Pointless days for Hezbollah

You have to wonder when Prime Minister Najib Mikati will use the single weapon he has, a threat of resignation, to impose some order on that ghastly assemblage some insist on calling a government.

When March 14 demanded that Mikati resign some weeks ago, the idea sounded, justifiably, terrible. The fighting in Tripoli had started, and it was no time for Lebanon to enter into a governmental vacuum. Nor, in the present political mood, is there any chance that Hezbollah and Michel Aoun will accept a technocratic, or a neutral, government to replace the one that they dominate. In other words, the proposal of March 14 was political, designed to embarrass Mikati, and made in the full knowledge that it would not be taken seriously.

However, Mikati has done himself no favors since then. The situation has morphed from ruinous into catastrophic. A major part of the problem is that Hezbollah appears to be going through a schizophrenic seizure, as it tries to both stabilize the political system and has simultaneously destabilized it, so as to guarantee that it retains the initiative over a perceptibly disgruntled Shia community.

What does Hezbollah offer its flock these days? It dominates the government, but cannot even give its supporters electricity. In recent weeks the cutting off of roads has troubled the party, as it has struggled to contain the spontaneous rage, and it may even be seen as partly responsible for the abysmal condition of the power sector.

At the same time, the crime rate in Lebanon, especially in Shia districts, has sharply risen. Shia throughout the Middle East, notably in the Gulf, have been targeted as pariahs because of their alleged sympathy for Iran. Hezbollah has been unable to liberate the Shia pilgrims kidnapped in Syria. And almost daily there seems to be an armed confrontation in the southern suburbs, usually between untamed Bekaa families, which Hezbollah has been unable to prevent.

Does this mean the party is losing support? Perhaps not in a decisive way. But it does show that Hezbollah can be just as mediocre when it comes to governing Lebanon as anyone else, even as the patience of the Shia community is fraying. The party can manage big issues, but has never been adept at managing smaller bread and butter issues.

Which makes you wonder: Is the mobilization of Shia youths in recent days on behalf of Wissam Alaeddine, the arsonist caught after trying to set the Al-Jadeed TV station alight, an effort by Hezbollah and the Amal Movement to create an artificial crisis that re-imposes communal solidarity and detracts from their own shortcomings?

It’s difficult to say, but what a disgraceful step down it has been for the purported paragons of the Resistance. Here they are deploying rowdy youths to block roads, making life miserable for all Lebanese, in order to release someone caught on tape committing a crime. The Israelis must be quivering in their boots. Next year in Jerusalem!

And who is it that the Hezbollah and Amal boys are actually demonstrating against? The very government that Hezbollah put together and wants to keep in place until parliamentary elections next year. When the party’s secretary general, Hassan Nasrallah, affirms that he aspires to a “strong state,” he has to explain how the forcible release of Alaeddine would enhance the state’s credibility.

For that matter, how might the Mikati government, or the security forces and army, look after such a decision? Mikati must resign if this blackmail stands. If Alaeddine walks, then I walk, the prime minister has to warn Nasrallah. And if Mikati is reminded that Shadi Mawlawi, who was detained in Tripoli several weeks ago, was released thanks to pressure from the Sunni street, then the prime minister should ask Hezbollah whose side they’re on, before reminding them that Mawlawi’s arrest was a provocation by Syria in coordination with the party, using an organ of the state over which Hezbollah has influence.

Some might argue that Mikati doesn’t have the latitude to resign. The prime minister would respond that he cannot, in good conscience, leave behind a void. Both statements may be true. But the cabinet’s worst enemy is the cabinet itself. We are watching spontaneous combustion, and Mikati is being burned beyond recognition.

Hezbollah’s strategy is to win a parliamentary majority in the elections next year. The party’s intention is to anchor itself in the political system to better navigate through the aftershocks of the Assad downfall. Yet everything its followers are doing is alarming the Christians, whose electoral choices will decide who controls parliament. No one has been more discredited by the road closures and the ambient thuggery in Beirut than Michel Aoun, while his son-in-law has become a lightning rod for discontent in the streets.

Intimidation is Hezbollah’s way of setting markers around its Lebanese foes at a time of great volatility. The Al-Jadeed assault was a reminder to media outlets that criticism of Hezbollah and Amal, or interviews like those with Sheikh Ahmad al-Assir, who has been unsparing in his attacks against Nasrallah, is forbidden. But Hezbollah cannot possibly emerge from these sordid scraps looking better off. Rarely has the party seemed so pointless, and one gets a sense that its followers, loyal as they may be, sense this.

Syria's fragile neighbours still fear Assad's waning power

Here was an irony that only a Syrian nationalist could appreciate. This week it was reported that some 200 Syrians had crossed into Turkey's Hatay province to escape the regime of President Bashar Al Assad. The group included a general, two colonels, two majors and about 30 other soldiers. The province was once a part of Syria, before being occupied by Turkey in 1938 and annexed. For decades, Syrian nationalists have considered Hatay stolen territory.

Now it has become a place of salvation for many Syrians, but also a focal point of the growing tension between Damascus and Ankara - exacerbated in recent days by Syria's downing of a Turkish warplane. On Tuesday, Nato met to discuss the incident, and the signs are that Turkey is moving towards further military involvement in Syria, even as all countries along Syria's border are looking for ways to shield themselves from the fallout of the escalating conflict there.

The destruction of the aircraft came after less publicised antagonistic measures by Syria and Turkey, each of which constituted a casus belli. The Syrian regime has allowed the Kurdistan Workers Party, which has long been engaged in an armed insurgency against Ankara, to set up bases along Syria's border with Turkey. The Turkish government, in turn, has permitted the transit of weapons through its territory to the Syrian opposition, and hosts numerous opposition figures.

After the Nato meeting, Turkey amended its rules of engagement along its southern frontier, announcing that if Syrian troops approached the area, they would be considered a threat. This probably means the Turkish army will set up a de facto safe haven inside Syrian territory, under the umbrella of its guns, in which the opposition will be free to act. For now, this avoids a ground offensive that would alarm Syria's Kurds and most probably bring Ankara into direct confrontation with Iran, a leading backer of Mr Al Assad.

The Syrian regime has tried to destabilise the countries across its borders, particularly Turkey and Lebanon, to protect itself. From Mr Al Assad's perspective, if the international community comes to view the end of his regime as the precursor of a regional explosion, then outside states will back off from pushing for his departure.

This strategy has elicited international anxiety, but it is already turning into a game of diminishing returns. The dynamics of the emerging war in Syria are primarily internal, even if external actors are seeking to protect their stakes in the country. In other words, whatever Mr Al Assad does is only heightening the animosity to his leadership at home, even as his forays into destabilising the region will only confirm that he is a menace who must be toppled.

If there is any international consensus over the Syrian situation, it is that the conflict should not spill over into Syria's neighbourhood, particularly Turkey, Lebanon and Iraq, which are vulnerable because they are all religiously and ethnically mixed.

The state of affairs in Lebanon has well illustrated the dangers of a breakdown, but also the unexpected defence mechanisms guarding against this. Syria was almost certainly involved, through its Lebanese partners, above all Hizbollah, in creating a political stand-off that led to armed clashes in the northern city of Tripoli several weeks ago. Yet Hizbollah, even as it has backed Mr Al Assad in line with its Iranian patron, is also keen to avert a sectarian confrontation in Lebanon, which might ultimately swallow the party.

That is why Hizbollah, for reasons of self interest, has played a crucial role in advocating an continuing national dialogue between Lebanese politicians and parties. No one has any expectations that this will lead to long-term amity, but the sessions are supported by a population profoundly fearful of civil conflict. Hizbollah will bolster the Assads, but it knows that the regime may not be long for this world. Therefore, the party has to prepare for the aftermath and ensure that it does not find itself isolated in Lebanon.

Lebanese efforts to neutralise the unrest in Tripoli and the after-effects of frequent transgressions by Syria's army along the border have shown that Syria's influence in Lebanon is waning. However, the relationship between the Lebanese religious communities is hardly reassuring. For the foreseeable future, the country will have to deal with a Sunni community invigorated by Mr Al Assad's difficulties, and a Shia community bracing for the loss of an ally whose downfall will raise fresh fears of communal marginalisation.

On Tuesday, for instance, gunmen apparently affiliated with the Amal Movement attacked a television station that had broadcast an interview with a Salafist sheikh who has been highly critical of the two Shia parties. Precisely what role the leaderships of the two parties had in the violence is unclear, but it did show how precarious the security situation in Lebanon has become.

In an effort to express European concern, last week three European foreign ministers - Karl Bildt of Sweden, Nikolay Mladenov of Bulgaria and Radoslaw Sikorski of Poland - visited Beirut together. One message they brought was that the Lebanese have to pursue the national dialogue. The Europeans, and indeed most other countries, are notably worried about the passage of weapons into Syria through Lebanon. But preventing this is not easy. Sunnis in the north of the country will not end assistance to their Syrian brethren when they see that Hizbollah has for years benefited from weapons supplies delivered through Syria, and retains near autonomous military status.

The grinding collapse of Syria will continue to buffet the countries nearby. But amid the gloom there are glimmers of common sense, as no one truly wants to follow Syria's path. Common sense, and fear, are not enough to guarantee peace, but sometimes they go a long way.

Must we admit to a civil war in Syria?

Few political debates are more divisive than the one over whether a country is in a civil war. When the killing began in Lebanon in 1975, many Lebanese took offense at the suggestion that this was a civil war. The same was true of Iraqis after the American invasion in 2003. Now, it is Syria that is dividing opinions. So, is Syria in a civil war?

When one moves beyond the emotional aspect of the discussion, the question is not academic. If we cannot properly define a given situation – and the “we” here applies to everyone from policymakers to journalists to Syrian citizens themselves – then we cannot determine the best methods required to address this situation.

Lebanon is a classical example. So powerful was the impulse of the Lebanese to regard their war as one in which they were the mere victims of foreign powers, that there was never any impetus to push forward a postwar reconciliation process. Yes, the Lebanese war did mutate into a succession of conflicts by proxy. Yet this would never have been possible had Lebanese antagonisms not been present.

The late Ghassan Tueni unwittingly contributed to the wall of denial by publishing a book in 1985 titled “Une Guerre Pour les Autres.” In English, this translates into “A War For The Others.” What Tueni meant was that the Lebanese, by fighting among themselves, had effectively become stand-ins for outside actors. However, many people transformed that phrase into “the war of the others,” suggesting that the Lebanese were innocent bystanders in their own disintegration. For years Tueni tried to correct that impression, to no avail.

If societies dislike admitting that they are in a civil war, because it only highlights their destructive impulses, the term is also resisted by politicians and foreign mediators. That’s because conceding the actuality of a civil war limits one’s diplomatic options.

This was evident last week when three European foreign ministers visited Beirut. One of them was noticeably loath to admit that Syria was caught up in a civil war, preferring to describe the situation as one of a savage regime repressing its population. No one had ever believed otherwise. However, state repression, particularly in mixed societies, does not necessarily preclude the presence of civil war.

On the contrary. Take an undeniable instance of civil war, albeit in an ethnically homogeneous country, namely the American Civil War. The Confederacy always interpreted that conflict as a textbook case of hegemony by the North, which had denied the Southern states their constitutional right to secede from the Union. Whether the argument was justified is irrelevant. Civil conflict is frequently the consequence of perceived misrule by a leader or a political or ethnic elite.

There is no black or white definition of civil war. There are degrees of civil war. Those who deny that a civil war is taking place in Syria employ one classification to make their case. They point out, rightly, that we haven’t reached the point of full-scale institutionalization of conflict. We do not see Syrian society mobilized for war, with the Free Syrian Army having rationalized its forces, systematically managing a leviathan of warfare against Bashar Assad’s regiments. We are nowhere near the conflict in the former Yugoslavia, for example, where military campaigns were the work of embryonic states.

But that may be too narrow an outlook by half. Syria may be in the throes of a civil conflict that has not reached a full-fledged civil war. But it makes little sense to reduce the country’s condition to a simplistic narrative of the Assads against the rest. The Alawites from the start have viewed the conflict as a test for communal survival, as have other minorities; and the regime’s crimes have gradually compelled many in the opposition to withdraw to their sectarian identity, even if there are those profoundly reluctant to do so. To simply wish away the civil and social dimensions of the struggle is to set oneself up for bad surprises in the future, when Syria will have to rebuild.

For example, is it in any way sensible to assume that the day after the Assads’ collapse, Syria will rediscover its equilibrium and regain its mislaid unity? Centrifugal impulses have been released, and they are exceptionally potent. Even if Bashar Assad were to flee Damascus tomorrow, a triumphant opposition would face an armed Alawite community seeking greater autonomy in a new Syria. Without doubt the Kurds would refuse to revert to their marginalized status of the past, and would demand some form of self-rule as well. Syria will not soon return to where it was in February 2011, if it ever does.

These are matters that have fundamentally civil consequences, by going to the heart of national identity and cohesion. Syria could fall short of what Lebanon went through during its civil war, as Iraq did. But that does not mean that we have the luxury of engaging in a misdiagnosis. Whether it is the diplomats or the nongovernmental organizations, or above all the Syrian population, all will one day need to collaborate in repairing a fractured and alienated society.

Maybe that is what the Assads wanted. They and their homicidal, kleptocratic clique merit the worst fate. But 15 months into Syria’s revolt, Syrian society is in a very different place than where it once was. Profound rifts have opened up, and they will have to be closed with sensibility and precision. If acknowledging the reality of civil war can help do so, then so be it. A definition should not hold us up.

General electric

I invite you, dear reader, to shine a light (battery power, of course) on a conversation you surely had with the Aounists when Gebran Bassil was first handed the energy portfolio. Invariably, the loyal followers would assert that Lebanon at last had a competent minister.

Competent Bassil doubtless is, though not quite in the way his admirers meant. But when it comes to ameliorating the lot of the Lebanese, Michel Aoun’s son-in-law has been a calamity. Among those most aware of this are Hezbollah’s supporters (and not only them), who are taking to the streets daily to curse his ineptitude.

Earlier this week Aoun himself came to the defense of the son he never had. An irate general declared that everyone was to blame for the abysmal electricity output, which was doubtless correct. Yet if we follow his logic, we can apply that excuse to many other problems the Lebanese have confronted in recent years—problems that Aoun has blamed entirely, without reserve, on his political foes.

More interesting was the undertone of Aoun’s complaint. He was clearly flustered by the fact that the electorate of his Hezbollah partners has been particularly aggressive in denouncing the power cuts, behind walls of burning tires. Remember when the general ordered his followers to block roads to bring down Fouad Siniora’s government starting in 2006? Those tactics are apparently harder to stomach when directed against his own.

Aoun and Hezbollah need each other, and they will continue to collaborate, particularly in the parliamentary elections next year. However, their interests have diverged under the tattered umbrella of Prime Minister Najib Mikati’s government. Nor can the party particularly relish what will likely happen in 2014, when it comes time to choose a successor to President Michel Sleiman.

Many Aounists still believe, against common sense, that their leader will succeed Sleiman as the next president. And they still believe, against past evidence, that Hezbollah will help carry the general to Baabda. In 2008, the party supported Sleiman’s election, and it did not do so because it was pressured to give up on Aoun; Hezbollah did so because it was never its intention to gratify Aoun’s presidential ambitions, even as the party hypocritically, but always in a deniable way, suggested that he was the prime candidate.

Who will be Hezbollah’s choice in two years? Many believe he is Jean Kahwaji, the army commander. Alas, Kahwaji has perpetuated that dismal habit of allowing officers to put up giant portraits of him, in what is an effort to start his election campaign early. Evidently, there are no credible Maronites outside the military, so that at every new presidential election we must face an epidemic of khaki.

Certainly, Kahwaji can pretend to be Lebanon’s savior these days, as the army occupies itself by intervening in gun battles, opening roads, fighting with Palestinian refugees, and what have you. As in 2006 to 2008, the armed forces seem to be the last rampart between what passes for normality and chaos, so expect the army commander to exploit this for all it is worth, just as Sleiman did previously.

How will Aoun react? The general is anxious about his political future. According to Aounists in the Keserwan district, the movement has lost considerable momentum there. Electoral alliances in several districts of Mount Lebanon—with Hezbollah in Baabda and Jbeil, and with the Armenians in the Metn—could decisively bolster the Aounists’ fortunes, but it would also make them vulnerable. If Aoun needs Hezbollah to win a majority in Mount Lebanon next year, his latitude to compel the party to then elect him president will be greatly diminished.

Aoun has only himself to blame. Hezbollah has played him like a fiddle for years, but its links with the general have given him leverage that he never properly took advantage of. Twice, he won a majority of Christian seats in parliament, but has yet seen his appeal decline. Aoun has more ministers in this government than any single Christian politician has ever had, and yet he has made an absolute mess of things—alienating almost all of his cabinet allies, displaying unprecedented greed and annoying even Hezbollah.

And soon, if he is still among us when the next president is selected, Aoun will have to swallow the additional insult of seeing the presidency escape him for a second (even a third) time. That won’t ameliorate his relationship with Hezbollah, but don’t expect the general to find anyone to burn tires in the streets on his behalf.

When the dictator dies a footnote

Did it really matter on Wednesday whether Hosni Mubarak was clinically dead, completely dead, or alive and dying in a suite at a military hospital in Maadi? The death of a dictator is a dramatic moment in the life of a country, and usually one of great duplicity.

Take the death of Syrian President Hafez Assad in June 2000. There were, of course, the requisite street weepers lamenting the departure of the all-embracing father. And yet the burial ceremonies were devoid of sentiment, of any genuine sense of loss. Thirty years of Baathist grayness bequeathed a mourning period of comparable grayness, interrupted by a brief yearning that the son might bring Syria color. But the pampered children of tyrants are usually tyrants themselves, and Bashar Assad has not disappointed in that regard.

Assad’s death reminded us of that of Joseph Stalin. Behind the frenzied sobbing was an unstated frisson of rebirth. When he died in 1953, the Soviet leader left behind a terrible feeling of emptiness, for having filled so much of the nation’s space during three decades of rule. But then many realized that it was not about space, but about oxygen – the oxygen that Stalin had sucked up from his own society; and with his death the population breathed more easily again.

Moammar Gadhafi was the rare Arab autocrat (Iraq’s Nuri al-Said was another) who did not die in his bed – an exception confirming the rule. The revenge he faced was terrible, but it was also unsatisfying. For societies wishing to transcend dictatorship, the ritual slaughter of the leader makes the deconstruction of the previous order much more difficult. How useful it would have been to see Gadhafi before a tribunal, disclosing the myriad networks and methods that kept him on top for so long, exposing those who had facilitated his dominance. Instead, Libyans were offered the sight of a decomposing corpse.

And yet Egypt’s version of authoritarianism was surprisingly subtle. For decades we imagined that Hosni Mubarak was the pharaoh. He was, but over and around him were the timeless mechanisms of the Egyptian state, there to serve the leader, but also to reject him when his hubris threatened to undermine the edifice as a whole.

Mubarak’s desire to hand over to his son Gamal was never going to succeed. Egyptians did not overthrow a dynasty in 1952 to bring another back in the second decade of the 21st century. When the people turned their rage on Mubarak in January 2011, the military considered its options. At stake were the armed forces’ vast interests in Egypt’s economy, but also their annual dividend from the United States. The president tried to maneuver and linger in office, but he failed. The generals gave him a shove and eventually put him on trial, allowing him to be sentenced. But they also had his sons and a bevy of intelligence chiefs declared innocent, avoiding too broad a discrediting of the political system they had so diligently upheld.

Dynastic succession is a way of cheating death, and one of the strange realities of absolute leaders is how tense is their relationship with death. For a long time Arab societies never mentioned death and illness when referring to their leaders. Gadhafi was obsessed with his health, and reportedly pursued eternal youth through various potions; Assad hid the fact that he was dying until the day he expired; Mubarak was no better, even as he increasingly resembled a wax doll in the months before stepping down; and senility was not enough to persuade Tunisia’s President Habib Bourghuiba to retire, until he was ousted by Zine al-Abidine Ben Ali, part of whose legitimacy was initially based on the fact that he was young and spry.

A fundamental aspect of supreme power is the concealment of death. Death is the vulnerability that despots cannot afford to emphasize because it renders them human, and there has to be something supra-human in the imposition of absolute authority over the lives of others.

That is why the profoundest innovation of the Arab uprisings in the past year is that they have obliged despots to confront the reality of their own mortality. Gadhafi provoked a civil war whose logical finale was always going to be either his triumph or his physical elimination. Bashar Assad is marching in the same direction. From the moment Mubarak left the presidency, but opted to remain in Egypt, he knew that his demise would become a public concern, and therefore escape his control. Ben Ali and Yemen’s Ali Abdullah Saleh may have fled in time, but the revitalizing nectar of power is no longer theirs.

Mubarak doesn’t seem to matter any more. As the Egyptian armed forces impose their writ, prompting mass protests from those who fear that the gains of 2011 are being reversed, the old man has become a footnote. Democracy requires much more than this to take hold, but one facet of a more democratic Egypt – or a Syria, Libya and Yemen – is when the death of a leader does not compel society to suddenly stop in its tracks in anticipation of an indefinite future.

The generals, not the dictator, hold the keys to the regime

It is strange how many people today seem surprised by the actions of the Egyptian armed forces, who have consolidated their political supremacy in recent days at the expense of parties and civil organisations that supported the so-called revolution of January 2011.

That's because virtually nothing in what occurred a year and a half ago spelt revolution. Yes, President Hosni Mubarak was forced to step down, and was later arrested with his sons and other officials. But even this, plainly, represented a tactical retreat by the military to preserve its political and economic stakes in the system.

Conflicting reports yesterday indicated that the Mr Mubarak may be at death's door, but after three decades in power, his demise might have little import for Egypt's future. The true test of the success of the Arab uprisings was always about whether they replaced the old order's instruments of repression - principally the army and the security forces, but also the judiciary - with accountable institutions. Amid loose talk of a democratic Arab dawn, there was a tendency among many to trust too much in the intangible democratic genius of the people. Egypt's military council has poured a bucket of cold water on that optimism.

What is it the council intends to do? The dissolution of the Islamist-led parliament, the passage of an interim constitution that concentrates great power in the hands of the military, and the continued imposition of martial law are unquestionably a barely disguised coup. While no winner has officially been declared in Egypt's presidential election, the measures taken by the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces suggest it is preparing for a possible victory by Mohammed Morsi, the Muslim Brotherhood candidate.

According to news reports, the generals will also name the chief of staff of the future president. The military has revived a special national defence council tasked with overseeing security matters, which it will effectively control. Moreover, under the interim constitution, the president has no oversight of the armed forces and the defence minister. Last year, the generals unsuccessfully sought broad prerogatives, which they have now imposed by writ.

That the armed forces could take so provocative a series of steps is not unusual. Post-colonial Arab militaries have been particularly adept at introducing thoroughly outrageous mechanisms of domination, usually ingrained in the social make-up of their societies. In Egypt, the state has historically been strong and society more or less homogeneous, allowing the military to take on the attributes of a supra-national body, extending its tentacles even into the economy.

In Syria, we have also been witnessing the durability of the institutions of repression, albeit from a very different angle than in Egypt. The Syrian army and security forces, or rather the praetorian units with the most sway, are there to uphold Assad family rule, and that of the relatively small clique around them, most of whom are members of the Alawite sect. Yet this power has also rested on a vast, carefully weighed bodyguard of officially institutionalised restrictions and counterweights, which transformed civilian rule (other than that of the senior political leadership) into a chimera.

Years ago, I interviewed an influential Syrian civilian official. In the midst of our conversation, the telephone rang. It was clear from the exchange that an officer was on the other side of the line, and needed a favour. The official actually stood up and spoke with painful deference. Here was as useful an illustration of the embedded superiority of the men with guns as I would ever get.

Ironically, Syria may have a somewhat better opportunity to revamp its army once President Bashar Al Assad leaves office than Egypt has had. While there is more carnage to come, Mr Al Assad's armed forces and security organs, after all the blood that they have shed, cannot conceivably anchor themselves in the system by managing, and hijacking, a political changeover. Rather, the core of any new military institution will be the disparate elements of the Free Syrian Army.

There are definite dangers in such a reality. As the Libyan experience has shown, when a conflict abruptly ends with the fall of a dictator, it can become very difficult for the civilian authorities to reimpose their will over the military actors. The armed opposition to Mr Al Assad is fragmented, and if that persists the centrifugal forces in Syrian society may come to define the post-war order. On the more positive side, we are bound to see a cleaner break with the past than in Egypt.

Even as western countries continue to sterilely debate what should be done about Syria, they don't seem to appreciate enough that a political transition, to be democratic and tolerant, must begin today. If Syria is to enjoy a pluralistic post-Assad era, respect for representative civilian rule, and reform of the army and intelligence services, then any delay in initiating that process may be ruinous.

The splits within the Syrian National Council have not helped. But this need not hinder outside programmes that could ameliorate coexistence in Syria and give hope to the refugees. Some have suggested creating a police force in exile, to take over security once the refugees return. Much could be done to facilitate social reconciliation and contain the understandable impulse that many will feel to resort to revenge once the Assads are overthrown.

In that regard, Egypt provides a cautionary tale. Many observers were so overwhelmed by their profound desire to see change in Cairo, and by the huge crowds, that they didn't realise that they were watching a conjuring trick manipulated by the officers, an illusion designed to perpetuate what had existed before. Follow the money, but follow the guns as well, before predicting too clement an Arab Spring.

No escape from Taif

The National Dialogue sessions are to resume later this month, and the March 14 coalition hopes to bring to the table the matter of Hezbollah’s weapons. Will that undermine the ongoing discussions? Probably not, as there seems to be widespread support in Lebanon for the politicians and political parties to keep channels open.

Yet how might March 14 best address the issue of weapons? One idea that I have long advocated is to shift the parameters of debate with the Shia community and put on the table a quid pro quo: In exchange for implementing Taif, which, by deconfessionalizing parliament, would give Shia greater representation commensurate with their numbers, Hezbollah would be asked to approve a verifiable mechanism to place its weapons under the authority of the state.

Moreover, an open forum on constitutional reform could be proposed to raise a wide variety of additional outstanding issues between the communities. This would include addressing Christian worries about deconfessionalization, establishment of a Senate, formulation of a fairer parliamentary election law and more.

March 14 understandably hesitates when it comes to such proposals. In early June, Hezbollah’s secretary general, Hassan Nasrallah, called for the convening of a constituent assembly that would be tasked with studying ways to build “a true state” capable of providing its citizens with security and economic stability. Whenever Hezbollah talks about security, you know that its overriding objective is to impose a means to legitimize the party’s retention of its weapons.

There are two other fears that March 14 has, and they are equally reasonable. When Nasrallah mentions a constituent assembly, he is, plainly, talking about constitutional changes outside the parameters of the Taif Accord. What would that entail? Most likely, some suggest, a three-way division of seats in parliament between Shia, Sunnis, and Christians (with adjustments for the smaller communities), an idea that has also been floated by Michel Aoun. March 14 believes that Nasrallah and Aoun regard this as a means of installing a structural two-thirds to one-third majority over the Sunni community.

A second worry is that if one begins to talk about integrating Hezbollah’s weapons into the Lebanese state, this will not mean very much if the party comes to control the army and the state. Indeed, Hezbollah’s ambition is to do precisely that, as its strategy today is focused on winning parliamentary elections next year, and following that a year later with the election of a president it favors.

However, Nasrallah is facing a more complicated situation than he imagines. Let us examine the three-way division of power idea. The reality is that a majority of Christians will never endorse such a mad scheme, because it would only formalize their numerical decline by overhauling the current 50-50 ratio of Christians to Muslims in parliament, while handing them nothing tangible in return.

The notion that Christians view their long-term salvation in an alliance with Shia is also absurd—or, for that matter, with the Sunnis. Communal politics is about shifting alliances and interests, not about ganging up on a single community. As ludicrous is the assumption that Aoun influences most Christians in making such choices. Maronites in particular are divided over the fundamental challenges of Lebanese political life, so that prospects for a consensus over a three-way division of parliament seem remote.

But if Christians aren’t willing to see their parliamentary representation cut down in a three-way scheme, some might respond, why would they go along with Taif, which mandates the abolition of sectarian quotas entirely? That’s not an easy question to answer, but Taif has two things going for it: First, it outlines the creation of a Senate, in which the 50-50 communal ratio is preserved, reassuring the Christians; and second, the deconfessionalization of parliament would apply to all communities, meaning Christians would be part of a larger process that offers advantages and disadvantages to all.

In other words, officializing a three-way communal split in parliament introduces rigidity into the system: Christians could never aspire to more than a third of seats, and may find themselves hopelessly outvoted if Sunnis and Shia unite. In contrast, Taif has a sectarian safety net, through a Senate, while imposing no caps on communal representation. And it is not a momentary pastime, the product of a short-term interpretation of political circumstances today as defined by Nasrallah and Aoun.

What of the argument that if Hezbollah controls the state and the army, any plan to place the party’s weapons under the authority of the state and army becomes meaningless? In fact, the state and army are houses of many mansions, mirroring the impossible complexities and contradictions of Lebanese society. It would be hubris on the part of Hezbollah to assume that it could put an indefinite lock on state institutions, especially on an army that has substantial numbers of Sunnis in its ranks. If the party were to accept any measure of state control over its weapons, this would be a valuable wedge to exploit.

March 14 should direct an arms-versus-expanded-political-representation proposition at Shia in general, not just at Hezbollah. This may seem unimportant, even counterproductive, since Hezbollah remains so influential among its coreligionists. However, it is necessary to underline that, ultimately, any negotiations over reform should transcend specific politicians and organizations, and aim toward a broader social contract within and between communities. There is no reason to restrict participation in a national reform project to the major representatives of the communities.

We shouldn’t expect breakthroughs when it comes to Hezbollah’s arms. But March 14 must reaffirm the importance of Taif as the framework for any future negotiations over power-sharing. If that means tying Taif into a debate over weapons, all the better. Nasrallah and Aoun are trying to run away from Taif. We mustn’t let them.