Lebanon’s new generation of politicos

Alice Fordham

• Last Updated: April 04. 2009 9:30AM UAE / April 4. 2009 5:30AM GMT

BEIRUT // Gesticulating, interrupting each other and always talking politics, the group sitting at the table is typically Lebanese.

“It’s not that I don’t respect your point of view,” said Saad Hani, “it’s that you don’t think it through.”

“But … I know my point of view is right!” said Nayla Mroueh.

Saad explains that, “We argue because I am Sunni and she is not.”

Each of the members in the group identifies with a different part of Lebanon’s vast political spectrum and is prepared to, as they put it, “talk deep into the subject”.

But these are not intelligentsia sitting in a smoky cafe.

Aged between 14 and 16, this gang of glossy-haired pupils has just bounced out of afternoon class at Beirut’s elite International College and strolled past the palm trees of their playground into Hardee’s burger bar.

Wearing Abercrombie & Fitch and Vans shoes, the girls perch on the boys’ knees and they chatter in the French-English-Arabic mix of cosmopolitan Beirutis. And though they may be chic, this is not a superficial teenage culture.

In a highly politicised country where power is still inherited and reinforced by connections, they are part of a new generation who are growing up fast, politically savvy and in control of their networking long before they can vote.

New light was shed this week on the changing world of Lebanese teenagers, as research into the unlikely subject of Beirut’s birthday parties was presented by Dr Kirsten Scheid, an anthropologist of the American University of Beirut.

Fascinated by the elaborate celebrations her daughter attended, Dr Scheid began researching the parties of children of the elite aged 11 to 14. This young generation, she found, were trying to impress each other and build networks in a very adult way.

Far from the traditional Lebanese birthday party at home with family, tabbouleh and Arabic music, such parties have, in the last few years, become elegant affairs in expensive hotels and nightclubs.

The birthday boy or girl takes control of the – usually American rap – music played, the crucial guest list and the clothes worn.

“People definitely try to impress their friends,” said Hana Chamoun, 15, a gregarious girl, as she toyed with her long curls.

Nayla, 16, who wriggles onto Hana’s chair, remembers that, “a couple of years ago people would rent hotels; now the parties are in clubs and go on until 12”.

And for urbane Lebanese teenagers, even the outfits are political.

“They won’t wear orange, yellow, blue or green,” all politically charged colours in Lebanon, said Dr Scheid, “because they don’t want to offend each other.”

The group Dr Scheid studied was drawn from Beirut’s three top schools – the International College, the American Community School and the College Protestante – where the next generation of Lebanon’s business and political players are growing up.

“Over here,” said Naseem Abu Ayyache, 14, ignoring the giggling girls and leaning seriously across the cafe table, “the young people know about politics. We are so educated and everyone has his own side, which he defends very strongly … it’s because Lebanon went through a civil war and our parents were affected a lot, and because we all come from different political backgrounds.”

“Teenagers know everything,” said Hana, “and they talk about it like they are grown-ups.”

At school, she said, a new American teacher was “very surprised” by their knowledge.

“He said that the kids in the US do not talk about politics in the same way. I think politics is the major difference between us and other cultures our age.”

Hana does admit that perhaps they are a bit young for such intense political discussions, but said many children know that one day they will be expected to follow their parents into politics.

Such expectations have played a big role in forming Lebanon’s teenagers.

Dr Scheid’s research suggests that teenage social identity has vastly changed since the civil war ended in 1990, after 15 years.

The music and clothes have morphed as the western diaspora returned, bringing, some say, materialism and status obsession along with rap and Vans trainers.

But the one-upmanship and political chat of today’s teenage life is also part of a far more traditional aspect of Lebanon – that of political power being passed from one generation of a family to the next.

By the time they reach their teenage years, some know they will follow their parents and become politicians. Others will have made all the contacts they need to become MPs in their palm-fringed playgrounds.

As the June 7 election approaches, the hereditary nature of Lebanese politics is clearer than ever.

The handful of young hopefuls who have announced their candidacy are themselves children of politicians.

Sami Gemayel, 29, a member of the Christian Kataeb party, is a candidate in the Metn district north of Beirut, and is the son of the former Lebanese president and party leader Amin Gemayel. His cousin, Nadim Gemayel, 28, who is standing in one of Beirut’s districts, is the son of Bashir Gemayel, also a former president. The grandfather of both candidates was the party founder, Pierre Gemayel.

Also standing in Beirut is Nayla Tueni, 26, the daughter of the assassinated former MP and newspaper editor Gebran Tueni. Among the older candidates is Michel Moawad, 37, the son of the assassinated president Rene Moawad.

Although the country is seen as one of the most democratic in the region, family is still very important in preparing the next generation and providing them with a head start into politics, said Bashar Haidar, a professor of political philosophy.

“Of course, when I was at high school, everyone was political,” said Nadim Gemayel.

“All the Lebanese youth are very politicised, so it is not a matter of whose son I am. We are all sons of this cause and this country. I am not here just because I am the son of Bashir but all the youth have the same belief in democracy, and this is our fight.”

The country’s troubled past, Prof Haidar said, has meant that institutions like political parties have not become strong enough for a deputy leader to take over when an old leader dies or retires, so the legitimacy of the person can only be transferred through lineage.

In part, he said, this is due to the importance of family in Lebanese culture, but he sees it also “like the assumption that you have to take the profession of your father – which was the case in Europe a century ago”.

In other words, the pool from which the next Lebanese politicians will come consists of a small number of families, and to get ahead a wannabe politico has to be in one, or meet them early on – often at school.

If the Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton, as the British like to say, Lebanon’s future is being determined by the outlook and attitudes of a few hundred Beiruti teenagers in American sportswear.

Is that future in good hands?

Some of the gang in Hardee’s point out that in Lebanon, assassinations still happen, and not everyone would want to be a politician.

But Saad is insistent. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I am thinking about going into politics, but I am not going to be one-sided.”

He railed against the way that “95 per cent of people” follow the political leanings of their families, saying, “I will try to be in the middle”.

“But Muslims cannot be president,” he added, referring to the rule that only a Maronite can take that office, “so it depends how far I can get.”

Maybe one day, he said, it will be different.

* The National