BEIRUT: The traffic that cloys endlessly at Beirut’s streets is as dense as ever. Rows of cars, minibuses and taxis choke the capital’s main roads, horns flaring along with tempers as millions of commuters make their way home from work. But even as countless drivers sit behind their wheels, faces set in grim determination, something is noticeable about Thursday night rush hour – there is barely a motorbike to be seen.
It has been half an hour since the ban on the use of motorcycles between 6:30 p.m. and 5 a.m. has come into effect. At an Internal Security Forces (ISF) checkpoint in the Beirut suburb of Ain al-Remmeneh a flat-bed lorry sits next to a roundabout, its trailer laden with confiscated vehicles.
“We are stopping people and confiscating all motorbikes from those who don’t have the necessary documents,” says an ISF officer.
“The papers and licenses need to be in perfect condition. If anything is missing – license, identification, helmet – they are stopped. There are no exceptions, not tonight.”
As he speaks, a rider approaches. He can’t be more than 21, his headlight is working and he is wearing a helmet.
“Get off the motorbike now!” screams the officer as he leaps into the road.
He explains to the man that riding his vehicle at night is now illegal and it will be confiscated.
“Since when?” asks the rider, his voice strained with fear and incredulity.
The officer approaches, shouting at the man to stay where he is.
“Give me the keys. Get off the bike and stay behind me.”
The ban was implemented on the recommendation of Interior Minister Ziad Baroud in the wake of the clash last week involving young men on motorbikes in Ain al-Remmenah that left one dead and four others hospitalized with knife wounds.
In a statement on Monday, Baroud said that outlawing the use of motorcycles at night was not aimed at limiting security violations but rather sought to “maintain stability.”
“The ministry doesn’t want to stop motorcycles; it only wants to control them,” he said.
In spite of furious media coverage and heightened rhetoric from politicians on the motorcycle clampdown, at street level misinformation is rife.
“I didn’t know that after six you weren’t allowed to ride motorbikes, I thought it was after eight,” says the man whose motorbike was impounded. “I was on my way to work. I have to work so I’ll have to get a taxi.”
Lebanon has thousands of motorbike users, many of whom need them to get to work. Although there are some exemptions – including caterers, pharmacists and journalists – many on Thursday were still stopped by the ISF, even with necessary documentation.
In Corniche al-Mazraa, a dozen delivery drivers sit idly on their scooters outside a restaurant. Less than a hundred meters away, ISF officers at a hastily erected checkpoint are arresting a man for riding his motorbike without the proper papers.
One of the drivers says that although his vehicle is fully legal, he still can’t deliver food.
“Even with our papers in order, it still takes 10 minutes to get through each checkpoint. This makes it harder for us to work,” he says.
“It’s good and bad. They are punishing all the good people for the sake of people who are having fun on motorbikes.”
Ali, 23, has seen more than a dozen scooters confiscated at the checkpoint outside his shop.
“It’s a shame that they are doing this. These people are just kids, how else are they meant to get to work?”
In a barber shop in Bshara al-Khoury, close to another checkpoint, Mohammad, 58, believes the ban is a positive step for Lebanese security. “There’s a lot of crime due to people on motorbikes. They steal things and they attack people. They have the ability to throw a bomb and drive off,” he says.
“I support the ban because it is easier to track the people who commit crimes.”
Ahmad, 42, owns a restaurant in Corniche al-Mazraa. He says that although the Interior Ministry has asked him to apply for licenses for his fleet of delivery drivers, he is waiting for more information.
“There are still no regulations. They promised to advertise what we are supposed to do to apply for the licenses and they never did. So we are being careful, that is all we can do,” he says.
“Everyone knows [about the ban] but even delivery guys are being caught now because they don’t know how to apply for licenses.”
He explains that his business is already suffering, as a large amount of meals are delivered to customer’s homes by motorbike.
“The delivery guys are just sitting there now. I’m not taking any delivery orders far away from the restaurant,” he says.
At the Ain al-Remmenah checkpoint a pizza delivery driver is stopped by officers. He has the required paperwork, but is kept for 15 minutes while police pour over his license and identification.
“The most important thing we are looking for is identification,” explains an officer. As he returns the driver’s papers, a middle-aged man cruises through the checkpoint with a woman on the back of his Harley-Davidson. Neither is wearing helmets, yet the assembled officers don’t bat an eyelid.
This occurs several times throughout the evening.
“They are basically after those guys that are making problems. Those kinds of people don’t drive Harleys, they drive Vespas and so on,” says Ahmad.
Baroud urged motorbike owners to register their vehicles before Thursday in order to assist the ISF.
“Any bike without registration papers will be checked,” he said and added that motorcyclists had previously taken advantage of their heightened maneuverability to escape crime scenes and avoid detection.
But roadblocks and checkpoints across Beirut on Thursday night were set up at main junctions, not in the zawarib – the narrow alleyways where scooters and motorbikes are best primed to escape the authorities.
Ali says that he knows of many people who are continuing to use their motorbikes by eschewing busy streets.
“People know about the law, but they are annoyed. If you don’t have official papers, you can’t go to work at night,” he says. “But if you avoid the police [on main roads], you can still go [by motorbike].”
Nevertheless, the effects of the ban are evident; even the quiet of Beirut’s backstreets is less frequently punctuated by the whine of two-stroke exhausts.
Ahmad says that although the law is being strongly enforced, he doesn’t expect it to disrupt motorbike use for too long.
“Living in Lebanon, nothing is permanent,” he says. “It’s blown it way out of proportion. It is punishing everyone, but hopefully only for a little while.”
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