The New Republic Online
http://www.tnr.com/doc.mhtml?i=20060807&s=ciezadlo080706BEIRUT DISPATCH
Sheik Up
by Annia Ciezadlo
Post date: 07.28.06
Issue date: 08.07.06
In the early hours of September 13, 1997, the Israeli army killed one
45-year-old woman, two Hezbollah fighters, and six Lebanese soldiers
in the mountains of southern Lebanon. Later that day, Hezbollah
officials viewed video footage of the bodies and confirmed that one of
the slain was a precious kill indeed: 18-year-old Hadi Nasrallah, son
of Hezbollah's leader, Secretary-General Sayyid Hassan Nasrallah.
That evening, Nasrallah was scheduled to give a speech in Haret Hreik,
the southern Beirut suburb where Hezbollah's offices are located. His
second-in-command, Sheik Naim Qassem, offered to speak in his place.
But, when the Lebanese turned on their televisions that evening, they
saw the bearded, boyish face--at 37, looking hardly more than a youth
himself--of Hassan Nasrallah.
Though the entire nation knew by then that he had lost his son,
Nasrallah didn't mention it. He commemorated the anniversary of the
September 13 massacre, a 1993 incident in which the Lebanese army
opened fire on Hezbollah supporters. As he spoke, the audience began
to clamor: Why wasn't he talking about his son?
To this day, people in Lebanon still talk about what happened next.
Breaking off from his speech, Nasrallah noted that the country had
given many martyrs the previous night. He recited the names of the
soldiers and added, almost as an afterthought, that his son and
another Hezbollah fighter were also killed. He thanked God for
choosing a martyr from his family, saying that, while he used to feel
ashamed in front of families whose sons had died for their country,
now he could look them in the eye. Hadi's killing was a victory for
Hezbollah, not for Israel, he pointed out: Instead of fighting each
other, as in 1993, Lebanon's army and its guerrillas were united. "We
are now fighting together and falling as martyrs together," said
Nasrallah, as the audience cheered and chanted Hadi's name. "This is a
great victory for us, of which we are proud." And then he went on with
his speech.
Timur Goksel, then a senior adviser to the United Nations in Lebanon,
watched the speech with a pro-Israel Christian family. "This Christian
family, who hated everything Hezbollah stood for, they started
crying," Goksel recalls.
In the Middle East, political leaders are often old, corrupt, and
repressive; just as often, they are the pampered, Western-educated
sons of aging dictators. There are also guerrilla leaders, who, if
they survive, often end up as petty old despots themselves.
And then there is Nasrallah. Revered by the Shia, respected by his
enemies, he has already earned the distinction of being the only Arab
leader to evict Israel from Arab land without having to sign a peace
treaty. But he is also a religious warrior. Today, as he fights a
lopsided military battle against the Jewish state, he is becoming an
icon--not just in the Arab world, where he was already a hero, but in
the umma, the world of Islam. Nasrallah's war is not just a war
between Lebanon and Israel, or even between Iran and America's allies;
it's a war of myths and images, a battle to transform the Arab and
Islamic worlds. Whatever battlefield setbacks Hezbollah may suffer in
Lebanon, on this larger stage, Nasrallah has already won.
By Friday, July 14, everyone in Lebanon knew it was war. It was clear
that Hezbollah had miscalculated the Israeli response when it
kidnapped two Israeli soldiers two days earlier. Israel had bombed the
airport and bridges, blockaded the ports, and killed dozens of people,
most of them civilians. The Lebanese were succumbing to collective
panic, cleaning out grocery store shelves, buying up gasoline, and
frantically withdrawing U.S. dollars. After a defiant press conference
on the day of the kidnapping of Israeli soldiers, Nasrallah had
disappeared from sight. Rumors circulated that he had been struck by
an Israeli missile; people were beginning to wonder if he might be
dead.
Friday evening, at about 8:30, Nasrallah called in to Al Manar,
Hezbollah's TV station. He sounded tired and sleep-deprived, like a
man living underground. But his voice was firm, and the photograph
that accompanied his speech showed, somewhat surreally, his trademark
sunny, open smile. He began by offering condolences to the families of
the martyrs, who had given their lives "in the noblest confrontation
and battle that the modern age has known, or rather that all history
has known." He taunted the Arab regimes that had abandoned him and
reminded the Lebanese of the victory they had won on May 25, 2000,
when Israeli troops withdrew from southern Lebanon.
Then he did something no one from Hezbollah had ever done before.
Reminding his audience that he had promised them "surprises," he
announced that they would begin momentarily. "Now, in the middle of
the sea, facing Beirut, the Israeli warship that has attacked the
infrastructure, people's homes, and civilians--look at it burning," he
said calmly, almost matter-of-factly. As he spoke, out at sea, an
Iranian-made C802 missile crashed into the warship. We could see an
orange glow, like flares, shooting up from the sea to the sky.
Everyone tuned in to Nasrallah that night. I live in a mixed Beirut
neighborhood, not heavily Shia or even exclusively Muslim. But, when
he spoke these words, from the buildings around me, I heard a
surround-sound rustle of cheers and applause. Outside, caravans of
cars rolled through the abandoned streets, and the drivers honked
their horns.
It was classic Nasrallah, charismatic and pointed, as if to underscore
his difference from other Arab leaders. "In the Arab world, you have
two kinds of rhetoricians: the very fiery, passionate kind, who make a
lot of false promises, a Yasir Arafat--the typical Arab rambling and
passion that gets you nowhere," says Amal Saad-Ghorayeb, a professor
of political science at Lebanese American University and author of
Hizbu'llah: Politics and Religion. "And you have others who are
populist leaders, who are more plainspoken and practical. And
Nasrallah is in between both."
With his dramatic attack on the Israeli ship, Nasrallah upped the
stakes, and not just for Lebanon. This was the first time any Arab
leader had staged an attack on an Israeli target and announced it
simultaneously, live on television. It was as though he had heeded the
words of Osama bin Laden's closest adviser, Ayman Al Zawahiri, who
wrote in a letter to Abu Musab Al Zarqawi, the leader of Al Qaeda in
Iraq, that "more than half of this battle is taking place in the
battlefield of the media."
"Nasrallah, he's becoming like bin Laden--a star," says Lebanese
journalist Paula Khoury. "Because now he has this ability to address
the world. This is a new thing, and it's dangerous."
Hezbollah's pioneering tactic of massive suicide bombings once
inspired bin Laden, becoming a classic in the Al Qaeda playbook. With
his current war, Nasrallah is innovating once more, this time in the
world of images, creating a new template for speaking to the Muslim
world. Unlike the Sunni jihadists, he attacks the enemy's armies, not
just its civilians. Unlike Zarqawi, Nasrallah has style. He can match
rhetoric to action, as he proved on July 14. And, unlike the
lugubrious bin Laden, he can appear practical and pragmatic,
down-to-earth--even fun. As Saad-Ghorayeb points out, "What other Arab
leader threatens Israel and grins?"
Unlike bin Laden, and in a country where most political leaders
inherit their positions, Nasrallah was born into a poor family. It was
1960, a time when Shia were moving to Beirut in droves, up from the
south of Lebanon--much as American blacks had made the great
migration, and for similar reasons. The son of a greengrocer,
Nasrallah grew up in both southern Lebanon and Karantina, a
hardscrabble Beirut suburb.
After the civil war broke out, the teenage Nasrallah joined Amal, a
Shia empowerment movement created by the charismatic cleric Musa Al
Sadr. When Nasrallah decided to study Islam, an Amal cleric wrote him
a letter of introduction to Muhammad Baqir Al Sadr, the revolutionary
Iraqi cleric who was one of the leading lights of Najaf (and a
relative of current Iraqi militia leader Moqtada Al Sadr). In Najaf,
he studied with Sayyid Abbas Musawi, who would later become the leader
of Hezbollah.
After Iran's 1979 Islamic revolution, Iraq became inhospitable to
young Shia clerics, and Nasrallah returned to Lebanon, where he
eventually joined the new, Iranian-backed militia. He rose to become a
commander, serving as ambassador to Iran and leading battles against
Israel in the south. When Israel killed Musawi in 1992, Hezbollah's
central command replaced him with his proteg�, Nasrallah, then only
31.
Nasrallah surprised the nation--and angered Hezbollah hardliners--when
he decided to bring the party into electoral politics, a move that
some saw as tantamount to laying down Hezbollah's arms and giving up
its guerrilla status. But, in 2000, when Israel pulled out its last
troops from the south of Lebanon, Nasrallah became unassailable. And
having members in parliament actually protected Hezbollah's arms by
giving it legitimacy and power in Lebanon's political sphere. Today,
with charity organizations that span the country, 14 of 128
parliamentary seats, and two cabinet ministers, the party is so strong
that people describe it as a "state within a state."
But, even more than this savvy political maneuvering, it was his son's
death, and his stoic reaction to it, that elevated Nasrallah from a
sectarian guerrilla leader to something altogether more potent. In the
days after Hadi was killed, Lebanese leaders from across the political
spectrum--even Christian warlord and bitter enemy Elie Hobeika--paid
their respects to Nasrallah and his wife. Nasrallah capitalized on
this moment of popularity, opening the ranks of Hezbollah to Lebanese
from all sects and forming the Lebanese Brigades, a unit with several
thousand non-Shia recruits. A quintessentially Shia leader--a cleric,
even--had transcended his sect to become a national hero.
So why did Nasrallah, who is nothing if not a master strategist,
launch this war now? Most observers think Hezbollah miscalculated,
that it didn't expect the ferocity of Israel's response. But, in a
way, it doesn't matter: The more Israel pounds Hezbollah and Lebanon's
Shia, the more it burnishes Nasrallah's image as defender of the umma.
There are others who have been vying for that title. In 2004, a
London-based Salafi named Abu Basir Al Tartusi wrote a document called
"The Lebanese Hezbollah and the Exportation of the Shi'ite Rafidite
Ideology." In the document, as translated by the Search for
International Terrorist Entities Institute, Tartusi claimed that
Hezbollah is a front group concocted by an unholy trinity of Iran, the
United States, and "its foster daughter, the state of the sons of
Zion." Its sole purpose is to spread Shia Islam throughout the world
and prevent authentic--i.e., Sunni Salafi--jihad.
The notion of a U.S./Iranian/Zionist axis might sound silly, but it
carries a lot of weight in the jihadosphere. In June, just a week
before he was killed by a U.S. airstrike, Zarqawi echoed Tartusi's
claims. In an audio message posted on the Internet, he accused
Hezbollah of serving as Israel's security wall against Sunni
militants, and, even more bizarrely, he parroted U.S. demands that
Hezbollah be disarmed.
On July 21, nine days after his forces kidnapped the two Israeli
soldiers, Nasrallah answered Zarqawi and Tartusi. Looking relaxed and
reasonable, in a carefully staged interview with Al Jazeera, he
mentioned Zarqawi's statement. "Today, we are Shia fighting Israel,"
he pointed out, in a peroration not unlike the one he made the day his
son died. "Our fighting and steadfastness is a victory to our brothers
in Palestine, who are Sunnis, not Shia. So, we, Shia and Sunnis, are
fighting together against Israel, which is supported, backed, and made
powerful by America." In a brilliant inversion of Tartusi's logic,
Nasrallah even suggested that "some Arabs" were collaborating with
Israel to smash the resistance in Lebanon.
Hardcore Sunni jihadists, especially those who congregate online, will
probably continue to distrust Nasrallah and all Shia. But, closer to
the Islamist mainstream, powerful and popular Islamist groups like the
Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood have come out strongly in support of
Hezbollah. On Al Jazeera, the Brotherhood's leader, Mahdi Akef, hailed
Nasrallah, saying that "the Lebanese who kidnapped the Zionist
soldiers are true nationalists, led by a great man."
What do the Shia, his main constituency, really think of Nasrallah and
his war? Among the religious majority, especially the moderates who
follow Lebanese Grand Ayatollah Mohammed Hussein Fadlallah instead of
sterner Iranian and Iraqi mullahs, Nasrallah is adored and respected,
an emblem of Islam and Arab pride. According to the independent
Lebanese pollster Abdo Saad, people have begun referring to him as the
"shadow of God."
But not all Shia are happy. In fact, secular Shia are outraged.
Lebanon's Shia merchant class, like all the country's bourgeoisie, has
been devastated by the current conflict. And even some of the devout
are privately expressing doubts about Nasrallah's promise to rebuild
their decimated villages and neighborhoods with the help of a new
"friend"--i.e., Iran. "People are sleeping on the ground, and
Nasrallah doesn't care," mutters Umm Hussein, a devout Shia woman from
Beirut who says she has never criticized the sayyid before. "He said
he was going to make Lebanon like it was before. Is he going to bring
back the people who died?"
But, in the end, Hezbollah may not care that much about local public
opinion. "Of course they're not happy that people are dying," says
Saad-Ghorayeb. "But I don't think that public opinion is all that
important to them, especially not now."
What matters far more than Nasrallah's eventual victory or defeat is
the iconography he has created: that of an Arab leader who, unlike all
the others, isn't afraid to defend the umma. In just a few weeks, he
has succeeded in exporting the Shia jihad--a goal that even mighty
Iran has failed to achieve in three decades of trying. "This is not
just a war about survival and borders--not so far even a strategic
one," says Saad-Ghorayeb. "This is the decisive battle for the region.
... If he succeeds, then it will reverberate throughout the region."
And, if he loses, it may reverberate just the same--and just as
violently.
Annia Ciezadlo is a Beirut-based writer.