Do the suburbs, the South, and the Bekaa Valley deserve to have their architectural, cultural, and urban heritage remembered and revived? Are they areas “worthy” of reconstruction that goes beyond mere cement repair, to a reconnection with memory and meaning? Is it reasonable to give this geography—which the state has consistently treated as marginal, and which, in turn, has consistently considered itself outside the borders of this state culturally and legally—the opportunity to declare its identity audibly in the annals of public policy? Will the place be rebuilt as if the war never happened? Or will it be reimagined so that the war does not return in the same form?
These questions may seem theoretical, but today, in the suburbs, the south, and the Bekaa Valley, they are questions of bread, shelter, and the rhythm of life. After months of mass displacement and the devastation of already fragile infrastructure, “reconstruction” has become a loaded word: not just an engineering concept, but a political, social, and moral one.
What kind of urban development do we want after the last war? A rapid, haphazard return? Or an urban development that establishes a new contract for citizenship, making housing a right, memory a resource, and public space a daily stage for coexistence?
Again, these are questions that seem unrealistic in the face of the current predicament, but they are not so for those who grew up in a generation that inherited only two ruins: material ruin accumulated by wars and migrations, and symbolic ruin resulting from a “clichéd” nostalgia for “other” cities that were saturated with narratives – about “the cosmopolitan miracle of Beirut” – and the suburbs, the south, and the Bekaa were only destined to appear in the official text as “belts of poverty,” or “disputed areas,” or “a soft flank,” or “a food lung.”
An entire generation of young women and men is entrusted with carrying a collective memory that has been left without proper archiving, and dealing with a heritage that is still often defined as a continuous wasteland, like a Sisyphean whirlpool.
In fact, the recent war not only destroyed “buildings,” but also shook the very arrangements that people lived by: schools, health centers, small markets, van routes, electricity and water lines, and the daily stock of trust.
Therefore, the question of reconstruction doesn’t begin with a cement factory, but rather with understanding the layers of loss and the layers of return. In the south, the loss was distributed across two layers: the destruction of individual homes and small farms, and the disruption of entire towns through the targeting of road, electricity, and water networks. In the suburbs, the loss is dense and concentrated: damaged buildings in already crowded neighborhoods, streets transformed into labyrinths of maintenance, and a distorted daily economy. In the Bekaa Valley, the loss is creeping: villages that were once the “backbone” of cities have suddenly become warehouses for displaced people and supply routes, putting immense pressure on schools, clinics, and roads.
Return plans must acknowledge these different layers. Return is not a “date” to be announced, but a structure of conditions: Is the home safe? Are the school and clinic nearby? Is the road open without temporary concrete barriers? Is there lighting and a safe space for children? At this detailed level, planning becomes a daily policy: the decision to return is meaningless without preparing a “reception structure” that resembles normal life as quickly as possible, even if through smart temporary means.
The dust from the latest aggression had barely settled when the Lebanese arena entered into arduous deliberations on how to rebuild the devastated areas. This is happening in a stifling climate: a protracted financial, economic, and political crisis, and an institutional collapse unparalleled in the history of modern Lebanon. With the ceasefire agreement coming into effect on Wednesday morning, November 27, and the draft decree for the reconstruction law being referred to Parliament, the official action appeared urgent in form, but narrow in substance: a technical, urban planning approach to the destruction, not a vision for national recovery that restores social cohesion and people’s trust in one another and in the state.
At the heart of this scene looms a question bigger than cement and reinforcing steel: How do we make reconstruction a tool for strengthening citizenship? Can the construction site become a public space for formulating a shared decision, and for redefining the relationship of residents with their neighborhoods and with the state? This is not a linguistic luxury, but rather the conclusion of lessons from previous paths, many of which ended in “restoring the stone without the people.”
Engineer, urban planner, and university professor Suha Mneimneh succinctly summarizes the answer in a pivotal statement: “Reconstruction that responds to people’s needs and reflects their aspirations inevitably strengthens citizenship.” However, translating this axiom into policies and laws clashes with a complex reality: conflicting interests, overlapping authorities, weak internal and external trust, and the memory of past experiences whose scars have yet to heal.
The World Bank’s initial estimate puts the losses over thirteen months at approximately $8.5 billion: $3.2 billion in the housing sector (nearly 100,000 homes partially or completely damaged), and $3 billion related to agriculture, supply chains, and trade disruptions. Around 1.3 million people were displaced from their homes, and approximately 166,000 workers lost their jobs. Local research institutions question these figures, suggesting that the damage—especially in housing—is much higher, reaching $4.26 billion, equivalent to twice the cost of the July 2006 war.
But the gravity of these figures stems not only from their sheer size, but also from their financial and political context: after 2006, Lebanon succeeded in attracting Arab and international grants that helped stem the bleeding. Today, trust in the state has collapsed, the ability to mobilize external financing is scarce, and administrative and oversight channels are weakened. In this sense, reconstruction is not a test of contractors’ ability to complete projects within the deadline, but rather a test of the state and society’s capacity to devise a financing and administrative model that protects the public interest and restores trust.
The proposed bill in this context permits reconstruction as it was, with broad exemptions from fees and stamp duties, and allows for the regularization of violations within the framework of Law 139/2019. It replaces the traditional permit with a documented file from the Higher Relief Commission or the Council of the South. Ostensibly, the approach is “practical”: expediting, simplifying, and removing obstacles. However, the core problem remains: expanding the scope of regularization without a clear definition of the boundaries of public and state-owned lands, without addressing the rights of tenants, and without fair and transparent mechanisms for distributing compensation. Thus, there is a fear that the law will become a “revised version” of previous prescriptions that addressed the symptoms of collapse while leaving its underlying cracks intact.
Architectural identity is not merely an appearance, but a general policy that translates into the details of materials, construction, and urban management. It is common to reduce “Lebanese identity” to brick, stone, and arches. Architect Suha Mneimneh corrects this impression: “The mud houses in the Bekaa Valley are an integral part of this heritage, even if they are not always classified as such.”
The goal is not to preserve a folkloric image, but rather to appreciate and develop the site’s features within the framework of safety and climate resilience standards. Many safety requirements are technical and do not necessitate altering the form: improving insulation, controlling humidity, selecting appropriate construction systems, and implementing details that minimize risks.
Here, “identity” becomes a catalyst for citizenship: a design that acknowledges memory and responds to a changing climate, reconciling safety requirements with the rhythm of the street, and keeping the door open for future adaptation in the face of energy, water, and heat crises. The National Post-Disaster Design Guidelines, if developed through professional and community partnerships, can solidify this balance: binding general guidelines and a flexible implementation mandate that respects the specific characteristics of neighborhoods and villages.
Reconstruction experiences in Lebanon almost unanimously share one lesson: when residents are excluded from decision-making, they pay the price later. After the August 4th explosion, thousands of organizations and associations emerged, and good intentions quickly devolved into fragmented roles and weak representation. Mneimneh insists on an alternative approach: “A truly participatory framework means direct public meetings (town halls), through municipalities and their federations, with open records of observations and joint follow-up committees held accountable to specific timelines.” Participation is not a complaint box, but a decision-making mechanism, and, as Mneimneh says, “the truest indicator of urban citizenship.” It is not enough for identities to exist in a place; what matters is that the individual has an active role in shaping the reconstruction itself.
The comparison here seems harsh, but it’s necessary. For many, the reconstruction of Beirut’s downtown neighborhoods after the civil war ended in “exclusionary renewal”: buildings without residents, and public spaces devoid of life. In the Mar Mikhael and Gemmayzeh neighborhoods, after August 4th, property values soared and housing became a “marketable investment opportunity,” increasing the pressure on the original residents.
“The first lesson: those who lived there before the disaster must return,” Mneimneh emphasizes; otherwise, we will have lost the place twice: once when the war/disaster destroyed it, and a second time when we evicted its people in the name of “improvement.”
How does this protection translate? Through an interconnected package: temporary ceilings on rents during emergencies, guaranteed low-interest loans for affected landlords coupled with conditions for return, compensation priorities that recognize tenants as well as landlords, and social real estate instruments such as “civil endowments” and “building owners’ associations,” which protect property from speculation.
Municipalities and their unions, with legal support from the state, can establish “neighborhood funds” that manage these instruments transparently, and link any urban concession, such as increasing floors or reducing fees, to a clear social commitment (affordable housing ratios, tenant return, maintenance of common spaces).
Here, Mneimneh returns to the Nahr al-Bared experience. The debate over widening the roads to allow the passage of army tanks wasn’t a mere engineering detail, but rather a fundamental question: “Who holds the power on the ground?” In 2006, she says, “The experience was more mature than others,” but the gap in social justice remained. Today, it’s not enough to accelerate construction; we must establish a democratic decision-making process in every neighborhood, using measurable and accountable mechanisms.
Recovery isn’t about having a kitchen in every apartment. Recovery is about a network of outdoor connections: squares, gardens, green spaces, pedestrian walkways, safe crossing points, cultural centers, and community clubs. This network, if designed as an interconnected system, reopens the channels of interaction that bind society together and alleviates tension. The problem is that many exceptional laws neglect these elements, which are “unprofitable” on paper, while in reality they constitute the “lifeblood of the city.”
From this perspective, a phased approach is proposed: designating pedestrian zones in every neighborhood, requiring new projects to connect to the existing network of sidewalks and walkways, allocating a minimum percentage of the area of any reconstructed project to shared, publicly accessible spaces, and mandating regular maintenance of these spaces under the supervision of neighborhood committees. This is not urban romanticism; it is the infrastructure of civic engagement.
How can we celebrate diversity and culture without creating isolated enclaves? By acknowledging that cultural diversity isn’t limited to sectarian identities, and that every neighborhood has layers of stories, customs, and crafts that represent a national heritage transcending divisions. Here, cultural programs advance as a public policy, not merely as an activity. Mneimneh says, “The cultural structure depends on the region’s specific characteristics and its demographic structure: it might be a library, a theater, a senior citizens’ center, or a youth center. In villages, a library or theater might not be the most suitable option; instead, spaces that celebrate agricultural and environmental heritage might be more appropriate.”
The Ministry of Culture, in collaboration with municipalities and universities, could launch a “Local Culture License”: competitive funding for projects managed by local entities, provided they demonstrate community involvement in the design and operation. Crucially, this infrastructure should be integrated into the service sector: a theater could serve as an emergency shelter during disasters, and a library as a center for digital learning, literacy programs, and the archiving of local memory. Mneimneh emphasizes the importance of “memory tourism”: “It’s not commodification in itself. When the families of the August 4th victims demanded the preservation and reopening of the Beirut grain silos, they were demanding a right to memory. For people to visit them as a museum that tells the story, and for this to generate income, is not antithetical to recovery, but rather a cultural and economic resource.” Similarly, other sites, such as resistance movements, craft workshops, or nature trails, could become “field curricula” for learning and domestic tourism.
While universities differ in their curricula and priorities, some favor a bold “design language” that may erase local character, while others cultivate a sense of place. Mneimneh, from her teaching position, says: “I made sure to introduce concepts of social justice where they are absent. Fortunately, acceptance of these ideas is growing.”
This approach can be turned into policy: requiring graduation projects in architecture, planning and engineering colleges to work on affected areas, in partnership with municipalities, so that studios contribute to producing feasible solutions (pavement details, canopy systems, reuse of local materials, affordable housing models).
“I am currently trying to bring together the parties around a platform for coordination in the energy sector within the reconstruction of Greater Beirut,” says Mneimneh, adding: “The fragmentation is based on several levels; sometimes some councils give an impression of homogeneity, while each party works in a different way.”
The lesson is clear: a country in such a state of exhaustion cannot afford parallel tracks. What is needed is a unifying body with a clear mandate: a Ministry of Planning or a National Reconstruction Secretariat that manages sectoral and regional platforms, convenes regular meetings, obligates donors, ministries, and municipalities to share data, and issues publicly available and accountable progress reports.
On the financing front, a mix of tools is needed: concessional loans for infrastructure projects (water, sanitation, electricity), conditional grants for public spaces and cultural programs, and tax incentives linked to social objectives (affordable housing rates, local employment, vocational training). Underpinning all of this is a “digital neighborhood registry” that includes damage maps, building status, property ownership, compensation pathways, and participation indicators. Transparency here is not only an ethical imperative but also a prerequisite for sustainable funding and public trust.
Images of new parks and a tally of public spaces are not enough. Mneimneh proposes a crucial indicator: the extent of individual participation and effectiveness in the reconstruction process. This indicator can be broken down into measurable questions: Were regular public meetings held in the neighborhood? What percentage of residents participated? Did this participation change the project’s content? What is the actual return rate of pre-disaster residents? How many projects adhered to genuine accessibility standards for people with disabilities? How many public spaces are managed by neighborhood committees? How many municipal decisions were made based on community recommendations? In this way, we move from institutional beautification to accountability for results.
Between a draft law promising a return to the status quo and past experiences hinting at a “renewal that excludes,” this vision proposes a third path: reconstruction that restores dignity to the citizen. A home built better than before in terms of safety, efficiency, and beauty; a neighborhood to which its residents can return without being forced out by “improvement”; and a role given to the people in decision-making, not just in posing for photos at the opening.
Mneimneh says, “Citizenship grows to the extent that the individual plays an active role in the reconstruction process.” This is both a moral and practical conclusion. If war has destroyed buildings and eroded trust, then reconstruction—if we so choose—can build both: stronger walls and a more robust social contract. It is not enough to promise return; we must return our people to their homes and villages, restore our state to its proper role, and restore to architectural identity its meaning as a public policy, not merely decorative facade. Only then will reconstruction become a lesson in citizenship, not just another chapter in the annals of disappointment.