Turning 100: Lebanon, a Nation Branded by Upheaval, Crises

Damaged traditional Lebanese house. August 14, Reuters
Damaged traditional Lebanese house. August 14, Reuters
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Turning 100: Lebanon, a Nation Branded by Upheaval, Crises

Damaged traditional Lebanese house. August 14, Reuters
Damaged traditional Lebanese house. August 14, Reuters

It was a century ago on Sept. 1, 1920, that a French general, Henri Gouraud, stood on the porch of a Beirut palace surrounded by local politicians and religious leaders and declared the State of Greater Lebanon — the precursor of the modern state of Lebanon.

The current French president, Emmanuel Macron, is visiting Lebanon to mark the occasion, 100 years later. But the mood could not be more somber.

Lebanon has been hit by a series of catastrophes, including a financial crash. On Aug. 4, a massive explosion at Beirut's port killed at least 190 people and injured thousands — the culmination of decades of accumulated crises, endemic corruption and mismanagement by an entrenched ruling class.

Facing potential bankruptcy and total collapse, many Lebanese are marking the centennial with a feeling that their experiment as a nation has failed and questioning their willingness to stay in the crisis-riddled country.

“I am 53 years old and I don’t feel I had one stable year in this country,” said prominent Lebanese writer Alexandre Najjar.

Like others from his generation, Najjar lived through the 1975-1990 civil war, when Beirut’s name became synonymous with hostages, car bombings and chaos, The Associated Press (AP) reported.

He was a teenager when Israel invaded Beirut in the summer of 1982, imposing a suffocating siege of the capital for three months, and a young man when militias turned their guns on each other in 1989. When former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri was assassinated in a massive Beirut truck bombing in 2005, Najjar was in his late 30s.

The following year, Israel and Hezbollah engaged in a month-long war. In between, countless other conflicts, bouts of sectarian fighting and other disasters plagued one generation after another, leading to waves of Lebanese emigration.

But the Aug. 4 explosion, says Najjar, was the “peak of a failed state” — proof that authorities cannot even provide basic public safety.

It wasn’t supposed to be that way.

Following the fall of the Ottoman Empire after World War I, Lebanon fell under the French mandate, starting in 1920. France governed for 23 years until the country gained independence as the Lebanese Republic.
Home to 18 different religious sects, it was hailed as a model of pluralism and coexistence. The nation settled on an unwritten sectarian arrangement, initially seen as the guarantee of stability but which many Lebanese now consider a curse: the president would always be Christian, the prime minister Sunni Muslim and the parliament speaker Shiite Muslim, with other posts similarly divvied up.

In the 1950s, under pro-Western President Camille Chamoun, the economy flourished thanks to booming tourism and cash from oil-rich Arab nations. But his presidency ended with the outbreak of Lebanon’s first civil war in 1958, which lasted for several months and saw US troops land to help Chamoun.

Lebanon saw its heyday in the 1960s and early 1970s, but then fell into disaster in 1975, with the start of the 15-year civil war that killed nearly 150,000 people, eventually pitting Lebanon’s sects against each other. Syrian troops moved in, and Israel invaded twice — once in 1978, then again in 1982, in an assault that forced late Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat and his fighters to leave Lebanon.

US interests were repeatedly attacked, most notably two bombings of the US Embassy and the 1983 Marine barracks bombing in Beirut that killed 241 US service members, the deadliest attack on the Marines since the battle of Iwo Jima in 1945. On the same day, 58 French paratroopers were killed by a second attacker who struck their installation in Beirut.

Israel’s 1982 invasion and the attacks on the Americans marked the rise of what later became the Hezbollah group.

After the civil war ended in 1990, the Iranian-backed militia was the only one allowed to keep its weapons because it was fighting Israeli occupation forces in southern Lebanon. When Israel withdrew from the south in 2000, Hezbollah kept its powerful fighting force, depicting itself as Lebanon’s defender. It fought Israeli forces to a draw in 2006, and tensions remain high along the border.

Today, Hezbollah and its allies, led by President Michel Aoun, dominate Lebanese politics and control a majority in parliament. But the Lebanese are deeply divided over Hezbollah.

Many civil war-era warlords today head political factions, holding onto posts for themselves or their families and controlling powerful local business interests. The factions pass out positions in government ministries and public institutions to followers or carve out business sectors for them, ensuring their backing.

Corruption has soared over the past two decades, and the sectarian-based patronage system has left Lebanon with crumbling infrastructure, a bloated public sector and one of the world’s highest debt ratios, at 170% of GDP — topped by a ruling class that amassed fortunes.

Last October, nationwide protests erupted over the worsening economy, and the financial juggling act that had been the basis of Lebanon's prosperity since 1990 collapsed into the most severe economic crisis of the country's modern history, made worse by the coronavirus pandemic.

“Lebanon is in its worst period over the past 100 years,” said legislator Marwan Hamadeh.

“We are in the worst stage, economically, politically and even when it comes to national unity.”

“We are currently occupied by Iran and its missiles,” added Hamadeh, who was seriously wounded in an assassination attempt in 2004 that he blames on Hezbollah.

According to AP, historian Johnny Mezher says that to solve its problems, Lebanon could start by adopting a law that boosts national identity rather than loyalty to one’s sect and helps ensure qualifications determine who gets state posts, rather than sectarian connections.

“Religious figures should be prevented from meddling in politics,” he said.

Even after seven decades of Lebanese independence, France still wields strong influence on the tiny Mediterranean nation.

Two days after the port blast — with Lebanese leaders totally absent — Macron visited Beirut and toured one of the most heavily damaged neighborhoods to a hero’s welcome, with some chanting “Vive La France.”

More than 60,000 signed a petition to place Lebanon under French mandate for 10 years, an idea Macron firmly dismissed.

“It’s up to you to write your history,” he told the crowds.

On his return trip, Macron will plant a tree in Beirut on Tuesday to mark the centenary and meet with Lebanese officials to push them toward forming a government and enacting reforms.

“There is no doubt we were expecting the 100th anniversary to be different. We did not expect this year to be catastrophic to this level,” said Najjar, who is a lawyer, poet and author of about 30 books in French, including one that tells the story of Beirut during the 20th Century.

“There is still hope,” he said.

“We have hit rock bottom and things cannot get worse.”



Iraq’s Displaced Kurds Hope to Return Home after Türkiye's Kurdish Militants Declare a Ceasefire

 Barchi village is seen around sunset time in Dahuk, Iraq, Thursday, Feb. 27, 2025. (AP)
Barchi village is seen around sunset time in Dahuk, Iraq, Thursday, Feb. 27, 2025. (AP)
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Iraq’s Displaced Kurds Hope to Return Home after Türkiye's Kurdish Militants Declare a Ceasefire

 Barchi village is seen around sunset time in Dahuk, Iraq, Thursday, Feb. 27, 2025. (AP)
Barchi village is seen around sunset time in Dahuk, Iraq, Thursday, Feb. 27, 2025. (AP)

Iraqi Kurdish villagers, displaced by fighting between Turkish forces and Kurdish militants that has played out for years in northern Iraq, are finally allowing themselves to hope they will soon be able to go home.

Their hopes were raised after the Kurdistan Workers’ Party, or PKK, on Saturday declared a ceasefire in the 40-year insurgency against the Turkish government, answering a call to disarm from earlier in the week by the group's leader, Abdullah Ocalan, imprisoned in Türkiye since 1999.

The truce — if implemented — could not only be a turning point in neighboring Türkiye but could also bring much needed stability to the volatile region spanning the border between the two countries.

In northern Iraq, Turkish forces have repeatedly launched blistering offensives over the past years, pummeling PKK fighters who have been hiding out in sanctuaries in Iraq's northern semi-autonomous Kurdish region, and have set up bases in the area. Scores of villages have been completely emptied of their residents.

A home left decades ago Adil Tahir Qadir fled his village of Barchi, on Mount Matin in 1988, when Iraqi ruler Saddam Hussein launched a brutal campaign against the area's Kurdish population.

He now lives in a newly built village — also named Barchi, after the old one that was abandoned — about 2 kilometers (1.2 miles) away, south of the mountain.

He used to go back to the old village every now and then to farm his land. But that stopped in 2015 when Turkish forces moved in and set up camp there in the fight against PKK, hitting the group with wave after wave of airstrikes.

Iraqi Kurdish farmers and their lands became collateral damage. The Turkish airstrikes and ground incursions targeting PKK positions displaced thousands of Iraqi Kurdish civilians, cutting off many from their land.

"Because of Turkish bombing, all of our farmlands and trees were burned," Qadir said.

If peace comes, he will go back right away, he says. "We wish it will work so we can return."

Fighting emptied out villages in Iraq

In the border area of Amedi in Iraq's Dohuk province — once a thriving agricultural community — around 200 villages had been emptied of their residents by the fighting, according to a 2020 study by the regional Iraqi Kurdish government.

Small havens remained safe, like the new Barchi, with only about 150 houses and where villagers rely on sesame, walnuts and rice farming. But as the fighting dragged on, the conflict grew ever closer.

"There are many Turkish bases around this area," said Salih Shino, who was also displaced to the new Barchi from Mount Matin.

"The bombings start every afternoon and intensify through the night," he said. "The bombs fall very close ... we can’t walk around at all."

Airstrikes have hit Barchi's water well and bombs have fallen near the village school, he said.

Najib Khalid Rashid, from the nearby village of Belava, says he also lives in fear. There are near-daily salvos of bombings, sometimes 40-50 times, that strike in surrounding areas.

"We can't even take our sheep to graze or farm our lands in peace," he said.

Ties to Kurdish brethren in Türkiye

Iraqi Kurdish villagers avoid talking about their views on the Kurdish insurgency in Türkiye and specifically the PKK, which has deep roots in the area. Türkiye and its Western allies, including the United States, consider the PKK a terrorist organization.

Still, Rashid went so far as to call for all Kurdish factions to put aside their differences and come together in the peace process.

"If there’s no unity, we will not achieve any results," he said.

Ahmad Saadullah, in the village of Guharze, recalled a time when the region was economically self-sufficient.

"We used to live off our farming, livestock, and agriculture," he said. "Back in the 1970s, all the hills on this mountain were full of vines and fig farms. We grew wheat, sesame, and rice. We ate everything from our farms."

Over the past years, cut off from their farmland, the locals have been dependent on government aid and "unstable, seasonal jobs," he said. "Today, we live with warplanes, drones, and bombings."

Farooq Safar, another Guharze resident, recalled a drone strike that hit in his back yard a few months ago.

"It was late afternoon, we were having dinner, and suddenly all our windows exploded," he said. "The whole village shook. We were lucky to survive."

Like others, Safar's hopes are sprinkled with skepticism — ceasefire attempts have failed in the past, he says, remembering similar peace pushes in 1993 and 2015.

"We hope this time will be different," he said.