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Asia Times Online, Hong Kong
Middle East
Mar 29, 2005
Fear in the real capital of Lebanon
By Lucy Ashton
ANJAR, Lebanon - Outside a villa in Anjar, a small Lebanese town near the
Syrian border 58 kilometers east of Beirut, seven armed guards hover by a
portrait of Syrian leader Bashar al-Assad. A burly man with a slug of a
moustache and a leather jacket stands hard beside me, he is Mukhabarat - a
member of Syrian intelligence. "Mamnour, Mamnour" (forbidden) was all he
said and pointed me away. His chief, Major General Rostum Ghazali, obviously
did not want to talk. The villa's doors, great metal slabs that look like
meat safes, remained firmly locked.
Anjar is the control center of Lebanon, the base of General Ghazali, head of
Syrian intelligence, the man who allegedly threatened former Lebanese
premier Rafik Hariri just before his death in a bomb explosion in Beirut
last month.
This town is not ethnically Lebanese at all, but populated by Armenians,
2,600 of them, and about 1,000 Syrians - mostly soldiers and intelligence
men. The Armenians settled beneath these snow-striped gullies in 1939, all
the signs are written in both Arabic and Armenian script.
Stopping at a grocer's to buy a cool drink, no one wants to speak. At the
mention of the Syrian troops the owner drops his eyes and concentrates hard
on wiping the already clean counter top with a rag.
On Araks Street, Joseph Palasian and his family are gathering to celebrate
Easter, they will exchange eggs and go to Serb Boros Church. His wife is
hesitant, but Joseph and his sons want to speak. "We are no friends of the
Syrians," he says, smiling beneath a picture of Jesus Christ. "They are not
like the Hezbollah, who have a purpose and keep out the Israelis for us. The
Syrians do no good for us Lebanese."
Joseph has ceased to respect the Syrian intelligence agents. Every day he
goes to their houses and bangs on the doors. "Time to leave!" he shouts.
Joseph is not afraid of retribution, because the Tashna - Armenian - militia
will protect him.
Or the Lebanese army, he hopes. On Easter Sunday, the town requested the
Lebanese soldiers to come and secure the churches for celebrations. What are
they afraid will happen? It's hard for Joseph to say. The town is suspicious
that the Syrians will cause trouble, that they will plant bombs at the
churches. The two explosions in Christian areas of Beirut last week were
warnings from Damascus, Joseph thinks. Why? Because they want to prove that
Lebanon cannot remain safe without the brotherly guns of Assad to enforce
the peace.
So far no Syrian troops have withdrawn from Anjar and the checkpoints in the
hills remain in place. A week ago some Syrian soldiers arrived from the
direction of Beirut, rested two days, and climbed over the mountain. Joseph
suspects they are not far away, waiting out of sight, just in case.
Bartan, Joseph's 18-year-old son, wants to drive with us, a couple of
minutes away, to a Syrian camp. His mother is freaking out, pleading with
him from the balcony as he jumps down the stairs. We stop five kilometers
west of the Syrian border, but Lebanese do not pass east of here much.
Neither Bartan nor our driver wants to leave the car. They are too scared.
A young Syrian soldier, gun slung from his shoulder, wanders from the pink
blossom trees to meet us. For an occupiers' camp it is terribly relaxed,
there are no gun emplacements or sand bags and not even a gate. The trucks
are parked in a jumble, as though some families have stopped for a weekend
picnic. There is a notable absence of armory. A senior officer appears. He
leads us back to the road, to his general.
Ten minutes have passed since Joseph told us he wanted the Syrians out. "We
are very good friends with the Christians," promises General Mohammed Aziz.
He is a cheerful man in fatigues and white basketball boots. He walks with a
slight limp, as if there is a thorn in his foot. "They need us here to keep
the peace. But if the Christians want us to leave, we are ready to go, but
when that will happen I don't know." General Aziz has lived in Anjar two
years, his family is in Damascus, he would quite like to go home, he says.
Back at the car Bartan would like to move. He has decided he is afraid now.
The Syrians do have a habit of arresting Armenians and accusing them of
being fighters in the Tashna militia. Then what happens to them, Bartan does
not know, or more likely will not say.
As we leave, I ask our Muslim driver if the residents of Anjar are just
being cautious. Zouheir replies, "No we are all really very worried."
This fear - Christian or Muslim - does not mean that war is imminent. Rather
it is the apprehension of a nation that has seen the bloody chaos of civil
war from 1975-1991 and lived in wary co-existence ever since. The fear comes
from the knowledge it could all easily happen again.
Lucy Ashton is a freelance journalist based in Amman, Jordan.
(Copyright 2005 Asia Times Online Ltd.
Middle East
Mar 29, 2005
Fear in the real capital of Lebanon
By Lucy Ashton
ANJAR, Lebanon - Outside a villa in Anjar, a small Lebanese town near the
Syrian border 58 kilometers east of Beirut, seven armed guards hover by a
portrait of Syrian leader Bashar al-Assad. A burly man with a slug of a
moustache and a leather jacket stands hard beside me, he is Mukhabarat - a
member of Syrian intelligence. "Mamnour, Mamnour" (forbidden) was all he
said and pointed me away. His chief, Major General Rostum Ghazali, obviously
did not want to talk. The villa's doors, great metal slabs that look like
meat safes, remained firmly locked.
Anjar is the control center of Lebanon, the base of General Ghazali, head of
Syrian intelligence, the man who allegedly threatened former Lebanese
premier Rafik Hariri just before his death in a bomb explosion in Beirut
last month.
This town is not ethnically Lebanese at all, but populated by Armenians,
2,600 of them, and about 1,000 Syrians - mostly soldiers and intelligence
men. The Armenians settled beneath these snow-striped gullies in 1939, all
the signs are written in both Arabic and Armenian script.
Stopping at a grocer's to buy a cool drink, no one wants to speak. At the
mention of the Syrian troops the owner drops his eyes and concentrates hard
on wiping the already clean counter top with a rag.
On Araks Street, Joseph Palasian and his family are gathering to celebrate
Easter, they will exchange eggs and go to Serb Boros Church. His wife is
hesitant, but Joseph and his sons want to speak. "We are no friends of the
Syrians," he says, smiling beneath a picture of Jesus Christ. "They are not
like the Hezbollah, who have a purpose and keep out the Israelis for us. The
Syrians do no good for us Lebanese."
Joseph has ceased to respect the Syrian intelligence agents. Every day he
goes to their houses and bangs on the doors. "Time to leave!" he shouts.
Joseph is not afraid of retribution, because the Tashna - Armenian - militia
will protect him.
Or the Lebanese army, he hopes. On Easter Sunday, the town requested the
Lebanese soldiers to come and secure the churches for celebrations. What are
they afraid will happen? It's hard for Joseph to say. The town is suspicious
that the Syrians will cause trouble, that they will plant bombs at the
churches. The two explosions in Christian areas of Beirut last week were
warnings from Damascus, Joseph thinks. Why? Because they want to prove that
Lebanon cannot remain safe without the brotherly guns of Assad to enforce
the peace.
So far no Syrian troops have withdrawn from Anjar and the checkpoints in the
hills remain in place. A week ago some Syrian soldiers arrived from the
direction of Beirut, rested two days, and climbed over the mountain. Joseph
suspects they are not far away, waiting out of sight, just in case.
Bartan, Joseph's 18-year-old son, wants to drive with us, a couple of
minutes away, to a Syrian camp. His mother is freaking out, pleading with
him from the balcony as he jumps down the stairs. We stop five kilometers
west of the Syrian border, but Lebanese do not pass east of here much.
Neither Bartan nor our driver wants to leave the car. They are too scared.
A young Syrian soldier, gun slung from his shoulder, wanders from the pink
blossom trees to meet us. For an occupiers' camp it is terribly relaxed,
there are no gun emplacements or sand bags and not even a gate. The trucks
are parked in a jumble, as though some families have stopped for a weekend
picnic. There is a notable absence of armory. A senior officer appears. He
leads us back to the road, to his general.
Ten minutes have passed since Joseph told us he wanted the Syrians out. "We
are very good friends with the Christians," promises General Mohammed Aziz.
He is a cheerful man in fatigues and white basketball boots. He walks with a
slight limp, as if there is a thorn in his foot. "They need us here to keep
the peace. But if the Christians want us to leave, we are ready to go, but
when that will happen I don't know." General Aziz has lived in Anjar two
years, his family is in Damascus, he would quite like to go home, he says.
Back at the car Bartan would like to move. He has decided he is afraid now.
The Syrians do have a habit of arresting Armenians and accusing them of
being fighters in the Tashna militia. Then what happens to them, Bartan does
not know, or more likely will not say.
As we leave, I ask our Muslim driver if the residents of Anjar are just
being cautious. Zouheir replies, "No we are all really very worried."
This fear - Christian or Muslim - does not mean that war is imminent. Rather
it is the apprehension of a nation that has seen the bloody chaos of civil
war from 1975-1991 and lived in wary co-existence ever since. The fear comes
from the knowledge it could all easily happen again.
Lucy Ashton is a freelance journalist based in Amman, Jordan.
(Copyright 2005 Asia Times Online Ltd.