Gauging responses from Beirut, Youssef Rakha strives after a Lebanese perspective "It is not enough to think about us and send us e-mails." The message sounds harsh and judgmental, perhaps ultimately unfair. But the philosophy professor who sent it, a Christian Shia- supporter who has sympathy for neither Amal nor Hizbullah, is understandably maddened by "unrestrained savagery" and governments "shutting up". Urging her correspondents to protest, her tone reflects a fear uniquely Lebanese -- the fear of political extinction. "Is Lebanon even a country?" I once asked her, provocatively, to which her response was so violent it sent me scuttling back to my Robert Fisk. Since the foundational National Pact following independence from the French in 1943, through the 1989 Taif Accords which ended the 15-year civil war, setting off the reconstruction of Beirut, and, especially, up to the withdrawal of the Syrian forces in the wake of Prime Minister Rafik Al-Hariri's assassination in 2005, Lebanon has existed not on the strength of an overarching repressive regime nor by economic alliance with the world powers that be but through sheer force of will -- a collective will admittedly compromised by those former war factions, including Hizbullah, that have insisted on holding on to weaponry. Others, equally "shocked and disappointed", were less proactive. "Over here we are still fine," one young arts producer wrote. "Things are moving fast in a way I can't describe. This is not the first conflict we go through. But this time it is way faster, I think due to new technologies. It is horrible to feel helpless about doing anything. I mean the only thing possible is to stand still and watch the news." I could picture him on Hamra Street inviting me along to a Rayis Bek rap concert on the other side of the former green line; only months ago, Beirut could make so many things seem possible. "Anyway the situation is very bad. We still have electricity and communication, I hope for a long time. But since the whole country is blocked and under siege, soon we'll start lacking different things... How can you face a plane you don't see or hear?" The truth, sadly, is that you can't. On the eve of the 1982 ground-troops invasion of Beirut, you could at least risk your life shooting an Israeli soldier. Sectarian strife was to go on for many years, of course -- the Sabra and Chatilla massacre, for one large-scale disaster, was only weeks away -- but once again for a limited time the spirit of national solidarity won out, and in an unprecedented move the pro-Palestine National Movement managed single-handedly to drive Sharon's forces out. Still, the city was ravaged, arms were easily available; neither money, energy nor spirit had been spent on an arduous reconstruction. Today, it would seem, the Lebanese stand to lose rather significantly more. "It was summer then as well," one blogger who identifies herself simply as Rasha recalls 1982. "The Israeli army marched through the south and besieged Beirut... We had the PLO command in West Beirut then. I felt safe with the handsome fighters. How I miss them. Between Hizbullah and the Lebanese army I don't feel safe." Will the army break up now that, with Prime Minister Fouad Siniora's unequivocal announcement that, irrespective of resistance, "the state alone has the right to make decisions of war or peace," it might be forced to fight Hizbullah? A left-wing editor busy preparing for the launch of a new newspaper maintains his optimism against all odds. "It will all be alright," he kept texting. "Everything is alright. Your friends here are alright." As I stared at the mobile phone screen, I couldn't help thinking that, erased from human memory, rebuilt to look as if nothing happened, Beirut was being erased again. "We are drinking and listening to music in the only bar open in town," he wrote. "Cheers."
