“Are you from Beirut? And are you Sunni?” This was the first question I was asked when I contacted a real estate broker to inquire about an apartment for rent. It was not about the number of family members, the ability to pay rent, or even the length of the lease, but rather about identity, place of origin, and sectarian affiliation.

After the surprising and unexpected question, I naively replied, “Yes, from Beirut and Sunni.” In that moment, I found myself confronted with a stark form of sectarian, or regional sectarian, filtering, and my answer allowed the process to move forward to the next step, which involved sending a video of the apartment.

This “bombshell” question exposes a troubling reality in our environment, where housing, a basic right, turns into a space for informal screening and discrimination. Instead of landlord-tenant relationships being governed by trust and legal standards, many people find themselves confronted with questions about their origin, region, and sect, as if personal affiliation has become a criterion that precedes both ethics and financial capability.

The issue does not stop at an individual case, but rather reflects a renewed and deeply rooted culture shaped by years of division and mutual fear. This has reached the point where some brokers and landlords justify such practices under claims like “the property owner’s preference” or “preserving the character of the neighborhood,” or through narratives promoted by municipalities. Yet the outcome remains the same: the reinforcement of barriers between Lebanese citizens and the reproduction of dividing lines in a new form, this time within buildings and residential neighborhoods.

In a country that upholds the slogan of coexistence, a question inevitably arises: are we still searching for a responsible tenant, or for one defined by a specific identity? And is it acceptable for the right to housing to become a test of sectarian and regional affiliation? Does this mean, for example, that a Sunni from Beirut is excluded from living in the southern suburbs or in areas such as Jdeideh, Hazmiyeh, or Sin el Fil, localities close to Beirut?

Perhaps the answer I received may seem like a passing remark to some, but for many it reflects a deeper crisis, a societal one that has not yet freed itself from classifying people, even in the simplest aspects of their daily lives.

The painful part is that the question was not directed at me personally, but rather at my name, my region, and my sect, as if, in Lebanon, a person is still defined by their affiliation before their morals or reputation.

Decades after the end of the war, it may seem that dividing lines have disappeared from geography and maps, yet they remain deeply embedded in people’s minds and in mutual fears. More painfully still, a generation that never lived through the war inherits its anxieties and prejudices, growing up with the idea that the “other” is a source of concern rather than a partner in a shared nation.

When housing, one of the most basic human rights, becomes subject to identity-based screening, the issue is no longer about a single apartment for rent, but about a nation that has yet to truly succeed in offering a shared space for all its people.

In the end, despite the apartment being suitable in terms of size and rent, I decided to let it go, as I saw it as part of a system of sectarian filtering. Its owner, whom I never met but came to understand through his conditions, embodied, in my view, this form of sectarianism, while the broker became, in effect, a conduit for it!

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed by the writers are their own and do not necessarily represent the views of Annahar.