Articles

What answer can be given to Israel Katz, Israel’s defense minister, when he taunts Lebanon by declaring that “soon, fire will consume its cedars?” What response is there to Bezalel Smotrich, Israel’s finance minister, who mocks Lebanon by saying that his son asks him “to leave something for him to destroy?” Israeli officials should choose their words more carefully. Words carry consequences. Katz invokes the Book of Zechariah: “Open your doors, O Lebanon, that the fire may devour your cedars! … Wail, O cypress, for the cedar has fallen, for the glorious trees are ruined! Wail, oaks of Bashan, for the thick forest has been felled! The sound of the wail of the shepherds, for their glory is ruined! The sound of the roar of the lions, for the thicket of the Jordan is ruined” (Zechariah 11:1–3).

Influence in the Middle East is no longer measured solely by the ability of states to impose their military or political domination; it is now bound up with their capacity to build attractive cities and craft convincing narratives. In this shift, cities such as Riyadh, Dubai and Doha are emerging as new centres of gravity, while states unable to produce an effective city or a coherent discourse find themselves receding. Between economics and media, a different model of governance is taking shape, one that raises a fundamental question: who actually governs? In this context, the city has ceased to be a mere urban space or administrative hub and has become a fully-fledged political instrument. Its rise cannot be understood through the lens of economic growth alone; it points to something deeper — a redefinition of power itself. Cities are no longer built simply to house populations, but to serve as transborder platforms of influence, capable of attracting investment, drawing in talent and affirming their presence in the global economy. These are cities that compete with states, presenting themselves as models of stability and openness in a region long associated with conflict and uncertainty. In this sense, the city becomes the face of the state, and in certain contexts its substitute, where success is measured by the capacity to attract rather than to dominate, to produce rather than to declaim.

In a remote conversation with an activist who had taken part in the local and municipal elections of the city of Deir al-Balah, he disclosed the personal reasons that had led him to vote for the first time: he wanted to experience the feeling of equality with the Jewish voter, whose opinion is canvassed every week across all domains of Israeli life. He also expressed a desire to feel some measure of human equilibrium as an original inhabitant of the land, in order to bridge the gap opened by Israel's overwhelming superiority, sustained by its modern army and the Iron Dome that shields it, while the sons of this land possess nothing but the capacity to survive, however great the scale of torment, brutality and humiliation.

One one hand there is war, and on another the terror it imposes. And then there is what’s in-between. This state of neither war nor peace—less dramatic but more insidious—creates constant tension and prevents any projection of future. This is where attrition sets in: motivation erodes, resources are depleted, meaning wavers. And learning is no exception. Imposed hybrid formats, unstable educational continuity, fluctuating commitment: in a Lebanon torn by turmoil, the university seems to hold on—but at the cost of a silent weakening. What was once the exception—switching from one format to another—has gradually become the norm. This is the first shift: when the unpredictable becomes structural, it no longer merely disrupts studies; it redefines their rules. Educational continuity, therefore, fragments. Classes shift between in-person and remote formats, sometimes canceled, more often dictated by circumstances than by academic choice. Yet learning requires a minimum of stability, a progression grounded in time. When this breaks down, knowledge does not simply pause—it dissolves. The university no longer merely transmits knowledge: it administers instability.

The world is once again holding its breath as it awaits President Donald Trump's decision in response to Iran's counter-proposal (which he deemed 'totally unacceptable' on Sunday) to his conditions for resuming negotiations over an agreement aimed at bringing the war to a lasting end. Through its Foreign Ministry spokesman Ismail Baghaei, Iran stated Monday that it had merely 'demanded an end to hostilities across the region and the unfreezing of its assets.' Ismail Baghaei, responding to Donald Trump's rejection of Iran's response, claimed that 'the only thing required is Iran's legitimate rights'—namely, 'an end to the war in the region, including Lebanon, the lifting of the American blockade on Iranian ports, and the release of Iranian assets that have been unjustly frozen for years.'

Lebanese-Syrian relations have reached a new turning point following the important visit paid by Lebanese Prime Minister Nawaf Salam to Damascus, at the head of a ministerial delegation, with the aim of strengthening bilateral ties between the two countries and carrying them forward toward a new era, one capable of dissolving the sediment left by a bygone period in which mutual grievances accumulated and trust evaporated, as a result of the damaging role played by Syrian tutelage over Lebanon for more than thirty years. The transition from the hardships of fraternity to the open spaces of cooperation appears to have genuinely begun, though it demands perseverance, resolve, and steadiness from both leaderships. The journey toward rebuilding Lebanese-Syrian relations is long, but far from impossible, it remains achievable, provided it rests on the constants of both countries, steering clear of the two extremes of total rupture (the 1950 experience) and total tutelage (1976–2005). One thing is certain: both parties have a genuine stake in following this inevitable path.