It is been almost three months since Lebanon outlawed the use of motorbikes between dusk and dawn following a series of armed clashes between two-wheeled gangs in Beirut. Ride a motorbike or a scooter at night and you'll now be fined or arrested.
In addition, every one of the capital's tens of thousands of motorcyclists is now required to carry a vehicle licence and registration to travel in daylight hours. At a combined cost of nearly $500, such a process is often prohibitively expensive.
The ban was sanctioned by interior minister Ziad Baroud with the declared aim of eradicating violent crime from city streets. For too long, the argument ran, gangs of knife-wielding thugs had run amok, disobeying traffic laws, terrifying residents and generally menacing society. But the logic behind banning motorcyclists to cut violent crime is deeply flawed, in spite of what Lebanese MPs attest. It is also unashamedly elitist.
True, some crimes have fallen in the capital's most notorious neighbourhoods. In Beirut's Hezbollah-dominated southern suburbs, robberies fell by 30% in November – a near unprecedented decline. But while the harsh medicine of a motorbike ban may be palatable for law enforcement officials, it has proved unsavoury for many Lebanese. Beirut suffers from some of the worst traffic congestion on the planet. The removal of motorcycles and scooters forces commuters to opt for cars and taxis, contributing to further jams across the country. Baroud had to face the fallout from his own ban earlier this month, directing traffic himself after being immobilised in downtown Beirut.
From a security perspective, at least, a speedy getaway is now out of the question for anyone fleeing a crime scene in major cities. But if the ban's aim is to lower violent crime, motorbikes and scooters are odd targets. In what, after all, is it easier to conceal a weapon or stolen goods, a motorbike or a car? Suspicious cars and vans, often unregistered and uninsured, glide through checkpoints erected on major junctions, while every motorcyclist or scooter owner is treated to a patting down by police.
Certain professions are exempt from the ban – including bakers, delivery drivers and journalists – but these are still subject to interrogation by armed police. Aside from delaying legitimate motorbike users, this heavy-handed stop-and-search approach puts law abiding citizens under scrutiny from camouflaged officials with guns; unpleasant for any mode of transport. Beirut and other Lebanese cities are being inconvenienced by a ban that, while only actively targeting a few, transforms thousands more each day into suspects.
People do not break the law because they ride on motorbikes; they do so because they are of a law-breaking disposition. A mugger or rapist will unlikely be deterred if forced to commute by taxi or walk the streets instead of riding on them. The outlawing of motorbikes to cut violent crime is akin to banning balaclavas and video cameras to deter suicide bombers.
Misinformation is rife. As with most pieces of reactionary legislation, the ban was hastily cobbled together and haphazardly implemented. Cronyism, Lebanon's old friend, sneaks into enforcement, with bigwigs riding Harley-Davidsons cheerily waved through checkpoints. But the ban was never intended to restrict people in high places. In Lebanon, the vast majority of two-wheeled vehicles are cheap, secondhand scooters but legislation counts these as motorcycles. The ban therefore hits the poor hardest. Motorcycles are an affordable alternative to four wheels and used to be only cost-effective way for hundreds of thousands of employees to reach their places of work.
Although Baroud claimed the ban was designed to clear criminals off the streets, the high cost of registering motorcycles has also pushed law-abiders indoors. Even if the expense of documentation was not intended as a deterrent for motorcyclists in general, it certainly wasn't set with any regard to those who rely on motorbikes and scooters for mobility and independence. It is not just the many being punished for the misdemeanours of the few; the poor are also being disproportionately stung.
Frustration at this is simmering. While the wealthy echelons of society enjoy the peace from the motorbike-free streets beneath, thousands of Lebanese, already neglected by central government, have been cut further adrift. Baroud's motorbike ban promised severe repercussions. Lebanon is yet to find out their full extent.
