New
Internationalist 377
April
2005
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Motherland I stared at the woman in frustration. ‘But I am Lebanese,’ I said. ‘I was born in Lebanon and raised in Lebanon. My daughter was born in Lebanon and is being raised in Lebanon. I don’t understand.’ The woman nodded sympathetically. The walls of her drab office were bare except for a mandatory picture of a smiling Emile Lahoud, the Lebanese President. My daughter, Yasmine, had only been born a few months earlier and I had come to apply for her Lebanese nationality. Yasmine was rejected. ‘You, my dear,’ continued the Government official, ‘are a woman. And when a Lebanese woman marries a foreigner she cannot give her husband or her children Lebanese nationality. It’s just how things are.’ I married a British national five years ago and although I am entitled to UK citizenship through him, I cannot offer my husband Lebanese nationality. The most I am allowed to do by law is grant him an annual residence visa to live in Lebanon. And yet women have made great strides in the country. An estimated half of college graduates are women and the number of working women make up 30 per cent of the total labour force. Three seats have been taken up by women in the 128-seat parliament. There is speculation that one of the women MPs could one day even run for the presidency. But that same woman could not have given Lebanese nationality to her children had she married a foreigner. My irritation subsided somewhat when I met Hanan – after all, her situation was even worse. As a Lebanese married to a Palestinian, her children have been denied citizenship. While she has access to government healthcare and services, her three youngsters can neither attend government schools nor benefit from any services. And since Palestinians are barred from working in over 60 different kinds of skilled jobs and from owning property, their future seems bleak. ‘I can’t believe I can’t give my own children the same privileges that I have,’ she said. ‘What is to become of them?’ I recall when my friend Saria had a big row with her family. She had fallen in love with a Palestinian and wanted to get married. But Saria’s family took a firm stand against him. ‘Your children will have nothing,’ yelled Saria’s father. ‘Nothing. Do you hear? They will be Palestinian.’ The father prevailed and the couple separated. Women’s rights movements have been lobbying vigorously to have the antiquated law overturned. But like everything in Lebanon, the decision is a political one – and it takes time. The fear, as a high-ranking politician explained to me, is that Palestinians will take advantage of the relaxation of the law to marry Lebanese and remain in the country. The Lebanese have long been concerned at the prospect of the Palestinian refugees – today estimated at 350,000 – settling permanently in Lebanon and becoming assimilated into Lebanese society. Since the end of the war in 1990, the Palestinians have remained confined to their camps surrounded by Lebanese soldiers. The result of this uncompromising policy has condemned many Palestinians to a fate of grinding poverty and despair. My son, Alexander, was born last October and like his sister will grow and love a country which will never accept him as one of its own. I admit my worries are selfish ones. My children will always have the right to live in Britain – a privilege desired by many Lebanese. But I am a typical Lebanese mother who wants her children around her for as long as possible. I want them to attend university here. I want to see them marry and settle down near me. I want to live near my grandchildren. But as non-Lebanese they might not be able to do that. As ‘foreigners’ they will require expensive residency and work permits. They will be barred from unions and many jobs. Their future is almost certainly abroad. The loss of my and other such children – well educated and trained – will surely be Lebanon’s.
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I consulted
a lawyer but there was nothing he could do. Anyone born of a Lebanese
father – whether the child was born in Lebanon or abroad – has
the right to Lebanese nationality. The mother, however, doesn’t
enjoy the same privilege.  |
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