Opinion

In April 2003, Mohammed Saeed al-Sahhaf gave the world one of the greatest political performances in the art of denial. On April 7, American tanks had entered the heart of Baghdad, their images broadcast across television screens worldwide. Yet Saddam Hussein’s information minister stood before reporters and declared—with the confidence of a man who possessed information unavailable to the human eye—that there were no Americans in Baghdad and that the invading forces were being crushed and annihilated. Two days later, on April 9, Baghdad fell. Al-Sahhaf was not merely lying. He was providing a psychological service to an audience no longer capable of confronting the truth. That is precisely what makes him so contemporary in Lebanon.

The war has not yet ceased in our south, and already it threatens to break out among our neighbors. In other words, we live on borrowed time, lurching from one conflict to the next. And for good reason! The bombing of a Syrian base very nearly escalated into an all-out clash between Ankara and Tel Aviv. That was on August 18, and Benjamin Netanyahu didn't mince his words: his country would not tolerate a Turkish military foothold that could spread into southern Syria. The warning was all the more forceful given that eight strikes had targeted the Abu al-Dhuhur air base, just 70 kilometers from the Turkish border.

"What is the veneration of a founder worth when his life's work is undone by those who claim to be his heirs?" In a previous article, commenting on the saying "charity begins at home," we showed how Lebanon's history constantly oscillates between internal communal selfishness — retreating into one's sect at the expense of the state — and external ideological "altruism" — prioritizing regional causes at the expense of the homeland. In both cases, the vision of a strong, prosperous, and democratic Lebanese state has been sacrificed. Let us take the analysis further. In a letter published by L'OLJ, lawyer Carole Chelhot wrote some harsh but deeply accurate lines about this fatal fragmentation: "Lebanon's failure is no longer territorial. It is political, moral, and institutional. The administration has been handed over to patronage networks, public services distributed as personal favors, and the law negotiated according to power dynamics (…). The state, which was meant to transcend the communities, has become the spoils they divide among themselves (…). This is where the memory of Elias Hoayek ceases to be reassuring and becomes an indictment.

Neo-Ottoman Ankara is making its move in the Bilad ash-Sham! And neither the Israeli bombardment of Abu al-Duhur air base on August 18th, nor the strikes on the outskirts of Damascus ten days later, let alone Tel Aviv's barely veiled threats, are doing anything to halt Turkey's southward advance along the "Syrian Sea" (1). Tom Barrack, the U.S. ambassador to Turkey and special envoy to Damascus, will have his work cut out for him now that a strategic rivalry is taking shape between Turkey and Israel, with Syria—and soon Lebanon—as the primary arena of competition, and potentially confrontation.

“Blessed are the peacemakers.” Perhaps no phrase better captures what Lebanon needs today than the one Pope Leo XIV carried with him during his visit to Lebanon and made a central message to the Lebanese people. His visit came to a country exhausted by wars, crises, and divisions, placing peace at the heart of Lebanon’s public discourse, not as surrender or concession, but as an act, a responsibility, and a project for the future. Yet Lebanon’s paradox is that we, who have lived through so much war, have sometimes come to fear the very word “peace.” Why? Why must a Lebanese justify calling for peace? And why do some feel that merely using the word can put them in the dock, as though they had relinquished their rights, accepted surrender, sought normalization, or abandoned the cause?

The Sunnis had found themselves quite alone when Yasser Arafat's PLO boarded French ships, with all their arms and equipment, bound for Tunisia. It was August 30, 1982; Bachir Gemayel had been elected President of the Republic, and the Israeli army was about to move into West Beirut. With the departure of Abu Ammar and his contingents, who had fueled Lebanon's civil and sectarian war, a chapter had come to a close. Taking stock of the situation, President Takieddine al-Solh, a shrewd statesman and keen observer, expressed himself with bitterness in these words: "The Muslims sacrificed so much that they perished in the process" (1).

As social media rediscovers the modesty and integrity of Fouad Chehab, a personal memory brings back the image of a president who sought to replace political fiefdoms with the authority of the state – and whom Lebanon fully recognized only after his death. In recent days, photographs of President Fouad Chehab have proliferated across social media. Many users now celebrate his modesty, his honesty and his sense of the state. One of these images shows him attending a Mass held in honor of the Virgin Mary in the early 1960s, on the esplanade of the Shrine of Our Lady of Lebanon in Harissa, overlooking Jounieh Bay. This photograph stirs a particularly moving personal memory.

“Charity begins at home” is an apt saying for describing the missteps of Greater Lebanon – missteps that Georges Naccache captured in one cutting, lucid line: “Two negations do not make a nation.” That sentence exposes the tragic shortcomings of the first generation of Lebanese, confronted with a Greater Lebanon still struggling to assert itself. Rooted in St. Augustine’s thought, “charity begins at home” simply means that one must meet one’s needs and obligations before seeking to help others. The concept is sometimes distorted to justify individualist behavior, a lack of generosity, or putting personal interests ahead of a collective cause. In fact, it stems from the theology of St. Augustine (4th century) and from his notion of ordo caritatis – the order of charity. St. Augustine held that charity, or divine love, must follow a logical hierarchy: one must love God first, then love oneself in a healthy, “ordered” way, for the salvation of one’s soul, before being able to love one’s neighbor.

"Enough is enough!" cried three countries that had come together in Mecca on August 7th. Turkey, Pakistan, and Saudi Arabia — three complementary powers — have just formed a Sunni NATO, one that other states seeking military protection or a diplomatic umbrella would inevitably join. The announcement of this pact naturally came like a thunderclap. And simply following the Saudi press over recent days, one can detect a clear shift in tone toward the mullahs in Tehran. Gone are the days when Riyadh, the Saudi capital, swallowed its pride, stoically absorbed Iranian provocations, and opted for peaceful resolution of conflicts with its aggressors.

There is an idea that is becoming almost axiomatic in Lebanese political life today. Whenever the discussion turns to restoring the state, the future of Hezbollah, or rebuilding the national balance, the debate sooner or later comes back to the same question: how do we build an independent Shiite political dynamic? It is difficult to challenge this question. It seems logical, even self-evident. Any national project naturally needs an independent Shiite presence, and the monopoly of any single force over the representation of an entire community must come to an end. But the most dangerous ideas are not those that appear to be wrong. They are those that seem so self-evident that we stop questioning them.