I was 14 at the time. Lebanon’s civil war was in full force. One afternoon the shells began raining down on our neighborhood in Beirut. We ran from school screaming. Out of breath, my knees giving way, it seemed to take forever to reach our local shelter — a dark humid room at the back of our apartment block.
The memory of that terrifying afternoon receded — until recently. After more than a decade of relative peace and reconstruction, the bombings and assassinations have returned to Beirut. Every time I hear of a new explosion, I think of a frightened child sitting in darkness.
In 1988, I watched the last throes of Lebanon’s civil war firsthand. Now I watch from another continent, but I find those same emotions resurfacing.
The actors are like shadows from a long gone past. They are grayer perhaps — those who have avoided assassination. But the cast in Lebanon’s tragedy has changed little in two decades. Then, as now, a presidential election is the setting, and the struggle where religion and clan play the main roles threatens to set Lebanon back 20 years.
In 1988, the president’s term was coming to an end and the warring factions were unable to agree on a new candidate. Militias prevented parliament members from reaching the assembly building. Compromise was nowhere in sight. The West had abandoned Lebanon to the manipulation of its neighbors. Syria had its choice for president; Israel had its own allies — a foil for growing Muslim radicalism. The country was awash with weapons.
In his last act as president, Amin Gemayel named fellow Christian and army chief Michel Aoun as prime minister. At a stroke, he shattered the convention that a Muslim hold that position. Muslims refused to serve in the Cabinet and the country ended up with two governments. Aoun famously declared: “I am prime minister and six ministers in one.” Aoun’s “War of Liberation” against Syria turned into defeat. Then, he turned on fellow Christians of the Lebanese Forces in the “War of Elimination.” When that failed, the Syrians drove Aoun to take refuge at the French Embassy.
I came to CNN as a World Report panelist in 1990. I tried to explain Lebanon’s chaos, the bewildering array of factions and the horrors of civil war for ordinary civilians. I was offered the opportunity to stay at CNN and gratefully accepted the chance to escape the anarchy.
But almost as I left, the civil war was being laid to rest. The various factions had fought each other to a standstill; Arab governments helped negotiate a new constitutional framework overseen by Syrian influence. Peace came to Lebanon, but it would be five years before I returned.
I went back in 1995 and was stunned. I kept looking around for checkpoints manned by militants. I couldn’t believe that I could go anywhere without being harassed or kidnapped. No longer did identity — Christian, Muslim or Druze — define where Lebanese could go. People mixed freely in chic coffee shops and laughing at the same jokes. It was as if Lebanon’s divisions had been wiped away.
Downtown Beirut, once rocked by explosions was rocking to Lebanese pop music. The dusty sandbags had given way to boutiques carrying the latest fashions and deluxe hotels. Lovers had returned to the Corniche, overlooking the Mediterranean, for romantic strolls at sunset.
But the agreement that ended the civil war was more a truce than a real settlement — and was overseen by a “pax Syriana.” As anti-Syrian sentiment grew, so did political tensions. On Valentine’s Day 2005, the Corniche was once again rocked by an explosion. Former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri was killed.
The symbolism left me speechless. On the day of love, Lebanon was thrown back into its most hateful history. It had been widely expected that Hariri would run for office again and demand the withdrawal of Syrian troops. Suspicion fell on Damascus, which vehemently denied involvement. On March 14, Martyrs’ Square became a human sea of demonstrators: Muslims, Druze and Christians alike, demanding the “truth.”
But Hariri’s death also exposed the fault lines that had broken Lebanon a generation previously. Even after it withdrew its troops, Syria still had allies in Lebanon. One is Hizbullah, accused of the suicide attacks against US Marines over 20 years ago. The other is Gen. Michel Aoun; back from exile, the same person who had defied Syria in 1989, but who now made common cause with Hizbullah.
Earlier this year I visited Martyrs’ Square. The spirit of the Cedar Revolution had evaporated. The place looked like a morgue. Anti-government Hizbullah squatters had brought life there to a standstill. As I passed through, business owners stood silent in the sun and shook their heads at me in despair. I wondered if they sensed my disappointment, my pain at watching Beirut bleed again.
Lebanon’s political actors now find themselves re-enacting scenes from the final act of the civil war 19 years ago. Once again, the term of the president is at its end with no agreement on his successor.
And the question haunts me: Will the country’s brief renaissance that so amazed me in 1995 be snuffed out by the old curse of sectarian rivalries?
Octavia Nasr is CNN’s senior editor for Arab Affairs.
