“For the first time in years, I feel hopeful”: Reporting from Lebanon, a nation with a new president and without Hezbollah

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A triangular tug-of-war

“The main pitfall of Lebanese society is its division, the conflict between different religions. When different political forces see the future differently, it hampers the country's development. It is tremendously difficult for Sunnis, Shiites, and Christians to agree on where the country should go,” says a young cyclist named Mohammed on Rue Armenia, one of Beirut's main party streets.

Mohammed came to a charity barbershop to get a free haircut. When I approach him, he is talking to two female, Christian Beirut Arab University students — volunteers whose Project on the Streets movement is aimed at helping those like him, regardless of their creed. In Lebanon, religion is more than faith — it is an identifier, an integral part of one's personal and family narrative.

The country’s political system is unique in that it is characterized by a confessional distribution of power. The foundations of this system are laid down in the Constitution and the National Pact of 1943. The post of president is reserved for Maronite Christians and the post of prime minister for Sunni Muslims. The post of Speaker of Parliament is for Shia Muslims. Government ministers are also allocated according to confessional quotas. The 128 seats of the unicameral parliament — the National Assembly — are divided equally between Christians and Muslims. Deputies are chosen by direct vote in general elections, and they in turn elect the president.

Lebanon has 18 officially recognized religious groups whose representatives participate in the country's politics and governance: five Muslim (Shiite, Sunni, Druze, Alawite, and Ismaili), 12 Christian (Maronite, Greek Orthodox, Greek Catholic, Armenian Catholic, Armenian Orthodox, Syriac Orthodox, Syriac Catholic, Assyrian, Chaldean, Coptic, Evangelical Protestant, Roman Catholic), and one Jewish. While the setup is supposed to guarantee inclusion and maintain a balance of power between members of different faiths, in reality, it often leads to deadlocked decision-making.

The volunteers Mohammed spoke to are very enthusiastic about the election of the president and the changes taking place in the country. One coordinates the collection of items and distribution of food for the poor, and the other gives free haircuts to those who barely have enough money for food. The project has only been in existence for a few days, so the barbershop has less than 300 followers on social networks.

“For the first time in years, I feel hopeful. I can't even explain it, it's just in the air. A new vibe. All my friends are filled with hope that our lives will finally improve. I don't know anything about politics. I don't know this president at all, but he doesn't speak the way other politicians do. And I want to believe him,” volunteer Dorothy says emotionally.

“I'm not in a position to speak about society's problems, but I can name some good things I'm seeing right now. Our people are ready to do everything to help the country heal, to stop the situation here from getting worse, as it has been all the previous years,” adds Lamita, the second volunteer.

Posters with the portrait of the new president can be found in Christian, Sunni, and Shiite neighborhoods alike.

“We had a lamb slaughtered in our courtyard in Beirut when the president was finally elected! I hadn't really been following, but that day my husband called and said that we now have a head of state,” Malika, a resident of Beirut's suburbs, recalls with a laugh. On the day of the vote, she was in Paris, where the family had gone to sit out the war between Hezbollah and Israel. Her husband was the first to return to Beirut, and Malika herself arrived a few days ago. Their apartment block is in a neighborhood populated by both Muslims and Christians. “It really united us. Everyone was discussing the new president, congratulating each other,” she recalls. «Both at our place in Paris and in Lebanon.»

Who is Mr. Aoun?

The new president, Joseph Aoun, made statements that many interpreted as communicating his intention to disarm Hezbollah: Aoun said only the state should have the right to arms, and promised to pursue policies making that sentiment a reality. His candidacy found support in Qatar, which promised financial and military aid to Lebanon, and also in the United States, Saudi Arabia, and France. Emmanuel Macron flew to Beirut a week after his Lebanese counterpart came into office.

The Lebanese parliament elected Joseph Aoun as president on January 9. It was their 13th attempt to agree on a head of state since October 2022, when the term of the previous president, Michel Aoun — a namesake, not a relative — expired.

Sunni and Christian lawmakers voted in his favor (the Christian Free Patriotic Movement excepted). Deputies from Hezbollah and another Shiite party, Amal, did not support Aoun at first, but came around after consultations. Hezbollah had previously tried to bring to power its own candidate, Suleiman Frangieh, but he withdrew from the election.

“The thing is, Aoun is very neutral and never takes sides. That's why the Christians from the Free Patriotic Movement did not support him. They felt he was not supporting his own enough, so to speak,” explains Georges Aoun, a professor at Lebanese University in Beirut and a distant relative of the new president. When asked if they are in touch, the other Aoun laughs: “He knows me, of course, but if I invite him to a wedding, I don't know if he would come. In general, it is customary for us to invite relatives. Even if they become prominent politicians, they often honor the invitation.”

Lebanese parties reached an agreement and elected a president after a significant shift in the regional balance of power — the result of Israel destroying Hezbollah's top brass and much of the Shia group’s arsenal in an operation in southern Lebanon. In December, Syria, too, saw a change of power, which cut off Hezbollah's Iranian weapons supplies, which had previously been transported through Syrian territory. Now, however, transborder smuggling attempts are being thwarted by Israel. Essentially, Hezbollah has been cut off from its sponsor, and for the first time in many years, Tehran's influence in the region has declined significantly.

“We very much expect that the new government will strengthen the army, causing Hezbollah to disappear as a military force altogether. I think they suffered a big blow and will not recover,” Elisa says while drinking coffee with her husband on Beirut's waterfront. Her spouse agrees.

Christians and Muslims

Georges Aoun and I meet in Mechref, an upscale Christian village near the resort town of Damour, 20 kilometers south of Beirut. In the 1970s, as Lebanon was engulfed in civil war, the area became a battleground where Christian militias — the so-called “Lebanese Forces” — clashed with Muslim groups, primarily Sunni militias and their allies from the Palestine Liberation Organization. Today, the roadblock at the entrance is the only reminder of the bloody sectarian wars.

“We have military personnel deployed between Muslim and Christian population centers almost everywhere,” Aoun explains. “These security measures go way back. Admittedly, this does not concern Beirut proper, as everything has been mixed up there for a long time.”

One of the objectives of the new president and government is to prevent sectarian escalation. It is always a risk in a country where politics and religion are linked. “I think we need to unify legislation so that we have a single civil law. Right now, Christians, Sunnis, and Shiites each have their own, and that causes a lot of problems. For example, representatives of religions that are not registered with us find themselves beyond the law,” another Damour resident explained to The Insider. “But some politicians will be against [making changes].”

For one, Lebanon has informal restrictions on real estate transactions in Christian neighborhoods to non-Christians. Public and religious organizations, such as the Maronite League, enforce these regulations. They receive help from neighbors who are put off by the lifestyle of members of other denominations.

“If you have five Muslim households in a village, they have the right to build a mosque there. Not everyone wants to listen to the muezzin several times a day,” explains Aoun. “So they probably won't sell a house to Muslims in a Christian neighborhood so as not to spoil relations with the neighborhood. That's how it works.”

Shiites: Living in Hezbollah's strongholds

“Most importantly, Hezbollah has lost its strength, and that's a very good thing. Now it's just a political party, nothing more,” says Georges, a Beirut bar owner. “The destruction of Hezbollah has enabled the authorities to act more forcefully against the mafia, criminals, drug dealers, and other criminals.”

But not everyone feels the way Georges does. Haret Hreik is the southern neighborhood of the Lebanese capital. Administratively, it is partly Beirut, partly the suburbs. Most of the residents are Shia Muslims, a fact visible from the ubiquitous images of Hassan Nasrallah and other Hezbollah “martyrs.” This is how the locals respectfully refer to those killed in Israeli strikes or military action. Until recently, Haret Hreik was home to many Hezbollah facilities. This area, as well as neighboring Ghobeiry and Bourj el-Barajneh, was targeted by Israel.

Ali, 23, guards a roadblock at the entrance to Beirut's Shiite neighborhood. He and his partner check passing cars. They have two machine guns and a fortified firing position. Both are servicemen in the official Lebanese army, and it is notable that, without exception, all of the Lebanese citizens I met expressed high hopes for the development and strengthening of their country’s armed forces. Next week Ali has a few days off, but instead а taking a break, he will work in a restaurant. Because of low military wages, he has to work outside of the army part-time to survive.

“My salary is $200 [per month]. With 12 days left until the end of the month, I only have 20 dollars left,” Ali says. “We have lived like this since 2019. Hopefully, with the new president, our situation will change for the better. We have a leader who talks about all these problems all the time, but the state is so weak that it can't handle them.”

Aside from the checkpoint at the entrance to the neighborhood, you don't see many soldiers in Shiite areas — unlike in downtown Beirut, where they are stationed at many intersections, outside government buildings, and at major hotels. After sundown, the Shiite suburbs are rather gloomy: the neighborhoods are plunged into darkness, with lights only on the main streets, which are flanked by numerous dilapidated and damaged buildings and dark, narrow alleys. This is where Hezbollah chief Hassan Nasrallah was killed in an Israeli strike. The site of the attack still has a huge crater: the leader of the movement was in an underground bunker at the time, but it did not save him.

Many of the buildings have nothing but the frame left. There are no cordons or security guards. One such damaged house collapsed the other day, more than two months after it was struck.

Backhoes continue to remove debris during the day. The remnants of furniture and appliances are collected in trucks and dumped on neighboring streets, where residents come to pick up what's theirs — or someone else's. Such spontaneous dumps emerge in almost every alley. Garbage is not taken out, and in some streets, the stench knocks you off your feet.

Nasrallah Avenue is Haret Hreik's main thoroughfare. It looks as though every other building here has been hit. The poverty contrasts with the parked luxury cars, such as Lamborghinis and Ferraris. Stores, pizzerias, burger joints, and vegetable shops are open on the first floors.

Undecided on Moscow, unwavering on Israel

A local approaches and asks me not to take photographs of the ruins. Usually, such demands are made by military personnel, but there are none of them around. We learn that he is Syrian and had come here after the war began. Hearing the word “Russia,” he looks even more disgruntled. Moscow's involvement in the bombing of Aleppo and Idlib is not forgotten, and yet many here respect Moscow for its position on Palestine. I heard both approval and condemnation from many Lebanese almost simultaneously.

Like many Shiites, car repair shop owner Hassan is unhappy with Hezbollah's dwindling influence — and also with the new president. He does not believe in a peaceful future for Lebanon: “I'm 47 years old, and I don't remember a single day without war!” For him, the top priority that the new president and the new government must address is the cessation of hostilities in the south.

“Israel made an agreement, we are past the deadline, and I still can't return to my hometown of Khiam in the south. There are still Israeli troops there. Under Hezbollah, I went there without a second thought. So it's a matter of perspective. If you consider them a terrorist organization, then yes, it's right to take them out. From my point of view as a Lebanese, they made sure I could go home. When will I be able to do it again? I don't know, because the Israelis are not leaving.”

Additionally, The Insider's interviewee does not believe Lebanon's army will receive the funding and modern weaponry it so desperately needs if it is to defend the country from external and internal threats. Neither the U.S. and Israel, nor the Gulf Arab states will allow this, he said.

“The Americans gave us three helicopters. We're grateful, of course, but we are not authorized to use these helicopters in combat operations. We weren't even allowed to use them against the ISIS and Al-Nusra Front terrorists who infiltrated eastern Lebanon 10 years ago! Our forces were dropping all kinds of heavy objects on the militants from helicopters because they were not allowed to fire!” Hassan says. The military operation to expel the radicals at the time was led by none other than the new president, Joseph Aoun.

Hassan pours us some coffee: sitting down with a stranger for a drink and a chat is part of Middle Eastern hospitality. He laughs off a remark about how glum Haret Hreik looks: “It's safe for you here! Everyone here loves Russians very much because you support both us and Hezbollah!”

In Hassan's view, Hezbollah was the only military force with air defense systems and the ability to stand up to anyone. “Since the army is struggling and is not allowed to have weapons, Hezbollah will step in. Many say Israel is firing in response to Hezbollah's actions. But there was no Hezbollah in 1978! It didn't emerge until 1984. Israel had seized territory from us before. If it hadn't been for Hezbollah, we wouldn't be having coffee here right now!” Hassan argued.

What role the group will play in Lebanese life going forward is unclear. One option is for members of the movement to join the Lebanese army — not as a standalone combat unit, but as regular soldiers. Nevertheless, the army will not be able to accept too many fighters, as this would shift the religious balance of the half-Christian, half-Muslim force.

“I wouldn't say that Hezbollah has been destroyed or has become less influential!” Hassan argues. “True, its leader and all the top commanders have been killed, but the organization itself has survived, and that means it is strong. And it will show itself.”

“The main challenge is to stop the free fall of the currency”

The effects of the economic crisis and Israel's recent war with Hezbollah are visible to the naked eye. There are far fewer people downtown than there were in 2017. On Hamra, one of Beirut's main streets, almost half of the shopping areas are closed. There are barely any souvenir stores left, and the once-packed restaurants are almost empty. Few can afford to dine out for $30 per meal. However, according to The Insider's interviewees, residents who had fled because of the Israeli strikes are trickling back.

Syrian refugees, on the other hand, are leaving for their homeland after the change of power. The locals are happy to see them go.

“It's 2.5 million Syrians, mostly not very skilled, taking jobs away from the Lebanese,” a Beirut resident says. “They are surviving as best they can, of course. But our job market is suffering because they are dumping wages. And a whole stratum of our people, also low-skilled, unprotected Lebanese, can't get jobs.”

Beirut has always been an expensive city, and recent years have seen an additional surge in prices. The Lebanese lira has depreciated by more than 90% against the U.S. dollar on the black market since 2019. Before the crisis, the exchange rate was fixed at 1,507 Lebanese liras per U.S. dollar — now it stands at around 100,000 liras. Currency depreciation has caused hyperinflation and mass impoverishment. In 2020, the price index for essential commodities skyrocketed by 222%.

In an attempt to put the brakes on the outflow of foreign currency, the government restricted the withdrawal of dollars, effectively depriving depositors of access to their funds. The concept of the Lollar (Lebanese dollar) emerged to describe U.S. dollar deposits that can only be withdrawn at an unfavorable lira exchange rate that is well below the market value. ATMs dispense small amounts, sometimes only in liras. The Finance Ministry also restricted the use of Lebanese bank cards in Europe.

“The most important task is to restore the value of the national currency,” Georges Aoun believes. “This should be the government's top priority. Syrian currency experienced a drop too, but after the change of power, their currency went on a small rise. Ours is standing still. Today they give 9 million liras for $100! Until they return stability to the currency, no investments will flow into the country.”

In large stores, you can see price tags in both American and Lebanese currency. You can also pay in either lira or dollars. Prices are on par with those in Moscow. Shawarma costs an average of $2-4. So does a liter of juice, depending on the brand. A bus ticket from Beirut to the town of Saida 50 km south is $2, a shuttle bus trip costs $10, and a bottle of contact lens solution is $5-10.

Ali, the manager of a shawarma restaurant, returned to the capital a month ago from the U.S., where he had gone seven years before. He was afraid for his elderly parents, who refused to leave Beirut even amid Israeli air strikes. Ali works in the city center on Rue Bliss, which runs parallel to Hamra, closer to the sea. He is adamant that ordinary Lebanese are not capable of influencing the situation in the country. The people have lived in a crisis for too long and do not want to waste their lives on fighting.

“A lot of people are distancing themselves from politics. They don't want to hear anything about it. All they want is to live their best life because you only live once. They go to clubs, hang out, party. I have a lot of acquaintances from Russia. They say it's the same with you now. I think we're a little bit alike in that.”

The majority of the Lebanese we spoke to name corruption, a weak army, and external pressure as the country's main problems. They believe that these problems reinforce one another. “The multitude of bans and restrictions from the West prevent us from becoming a normal country. We're not allowed to have air defenses — even though it's a defensive, not offensive weapon. Our army has nothing to fight with. The West is not selling us weapons for fear of them falling into Hezbollah's hands,” Ali said.

He added that the government should ensure that Lebanese companies or the state can develop natural resources. “We've got oil and gas in the sea. We can live like an oil country, like the Emirates. But now we are closer to Venezuela, which has huge oil reserves but has people living on $5 a month! Why? Because no one is buying their oil.”

“Power still belongs to the generation that unleashed the civil war”

We hear a buzz overhead as two quadcopters dash over the Beirut waterfront at a low altitude and begin to land twenty or so meters away. The sound attracts military personnel on duty outside the yacht club. They approach the operators to check whether they have the necessary permits to launch copters in downtown Beirut. Drone operators Georges and Elie previously worked for the Lebanese army, so they quickly find common ground with the guards, explaining that they are using their Mavics to film Beirut at sunset.

“It's much worse when an Israeli drone flies,” Ali laughs. “They have a very peculiar buzzing. You can't mistake it for anything else. They fly around here every day!”

The guys are excited about the election of a new president. “This is a new era in Lebanon's history,” Georges says. “Everyone expects us to become a prosperous country again. Or at least to return to the pre-crisis level of 2018.”

Ali, the manager of the downtown Beirut shawarma shop, does not believe in a bright future under the new president. In his opinion, Lebanon is going from bad to worse. He still harbors hopes of convincing his parents to move to the U.S. The main reason for political stagnation is that the people in power are the same, he says.

“We had a 20-year civil war. Today, power belongs to the same generation that controlled Lebanon during that war and profited from it. They won't offer anything new, so we can only hope it doesn't get worse,” Ali said, waving his hand toward a dilapidated apartment building with shell marks on the walls. The building is a former Holiday Inn hotel, which found itself in the epicenter of fighting in the mid-70s — the so-called “Battle of the Hotels.” What sounds like the title of a popular TV show was in fact a real episode of the civil war.

From this building, as well as from the neighboring Phoenicia Intercontinental and St. George hotels, armed detachments of Christian forces fired on the positions of Sunni militant groups and their leftist allies, who in turn shelled the hotels from high-rise office buildings. Control of some hotels passed from one faction to another several times a day. The Battle of the Hotels ended in April 1976 with detachments of left-wing Muslim forces capturing the Holiday Inn, the Normandie, and the Beirut Hilton, among others.

Some of the buildings, such as the Phoenicia, have been restored and are now receiving tourists. But the Holiday Inn remains abandoned and guarded by the military. Its grounds hold combat vehicles and armored personnel carriers, as if in preparation for a new conflict and in stark contrast with the new luxury apartments next door.

The current speaker of parliament, Nabih Berri, is also known for his involvement in the civil war. He is the leader of the Amal party, which, along with Hezbollah, represents the interests of Shiite Muslims in parliament. The road near his residence is closed at night and a large portrait of the politician is placed on the barrier so that drivers do not make too much fuss about the blocked road.

Berry's portrait also adorns the wall of a downtown building. Next to it is an image of another Shiite leader, Musa al-Sadr, who mysteriously disappeared in 1978 in Libya. The Lebanese parliament blamed Muammar Gaddafi for his abduction.

After the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1982, Berri fought against the central government, which had to renege on agreements with Israel. During the civil war, militants under his leadership participated in the expulsion of Christian military forces from West Beirut and attacked the camps of Palestinian refugees who supported Yasser Arafat, killing thousands. In 1985, Berry's militants hijacked a TWA flight, taking 153 hostages. One of the hostages died, and the politician stepped in to mediate the negotiations with the terrorists.

“The Lebanese civil war is composed of stories that now seem absurd and implausible,” says Ali, who returned from the U.S. “But it's something we live with to this day. And with the same politicians, unfortunately.”