On the “Beirut Waterfront” (previously BIEL), once popular with joggers and cyclists, the pier is pitch black. Only a handful of motorcyclists make their way along the concrete crossroads. Out of nowhere, a group of young people dressed in black ask us for our press card and identity papers. “Why are you here? Why in the middle of the night?” they ask. The army gets involved too. “It's forbidden to photograph anything without authorization,” says the officer, politely. (Credit: Matthieu Karam)
Among the few dozen displaced people sleeping in tents or private sheds set up by certain companies, Ali chats with a neighbor over a hookah. He makes no secret of his anger at “those Lebanese” who refuse to take in the displaced. “The enemy within is worse than the enemy without,” he says. (Credit: Matthieu Karam)
A kilometer away, on the corniche of Ain al-Mreisseh, the tents of the displaced have disappeared. According to several eyewitness accounts, the Internal Security forces have dislodged the homeless manu militari. Between the garbage littering the jetty, fishermen and other walkers have returned, timidly. “Enough is enough. It was getting to be too much. This is a place to relax,” complains Hassan, a fisherman. (Credit: Matthieu Karam)
A little further on, Ayden, a Syrian Kurd who has lived in Lebanon since 1991, sells his Arabic pastries on the sly. He could be evicted at any moment. In the meantime, a customer negotiates the price with him. ”50,000 a piece, 100,000 is abuse!” says the customer, Kassem Soleiman, who fled Ghazieh, south of Saida, with his son. “Right now, we're sleeping in our car. We'll close our windows when winter comes,” he quips. (Credit: Matthieu Karam)
Some don't even have that luxury. They'll spend their night on a park bench, under a thin blanket. (Credit: Matthieu Karam)
Further south, on the Raouche corniche, opposite the famous Grotte aux pigeons (Pigeon Grotto) so popular with tourists and selfie-takers, the area is virtually deserted by 3 a.m. Except for an improvised tent, made of a blanket and a plastic chair, which stands at the entrance to a five-star palace overlooking the sandy beach. (Credit: Matthieu Karam)
It's only a kilometer further on, on the beach of Ramlet al-Baida, that the humanitarian disaster is revealed. Here, dozens and dozens of tents have been set up on the sand, on the concrete jetty or on the sidewalks of the avenue, a little higher up. (Credit: Matthieu Karam)
(Credit: Matthieu Karam)
(Credit: Matthieu Karam)
On the public beach, dry toilets and water tanks have been installed to bring a little comfort to those who find themselves on the streets for the first time and who still don't know if they'll be able to return home. (Credit: Matthieu Karam)
But not everyone is so “lucky.” Some sleep on the sidewalk, with nothing over their heads. (Credit: Matthieu Karam)
(Credit: Matthieu Karam)
Adults who own cars make sure their children sleep in them, safe from the cold and mosquitoes. (Credit: Matthieu Karam)
When day breaks, the few joggers and shy walkers have to zig-zag between the makeshift tents. (Credit: Matthieu Karam)
Under one of them, 50-something Feryal, her children and nephew have found shelter. They had fled in a hurry from the Haret Hreik district in the southern suburbs of Beirut, heavily bombed by the Israeli air force. “During the 2006 war, we rented affordable housing in Dbaye. But today, rent is unaffordable.” She still hopes to be able to return home. “God willing." (Credit: Matthieu Karam)
Meanwhile, rain is forecast for the end of the week. An extra burden these displaced people could do without. (Credit: Matthieu Karam)