Ever since Carla Haddad can remember, stepping aboard a Middle East Airlines aircraft was like being “one step closer to home”.
Growing up abroad, the 39-year-old would regularly fly back to visit family in her native Lebanon, the MEA flights full to the brim with fellow citizens excitedly heading back in an annual summer ritual.
But in late September, as Israel stepped up its campaign against Hizbollah in Lebanon, where she now lives, MEA became more than just a memory. As the violence moved closer to her Beirut doorstep in September, Haddad and her family boarded an MEA flight to the safety of Marseille. “It was the lifeboat that helped us escape yet another horrible war,” she said.
MEA has long been a mainstay of Lebanon’s collective imagination, with memories coloured by the country’s propensity for rose-tinted nostalgia. Lebanese have mixed feelings about their national carrier: it is as beloved for reuniting families during the lengthy civil war and serving sweet, fragrant knafeh for breakfast, as it is hated for its sky-high peak season prices and ageing fleet.
But for the past seven weeks, as its pilots have deftly navigated Israeli air strikes, MEA has become a beacon of national pride. The sole remaining airline currently flying in and out of Lebanon, MEA has helped ferry tens of thousands of desperate passengers out of the country and brought in vital humanitarian aid.
And it has done so from the country’s only commercial airport in south Beirut, which is located uncomfortably close to areas that Israel has fiercely bombarded in recent weeks.
While airport traffic has dropped to 30 per cent of its prewar average, MEA said it is still running only slightly fewer flights each day from its seasonal average of 45. But those flights have typically been departing Beirut full and returning two-thirds empty. While tens of thousands of Lebanese fled, others continue to travel for work or to visit family.
“Our goal is not to make money right now, it’s to keep this airport open and keep things running as best as we can for the country,” said Captain Mohammad Aziz, adviser to MEA chair Mohamad El-Hout.
The 79-year-old airline is almost entirely owned by Lebanon’s central bank, which has been at the centre of the country’s devastating economic meltdown in recent years. MEA has not released financial statements since 2021.
But photographs of the national carrier’s aeroplanes flying near blazing fires and thick plumes of black smoke — some of which were generated by artificial intelligence — have fuelled its newfound mythology, leading some to dub it “the most badass airline on the planet”. One Beirut bakery even made MEA-themed cupcakes, topped with planes and pilot hats, in a tribute to the airline’s “heroes”.
“The past six weeks have truly highlighted the resilience of our little airport and the exceptional airmanship of MEA pilots,” said Richard John, 33, a Lebanese aviation enthusiast who grew up close to the airport.
John has watched in awe as pilots touch down behind a veil of smoke while Israeli warplanes bomb nearby targets. “In other countries, total panic would ensue,” he said. “But we only have this one little airport. No diversions, no alternates, no room for panic.”
Aziz played down the dangers, saying while the pilots were courageous, MEA was conducting daily risk assessments and said “no planes were flying unless the conditions are 100 per cent safe”.
While risk and cost considerations have scared away other airlines, Aziz said, “MEA has a duty to keep going.”
This is despite immense challenges. GPS jamming by Israel has forced MEA’s pilots to return to systems that predate autopilot. And about 20 per cent of the airline’s fleet of 22 Airbus planes is parked overseas, owing to spiralling insurance costs and to reduce exposure to the conflict.
The airline, which along with its subsidiary companies employs about 5,000 people, has also reduced the number of staff at the airport in case they need to evacuate.
When Israel and Hizbollah last fought a war in 2006, Israeli strikes almost immediately put the airport out of commission by bombing its runways and fuel depots. While the airport has been spared this time around, it is eerily quiet nevertheless, with shops and cafés empty.
Aziz and Lebanese government officials told the Financial Times they have been assured through UN and western officials that Israel would not target the airport if it was being used solely for civilian purposes. Aziz said there was a “gentleman’s agreement” in place such that Israel would give a two-hour warning if it was to attack.
Iran-backed Hizbollah, which is the dominant political and military force in the country, has historically exerted considerable influence over the airport’s security functions. Israel has accused the militant group of using it to transport weapons, something Hizbollah and the state deny.
Government officials and diplomats say that since Israel stepped up its campaign against Hizbollah, Lebanon’s government and army have taken extra precautions to ensure the airport was free of military activity.
This has meant flights coming from destinations Israel considers suspicious, such as Iran, Iraq and Algeria, have been subject to greater scrutiny, even when carrying humanitarian aid, government officials, aid workers and diplomats told the FT.
In September, Lebanon blocked an Iranian plane from landing in Beirut, following Israeli threats. In another instance last month, dozens of boxes of medical aid brought by an Iranian official could not be unloaded until they underwent inspection by Lebanese Armed forces, they said.
“There’s continuous communication between the prime minister, the US ambassador and the MEA chair,” Aziz said.
Underlining the very real danger, Israel issued an evacuation order last week for a building between two of the airport’s runways.
A flight from Riyadh landed just 15 minutes after the evacuation order was issued shortly before midnight, with one passenger describing scenes of quiet panic as airport workers, cab drivers and travellers scrambled to leave the airport before Israel struck within the hour.
In recent weeks, MEA has worked with the government, army and aid agencies to bring in humanitarian goods, as well as bringing in at least 27 tonnes of medicine in individual efforts driven by its vast diaspora.
“How would we have sent desperately needed medicines to Lebanon without MEA right now?” said Larissa Ratl, 35, who helped organise a 1-tonne shipment last month.
After weeks abroad, Haddad has started thinking about returning to Lebanon from France, inspired by the trickle of people who have gone back after weeks overseas. Her toddler has been watching MEA’s dance-filled safety video on repeat since first hearing it when they fled in September.
“She keeps repeating a catchy line from the video, ‘Let’s fly, let’s fly away’, and pretending she’s an aeroplane,” she said. “I’m scared to go back, but sooner or later, we have to go home.”
Data visualisation by Clara Murray
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