A journalist can occasionally be plagued by a certain subject during their career. It seems I have been cursed with the issue of assassinations. I was very close to danger during one assassination and was on the other line of the phone when one figure was assassinated.
Add to that that assassinations are never too far away in Lebanon, disappearing for a while before emerging to claim a man with a project or man who is hindering one. I only grew more intrigued with assassinations when I visited Iraq, Libya and Syria that have their own stories to tell.
In mid-March 1977, I was at the beginning of my career at Lebanon’s An-Nahar newspaper. I was visiting an uncle in the town of Mazraat al-Chouf near al-Mokhtara, the stronghold of the Jumblatt family. At one point during the visit, my uncle’s neighbor and friend Suleiman Abou Karroum started anxiously shouting for us to come over. Arriving at his house, he told us with a shaky voice: “They killed Kamal Jumblatt.” That was a seismic event in Lebanon at the time.
Abou Karroum shut his windows and told his sons and relatives to guard the house against any attacks. Throughout the coming hours, Abou Karroum would assure us that everything was going to be fine, but the look of concern on his face said otherwise. At that point we didn’t know that anyone who wasn’t being protected by their Druze neighbor was being killed. It was said that some 53 people – including my uncle and six members of his family – were killed that night. His house was located no more than a hundred meters from where we were that night. We were escorted safely out of Abou Karroum’s house two days later.
Several years later, Walid Jumblatt would recount to me how he spent that night trying to dissuade his father’s grieving supporters from carrying out reprisals, telling them that their Christian neighbors had nothing to do with his assassination, which was actually carried out by Syrian intelligence.
Over three decades later, and after having lunch with Walid Jumblatt in al-Mokhtara, I headed to Mazraat al-Chouf. I asked around about Abou Karroum to thank him for protecting us. My search led me to an old man in his 90s working in his garden. He embraced me as he fought back tears. A man kills his neighbor because he doesn’t look like him. Another man protects his neighbor who doesn’t look like him. I decided that the majority of the Lebanese people are like the latter.
Another harsh lesson in assassinations. In early March 1980, I was summoned by An-Nahar's Editor-in-Chief Francois Aql who told me that renowned journalist Salim al-Lawzi, editor-in-chief of al-Hawadeth magazine, was lying in the morgue at the American University of Beirut hospital. Along with a colleague, we were instructed to head to the morgue to identify him. There, an officer barred us from entering and an argument ensued during which we reminded him of our right to see our colleague. He eventually complied and opened the drawer where Lawzi lay. We noted the evidence of terrible torture on his fingers for daring to write what he did. Several years later, the demands of my job would have me interview his presumed killer. May God forgive me.
On September 14, 1982, I was at my office at An-Nahar when an explosion rocked the Ashrafieh district in Beirut. A bomb had just killed newly elected President Bachir al-Gemayel and his project for the country. Years later, I would meet with former President Amin Gemayel who appeared to be worn down by several wounds, most notably the assassination of his son, Minister and MP Pierre, and his brother Bachir.
On February 14, 2005, I was interviewing a Syrian official about the US invasion of Iraq and Damascus’ strained ties with Rafik al-Hariri. When I left the meeting, I found a string of phone messages that said Hariri’s convoy was targeted in an explosion and that he had been assassinated. That night, I was supposed to pen from Damascus an article about this extraordinary man and to send from there the headline of the frontpage of the Al-Hayat newspaper. The months and years to come would be flooded by assassinations and funerals.
A terrible lesson from assassinations. On October 19, 2012, a dear friend told me that he believes that Colonel Wissam al-Hassan, head of the Intelligence Bureau in the Lebanese Internal Security Forces, was in London and that I should invite him to lunch or dinner. I wasn’t in the habit of telephoning al-Hassan given his busy schedule, but we used to get together in London or Beirut when both of us were in town.
I telephoned al-Hassan and before we could get greetings out of the way, the line suddenly cut. I tried to call him over and over again, but got no response. I expected him to call me back. After about 20 minutes, my friend told me that al-Hassan was targeted in an explosion. Apparently, he had secretly returned to Beirut where his killers were waiting for him. The Intelligence Bureau found his telephone and identified my number as his last caller.
For decades, the newspapers I have worked for - including Asharq Al-Awsat that I am proud of belonging to today - covered the funerals of men I have interviewed and whose lives were claimed by assassinations. Yesterday’s funeral of Hezbollah Secretary-Generals Hassan Nasrallah and Hashem Safieddine reminded me of assassinations. Israel assassinated these men to assassinate their projects.
Lebanon is a difficult tale. Every Lebanese citizen has shed tears over an assassination that remains in their memory. Every Lebanese citizen has been to a funeral, whose pains they will pass on to their children. Can the tears shed by the divided Lebanese be reconciled? Can they live together in a normal house that is not damaged by assassinations?
How difficult it is to be an Arab journalist in this part of the world. How difficult it is to endure a lifetime going from one assassination to another.
