The panic did not announce itself with sirens. It crept in quietly, through WhatsApp messages, television panels, and hastily arranged opinion pieces, after the Banque du Liban’s latest moves made one thing unmistakably clear: the old rules of impunity were no longer holding.
“The BdL is neither a litigation fund nor a prosecutor’s office,” said one well-placed observer, offering the line with the assurance of someone repeating a familiar Beirut mantra. It was meant as a rebuke. It landed instead as a confession.
This line of reasoning—common, rehearsed, and curiously confident—does not arise from any serious understanding of how public institutions function, nor from a principled devotion to the separation of powers. It is born of something else entirely: fear. Fear mixed with denial. Fear sharpened by the sudden realization that accountability might no longer be theoretical.
The Banque du Liban is indeed neither judge nor jury. But it is something far more inconvenient to those now protesting too loudly: it is the victim. A victim of embezzlement. And in Lebanon, victims have long been treated as nuisances—expected to stay silent, grateful for whatever scraps of acknowledgment they receive, and discouraged from ever seeking justice.
There is a pattern here, worn thin by repetition. Those kidnapped by the Syrian regime, those still imprisoned at its behest, the families of the Beirut Port explosion, depositors whose life savings evaporated into thin air—all have been offered the same remedy: denial of justice, systematic doubt cast on their claims, and an endless series of procedural excuses explaining why their day in court must wait. Or never come.
The BdL now finds itself squarely in that lineage of victims. It alleges that it was looted by identifiable actors: a former governor, a senior banker, and an ecosystem of enablers. Its response has been disarmingly straightforward. It filed a case—before the courts, yes, but also before the court of public opinion. Not for theatrics, but for preemption. To prevent the familiar playbook from being deployed once again: distort the facts, contaminate the discourse, repaint the stage until the original crime fades into abstraction.
That, more than anything else, is what rattled the perpetrators.
A quiet legal complaint could have been managed, buried in the corridors of the Palace of Justice, delayed until memory did its work. This time was different. The BdL spoke openly. It said, plainly, that something went wrong under the previous leadership—and that it did not happen alone. Bankers, auditors, lawyers, trustees, brokers: the usual constellation of respectable intermediaries was suddenly visible under harsh light.
The response was immediate and coordinated.
Lebanese television personalities—familiar faces, reliably pro-bank, some of whom had themselves managed to wire millions abroad while ordinary citizens were barred from transferring a single dollar—were suddenly ubiquitous. A U.S.-based blogger, whose specialty is personal invective thinly veiled as financial analysis, reversed course with impressive agility: once a defender of the BdL, now an enthusiastic cheerleader for its detractors. Freedom of speech, certainly. Freedom to pivot, of course. Credibility, however, does not pivot so easily.
Strip away the noise and the story simplifies. A group of organized criminals—tailored suits, silk ties, impeccable accents—leveraged institutions, legal opinions, and international respectability to enrich themselves at the expense of the central bank.
The estimated damage runs to roughly half a billion dollars, once interest and losses are accounted for. That money belongs, morally and legally, to the depositors of Lebanon.
No amount of televised indignation, outsourced blogging, or nostalgic intervention changes that arithmetic.
The anger now directed at the BdL and its current occupant is not ideological. It is existential. For the first time in a long while, the people who thought they understood the terrain realize the map has changed.
So yes, the panic is real. You can hear it in the tremor beneath the talking points.
And for those watching closely, the message is unmistakable:
Buckle up.
The show has just begun.