Long division
Scenes from an uneasy peace
Monday | Tuesday | Wednesday | Thursday
Monday
THE bus from Damascus crawls through traffic down Mount Lebanon. The passengers—guest-workers returning from Syria after the weekend, mothers smiling through their veils at children happy to be returning—gather their belongings. The eight year-old sitting next to me begins to shout “Beirut!”
Through the window I see the city spread out against the sea (pictured below). This view suddenly brings Lebanon's recent history into focus. From my perspective (which is also that of an invading army), I can make out dense urban life, towers and wealthy suburbs. This is not the battle-scarred wasteland I imagined; this is a prize worth fighting for.
The drive to the centre provides me with my first lesson in Lebanese politics. The apartment blocks rise one over the other. Some are brand-new and shining; others remain scarred by damage from the civil war. Vegetation is as ubiquitous as political posters.
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There is no obvious racial divide between the Lebanese sects, but the faces on the walls show who owns what. Faded images of Bashir Gemayel, a former president of Lebanon who led Christian militias during the long civil war, adorn buildings in Christian areas. Graphed “ticks” mark out areas dominated by Michel Aoun, a Christian ally of Hizbullah, and his Free Patriotic Movement. As you move into Shia areas, large murals of Hizbullah fighters festoon buildings from which Iranian flags fly, and Hassan Nasrallah, Hizbullah's leader, glares down from countless posters.
I follow the moustache of the assassinated former Lebanese prime minister Rafik Hariri, the pin-up of choice of the Sunni community and icon of the Future Movement, which is today led by his son Saad. There are no obvious front-lines; posters and flags just fade out into different neighbourhoods. They lead me to Hamra, the heart of Sunni West Beirut and the scene of street fighting this May when Hizbullah seized most the city.
On Sadat Street I sit down for a late-afternoon shisha with Tarik. His eyes never stop moving. He is permanently alert. In his early twenties, the recent violence has taken him from his former concerns. He speaks with the urgency of one still shocked.
“When they came, the Hizbullah and their allies, the Syrian Socialist Nationalist Party, we took out our private weapons. My father passed me one of the guns he's used in the civil war and we defended ourselves. I shot. I do not know if I killed. I just fired.”
I ask him if he knew anybody who got killed. “Yes. My cousin. Ziad Ghalayini.” He points to a massive poster of a teenage boy standing in front of Beirut's famous Pigeon Rocks wearing a T-shirt that reads “Still Virgin” and a nice smile. He continues. “He died in my arms. They shot him when he was on his moped trying to come home. I'll introduce you to his father.”
Over the road is the Ghalayini family bakery. The boy's father is listening to the Koran on tape when I come in. A veiled women in mourning brushes past me clutching flowers. “That's my wife. Those are for the cemetery,” Ramadan Ghalayini announces. When I ask him who killed his son he has a one word answer for me: “Shia.”
Over the road, the pharmacist tries to explain her neighbourhood to me. “You know, there is peace now in Lebanon. Just politics. But people died. And people remember.”
Tuesday
IN THE evening, I drive south into Dahiya. Beirut's main division these days is less between Christian east and Muslim west than between the poor and mainly Shia south and the wealthier northern districts.
There are no obvious frontiers. The buildings just get closer together, dirtier and more dilapidated, and the electric wiring starts to become visible. Piles of rubble from the 2006 Israeli attacks are left seemingly untouched. Large posters announce “We will build it better than before.” Placards bearing the faces of stern Hizbullah martyrs adorn the lamp-posts.
I stop for a kebab outside the Assaha Traditional Village. Anas, my taxi driver, wants to show me around a bit. He points at the large and modern Rasoul al Aazam hospital across the road and then to the Iranian flags hanging from buildings.
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Building it better than before
“Thank you, Iran,” he announces. “Hassan Nasrallah is my protector. My brother died fighting Israel when we defeated them for the first time in 2006. I am proud of Hizbullah,” he says. Then he turns and points to the kebab shop. “This is Hassan's favourite restaurant. We organise secret deliveries.” I'm not sure whether he's joking.
The Assaha Traditional Village is a complex built to look like a medieval Arab castle. It contains a museum, bookshops, a pricey restaurant and a number of expensive shops selling jewellery and trinkets, including Hizbullah clocks, flags and refrigerator magnets.
The centre is associated with the charitable foundation of the Muhammed Hussein Fadlallah and financed by his supporters. Mr Fadlallah is one of the spiritual guides of Lebanese Shia. He played a key role in giving the community the necessary drive and convictions to overcome its traditional place at the bottom of Lebanon's sectarian hierarchy, and was a key force behind Hizbullah.
For dinner I meet Nadim Shehadi, a Lebanese political analyst who represents his country at Chatham House, a prestigious British think-tank. I am shocked to discover that in the middle of poor south Beirut, a stylish restaurant complete with a courtyard and fountains, is filled.
Mr Shehadi points out the extreme variety of clothing. “As you can see, the families eating here do not all dress in the same manner. Some men have full beards and their wives are wearing a chador; this means they will be following a more conservative spiritual guide. Others may simply be veiled and their husbands clean shaven. There may even be a secular member of the family or a nationalist.” My impression of Lebanese Shia as uniformly poor and religious are overturned; Beirut, it appears, is a city of facades.
“It's such a pity we can't have a glass of arak with such a good meal,” Mr Shehadi jokes before the conversation turns to politics. I ask if the coalition that comprised the previous government was defeated when the Hizbullah-led opposition forced its way into government after May's fighting. “No, that's the wrong way to see it. Imagine you and your opponent are 18th century English gentlemen, and he challenges you to a duel. Now imagine he challenges you at a moment you are certain to lose, in a place that will defeat you and with a weapon you cannot match. If you manage to change the time, place and weapon with which the duel is fought and live with your honour intact, then you have won the duel.”
Mr Shehadi believes that because the previous coalition managed, through clever manoeuvring and intelligent politics, to transfer Hizbullah's challenge from street fights to negotiations in Doha, it transformed the situation from an unwinnable military confrontation into a potentially advantageous political one. He gestures to the happily dining families at the tables that surround us. “What I need to stress,” he says, “is the banality of Lebanon right now.”
Wednesday
TODAY I am having lunch with the Lebanese Forces (LF). During the civil war, Lebanon divided into sectarian mini-states. Then it split up along militia lines. Today most of the political parties are the children of these armed factions, and the LF are no exception.
They were once a feared Christian militia. Then they were banned during the Syrian occupation that followed the conflict, and their leader, Samir Geagea, was imprisoned for 11 years in a windowless cell under the ministry of defence. Now they stand for the right-wing and frightened among Lebanon's Christians.
Nady Ghosn, the party's spokesman, has come to pick me up in his car. He has a thick moustache, an addiction to Marlboro Reds, gold-rimmed Aviator glasses and a neatly ironed pink shirt. He appears straight out of the early 1970s, when Lebanon's Christians were still on top.
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Geagea and the cross
On the road to his neighbourhood, I notice something about the sprawl. In Beirut people live on top of each other. The mountains above the city are covered in smart villas that slope down into tenement towers and a slumland of concrete blocks, cramped flats and problems. You can tell a poor area because children play in the streets, and the buildings are still peppered by bullet holes.
We draw into Ayn ar-Rummanah. Mr Ghosn points out the local sites. He speaks slowly, precisely. “Here is where the civil war began with the shooting up of a Palestinian bus.” Tacky plastic Madonnas are stuck onto buildings, and blood-red crosses painted on every wall. The cross is staked at the bottom, to show that it is driven into Lebanese soil. This is the symbol of Mr Geagea's movement.
We park outside the local LF headquarters. On top of the buildings are two immense crosses. There is an urgency to Christianity here; I feel as if Christ died a few weeks ago and the word is spreading.
“This is the border.” A tattooed man guarding the door points to the end of the street. A giant wall painting of Nabih Berry, the Shia speaker of Parliament and an ally of Hizbullah, stares back at me. We can hear the call to prayer. “There are the Shia.”
Inside the headquarters I am led to a small tiled room. Turkish coffee is poured and a group of young men sit nervously around me. Mr Ghosn begins to speak. “People are becoming more religious. This is our 43rd year of troubles, destabilisation and war. Faith is what they are turning to.” Is the increased religiosity of the Lebanese Christians a marker of their decline from being a dominant group to an insecure one?
The walls are covered in stickers depicting Bashir Gemayel, posters of Mr Geagea and in the corner what looks like a little nativity crib made up of stones with stickers of yesterday's warlords on them. “Are you a nostalgic movement?” I asked, a bit presumptuously.
“No. We're proud. We are focusing on the elections. On mobilisation.”
It seems the chief spokesman is busy, so Jean Tawanil, a regular LF supporter, takes me for lunch in the local restaurant. The classic Lebanese spread is laid on: hummus, kebabs, fatoush salad, kibbe balls and spicy beef sausages. Jean smokes a water pipe.
Lebanese food is almost never bad, but the conversation makes for a strange meal. At one moment my companion is laughing about how he doesn't like the dirty, stupid, smelly Shia Muslims who live over the road. Ten minutes later he is earnestly telling me how he has many good friends among them and it's only the leadership he doesn't like.
He begins what seems like a rant against Israel, which ends up with him announcing his respect for the Israeli army and how he expects Israeli troops to be operating in Beirut very shortly. His frequent toilet breaks allow me to gather my thoughts. It seems the long-standing identity conflict of the Lebanese Christians continue in the minds of even the most committed LF supporters. Then he turns the conversation turns to that traveller's classic: “Don't you think my country has the best girls?”
Jean gives me a lift back to the town centre. “You see,” he is trying to sum up his political position, “I like France, America and Israel. They like Iran, Syria.” He points over the road to the neighbouring Shia district of Ash Shiyah. “I don't want that…it's not any good.” Iranian flags are fluttering.
Many posters stuck to lamp-posts celebrate the recent release from an Israeli prison after nearly three decades years of Samir Kuntar, a Lebanese Druze who joined a Palestinian guerrilla group and was caught and convicted of killing five Israelis, including a baby girl. But Jean isn't pointing at them. Instead, he points out the dilapidated state of the buildings, the cheap electric wires and the dirtiness of the streets.
Thursday
I AM waiting in downtown Beirut for Nayla Tueni (pictured below), the deputy general-manager of An-Nahar, a newspaper. Her publication is one of the freest in the Arab world and played a big part in the “Cedar Revolution” of 2005, when political manoeuvres and mass protests forced an end to Syria's occupation of Lebanon.
She arrives at the restaurant (itself called Downtown) slightly late. This expensive, oddly-lit and highly fashionable spot could be in a trendier part of London or Paris. Yet, like the rest of downtown, it is eerily empty at the height of the tourist season.
The restaurant is on the edge of the rebuilt old-town known as Solidaire, made up of orange stone Parisian-style buildings with slightly Arabised façades. The district was the front-line during the civil war and was almost completely destroyed. Its reconstruction was supposed to symbolise the new Lebanon. But the late-afternoon half-silence shows that, for the moment, Lebanon's political reconstruction is far from complete.
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Lady in waiting?
I suggest to Ms Tueni that we have a drink, but she orders a Diet Coke. Some little cakes arrive and we begin to chat about politics. She begins by describing the symbolism of our view onto St Martyr's Square. She tells me that outside her newspaper's building hangs a huge poster of her father, Gebran Tueni, a secular-minded Greek Orthodox politician and journalist who was assassinated (presumably by the Syrians) in 2005.
She points out other memorials. Over the road there is a massive mural of a murdered leader of the Maronite Christians' Phalangist movement, Pierre Gemayel. Up to the left is the Rafik Hariri mosque, where the assassinated five-time prime minister is laid to rest. All were prominent in 2005. “So everybody is here,” says Nayla.
She is only 25, and often tipped for a bright political career in Lebanon. But she says she is not interested in becoming a politician immediately. “We need a new kind of politics in Lebanon, one that is actually concerned with proposals, social development and policies. We need new parties and new faces. Right now we just have corruption and blind followers. I believe that in this situation I can best serve Lebanon as a journalist by creating a civil society.”
The way she talks about the March 14th Movement betrays a certain disappointment. “There is still Syrian influence in Lebanon. Those who work for Syria, I think they don't work for their country and should go to Damascus. But our country has always been a regional playing field. We don't have good neighbours. I'm as frightened of Iran as I am of Israel. But for the moment there is peace. People are coming to Beirut again and I'm slightly hopeful.”
After the interview ends she suggests I wander over to Gemmayze Street to experience Beirut's famous nightlife. Just after dark, this long old street, lined with 1960s concrete blocks and older houses with a somewhat Italianate appearance, becomes a stretch of dazzlingly cool bars and clubs.
Expensive cars pull up to be parked by valet service. You overhear the conversations of the Lebanese diaspora in mixtures of English, French and even Portuguese mixed into Arabic. Young men and women dressed in cutting-edge fashion drift along like a cosmopolitan wealth-parade, completely at odds with the sectarian slums around them. These groups of glamorous young people, with wildly differing political opinions, remind me that Lebanon is not segregated, just fractured. Sympathisers of different factions can be found drinking together. Many families are politically divided.
I am enthralled that you can hear club techno-beats pounding late into the night in a city partly controlled by the fundamentalists of Hizbullah. It seems to me that, because the civil war went on for so long and was so horrible for all sides, those that can afford it try to lose themselves in this New York lifestyle of bars, clubs, fashion and girls. It's only late at night, because of the heat or the drink, that the Lebanese begin to tell you their real stories.
On a rooftop just off Gemmayze, overlooking the motorway and the port, I find myself drinking a bottle of whisky with a Druze youth-hostel employee and a Syrian guest-worker.
This is the other side of the story. These men struggle to make ends meet and sleep on dirty mattresses under the stars. Most of their friends are unemployed. They are growing old and are too poor to start a family. Maybe this is why they drink. By the time I am starting to feel slightly drunk, my Druze companion is telling me about the fighting in May.
“I have pictures of them crying. We have videos of them crying ‘don't kill us'. The Hizbullah cried when they attacked my town, Aley. They'd be mad to do it again.”
Correction: Due to an editing error, Michel Aoun was mistakenly identified as Lebanon's prime minister in an earlier version of this article. That position is held by Fouad Siniora. We regret the error. This article was corrected on September 8th 2008.