politics of the Body

Since the Gezi resistance started with bloodshed on 31 May, it has had an “anti-depressant” effect, as a friend of mine puts it, as much as it has been nerve-racking. During this period where each day has been prone to new crises and normalcy was completely disrupted, we simultaneously experienced the peaks of ecstasy and the depths of sorrow.

Analyzing such an intense event naturally requires taking some distance. Pending systematization, however, the vivid memory of each day impels one to put on paper multifarious ideas that resonate well with the resistance. Each morning, many bodies with sleep deprived eyes wake up in Istanbul, Ankara, Antakya, Urfa, and Denizli to take to the streets once again, after having quickly checked the latest news in the social media. They are astonished and impressed that they can still walk, run, stand up, and carry provisions for those in the parks. Exhausted bodies rejuvenate with every new threat that the government utters, and with thousands, tens of thousands of others they begin flowing to Taksim, Kızılay, Kuğulu Park, Gündoğdu, Abbasoğlu, and Yeniköy Park carrying home-made gas masks, swimmer goggles, anti-acid solutions, and whistles.

No one does or can govern these bodies. The masses that gather in public spaces are not formed by virtue of transferring tax money into the wallets of partisans. No one provides shuttle buses for them; no one gives them flags, or feeds them with sandwiches. No one assigns them the slogans they shout out during the demonstrations. Bodies that take heart from knowing that they are not alone do not count, or count on, numbers to meet with others in communal or virtual spaces. One standing man suffices for thousands of others to take to the streets. After all, “one” is also a number…

The government, whose tactlessness prompts these resisting and standing bodies to convene again and again every single day, could not have missed the significance of this body politics. These bodies naturally do have a language, even a few languages that are at times congruent and at others incongruent; however, as a whole, they constitute a politics of the body. The rage and dreams that have been embodied in tweets and graffiti since 31 May turn into material realities through the physical existence, visibility, and endurance of the bodies. If history is being rewritten, then its subject is the body.

Four of these bodies lost their lives during this war that the government has waged on society. Thousands of bodies have been beaten up: some lost their eyes, some received irretrievable injuries. Skins were burnt under the water from the cannons, “laced” with chemicals for maximum harm; lungs were choked with tear gas. Pounded arms, legs, and heads got crushed and broken. The long-term effects of the tons of chemicals dumped on bodies are still unknown. What is known, however, is that these chemicals killed hundreds of cats, dogs, and birds, and that they did harm to countless insects, butterflies, and other smaller organisms.

The apparatuses of the state, and the vehicles of death that responded to Gezi’s politics of the body, attempted to imitate the life force that they failed to extort. In response to the huge numbers that filled the parks and squares and astonished everyone without exception, they hoped to gather partisans together in scripted rallies. They began comparing head counts; they calculated representative percentages. When the calculations did not match, they increased the number of police in body armor and helmets and moved them from protest to protest. They built walls of flesh and steel against the wave of resisting flesh. When that did not work, they offered these bodies—which have been in contact with each other physically and virtually through meetings, banners, and tweets—a mise en scène of dialogue, the conditions of which were more or less already determined. They could not even wait for this attempt to yield fruit; two warnings and a command were enough to launch an assault to remove the bodies that produced an alternative sociability from the park, from the space in which physical resistance could be transformed into a life style. They freed the public space of the public. They collected all the banners, pictures, and colors one by one to erase them from social memory. They stripped all the trees, each dedicated to victims of state violence; they appropriated the barricades that were named after tens of people who had undergone physical and psychological torture, and they tore them to tatters. They destroyed the efforts to keep alive the memories of Fikret Encü, who was a victim of Roboski; Metin Göktepe, who was tortured and killed in detention; Dicle Koğacoğlu, who could not take all the sorrow inherent in this society any more; and the Surp Hagop Armenian Cemetery, which was destroyed by Turkish racism.

The only thing that remains is a politics of the body—but the bodies that produce this politics differ from what Giorgio Agamben calls “bare life.” They are not “mere” bodies that the arbitrary will of a sovereign can isolate from society, oppress unceremoniously, or push to the margins of the symbolic world. Rather, they evoke what Ernst Bloch calls “the upright man,” the collective Prometheus. Bloch writes:

Nothing is more fortifying than the call to begin from the beginning. It is youthful as long as it is; to it there belongs a young and aspiring class. It is innocent of the bad things that have happened, for it has never had a real opportunity to be guilty. When this happens, justice has the effect of a morning; it opposes itself to that eternal sickness which was handed down before it. Beginning anew is freshness through and through; it is a first if it appears completely ahistorical, and if it seems to lead back to the beginning of history….It carries the image of the pastoral mood, of the shepherd, of the simple and upright man; one can play with it even in the dark.[1]

Gezi is the struggle of disorderly bodies, those who do not have any dispositif other than their own bodies, against the death machines. If the machines are regulatory instances that follow commands and extort public spaces of mobility with force and violence, then the force they face is the resistance of life itself. Life flourishes at the most unexpected moments and places, just like weeds that crack the concrete and spring out of it. No apparatus of the state can succeed in dominating life absolutely.

The state seeks order; it can control only those whom it orders. It cannot cope with the demand of "freedom"; it has to ask questions such as “freedom for whom,” “freedom for what,” or “freedom under what circumstances” in order to tuck freedom into neat boxes. Order draws borders, fixes identities, and defines. It attempts to establish a hierarchy. By telling parents to take their daughters and sons home from the park, it both brands the resisting bodies as "children" and tries to trigger into action the nucleus of society: family. Through its rhetoric of security, it attributes the risks of its own making to the resisting bodies. It hangs its own flag or banner on the bodies that it prefers knocking down rather than protecting. It punishes those who do not obey; it uses punishment as retaliation. It operates through censorship, threats, and propaganda.

Life, on the other hand, is a constant flux. It challenges borders and moves beyond them. It opens up to circulation those spaces that are closed off due to construction; it paints such destructive vehicles as bulldozers pink; it transforms steps into tribunes, pieces of iron into wish trees, and trees destined to be cut down into monuments. It walks on highways and bridges that are closed to pedestrians. It does not like the empty and the sterile; it covers them up with banners, slogans, tents. It leaves its mark on every surface. It disrupts silence at times with pots and pans, and at other times with a tune from a piano. It plays with identities and definitions; it makes them fluid; it renders them indistinguishable. It can make fun of both itself and the established order thanks to its humor. By changing one single letter in a word, it can ridicule the heaviest of symbolisms. When the state apparatus sends a riot-intervention vehicle to pour tear gas on it, life stops to catch its breath for a while and goes right back to resisting. When a body grows tired, it gets replaced by a reinvigorated one. Life turns into thousands of fingers that tweet and take photographs when the state apparatus sends down vehicles of propaganda. It stops its wheelchair to grab the flag that fell on the ground while escaping from tear gas. It apologizes when it steps on someone`s foot while running; it calms down those who panic.

It is obvious that these bodies that fascism wants to militarize will not assume any ideological identity. When they do not drink alcohol, they ridicule conservatism; when they lie under a TOMA, they make fun of liberalism, which claims that life is the most valuable good. Orthodox Marxism cannot decide under which class struggle these "çapulcu" bodies are to be subsumed. As long as they stay in physical contact, as long as they remain as collective Prometheuses, as long as they—have to—continue the resistance, they grow accustomed to each other`s colors, languages, and genders. They disrupt the behavioral rules that ideologies and institutions expect from them. The natural or moral instinct of protection that has been attributed to mothers loses ground when female bodies participate in the resistance alongside their children. The nationalist and the Kurd exchange anti-acid solutions in gas-filled hotel lobbies. The upper-class college kid drinks the water handed over by the kid with an Anonymous mask without needing to ask what neighborhood he’s from. Soccer fans save their curses for the police rather than for their rivals.

What comes out of all this is trust, not chaos. That`s why the bodies multiply with every gush of tear gas, spaces expand with every police attack, and the quality of contact among the bodies increases with every propaganda speech. The life woven together by bodies born in Gezi is so tenacious that the government is right in fearing it. The power of these bodies stems from their capacity to mutualize endurance, rather than vulnerability (as Judith Butler envisioned they would). One would need to look into the extensive interstices of this politics of the body, rather than into macro-level discourses, to begin deciphering it.

NOTES

[1] Ernst Bloch, Natural Right and Human Dignity (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1987), 61.

[An earlier version of this article was published on 26 June 2013 on BIA ("Independent Communication Network"). The link to that version can be found here. This article was translated from Turkish by Gülfer Göze.]