“We Used to Dunk Our Feet In”: How Beirut Let its River Waste Away

Victoria Tatanjian's earliest memories trace back to the banks of the Beirut River. Once winding freely through the city's eastern quarters, the river offered a rare stretch of green space that became a makeshift playground for children like her growing up in the concrete sprawl.

In the 1960s, Victoria, known as Vicki, lived with her family in the Sharshabouk Armenian refugee camp near the river. Her paternal grandparents had fled to Lebanon during the Armenian Genocide, escaping the violence carried out by the Ottoman Empire during and after World War I. They settled in makeshift homes in the marshlands east of Beirut, in what would eventually develop into the working class neighborhood of Bourj Hammoud. When Vicky's parents married, they raised seven children in Sharshabouk.

“That’s where the name ‘Sharshabouk’ comes from,” Vicki explained during an interview in her apartment in Mar Mikhael. “It means ‘crowded.’ The houses were made out of tin and consisted of only one room, maybe two if the family was very large.”

“We used to dunk our feet in the river. Swimming was out of the question, but the river was beautiful, and it was ours.” —Vicky Tatanjian, Mar Mikhael resident

Today, the grounds of Sharshabouk have vanished underneath concrete. Forum de Beyrouth, one of the largest venues in the region, now occupies the site. A congested highway runs along what was once the river's west bank, while the waterway itself has slowed to a stagnant, sewage-filled trickle. Few current residents can imagine the river’s past splendor, a reflection of the state's long-standing neglect and evasion of responsibility.

“We used to dunk our feet in the river,” Vicky recalled. “Swimming was out of the question; our parents were scared of what might be in there.” She then smiled and quickly added, “but the river was beautiful. And it was ours.”

Today, no one smiles when they talk about the Beirut River.  It has become a symbol of pollution, neglect, and the gradual erosion of the city's urban commons.

The River’s Lost History

In Roman times, it was known as the Magoras River, and played a crucial role in supplying the city with water. Roman engineers built a diversion dam below the Daychouniye Spring, channeling water along the river’s right bank via canals and tunnels. From there, the flow of water then passed through the Zbeide aqueduct — whose remnants still stand — before vanishing into a mountain tunnel and reemerging directly in the city. The system likely served the city up until the early Ottoman period, when residents gradually started relying on nearby groundwater wells.1

By the 19th century, as Beirut transformed into an Ottoman capital and a vital port city, water needs expanded. Residents turned to the Nahr el-Kalb River for domestic water, while farmers increasingly relied on the Beirut River for irrigation.2 During the French Mandate, efforts to modernize agriculture led to the construction of the Daychouniye Dam and the Beirut Canal.3 These structures were intended to irrigate around 1,000 hectares of land per year, but local officials deemed the project a failure within just one year of operation.

Following the regional destabilization caused by the establishment of the Zionist entity and the forced expulsion of Palestinians from their lands in 1948, the river became a hub for diverse, multi-ethnic working-class communities.

After 1948, following the regional destabilization caused by the creation of the Zionist entity, displaced Palestinians joined the diverse hub of multi-ethnic working-class communities in the neighborhood. Lebanese Shi’a, Armenians, Palestinians, Iraqis, and Kurds all settled along its banks, which spanned approximately 228 square kilometers.4

The Beirut River originates in the highlands of Hammana and Tarchiche, some 1,900 meters above sea level, and winds through four districts – Beirut, Matn, Baabda, and Aley – and thirty municipalities. In the capital, it skirts the nightlife of Mar Mikhael and Gemmayzeh, as well as the bustling commercial corridor of Bourj Hammoud. During Vicky's youth, she remembers the river as a social equalizer.

“We lived by the river without differentiating between Muslims and Christians,” Vicki said. “Even Hassan Nasrallah used to live nearby.”

She remembered gathering along the riverbanks, families laying out simple spreads and sharing them with their neighbors. Armenians brought lentil kibbeh and itch, the bulgar wheat salad, while Muslim families typically grilled meat. Tabbouleh and fattoush were shared by all. 

 As informal housing multiplied and discharge from domestic sewers and nearby factories flowed into the river, the once-vital natural resource became a harbinger of the city's collapse.

“Some women washed their clothes in the river, but we weren't allowed to,” she said. Although the water was crystal-clear, there were always worries about possible contamination. As informal housing multiplied and discharge from domestic sewers and nearby factories flowed into the river, the once-vital natural resource became a harbinger of the city's collapse. After a series of severe floods, the state decided to canalize the river in 1968, severing it from the lives it once sustained and turning what was a sanctuary into a fading memory, tainted by the stench of garbage and waste.

Splitting the River In Two 

In one cruel stroke of a pen, the river’s canalization cut off the community’s access to the water, and Vicki’s childhood was irreversibly changed. She recalls the evacuation orders issued by the Beirut municipality for their camp, displacing her family to Mar Mikhael, near the port.

“I was heartbroken,” she said. “That was our childhood. We lived a carefree life, staying out late, playing outside. The river brought us together, and when we lost it, we scattered and became confined.”

The loss of the river foreshadowed a wider unraveling. In 1975, civil war would break out and split the city in two — turning the river's eastern bank into part of the front line. The conflict deepened inequality and tested long-established communal bonds. While some Armenians stayed in the area, second-generation or wealthier residents were able to flee. Far-right Christian militias forced Palestinians and other Muslim communities out of the river-side neighborhoods of Tahwita, Hazmieh, Mansourieh, Zalka, and Antelias, erasing the area’s social diversity and leading to rapid depopulation.5

Without a functioning state, communities by the river leaned on one another to survive. Vicki, now a widowed mother, worked full-time at a garment factory in Bourj Hammoud despite the danger of crossing into Mar Mikhael due to the snipers positioned on both sides of the river.

“Sometimes we couldn’t return home and had to sleep in the factory,” she said. “Once, I even climbed into an army tank. I told the soldiers I had a child waiting for me at home.”

Post-War Neglect

The civil war formally ended in 1990, but its scars remained. The Taif agreement, initially hailed as a means to usher in stability, ended up rebranding former warlords into politicians and Lebanon has limped from crisis to crisis ever since. 

The Beirut River, once again, bore the imprint of national and infrastructural decay.

“The river's situation isn't improving. It's only getting worse. More municipalities in the villages upstream are pumping water aggressively during the wet months, which means the river is flowing less and less.” —François Nour, architect and expert in water infrastructure
In the 2010s, the river became an emblem of environmental disaster. In 2012, industrial facilities illegally dumped textile dyes into the river, turning the water a blood red color. Two years later, photos emerged of slaughterhouse workers throwing cow carcasses into it, as raw sewage flowed directly into the waterway. 

François Nour, architect and expert in water infrastructure, told The Public Source that many towns still dump sewage into the river. Industrial runoff from factories, gas stations, and even fiberglass dust from decorative objects, have only worsened the contamination.

“The river's situation isn't improving — it's only getting worse,” Nour said. “More municipalities in the villages upstream are pumping water aggressively during the wet months, which means the river is flowing less and less.”

Under Lebanon’s Water Law, the Ministry of Energy and Water is responsible for developing policies to protect the country’s water resources. This involves ensuring the provision of water for household use, industrial activities,  and tourism, while preserving natural landscapes and regulating activities around water sources. The law also mandates the ministry to coordinate with other ministries in response to floods, droughts, and pollution.

A 2018 study by researchers at the American University of Beirut found that the river's water quality fails to meet most environmental standards. Pollution worsens downstream, affecting the coastal waters where the river empties into the Mediterranean, and is most acute during the dry season when flow is low.6

Who Looks After the Beirut River? 

Mufid Duhaini, head of the Environment Service at the Ministry of Energy and Water, told The Public Source that managing the Beirut River is a top priority in Lebanon's 2024-2035 National Water Strategy (NWS). 

“We do not neglect the Beirut River,” Duhaini insisted during a phone interview.

The NWS does not explicitly mention the Beirut River. Instead, it calls for better stormwater management by improving coordination among ministries, municipalities, and stakeholders. Key initiatives include enhancing water supply systems and adapting irrigation techniques.

Duhaini emphasized that his ministry is solely responsible for managing organic water and does not handle environmental or industrial pollution, which falls under the collaborative responsibilities of the Ministry of Environment and the Ministry of Industry. A comprehensive clean-up of the river, he added, would require a cross-ministerial committee, but such an initiative is unlikely to materialize amid Lebanon's ongoing political deadlock.

“In the meantime, municipalities should enforce regulations on factories or implement anti-pollution programs,” he said. 

In 2005, the Ministry of Energy proposed building a wastewater treatment plant and sewer network in Bourj Hammoud to keep raw sewage out of the river.  The European Investment Bank lent Lebanon €60 million for the project, but local communities strongly opposed it, arguing that it would change the landscape of their neighborhoods.7

Arpi Mangassarian, a former architect with the Bourj Hammoud municipality, said the plant's design was better suited for desert areas than an urban landscape and is a flagrant misuse of Beirut’s shoreline. She explained that the plant would disrupt ongoing efforts to upgrade zoning laws in Bourj Hammoud, which aim to transition the neighborhood away from heavy  industries and reconnect it to the waterfront. 

Even if the plant becomes operational, a rarity in Lebanon, it would discharge treated water into the Mediterranean instead of reclaiming it for reuse — failing to address climate change and drought challenges.

“It should be a tertiary treatment facility, enclosed and adequate to its urban setting,” Mangassarian said. “This large central plant will disrupt access to the coast and ruin the marine view, which is a rare asset that the country possesses.“

These challenges prolonged consultations with stakeholders and added pressure on all parties involved to complete the project with the remaining funds before a December 2019  deadline.8 That year, however, Lebanon was hit with an unprecedented economic crisis. Depositors were locked out of their dollar accounts and the local currency lost more than 90 percent of its value. 

“Once the economic crisis has been resolved and we have received the necessary funds, we will carry out our pre-existing plan,” Duhaini said.

Left Alone To Die

In December 2023, the Beirut River overflowed during a severe rainstorm, causing extensive flooding in nearby streets and businesses. Roads were blocked, trapping motorists and submerging multiple vehicles, including a Civil Defense truck responding to the emergency.

When contacted by phone, a member of the Beirut municipality council claimed to have “no information regarding the river." A source close to the Bourj Hammoud municipality, who requested anonymity, said the area was not the municipality's responsibility because the river and its surrounding areas are public property. Maintenance falls under the Ministry of Public Works, he explained, while water resources are handled by the Ministry of Energy and Water. 

"The municipality can't force factories to stop polluting, even if it has communicated the issue to them," he said.

A source close to the Bourj Hammoud municipality said the area was not the municipality's responsibility because the river and its surrounding areas are public property. Maintenance falls under the Ministry of Public Works, while water resources are handled by the Ministry of Energy and Water. 
In January 2024, the Bourj Hammoud Municipality issued a statement warning that its concerns over river obstructions and sediment buildup had been going unaddressed. After the flood, the municipality had mobilized resources to clear debris from the river's mouth. The statement criticized the inaction of the Ministry of Energy and Water and the Ministry of Public Works and Transport, and urged them to urgently intervene to prevent future flooding. Duhaini told us that the problem had been resolved after sealing the gap where debris accumulated. 

“The Ministry of Energy and Water has turned the river into its backyard,” said Sandra Frem, an architect and urbanist who wrote her master’s thesis on the Beirut River.

In 2009, Frem proposed granting municipalities greater authority and funding to address the river's environmental problems. Her plan focused on water management, transportation, and water quality. She envisioned new pedestrian pathways and recreational spaces that could simultaneously control flooding and enhance the river’s urban integration. She also proposed a system to treat and remove sewage from the river, turning it into a clean source of water that could flow back into the city. 

“The Ministry of Energy and Water has turned the river into its backyard.” —Sandra Frem, architect and urbanist
“The solutions that I researched were happening in other parts of the world,” Frem said. “But these were other parts of the world that had the political will and the funding for them to happen.”

A Glimmer of Hope

In the summer, the scorching heat exacerbates the river’s foul smell. The water sometimes turns pitch black. A few defiant bushes manage to survive, clinging to life amid mounds of trash.

Yet in the nearby neighborhood of Sin el-Fil, the fresh smell of pine and sage cuts through the stench. A thin sliver of forest survives along the river’s southern bank, the unlikely result of the Beirut RiverLESS reforestation effort. 

“Since we couldn't restore the Beirut River, because that needs a lot more money and approvals, all we could do as citizens was restore the forest ecosystem that was once next to it,” said Adib Dada, an environmental activist and architect who leads the project.

The Beirut RiverLESS project was launched as an effort to “beautify and clean” public land, something municipalities allow without a lot of red tape. By reviving the area’s soil and native vegetation, the project helps rainwater soak into the ground, easing floods and gradually replenishing aquifers that feed the river. 

The first planting took place on Independence Day in 2019, shortly after the October uprising, which saw protestors take to the streets to demand the overhaul of Lebanon’s political system. 

“This was our form of resistance,” Adib said.

The initiative is sorely needed in Beirut, a city starved of public parks. The World Health Organization recommends at least nine square meters of green space per resident; Beirut offers 0.8 square meters, and not all of it is easily accessible. Of the city's 17 green spaces, nearly half are memorial gardens. The largest park, Beirut Pine Forest or Horsh Beirut, is just 0.3 square kilometers and is under constant threat of privatization. 

“Since we couldn't restore the Beirut River, because that needs a lot more money and approvals, all we could do as citizens was restore the forest ecosystem that was once next to it.”—Adib Dada, environmental activist and architect

Adib's vision stretches beyond the capital. Similar reforestation efforts are underway in Chiyah and Zouk Mosbeh. But a significant challenge remains: these young forests require regular irrigation to thrive and sustained support from local municipalities.

Frem, the urbanist, who has studied the Beirut River, remains skeptical about the water body’s future. The river's revival, she believes, is unlikely while the country is consumed by regular crises. 

“It's hard to nurture civic imagination when people are constantly worried about their generator bills, parking, and everyday survival.”

Vicki has also lost hope in the river’s revival. Instead, she recalls the small details of a world that no longer exists: the cramped houses that cast shadows along the riverbank where she used to play, the winding trails of Tcharchaboukh camp, and the Picon sandwiches enjoyed by the water.

“None of their projects succeeded,” she said, pointing out the sewage stench that wafts into her home in Mar Mikhael and the city’s ever-increasing levels of air pollution. “Our days were so, so different. Everything new isn’t nice. The old is much better.”