Goodbye, Hizbullah Café

Ten days ago, the lexical set that dominated descriptions of contemporary Lebanon was ominous in its bleakness. Phrases such as “on the brink of civil war”, “descending into chaos”, “reappearance of masqued gunmen on the streets of the capital” and “the rising casualty toll” riddled media articles about the state of Lebanese affairs. Indeed, rumours were circulating that Hizbullah’s show of force would compel the government to capitulate and resign, prompting apocalyptic predictions that ranged from the imposition of an Iranian-style Shi’a dictatorship to an American/Israeli invasion.

Ten days ago, I sat in the office of a Lebanese colleague as she held her head in her hands and alternated between softly sobbing and angrily cursing the seemingly hopeless state of her nation.

Then two days ago, staff at my work were formally told to return to the office for the first time since the fighting that marred the first week of May 2008. The atmosphere was tense yet excited: while the trauma of the violence had not yet worn off, everyone was nevertheless eager to share their stories about their experiences of the siege of west Beirut, from hiding in bathrooms dodging stray bullets to eating cereal for 5 days straight out of inability to leave the house. Returning to work was itself a marginal return to normality.

And today, whatever remnants of fear that still lingered were swiftly swept away by the monumental breakthrough of the Arab League talks in Qatar, which have been going on for the past five days. They stood there and listened to the official proclamation of the end of the political paralysis that has gripped the country for almost 18 months and claimed more than 80 lives (deaths in recent violence combined with the 7 dead on “Black Sunday” in January 2008, the violence at the Arab university in January 2007 and other similar incidents), aware that five days of negotiations in the air-conditioned comfort of the Doha Sheraton seem almost farcical in the face of destruction caused.

In an announcement that came as unexpectedly as a flash flood, Nabih Berri (Speaker of Parliament and leader of Amal, one of the parties in the opposition coalition) proclaimed the end of the sit-ins that have frozen downtown Beirut since December 2006. At those words, a large portion of my colleague who ahs been watching the statement live from a television in the conference room burst into shouts of joy and congratulation. Our office building sits at the edge of downtown and in the middle of the tents that housed the protesters, and therefore the cessation of the sit-in represented not only an end to the most recent bouts of violence and political deadlock, but a very tangible return to the “good old days” of leisurely lunches in the restaurants downtown and brief strolls in the small park in front of the building; more than anything, a return to not feeling like caged animals.

As I stared out from the floor-to-ceiling glass windows at the sea of tents hat had defined my working landscape for so long, I remembered the beginning of the demonstration in December 2006, when I was visiting Beirut doing research for my undergraduate thesis. Three Hizbullah MPs and one Free Patriotic Movement (Christian opposition) MP had just left the cabinet in protest about electoral laws and their supporters were mobilized on the streets of downtown Beirut to protest against the government’s uncompromising hegemony. The demonstration was proclaimed to be the “the largest anti-government rally in Lebanon’s history” (Bakri, Nada (2006) ‘Hizbullah smiles on Arab League Plan, but Cabinet stays Quiet’. The Daily Star 12/12/06). On the day when an estimated million Lebanese took to the streets in protest, I was struck by the sense of exhilaration that permeated the air, with entire families out in the streets enthusiastically brandishing yellow (Hizbullah) and orange (FPM) flags; either one always accompanied by the image of the green cedar trapped between two thick, red lines, which I have always felt is an uncannily appropriate flag for the Lebanese nation.

I vividly remember the innumerable groups of youngsters proudly occupying the inside of their makeshift tents at the foot of Hariri’s mosque in Martyr’s Square, smoking shisha pipes and enthusiastic to share their reasons for their presence there, eager to express the reasons behind their revolutionary acts. I remember the contagious sense of conviction that their actions would make a fundamental difference to the misrepresentation that plagues Lebanese confessionalist politics.

Yet when I arrived in Lebanon one year later, December 2007, to start a new job and new life, the impatient magic of a nascent revolution had faded into a stagnant resignation, bred out of the realisation that change cannot miraculously occur through mere idealistic epiphanies, but must forced into being through sheer stubbornness and resilience. Hizbullah and the FPM had maintained their sit-in for a year without making headway in their demands. And as I walked past their encampments every day on my way to my office in downtown, I was always struck by the efficiency and tenacity of their set-up: they had run cables from satellites on a building on the other side of the main highway across the road and into the parking-lot that they occupied, bestowing them with television as entertainment in their seemingly endless task of protest. (By the by, this is not an uncommon process in Lebanon: every few apartment blocks share a single satellite dish and the cables can be seen running between the buildings. Our satellite dish is on our neighbours’s roof). They had porta-potties lined up on one side of the camp, and I never once smelled anything unpleasant from them. You could see the small puffs of smoke emerging from their furnaces in the winter, and after it rained, they would line up their foam mattresses and sleeping bags in the sun to air out and dry.

They also had set up a café on the sidewalk, complete with orange-juicer, coffee machine and comfy if slightly dilapidated sofas, the whole tent-structure topped off with a collage of images of Hassan Nasrallah. I used to call it the “Hizbullah Café”. Every morning I’d exchange greetings with the men who sat outside smoking shisha and drinking coffee while al Manar TV blared in the background, but I was too shy to ever purchase a juice or coffee. Maybe it’s because I never saw a woman there. But anyways, the Hizbullah Café always amused me because despite it being wedged between a tree and a road sign, despite it being made of sheets of tarpaulin slung over a precarious metal frame, it seemed so natural, so not out of place, like some quaint country pub that serves a village faithfully for generations. Furthermore, in the relaxed atmosphere that prevailed there and the politeness of the customers, it was such a welcome contradiction to the stereotypical demonization of Hizbullah supporters as AK7-weilding fundamentalist wackos.

Today, as I came out of my office at three o’clock to walk up the hill back home, I was shocked to see that the Hizbullah Café had gone, and all that was left were a few scattered chairs and a man rearranging crumpled pieces of tarpaulin. Although I had ventured out of the office an hour after Berri’s announcement, around 1pm, to join throngs of random spectators and journalists in watching the tents be dismantled with such unexpected rapidity and efficiency, I did not expect them to have already removed what was, for me, a recurrent passing outsider, the social heart of the protest. I gazed out over the parking lot that was once reminiscent of a fairground because of the small white tents that peaked up throughout it, and now all I could see were piles of foam mattresses and blankets, wooden crates, tables and chairs, various household cooking items, all being gathered up and put into the backs of trucks ready to take them to Goddess knows where.

In a previous post I’ve spoken about the surreal, almost mythological quality to the organization of the opposition, manifested in their swift removal of the roadblocks in Beirut last week. But the speed with which the tents were dismantled surpassed anything I could have expected. I’m still boggled by how, in a matter of a few hours, such a massive amount of manpower and mechanical resources can be coordinated and mobilized in that way. They truly are an Elvin army.

And as I stood there and took in all the commotion around me, all I could think of was that I had never gotten the chance to drink a coffee in the Hizbullah Café. It was there in the morning, and now poof, it was gone forever. While I mulled over a lost opportunity, I also realised that they had removed most of the barbed wire that had been surrounding the camp, leaving a trace of yellow, pebbly earth in between abundant patches of weeds and white and yellow flowers. I walked along that trail, turning to contemplate the TV cameras and satellite-topped vans perched on the bridge overlooking the increasingly empty lots, until I came to where the barbed wire began again. I diverted my path onto the sidewalk, and then stopped in front of another unfulfilled intention.

There, tangled up in the barbed wire, was a ripped Lebanese flag. It has been there for months, and I cannot begin to count how many times I have passed it and thought that that image, that torn, dirty flag enmeshed in rusting jagged metal, was perfectly representative of the state of Lebanon: trapped, broken, faded, but nevertheless persisting, remaining alive, refusing to heed to disintegration. So many times I have told myself to capture that image on a camera, but despite its poignancy, I never have; either not having my camera on me at that moment, or being late for work, or just simply procrastinating that thinking that it will be there for my consumption tomorrow.

This time, I knew very well that the flag would not be there tomorrow, so impulsively I started to untangle it from the barbed wire, gingerly pulling at the frayed material so as not to damage it any further. Afraid that someone might attempt to stop me, as soon as I had wrenched it free I stuffed under my arm and hurried along the road…

I have no doubt that the pessimistic predictions of last week will be turned on their heads, only to be replaced with such dramatic flourishes as “a new era has dawned in Lebanese politics” or “peace finally graces this conflict-ridden land” or some other proclamation. And despite the fact that the forging of an agreement and the scheduled election of a president, in which both sides made concessions and compromises, are no small tasks, I can’t help but being sceptical about how long this seemingly happy ending will last. Not because I’m a cynic or a warmonger or anything, but because the situation in this country changes at such an incomprehensible speed, it’s hard to not to think that the tables won’t turn again unexpectedly. I mean, in the space of 14 days, we have gone from living in a strenuous stalemate, to a loud, scary near-civil war, then back to a healthy, functioning democracy. All that in a mere14 days?!

In the celebrations that will undoubtedly follow the end of the sit-in and the election of a president, what no one must forget is that it was the use of violence that got everyone to this point. Paradoxically, the guns brought the peace. And that is a very, very dangerous precedent, because can a peace achieved through violence last? And how long will it take before another person’s definition of ‘peace’ is to be delivered through the barrel of a gun?

Let us hope for the best, but nevertheless be wary in that hope.