Political point-scoring takes precedence over real action in Lebanon

Introducing policies to curb reckless behaviour is a positive step forward for Lebanon, says Michael Karam, but only if the regulations are actually enforced.

In 2010, Lebanon’s youthful interior minister Ziyad Baroud tried to make his mark by introducing radar-controlled speed traps to clamp down on the lunatic driving that claims more than 500 lives each year on Lebanese roads.

Back then, Lebanon was enjoying something of a boom. Economic growth was 7 per cent and rising as fast as the shiny new apartment blocks built for Gulf nationals and expat Lebanese; the world’s media loved Beirut and the tourists were taking all the good tables at the best restaurants. Bloodshed on the roads was clearly bad for business.

Mr Baroud, a lawyer in private life, even made a point of going on patrol with Lebanon’s finest to show the public that he was a man who “walked the talk”. Signs warning motorists that they were liable to be “zapped” and fined sprang up on the nation’s highways and, as odd as it might sound, rough speed limits were established – 100kph on highways and 50kph on other roads. A hotline was established for drivers to check if they had been caught speeding, and those with unpaid penalties would not be able to renew their roadworthiness certificate until their account had been settled. Not only would lives be saved, but the extra money would also come in handy

And for a while it worked, but within a year we forgot about the radars. I was never caught and I never knew of anyone who was.

The signs are still there, but the vigilant cops in their Dodge police cars (a gift from the American government) have given up the ghost. There was a rumour that the devices malfunctioned or that spare parts were hard to come by, but I would also wager that there simply wasn’t the institutional “grip” for the initiative to gain any traction.

I was reminded of the radar story this week when the health minister Wael Abou Faour, another eager young technocrat, closed several abattoirs, including Lebanon’s biggest in the Beirut district of Karantina, where, for years, and even under veterinary supervision, the most basic hygiene standards have apparently been ignored.

The move was the latest chapter in Lebanon’s contaminated food scandal, which began two weeks ago, when Mr Abou Faour very publicly named and shamed dozens of restaurants and shops for selling tainted produce. By the time the ministry got to the slaughterhouses, the saga had developed into a full-blown epidemic of fear and anger.

At this point, I must concede that Mr Abou Faour’s bid to save us from botulism and salmonella is, it appears, more than just political point-scoring and I admit I may have been too quick to cast doubt on the seriousness of his crusade in last week’s column. But while this sudden burst of righteousness should be applauded, the ministry does appear to be selective in who it goes after (restaurants and bars who flout the smoking law do not appear to be in Mr Abou Faour’s crosshairs), the biggest concern must surely be that, in the absence of a public sector with the “teeth” to enforce new standards, old habits will return.

Let’s face it, things didn’t get this bad overnight and questions must be asked about the performance of health officials who for years clearly turned a blind eye to the lack of hygiene protocols and the unnecessary suffering endured by the livestock at slaughterhouses across the country. Mr Abou Faour took office in February, a time when the day-to-day running of the state was, and still is, hampered by the double whammy of a presidential vacuum and the small matter of 1.5 million Syrians turning up on our doorstep. In this environment, we can forgive him for taking eight months to train his ministerial guns onfood standards.

But what of those senior civil servants who have ignored the goings-on in the country’s abattoirs. Will their professional conduct be reviewed? In any country in which the notion of public service is seen as a solemn undertaking, the resignations would be piling up; but not in Lebanon, where only fools admit their mistakes.

Michael Karam is a freelance writer who lives between Beirut and Brighton.

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