Exclusive - Lebanese Politicians Exploit Sectarianism to Preserve Power

People walk next to a poster of Lebanon's Prime Minister-designate Saad al-Hariri. (Reuters)
People walk next to a poster of Lebanon's Prime Minister-designate Saad al-Hariri. (Reuters)
TT

Exclusive - Lebanese Politicians Exploit Sectarianism to Preserve Power

People walk next to a poster of Lebanon's Prime Minister-designate Saad al-Hariri. (Reuters)
People walk next to a poster of Lebanon's Prime Minister-designate Saad al-Hariri. (Reuters)

Sectarianism controls all aspects of political life in Lebanon. It imposes itself on the scene, from the formation of the government to the appointment of employees.

Take the example of caretaker Education Minister Marwan Hamadeh, who sacked a Christian employee affiliated to the Free Patriotic Movement (FPM). Two FPM ministers retaliated by sacking two Druze officials from their jobs.

It is as if the politicians are seeking to legalize sectarianism and turn it into a commodity that grants its owners more privileges through introducing new norms, such as in the government formation process or the rights of sects in assuming certain ministerial portfolios.

Officials have no shame when it comes to sectarian rhetoric.

Lebanese Forces MP George Akis told Asharq Al-Awsat that politicians started to resort to such rhetoric after the 1989 Taif Accord left the Lebanese with an inconclusive political settlement.

The accord helped end the country’s 1975-90 civil war, but failed to cement the “no victor, no vanquished” formula in Lebanon, added the lawmaker.

Researcher at Information International Mohammed Shamseddine argued that sectarianism in Lebanon dates back to the 1930s.

He told Asharq Al-Awsat that “demographic concerns” imposed the sectarian reality on Lebanon.

Sectarianism has been legalized since 1936 through a decree issued by French High Commissioner Damien de Martel, who approved a sectarian system for Lebanon, he explained. His decree recognized ten Christian sects, five Islamic ones and an Israelite sect. The Christian Anglican sect was added to the system in 1950 and the Coptic one in 1996.

“This system promoted the independence of sects in terms of handling personal, education, medical and social affairs, thereby, forming states within the state,” he continued.

“The collapse and weakening of the state empowered the sects. Citizens felt greater belonging to the sect that they believed provided for their education and medical care,” Shamseddine added. The people felt more protected by their sect than their state.

Islamic studies professor at the Lebanese American University Hosn Abboud contrasted sectarian in Lebanon to other countries where the state provides for the people.

She noted Lebanese with dual nationalities obtain their rights through the second country they belong to, not Lebanon. These countries believe in free medical care and education. In return, the citizens pay taxes to the state, which provides them with services.

In Lebanon and due to the flaw in the political sectarian system, the people expect their sectarian leader to provide for them, she added.

Akis, meanwhile, remarked that the sectarian rhetoric in Lebanon had intensified in recent years because politicians are aware that tapping into the people’s sectarian sentiments was the easier way to rile them up. Adopting a tolerant approach is instead seen as a form of weakness.

The LF, he continued, resorts to sectarian rhetoric strictly to garner better Christian representation in power.

The LF represents a vast number of Christians in Lebanon. Such rhetoric is not a product of an isolationist policy, he stressed. On the contrary, the LF is open to its Arab environment and its moderate Sunni, Druze and Shiite colleagues in Lebanon.

Moreover, the lawmaker said that the LF’s alliances are not based on sectarian interests.

Akis added: “The weakness of politicians and inability to offer actual achievements to the people in regards to the establishment of a strong state, pushed them towards investing in the sectarian rhetoric.”

“Change can only come from the political class. It should come from the educated and cultured figures of all sects,” he went on to say. “This all takes time and should start from school curricula.”

Shamseddine, for his part, said that change can only take place when the majority of the Lebanese “grow hungry, but this will not happen any time soon.”

“The people will not move alone. They need someone to lead them from outside their own sect,” he explained. So far, no such figure has emerged.

A civil society movement that had risen in recent years turned out to only seek power, he lamented.

The solution to this bitter reality, said Akis, lies in the implementation of the constitution.

Its laws, he explained, limit sectarianism to parliamentary representation and the highest positions in the country.



Childhood Cancer Patients in Lebanon Must Battle Disease while Under Fire

Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)
Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)
TT

Childhood Cancer Patients in Lebanon Must Battle Disease while Under Fire

Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)
Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)

Carol Zeghayer gripped her IV as she hurried down the brightly lit hallway of Beirut’s children’s cancer center. The 9-year-old's face brightened when she spotted her playmates from the oncology ward.

Diagnosed with cancer just months before the conflict between Hezbollah and Israel erupted in October 2023, Carol relies on weekly trips to the center in the Lebanese capital for treatment.

But what used to be a 90-minute drive, now takes up to three hours on a mountainous road to skirt the heavy bombardment in south Lebanon, but still not without danger from Israeli airstrikes. The family is just one among many across Lebanon now grappling with the hardships of both illness and war.

“She’s just a child. When they strike, she asks me, ‘Mama, was that far?’” said her mother, Sindus Hamra, The AP reported.

The family lives in Hasbaya, a province in southeastern Lebanon where the rumble of Israeli airstrikes has become part of daily life. Just 15 minutes away from their home, in the front-line town of Khiam, Israeli troops and Hezbollah fighters clash amidst relentless bombardments.

On the morning of a recent trip to Beirut for her treatment, the family heard a rocket roar and its deafening impact as they left their home. Israeli airstrikes have also hit vehicles along the Damascus-Beirut highway, which Carol and her mother have to cross.

The bombardment hasn’t let up even as hopes grew in recent days that a ceasefire might soon be agreed.

More than war, Hamra fears that Carol will miss chemotherapy.

“Her situation is very tricky — her cancer can spread to her head,” Hamra said, her eyes filling with tears. Her daughter, diagnosed first with cancer of the lymph nodes and later leukemia, has completed a third of her treatment, with many months still ahead.

While Carol's family remains in their home, many in Lebanon have been displaced by an intensified Israeli bombardment that began in late September. Tens of thousands fled their homes in southern and eastern Lebanon, as well as Beirut’s southern suburbs — among them were families with children battling cancer.

The Children’s Cancer Center of Lebanon quickly identified each patient’s location to ensure treatments remained uninterrupted, sometimes facilitating them at hospitals closer to the families' new locations, said Zeina El Chami, the center’s fundraising and events executive.

During the first days of the escalation, the center admitted some patients for emergency care and kept them there as it was unsafe to send them home, said Dolly Noun, a pediatric hematologist and oncologist.

“They had no place to go,” she added. "We’ve had patients getting admitted for panic attacks. It has not been easy.”

The war has not only deepened the struggles of young patients.

“Many physicians have had to relocate,” Noun said. “I know physicians, who work here, who haven’t seen their parents in like six weeks because the roads are very dangerous.”

Since 2019, Lebanon has been battered by cascading crises — economic collapse, the devastating Beirut port explosion in 2020, and now a relentless war — leaving institutions like the cancer center struggling to secure the funds needed to save lives.

“Cancer waits for no one,” Chami said. The crises have affected the center’s ability to hold fundraising events in recent years, leaving it in urgent need of donations, she added.

The facility is currently treating more than 400 patients aged from few days to 18 years old, Chami said. It treats around 60% of children with cancer in Lebanon.

For Carol, the war is sometimes a topic of conversation with her friends at the cancer center. Her mother hears her recount hearing the booms and how the house shook.

For others, the moments with their friends in the center's playroom provide a brief escape from the grim reality outside.

Eight-year-old Mohammad Mousawi darts around the playroom, giggling as he hides objects and books for his playmate to find. Too absorbed by the game, he barely answers questions, before the nurse calls him for his weekly chemotherapy treatment.

His family lived in Ghobeiry, a neighborhood in Beirut’s southern suburbs. Their house was marked for destruction in an Israeli evacuation warning weeks ago, his mother said.

“But till now, they haven’t struck it,” said his mother, Suzan Mousawi. “They have hit (buildings) around it — two behind it and two in front of it.”

The family has relocated three times. They first moved to the mountains, but the bitter cold weakened Mohammad’s already fragile immune system.

Now they’ve settled in Ain el-Rummaneh, not far from their home in the southern Beirut suburbs known as Dahiyeh, which has come under significant bombardment. As the Israeli military widened the radius of its bombardment, some buildings hit were less than 500 meters (yards) from their current home.

The Mousawis have lived their entire lives in Dahiyeh, Suzan Mousawi said, until the war uprooted them. Her parents’ home was bombed. “All our memories are gone,” she said.

Mohammad has 15 weeks of treatment left, and his family is praying it will be successful. But the war has stolen some of their dreams.

“When Mohammad fell ill, we bought a house,” she said. “It wasn’t big, but it was something. I bought him an electric scooter and set up a pool, telling myself we’d take him there once he finishes treatment.”

She fears the house, bought with every penny she had saved, could be lost at any moment.

For some families, this kind of conflict is not new. Asinat Al Lahham, a 9-year-old patient of the cancer center, is a refugee whose family fled Syria.

“We escaped one war to another,” Asinat’s mother, Fatima, added.

As her father, Aouni, drove home from her chemotherapy treatment weeks ago, an airstrike happened. He cranked up the music in the car, trying to drown out the deafening sound of the attack.

Asinat sat in the back seat, clutching her favorite toy. “I wanted to distract her, to make her hear less of it,” he said.

In the medical ward on a recent day, Asinat sat in a chair hooked to an IV drip, negotiating with her doctor. “Just two or three small pinches,” she pleaded, asking for flavoring for her instant noodles that she is not supposed to have.

“I don’t feel safe ... nowhere is safe ... not Lebanon, not Syria, not Palestine,” Asinat said. “The sonic booms are scary, but the noodles make it better,” she added with a mischievous grin.

The family has no choice but to stay in Lebanon. Returning to Syria, where their home is gone, would mean giving up Asinat’s treatment.

“We can’t leave here,” her mother said. “This war, her illness ... it’s like there’s no escape.”