Farewell, Ghassan Tueni

You know the shopworn expression? A house is its master’s character! Well, there is no place quite like that sprawling abode up in mountainous Beit Meri, a 30-minute ride from Beirut, which lifts such banality into something close to wisdom.

The main hallway cascades down into a vision of the sea and the fireplace warmth of the main living rooms. Mid-stairs, the library hangs to the left, austere, majestic, inhabited. On walls, Byzantine icons intrude on modern art. The bedroom to the side of the library is ascetic-bare, and so is the dinning room but for a subtle elegance and ceilings high enough to render lone voices clangorous. The eeriness of the inner sanctums, where guests rarely were invited to tread, is softened only by the breeziness of the meandering garden. Up and down, twists and turns, lightness and whispers, a passion for the here and now, a longing for the gods.

That was Ghassan Tueni!  

He had a rapacious appetite for that cigarette, for nightlong banters, for early morning sweeps of the pen, for power, for self…

The public persona was colorful, dramatic. The private man was the same, his panache legendary, his personal tragedies Shakespearean. There was an unrequited love between him and life; he loved her unconditionally, recklessly; she was whimsical, sadistic, keener on those stabs of anguish than with her driblets of mercy.

Ghassan segued between politics and journalism, waltzing life away between two mean lovers. The performance was often flawless, but the trip ups were awkward and embarrassing. The dossier is not thick with evidence, but the episode that seared him the most was his stint as adviser to former president Amin Gummayyel, a man who, many agree, was very becoming of Lebanon but not of Ghassan Tueni.

His sword and shield was Annahar, for a long time one of the Arab world’s feisty broadsheets thanks to Ghassan and his remarkable ability to make his instinctive liberalism and his sponsors’ unrelenting conservatism cohabit. But the toll hung heavy, and well before the end, this delicate balance was no more.

About Lebanon he was unwavering, stubbornly magnanimous about its failings and absurdly rhapsodic about its specialness. His famous words, “The war of others on Lebanese land,” say it all. For him, Lebanon was almost always victim to every insult but its own utter lack of respect for itself. 

Ghassan fascinated, puzzled and infuriated his friends just as much as he did his foes. He was made for accolades—yes, he was. But every good quality in him flirted shamelessly with its nemesis.

He was brainy but careless. A resounding success and a disappointment. As capricious as he was gracious. Highbrow and hard knuckled. A wit with an inexplicable tolerance for bores. A giant with a weakness for dwarfs.  An enlightened man who was too ready to entertain the interests of those who preferred life at its dimmest.

It is vintage Ghassan that he should fade just as we Arabs are agitating to come out of our own slumber. But then he had grown quiet years ago. Long before a series of strokes banished him to a punishing silence, his pain had become immeasurable, his days sedate, his pulse faint.

In due time, much will be written about Ghassan and his era, a time when the Arab world turned every moment of possibility into a stupefying dead end, a time when Lebanon itself made of a presumably interesting experiment in consociational democracy a forbidding showcase of sectarian bloodletting. No doubt, much will be written about Ghassan’s legacy in this unforgiving trajectory.

But if the narrative means to illuminate and instruct, it would have to tell the story of modern Arab journalism in making this region’s downhill slide all the more inexorable. History is home to many a progressive journalist who either could not or would not resist the pull of power, for survival, for fear, for proximity to that proverbial ear. History is home as well to many who did resist and died a miserable death. Here, in the Arab world, these journalists’ dilemma was every good man and woman’s, who often were forced to countenance an existence stripped of meaning or principle.

By the turn of the 21^st century, you were hard pressed to name a publication that was not outright owned by patrons—public or private— who were no longer content with mere influence. In Lebanon, once an arena of relatively intrepid speech, the practice, not coincidently, is still at its most unseemly.

We are now—dare we hope!--upon a different age. Extraordinarily, a new vigor promises to enliven politics, whilst the fourth estate of old continues to nibble on the extreme margins of dissent. But if the early signs are to be believed, Arab print journalism may yet enjoy its own revival.

You’re mistaken if you’re sensing judgment on this page. Mine are just fleeting ruminations about a pocket of Arab history that left most of us in lament about the terrible choices we weaved for ourselves.

Those who loved Ghassan—gems, warts and all, like me--will have no trouble tracing the man’s grace in a life teeming with brave stands, fortitude, wiliness, love, humor, sadness, lapses and contradictions.

Rest in peace, amou Ghassan. An eternity without pain—at long last!

Feeling Good and Bad about Umm al Dunya?

Thoughts on Egypt

It’s a sign of our extraordinary times that you could—and without appearing remotely stupid--feel at once good and bad about Egypt.

The frantic twists and turns of revolt jerk you between dread and anticipation. Adding to the frenzy are the many meanings that accompany every event and the many implications that haunt each one of them. There are those who suspect that Egypt is not in genuine flux and that this is all part of an elaborate show by the old guard to reclaim the initiative. The more plausible explanation is that it is, and what in fact we are experiencing is the tension borne out of a country on the edge which hasn’t quite made up its mind to jump.

Some would call this the inevitable tug of war between revolution and counterrevolution. That’s another easy one, neatly pitting two forces against one another and giving each its slogans and stark colors. The endless barrage of rumors, the intrigue that hovers like a mist over Tahrir, the many cards the SCAF is still holding close to its heart, the barely concealed eagerness of the Muslim Brotherhood to deal, the erratic temperament of the rebels, the it-could-be-this and then again it-could-be-that quality of the general political discourse… all these, they say, are the unmistakable symptoms of a stuttering revolt and a tenacious “deep state” reinforcing its dikes.

“Whatever!” as an Egyptian friend of mine has recently fallen into the habit of repeating like a mantra.

There is, of course, a very heated conversation going on in Egypt, but it is not between protagonists standing on opposite sides of the divide, but between the yearnings and dreams and fears and hopes that keep jumping camps, blurring the lines between enemies and friends and wreaking havoc even within the soul itself. Messy situations are the stuff of revolutionary tumult, one is tempted to surmise, but there is more to it than that. This is a furious people, no doubt, fed up with much of the past but very tentatively feeling their way forward.

This is indeed the changing face of Egypt, and its children haven’t quite decided how much of the new they want to take on and how much of the old they need to hold onto. There is nothing assuredly upbeat about this picture, but the visage is beautiful all the same. Egypt is in pain, traumatized, angry, and unusually defiant but still not free from its old masters’ embrace. That’s the idea, conspiracy talk might persuade you, and who wants to argue with ghosts and shadows? Anyone watching Egypt closely will see the keen turn of the pen of a people reimagining a future once deemed foreordained.  

I was in Cairo last week, right after the first round of the presidential elections. The results tickle and unnerve. Most pundits, not surprisingly, are churning out the easiest takes: the fast one that might have been pulled on the Egyptian voter, leading to a run off between Mubarak—yes, Mubarak!--and the Muslim Brotherhood, the same two old geezers that have dominated state and society for the last 40 years. Politics as usual, the evidence screams, is alive and well on the Nile. Even if you were generous enough to consider the MB’s strides as genuinely “subversive,” the stubborn continuities in the political scene seem to mock the pace and depth of the revolution. At first look, the choice today appears as ugly as it was before January 2011: “Despotism in the name of the state versus despotism in the name of religion,” as leftist candidate Hamdin Sabbahi aptly described it.

And yet, as muddied as the results were, intriguingly they do still tell tales about that changing face of Egypt. In its simplest version, the unfolding setting is of a perky if harried nation that has moved on and a pummeled status quo (the MB included) trying very hard to reconstitute the many shattered pieces of itself.

The politics, by turns volatile and predictable, fascinates. Discussions with friends and colleagues are like miniature impressions of a much larger patchwork. One boycotted the entire process; another struggled between candidates till the very last second, while her “capitalist” parents went with socialist Khaled Ali; a third voted for Sabbahi but will void the ballot in the final round; a fourth voted the same but will go for Ahmad Shafiq this time around… All are bona fide members of the Square, two are longstanding activists...--voters freely strolling up and down the electoral map.

Remarkably, while the elections’ many perceived flaws have further undercut the struggling legitimacy of the political system, they have nowhere touched the deeper trends revealed by these same elections. And, paradoxically, all that went wrong and right about the vote bodes equally bad for the two players that stand behind Shafiq and Mohammad Mursi, the first round’s two winners.  

While the SCAF has to brace itself now for possibly yet another resurrection of Tahrir Square, made more likely by the latest court verdicts that essentially acquitted the security apparatus, the Muslim Brotherhood has to contend with results that brought in Mursi first and last. Around 25% of a low 46% voter turnout and 10% of total eligible votes is a lousy return on an 80-year old investment. This after a grueling campaign as well that dragged God himself down into the muck of the political arena.

This unimpressive performance may not have immediate connotations for the MB’s ability to keep racking up political positions like so many trophies, but it does say plenty about the kind of influence it will be able to wield through those pulpits.

It might be sometime before we can fully discern the vote’s significance for the crucial question of Islam and identity that has harangued us Arabs for the better part of the 20^th century. But at this palpably low level of enthusiasm for the Brothers and their plans--a revelation that is but one of many pointing to the challenges unleashed by the emerging political climate—we can more forcefully caution against the rush of ill-considered warnings about Islamism overtaking Arab life.

The primacy of Islam is settled, the argument has it, even among vociferous secularists. There are no ifs anymore in this contested realm, just the hows. One school of thought, different branches. One heaven, different floors. One hydra, different heads. One solution, different applications. The same plate, different recipes…

But, in fact, for years now, there have been clear signs that Arab identity—no less than the Iranian one--is infinitely more capacious than Islamism would like it to be. As Professor Assef Bayat argues, post-Islamist currents within many Islamist movements or regimes are in their essence a response to societies’ insistence on pushing the boundaries. In describing post-Islamism as both a condition and a project, Bayat proposes that its aspiration is “to turn the underlying principles of Islamism on its head by emphasizing rights instead of duties, plurality in place of a singular authoritative voice, historicity rather than fixed scriptures, and the future instead of the past.“ In other words, it promises the end of the Islamist experiment itself.

Presidential contender Abd al Muni’m Abu al Fotouh, dubbed a post-Islamist by many of his admirers, often declares that Islam has won as part of his message that it is time to close the file on Islam’s place in public life. In long evolving landscapes now finally accommodating and possibly nurturing a much more vibrant kind of participatory politics, we will have the chance to find out what Islam has won exactly. But the Egyptian election results tell us that, far from being over, the real debate over the matter of identity has just begun.

Marwan Bishara's The Invisible Arab.

There is a stunning passage in Marwan Bishara’s The Invisible Arab that sings like a canary:

As for the internal, it is about doing something that is changing; to change the society, and we have to keep up with the change, as a state and as institutions. You have to upgrade yourself with the upgrading of society. There must be something to have this balance. This is the most important headline…internally, there must be a different kind of changes: political, economic, and administrative. These are the changes that we need. But at the same time you have to upgrade the society and this does not mean to upgrade it technically by upgrading qualifications. It means to open up the minds. Actually, societies during the last three decades, especially since the eighties have become more closed due to an increase in close-mindedness that led to extremism. This current will lead to repercussions of less creativity, less development, and less openness. You cannot reform your society or institution without opening your mind. So the core issue is how to open the mind, the whole society, and this means everybody in society including everyone. I am not talking about the state or average or common people.  I am talking about everybody; because when you close your mind as an official you cannot upgrade and vice versa.

This is the remarkable Bashar Assad distilling for us the essence of the past 50 years of Arab politics: an oafish, strangely featherbrained kind of despotism that reduced the very serious business of leadership to utter nonsense--a thing as devastating as the whip it came with.

Not that we Arabs were not in on the cruel joke from the outset. It’s not by coincidence that Syria’s most famous fictional character is the prankster Ghawwar al-Tosheh, whose singular mark was in acting out the gibberish that Arab life had become under systems hell bent on turning the day into a conundrum.

Reading Bashar above is reminiscent of listening to Ghawwar’s sidekick, Husni Barzan, in the 1971 smash hit series Sah al Nawm (Good Morning!) penning his never finished article thus: if you want to know what is in Italy, you have to know what is in Brazil.”

As Bishara would have it, this is the overarching narrative of the Arab revolts: marauding dictatorships “whose practice is antithetical to any sense of human progress…”  Over decades, a sneaking suspicion about “Arab exceptionalism”—that somehow we were impervious to history’s forward march—grew into conventional wisdom, and not only among observers looking on with bemusement, but also by many an Arab looking out in lament. Arab authoritarianism, it was thought, had built up a sturdy house with no exits because Arabs had it in them to succumb, surrendering body and soul, mind and voice.

Those who have consistently rejected the very idea of this exceptionalism are now basking in the sun. And The Invisible Arab’s contention that the source of the region’s quandaries is “political par excellence” draws breath from these rejectionists’ counter argument. The past 50 years were not foreordained, Bishara is saying, but the handiwork of post-colonial viscerally illiberal regimes whose lethal ambition has been to bend state and society to personal whim and wont. That foreign patrons found much to capitalize on and benefit from such regimes made the Arabs’ predicament all the more difficult to overcome. On its face, the point may seem unoriginal, and yet the extent to which Arab exceptionalism still underpins expert opinion on the area justifies the importance Bishara attributes to it. 

In fact, The Invisible Arab is at its most resonant when reconstructing the building blocs of Arab misery that pinned down much of the 20^th century: colonialism’s noxious legacy that found continuity in post-colonial Western interests and policies; “taryeef al sulta” (the pastoralization of authority) as rural, army men overturned a feeble old order and countryside rode roughshod over metropolis; the relentless assault on the embryonic civil state, on citizenship itself; the gross mismanagement of economies that left entire new generations searching helplessly for an education that made sense and a job that allowed for a decent living; the rise of Islamism in landscapes cleansed of all other trends…

These are all elements of a history over which even warring ideologies would nod more or less in consent. Bishara thus describes more than he dissects, and he does that rather well. Equally, that rulers had grown “impatient, insolent and exhausted,” and that the people had simply had enough of humiliation and crumbs, Bishara compellingly echoes in the book, wrapping up with the prelude to revolt.

But, ultimately, Bishara’s pen aims for the sum-up more than the lingering analysis, and hence travels only the surface of a very rich and varied terrain. Nuance is inevitably lost along the way, acutely felt in the Jordanian case, where, ironically, an intra-elite squabble gets the better of a monarchy spared the more dangerous street-level action of the Arab uprisings. More significantly, Bishara’s take on his “miracle generation,” the Arab youth who managed to break the cycle of defeat and resignation, would have benefited from deeper probing. Spotlighting the social media’s impact on them, he states, more than speculates, that ”the Arab youth increasingly comprised a modern, transitional tribe that bypassed borders, religion, and social strata…. [they] transcended traditional hierarchy in favor of open and pluralistic characteristics.” There is little doubt that the youth have been critical drivers of the revolts, indeed somersaulting over the many barriers that walled in their parents, which is precisely why unshackling them from the stuff that inundates identity and thought, not to mention life, cries out for more than the sweeping assertion.

****

It’s not surprising that the Bishara’s of this world—seasoned commentators and pundits—should want to weigh in on the surprise of the century, although the sheer velocity of developments and unpredictability of the moment argue for patience and—frankly—studied silence. But this is the age of rapid response: never let a thought, however tiny, go by unmentioned, God forbid. In times of confusion in the midst of tumult, why not a perspective to drill rays of light in the unbearable fog?

The temptation is clear and understandable, but the fear that is no less obvious is that soon enough too much will have been said and too little of it will have survived the turn of events.

For Bishara, al-Jazeera English’s senior political analyst, the urge starts the book itself: “This is an essay about the fall and rise of the Arabs. It is an attempt to understand how their revolutions evolved. What went right, why it is paramount, and how it could still go terribly wrong.” There is no specific ideological prism through which Bishara sets out the plot, just the unmistakably upbeat conviction that the rage we are witness to portends the eclipse of a harrowing era and is proof of the Arabs’ will to take up the fight.

And Bishara has a bone in this fight. His style is close to the heart, oftentimes a mix of romance and oratory. The I is not shy of declaring itself on a page punctuated by authorial predilections and unencumbered by too many footnotes or details of fact. Polls and statistics are thrown in without the usual references, at times giving the text less the feel of an essay than the impromptu remarks of a man in the midst of a heated conversation.

None of this need be a drawback, but Bishara’s is a daunting challenge, when this is 2012, and the so-called revolutions are still nursing in their crib. Which perhaps explains why the book is rather steady on the prologue to those and is uneven on what comes next and how specifically it might express itself. Bishara, alas, is at his most rushed, opting for the checklist approach, when the reader would have liked him to be more deliberate in offering a more measured outlook. And while there is everything admirable in striking a hopeful note in a space too crowded with doomsday scenarios, Bishara’s surefooted optimism often is oddly out of sync with the pitfalls of which he is at least rhetorically mindful. We therefore find him “convinced that the future belongs to the democratic majority of youth and women,” even as he races through the counterrevolutionary forces poised to make it all still “go terribly wrong.” Some of these he gets right, but his treatment of them is casual enough to give his entire take on post-revolution a blithe appearance that renders the book’s foray into the future significantly less artful than its walk through the past.

To the very real threat that reactionary Gulf monarchies pose to “revolution,” Marwan offers this curious warning as if the fight is already won: “If certain Arab monarchies persist in their attempt to resist or sabotage reform and change, the new Arab democracies will need to rally together as a league of Arab democracies.” If Bishara is that certain of victory, it would help if the rest of us were brought up to speed on how these new democracies actually beat the odds.

About Israel, Saudi Arabia and Iran’s intrigues against heaving locales, Bishara is similarly confident because, “these regional powers’ conflicting agendas will prevent them from jointly conspiring against them.” How such colliding interests might cancel out the havoc that each of these powers could still unleash, Bishara leaves unanswered. 

On the would-be Turkish Model, the current darling of every Western policy maker and his mother, Bishara is at once coyly enthusiastic and jarringly cursory. He states that “Turkey has inspired cooperation and coordination while Tehran has orchestrated confrontation and conflict, especially with the West,” a bizarrely naive statement for an analyst who knows that the role these two countries play is largely a function of their place on the geopolitical map, their relationship with the West, especially the United States, and the history that has long defined both. Moreover, since Bishara is clearly aware of the West’s exploits in the Middle East, why does he think cooperation with it a more commendable approach than confrontation? And what kind of cooperation does he have in mind exactly?

And so it goes for a whole range of obstacles and propositions already making life hard for Arab revolutionaries who, of course, do not speak with one voice. It could well be that Bishara, eager to stay in the moment, wanted to just touch on these--for the record, so to speak. All the same, the effect is that of an author who lines up many of the usual suspects but can’t quite decide what to do with them.

However, the most inexplicable omissions in The Invisible Arab are those that could have given it a unique flavor and strength. In the most puzzling pass over of all, Bishara chooses to remain mum about al-Jazeera as one of Qatar’s most celebrated, not to mention increasingly controversial, foreign policy instruments. His delicate position is understandable, and the impact on the book is all the more resounding because of it. Bishara does offer negative (and well deserved) commentary on Saudi Arabia’s reactionary push back against the Arab revolts, which renders his silence on the palpably more audacious role of Qatar, another unabashedly conservative Gulf monarchy, particularly unpersuasive.

Still more, although he devotes some attention—and praise--to the “Jazeera effect,” the station’s unprecedented push in bringing revolution to Arab homes, he does not take the opportunity to address some of the more salient criticisms of its uneven coverage of the uprisings, nor does he probe the coverage as an extension of Qatar’s foreign policy. Libya stands out in this unfolding story. While Bishara shares that “there was disinformation regarding Gaddafi’s early bombing of Tripoli, use of mass rape as a weapon…,” conveniently, he fails to point out that it is al-Jazeera itself that observers hold most culpable in spreading such disinformation. (For more on the coverage, read Hugh Roberts’ “Who Said Gaddafi Had To Go,” London Review of Books, Nov 17, 2011). His very brief acknowledgment that the Qatari station “has seen serious internal disagreement within its editorial leadership and made some poor calls and judgment,” not surprisingly, manages to pique the reader’s curiosity while failing to fig leaf Bishara’s decision to skip the subject.

In the end, however, Bishara did not write The Invisible Arab for those who have already invested serious time and thought on Arab history and politics, but for those who are playing catch up—an unenviable position in these confusing times which Bishara succeeds in making less disorienting.

Those who Leave and Those Who Stay

On Lebanon's war and its residues

At a dinner party back in 1995, I had the fortune of sitting next to a professor who braved the entirety of the Lebanese civil war. As I began to share my encounters with the many ills of Lebanon, the professor’s cut down was immediate: “Where do you get off lecturing us about this country’s problems? You left. We stayed. You Lived. We died. We know about pain. You don’t. We are not remotely interested in what you have to say.”

The message was clear. I had opted out of mayhem. Opting back in came with strings attached: silence.

The good professor didn’t know that my family had left way before the civil war, driven out during Lebanon’s supposed heyday by my father’s secular politics, of all sins. He just assumed that we had abandoned ship, and I was content not to stir up that other pot.

So, my riposte was simple: “Absence is no less a casualty of war, professor. We both, each in our own way, endured loss. And just as there is no shame in my family’s decision to turn our back on sectarian bloodshed, there is no honor in yours to live with it.”  

And so it has been, astonishingly, at every other dinner party for the better part of two decades. Last week, as I sat chatting in the living room, the same argument had again erupted at the dinner table between a friend who had recently moved back and another who’d never left. As the upstart proceeded to enumerate this town’s countless aggravations—just as bad today as they were 20 years ago-- the veteran’s retort mimicked the professor’s.

Of the many walls that civil strife erects between a warring people, the one between those who stay and those who leave is perhaps the most fraught with overtones of betrayal. For the former, it’s as if a sense of ownership and belonging is forfeited at the moment of departure, and embraced and claimed—exclusively--at the decision to stay put. For the latter, it’s as if the residents’ conscience had died along with the country’s.

But, of course, never cut such a clean line through dichotomies that mean to carve up life. There are plenty of people who lived the worst of the war and are unrelentingly critical of Lebanon’s self-inflicted tragedies. And then there is the Shawarma Effect, as a chum hilariously described the phenomenon once: happy returnees who land, have their first shawarma sandwich and, faster than you could say “ya hmar!” (you donkey!), drop every good habit picked up in exile, including that silly one of not treating your country as a whorehouse or a garbage dump.

Truth be told, this Lebanese conversation is everywhere you go. “You don’t like it here, leave!” echoes through many a heated exchange between long timers and newcomers in moments of crisis. Citizenship is a hierarchy with unspoken rules of conduct. With right must come gratitude, with equality deference, with freedom quiescence. But, to my mind, what makes this story uniquely Arab and Lebanese is the scandalous assault on citizenship that it does reveal. For regimes that have reduced the state to a personal fiefdom, a family-run affair, the motherland is akin to, say, a restaurant: much like you have no business frequenting a joint to complain openly about the food, you have no business hanging around in your country if its behavior is not to your liking.

And hence, the ease with which accusations of betrayal come, and the defensiveness that accompanies the invitation to leave. Pride in one’s national identity becomes politics of the most partisan kind, the mere call for change incitement.

“Stop complaining and do something about it!” has a welcome place in this argument. It may, in fact, have underwritten much of the potentially radical change we are witnessing today in Egypt and Tunisia. It may even explain—at least partly--the surprising resilience of Syria’s own citizens against a state which has long been hacking at the fundamentals of proper governance as viciously as it has at dissent.

One would have thought that Lebanon might have escaped as the exception, Hobbesian as its jungle is. But sectarianism’s mugging of civil society and the state turned out to be infinitely more effective than Arab authoritarianism’s. Here you might not die or go to jail should you choose to engage in civic action. Instead, you get to run around in circles, or etch beauties in quicksand. Those who complain and actually do something about it finally find themselves having to shape their own little islands of excellence--mighty work that puts to shame a small country--but the effect is that of bubbles floating over a swamp.

The saddest bit about Lebanon is that while it might be the least cruel Arab system towards those who are very eager to change things, it is perhaps the most indifferent towards them.

“You talk like a tourist,” once a friend, who is passionate about this place, told me when I vented about Lebanese corruption. This time around I chose to keep my mouth shut lest my answer do away with the friendship. All I could think of was that famous Arab proverb: “ Wa min al hubi ma qatal.”

“From a certain kind of love, death.”

What Exactly is Going on in Syria?

The Missing Narrative

It was bound to happen. A standoff over Syria! One big prize, two clashing camps, two contrived narratives and a singularly cynical game that has shoved out of the arena anyone and anything remotely moral or principled or ethical or halfway decent about Syria.

Bashar, as they like to say in gringo land, is one lucky S.O.B. Syria simmered while the rest of us got to watch the Egyptian, Tunisian, Libyan, Bahraini and Yemeni scenarios—and each is indeed a scenario unto itself—unfold, leaving along the way a trail of instructive lessons, and not only for the Chinese and Russians.

No one, least of all us Arabs, plunged into this uproarious year expecting only the best of intentions or outcomes. Opportunities here, even a sentiment as ridiculously novel as hope, come with warning signs stamped all over them. Only this raw fact could be relied upon as a constant from the moment the people began to openly demand something different, better.

The push for change in this region was always going to be messy, complicated and morally taxing, forcing good souls into terrible choices. Do you remember that scene in Sophie’s Choice, when the Nazi officer at the train station, with the trains waiting to depart for his killing fields, asks Meryl Streep to pick between her son and daughter? “Take the girl! Take the girl!” she finally cries out, when the officer was about to take both.

Only the matter of an unbearably hard existence that finally prompted rage to dare rise against variously vicious Arab systems can be romanticized in the current mayhem. The rest of the story is all about the unavoidably distasteful and hardnosed haggling between the shapers of our future destiny. What the uprisings have so far achieved for the people is a possible seat at the table. And that for some of our patrons is already offensive enough.

Long before the blatantly opportunistic Syrian Muslim Brothers or comically inept Syrian National Council (SNC) or the “fictional” Free Syrian Army (FSA) pretended to believe in the righteousness of Western intervention, the genuinely Syrian and unarmed uprising was racing towards that most God awful question: What will we do, who could we turn to when the going gets really tough with a monstrously tough regime?

And imagine, just imagine, a possibly “revolutionary” mood in the Arab world, with regional and international forces happy to cheer on or tusk-tusk from the sidelines. Imagine something even more extraordinary: Qatar and Saudi Arabia wanting and seeking change in Syria because they’re just appalled by Assad’s brutality and are so very keen on a “democratic” Syria. But imagine something even more extraordinary still: that the people’s battle could actually be won without foreign powers squeezing and isolating, through sanctions and other such non-military means, Assad Inc.

I am not asking you to suspend your disbelief just to score a rhetorical point. I am calling on those making the arguments for each side to actually make them. Because those who warn against foreign intervention, as a matter of principle, and those demanding it, as a matter of life and death, have conveniently elected to sidestep the context that makes the Syrian case the ugly dilemma that it is. 

The very sad truth for the Syrians--for all of us Arabs--is that there is no easy or honorable answer. That’s why practically every single article is so rich with why or why not and conspicuously poor on the practical options left to a people approaching midnight.

The sorriest irony about Syria is that the chatter is all about foreign intervention, or what is referred to as the next best thing—arming the opposition--when, from the outset, neither was ever an option for the powers that be. Because Syria is not Libya, as numerous experts continue to point out, foreign military intervention is just not feasible, while militarizing the rebellion would be tantamount to lighting up Syria, the one scenario everybody wants to avoid at all costs. If Bashar understood one thing, he understood this, and then cleverly proceeded to turn the uprising into a military conflict, inflaming sectarian divisions, egging on vengeance, radicalizing Islamist insurgents, mining minorities’ fears, and pushing regional and international forces to confront the one eventuality they were least keen on for the country.

Astonishingly, the so-called anti-imperialist camp is obsessing about foreign military intervention as if that is the only door open to foreign meddlers. The fact is the West already has quit a bit of what it wants, as I wrote back in May. For them, a weak Bashar is almost as good as a gone Bashar, because the Assads’ regional weight was always an extension of their internal strength. Undercut the latter and you will have contained the former. And that is where Bashar is today: isolated, embattled, trapped and economically enfeebled, with time and energy only for saving his and his family’s neck.

True, the Qataris and Saudis gradually became keen on regaining Syria for the Sunnis, but that, for the West, is hardly a prerequisite to stealing Iran’s (and Hezbollah’s) thunder.

As for Russia, the US, Qatar, the Arab League, the UN and that great piece of theater, regrettably, of all the impertinences we’ve been hearing about, the only one that counts is that of the West insisting that Russia cede its cards in Syria as well, because, you see, it’s all a matter of principle. 

Standoff!

Syrians are dying and will continue to die in greater numbers as Assad stacks up for himself enough chips for that ultimate bargain. And bargain he will. Russia came in to help him do precisely that. Of course, it is all high stakes and very risky, but then that’s what Syria has always been about.

Meanwhile, bizarrely, seasoned observers continue to busy themselves in heated discussions about the pros and cons of foreign intervention, when Syria, whatever it was, is already lost. Soon, brace yourself for the horse-trading, out of which we will begin to see the shape of the new Syria—hopefully still intact.

One Arab's Post-it on the Arab Revolt

Caution: this is not an update.

It’s come to this for the Arab revolt. To be gawked at, poked, bullied, pushed this way and that, pitied by some, feared by many and truly befriended only by die-hards.

It’s not just strangers who gape in wonderment. The locals as well are at once riveted and unnerved by the beast. It’s been, what? 12 months--an ant’s scream out there in the wilderness, but never mind that--a roaring millennium in web years and this creature still won’t reveal its actual colors.   

And so, the guessing game must proceed, because, well…because it simply must proceed. I am not being ironic here. People, decent people, make a serious living off of it. For all I know, the whole world ticks because of it. And, as is our wont, the more uncertain the moment, the more incessant our need to pound it to death and render it benign and reassuringly familiar.  

I suppose, if only for effort, the professionals—journalists, hacks, pundits, anthropologists…--should be thanked. Except that they’re flailing as they hold all ten fingers to the wind, and left with very little to fall back on, they’ve begun to hang on, for dear life, to the same themes.

For a while now, I’ve been feeling like a beggar in these revolts. I go from site to site, rag to rag, pundit to pundit, mind in hand, looking for the rare informed opinion in the piles of junk. There is something distinctly unusual about this upheaval (as Egypt’s SCAF keep discovering after every bold decision turned gaffe), and yet, remarkably, most of the literature divides between déjà vu (been there, done that) and something wicked this way comes.

Often, friends call me as they sit stunned, not from living the revolts but from reading about them. While the Aluf Benn’s of this world can’t quite keep a lid on their overzealous imagination and predict--for sure--a total breakup of the postcolonial Middle East (except for Israel, of course), the Robert Kaplan’s see little more than a “crisis of centralized authority.” Sort of like, “Oh, Jesus, shit, you’re dying;” vs. “Take these! And get a grip on yourself, will you, woman!” after which comes the knowing look back and,” I’ll call ya in the morning,” before the door slams shot.

But these are the ones singing at the door of the echo chamber. The hum inside is all about Islamist upsurge and the equally revelatory it’s one thing to remove a dictator, it’s another to change a regime, which swells into a rapturous crescendo with, we really don’t know what will happen, but, since this is the Arab world, this may well turn out to be a tempest in a Turkish coffee cup. Which actually works out just fine, because the Turkish Model is the best of the available wannabes and the Arab Muslim Brothers are happy to do business even if they look so damn hairy. Win, win, when you think about it—for the West, at least.

Then, inevitably, comes the mind-numbing repeat of the same question: Will they or will they not play nice? After which come the tricky answers to it: yes, no, yes and no, with the same, exact reasons reappearing in different paragraphs in different articles.

Just like that, a year of revolts and we already have a body of consensus, which, soon enough, will solidify into groupthink and then finally cement as conventional wisdom.

Too bad, because—I don’t know? I could be wrong—it seems like the surface has barely been scratched and already vital questions are being left by the wayside for societies in genuine flux. For example, silly as it may sound, what exactly does an Islamist upsurge mean? Would, say, less than 40% of eligible voters qualify as an upsurge, or might it suggest an intriguing twist in the electoral system that lands you with a much bigger slice of parliament than of life? I wonder if it would not make sense to look into who voted for whom and why? (Here are a few hints from Gallup). And where, dare we ask, might these interesting factoids fit in this stimulating discourse?

In the Middle East and North Africa, SMEs [small and medium sized companies] comprise the most substantive part of the economy: there are 12 million SMEs, which make up 95 percent of the private sector… In Egypt, these enterprises account for about 75 percent of total employment and 80 percent of the gross domestic product.

Nothing major, a few questions for more nuance and added insight, so that when the brave types leap into judgments and fall flat on their faces they have something soft to cushion the crash.

Truth be told, there are the rare wise voices reduced, alas, in this din of mad harmony, to whispers. I do need to name names, just because I am so grateful: Peter Harling of the International Crisis Group, Nicholas Pelham of MERIP and the New York Review of Books, Mona el-Ghobashi of Barnard, Khalil Anani of Durham University, along with a few merciful others. (By all means, feel free to click on the links).

Then there is the tempo of these dizzying times which we Arabs get from those, like us, who are living them day in, day out. Raw footage, I call it; or, to borrow from the Economist’s review of Ahdaf Soeif’s new book, Cairo: My City, My Revolution, those “well-observed details [that] have an unmistakable ring of truth…revisionist historians ignore…at their peril.”

But, really, when it comes down to it, what makes these revolts especially intriguing for us Arabs is the utter disarray into which our own clairvoyants have fallen. Once upon a time, we were not meant to tell the difference between conspiracy and conviction, between high principle and base interest, between rhetoric and action. Now, once immovable ideologues are jumping all over the place, ostensible democrats are offended, Islamists are having to discover the meaning of victory (although the West seems to have figured it all out) and brothers in arms are parting company.

The rules are a changing and, for a people who have been stuck for so long in the trenches, that alone is liberating enough. 

Rest in Peace, Nassib Lahoud!

Two years ago, over dinner with a couple of this town’s star journalists, a friend asked me, ”Who is the one Lebanese politician you would miss when gone?” I didn’t skip a beat: “Nassib Lahoud.”

My friend’s devastating comeback was equally swift. “But poor Nassib is already dead.”  

That has always been the tragedy of Lebanon. Decency here is a certain kind of death. And much of what made Nassib Lahoud so magnificent in life and yet so unpromising in politics was his decency.  Remarkably, it was only one of his many handicaps as a politician.  His incorruptibility, his non-sectarianism, his visceral distaste for violence, his peculiar deference to principle made him universally admired but rendered him fundamentally peripheral when it came to the hard politics of this hard place.

I often yearned for Nassib to be more passionate, feistier, wilier, louder. But I was wrong. His was the quiet method, and he loved Lebanon enough not to succumb to her ugly ways.

Of this country’s countless failings, perhaps the most ruinous is her cruel indifference towards her children. And how cruel she has always been to the likes of Nassib, and how kind and generous he was in return.

I knew Nassib and loved him. I know Lebanon, and I am so desperate to love her.

I mourn him today. But I mourn Lebanon even more for her loss.