'Helpless and hopeless': despair grips Lebanon's youth

Young adults in the country are struggling to cope with the succession of crises hitting their homeland, and many feel overwhelmed

A woman, draped in a black-striped Lebanese flag, looks at the site of the massive explosion at Beirut's port area, during a demonstration to mark one month since the cataclysmic August 4 explosion that killed 191 people, in the Lebanese capital Beirut. AFP

A woman holds a noose as she observes a minute of silence to mark one month since the massive explosion at Beirut's port area. Reuters

Families of Beirut port explosion victims carry their pictures during a minute of silence and prayer to mark one month of Beirut port explosion. EPA

Families of Beirut port explosion victims carry their pictures during a minute of silence and prayer to mark one month of Beirut port explosion. EPA

Protesters carry torches and hangman noose as they demand the punishment of those responsible for the port explosion during a moment of silence to mark one month of Beirut port explosion. EPA

Firefighters hold a flag as they commemorate a month since Beirut's deadly explosion. Getty Images

Protesters wave a Lebanese flag and hold nooses, which have become symbols of public anger against the Lebanese government, as they commemorate a month since the city's deadly explosion. Getty Images

Protesters hold torches and nooses as they commemorate a month since the city's deadly explosion. Getty Images

Paper lanterns in the shape of a Lebanese flag mark one month since the city's deadly explosion. Getty Images

A woman sings on a pile of rubble near paper lanterns arranged in the shape of a Lebanese flag to mark one month since the city's deadly explosion. Getty Images

Families of Beirut port explosion victims carry their pictures during a minute of silence and prayer to mark one month of Beirut port explosion. EPA

The devastating emotional impact of the Beirut port explosion lingers for one first responder, eight months after the colossal blast.

Rana, not her real name, was sent to the scene after 2,750 tonnes of ammonium nitrate, recklessly stored at the heart of the Lebanese capital, was ignited.

More than 200 people were killed in the disaster, which injured about 7,000 people and damaged the homes of at least 300,000 residents.

A humanitarian aid worker at the time, Rana witnessed the search and rescue missions for bodies and body parts, and the clean-up of a once-dynamic port turned to wreckage.

With several tasks at hand, she would routinely return to the port to assist at the emergency site without mentally processing the painful events of August 4. Several weeks had passed when she eventually broke down.

“I was numb and didn’t cry the entire month. But one day I was at home and just dropped to the floor and wept. I didn’t know what I was crying for or mourning: myself, my city or my country,” Rana, 29, said.

Despite leaving her job as a frontline worker, the smell of death and destruction from the port has yet to leave her.

"Until today, it's the smell that haunts me," she told The National. "Whenever I got flashbacks, I would smell the port again even if I wasn't in Beirut."

Rana recently received a diagnosis of depression, but she traces the decline of her mental health to early 2020.

By then, Lebanon’s nationwide protests against the ruling class had begun to subside and the ramifications of the economic crisis had begun to take effect.

Before long, the coronavirus made its way to Lebanon, exacerbating economic problems and unloading another burden on the people.

The multitude of crises directly contributed to the deterioration of mental health in Lebanon, especially among young people.

Embrace, a local organisation that raises awareness about mental health in Lebanon, reported receiving more than 10,000 calls since its launch in 2017. More than half were in 2020 alone.

In February 2021, 60 per cent of callers to the Embrace lifeline were aged between 18 and 35. The calls tackled emotional distress, suicidal thoughts, Covid-19, socio-economic concerns and the Beirut explosion. The organisation says it is still running the phone line for anyone struggling to cope.

Additionally, more than half of the people who died by suicide in 2020 were between the ages of 18 and 29.

The lack of reliable data on death and mental health in Lebanon makes it difficult to evaluate the situation. But recent research on patterns of suicide provides an overview.

“We knew the numbers would be underreported because suicide is still a taboo,” said Dr Maya Bizri, a psychiatrist at the American University of Beirut Medical Centre and the lead author of the study.

"Suicide is underreported globally, but it's also one of the most preventable mortality causes worldwide," she told The National. "We need to start taking mental health seriously."

Dr Bizri said socio-economic stressors are the main trigger for many in Lebanon, including young people, who experience mental illness.

Fearing for the future 

For Nermine Al Kassar, 22, getting out of bed in the morning is a struggle.

Her days begin with worrisome thoughts and “what ifs” evoked by the crippling situation in Lebanon.

“What if the electricity goes out for six months? How will I keep my job?” and “What if my 62-year-old mom doesn’t get the vaccine? How can I protect her?” are some of the questions she ponders every time she opens her eyes.

A master’s degree, a holiday and a job abroad are all unattainable goals for Ms Kassar as she focuses her efforts on helping her family make ends meet.

"I feel helpless and hopeless," Ms Kassar told The National. "I can't help myself, family, or community and definitely have zero hope that I'll someday accomplish my dreams in this country."

But Ms Kassar is not alone.

Michel Akel, 22, a corporate relations associate at a Lebanese firm, echoed Ms Kassar’s fears.

In the span of one year, Mr Akel’s salary shrank from $1,200 to about $150 at the market exchange rate when the Lebanese pound lost more than 85 per cent of its value.

Contemplating the choice to move abroad, he describes “having an anxiety attack almost every day” as he considers his possibilities.

"If I travel, I can seek the life I worked hard for, but I'll also be alone. I don't want to leave my family and friends behind," Mr Akel told The National.

He said he wakes up every day in fear of the uncertainty that Lebanon holds.

“There’s the fear of losing your job, fear of not getting paid, fear of being robbed or murdered, and fear of ending your own life … just being here is scary.”

Political deadlock in Lebanon has done little to relieve the worries of the youth. The country has been without a functional government since August 2020, one that is desperately needed to implement reforms and unlock international aid.

"I know things will only get worse. We don't have a government, we don't have solutions," Mr Akel told The National. "I know it's only a matter of time before I have to leave."