Michael Karam: You look on cheating with scorn, right? Lebanese have another view on that

Lebanon’s low rating on a corruption index has its perks.

Last month, Transparency International reported that Lebanon had dropped several notches on its annual corruption index, putting us in pretty fruity company. We are marginally more ethical than Myanmar, Guinea and Nigeria but more dishonest than Iran, Nepal, Kazakhstan, Russia, Ukraine, Guatemala and Kyrgyzstan.

It is no shock that corruption has wormed its way into every aspect of Lebanese life with the possible exception of the religious establishment. According to TI, we belong to a group of countries where people and businesses “face situations of bribery and extortion, rely on basic services that have been undermined by the misappropriation of funds and confront official indifference when seeking redress from authorities that are on the take”.

I will go further: our police have little or no sense of right or wrong and try their very best to avoid confronting anyone breaking the law lest they be better armed or even better connected. I mean why rock the boat? Anyone who actually goes to jail is stupid, unlucky or unable to buy their way out.

Lebanese learn to beat the system from an early age. Cheating in exams at school or university, or anywhere for that matter, is not looked on with the bowel-evacuating shame that exists in the West and there is no threat of social shame. Au contraire. I have met fathers who are actively proud that their kids have done well by cheating. Isn’t life a jungle? Let them get used to it.

The civil war is partly to blame. Lebanon was a country where a little baksheesh was a harmless social custom, while the police, civil servants and judiciary were cleaner. But during the war we descended into a Hobbesian nightmare from which we have never woken. A whole generation has grown up with absolutely zero values. No one, least of all the political class, which in any decent European country would be thrown in jail, sets an example.

Twenty years ago, as a business reporter on the Daily Star, I was sent out to follow two health and safety inspectors from the ministry of finance, presumably as part of a PR exercise with the media. We went to supermarkets, fish shops and fruit stalls. Spot checks were made and fines were handed out; I was impressed and duly wrote up a gleaming story of how our dynamic duo was saving the country from salmonella.

Looking back, I am 99 per cent certain it was all for our benefit. I doubt anyone paid those fines. I’m not saying that our health and safety heroes didn’t do their job. They wouldn’t risk people’s lives, but I’m sure they also are well practised at turning a blind eye to minor infractions. How else do they subsidise their incomes?

In the meantime my wife and I have raised our children not to cheat and to look with scorn at all types of bribery or favouritism. Rules are rules. Right? Which brings me to last Wednesday when I landed in Beirut to find immigration officials overwhelmed by the number of passengers arriving on multiple flights at the same time. I travel to Beirut a lot and had never seen it like this. I estimated it would take at least an hour to get processed.

A friend whom I had met on the flight and was queuing with me whipped out his phone. I thought he was calling home to tell his wife he’d be late but it turned out he was calling one of the fabled “US$100 men”, airport officials who can, for a price, smooth the way.

Two minutes later a uniformed officer appeared and motioned us out of the line towards a desk where passengers were waiting for visas. Our passports were handed over and in two minutes were processed. He then led us through the diplomatic channel and into the baggage reclaim area. The “service” didn’t end there. He waited with us for our bags and then again ushered us through the fast lane with a cheery greeting to his colleagues. Outside, he helped to load the bags into a taxi before my friend embraced him, expertly passing a neatly folded bill into his grateful palm. I also got a hug.

As we drove into town my friend broke the silence. “I don’t normally do that,” he muttered, “but I just couldn’t cope with all those people. You saw what it was like. It was like a zoo.” I nodded.

I had to admit that not only was I supremely grateful, I was actually quite impressed, and in that moment I hated myself.

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

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