Syria and Lebanon: tied by blood

Fallout from Syria’s violent repression of uprisings could have dangerous effects on its neighbours

It was only a matter of time before the effects of Syria's violent repression of uprisings began to spill over its borders into Lebanon.

Lebanese security and stability are closely linked with Syria's, mainly because the key divide in Lebanese politics is between pro- and anti-Syrian blocs.

Indeed, despite the end to Syria's nearly 30-year occupation of Lebanon in 2005, it remains a strong influence there, and is a critical player in the relationship between Iran and Hezbollah – Lebanon's powerful Islamic militant party. In fact, Hezbollah is part of a ruling coalition due to take power imminently, which will officially align Lebanon with the repressive Syrian regime.

Hezbollah has not been ashamed of its support for Syria over the years – helping form the pro-Syria March 8 Alliance party in 2005 – and most recently, as the Independent's Robert Fisk reported, actively affirming Syrian state TV's claims that Jamal Jarrah of the opposition Lebanese Future Movement party is involved in arming and subsidising the uprising.

It is feared that the legitimisation of such dubious accusations could stoke tensions in northern Lebanon, where, as Fisk writes, there is strong opposition to Syria's violence, emphasised by posters outside Sunni Muslim houses reading, "Assad – you won't escape us."

However, there are also well over 100,000 Alawites in Lebanon – of the same Muslim sect as the al-Assad ruling elite in Syria – mostly based in the north, who will not take kindly to such rhetoric.

It is in the northern districts, too, where Syrian refugees – most of them Sunnis – are being systematically expelled by Lebanese intelligence agents, apparently at the behest of Damascus.

Continued acquiescence to Syria, especially in a situation that stokes religious as well as political and national tensions, is not good for Lebanon, which is operating with a weak caretaker government, and which is more vulnerable to sectarian unrest than most, given the searing legacy of its bloody civil war.

The northern regions of Lebanon have also in the recent past been the scene of clashes between Alawites and Sunnis, and there are fears that if more Syrian Sunnis continue to arrive, tensions between the two denominations could explode once more.

Furthermore, if this does happen, the potential for large-scale pro- and anti-Syrian clashes across Lebanon looms, as well as Syrian military intervention to quell displaced opposition to its regime.

In 2008, as fighting between Alawites and Sunnis reached a peak, the Syrian army actually mobilised along the border.

Because a Hezbollah-backed coalition is due to take power in Lebanon very soon, it is highly unlikely the country's policy towards Syria will change. Rumours that Damascus has also been involved in the negotiations over a new cabinet will help ratchet up the tension.

As a result, a dangerous situation is now emerging for Lebanon, which, besides its own considerable problems, also needs to deal with those of another country – problems that could painfully reopen old wounds.

Liam McLaughlin is a freelance journalist who has also written for Prospect and the Huffington Post. He tweets irregularly @LiamMc108.

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I dined behind the Houses of Parliament in my sexually connected foursome

My wife and I would sometimes dine out with another couple. We did not always check the significance of the date. 

I am self-employed and find that working from home, setting your own schedule, the days generally blur into each other, with weekends holding no significance, and public holidays, when those who are employed in factories, offices or shops get time off, meaning nothing. I am often surprised to go out and find the streets empty of traffic because it is some national day of observance, such as Christmas, that I wasn’t aware of. I find myself puzzled as to why the shops are suddenly full of Easter eggs or pancake batter.

Growing up in a Communist household, we had a distinct dislike for this kind of manufactured marketing opportunity anyway. I remember the time my mother tried to make me feel guilty because I’d done nothing for her on Mother’s Day and I pointed out that it was she who had told me that Mother’s Day was a cynical creation of the greetings card monopolies and the floral industrial complex.

Valentine’s Day is one of those I never see coming. It’s the one day of the year when even the worst restaurants are completely booked out by couples attempting to enjoy a romantic evening. Even those old-fashioned cafés you’ll find still lurking behind railway stations and serving spaghetti with bread and butter will tell you there’s a waiting list if you leave it late to reserve a table.

In the late 1980s my wife and I would sometimes dine out with another couple, he a writer and she a TV producer. One particular place we liked was a restaurant attached to a 1930s block of flats, near the Houses of Parliament, where the endless corridors were lined with blank doors, behind which you sensed awful things happened. The steel dining room dotted with potted palm trees overlooked a swimming pool, and this seemed terribly sophisticated to us even if it meant all your overpriced food had a vague taste of chlorine.

The four of us booked to eat there on 14 February, not realising the significance of the date. We found at every other table there was a single couple, either staring adoringly into each other’s eyes or squabbling.

As we sat down I noticed we were getting strange looks from our fellow diners. Some were sort of knowing, prompting smiles and winks; others seemed more outraged. The staff, too, were either simpering or frosty. After a while we realised what was going on: it was Valentine’s Day! All the other customers had assumed that we were a sexually connected foursome who had decided to celebrate our innovative relationship by having dinner together on this special date.

For the four of us, the smirking attention set up a strange dynamic: after that night it always felt like we were saying something seedy to each other. “Do you want to get together on Sunday?” I’d say to one of them on the phone, and then find myself blushing. “I’ll see if we can fit it in,” they’d reply, and we would both giggle nervously.

Things became increasingly awkward between us, until in the end we stopped seeing them completely. 

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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