Begging in Lebanon and the gap between law and action

Across Lebanon, children sell flowers and tissues at intersections, mothers beg with their children beside them, and elderly people struggle to survive on the pavement. A reported estimate puts the number of beggars across Lebanon at 1,500, highlighting the scale of a problem that raises urgent questions about poverty, exploitation and state intervention.

A landmark study by the ILO, UNICEF and Save the Children, commissioned at the Ministry of Labour’s request, described the growing number of children living and working on Lebanon’s streets as one of the “worst forms of child labour,” including begging, street trade and illicit activities. Even before the latest hostilities, around 700,000 children in Lebanon had no access to schooling.

A legal framework without effective enforcement

In Jounieh, a city that thrives on tourism, Mayor Fayssal Frem confirmed what residents see. “Yes, there is a clear increase,” he told The Beiruter. As shops reopen and visitors fill the streets, begging has grown “and is not controlled at all.”

He insisted that the municipality’s hands are tied. “Legally, we cannot do anything, because we cannot deprive another person of their freedom. This is not a crime.”

That position was directly contested by lawyer Antonio Farhat. “Begging is not merely a phenomenon. It is a matter punishable by law, particularly under Article 610 of the Penal Code.” Far from being lawful, the act is penalized, and the municipality is among the bodies Farhat names as able to act. “The internal security forces, the municipalities, the Ministry of Social Affairs, the public prosecutor’s office, any of them can control cases on the ground.”

Mayor Frem worried about the children most. “We are afraid for them because they are small, and we have to protect small children. We consider that it is not their fault. They are victims.”

On that point, the law agrees with him, and goes further. Lebanon has Law 422 of 2002 on the protection of juveniles, which “distinguishes between punishing an adult and protecting a child,” because the Penal Code makes no such distinction. Under Articles 25 and 26, the law treats a begging child as a minor at risk.

The mayor also suspected organized exploitation. “We certainly suspect that there are crime organizations.” Yet he presented this as a reason for caution rather than action. Farhat sees it as the very reason to act. The juvenile law does not only penalize the beggar. “It also makes it possible to pursue the people who exploit children, the organized networks.”

Frem wants the Ministry of Social Affairs to take the lead. “It is their specialty. They should guide the municipalities on how to deal with this.” Children should be in school, he argued, and their parents held to account. “They were not born like this. They certainly have parents. Let them bear their responsibilities as parents, and be held accountable for neglecting their children.”

Farhat did not dispute the need for the ministry, but he rejected the idea that responsibility rests with one body. He called for coordination among the judiciary, security forces, municipalities and the Ministry of Social Affairs. Nor does he argue for simply clearing the pavements. “The solution to begging is not banning it on one street so that the beggar moves to another street.”

His diagnosis cuts to the heart of the disagreement. “The problem is not in the legal texts. The texts are there. The problem is in application, and in an integrated approach that combines law enforcement with social care.” That means more monitoring, protection for children, and prosecution of the networks. He warned of the long-term cost. “Any type of criminal could be one we are raising on these streets. We have to try to secure social alternatives for them.”

The mayor’s message to well-meaning residents was nuanced: “We cannot discourage people from helping. But there must be awareness that this begging may not be out of need. It may be organized and run by a group that sends these children to the streets.”

On the pavement

The legal debate becomes human on the street.

Samiha, a 40-year-old Lebanese woman in Jounieh souk never imagined sitting on a pavement with her child. “When you have nothing, you reach a point where you do not know what else to do.” Each day she brings her child along, and each day it hurts. “A child should be playing, going to school and living a normal life. Instead, my child is here with me, exposed to everything happening on the street.”

No authority has ever come for her. Strangers do, in other ways. “Some people give us money, and others look at us with disgust. You get used to being looked at as if you do not exist.” Where would she go if she left? “I still have nowhere to sleep and nothing to feed my child with.” Her greatest fear is generational, “that my child will grow up like this, without opportunities or a future.”

Fawzi, an elderly man who can barely walk, is stranded by his body as much as by poverty. “Little by little, I lost what I had. When you get old and cannot work anymore, life becomes very hard, especially when you have nobody to rely on.” Moving even a short distance is an ordeal. “I cannot simply get up and walk away whenever someone tells me to.” Some passersby help, but “there are people who shout at me or treat me as if I am a nuisance. They see an old man sitting on the pavement, but they do not know how I got here.” In Lebanon, the absence of a comprehensive universal pension and social protection system leaves many elderly people without reliable financial support, making those without family assistance or sufficient savings particularly vulnerable to poverty and street begging.

His hardest burden is uncertainty. “It is not only the hunger or the cold. It is knowing that you have reached an age when you should be resting, but instead you are trying to survive each day. I tried to find a job but no one will take me.”

 Two children, interviewed by The Beiruter, complete the picture. At just 12 years old, Zahra sells flowers on the streets of Beirut. She told The Beiruter that her father has died, that she has no siblings and that she lives with her mother in Nabaa. According to her, her mother is sick and unable to work, leaving Zahra to sell flowers to help her family. Her working day begins at around 11 a.m. and ends only when she has sold all her flowers. She travels by bus and continues working until she has finished her daily supply.

When asked about the authorities, Zahra said that no one from the state had approached her or intervened to take her off the streets. Her account raises questions about whether children like her are being identified, protected and offered the support they need.

Further along Beirut's streets, Hamzah, a 7-year-old boy sells packets of tissues at an intersection. Although he told The Beiruter that he does not know his exact age. He said that he and his family moved from Akkar to Beirut two years ago and that his father brings him to the same spot every day.

When asked about his work, Hamzah explained that he needs to bring money home. In his words, it is better to earn money and take it back to his family. His statement offers a glimpse into how a child so young understands his role within his household, not simply as a child who needs care, but as someone who feels responsible for contributing financially.

A question of will

The mayor of Jounieh municipality said he is powerless; the lawyer said the powers exist; the people on the pavement said no one has come. The beggars were never approached by any authority. That is the failure, a system in which every institution can act, and none does so in concert.

Lebanon does not lack laws, a national action plan or a clear diagnosis. What it lacks is delivery, outreach workers who reach a child before the intersection becomes his workplace, schools that can absorb him, support for a mother like Samiha so her child is not her companion on the pavement, and prosecutors who pursue those who profit from small hands holding tissues. Until then, the streets will keep doing the work that institutions have left undone.