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HOW ARE THE LEBANESE GETTING BY?

Melanie, a teacher, can't save a lira

Since the beginning of the crisis, the Lebanese lira has lost more than 95 percent of its value. Inflation is exponential: a few days ago, the World Bank indicated that Lebanon had the highest year-on-year increase in food prices at the end of July. Gasoline prices have also exploded ... The financial fall is violent and far from over. In this context, a question often comes up: How do the Lebanese do it? We asked this question to some of them. They agreed to share their experiences with us. Today, Melanie, a teacher whose salary is only worth 17 percent of what it was before the crisis, is forced to put her ambitions on hold.

Melanie, a teacher, can't save a lira

Melanie, a teacher, had hoped to save money, travel more frequently and pursue higher education during her working years. But the socioeconomic and financial crisis that has hit Lebanon since 2019 has forced her into "a daily struggle." (Credit: Mark Mansour)

"I would never have imagined that I would be forced to start my life over again," 27-year-old Melanie said. This young Lebanese woman is a teacher, a profession she chose and loves. But today, her salary, paid in Lebanese lira, does not allow her to live decently anymore. She is therefore forced to look for another more profitable job. A situation that, until a few months ago, would have seemed "unthinkable" to her.

For the past seven years, Melanie has been leaving her home every morning at 7 a.m. to go to a nuns' college in Baabda (Mount Lebanon III) located 20 minutes away by car. She teaches French and history-geography there. She is passionate about teaching and supervising young people and started teaching in this same college when she was only in her second year of university studies. "Teaching allowed me to fulfill myself professionally, to earn LL1.5 million per month and to have three months of vacation per year," she explains.

‘A daily struggle’

Melanie had hoped to save money, travel more frequently and pursue higher education during her working years. But the socioeconomic and financial crisis that has hit Lebanon since 2019 has forced her into "a daily struggle." "Before 2019, I used to spend 30 percent of my salary to travel once a year, save on a monthly basis, go out three times a week, pay for my media library subscription and registration fees for yoga, tennis and dance classes. Now, with 30 percent of my income, I can only afford to go out to eat three times a month and keep my library membership," she says. "It's no longer a time for superfluous hobbies. No more parties and leisure activities ... Vacations, even in Lebanon, have become a luxury I can't afford," she continues. From now on, the teacher prefers inexpensive outings (public shows, nature walks, art galleries, public beaches) but also in areas located near her home. Gasoline, the "bête noire" of the young woman, devours nearly 30 percent of her salary.

"In spite of the aid that the college management has given us in Lebanese lira, my salary is only worth 17 percent of what it was before the crisis," she says, stating that she is forced to also simultaneously work in several other small jobs, neither well-paid nor regular. In addition to teaching, Melanie babysits, tutors and corrects research papers to earn about LL2 million on top of her LL3 million school salary. "It saddens me to see what teaching and teachers have become," she says, as more and more people leave the profession.

‘The most profitable option’

At 27, the teacher who used to manage to save 20 percent of her salary feels like she's going backward. "I can't save any more money, I can't help my parents, I can't move. My father, in his sixties, is a painting teacher at a private institute in Baabda, although he was supposed to retire. As long as his contract is renewed and although his salary is low, he will continue his work since my mother is a housewife," she notes. "A few years ago, I used to buy my parents' medicines. Today, my father buys generic brands from primary care centers to reduce the family's expenses. We also receive food aid, whereas before the crisis, we were the ones helping poor families," she adds.

Melanie, who holds a master's degree in French literature, regrets not being able to continue her doctorate, as the university fees put it out of reach. "Between a job, whatever it may be, and ambition, we no longer have a choice, we have to go for the most profitable option," she says, sorry to have thrown away, or at least put on hold, her future plans and her expertise in education. "I don't even have plans to start a family anymore. It has become a burden," she says, torn between the desire to pack up and the need to stay with her family. "Nowadays, you stay because you love your family. But I am afraid that one day, for the love of my family, I will have to leave.”

* The first name of the person in this article has been changed to protect her identity.

"I would never have imagined that I would be forced to start my life over again," 27-year-old Melanie said. This young Lebanese woman is a teacher, a profession she chose and loves. But today, her salary, paid in Lebanese lira, does not allow her to live decently anymore. She is therefore forced to look for another more profitable job. A situation that, until a few months ago, would have seemed...