Double the price of education

This picture is no exception. It sums up the reality of what happened in the frontline areas during two and a half years of continuous war: an absent or lagging state, and communities saving their children’s education with their own hands.

Students in the areas affected by the Israeli war on Lebanon paid a heavy price, particularly in the South and Nabatieh governorates. However, the damage inflicted on students in the frontline villages was compounded, as in-person education in their schools was almost entirely disrupted with the start of the offensive on October 8, 2023. They were forced to attend alternative schools after the vast majority of them were compelled to flee their villages in repeated displacements and brutal attempts at uprooting through the destruction of homes, schools, and sometimes entire villages. Yet, the will and remarkable determination of the people of the South, and their ability to withstand repeated wars and attacks for over 75 years, continue to drive them to return time and again to their lands and rebuild their lives, especially access to education, despite the neglect and marginalization on one hand, and the brutality on the other.

This article examines the state of public schools and the distribution of students in war-affected areas, with a particular focus on schools located on what has become known as the “front line.” The analysis covers three distinct time periods:

• After the ceasefire on November 27, 2024, during a year and a half of continuous attacks.

• During the expanded war in 2026, which lasted 44 days from March 2 to approximately April 14, 2026.

• After April 14, 2026, when the attacks were concentrated specifically in the south, and up to the present day.

Phase One: Return to Rubble (November 2024 – March 2026)

This is the stage in which the ceasefire provided an opportunity to resume education in areas whose wounds have not yet healed.

The number of students in schools closed for security reasons, all located in the Nabatieh Governorate, reached 5,209. The majority of these students did not return to their villages but settled in Nabatieh, Tyre, and the surrounding areas. Many of their school buildings were completely or partially destroyed, and no reconstruction funds were available. Minister of Education Dr. Rima Karami, through one of her advisors, responded with unusual candor: “There is nothing specific allocated for the South at the moment in this regard.” In this vacuum, the local community attempted to find some solutions. According to the Ministry of Education, the damaged schools were distributed across three tracks.

The schools whose buildings were completely or partially damaged, totaling 20 official primary and secondary schools in the frontline villages, were distributed into 3 categories one year after the ceasefire, according to private information we obtained from the Ministry of Education: schools that did not open their doors, schools that opened in an alternative building inside the town, and schools that opened in an alternative building outside the town.

Schools where it was not possible to start teaching

Education in these schools, both in person and remotely, came to a complete halt. Since the beginning of the war, the principals have demanded what they called “preserving the schools’ integrity.” The Ministry of Education granted their request, allowing the principal, the headmaster, and the computer technician to remain administratively attached to the school but to work at schools near their current residences. These individuals are responsible for preparing schedules detailing the distribution of students and teachers and compiling the necessary data about the school building in preparation for the resumption of classes when conditions permit. Students also attend schools near their homes. This situation applies to the schools in the villages of Al-Adisa. Kfarkela and Markaba (Marjeyoun District), and the Hosh El Sayed Ali School (Hermel District), i.e., only 4 schools and high schools.

Schools that offer in-person education in an alternative building within the same town

In some towns, primary and secondary schools adopted prefabricated rooms, as in the case of Mays al-Jabal, or buildings belonging to other institutions, such as the social welfare center in Houla, an unused building belonging to a private school in Khiam and Aitaroun, and an alternative building in the town of Qanafiz (Hermel district), which was damaged during clashes with armed groups on the border with Syria. These primary and secondary schools were distributed as follows: 6 in the Marjeyoun district, 1 in Hermel, for a total of 7 primary and secondary schools.

Schools that offer in-person education in an alternative building outside the town

Students from Aita al-Shaab, Ramia, and Yaroun in the Bint Jbeil district have returned to their original schools, which have begun classes in alternative buildings, mostly in the city of Tyre, with only one located in the town of Al-Tayri within the same district, where most of the families unable to return are concentrated. A decision was also issued to include students from the Marwahin and Al-Dhahira schools. Yaroun and Al-Bustan, both from the Tyre district, were located in the Lebanese-German University building in the same district. However, the forcibly displaced people who were occupying the university building refused to leave. The municipalities tried to find suitable solutions for them, and one of the displaced women said that some municipalities offered them money to find alternative housing and vacate the university building, but they refused, fearing that their displacement would be prolonged and the offered amounts would not be enough to cover their rent. The number of these secondary schools reached 4 in the Bint Jbeil district, 4 in the Tyre district, and 1 in Hermel, totaling 9 public schools and secondary schools.

Schools that opened their doors in the villages of the front line

While private and public schools in several towns in the Bint Jbeil district that did not suffer extensive damage, such as those in Bint Jbeil, Shaqra, Tibnin, Beit Leef, and some Christian towns like Rmeish and Ain Ebel, are operating normally. In the Hasbaya district, schools in Kfarshouba, Ibl al-Saqi, and Habbarieh are open, as are secondary schools in Marjeyoun, Majdal Selm, and Taybeh, and one school in Khiam and Qlaiaa in the Marjeyoun district. Schools in Alma al-Shaab and Naqoura are also open in the Tyre district. The distribution is as follows: 6 in the Marjeyoun district, 16 in the Bint Jbeil district, 6 in the Hasbaya district, and 2 in the Tyre district, totaling 30 schools and secondary schools.

Naqoura: When willpower is the only resource

One of the strongest things documented in this study is the experience of the Naqoura Public School, which worked to launch in-person education in the frontline villages located directly on the border and which experienced widespread destruction. Restoration of the Naqoura Public School, says Layal Youssef, the school’s director:

“After the ceasefire on November 27, approximately 60 families returned to the town of Naqoura and began repairing their homes. We opened because repairing our school was not very expensive. The remaining schools in the town and surrounding towns have not yet found alternative buildings to move to… I started registering for the academic year (2025/2026) during September 2025.

Part of the school is destroyed, but not the whole thing. The Southern Council renovated it and equipped it with a solar power system. However, the council set a date to begin the renovations and then backed down. They told me, “We were stopped by the authorities.” But the principal persisted and kept in touch, and they informed her that the renovation decision had been issued. The renovations were completed in a month and a half. Some details are still not finished, especially the water shortage. The school relies on water tankers provided by the municipality and the Civil Defense.

The rubble was cleared from the playground by volunteers. UNIFIL then completed the clearing. The school is still open on the road because of the collapsed wall, but we are in an inner neighborhood of the town, so this is not a problem.

The Ministry of Education provided some books. There is a shortage of equipment. Today, UNICEF provided a number of laptops.

The 60 families who returned to the town, the poorest and most vulnerable, some simply renovated a room and moved in. These children have the right to an education, so we worked to open the school.

When we returned, the blackboards in the classrooms were full of bullets, the photocopier had bullets in it, the interactive whiteboard too.

The number of students in the school before the war was 200 pupils, and today it is 56 pupils.

A number of the school’s students come from the surrounding villages, because they have not returned to their towns. There is a bus that transports them from Abbasiya, Mansouri, and Ma’raka…

Today we are having problems securing electricity due to the weather starting to change.”

Phase Two: The Large-Scale War (March-April 2026)

When war broke out again on March 2, 2026, the Ministry of Education declared its commitment to “maintaining the continuity of learning for all students.” However, faced with the pressure of forced displacement, it was unable to uphold this commitment. It organized the resumption of in-person and remote learning immediately after the second week of the war. However, it did not issue any binding decrees obligating public schools in war zones to return to in-person learning on specific, binding dates. Instead, it began collecting data on the locations of students and teachers, and then urged administrators to begin remote learning wherever possible.

By March 28, the distribution of school students was as follows:

Distribution of students in public and private schools according to type of education after the resumption of war on March 2, 2026

The terms “in-person” and “hybrid” refer to the school’s hybrid model, which involves both in-person and online learning. The parents and students we interviewed agreed that hybrid learning is the weakest form of education because it requires teachers to juggle both methods simultaneously. Instead of using a digital resource for all students, for example, they must present a written lesson on the board for those physically present and deliver it via interactive whiteboards or live video feeds for students learning remotely.

The table reveals the gap between the public and private sectors, as the latter were able to Private schools in war zones maintained continuity of education for all their students, while 17% of public school students remained without any education for a relatively long period (until March 28, and sometimes even longer). The study also revealed a 24% difference in in-person attendance between public and private schools, favoring the private sector. This does not justify the claim that private schools are pressuring for the resumption of classes to collect tuition fees. Nor is it that distance learning is ineffective. Even if that were true, the material outcome for the students would be the same: private school students returned to education despite the war, while public school students in war zones, who are the poorest and most vulnerable, did not return to education, or were very late in returning.

According to figures from the Ministry of Education, there were 19,666 students in displacement centers, representing 2% of all students in Lebanon, but 4.9% of public school students and 22% of students from war zones. In contrast, the number of private school students in displacement centers reached only 5,518, equivalent to 0.7% of the total private sector student population. These figures clearly reveal that the war did not affect all students equally, but rather reproduced and deepened existing inequalities. Students in the formal education system and the most vulnerable groups bore the brunt of displacement and disruption to their education, while the education system itself reflected this inequality with painful accuracy.

Phase Three: After the so-called partial ceasefire (May 10-6-2026 – today)

After May 2026, attacks became concentrated specifically in the south. Ministry of Education data shows that 60% of students in Lebanon attend in-person classes nationwide, while this figure reached 79% in private schools. This means that the difference between public and private schools in terms of in-person learning nationwide is 19%, in favor of private schools.

But this average masks a harsher reality: 95% of students in Nabatieh Governorate, in both public and private schools, are learning remotely; 64% of students in South Governorate, in both public and private schools, are learning remotely; and 93% of students in Beirut are learning remotely because their schools are still hosting internally displaced persons. This means that the percentage in the South remained close to the national average because Sidon and its surrounding areas did not suffer from the same level of aggression as the South. Meanwhile, only 5% of students in Nabatieh Governorate were learning in person. This is a shocking figure that reveals the depth of the educational gap in this region, especially after the renewed aggression in March 2016.

The 40% who are studying remotely are distributed as follows: 23% from war zones, and 17% from safe areas where their schools have been turned into displacement centers. All of these 40%, which is more than a third of the learners in Lebanon, will lose approximately a third of the school year, from March until its end.

These tables, prepared by the Ministry of Education, show that only 9 students from the Baalbek-Hermel Governorate are out of school after the ceasefire.

Psychosocial support: absent where it is most needed

Parents say their children have returned to normal life, but the psychological and social effects continue to manifest and impact their behavior and education. No support initiatives have yet been offered to them. The Ministry of Education promises “intensified guidance and counseling visits” to the schools they have enrolled in. However, the problem is that the number of counselors in the area is limited, many have been displaced, and no counselors from outside the area are coming due to security concerns. Furthermore, the counselors assigned to these tasks have not received any specialized training programs for these children.

In a study conducted by the Lebanese Center for Studies, 48% of parents expressed their children’s need for psychological support. The study states, “Psychological and emotional support for students, parents, and teachers who are experiencing trauma due to displacement and aggression is equally important. Teachers emphasized that psychological support programs should be led by qualified professionals to address children’s fears and emotional challenges.”

Cumulative educational loss since the outbreak of the economic crisis in October 2019 until today

In an interview, the Minister of Education stated that “every student in Lebanon suffers from a 40% learning loss,” but no study has been conducted to determine the extent of this loss in the governorates that suffered most from the Israeli war on Lebanon. Furthermore, no specific plans exist to address this learning loss in schools in the South, Nabatieh, or the border villages. The Ministry of Education maintains that the diagnostic assessment and support plan implemented for the basic education level already covers students in these two governorates, thus contributing to bridging the gap and addressing the learning loss.

The Minister of Education recently announced that a new diagnostic test will be conducted at the beginning of the next academic year 2026/2027 to assess the learning loss that may have resulted from the disruption of education in the 2026 war.

Summary

The data presented in this study, across its three phases, revealed one recurring truth: the border regions of the South and Nabatieh did not pay the price of war just once, but rather repeatedly, at every stage, during every interruption, and on every level. Students in the frontline villages experienced a near-total disruption of their education when the war began in October 2023, followed by forced displacement, a return to ruins, and then a renewed, expanded war. The resulting cumulative losses have yet to be measured by any study specifically focused on these two governorates. .

This reality presents a clear priority: it is not enough for the assessment and support plan to be national and unified. What the South and Nabatieh need is an exceptional policy that stems from the specific extent of what their students have lost, a thorough study of the cumulative learning loss, field-based psychological support programs led by specialists, and phased compensation plans that do not wait for the start of the next academic year.

The most practical and effective approach is what these communities have proven for themselves: when basic resources like a building to be renovated, a chair to be provided, and a table to be opened, schools reopened and students returned. What is required of the state is not miracles, but rather that resources arrive in a timely manner, and that it not merely celebrate community resilience. And to build upon it instead of merely praising it.

Because Lebanon, which lies on a fault line of recurring crises in the foreseeable future, has no choice but to cling to saving what can be saved, on every level, and clinging to providing and continuing education is one of the most important things that every society should think about, under all circumstances.

*The views expressed in this article do not necessarily reflect the views of the journal or the Lebanese Studies Center, but represent only the opinion of its author.

This flaw is clearly visible in the education sector. Successive Lebanese governments have treated education as a non-productive sector and not a strategic development project. There was an absence of planning, as well as emergency plans and exceptional funding capable of protecting the public school and ensuring the continuity of education during crises.

In this article, we attempt to understand the reasons for not allocating an emergency budget for education during crises or wars and the absence of a comprehensive vision for protecting education during them.

أزمة التعليم المستمرة

منذ عام 2019 يعيش لبنان أزمات كبرى مركبة أثّرت بعمق على القطاع التربوي. فقد تداخل الانهيار المالي مع تداعيات جائحة كورونا، ثم مع الحروب والتوترات الأمنية كشف هشاشة النظام التعليمي وضعف قدرته على التكيف. وتراجعت جودة التعليم بشكل ملحوظ نتيجة الانقطاع المتكرر للدراسة، ضعف التمويل، انهيار القدرة الشرائية للمعلمين¹، تراجع الالتحاق بالمدارس والجامعات ²، وتراكم الفاقد التعليمي وفقدان أيام تدريس³…

ورغم ضخامة الأزمة، لم تبادر الحكومات إلى وضع خطة إنقاذ شاملة للتعليم. بل استمر الإنفاق العام ضمن حدوده الدنيا، مع تركيز شبه كامل على تغطية النفقات التشغيلية والرواتب والتقديمات الاجتماعية. وتشير المعايير الدولية، ومنها توصيات منظمة اليونسكو إلى ضرورة تخصيص ما بين 15 و20% من الإنفاق الحكومي للتعليم في الدول النامية⁴. لكن لبنان بقي لفترة طويلة دون هذه النسب (بحدود 6%)، قبل أن ترتفع حصة التعليم في موازنة 2026 شكليًا (12%) نتيجة تضخم الرواتب والتقديمات، لا بسبب زيادة الاستثمار الفعلي في تطوير القطاع.⁵

فالأرقام وحدها لا تعكس تحسنًا حقيقيًا، لأن الجزء الأكبر من الإنفاق لا يذهب إلى تحديث المدارس، تطوير المناهج، التكنولوجيا التربوية أو بناء القدرات، بل إلى تغطية نفقات تشغيلية أساسية. كما أن توزيع المخصصات في الموازنات العامة يكشف ضعف الاستثمار الحكومي الفعال في مختلف القطاعات، ومنها التعليم.

الاعتماد المزمن على التمويل الخارجي

منذ عقود، ارتبطت المشاريع التربوية الكبرى في لبنان بالتمويل الخارجي. فتحديث المناهج بداية السبعينيات، ثم مناهج عام 1997، وصولًا إلى مشاريع التطوير الحالية، كلها قامت بشكل أساسي على هبات أو قروض دولية. وحتى المشاريع الحديثة S2R2 المتعلقة بالمناهج أو تطوير الإدارة التربوية، يجري تنفيذها بتمويل من البنك الدولي أو الجهات المانحة.أما بين العامين 2011 و 2022 فقد وصلت المساعدات والهبات والقروض والهبات العينية ⁶ إلى أكثر من 1.7 مليار دولار لقطاع التعليم وحده من الدول المانحة عدا ما أنفقته اليونيسف في نفس الفترة أكثر من 2 مليار دولار⁷.

هذا الواقع يعكس غياب الاستثمار الوطني المستدام في التعليم. فالدولة اللبنانية لا تبدو وكأنها تمتلك رؤية استراتيجية مستقلة لتطوير القطاع، بل تنتظر باستمرار المبادرات الدولية أو التمويل الخارجي المرتبط ببرامج أممية مثل “التعليم للجميع” أو “التعليم لا ينتظر” أو أهداف التنمية المستدامة.

كما أن التعليم لم يتحول يومًا إلى أولوية حكومية فعلية، بل بقي رهينة المبادرات الفردية لبعض الوزراء أو الإدارات، من دون وجود سياسة وطنية متكاملة تربط التعليم بالتنمية الاقتصادية والاجتماعية والثقافية. وفي المقابل، توسع نفوذ القطاع التربوي الخاص الذي يستحوذ على 70% ⁸ من التلامذة، بينما تراجع دور المدرسة الرسمية رغم أنها تشكل الضمانة الأساسية للفئات الأكثر هشاشة.

الإنفاق بلا رؤية

خلال السنوات الماضية، تلقى قطاع التعليم في لبنان مليارات الدولارات من الهبات والقروض والمساعدات الدولية، خصوصًا بعد اندلاع الأزمة السورية وتدفّق اللاجئين إلى لبنان. وقد موّلت الجهات الدولية مشاريع متعددة شملت بناء المدارس، دعم رواتب المعلمين، الحوافز الاجتماعية، التدريب، الترميم، الطاقة الشمسية، المنصات الرقمية، وحتى البرامج الغذائية.

لكن النتائج بقيت محدودة، بل إن مؤشرات عدة أظهرت تراجعًا في جودة التعليم والإدارة التربوية. فالمخرجات التعليمية تدهورت، ونسب التسرب ارتفعت، والفاقد التعليمي تراكم، فيما ازدادت معاناة المعلمين والموظفين نتيجة انهيار أوضاعهم الاجتماعية.

وهذا يؤكد أن التمويل وحده لا يكفي إذا غابت الرؤية الاستراتيجية. فالإنفاق غير المرتبط بخطة إصلاح واضحة قد يتحول إلى عنصر إضافي في تكريس الأزمة بدل حلها. كما أن اعتماد الحكومات شبه الكامل على التمويل الخارجي جعل السياسات التربوية مرتبطة بشروط الجهات المانحة وأولوياتها أكثر من ارتباطها بالحاجات الوطنية الفعلية.

الحروب والطوارئ: التعليم خارج الأولويات

منذ اندلاع الحرب في تشرين/أوكتوبر 2023 وما تبعها من تصعيد على الأراضي اللبنانية، برزت هشاشة خطط الطوارئ الحكومية في التعامل مع القطاع التربوي. فقد جرى استخدام المدارس كمراكز إيواء للنازحين من دون توفير بدائل تعليمية كافية، ما أدى إلى تعطيل الدراسة في مناطق واسعة وحرمان آلاف التلامذة في المناطق الآمنة واللاجئين من حقهم في التعليم.

ورغم أن الحكومة وضعت خطط طوارئ بالتعاون مع عدد من الوزارات، فإن التمويل المخصص لها بقي محدودًا جدًا. واعتمدت عمليات الإغاثة بشكل أساسي على المجتمع المدني والمنظمات الدولية والمساعدات الخارجية، فيما امتنعت الدولة عن تخصيص موازنة استثنائية حقيقية لمواجهة آثار الحرب على التعليم.

وبعد انتهاء جولات التصعيد في حرب الاسناد الأولى، تبيّن أن عددًا من المدارس تضرر كليًا أو جزئيًا، لكن الدولة لم تتحرك لإعادة الإعمار من خلال تمويل وطني مباشر، بل انتظرت القروض والمساعدات الدولية. ويتكرر المشهد نفسه في الحرب الأخيرة التي اندلعت في شباط 2026: غياب التمويل الحكومي، الاعتماد على الخارج، وتأجيل الحلول إلى حين وصول الدعم الدولي، دون أن تبادر الحكومة إلى توظيف مواردها المالية أو البشرية للتخفيف من آثار الأزمة.

تغييب الموارد البشرية التربوية

لدى وزارة التربية ثاني أكبر مورد بشري وإداري مؤهل في لبنان، إذ تضم نحو 50 ألف من المعلمين والإداريين والموظفين. وكان يمكن لهذه الطاقات البشرية أن تؤدي دورًا أساسيًا خلال الأزمات، سواء في تنظيم التعليم داخل مراكز الإيواء وخارجه أو في تقديم الدعم النفسي والاجتماعي للأطفال والعائلات وتنظيم عمليات اللجوء.

لكن خطط الطوارئ الرسمية اختزلت دور وزارة التربية في توفير الأبنية المدرسية فقط. ولم يُجرِ أي تنظيم فعلي للاستفادة من الطاقات البشرية الموجودة في القطاع التربوي، سواء في مجالات التعليم البديل، الأنشطة الاجتماعية، الإرشاد، الدعم النفسي، أو حتى المساهمة في إدارة شؤون النازحين.

فالمعلمون والمربون يمتلكون خبرات مهمة في التعامل مع الأطفال والمراهقين وذوي الاحتياجات الخاصة، والإرشاد الصحي وكان يمكن توظيف هذه القدرات ضمن خطة وطنية متكاملة للتخفيف من آثار النزوح والحرب. إلا أن الدولة فضّلت إبقاء معظم هذه الطاقات خارج أي دور فعلي، فيما جرى الاكتفاء بمحاولات متأخرة للتعليم عن بعد، رغم غياب البنية التحتية الرقمية الجاهزة.

أين تذهب الوفورات المالية؟

المفارقة أن فترات الحرب والتعطيل تؤدي أحيانًا إلى تحقيق وفر مالي داخل الإدارات العامة، ومنها وزارة التربية. فعندما تتوقف الدراسة أو يقل الحضور الوظيفي، تتراجع نفقات النقل والتشغيل وبعض المصاريف التشغيلية الأخرى. إلا أن هذه الوفورات لا تُحوَّل إلى صناديق طوارئ لدعم التعليم أو الإغاثة، بل تبقى ضمن الحسابات العامة لوزارة المالية.

كما أن الدولة لم تعتمد أي آلية مرنة تسمح بإعادة توجيه هذه الأموال نحو الأولويات الملحّة خلال الأزمات. ويعود ذلك جزئيًا إلى طبيعة النظام المالي اللبناني، حيث تبقى الموازنة جامدة بعد إقرارها، ويصعب تعديل بنودها أو فتح اعتمادات استثنائية من دون مسار تشريعي معقد.

وفي المقابل، لم تخصص الحكومة تمويلًا طارئاَ للتعليم الرقمي أو لتأمين مستلزمات التعليم عن بعد، رغم الحديث المتكرر عن التحول الرقمي. وحتى المشاريع التي أُعلن عنها منذ سنوات لتطوير منصات تعليمية شاملة بقيت متعثرة أو غير مكتملة، رغم الكلفة المرتفعة التي صُرفت عليها.

الحاجة إلى رؤية جديدة

تكشف الأزمات المتكررة منذ عام 2000 أن المشكلة الأساسية في لبنان لا تتعلق فقط بنقص التمويل، بل بغياب النظرة الاستراتيجية إلى التعليم بوصفه ركيزة للتنمية والاستقرار. فالدولة لم تتعامل مع المدرسة الرسمية باعتبارها مشروعًا وطنيًا طويل الأمد، بل كعبء تشغيلي يخضع للتجاذبات السياسية والإدارية.

ومن دون تغيير هذه المقاربة، ستبقى كل المساعدات والقروض عاجزة عن إحداث تحول حقيقي. فالإصلاح التربوي يحتاج إلى خطة وطنية شاملة تربط التعليم بالتنمية الاقتصادية والاجتماعية، وتؤسس لسياسات طوارئ واضحة تضمن استمرارية التعلم في حالات الحرب والكوارث.

كما يحتاج لبنان إلى إعادة النظر في طريقة إدارة موارده العامة، المالية والبشرية، بحيث يصبح بالإمكان تحويل الوفورات المالية الناتجة عن الأزمات إلى صناديق استثنائية لدعم القطاعات الأساسية، بدل بقائها مجمدة داخل النظام المالي التقليدي، كما تفعيل الدور الاجتماعي للمعلمين للمساهمة في حماية المجتمع خلال الأزمات.

وفي النهاية، لا يمكن حماية التعليم في بلد يعيش أزمات متكررة من دون إرادة سياسية تعتبر أن الاستثمار في الإنسان هو أساس أي مشروع إنقاذي. فالتعليم ليس خدمة ثانوية يمكن تعليقها عند كل أزمة، بل هو شرط أساسي لحماية المجتمع وإعادة بناء الدولة.

In the midst of this scene, the issue of education stands out as one of the most urgent and dangerous issues for the country’s future and present, not only because the war has disrupted the right of hundreds of thousands of children and youth to education, but because the way to deal with education during crises reveals the nature of the political and moral choices that govern society and the state. The challenge today does not lie only in ensuring the continuity of education or protecting the school year from collapse (regardless of our definition of the criteria for a successful or collapsed school year), but rather in how to achieve this without turning education into an additional tool for reproducing inequality and division.

A brief definition of equity in education

Equity in education is a complex concept that intersects with multiple approaches: While the liberal approach focuses on equal opportunities – that is, removing formal obstacles to access to education – the equity approach goes further to demand a redistribution of resources in favor of the most disadvantaged, to compensate for what is lacking in social origin. The capabilities approach adds another dimension: providing education is not enough; it must actually enable the individual to live a life of his choice in freedom and dignity. In contrast, critical approaches from Samuel Bowles and Herbert Gintis, the American economic theorists, (Bowles & Gintis, 1976) to Pierre Bourdieu, the French sociologist (Bourdieu & Passeron, 1990) – reveal that school often reproduces social inequality under the guise of the official curriculum, as it turns class privilege into individual merit and deprivation into personal deficiency. What unites these approaches, despite their differences, is their recognition that education cannot be fair in an unjust society – and that true educational justice necessarily requires addressing the social and economic structures that fuel inequality outside the school walls.

The history of inequality in education in Lebanon

The history of inequality in education in Lebanon does not begin with the economic collapse, the civil war, or the Israeli war, but rather extends to the founding moment of the formation of the Lebanese entity itself.

Osama Makdisi showed in his book “The Culture of Sectarianism” how European colonialism used education as a tool to consolidate its existence by distributing educational privileges on deliberate sectarian grounds. In the absence of any Ottoman interest in educating the population, the missionaries monopolized the distribution of modern knowledge sectarianly and used it to enable it to control and colonize. This intentional disparity in opportunities was the primary mechanism for constructing ideological identities that served colonialism. Here, Maqdisi meets with Mahdi Amel in the depth of the thesis: What Maqdisi observed in the nineteenth century is the foundational moment for what Amel analyzed more than five decades ago, when he was teaching philosophy at Sidon Public High School, that the educational system in Lebanon was not built to achieve justice, but rather to protect the privileges of the dominant groups and reproduce the existing sectarian-class system.

From this standpoint, the weakness of formal education was not an administrative failure, but rather an intentional function: the sectarian state has no structural interest in building a unified educational system that raises class awareness and eliminates differences between regions and sects, because such a system threatens the basis on which its system is based and includes two needs. The first: the need for the sectarian leader as an intermediary to access services and rights on the one hand. The second need is to ensure the protection of the interests of the ruling class, which itself is the wealthy class that includes sectarian leaders. Given that many private schools are either semi-free or non-free or owned by sects, the private sector, which is a partner of the ruling class, must be protected.

During the emergence of the State of Lebanon, there were successful attempts in the sixties and seventies of the last century towards achieving justice in education for various groups of Lebanese. Available data show that formal education in Lebanon witnessed an exceptional expansion during the independence era, as the number of students in public schools increased from 276,704 to 732,681 between 1959 and 1971, that is, by 165%, and the education budget reached its peak in 1977 at 22% of the GDP (Farha, 2012). However, this expansion never led to the formal sector dominating actual enrollment, as private schools maintained throughout that era to accommodate the majority of students. The highest accurately documented percentage of enrollment in public schools dates back to the year 2003-2004 at 37.9%, according to CRDP statistical bulletins, while Education Above All data indicates 41.3% in the year 1979-1980. Since then, the percentage has declined continuously, reaching 25.6% in 2023-2024 – the lowest level on record – with the exception of a temporary rise to 36.5% in 2020-2021, when many families were forced to transfer their children from private to public schools under the weight of the economic collapse. CRDP, 2024).

Thus, the educational system in Lebanon turned into a political cover for a deep class structure

Perhaps the real danger lies not only in the growth of the private educational sector at the expense of the public, but also in the fact that we have stopped talking much about justice. The last study on the impact of social and economic background on education for the Educational Center was conducted in the early seventies and was conducted by Khalil Abu Rjaili (1975). This study concluded early that the Lebanese educational system practices only formal equality, while transforming class privilege into “talent,” and social deprivation into “weakness” or “individual failure.” That is, the school, instead of addressing disparity, reproduces it and gives it moral legitimacy, which is exactly what Mahdi Amel warned against when he saw the educational system as an ideological device that reproduces the class system and gives it an aura of inevitability. In the Taif Agreement (1989), this reality was enshrined, and justice was only mentioned twice, which had nothing to do with education. But when Taif addressed the issue of education, he established the following equation: “Protecting private education… and reforming formal education.” Since then, public school has been treated as a sector that must be managed, while private education must be protected. Here we ask who should protect this sector and why should it be protected, especially given that the majority of these schools are affiliated with sects, their associations, or politicians?

Thus, the educational system in Lebanon turned into a political cover for a deep class structure: those who could pay joined the private sector – with varying levels and costs – and were guaranteed better chances in social mobility, and those who were unable remained in the formal sector, which suffered most in the primary stages. Failure and dropout rates accumulate, and children in their first formative years lose the opportunities that their peers have in private, and it is difficult to compensate for them later. From the beginning, the starting point is not equal, so the social difference between the two families turns into an educational difference, and then into a difference in the future. It is as if education was designed to consolidate what exists, not to change it.

Education is no longer a public right, but rather an expensive existential investment that families undertake alone, to the point where they spend nearly a third of their income on it. While the state itself continues to indirectly fund the private sector through education grants for employees, grants whose value increases as the job rank increases, thus enhancing the reproduction of the social hierarchy itself. The state spends on financing the private sector by granting employees what is currently equivalent to 70% of what it spends on the public education sector (Nama 2023). In contrast, approximately 30% of children today are on the verge of dropping out or out of school completely CAS & UNICEF (2025), while children with disabilities and refugee students are almost completely left out of educational policies and discussions, as if they do not even exist in the state’s conception of education and citizenship. Then came the Israeli aggression and added other challenges to the concept of justice in education

Educational justice in the shadow of war

These questions become more serious in light of the intense Israeli targeting of specific regions and social segments, and the accompanying clear attempts to deepen internal division and weaken any sense of common destiny. In such moments, education is no longer just a service sector or an administrative file, but rather becomes a central arena for conflict over the meaning of justice, the form of the state, and the nature of the society that we want to build during and after the war.

Hence, this article begins with an attempt to question the concept of justice in education during war: What does educational justice look like in the context of war? How can educational policies be formulated that do not punish the most affected groups, and do not grant privilege back to those who already have a greater ability to survive and thrive?

In light of the Israeli war, talking about educational justice is no longer a theoretical discussion or a postponed reform demand, but rather a question related to the survival of society itself. The Israeli aggression left widespread destruction in the education sector, with the displacement of about 1.2 million people, the closure of 1,228 public schools (2,780 public and private schools), and the conversion of 642 educational institutions, including 550 public schools, into shelter centers for the displaced. The direct impact also affected about one million male and female students, more than 45,000 male and female teachers, and about 250,000 students in the afternoon shift and educational centers, while only 310 official schools remained operating at the height of the aggression throughout the country, while most private schools were opened in safe areas.

By December 2024, 349 schools had been partially damaged and 33 schools were completely destroyed, while students in the south, the Bekaa, Baalbek, and the southern suburbs experienced repeated interruptions to education, forced displacement, and fragile education via messaging applications. However, the field study conducted by the Center for Lebanese Studies in March 2026 reveals that this war did not cause a sudden educational rupture, but rather came to deepen a cumulative collapse that began since the economic crisis in 2019, through the Corona pandemic, the port explosion, and successive wars.

To understand what educational justice can actually mean in light of this war, theoretical or political discussion alone is not enough. Rather, we must listen to the lived experiences of students, teachers, families, and school administrators who live this war daily. The field study conducted by the Center for Lebanese Studies during the war, which included interviews and discussion groups with 88 participants, including students, parents, teachers, and school principals, in addition to a questionnaire that included 300 teachers in public schools, reveals that what the education sector is experiencing today is not just a “temporary stumble” that can be overcome by returning to classes or taking official exams, but rather a deep justice crisis that reveals who actually has the right to education and who is gradually being pushed out of it.

At the height of the war, the Ministry of Education relied on distance and hybrid education as a solution for continuity. But the study reveals that this “continuation” was not equal. Distance education has effectively become a class privilege linked to owning electricity, the Internet, devices, and a safe space inside the home. 83% of teachers reported that weak or interrupted Internet was one of the most prominent obstacles, while 46% indicated the lack of sufficient devices for students. More than 65% of teachers confirmed that less than half of their students regularly participated in educational lessons.

As for the shelter centers, the idea of ​​“e-learning” seemed almost disconnected from the daily reality of students. Families shared one phone, and children lived in crowded rooms that lacked privacy, electricity, and quiet. Some students were studying in the hallways or waiting for their father to return by phone so they could continue lessons. In many cases, the Internet packages announced by the Ministry did not reach students at all, or reached parents’ phones in a way that did not allow their actual use for learning.

The study also reveals that the war not only deepened the differences between the rich and the poor, but also reproduced inequality between regions and social groups. In the south and Nabatieh, more than 90% of schools relied on distance education due to the intensity of targeting, while other regions were able to partially maintain in-person or hybrid education. This means that the war did not affect all students to the same extent, but rather redistributed learning opportunities according to geography, security, and economic ability.

If the war has deepened educational inequality in Lebanon in general, its impact on Syrian and Palestinian refugees has been more severe and severe. The refugees entered this war while they were already in a fragile position within the Lebanese educational system, after years of marginalization, repeated interruption of education, weak funding, declining opportunities to enroll in formal education, and the increase in political discourse hostile to them. Before the last war, about 40% of Syrian children were already out of school, while dropout rates were constantly rising as a result of the economic crisis, child labor, difficulty of movement, and the decline in international funding for education programs. With the war, this fragility was exacerbated in an unprecedented way. Many second-shift schools were closed or turned into shelters, while thousands of refugees found themselves displaced again inside Lebanon, or unable to access education due to displacement, poverty, and loss of the Internet and devices.

As for children with disabilities and learning difficulties, they were among the most marginalized and excluded groups. The study indicates that only 5% of teachers considered that current education patterns take into account the needs of students with disabilities, while most participants acknowledged the almost complete absence of any specialized services, psychological support, or inclusive arrangements within schools or shelter centers. Most of the shelters themselves were not equipped to receive persons with disabilities, leaving many of them completely isolated from education and services.

But perhaps the most dangerous results of the study lie in its revelation that the crisis is no longer just a crisis of access to education, but rather a crisis of the meaning of education itself. Many students, teachers, and families are wondering about the usefulness of curricula and exams that are imposed in the same way on students living in radically contradictory circumstances. Most of the participants saw that the insistence on ending official curricula and exams reflects a “policy of normalization with war,” which treats students as if they live in equal conditions, while some of them learn from stable homes and others try to study from inside shelter centers or under bombardment, fear, and displacement.

The study also reveals the enormous exhaustion experienced by teachers themselves. 79% of teachers reported that they do not receive adequate support, while 55% said that they suffer psychologically while teaching, and only approximately 1% received any psychological support. Also, 81% of teachers confirmed their need for direct financial support to continue teaching. In many cases, teachers themselves have been displaced or living in unstable conditions, while being asked to continue teaching and manage students’ psychosocial crises at the same time.

In light of the heated talk about the Ministry of Education’s decision to continue with official exams, another study by the Center for Lebanese Studies shows that the rates of students’ readiness to take official exams have witnessed a sharp and continuous decline since 2023, which reflects the cumulative impact of crises and wars on the educational process. In 2023, the percentage of students who considered themselves ready for official exams reached 48% in the private sector compared to 21% in the official sector. Then these percentages decreased in 2024 to 27% in the private sector and 17% in the formal sector, before declining unprecedentedly in 2026 to reach their lowest levels, as they did not exceed 8% in the private sector and 7% in the formal sector. These numbers reveal not only the extent of the educational collapse, but also how the traditional differences between the two sectors have begun to narrow due to the comprehensive collapse and war, even if its effects remain more severe on students of formal education and the most vulnerable groups. The past years have shown that official exams have lost a large part of their educational meaning due to the way they are administered and their political and administrative use. If some private school students need exam results to enroll in universities abroad, this cannot become the only criterion on which educational policies are built in a country experiencing war and collapse of this magnitude.

The meaning of justice in wars

In light of the continuation of the Israeli war on Lebanon, defining the meaning and nature of the justice of education in wars becomes more urgent and complex. Justice in wartime cannot mean treating all students in the same way despite their radically different circumstances, and it cannot be reduced to merely “continuing education” and holding official exams at all costs. Any serious conversation about educational justice in wartime must begin by acknowledging a basic truth: wars do not produce equal suffering, but rather deepen existing inequalities and distribute pain and loss unequally. Hence, the role of the state and the Ministry of Education cannot be reduced to merely keeping schools open formally or holding official exams as the only evidence of “continuity of education” or “resilience.” This approach reduces education to its administrative and technical dimension, and ignores its deeper moral and social function in moments of division and collective pain.

The war revealed dozens of local, individual and institutional initiatives that attempted to protect education as a space for human relations and not merely a process of indoctrination

Therefore, making solidarity the central value that governs educational policies may be one of the most important things the Ministry of Education can do today. Education, before capitalism and the modern state turned it into a tool for job sorting and individual competition, carried a deeper social and moral meaning: for people to learn how to pick each other up in moments of fall and crisis and flourish together.

Perhaps one of the bright spots amidst this collapse lies in the existence of a rich ground within Lebanese society itself for practices of solidarity and mutual care. The war revealed dozens of local, individual and institutional initiatives that attempted to protect education as a space for human relations and not merely a process of indoctrination. In the study of the Center for Lebanese Studies, experiences emerged of principals who, from the first days of the war, took the initiative to create communication and support networks via WhatsApp applications to follow up on all their students, not only educationally, but also psychologically and socially. Initiatives also emerged for schools that received displaced students and integrated them with non-displaced students, and for teachers who turned virtual classrooms into spaces for support, breathing, and dialogue, not just places to finish lessons.

In this sense, the value of the “path” becomes more important than the “result,” and the method of managing the academic year becomes more important than the certificate itself.

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Educational Center for Research and Development [CRDP]. (2024).Statistical Bulletin 2023–2024.

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Bourdieu, P., & Passeron, J.-C. (1990).Reproduction in education, society and culture(R. Nice, Trans.; 2nd ed.). Sage. (Original work published 1970)

Bowles, S., & Gintis, H. (1976). Schooling in capitalist America: Educational reform and the contradictions of economic life. Basic Books.

Chahine, S., Hammoud, M., & Shuayb, M. (2024). Learning loss in Lebanese public schools: Evidence from Grade 10 students. Centre for Lebanese Studies.

Farha, M. (2012). The historical legacy and political implications of state and sectarian schools in Lebanon. Academia.

Lebanon Response Plan. (2026). Education sector dashboard [Power BI data visualisation].

Makdisi, U. (2000). The culture of sectarianism: Community, history, and violence in nineteenth-century Ottoman Lebanon. University of California Press.

Nehme, N. (2023). The Cost of Education in Lebanon: Treasury and Society Expenditure. Arabic version. Centre for Lebanese Studies

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*The views expressed in this article do not necessarily reflect the views of the journal or the Lebanese Studies Center, but represent only the opinion of its author.

One thing didn’t change for me. What looks different is – I’ll use an analogy here – it’s like using a microscope and now having a stronger lens. You can see things with more detail, with more focus. Like when you see a whole cell and then you can see many other components inside it.

I think this is because by the time I got the job, I’d already gone through a major transition in my life and I had been an action researcher for a while. But the real breakthrough was when I started working with the Khaddet Beirut team.

The purpose of us coming together was to put our know-how and abilities as researchers in the service of solving problems. There were educators and health workers, such as nurses. We were not all educators, and that was the first time we had collective awareness of what that meant. After three years of working together, even our name – when we wanted to position ourselves at AUB – we called ourselves scholar-activists. That was, for me, a major “uh-huh” moment. Accepting the role of minister came from the idea that I would simply continue doing what I was already doing, just in a new and different position.

On the contrary, this gave me strength and a sense of affirmation. Every day, I’m reminded that policymaking roles need researchers – people trained in research who have made that leap. You need that skillset: the ability to analyse, to ask “where’s your evidence?”, to deal with data and to give trust and authority to what we call objectivity – although, as a qualitative researcher, I dislike that term. You need the ability to abstract, to step back from a situation and try to make sense of it, and to approach things without assuming you already have the answers. Even though academics can sometimes be condescending, we are trained to be comfortable with discovery.

The problem arises when we start believing that we are the small percentage who know all the answers. I never had that mindset. I came with humility, because my work had always been hands-on with schools. I was not just trying to understand them, but to help them change. That taught me early on that there is a lot we do not know.

Has your diagnosis changed then and now?

No. It is more that I came with hypotheses that the government (the ministry) did not have the capacities to support innovation. In its current structure, the government was the barrier – it is porous, and so on. I teach my students about systems thinking. We talk about external environments and how systems interact with them. So I was aware that there were external environments. The hypothesis that there was not enough know-how within the government was already there, in one way or another. Some things were clearer than others. But they were still hypotheses, and for me they were like a case study – perhaps it was my own lack of understanding. These hypotheses were then confirmed. What exceeded my expectations was the issue of influence and the extent of structural weakness.

In what way?

There is no bureaucracy. We assume delays happen because of bureaucracy, but there is none. There are no people – just a handful of people working together, and another handful who have been so battered by the system that they are extremely defensive and deeply mistrustful of everything. When I arrived, I realised what it meant to have been working in an organisation where I felt safe. If you had asked me before, I would have complained that everyone at AUB is always on edge, arguing and critiquing. But this is different. This is a dangerous environment – unsafe in every sense of the word. For the first time in my life, I learned how to work without trust. I usually work on building trust, and I know I will never fully achieve it. But here, you have no choice. If you do not proceed without trust, you shut the door and cannot do anything. It is unbelievable. The other issue is that there is no foundational thinking. When I ask, “How do we do this? What does the law say?” – which is what I was trained to ask, including about policy or customary practice (which is part of how policy is defined, as both written and practised) – they respond with, “What do you want?” I find that fascinating. Also, people get upset if they are not invited to a meeting, even when it is none of their business to attend. If the meeting is about public school learning, for example, how is that their concern? So it is a kind of tribal mindset.

There’s no professionalisation

No role description either

These assumptions have always been there – did you not experience any big surprises?

This was my major “uh-huh” moment, I wasn’t aware of the intensity. It was a riddle – what does it mean to have political intervention? What is the result of these interventions?

This was my question – we always hear “they didn’t allow us”

So true. Floor 15 is like a cloud occupied by these people. Anyone from below gets partial trust, pressures the minister sitting there to get what they want. Yes, there have been reformist ministers, though I do not know how many. Some came with their own teams. For example, I came as a consultant when Minister Mneimneh was in office. His wife was also there as an education specialist. There was World Bank funding and a large, dedicated team. In that short period, a great deal was achieved – so much.

It worked because there was a team. There were challenges, but it was a full team. Majzoub was ethical and genuinely wanted reform. He was a good person, and they surrounded and constrained him. I think he was deeply upset by this and truly felt how dangerous the environment was, and how little he could trust anyone.

How do you think we can break this cycle? Indeed, I have a report that there’s no bureaucracy.

That’s one of the things that was quite interesting. As a researcher entering this space, everything felt like something I had already learned. I even draw on skills I learned through cooking. I am constantly alert, in problem-solving mode, trying to figure out: how do I stay afloat? How do I stay on course? There are a million things to work out.

How can we rebuild institutions?

I was convinced that the educational administrative model was one of community – discussion, no hierarchies, flexibility, adaptive organisations, adaptive policy, and so on. That is not true. The first step is to abide by the law, even if it is not functioning well. When I made the decision about the exams, for example, we had to proceed with them even though I knew they were largely pointless. What mattered was restoring the concept: official exams are not meant to satisfy every parent or student. Official exams exist because the ministry must take decisions. Decisions should not be made by harassing ministers through popularity, or by name-dropping powerful figures to pressure them into changing their minds.

I feel I need strength – my mindset as a researcher, my training, this need to discover. I am facing a huge puzzle now, trying to find my way through it. I take notes on everything I learn. I am documenting as I go, using my research skills.

That is one way. The second is this: let us sit with the rules. What are they? Let us return to them and comply with certain rules, no matter how imperfect they are.

You think, at this stage, it is better to bring back the laws to move away from personalisation?

To restore the authority of the state – something everyone talks about, but they only ever talk about it in relation to weapons this is a footnote. I strongly believe that the power of the state lies in the responsibilities the government is supposed to take on. We live in this country as if we are stateless.

How can we rebuild this? Some people think you can reform things here and there, but to what extent can you really leave a system behind?

We need to be convinced that this is not a one-person job. I keep hearing, “We are going to leave”, but so what? If what was done during our mandate – despite all the attempts – was recognised by some people as moving at least in the right direction, then people outside will believe they need to pick it up and continue it.

This is how democratic communities work. Forget the US and the shock they received from Trump. Look at how things used to work. I studied education policy in the US: the Democrats would do their job, work on files, and when their mandate ended, they would continue working through research, lobbying, and other forms of engagement. They kept working from the outside – lobbying, pushing, funding, understanding, research. All of it continued. When the next government came in, they picked up where the others left off. It is not perfect, of course.

What is your theory on reforming and building educational systems? What can you actually do?

We need time. What I am trying to do is start from the spaces where the ministry must intervene and act. The first area I worked on – and I am beginning to receive feedback on its impact – is the donor–ministry relationship, because it is that important.

As long as your government cannot pay a single cent towards your development projects, this is how they control your future. At the moment, they control both your present and your future. They focus on emergency response, and if there is a window for anything else – or recently, what they call “system strengthening” – the money still comes from them. They say the ministry wants to act, and I discovered that nothing was actually being implemented.

I acknowledged the strategic plan and priorities, and I told them I wanted to add a vision of what an ideal educational institution should look like. I did that. Within it, there are specific domains. So when they come to support us, we will channel their funding into these domains – even if they cannot fund all of them. It is not their role to realise my ideal vision; that is my responsibility.

The vision had a significant impact. Before this, I did not really know how things worked here. My academic background helped me.

Has the vision been announced, or is it internal?

No. It is in the presentation – and it has been developed further as well.

This was my anchor, and it was easy for me because I come from a research background. I understand this and I know what it means.

Were they accepting of this?

Yes, very much – but only to a point. At first, they thought they were being performative, because they tend to do that and focus on PR. After I implemented this, I explained that the funding had been allocated, and I had joined mid-cycle. I showed them what I had done and what they should pay me for – national assessment, the urgency for leadership that wasn’t included in the strategic plan.

I could not forge everything because of the bulk of resources that were arriving.

For example, the Germans were working on governance, and no one really knew what they were saying.

Do you think this has become institutionalised for future ministers?

If the succeeding minister is backward-thinking, it will matter. We have a mandate, and when we wrote the statement we partly relied on the oath speech and built on it. Supposedly, there is some coherence and reformist vision during the mandate. If the next ministry preserves at least 80% of the reformist achievements of our ministry, I am confident they will build on what is already there.

This is because of the way I am working – I am documenting everything. When I first took this position, I was given a one-page hand-written report. There was nothing on the computers. As chair, along with my colleague Tamer Amine, we held three meetings just to gather files and the tasks of the Department of Education.

Then I spoke with Anis to understand the history I had missed. I started with nothing, and in this department, only the chosen few from below get to work. You don’t know what you don’t know.

One thing I did was to open a direct line and institutionalise it, which I will advise the succeeding minister to maintain – a call centre on the minister’s desk. Anyone can call it. It might take time, but they can call. Anyone – students, educators, employees – can use the centre to voice grievances. I automated the system. Whatever grievances are registered during my mandate are documented. A staff member analyses the patterns. From there, I learned what the key issues are.

Right now, we cannot make major strategic changes because there are too many leaks, and you have to cover all of them in a system that is not functioning properly.

For example, when it comes to the equivalencies, I am working on short-term interventions alongside a long-term plan.

How will you institutionalise the long-term plans?

I will start working toward certain things. I worked on a draft law, and if I cannot pass it during my term and they want it, they will pass it later – just like I did with an older law from Mneimneh. That one concerned qualifications for anyone entering the teaching profession. They were professionalising it, so we had a committee team, made recommendations, refined it, and now it has been passed. That is long-term.

We are also working on partnership platforms because we do not know which NGOs are working with the ministry. NGOs show up in schools, and if they make mistakes, the media says they were authorised to enter the school – but we don’t even know who is working with us. There is no process.

The database and software are under the project. There were IT licenses that were expiring, and no one had told me about them. Do you know what that means? All the data would expire with the license.

I categorised the call centre and linked it to a database, and so on.

For IT, I organised the unit and we are going to set the terms of reference. I want to try to integrate it into the internal system. This technically requires a law, but I am working without one for now.

We are also trying to find a platform for the finance department. Imagine the project I mentioned earlier: most of the funding and the key decision-makers sit at the top of the project, and anyone who wants access simply uses their networks – connections.

For example, when it comes to school renovations, this is the most heavily funded area. There are schools that have been renovated twenty times, while others do not even have a roof. Some of the schools renovated twenty times have around twenty students, while the roofless schools have a thousand students.

As I gain more access to this database, all decisions are made based on criteria that I set for the project. When they tell me there are schools that need renovation, I establish priority criteria and we work accordingly. I started introducing advantages based on the principle that, to be equitable, you give more.

There are entire areas where no one has done anything at all.

Is it possible to institutionalise the Ministry of Education? Everyone blames the absence of institutions, as you said.

They can leave – we’ve got nothing to lose. It is not because they are irreplaceable. They behave as if I am supposed to accommodate them because they are constantly clashing and fighting. They tell me they want to “save me the trouble”, but what that actually means is that they want to do whatever they want.

As you said, what about those who are “below”? Who are they?

The Director General and everyone below him. They did not obstruct things deliberately; they simply would not dare act differently from how they usually do.

What has been institutionalised is a system of “no system”. And 90% of the staff are politically appointed.

The resistance or push-back I am currently experiencing is coming from a group of people who are now [00:08 from audio 3] but this group comes from what is known as the deep state, although it happens to be aligned with a different political party. My staff come from all sects and all religions. The Ministry of Education is the only ministry that draws its power from all sects, both current and former.

What is the capacity to actually get things done in this situation?

I can tell you that it does not work – but I insist that it is shameful if we do not try to crack the system.

Regarding partnerships, some people are praising what is happening, while others feel that the deep state is winning within the Ministry of Education. They feel that you could intervene, that you could support in some way.

Of course I have partners – my team, for example. One of the main people who helped me build teams such as IT is an old colleague from Khaddet Beirut, AUB, and the Business School – especially because my financial resources are extremely limited. These are people whose time is valuable, and they cannot always volunteer.

The committees that worked with Adnan were willing, so we tried. But when I was a school principal, I used to tell people that you need a full school year – nine months – during which you do nothing else, not even catch your breath. If you want to be an effective transformational leader, you need time to understand the system, develop your idea, and study how it can be destroyed. I do not have that luxury.

Still, I am trying to understand the system. From the second week, I was holding meetings with managers and colleagues. I spoke with them for two months, but after that, there was no time at all. I was being attacked with demands to “hold them accountable”, and I cannot. I can decide to let people go, but on what basis? I do not want to use their methods. I need mechanisms to justify dismissing people.

You kept many employees who were politically affiliated with this or that minister and who were not necessarily the most qualified for their positions.

Of course – because when I took on this position, I found that there were no alternatives. I need inspection teams, data, and so on. Everyone gossips, but is anyone ready to provide evidence? On the contrary, they protect one another. If I really wanted to be stubborn, I could have taken action – but that would not have been responsible.

So you had to be pragmatic.

Not only pragmatic – I had to understand the plan first, then act. I did let go of some employees, and I am receiving backlash for it on national television. I have spoken about it openly. It is related to the Examinations Department, which is now in new hands. These are people from within the ministry, but they are qualified. I took recommendations into account, conducted interviews, and I am relying on them to act correctly as civil servants.

What about critical friends – outsiders who are concerned and honest? How can they support your efforts?

At the moment, they are providing something like therapy, simply by listening and talking with me. But honestly, I do not yet know what role they can play. What they can do is submit proposals, and that is what I have started telling them.

They came to me from AUB wanting to conduct impact research – the Council of Higher Education, which is made up of university colleagues – and I asked them to submit proposals.They can help me by telling me if they have seen things. As I was telling you, my hypotheses were not wrong. I do not need more people telling me what is not working. What we need – if I compare it to medicine – is an emergency-room intervention, not a surgical one. There is a huge difference between stitching a wound and scheduling surgery, and this is exactly where we are.

What can they do?
They need to come with solutions, with proposals. Zaher, from the Council of Higher Education, has been holding multiple meetings and working overtime to address the issues we face, and he has my green light to do so. Anyone who comes to me and is genuinely supportive of my work has my full backing, and I remind them that my door is open. But I do not have the luxury – when everything around them is so random, threatening, and unreliable – to do much more. They all know this, and the strongest evidence is that I stepped away from my own project with confidence and no one felt the difference. If I had been working individually, the project would have collapsed.

Are you hopeful this will happen in the ministry as well, or is it difficult?
I deal with them the same way I deal with my team. The problem, as I mentioned, is that it all depends on whether the succeeding minister accepts that I am willing to be their consultant – for free – for the next six months, and is willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. We could make a significant difference.

If they do not feel threatened.
What else can I do?

What about teachers?
I launched a campaign and I am in direct contact, via WhatsApp, with educators and principals from 160 schools. The campaign follows the same concept I worked with in Khaddet Beirut. I set criteria for strong public schools and wanted to ensure they would not collapse while the entire system is collapsing. I selected them because they are resilient and their staff are hardworking. I set clear criteria and told them they would receive certain privileges. I would support them by easing obstructive administrative procedures, support their initiatives if they developed improvement plans, and finance those plans. Eighty of the 160 schools received USD 10,000 in funding, financed through Middle East [Airlines?]. You might ask whether this saves the system. No – but it preserves its image. These schools are now visible: on the website, on social media, and elsewhere. Because they are spread across Lebanon, they represent the strongest schools in every region.

Can I ask about the priorities? One of them is the deal with the private sector and the freedom historically given to it. What is your approach to the private sector?
We want to activate quality assurance, which already has a proposal from the Educational Centre for Research and Development. If people want to help me, they need to look at the reference framework developed at the centre and try to translate it into policies – or work with the policies I already have on this topic. I can then provide a proposal on how to move it forward.

For the private sector?
You asked about the private sector, and we now have a reference framework proposal to ensure quality for all.

What about funding the private sector?
Change theory teaches us to be very careful about where we intervene in a system. In some areas, intervention generates maximum resistance, and that is counterproductive. You need to strike the system at a strategic point. I believe that insisting on quality assurance in higher education is a priority. There is a committee currently working on setting criteria for quality assurance in private universities – they are finalising it.

Back to civil society – can it support reform and help confront the deep state?
I will speak about those who reached power. There is a group of MPs [05:32 from audio 4], one of whom is very dear to my heart. They were so overwhelmed that they did not even take the time to hear my side when I was under attack. Instead, they supported those who were attacking me.

Can we talk about the associations of retired educators? Some claim you are more supportive of the associations and less supportive of the independent contract teachers’ unions, and that you are under pressure from the government.
There is no pressure at all – there is a choice. Unfortunately, and I have said this to them directly, they were attacking me and asking me, as Minister of Education for the entire country, to break the law. The law recognises the official association that represents educators, and I have an official role with it. They want me to behave like an activist, which I am not. I am an employee. I want to model what it means to be an employee within a pluralistic society that holds different positions, and to have the capacity to accommodate everyone.

So I opened my door to everyone.

The result was that the least trustworthy – those who backstab, those who make agreements and then do the opposite – are my own people, whom I consider myself part of, with whom I carried out a revolution. I had been in my position for three days and they were already pressuring me, even though I told them I needed time to collect data, conduct a study, and see what could realistically be done. Nadine sat on this very chair and said, “You’re right, but how am I going to face them outside?” When she went to confront them, the outcome was that the associations – supposedly part of the deep state – ended up bargaining with me. In the end, had I not been in a dispute with the Minister of Finance, he would not even have agreed to receive them.

They were bargaining for deals, asking not to strike at the beginning of the academic year. She refused to bargain.

The largest groups opposing me are the contract teachers who are aligned with her – despite the fact that they were the first group I treated fairly.

They do not think it was enough.
Of course it was not enough. I am repeating this, and I would not dare say it publicly: the government is bankrupt. When the original association came with a proposal, I invited all the associations here and told them, “Listen, I am on your side, but this is the reality at the Ministry of Finance – they do not even see you.”

There is a lot of populism. Let me tell you something, I know it’s not easy. I have the privilege of being an employee – that is what I am at the end of the day. But those who are union leaders, MPs, or similar positions face a different challenge: “How do I keep getting elected?” The same applies to the associations. It is a very thin line, and I understand them to some extent, because you have to speak their language and compromise. In reality, it is not me who is being suffocated by the deep state – it is them. I am still standing my ground. For two months, everyone gossiped about me, and not a single MP came to my office.

As an idea – but don’t talk about the union because it applies to everyone – political offices visited me. I spent all that time receiving them. They came at a specific time asking for many things. At first, I tried to understand them to a certain extent – we have to accept them; these are the people. When there is an area I cannot access except through the educational office, what choice do I have? Forget the idea that it exists, or that talk to the educational office. So I spoke with the educational office and asked them to tell me their demands. I also spoke with the other people in the area to reassure them that the educational office is ignoring some schools because they don’t work according to their preferences. I spoke with those schools. But during the meeting of the educational office – where he thought they could give me orders about what I should do in his area, I was a step ahead. He sat here, opened a notebook, and he had three pages from their MP. They closed the meeting after fifteen minutes.

Let me ask you about these inspection bodies.

Boat.

I mean the deep state has infiltrated everywhere.

Because here I’m not thinking in terms of building a state and institutions, it requires inspection.

And this is what I was hoping for.

How much support do you have from senior leadership – the Prime Minister, political leaders, the judiciary?

I have a lot of support from the Prime Minister, but he’s fighting the same battle I’m. And he’s also coming from outside the system – clean, lawful, well-intentioned – trying to navigate an unbelievable territory. He needs to prove that he’s Sunni, and he needs to deal with an administration that also has a deep state embedded in it because he cannot run it alone, we’re not Haroun al-Rashid, we’re stuffed inside the ship.

So how are we ever going to get rid of these people from the ship? Do you think it’s possible?

I count a thousand times before I say, “Dr Nawaf, why did you do this?” or before I interpret what he’s doing based on my expectations.

Support the mini acts of success. That is what we need to do. This is what allows us to keep a foothold in these spaces. Maybe I will be a martyr to this attempt, but if I don’t prove anything, then I will prove that I don’t have political backing. My only backing is Nawaf.

I don’t have sectarian backing.

But that is still not enough.

Of course it’s not enough, of course it’s not enough.

Because you don’t have institutions, or systems, or laws.

Exactly. But I’m showing them what this can look like and how you can stand your ground and I need people to recognise that I managed to do things.

In your opinion, is there a possibility of strengthening inspection – meaning all of this is a struggle. Is there a possibility?

As it’s done below – there are people.

I’m trying to, as much as possible – not as much as I would like, as someone before me said that the government has failed. But as an example, there were appointments issued in Tripoli, very good. They were successful in appointing these people whom they placed in the Rashid Exhibition.

So the criteria – are you able to set the criteria you want for appointments?

Yes, absolutely.

So removing the decision on regularisation – this is because there are many –

I told them, “I’m not taking it unless I’m convinced.” And now I have regularised one person in a key position because he had been marginalised repeatedly and because he doesn’t have long before retirement. I felt that even if I made a mistake, there was not much time left for him to retire, and because he opened a helpful door for me.

So you’re not going to proceed according to the law? Will you proceed with regularisation?

There is currently no law that obliges me to regularise now.

Now the first layer – I placed them, they are ready to be announced.

So will there be a possibility that we have a shortage of civil servants? That is why we always bring in consultants from outside.

No, no.

I mean, here in the ministry – will there be a possibility that these people are regularised?

I don’t want to regularise them. I want to regularise those who deserve it. I have now appointed a Director of Examinations. There is something called the Planning Directorate – I appointed a civil servant. At first, she was kicking and screaming, but I will regularise her now. I appointed someone under the Director General – they are civil servants.

What about people who are…

Georgia is with UNICEF.

I know, but they are replacing a layer that does not exist – because it does not exist.

They are not replacing it, believe me this is governance. What I’m doing now – and now Fadi Makki also recently discovered that this needs to be done – is that in our ministries there is no such thing as a strategic planning unit.

I’m now building the governance of a strategic planning unit from my experience with my consultants.

Will these become civil servants?

I hope some of them will.

What I see is that the minister should have a unit under them, not under the Director General, so that they show them “Look, this previous minister reached this point. Take the objectives, here is the data, here is the IT system, here is access to everything.” And the strategic planning unit – when you go to other ministries, you convene the team like a board of Deans. Fadlo Khoury has his own team and a provost, and so on.

Will these become civil servants?

Yes.

And without them, it won’t work out, the way the ministry is structured – especially given the period we’re entering. The coming period requires transformational change, not maintenance. This minister, if they don’t come with a team – if I didn’t have Georgia, who understands donors

Yes, because they are coming in as experts. They are not sustainable within the institution.

Totally. That is exactly what I’m saying. I’m giving you the proposal for sustainability. First, the office – there is now something called the Joint Directorate under the minister. I arrived and found it placed in a corner, so I activated it. There is a legal department. Previously, transactions were being processed without being registered. I don’t process any transaction now unless it’s registered in the department. So I activated this department, but it sits within finance. And finance here is part of the state. The other finance is disconnected from the entire world. So now I brought in an expert to fix the other finances.

So these are structural changes.

Yes, and I’m doing them. But these are invisible; how do you explain to them where you’re going?

But it’s good to mention

Yes. The second thing we’re doing is activating the Joint Directorate. We will create a unit called the Strategic Planning Unit within central IT – like a VP for IT. It needs to be embedded there. It will have civil servants within it. The minister comes in with their team, and that team immediately appoints advisers at that level. They recruit these people.

I have the regularisation and full-time appointment of Lebanese University staff – the law regulating full-time appointment and the enforcement of that law so it becomes standard practice.

I also have regularisation in technical and vocational schools; there is a law that is now going to be implemented.
There is also the issue of studying needs in schools so that we can proceed with regularisation decisions accordingly.

Staffing needs?
Yes – human resources.

We are working on this file now.
I am working across every strategic unit so that whoever succeeds me will not be completely disconnected from those below them. That is a major agenda item.

We are working on training principals.
So if you want to help me, you go into the education centre – which currently has nothing. There are vacancies, not temporary assignments.

I heard there are over seventy or ninety.
Yes. You can look into this. I spoke with Fadi from USJ – they were organising a think tank, and I begged them not to do that.

We are thinking of a policy document or a pressure document.
I am telling you: take on the centre, because this is a file I will not be able to resolve – it is heartbreaking. This is our territory, and you will be able to understand it. Think about your centre and how it can be activated within the ministry.

Each day, Ram carried large woven sacks on his back as he walked across neighbourhoods in search of plastic and metal. In the evenings, he returned to scrap traders, who weighed what he had collected and paid him a small amount. During his early experiences, waste picking was especially demanding. Ram worked long hours carrying heavy loads. He was frequently stopped by municipal officers and faced competition from other collectors. He encountered traders who controlled access to waste and pricing. Cuts and injuries were common, especially that he had minimal access to protective equipment or medical care.

Over time, Ram’s experience began to shift. He learned which neighbourhoods offered relatively lower exposure to police harassment. He also developed strategies to navigate competition from more established waste pickers. Gradually, he built informal connections in the market that occasionally offered moments of support and protection. Eventually, he managed to secure a small metal cart, easing the physical strain of carrying sacks on his back and allowing him to collect more materials each day. While these changes did not remove Ram from danger or exploitation, they enabled significant improvements in his daily working conditions and income.

Ram’s story reflects the experiences of many refugee children in Beirut, whose numbers have increased significantly in recent years. It also reveals important insights into how these experiences change over time. This raises broader questions. How do refugee children develop practical knowledge that shapes how they engage with street work? How does learning take place through these experiences? Where does this learning lead children? And what might this mean for how education is understood beyond formal settings? Drawing on ethnographic research with refugee waste-pickers in Beirut, this article examines how learning takes place through work and precarity. It invites us to expand our understanding of education beyond schools and to consider how everyday learning practices can inform more relevant and protective education responses in contexts of forced displacement.

Waste Picking among Refugee Children

In recent years, refugee children have become increasingly involved in collecting recyclable materials from Beirut’s streets, bins, and landfills. Since the Syrian war began in 2011, Lebanon has hosted the highest number of refugees per capita worldwide, with an estimated two million Syrians residing within its borders ((UNHCR, 2021a). Yet Lebanon is not a signatory to the 1951 Refugee Convention or its 1967 Protocol and lacks a national asylum framework to provide legal protection for refugees (Nassar & Stel, 2019). Under these conditions, refugees face restricted access to legal residency and formal employment, rendering everyday living increasingly precarious.

Lebanon’s compounded crises in recent years have further intensified these pressures. The 2019 economic collapse led to currency devaluation exceeding 90% and soaring inflation, while the COVID-19 pandemic disrupted informal livelihood opportunities – particularly as humanitarian funding declined – and the 2020 Beirut port explosion deepened urban hardship. As a result, more than 90% of Syrian refugees were pushed below the extreme poverty line (UNHCR, 2021b). Within this context, many refugee households have been driven into precarious informal livelihoods and hazardous forms of work, with children often playing a central role in sustaining household survival (Habib et al., 2019).

In parallel, the long-running waste crisis in Lebanon intensified. After the 2015 landfill closures and failed contingency planning, waste accumulated in public space, generating environmental and health impacts (Human Rights Watch, 2007). The formal waste sector continued to deteriorate under corruption, privatisation, and state neglect, which led the informal recycling to flourish (Labneh & Facts, 2021). With worsening economic conditions, the market value of recyclable materials increased, incentivising informal collection and accelerating the sector’s growth. Refugee labour filled this expanding economy, providing a cheap and flexible supply while remaining largely invisible to the formal economy. For refugee children, waste picking emerged as a livelihood strategy, especially amid their limited access to formal education. These conditions form the backdrop against which refugee education policies in Lebanon must be contextualised.

Refugee Education in Lebanon

Refugees in Lebanon face restrictions on basic rights, including legal residency and access to formal employment. For children, while compulsory education law formally guarantees access to schooling up to the age of 14, enforcement remains weak. Government responses have nonetheless sought to expand refugee access to education, primarily through the Ministry of Education and Higher Education (MEHE). In 2014, MEHE launched its national education response, Reaching All Children with Education (RACE I), which expanded access through second-shift public schooling, alongside programmes designed to support the reintegration of refugee children into formal education (Hargreaves et al., 2024; Maadad & Matthews, 2020). However, refugee children continued to face significant barriers related to language of instruction, curriculum relevance, and documentation requirements, which constrained meaningful access to schooling.

Building on RACE I, MEHE introduced RACE II, placing greater emphasis on strengthening the educational system more broadly, improving the quality of learning, while easing documentation requirements for school enrolment (IOM & UNICEF, 2014). Despite these efforts, significant limitations persist. For example, refugee youth remain largely excluded from higher education, while access to vocational learning remains limited. NGO-led education programmes largely follow the Lebanese curriculum and are often short-term, fragmented, and weakly aligned with the realities of the labour market. These dynamics have contributed to educational pathways for refugees that remain poorly connected to employment opportunities. Such conditions risk producing what Brun and Shuayb (2020) describe as ‘futureless education’ – schooling that expands participation without enabling credible routes to livelihoods or mobility.

Against this backdrop, this paper explores alternative approaches to education, focusing in particular on work-based learning and its potential to support children’s livelihoods. Drawing on the experiences of refugee waste pickers, it examines how learning unfolds through experiences of work and where such forms of learning lead the children.

Work-based Education in the Context of Displacement

This paper draws on data generated in 2025 through a first prize winning study under the Global Development Awards Competition. The study examined policy pathways for improving the work conditions of refugee waste pickers. It adopted a qualitative ethnographic approach on the streets of Beirut. Data were generated through semi-structured interviews with 30 refugee waste pickers and 10 institutional stakeholders, including representatives from relevant ministries, municipal authorities, NGOs, and environmental and private-sector initiatives. A follow-up focus group with five children consolidated priorities and informed a short documentary which outlines key policy recommendations for improving children’s work conditions. These findings were discussed with practitioners and decision-makers through stakeholder policy dialogues, which in turn informed the educational policy approaches outlined below.

Findings show that while waste picking provided refugee children with a means of livelihood, it also exposed them to extreme forms of violence. Most prominently, children described regular harassment and abuse by municipal authorities. Ahmad commented: ‘The police officers are merciless. They beat us, they detain us, they have no pity’. At the same time, local governance remained selective, as adult scrap traders were largely protected from any interventions, especially given their close connections to political elites. Moreover, children experienced hazardous and physically demanding conditions. They worked for extensive hours and walked long distances across neighbourhoods. They climbed into dumpsters without gloves and protective footwear. They carried heavy weights on their backs, and sustained frequent injuries that often went untreated. As described by Hala: ‘When I pick the metal out of the trash, I cut my hands and sometimes blood runs’. Children also reported coercion and territorial control by intermediaries. Samir explained: ‘Once, a scrap trader hung me upside down for 24 hours on a tree… he made me swear I would work for him exclusively’.  Scrap traders made a huge benefit from the children’s supply of recyclable items. They would buy these items from the children in local currency and resell them to private companies or large-scale scrap traders in foreign currency at exponentially higher margins.

To negoitate these challenges, the findings reveal that, over time, children developed work-based knowledge that helped them reduce harm, violence, and exploitation. For example, Fares learned to calculate prices and negotiate deceptions. He explained: ‘I count how many plastic bottles make one kilogram. This way, I can estimate the value of my collected bottles, and the scrap traders will not be able to trick me’. Huda learned how to plan routes: ‘I learned how to read signs on the street. Otherwise, I would be lost’. While these learning experiences, among many others, cannot shield children from systemic exploitation, they demonstrate how work becomes a site of situated learning through which children develop survival strategies, economic reasoning, and negotiation skills. These insights form the basis for rethinking refugee education policy in Lebanon, as outlined in the section below.

Rethinking Refugee Education through Policies on Work-based Learning

Drawing on these findings, this section outlines policy recommendations for education responses that engage with children’s lived realities under conditions of precarity. Rather than treating work and learning as separate domains, education responses must recognise and build on children’s existing practices across different time horizons. In the context of waste picking, on the short term, education can support immediate protection; in the medium term, it can help shift children’s trajectories away from hazardous labour; and in the long term, it can contribute to building more secure futures.

• Short term: Immediate protection

On the short term, work-based learning programmes should provide education rooted in children’s work experiences. In the case of waste pickers, this includes strengthening concrete arithmetic skills such as understanding weights, pricing, and basic calculations, which can help children minimise deception and exploitation by traders. Alongside this, educational programmes can support the development of spatial awareness and negotiation capacities, as well as practical knowledge of the safe use of rudimentary tools, to reduce everyday risks and harm.

• Medium term: Shifting trajectories

On the medium term, work-based education can support transitions away from hazardous labour. Policymakers and implementing partners should establish supervised apprenticeship pathways and vocational trajectories in safer sectors such as mechanics, carpentry, electronics repair, and service-oriented fields such as tourism, alongside environmentally regulated recycling. These measures open pathways toward safer and more stable forms of work.

• Long term: Building better futures

Finally, in the long term, education systems need to recognise the non-linear learning trajectories of refugee children and the interdependence between education, residency, and employment policies. This requires sustained legal reforms that enable secure residency and access to employment, alongside expanded access to vocational and higher education and pathways to dignified work. It also calls for curriculum redesign within formal education systems to ensure that learning can translate into mobility and meaningful employment opportunities.

Critically, these approaches – particularly in the short and medium term – do not seek to normalise child labour. Rather, they acknowledge that immediate withdrawal from work is often unfeasible for families living in extreme poverty under current structural conditions, and that turning a blind eye to child labour allows preventable violence and exploitation to persist. In this paper, work-based learning is therefore proposed as a bridge under conditions of structural exclusion. By engaging with children’s existing learning practices, education can function as a protective mechanism in the present while laying foundations for safer and more equitable futures.

Note

This article is supported by the Global Development Awards Competition – an innovative award scheme administered by the Global Development Network, funded under the Policy and Human Resources Development Fund, managed by the World Bank, and generously supported by the Ministry of Finance, Government of Japan. The views expressed in this documentary are not necessarily those of the Global Development Network or the Ministry of Finance, Government of Japan.

References

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Habib, R., Ziadee, M., Abi Younes, E., Harastani, H., Hamdar, L., Jawad, M., & El Asmar, K. (2019). Displacement, deprivation and hard work among Syrian refugee children in Lebanon. BMJ Global Health, 4(1), 1–10. https://doi.org/10.1136/bmjgh-2018-001122

Hargreaves, E., Lally, B., Akar, B., Al-Waeli, J., & Costello, J. (2024). Schooling for refugee children. UCL Press. https://doi.org/10.14324/111.9781800086838

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Maadad, N., & Matthews, J. (2020). Schooling Syrian refugees in Lebanon: Building hopeful futures. Educational Review, 72(4), 459–474. https://doi.org/10.1080/00131911.2018.1508126

Nassar, J., & Stel, N. (2019). Lebanon’s response to the Syrian refugee crisis – Institutional ambiguity as a governance strategy. Political Geography, 70, 44–54. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.polgeo.2019.01.005

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UNHCR. (2021b, September 29). Syrian refugees in Lebanon struggle to survive amid worst socioeconomic crisis in decades. https://www.unhcr.org/news/press/2021/9/615430234/un-syrian-refugees-lebanon-struggle-survive-amid-worst-socioeconomic-crisis.html