Beirut mid-2008

A summer at AUB: photo essay and impressions of Ras Beirut

In the summer of 2008, Nadine Marroushi took time off from her normal duties at Cross-border Information Ltd to spend six weeks studying advanced-level Arabic at the American University of Beirut (AUB)’s Centre for Arab and Middle Eastern Studies (Cames) in Lebanon.

Ras Beirut remains the socially most diverse part of the Lebanese capital. Below are my impressions of the area, preceded by an appreciation of the American University of Beirut and impressions of a Beirut summer.

This is AUB’s main gate, of which there are three, also including the medical gate and end gate by the boy’s dorms. In the background, you can see McCafe – this used to be called Faysal’s restaurant where intellectuals used to meet in the 1960s and 70s (see article below).

The wooden door on the left with the blue signs leads to Cames. This is where my classes where held. I studied alongside more than 60 students mainly from the USA and UK. About 10% were of Arab origin with the remainder studying Arabic as part of a Masters course or to improve their employment opportunities as journalists, NGOs, security analysts or academics.

This is the reconstructed main building, known as College Hall, where the office of the President is located. It was severely damaged from an explosion in 1991 – one year after the civil war had officially ended. Until then, it had been the oldest building on campus. Funding for reconstruction came from a number of countries, including the Gulf.

This is a view from the northern town of Bcharre, most famously known as the birthplace and place of burial of the Lebanese American poet Gibran Khalil Gibran, author of The Prophet. The town is still a Christian Maronite stronghold and you can see the church on the cliff top on the right.

An evening with Nasrallah

Above is a photo of the Hizbollah rally on 16 July, the day of the prisoner swap celebrations with Israel, in the southern Beirut area of Al-Dahiye, a Shia and Hizbollah stronghold. I am the blurry woman standing by the gate holding a notepad.

In class that day we had the option of either listening to the news in Arabic, which was following events leading up to the swap, or to have a normal lesson involving Arabic grammar. The class chose the first option, and the day was anyway declared a national holiday. Both tutors for the advanced class were Shia, one of whom had lost his family home in the bombing during the 2006 July War between Hizbollah and Israel. Compensation for material losses were provided by Hizbollah.

There was a celebration in Al-Dahiye that evening, with Hizbollah’s secretary general Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah making a rare appearance – his last live appearance was in 2006 – and giving a speech. As we came close to Al-Dahiye young men riding on bikes were making a lot of noise and waving flags of the Shia political movement Amal, Hizbollah, the Syrian Socialist Party and Michel Aoun’s Free Patriotic Movement – all members of the pro-Syrian 8 March alliance, formed in opposition to the ruling 14 March alliance, and following Rafiq Hariri’s death, a period known as the Cedar Revolution.

We stopped outside where the celebrations were due to take place and noticed women standing at a stall selling Hizbollah souvenirs. We started chatting, and when they found out one of the male students I was with was an Iranian the once austere looking, chador-wearing women became friendly, giggly and flirtatious. “My husband looks like [Iranian President Mahmoud] Ahmadinejad,” one woman said boastfully. Iranians and Iran are very popular in Al-Dahiye.

Al-Dahiye is a poor, run down and conservative area. There is a lot of construction work going on, because many buildings were damaged in the war. Hezbollah has its own construction group, Jihad Construction, which is working on the repairs. Taking pictures of the construction work is absolutely forbidden, and when I tried to do so was given a warning by one of the workers.

We made our way to the seating area. I naively walked on with the boys only to be told at the security gates that women had their own entrance, a good few metres down. I noticed a large group of women wearing the chador and, although veil-less, I walked closely behind them and tried to blend in fearing that I may not be allowed through the entrance, which was being guarded by women. I walked through hassle-free – and later came to realise that this was an event that Hizbollah, usually a very secretive group, wanted the world to see. Photographers and journalists were welcome to show the world their “victory” – Nasrallah called it this, despite the death of more than 1,000 civilians and heavy damage to infrastructure both in Al-Dahiye and southern Lebanon.

It was 4pm (16.00hrs), and we had arrived early to make sure we got a seat. Indeed, the segregated areas of VIP, men and women were already nearly full, but I managed to get a seat at the front of the women’s section. We were told that Nasrallah would be appearing at around 6pm, but he did not show until 9pm. This meant having to wait in the heat of the day with very short supplies of water. But we were supplied with entertainment – the live Hezbollah band that sang resistance (Moqawama) songs.

Viewed from the women’s section, it was interesting to see the amount of support Hizbollah and Nasrallah commanded from both sexes and all ages. Most of them were mothers and relatives of men that had fought and died in the July War. A lot of women wore the chador, usually reserved for Iranians. Most of the women were so overwhelmed when Nasrallah appeared that they burst into tears. Men raised their fists into the air. Even children were ecstatic; some of the young boys were wearing military uniforms.

When Nasrallah finally appeared on to the main stage, with Samir Kontar, a Druze, and the other freed prisoners, the crowd went wild with joy and emotion. Nasrallah said a few words in person for only a few minutes and then he departed to complete his speech through what some believe was a pre-recorded video. The speech repeated Hizbollah’s calls of “victory” and the need to continue resisting “the enemy”. Then the freed prisoners had their chance to make speeches. The evening ended at around 11pm when the music continued playing and everyone dispersed in an orderly fashion.

That was one of the most remarkable things about the whole event – it was very well organised and calm. Throughout the day I had been nervous that I might get caught up in rioting, but nothing of the sort happened. Nasrallah had ordered prior to the event that no shots should be fired into the air as a sign of respect for the released prisoners and this order was fully adhered to. Security could be seen at the tops of buildings and around the seating area, but not so that it was intrusive. Members of Hizbollah are fiercely loyal to the group. My fellow students and I made numerous attempts to interview Hizbollah members – just ordinary civilian members – but not one would speak about the group unless we had written permission for them to do so.

During the celebrations and following Nasrallah’s speech the organisation’s appeal became easier to understand. Being part of the crowd gave a sense of belonging – an important factor for a group, the Shias of Lebanon, who have long been ignored and mistreated as the poor relation. Nasrallah has a wonderful gift for oratory – his command of the formal Arabic language is superb, which he interjects in his speeches with colloquial Lebanese dialect for effect. When listening to him speaking live and on a big screen it gave the audience a feeling of empowerment. But, with the loss of so many lives during the 2006 war, it seems more like a false sense of security.

Above, Nasrallah’s photo can be seen hanging from a building in the downtown area of Beirut. Although this area is not usually associated with Hizbollah, the group did take over in May 2008 when it staged a sit-in and brought the government and country to a standstill over a row about maintaining its private telecommunications network and the desire for a veto power in government. It achieved both after turning its weapons against the Lebanese people during which it is said that more than 200 people died.

Other aspects of Beirut

The Mohammed Al-Amin mosque commissioned by late prime minister and billionaire businessman Rafiq Hariri before his death. It was officially opened in October 2008 after being closed when Lebanon was without a president between November 2007 and May 2008.

Hariri’s coffin. The flowers are said to be changed on a daily basis.

Martyr’s Square.

The newly reconstructed downtown Beirut is a symbol of post-war Lebanon. The whole area was ravaged by the civil war and Hariri’s Solidere Group reconstructed the area, which has a Disneyland feel to it. It is home to many cafes, shops, office buildings and government ministries. Close by is the parliament and trendy Gemmayzeh area, where Beirut comes alive at night.

The building on the right is a relic of Lebanon’s civil war: it is the old Hilton hotel, which during the war was used as a base for militia men. According to a reliable source, it is owned by the Kuwait’s ruling Al-Sabah family. So many princes have a stake in the building that none can come to a decision about what to do with it. Opposite is the glitzy Phoenicia Hotel, owned by a wealthy Druze family.

What used to be the St. Georges Hotel, a hub of elite entertainment on the pre-war Beirut corniche. This is where Rafiq Hariri’s car bomb exploded.

The Shatila refugee camp in southern Beirut remains a place of appallingly poor conditions. It is home to Palestinian refugees who live without status. They are not allowed to work in Lebanon or have Lebanese citizenship. Most loyalties appeared to be with Fatah.

Looking over Jounieh.

---

August 2008

Ras Beirut: model of coexistence for all of Lebanon?

Nadine Marroushi reported from one of Beirut’s most celebrated neighbourhoods on changes in sectarian thinking and the ways ‘intellectuals’ see themselves.

Ras Beirut remains the socially most diverse, arguably the most urban, part of the Lebanese capital. Although it isn’t immune to sectarian tension, it is hoped by those circles in the neighbourhood that still thrive on intellectual discussion and social activism that Ras Beirut will provide a prototype for a post-sectarian Lebanon.

Lebanese liberals have long found a model worth emulating in this part of the city. In 1973, before Lebanon’s 1975-90 civil war began in earnest, sociologist Samir Khalaf published his study “Hamra of Beirut”, which found in Ras Beirut a model for Lebanese civil society. In the wake of changes wrought by civil wars of the 1970s and ‘80s, and the so-called reconstruction period of the 1990s, a great deal of nostalgia has been churned up for the promise this neighbourhood somehow came to embody.

This was the impetus behind Mahmoud Hojeij’s 2006 documentary “Wish you Were Here, Memories of Ras Beirut”, which looks back at what the area was like during its heyday in the 1960s and 70s. According to Hojeij’s film, and numerous discussions with people that have lived in Ras Beirut, the area has always been characterised by the diversity of its people. While this diversity may have hanged more on its erstwhile mix of international students and residents, the area remains unique today for its ability to accommodate and tolerate various sects.

The American University of Beirut (AUB) remains a focal point of Ras Beirut. During the 1960s and ‘70s, when Lebanon was flourishing economically and sucked in foreign workers of many varied descriptions, AUB was considered the most prestigious university in the Middle East. Cynthia Myntti, nowadays project leader for the university’s Mubadarat al-Jiwar (Neighbourhood Initiative), studied at AUB in the 70s. Ras Beirut, she says, is a place of alwan (colours). She remarks that a friend wanted to move to the area from Achrafieh because there it was “lawn wahid” (of one colour). “AUB was an international institution in the 1970s,” Myntii said. “My classmates came from Syria, Turkey, Cyprus and Afghanistan, among other places. I studied with Ahsraf Ghani, who went on to serve as Afghanistan’s finance minister. This made student concerns more international, while nowadays the student body is mainly Lebanese and concerns are much more focused on local politics and issues.”

During Israel’s July 2006 war on Lebanon, a lot of displaced people from the South were housed in Ras Beirut, Myntti said, because “this was the neighbourhood that tolerated them.” While Lebanon became more segregated on confessional lines after the civil war, Ras Beirut has been able to maintain its diversity.

Lebanese journalist Celina Nasser said she moved to Ras Beirut from the south-west Beirut quarter of Tariq Al-Jadideh because she felt the area was much more tolerant. “Tariq Al-Jadideh is a Sunni stronghold, and as a Shiite I felt out of place during the summer 2006 war,” Nasser said. “I also felt that the thinking there was very conservative, and was conscious of how I dressed. So I moved to Hamra where all sects blend in, and the thinking is much more open.”

Arab nationalism was at its peak in the 1960s and ‘70s, as was Lebanese sympathy for the Palestinian cause. Student activism and demonstrations were a regular part of Ras Beirut life. Views are mixed on whether students and people of Lebanon are as active today. Nasser said the 8 and 14 March 2005 rallies offered proof that people were still active, and had a voice. But, she said: “People these days don’t seem to have their own views, and instead act upon the directions of a certain politician or party.”

For Myntti, students are more apathetic. “A lot of Lebanese students are raised abroad and are more familiar with the streets of Paris than of Lebanon, so they have multiple identities and concerns.”

Intellectual pursuits

The consensus was that students and the wider population had turned their concerns inwards; when they demonstrate it is for local causes. Rosalyn Ghubril, a 24-year-old resident of Lebanon and former student of AUB and the Lebanese American University (LAU) in Ras Beirut, said: “I see people, more than students, demonstrating, especially when prices of goods go up. Students, instead, get into fights when it comes to politics.”

A major concern for Ghubril and other academics was how student elections have become sectarian. “To be elected as a student you have to belong to a sect,” observed AUB summer Arabic programme director Bilal Orfali, “and this has caused fights during the last three years of elections. Instead of focusing on how to improve university life, students are concerned with the parties to which each person belongs.”

Ras Beirut remains the most diverse area but it is not immune to sectarian tension. Faysal’s restaurant, now McDonald’s on Bliss Street, and Cafe Modca were hang-outs where intellectuals in the 1960s and ‘70s went to discuss how to make a difference. Today, Ta Marbouta, Cafe Younes and Lina’s are among the places where ‘artists’ and ‘intellectuals’ are said to gather.

Evidently, though, much has changed in terms of what it means to be an intellectual in Lebanon today. Myntti cited the example of a literary critic who is also a cashier at the AUB hospital, and through this he is able to get free-health insurance, and send his children to study at AUB for free. That is the reality of intellectuals today. Life has become too expensive to be a full-time intellectual.”

AUB Arabic language tutor and historian Abdulrahman Shamseddine said intellectuals had indirectly become sectarian. “Most intellectuals are leftist-thinkers, and they want to take a political stand,” he said. “So, without realising, some are indirectly affiliating themselves with a sect or political party. Perhaps they should have stepped away from taking a political stand.”

Looking to test out the theory, a visit to Ta Marbouta produced an interesting array of thinkers – Celina Nasser, a rap singer called Kareembo, and a former political activist. The former activist, who preferred to remain anonymous, said he stepped away from his affiliation to a political movement because he didn’t see that it was achieving any concrete change. He also preferred not to label himself as an intellectual because, for him, its modern connotations are negative. “There is a gap between intellectuals and society,” he said. “Intellectuals think they are more superior.”

Given the challenges, what hope is there for the future? In Lebanon, even the word ‘future’ (to say nothing of ‘truth’) has political connotations, with the ruling party having appropriated the word in designating itself the Future Movement.

Looking to the future

Interior Minister Ziyad Baroud was one to watch, in Myntti’s view. “He is a 37-year-old lawyer and human-rights activist, and is pushing for electoral reform.” Nasser is less convinced. “I’ve interviewed Baroud and he is interesting,” she said. “But when people enter politics they do disappoint me in the end.”

Shamseddine believes change should come from religious leaders, saying they “should distance religion from politics.” The erstwhile political activist saw Arab unity as a way forward. “Europe has become united,” he observed, “and there are similar movements elsewhere in the world. A small country like Lebanon should be united.” Rapper Kareembo sees rap music as a way of uniting Lebanon’s 18 religious sects. “Music has no boundaries,” he asserted. “It talks to everyone.”

Perhaps hope lies in the fact that people are still talking about, and thinking of, solutions. If Lebanon needs a model of co-existence, maybe it need only look at the streets of Ras Beirut.

TOP