On Its 50th Anniversary, Lebanon Still Struggles to Be Free

By Marilyn Raschka

Neither pride nor prejudice took a holiday last Nov. 22 when the Republic of Lebanon celebrated 50 years of independence. While the army paraded its modest force, Lebanon's labor unions boycotted the events in a dispute with the government over pay raises that increase the monthly minimum wage from $69 to $116.

Christian Patriarch Nasrallah Sfeir questioned the festivities when "more than half a million amongst us are displaced." He also spoke out indirectly against the occupation forces of Israel and Syria: "Our flag flies timidly over only a narrow portion of our land." As if listening for their cue, Israeli jets over flew the capital and country. Down south, the Iranian-funded Hezbollah militia launched a successful attack against Israel's client militia, the "South Lebanon Army."

Lebanon 1993 struggles to be free from both self-inflicted wounds and outside forces. Life was simpler back in 1943 when independence was obtained from France, the mandatory power between the two world wars. During that period Lebanon's borders were defined and it had acquired a constitution, flag and other makings of a modern nation state.

Looking at the 20 years I've lived in Lebanon, the word "modern" strikes an uncomfortable chord. After the 1975 outbreak of Lebanon's 15-year-long civil war, the "modern" in the Lebanese equation was symbolized by the weapons–those high-tech instruments of death and destruction. Now, three years into the post-war profile, the Lebanese wait for "modern" to be hitched up to the country's infrastructure. Electricity still is off more than it is on, and its irregularity has instilled in all of us a fear of elevators.

As for the telephones, MCI is alive and well and works for calls to and from the U. S. But just try to call your neighbor, or a doctor or a plumber. There is no way to let your fingers do the walking in Lebanon. The government promises thousands of new phones "to be installed soon."

"Soon," for residents of Lebanon, has become just another four-letter word.

Salaries–if you aren't a doctor–are a bitter joke. Teachers clear only $200 at the best schools. Recruiters for the American University of Beirut admit to being embarrassed when bringing up the subject. Foreigners teaching at the still prestigious university do so mostly out of a sense of commitment or adventure.

But national pride is still alive and well and is often a product of the country's school system.

Last year's Independence Day will always remain my favorite. I was walking down Hamra Street wearing a sweater I had bought just days before from a sidewalk merchant. It was a knit copy of the Lebanese flag–two horizontal red bands on either side of a white one with a Lebanese cedar in the middle. As I was walking, a group of little boys ran by me. Suddenly they stopped and stared at the sweater, saluted the flag, smiled and began singing Lebanon's national anthem. You think there isn't any national spirit around?

From this 50th year of independence and on, much of Lebanon's energy will be concentrated on rebuilding the country. The first master plan for the capital came to life in 1977-78, when the war was less than three years old. But all the master plans have themselves fallen victim to the war, held hostage by politicians, cut to pieces by environmentalists and city planners, and condemned by archeologists.

Downtown Beirut remains my favorite place in Lebanon. I remember my first tour back in 1966: the bustle of people, the sounds of commerce, the smell of fish and chickens competing with French perfume, and the silent witness of the Roman columns–their bases, even then, home to the refuse of modern Lebanon.

During the years of war I often risked life and limb to slip between the buildings to get a glimpse of the main square–the Place des Cannons, often called Martyrs' Square. Both names were tragically appropriate during the war. I remember people yelling at me to come back. "Snipers!" they would shout. But I could never resist.

When the Lebanese army opened up the downtown in December 1990 and the war was declared over, I joined others venturing into what for 15 years had been a "no man's land" between East and West Beirut. There was no bustle and, thank God, there were no smells. What dominated were the gasps of horror from the Lebanese who came face to face for the first time with the extent of the destruction, which had turned the heart of their capital into an eerie scene of utter desolation.

But the downtown didn't stay deserted. Bulldozers began clearing the shattered masonry. Owners arrived–some too late to stop the destruction of their buildings.

While citizens' groups debated the preservation of historical or cultural monuments, just yards off the main square people like Michel Roumi rebuilt his butcher shop as the government argued that the individual didn't have the money to rebuild. The shop's tiles shine white, the bare light bulbs burn bright against the ropes of sausages, and the roasts are kept properly cold in his refrigerated cases.

I visit Michel's "La Grande Boucherie" regularly and he always reminds me: "Well, a year ago when you first came down here you told me the government was going to tear this down and build some big building." Then he laughs.

The masterminds behind the master plan–the Council for Development and Reconstruction (CDR)–are just a walk away in a renovated building that served in pre-war days as the Palace of Justice.

Said to be user unfriendly, the new plan is accused of offering glitz to the rich, targeting the credit card-carrying tourist and bending over backwards for the foreign businessman. The little guys–the butchers like Michel, and the bakers and even the brass candlestick makers–have been written out of the program.

The latest comers to downtown are Lebanese archeologists and their foreign soul brothers. Four soundings began last October. Under watchful eyes, the bulldozers made clearings through rubbled land, but stopped short of the turf that will interest the archeologists.

One unchanged legacy from the French mandate period is a tough set of Lebanese laws regarding antiquities. The present city's movers and shakers had better forget about those skyscrapers for IBM and the Nestle conglomerate unless they make provisions for major archeological finds that may lie under the sites. The laws, and the problems of complying while rebuilding, serve to remind the Lebanese that 50 years of independence set against 5,000 years of history amount to little more than a thin layer of interesting potsherds.

Marilyn Raschka is a free-lance writer who lives in Beirut, where she is an editor of the Americans for Justice in the Middle East newsletter.