Small linguistic triumph demonstrates Lebanese determination to succeed

A heartwarming tale of how the legacy of former Lebanese prime minister Rafik Hariri changed the economic prospects of some of the nation’s poorest inhabitants.

Depending on who you talk to, the legacy of the former prime minister Rafik Hariri, who was murdered 10 years ago this month, is either a blueprint for where Lebanon can go with a vision built on a sound economic strategy, or a cautionary tale of how not to run the finances; how not to rebuild a city centre; and how, being backed by a regional superpower, in this case Saudi Arabia, can create a dangerous sectarian schism. The truth probably lies somewhere in between.

But away from the political mudslinging hang the fruit of another Hariri legacy, the thousands of Lebanese who owe all they have achieved in their lives to the generosity of the late billionaire businessman from Sidon.

In 1990, under the banner of “Investing in people, investing in Lebanon’s future”, he established the Hariri Foundation for Sustainable Human Development, offering assistance and scholarships to students with talent but not the means, in a genuine bid to leverage Lebanon’s global clout through its much vaunted human capital.

It was a smart move. We Lebanese take education very seriously, perhaps too seriously in some cases, but the undeniable bottom line is that our sons and daughters have shone at universities and in professions all over the world. And we wouldn’t be Lebanese if we didn’t throw in a bit of glamour. Amal Alamuddin, our latest high-profile super-achiever snagged none other than George Clooney, a feat that might unleash a new generation of doe-eyed lawyers upon the world.

So what better way to reach out to the fractious Lebanese than by offering to invest in the future of their sons and daughters? It was certainly a cheerier alternative to handing out AK-47s, cartons of cigarettes and US$400 a month to serve in a militia. Hariri knew he needed a generation that was on board with his dream of building a country predicated on business rather than bloodshed. Was he buying votes? Of course he was. But so what?

February is also the month that 23 years ago I returned to Lebanon. A family friend had found me a job teaching English to Hariri scholarship students at the American University of Beirut. Hariri who? I had never taught anyone anything and they needed to be fluent in six months. As most foreign teachers tended to be kidnapped at that time, the faculty was happy to have a native speaker and I was given the relatively undemanding essay writing and conversational English classes.

The latter was hardly teaching; we just talked. In fact the most challenging part of the job was to steer the conversation away from religion. It offered me a glimpse into the world from which many of the students came. Most, although not all, were from poor rural families from the north, the Bekaa, the south and the suburbs of Beirut. They were from all Lebanon’s main faiths but understandably — probably because they were the most comfortable taking the money — the majority was, like their benefactor, Sunni, with a large portion from Hariri’s hometown of Sidon.

In my second intake of students there was a skinny, underfed and badly shod boy from the Bekaa. We’ll call him Ali. On his first day in class, I asked him his name but he was too petrified to answer. Another student translated the question and, staring down at his sandals, he mumbled in Arabic. I learned later that he was from Baalbek; that he had never been to Beirut before; this was his first time away from home and he lived with an uncle in the suburbs.

These kids were the ones upon which their families had pinned their hopes. Ali had been offered a place at AUB to study medicine, so his exam grades must have been stellar. If he made it, he’d be a superhero. But first he had to master English. I couldn’t imagine going from zero knowledge to passing the Triple E entrance exam in six months. But somehow, like the vast majority, he made it and that was the last I saw of him.

Until six years later, when I shared an elevator at the American University Hospital with a well-groomed and confident intern. “Mr. Karam?” The accent was that ubiquitous Lebanese with an American twang. I looked round at him, grappling for some kind of recognition. “Mr Karam. It’s me, Ali. Your English student. How are you sir? It’s good to see you man.”

That’s my Hariri story.

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

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