The Lira Crisis: A Real-Life Game of Monopoly

I first arrived in Lebanon in 2008, drawn by the promise of a new chapter. I settled into a quiet village, embracing a simple life rooted in the values my parents had taught me: humility, community, and resilience. It was a peaceful existence, where the rhythms of daily life felt steady and secure. But by 2019, everything began to unravel. Lebanon’s economic crisis took hold, and the once-stable Lebanese Lira started its rapid decline. With each passing month, its devaluation became harder to ignore, and the sense of certainty that had long defined life in the country began to slip away.

The tipping point came with the 2019 protests and the subsequent banking crisis. As the protests raged, people took to the streets demanding reforms, while the banks put limits on withdrawals, trapping people’s savings in accounts they couldn’t access. I remember watching people destroy bank windows in rage demanding their money, many resorting to “heists” to withdraw their own money.

The currency devaluation was swift, with the exchange rate spiraling from 1,500 Lira to the dollar to nearly 100,000 Lira to the dollar at its worst.

The graph shows annual GDP (Gross Domestic Product) growth for Lebanon, from 2010 to 2019. GDP is a broad measure of overall domestic production and it shows a comprehensive scorecard of a country’s economic health.

Credit: Mario Al Sayah on researchgate.com

Suddenly, a cup of coffee I used to enjoy for pocket change was priced for the wealthy. People struggled to make ends meet, facing higher prices for everything—basic food staples, fuel, rent, and even public transport.

Sticker shock became the new norm in Lebanon. A loaf of bread costing 1,500 Lira now costed 10,000. A bag of rice that normally costed 5,000 Lira was now pushing 50,000. As a mother of four children under 10, I made it my mission to make sure they never felt the shift in our quality of life.

Flour was easier to come by, so I started making breads and savoury pies. The milk man brought fresh milk 3 times a week. I used it to make rice pudding and different cheeses for the kids’ lunches. The process was tedious. You had to make sure you added just enough vinegar at just the right temperature for the cheese, and the yogurt needed to be cooled for just the right time. Waste was not an option.

Gather eggs from the chickens in the morning for breakfast. Some eggs are incubated. Pluck the biggest blooms from the rose bushes to make teas for colds and flus. Boil rain water and cool it to kill the bacteria and purify it for drinking.  Make jams and jellies, and pickle vegetables for the winter months. Make sure there is enough firewood as well.

The culture in Lebanon revolves heavily around hospitality and food, and gatherings are almost a nightly affair. Families pride themselves on having an “open home” where guests drop in at any time and often.

Making cakes from scratch was cheaper, and freshly squeezed fruit juices were a must in the heat. Herbal teas were brewed and garnished with walnuts plucked straight from the tree and peeled until your hands were black. A plate of apricots from the front garden was perfect for serving. And you can’t forget to check the water tanks on the roof to make sure there is enough for the washroom plumbing. This involved going up to the roof often and attaching a long water hose to the tank to fill it up, always making sure it doesn’t overflow because then the tank will drain itself.

According to article published online in Middle East Institute, “Since 2019… over 70% of the Lebanese population currently faces critical water shortages. These are especially severe in regions that are already more remote and have historically received less investment in public infrastructure, like the Bekaa Valley and North Lebanon.

Read more

Picture Credit: Lameese Smaili

When you live in a country where the cost of goods can double—or triple—within a few days, you start to view money differently. You don’t just buy things; you mentally calculate how many hours you’ve worked to afford it. The very concept of value shifts.

But it wasn’t just food. Basic services like transportation also became unaffordable for many. Filling up the car, once a minor expense, was now daunting. It was like driving on Monopoly money—except you’re burning through the bills faster than you can earn them. In fact, some people in the village started selling gas in their houses at dusk.

Finally, fuel subsidies which were lifeboats for the country’s impoverished people, were halted followed by a crippling fuel shortage. This meant gasoline was now sold illegally in the black market.

“Drive to the back so no one sees us,” some sellers would say. And they would use a hose to dispense gasoline into your car for outrageous prices. Getting a little bit of fuel into the car to drive the kids to school the next day was suddenly a risky business. And because everything depended on fuel, businesses everywhere plummeted.

“Drinking water is all about transportation. If you don’t have diesel, you can’t get water from the mountain to the coast,” said Wimmen in an interview published in 2021 by CNN. “For all merchandise that have a significant transportation element in them, prices will have to explode. The large majority of Lebanese … will get drastically poorer.”

Watching money lose value rapidly was anxiety-inducing. It felt like we were constantly running in place, trying to catch up with a race we could never win. You check the exchange rate in the morning, and by the time you’re done with your breakfast, it’s already changed.

The Lira’s collapse widened the gap between Lebanon’s rich and poor. Those with money in foreign currency or assets in other countries were largely unaffected, while the rest of the population struggled to afford necessities. The middle class slowly disappeared.

So, how did we survive? In Lebanon, resilience is practically a national pastime. From starting side businesses to figuring out creative ways to get by, we all became experts at stretching the Lira—and our patience—to the absolute limit.

Humor was the best coping strategy. We laughed at the absurdity of it all—because if we didn’t, we’d probably cry. There’s a dark humor in watching prices skyrocket and feeling like the world is crumbling around you. But that was the only way to keep your sanity intact.

We also leaned on each other. The sense of community in Lebanon was never more important. Whether it’s sharing resources, trading services, or simply offering moral support, people came together in ways they never had before. They did not have much, but they had each other—and that’s something money can’t buy. The Lebanese people have survived wars, crises, and economic disasters before—and they survived this too.  

Living through Lebanon’s economic meltdown felt like being stuck in an endless game of Monopoly, but with real stakes. The money in your pocket is worth less with each passing day, and the rules of the game keep changing. You don’t know if you’re going to land on Boardwalk or go straight to jail—but you keep playing, because what other choice do you have?

And so it goes on, and they make the best of a bad situation, laughing when they can, and hoping for a better future. In the end, when your money now means nothing, you realize that sometimes the real currency is not in your wallet, but in your ability to adapt, to laugh, and to keep going.

Comments