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Cinema, Architecture, and Power Seen some time ago, it is the season of year-end film rankings that brings The Brutalist, Brady Corbet’s film, back to my mind. The film appears in several rankings, since although it is a 2024 production, its international release took place in 2025. And, by sheer coincidence perhaps, this film resurfaces at a timely moment in my life, as it coincides with a period in which the notion of power manifests itself in all its forms: in its moral perversions, through the Epstein affair; in its arrogance, through the capture of Maduro; in its violence, through the repression of protesters in Iran; and in its new incarnations. I am thinking in particular of the importance now granted to the control of digital space, symbolized recently by Israel’s intention to invest in ChatGPT in order to influence its responses in a direction favorable to its interests. If I speak of a “timely moment,” it is first and foremost because The Brutalist is a film about power, as is often the case with films that revolve around architects or architecture itself. Several recent films bear witness to this, such as The Zone of Interest by Jonathan Glazer, with its enclosure wall erected to block out the atrocities committed in the Auschwitz camp, or Megalopolis by Francis Ford Coppola, with its analogy between the Roman Empire and the American Empire. And even if architecture is not directly at the center of the narrative, I also think of The Apprentice, which, by revisiting the early career of Donald Trump as a real estate developer, reminds us how power is, above all, a matter of controlling space. There is, of course, a vast body of literature on the subject, and in my own case I am particularly reminded of Michel Foucault’s work on disciplinary society. In these works, Foucault draws on the model of the panoptic structure, a form of carceral architecture enabling constant surveillance, to analyze how power, through its organization of space, seeks to regulate behavior without needing to manifest itself continuously. And to return to Donald Trump, more than these recent films, there is one film that functions as a mirror to The Brutalist: The Fountainhead by King Vidor, released in 1949 and adapted from a novel by the high priestess of libertarianism, Ayn Rand. Ayn Rand, who was frequently invoked at the beginning of Donald Trump’s second term, as he was surrounded by figures such as Elon Musk, adherents of this philosophy advocating a minimal state in order to unleash the forces of individualism and what she called “rational selfishness.” If this film mirrors The Brutalist, it is because in both cases we encounter an architect thwarted in his ambitions, but by two diametrically opposed forms of power. The power of society and the constraints of the state in The Fountainhead, where an architect refuses to sacrifice his vision to meet the demands of a collective incapable of recognizing his genius. And the power of the “rational egoist” in The Brutalist, where we follow a Holocaust survivor whose American dream culminates in his rape by the wealthy industrialist who commissioned him to build a community center. Without attempting to decide which of these two forms of power is ultimately the lesser evil, what strikes me as most compelling is the way in which, despite everything, László Tóth, the architect at the heart of The Brutalist, manages to resist the power to which he is subjected. Time as a Form of Resistance to Power This is, above all, why now is the right time to recall The Brutalist. Especially for me, as a Lebanese, and perhaps for others as well, since one of the paradigms of this new form of power, based on control over digital space, lies in dividing individuals between those who are entitled to exercise freedom of expression and those for whom doing so entails risk. There is the example of Israel and ChatGPT, but one might also think of entry into the United States, where access to one’s social media history is now required. It is precisely this form of resistance that The Brutalist addresses: the ability to tell one’s story and articulate one’s vision of the world despite these constraints. In the film, this idea takes shape through the way László Tóth secretly subverts the commission given to him by the wealthy industrialist in order to preserve a trace of his personal history. The building he constructs throughout the film ultimately reveals itself to be a replica of the concentration camp where his family was imprisoned. More than Michel Foucault, whose analysis focuses on the structure of power, this notion of resistance brings to mind the work of Michel de Certeau. In The Practice of Everyday Life , de Certeau analyzes how, in the face of the “strategies” employed by power to control knowledge and space, it remains possible to develop “tactics” of resistance. These arts of tactics share a common feature: they are articulated around the notion of time. Thus, while power devises strategies to master physical or digital space, the tactician possesses time, enabling them to slip beneath the radar of power and the “discipline” it seeks to impose. While the example most often cited to illustrate this idea is the chapter “Walking in the City,” where de Certeau shows how one can always invent one’s own path within a space planned by another, The Brutalist above all evokes for me his concept of the “wig” ( la perruque ). Through this concept, de Certeau describes the way one can divert time and materials within a workplace in order to do something for oneself. And alongside time, the other defining aspect of tactics in de Certeau’s thought emerges in this quotation from his essay: “Everyday life invents itself through a thousand ways of poaching.” It is this art of using time, and this poaching, tinkering subject described by de Certeau, that I find myself thinking about today, as the disciplinary society described by Foucault appears to be entering a new phase with the digital tools now placed at the disposal of power. The Tomb Instead of the Hut To conclude with an architectural metaphor, whether one considers de Certeau’s work or what is symbolized by the structure built by László Tóth, this brings to mind writings on the history of architecture that often question which came first: tombs or huts. Without seeking to answer this question, what interests me most in the distinction between these two architectural forms is that the hut represents the ephemeral, whereas the tomb reflects a desire to leave a trace through time. And if my own sensibility leans toward what the tomb represents, it is certainly not an invitation for those who resist to dig their own graves, but rather an invitation to take the time to construct metaphorical tombs in order to thwart the strategy of power that seeks to erase certain voices and entire segments of history.

The US military strike in Venezuela, followed by the arrest of President Nicolás Maduro and his transfer outside the country, sent a powerful shockwave through international politics. The arrest triggered widespread international condemnation, with many states and organizations describing it as a violation of international law and an assault on Venezuela’s national sovereignty. International law experts, including in analytical pieces published by The Guardian , point out that the American operation in Venezuela violates the United Nations Charter, particularly the provision prohibiting the use of force in the absence of self-defence or explicit authorization from the Security Council. This event rewrites part of the rules of the game. It is not the arrest itself that alters those rules, but what it signifies: a profound shift in how sovereignty, power, and political time are understood within the international system. The diversity of reactions — ranging from strong condemnations to cautious reservations and even conditional endorsements — reveals that the world is standing at a critical crossroads: will international law remain a framework protected by institutions and agreements, or will it retreat in the face of faits accomplis? This episode is not merely a new chapter in Venezuela’s story, but a test of international norms themselves at a particularly sensitive moment in global political history. It exposes a deep gap between discourse and practice in the Western world. International justice has long been presented as one of the pillars of the modern global order and as the moral foundation underpinning the legitimacy of transnational institutions, foremost among them the International Criminal Court. Yet the trajectory of this justice reveals a fracture that can no longer be reduced solely to Western double standards. It has grown more complex as the world enters a multipolar phase and as rising powers challenge the West not only over influence, but over the very definition of values. In its first phase, criticism of international justice focused on the duplicity of Western discourse. It was clear that the application of international law had never been detached from political interests. Military interventions were carried out in the name of human rights, while grave violations were overlooked when committed by strategic allies. This selectivity eroded the credibility of international justice, turning it, in the eyes of many, into a tool of the powerful rather than a universal legal system. The flaw lay not in the proclaimed values themselves, but in their selective instrumentalization: invoked when they serve power balances, ignored when they obstruct them. Today’s more significant shift, however, lies not only in the persistence of this legacy, but in the exposure of the limits of the liberal system itself as its capacity to impose its rules declines. The world is no longer unipolar, and the United States can no longer, alone or with its allies, regulate the tempo of international justice. The emergence of China and Russia as major actors has reshaped the landscape: the question is no longer why justice is applied selectively, but who still possesses the ability to apply it at all. In this context, international justice appears trapped between two opposing forces: a West that upholds a discourse of values — applied selectively — yet lacks the ability to enforce them without international consensus, and rising powers that denounce what they call “politicized justice” while failing to articulate that discourse in practice or to propose a credible legal alternative, content instead to obstruct the existing process. A striking paradox emerges: opposition to selective justice does not lead to more inclusive justice, but to total paralysis. This paralysis has enabled the rise of a “resistance” discourse framed as a moral counterweight. Yet when tested in practice, this discourse reveals its own stark duplicity. The defense of sovereignty is used to justify domestic repression, and the rejection of external intervention is not accompanied by the construction of independent judicial institutions or genuine respect for human rights. Thus, the myth of Western justice collapses on one side, while the myth of an alternative justice claimed by its opponents collapses alongside it. What prevents the realization of international justice today is not a single factor, but three fundamental obstacles: the absence of an international executive authority independent of power relations; the erosion of global value consensus amid escalating conflict between competing civilizational and political models; and the use of justice by all parties as a rhetorical instrument rather than as an institutional commitment. Within this landscape, the International Criminal Court appears as a mirror of the crisis rather than its cause. It is a court without police, without an army, and without political consensus to enforce its rulings. Its ability to act depends on state cooperation, a cooperation now hostage to global polarization. The problem is not merely that international justice is “unjust,” but that it is increasingly incapable of being justice at all. All of this demonstrates a widening gap between Western moral discourse and the actual mechanisms of its implementation. The failure to open an ICC investigation into the “situation in Venezuela,” contrasted with the relative speed of proceedings against other leaders, weakens the narrative of a “neutral, universal justice” and fuels the discourse of anti-Western forces who view international justice as a selective tool rather than a comprehensive legal system. Here, not only does the “myth of Western justice” collapse, but it converges with the collapse of the opposing “myth of resistance,” which likewise claims a monopoly on moral legitimacy while operating according to the logic of power and necessity rather than law. In both cases, we are witnessing the erosion of the symbolic framework of values, gradually replaced by the law of force, in a scene reminiscent of a return to empires rather than an international order governed by shared rules. This reality does not signal the end of the need for justice, but the end of the illusion that it can be separated from politics without a fundamental reconstruction of the international system itself. From a Durkheimian perspective, we are facing a moment of anomie — not in the sense of chaos, but of the loss of shared norms. From a Lévi-Straussian perspective, this is a moment of myth disintegration, when myth can no longer resolve the contradictions it was designed to conceal. Law, as sociologists remind us, does not exist in a vacuum; it is the product of a social and moral equilibrium. When that equilibrium collapses, law becomes a text devoid of force. Between the West’s former duplicity and the current duplicity of the so-called “resistance,” international justice is lost between two opposing discourses that nevertheless converge on one essential point: the subjugation of values to the logic of power. Unless a radical rethinking of the relationship between sovereignty, law, and justice takes place, justice will remain a perpetually deferred promise, invoked in speeches… and absent in reality. Regarding the Netanyahu Case The International Criminal Court’s relative success in moving forward with its decision against Benjamin Netanyahu — unlike in similar previous cases — is best understood as the result of an unprecedented convergence of political and moral factors rather than as an expression of absolute legal independence. The scale of the violations committed in Gaza, their breadth, temporal intensity, and visual exposure made it difficult to contain them within the traditional “self-defense” narrative that has long provided political cover for Israel and its allies. Moreover, a profound shift in Western public opinion, particularly within the United States itself, played a decisive role. Rising generations have shown greater sensitivity to human rights standards and less attachment to traditional geopolitical narratives. This shift narrowed the political margin of maneuver, even for governments most supportive of Israel. Finally, South Africa’s methodical legal intervention marked a turning point by redirecting the debate from politics to law and by granting the case moral legitimacy derived from a state bearing a historical legacy of apartheid, making it harder to challenge its motivations. Thus, the Court’s decision was not the result of isolated institutional courage, but the product of a fracture in the traditional system of political protection and an unprecedented exposure of the gap between power and discourse, making impunity more costly than accountability.

“And David danced before the Lord with all his might.” (2 Samuel 6:14) Dancing is not incompatible with prayer. On the contrary, gospel music perfectly illustrates how singing and dancing, even during liturgical mass, can create an atmosphere of communion and celebration. “Praise the Lord with the harp; make music to Him on the ten-stringed lyre. Sing to Him a new song; play skillfully, and shout for joy.” (Psalm 33:2–3) There is a priest who understood that in our time, the most effective way to reach crowds and especially young people is through music. When the Book of Psalms was written, the loudest instrument appears to have been the ten-stringed lyre. This priest replaced it with electronic music. His name is Padre Guilherme, known today as the DJ priest. At the last World Youth Day in Lisbon in 2023, the city from which the DJ originates, one and a half million people attended, compared to seven hundred thousand at the 2019 edition. More than double the number of participants, mostly young people, dancing to the rhythm set by Padre Guilherme’s fingers. Padre Guilherme is scheduled to perform in Lebanon on January 10. Except that some Christian compatriots believe the priest’s methods are not Catholic, that they undermine Christian values, and that they amount to blasphemy. Eighteen self-appointed guardians of the faith decided that Christianity needed to be saved from this imminent danger. They therefore filed an emergency injunction before a summary judge to ban the performance. They also threatened to block roads and resort to violence if the court ruled against them. And yet these individuals, who see themselves as protectors of Christian values and teachings, seem to have forgotten that the head of the Catholic Church, the late Pope Francis, not only approved Padre Guilherme’s approach but even blessed his DJ helmet, as a sign of gratitude to someone capable of bringing tens of thousands of young people back to Christianity. These self-styled moral enforcers evoke the darkest hours of medieval Christianity, when anyone who refused to blindly obey politico-religious dogma was destined for the stake. Today, censorship and legal action have replaced the purifying fire. The bigots who see evil in Padre Guilherme belong to the same spiritual vigilance committee that once portrayed Mansour Labaki as a persecuted holy man and the victim of a smear campaign. Making young people dance and spreading joy is, in their eyes, a crime, while exploiting the young is dismissed as mere rumor. They are the same people who cried blasphemy when a priest, during Lokman Slim’s funeral, sang the hymn traditionally reserved for Jesus after the crucifixion. The media outcry that followed painted the priest as a heretic. Obscurantism has neither god nor religion. Last year, Wajdi Mouawad’s play Wedding Day at the Cro-Magnons’ was canceled. Today, a dancing priest is to be banned. Tomorrow, perhaps David himself will be summoned to court for excessive choreographic fervor. This blind religious protectionism does nothing but harm Christianity. Jean Dion once asked: what must God think of bigots who believe they know what He thinks? If this backward minority truly claims to be the messenger of faith, then God has probably never been so poorly represented and so badly defended.

The year 2025 was Syria’s year, as the country lived for the first time in half a century without Hafez al-Assad or Bashar al-Assad, that is, without a minority regime, sponsored by Israel, which had controlled the fate of Syrians first through its repressive apparatus and later by relying on external powers to prevail over its own people. For the first time as well, Iran’s “Islamic Republic” withdrew from Syria, a development that carries major implications for the regional balance, especially since Syria under the Assads had come to resemble an Iranian colony implanted at the heart of the Arab world. Yet focusing on Syria, and on whether it will pass through 2026 without major upheaval, should not obscure another reality: the chain of events triggered since the “Al-Aqsa Flood” attack launched by Hamas against Israeli settlements around Gaza on October 7, 2023, has created conditions ripe for questioning the fate of the Iranian regime itself and whether it can reach the end of 2026. This question is legitimate in light of several factors that place the destiny of the regime established in 1979 squarely on the table. One must first consider the state of Iran’s economy, while recalling that the Soviet Union collapsed primarily for economic reasons, after lasting from 1917 until the end of 1991. The exchange rate of the Iranian rial offers a stark illustration of the depth of the economic crisis afflicting the “Islamic Republic.” In the final days of the Shah in 1979, it took roughly 70 rials to buy one U.S. dollar. Today, the dollar trades at around 1.4 million rials. The contrast is striking and reflects the economic failure of a regime that has persisted, from its very inception, in an open confrontation with the United States and the West at large, beginning with the November 1979 hostage crisis, engineered to eliminate any reformist or liberal influence within the new power structure. “Students” affiliated with the Revolutionary Guards held U.S. embassy diplomats in Tehran hostage for 444 days. Several points deserve close attention at this stage. They help clarify the current condition of the Iranian regime and the crises it is enduring, crises that could lead to its demise, much as the Soviet Union collapsed rapidly once the Berlin Wall fell in November 1989. One must first address the death of President Ebrahim Raisi in May 2024 in a helicopter crash whose circumstances remain unclear. The official narrative attributes the accident to poor weather conditions during the takeoff of an aging American-made helicopter from a border area near Azerbaijan. Yet these explanations have not dispelled suspicions that Raisi was deliberately eliminated because of his pivotal role in maintaining regime cohesion. He maintained strong ties with the forces upon which the system rests and from which it derived its protection. Raisi was the only figure capable of coordinating these forces, whose mission was to suppress any popular uprising, even through violence. Since Raisi’s disappearance, and before him that of Qassem Soleimani, commander of the Revolutionary Guards’ Quds Force, the regime has lacked a central figure with sufficient influence to manage a transition phase in the event of the disappearance of Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei, weakened by age and illness. Soleimani, assassinated by the United States in early 2020, was the supreme commander of all Iran’s regional instruments, from Hezbollah in Lebanon to the Houthis in Yemen, and the sectarian militias affiliated with the Revolutionary Guards in Iraq. Ebrahim Raisi had filled part of the vacuum left by Soleimani, to the extent that today there is no one in Tehran capable of playing an effective role in organizing an anticipated transition, whether after or even before Khamenei’s departure. More importantly still, the “Islamic Republic” cannot avoid paying the price for the wars it waged in the aftermath of the “Al-Aqsa Flood,” having wagered that these conflicts would ultimately serve its interests. Iran lost the Lebanon war triggered by Hezbollah the moment it opened the southern front against Israel. It lost Syria as well, following a series of mistakes by Bashar al-Assad, including allowing Iran to transfer precision missiles to Hezbollah for use from Lebanese territory. Iran has lost every war it believed it could exploit to position itself as the regional actor holding the key to either expanding or containing the Gaza war. By mid-2025, the conflict had moved inside Iran itself, particularly as the United States, Israel, and Europe reopened the nuclear file, alongside mounting concerns over Iran’s ballistic missile capabilities. In short, the “Islamic Republic” is no longer able to adapt to the transformations the region has undergone. It has neither grasped their meaning nor understood their implications, having relied since its inception on a policy of exporting its internal crises beyond its borders. By the end of 2025, the “Islamic Republic” had lost its ability to escape its own crises, most vividly expressed by the collapse of the national currency. Do Iran’s allies and followers, particularly in Lebanon, grasp this reality, which Iranian officials themselves, foremost among them President Massoud Pezeshkian, still seem unable to acknowledge? In conclusion, Iran’s current crises are multiple and unprecedented. Above all, they are crises of regime. They stem from the system’s inability, as 2026 approaches, to reconcile with itself, with the logic of numbers, and with regional and international realities, after losing several wars, from Gaza to Lebanon to Syria, wars whose cost it continues to refuse to bear.

On December 26, 2025, the Council of Ministers adopted the so-called “Gap Law,” a text intended to provide a legal framework for the allocation of the country’s financial losses, estimated at around USD 70 billion, ahead of its forthcoming review by Parliament. The draft law was approved by 13 votes to 9. The law introduces a classification of depositors based on the volume of their assets and provides for a guarantee mechanism for deposits of up to USD 100,000, in the form of staggered repayments over a four-year period. For amounts exceeding this cap, the legislative framework provides for the conversion of deposits into long-term financial instruments issued by the Banque du Liban, structured as asset-backed securities. In this context, professional orders announced that they would hold a meeting on Monday to express their position regarding the measures set out in the law, particularly those affecting cooperative funds and pension funds. Business lawyer and international arbitrator Ezzeddine Akram Baassiri responded, in this context, to a series of specific and technical questions put to him by Levant Time . Q – How does the USD 100,000 guarantee cap apply to joint accounts? A – The law explicitly addresses joint accounts in Article 8, paragraph IV, which provides as follows: “IV – For the purposes of applying the provisions of this Article, the totality of the depositor’s personal accounts, as well as his or her share in joint accounts with all banks operating in Lebanon, shall be considered as a single deposit. Any inheritance account and any joint account, regardless of the number of its holders, shall be considered a single account. Joint accounts shall be apportioned among their holders in accordance with the terms of the agreement signed between them and the relevant bank; failing such terms, they shall be apportioned equally among the joint account holders. If the holder of joint accounts does not have a personal account with the bank, the totality of his or her shares in the various joint accounts shall be considered as a single deposit. The Banque du Liban shall determine the modalities for implementing this provision.” The text thus specifies the method for allocating the balance of a joint account, which is carried out: in accordance with the conditions set out in the account opening agreement signed with the bank; or failing any determination of each holder’s share, in equal shares among the account holders. On the basis of these provisions, several direct legal consequences arise. First, a joint account does not benefit from a separate or independent guarantee cap. Second, the value of the joint account is allocated among the co-holders either according to the account agreement or equally in the absence thereof, for the purpose of calculating each depositor’s total deposit. Finally, the share attributed to each co-holder is added to his or her individual accounts and to his or her shares in other joint accounts. Consequently, the USD 100,000 guarantee cap is calculated on the basis of the overall situation of each depositor, after taking into account all of his or her deposits, whether individual or derived from joint accounts. Q – Does the USD 100,000 guarantee cap apply per bank or per depositor? A – The draft law addresses the application of the guarantee cap where the same depositor holds accounts with several banks and adopts the principle of aggregating deposits across the entire banking system. In this respect, Article 8, paragraph IV, explicitly provides that: “The totality of the depositor’s personal accounts (…) with all banks operating in Lebanon shall be considered as a single deposit.” On the basis of this provision, the law establishes precise consequences: The USD 100,000 guarantee cap does not apply per bank; it is calculated per individual depositor, regardless of the number of banks with which that depositor holds accounts. Q- Are commercial companies and private institutions subject to the same rules as natural persons regarding deposit caps and treatment? A- The draft law includes legal entities within the definition of depositors. Article 2 provides that depositors are: “Depositors: natural or legal persons holding deposit accounts and certificates of deposit, in accordance with the legal definition of deposits and bank accounts provided by the laws in force and generally applicable, the rules of which are mainly set out in the Code of Obligations and Contracts and in the Commercial Code, in particular Article 307 thereof.” The text does not provide for any specific or exceptional regime in favor of commercial companies or private institutions. Chapter IV of the law, devoted to the repayment of deposits, contains neither exceptions nor special mechanisms applicable to legal entities. On this basis, several direct consequences clearly follow. First, commercial companies and private institutions are subject to the USD 100,000 guarantee cap. Second, their deposits are classified according to the same categories applicable to natural persons, namely small, medium, large, and very large deposits. Finally, the repayment mechanisms provided for in Article 8 of the law apply to them under the same conditions. Q – What is the fate of accounts denominated in Lebanese pounds, and what exchange rate will apply to them under the USD 100,000 cap? A – From a legal standpoint, the draft law includes accounts denominated in Lebanese pounds within its scope of application. Article 3 of the draft law provides that: “This law applies to the Public Treasury, the Banque du Liban, and banks operating in Lebanon and listed as banks. It also applies to all accounts held with the Banque du Liban and the aforementioned banks, whether opened before or after 17/10/2019.” In the same vein, Article 8, paragraph 4, provides that: “The totality of the depositor’s personal accounts, as well as his or her share in joint accounts with all banks operating in Lebanon, shall be considered as a single deposit …” The text makes no distinction between accounts denominated in foreign currencies and those denominated in Lebanese pounds. As a matter of principle, accounts in Lebanese pounds therefore fall within the scope of the law. However, Chapter IV of the law—and more particularly Article 8 and the provisions that follow—organizes the mechanism for repaying deposits and is exclusively limited to the repayment of deposits denominated in U.S. dollars. It does not explicitly address deposits in Lebanese pounds, nor does it provide any specific mechanism or direct method for repaying or revaluing such accounts in the context of the financial collapse. Consequently, in the absence of any express provision or clearly defined mechanism in the text, accounts denominated in Lebanese pounds remain legally unregulated with respect to their repayment modalities. It is not possible to determine with certainty the exchange rate that will be applied to their revaluation, nor whether they will be taken into account within the USD 100,000 cap, nor under what conditions they might be counted if included. Q – Cooperative funds and pension funds: what does the GAP Law actually provide, and what difficulties does it raise? A – The GAP Law draft does not, in reality, provide for any specific provisions dealing with these structures, nor with mutual funds. In the absence of a special regime, these entities are treated in accordance with the general rules set out in the text. Thus, pursuant to Article 2 of the law, professional orders, cooperative funds, pension funds, and mutual funds are considered legal persons. Their deposits are furthermore treated as a single deposit within the meaning of paragraph 4 of Article 8 of the law. As such, they fall fully within the repayment mechanism provided for in Article 8. In concrete terms, this mechanism has two components. On the one hand, these entities benefit from a repayment cap set at USD 100,000. On the other hand, the remaining balance of their deposits is converted into asset-backed financial certificates issued by the Banque du Liban, in accordance with the provisions of Article 8 of the law. Through this article, Levant Time has sought to shed light on several grey areas surrounding the GAP Law. Further articles will follow to address additional issues and to provide clear legal and technical answers to the many questions raised by this text among the public.