Partying, politics and pessimism Laura Pitel goes in search of the young people of Lebanon
In most places in the world it might seem distasteful to lose yourself in hardcore trance on the site of a former civil war massacre. But this is Beirut and every Friday night, dancing on hinged wooden coffins, the city’s young and up-and-coming do just that.
BO-18, the city’s longest standing club, is packed full of Lebanon’s wealthy students from the American University of Beirut, who turn up in Ferraris and flash their cash with an extravagance that the Bridge’s VIPers can only dream of. As Anthony Haddad, a 22 year-old political science student, tells me, “Partying is absolutely crazy here. Whether it is an incredible resilience or a desensitised hedonism that allows the Lebanese to party even under showers of bombs it is awe-inspiring.”
But whilst this breed of wealthy Lebanese may be able momentarily to forget about their country’s problems, a reminder of the instability is never far away. Just a mile across the city, tenacious supporters of Lebanon’s political opposition camp out in tents under one of Beirut’s busiest highways, watching the revellers walk past on their way to the pubs and clubs of Rue Monot.
The predominantly Hizbollah protesters are there in an attempt to force the government to call early elections because they feel that some sectarian groups, namely Shia muslims, are underrepresented in the Lebanese parliament. “We are here to demand full participation of all different groups in the political decision-making of our country,” says Mohammed, a 24 year-old taking part in the protest.
The beginning of this year saw huge protests in favour of both Hizbollah and pro-government factions, but it’s been almost five months since the opposition set up camp and Lebanese politics has reached a standstill. Rather than feeling invigorated by their nation’s lively affairs, many of Beirut’s young people are pessimistic and disillusioned. “I feel crippled by the sit-in,” says 18 year-old Roula Hajjar. “Even though the people in the sit-in are my fellow Lebanese, they are a constant reminder of how much my future in Lebanon is not in my hands.” The sit-in is badly damaging the economy as well as virtually closing off Beirut’s popular Downtown district, which is encircled by barbed wire and armed soldiers.
“Here politics dictates whether school will be closed down the next day, whether there’s a quarantine, or areas you have to avoid going through because of an assassination or a dismantled bomb sighting,” says Anthony. “Politics has the unfortunate effect of paralysing daily life here. It necessarily consumes the Lebanese, students included.”
British university students would find the level of participation in politics amongst their Lebanese contemporaries unrecognisable. At the American University of Beirut, one of the Middle East’s most prestigious institutions (and the first in Lebanon to get onto Facebook) the charge around elections for the Student Representative Body puts the fervour of Union hacks to shame.
Affiliations with the country’s real-life political factions (including, rumour has it, large amounts of funding) make elections highly pertinent as results often predict and mirror events on a national level. “When a political party wins at the student level the party at the national level boasts it,” explains Lynn Zovighian, editor-in-chief of Outlook, AUB’s student newspaper. “Results of student elections are printed in all national newspapers and are taken very seriously.”
Like Oxford, the University acts as a practice arena for Lebanon’s political players, and many of the country’s big names over the past forty years – Walid Jumblatt, Samir Geagea and George Habash – were AUB-educated.
For the days surrounding the elections security fears are so high that the army is brought in: last November saw 350 armed soldiers turn out to patrol the university campus. Their concerns are not unfounded. During the civil war the University became a political target, with kidnappings, assassinations of members of staff and a bombing of one of the main buildings.
But despite being necessarily engaged in current events, many young people are frustrated and feel that important issues are being overlooked amidst the obsession with politics. Unemployment is one such problem. Although the Lebanese are fiercely patriotic the majority of rich, well-educated twentysomethings feel compelled to move abroad, allured by higher salaries and greater stability.
As Khaled, a 23 year-old currently living in Canada puts it, “I was born and raised in Beirut and there is nothing I would like more than to live in Lebanon. Unfortunately, I came to the conclusion that it is virtually impossible to make a decent living there. How sad to know you can never make your way in your own country.”
“Why is everyone is trying to do things their own way?” asks 19 year-old Ziad, a student from South Lebanon. “We are living together, in a country that is smaller than a village in the western world and yet we have so many sections and leaders that tear us apart rather than uniting to build a better Lebanon.”
Unity is the word on everyone’s lips. Tiny Lebanon is home to eighteen different sectarian groups and it is viewed as crucial that they put aside their differences in order to avoid another civil war. Sadly, even attempts to unify the country become a political competition. In February, amidst tension surrounding the anniversary of the assassination of former Prime Minister Rafiq Hariri, a striking poster campaign was launched. ‘I love life’, read huge red posters written in English, Arabic and French, dotted across the country. The group behind them claimed to be politically neutral and non-religious but, like every other message in Lebanon, the posters were politically loaded.
Funded by the pro-government Sunni/Christian/Druze coalition, the ‘I love life’ slogan was a stab at Hizbollah leaders’ gung-ho warmongering and repeated claims that they do not fear death. Unsurprisingly, retaliation followed, with an “I love life, undictated” campaign quickly following suit; the opposition’s dig at the government’s bowing down to the wishes of America and the West.
Roula is not convinced by the campaigns to unite the country. “Although Christians, Muslims and Druze interact now more than ever, the sectarianism and prejudice is always there,” she says. “In Lebanon you are always categorised according to your name and where you’re from.”
Alex, a 21 year-old student from northern Lebanon, sees hope for the future. “The older generation is more inclined to promote divisions between groups here,” she says. “Younger people, in theory at least, want to put aside their differences.”
But Anthony is reluctant to attach significance to any outward signs that may present the illusion of unity or consensus amongst young people in Lebanon – the spending, the clubbing, the beach parties. “I think that is wishful thinking of Western observers and the thin, privileged class of Lebanese that can afford to participate in Beirut nightlife,” he says.
“The sad reality of the matter is that while a Sunni and a Shiite wouldn’t mind clinking wine glasses at a bar one night, if push were to come to shove they probably wouldn’t hesitate to take up arms against each other the next day.”
It’s a pessimism shared by many. The only thing that seems to unite people here is a tired, world-weary attitude towards the current political wrangling and a genuine dread at the thought of another civil war. “I have a very bad feeling for the days to come,” says Hussein Abbas, a 23 year-old shop keeper, with a sad smile. “I pray to God, for the sake of my beloved Lebanon, that I am wrong.”
