Children of Jihad: A Young American's Travels Among the Youth of the Middle East

by Jared Cohen

  Naylah wasn’t the only one who opened up to me. Lebanese youth were very friendly and they were quick to welcome me to Lebanon and ask me what I thought of their country. Lebanese girls would flirtatiously ask me if I found them “heloue ketir” and I had to concede that they are very beautiful, although I got fed up with boosting their massive egos. Lebanese youth carry themselves with confidence and their self-possession is amplified by their possessions: Image-and status-conscious young Lebanese wear nice things and drive nice cars. I was shier than usual about approaching people randomly; I felt like an underclassman in a high school cafeteria, trying to get a seat at the table with the cool seniors.

  I needed an excuse to break into the scene, especially once I realized that my Arabic would be less useful than I had anticipated. I had studied classical Arabic but found that it was unrecognizable in Lebanon. Speaking classical Arabic in Beirut was like going to New York City and speaking Shakespearean English, so I got myself a colloquial Arabic teacher to help me adjust to Lebanese Arabic. The lessons proved to be very helpful and certainly made me more comfortable approaching people, but on a subsequent trip to Morocco almost a year later, I approached a shopkeeper and said in the Lebanese dialect of Arabic, “Keefak?” meaning “How are you?” To a speaker of the Moroccan dialect of Arabic, the word is unrecognizable; he thought I was saying fuck you. The interaction became hostile and awkward and I ended up buying an ugly necklace to shut the shopkeeper up and calm him down.

  I spent my first few days in Lebanon developing and distributing surveys that covered a range of topics that included the Syrian withdrawal, democracy, religion and politics, Hezbollah, and American foreign policy. I was certainly interested in the results, but I was really hoping to use the surveys as a way to strike up conversations with Lebanese youth. I had deliberately devoted the last section of my five-page survey to United States foreign policy, knowing that this topic would evoke passionate debates. Two students whom I had approached randomly at the American University of Beirut had even been kind enough to sit with me for three hours and translate the entire survey into Arabic.

  Over the next week, I meandered around the university campuses of Beirut, distributing my survey to every young person I encountered. This was not Iran: I didn’t have to sneak into the universities and I didn’t have to be mindful of intelligence services or Revolutionary Guards who wanted to arrest me. I operated with ease. In fact, I wasn’t the only person handing out surveys: Lebanese youth take full advantage of their freedom of speech, and often mistaken for a student myself, I, too, filled out a number of surveys on issues like sex and religion.

  Because I was handing out as many as fifty surveys a day, I was interacting with tons of young people. I exchanged phone numbers with many of them and it was not uncommon for students to ask if they could take me out at night or to their homes for dinner or to various parts of Lebanon. I received my first such invitation at the Lebanese American University, located in downtown Beirut and considered by many to be one of Lebanon’s better universities. Like the American University of Beirut, the Lebanese American University was founded by American missionaries in the nineteenth century and originally established as a school for girls. It was not until after World War II that it became an integrated four-year university. The university has a student body of more than six thousand students from various backgrounds, although Shi’a Muslims are the most highly represented.

  It was a relatively slow afternoon and most of the students either were in class or had gone home for the day. In the lower part of campus, I noticed a stunning girl sitting at one of the picnic tables. Her curly hair was highlighted with blond strands and she had accentuated her big eyes and long eyelashes with mascara.

  I approached her and asked if she would mind filling out a survey. After assuring her that it would only take about ten minutes, I waited patiently at a nearby table. After a few moments, she signaled that she had finished and I walked over to her.

  “I have so much to say about this. You know, it can’t be explained so well in a survey,” she told me.

  I took this as an invitation to ask more questions. She introduced herself as Hibah and we decided to meet later.

  Hibah and I sat at T.G.I. Friday’s on Marrad Street in downtown Beirut. Marrad Street is one of the most popular spots for young people in Beirut; it is also one of the city’s best places to people-watch. I found it hard to believe that just eight years earlier it had been virtually deserted; the gorgeous outdoor restaurants had been mere rubble and the busy streets had been filled with weeds and mortar shells. Today, T.G.I. Friday’s is one of many Western fast-food chains in Lebanon; one has a better chance of finding a Starbucks (there are five in Beirut), Dunkin’ Donuts, or Pizza Hut in downtown Beirut than in just about any European city and even some American cities.

  It should be noted that despite the beauty and grandeur of areas like Marrad Street, Beirut isn’t all modern and luxurious. The slums of Beirut, just a fifteen-minute taxi drive from downtown, are cramped, impoverished, and plagued by infrastructure problems. The poverty and degradation of these slums provide a fertile breeding ground for the extremism that well-organized groups like Hezbollah are spreading.

  Hibah was a Sunni and a big supporter of the Future Party, led by the young politician Saad Hariri. The Lebanese Sunni, who follow prominent families rather than religious clerics, rally mostly around the Hariri family in Lebanon. The Hariri family became prominent through its business ventures in telecommunications, oil, banking, and television; Rafik Hariri served as prime minister of Lebanon on two occasions, first from 1992 to 1998 and then from 2000 to 2004. For his skill in guiding Lebanon during its period of reconstruction after the war, even critics of Hariri came to respect and admire him for refurbishing the country to something it hadn’t been since before the war. It was his assassination on Valentine’s Day of 2005 that sparked the Cedar Revolution, and for many Lebanese, the Hariri family continues to drive Lebanese politics. Through Rafik’s son Saad, an influential deputy in parliament, the prominent Sunni family virtually dictated the results of the Lebanese elections whose last round of voting I’d witnessed on my first night in Lebanon.

  Immediately after we sat down, Hibah told me that she would try to help me, but that she was not much of an activist and tended to avoid politics. A lot of young Lebanese say this, but it’s rarely totally accurate. Young Lebanese live and breathe politics; born and raised in the crucible of war and occupation, even the most apathetic and apolitical Lebanese young person would look like an activist next to the average American youth.

  It was then that I noticed that Hibah had dressed to impress. She wore a dress and makeup and actually looked rather fancy. I, on the other hand, was wearing Birkenstocks, jeans, and a T-shirt. Had I accidentally stumbled onto a date?

  While we waited for our food to arrive, I asked Hibah about the magnificent changes that had taken place in Lebanon just a few months before my arrival.

  “Jared, you must understand, we never knew who we were,” she told me.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “We grew up with bombs in the streets and Syria occupying our country. We were always controlled by Syria and afraid to discover who we are.”

  Like most Sunni youth, Hibah considered the Syrian occupation to be the defining struggle of pre–Cedar Revolution Lebanon; she hardly mentioned the Israeli occupation of southern Lebanon. To many Shi’a youth, the Sunnis had it backward: They saw the Syrian occupation as positive for Lebanon because Damascus supported Hezbollah against Israel. For Sunnis like Hibah, however, the end of the Syrian occupation was the beginning of Lebanon’s future.

  I asked Hibah what changed after the Syrians left.

  “We became Lebanese,” she replied.

  “What do you mean you ‘became Lebanese’?” I asked.

  She blushed and looked down at her food. Then she looked up, smiled, and continued.

  “On that day when we all went to Martyrs
’ Square, I didn’t care so much what it was all about. My friends were all going and it seemed fun. But when I got there, something happened to me. I had never realized how Lebanese I was until that moment.” She was referring to the unprecedented unity between Christians and Muslims as they stood together and called for one Lebanon, without a Syrian presence.

  When we finished dinner, Hibah insisted on taking me to Martyrs’ Square, the main plaza in downtown Beirut and the epicenter of the Cedar Revolution. I figured that this is what she had meant when she responded to my survey by saying, “It is easier to show you.” The plaza was only a five-minute walk from the restaurant.

  I was still confused about whether or not she considered this a date or a friendly meeting to chat about Lebanese politics. For simplicity’s sake, I decided to assume the latter, which proved to be the right call. Hibah became a good friend and was actually extremely helpful in getting some of the Hezbollah guys she knew to speak with me. As it turned out, several of them had crushes on her and she felt perfectly comfortable asking them if they wouldn’t mind meeting with me or letting me conduct some interviews.

  Hibah led me to the center of Martyrs’ Square. In one direction I could see the Mediterranean Sea, while in another I could see a gorgeous mosque and the old rubble of what was once a popular movie theater. We walked toward a statue of three people in the middle of a rotunda. The monument was marked with bullet holes, remnants of the war. All around the plaza, I saw tents and graffiti left over from the demonstrations against the Syrians. Hibah explained to me that young Lebanese had dropped out of school or taken leave to camp in tents, vowing not to leave until Syria left Lebanon. She showed me the graffiti on the walls, some of which had been written in marker and some in paint. One slogan read, “Christians + Muslims = Lebanese.” Another etching said, “Together hand-in-hand for a better Lebanon.” I saw, “Kill the Lion,” a reference to Bashar al-Assad of Syria (assad is the Arabic word for lion). I even saw one piece of graffiti that read, “Lahoud pull out my ass hurts.” Emile Lahoud is the pro-Syrian Maronite president of Lebanon; he has been widely derided by many Lebanese youth for his obsequious relationship with the Syrian government. These slogans reflected the deeply patriotic sentiments that Hibah wanted me to see, not just hear.

  “We haven’t always felt these things,” she told me. “We were never able to. We always were controlled by Syria. When Syria left, it gave us a chance to look at who we are and what we want. The protests of March proved that we could do this.”

  While most active youth took part in the Cedar Revolution with the intention of getting Syria out of Lebanon (or just enjoying the biggest party of the year), there were some who counterprotested. At the time of the protests, Hezbollah performed counterdemonstrations with a pro-Syrian slant. This was not surprising, given that Syria’s financial, political, and logistical support for Hezbollah had contributed to the organization’s success in remaining a relevant player in Lebanese politics. I interviewed several young members of Hezbollah who took part in these demonstrations; they told me that despite their generally pro-Syrian perspective, their intention had not necessarily been to keep Syria in Lebanon. As one Hezbollah youth told me, “We appreciated the support Syria had given Hezbollah and felt obliged to say, ‘Thank you for your help and have a peaceful departure from Lebanon.’”

  Many Lebanese youth will agree that the day that Syria pulled out of Lebanon was the day they became Lebanese. In a country where the previous generation tried to settle sectarian differences with the violence and bloodshed of an extended civil war, today’s youth have tried to put this dark chapter of Lebanon’s history behind them. Through their voices, demonstrations, and commitment to change, Lebanese youth brought about the collapse of the pro-Syrian government and the end of a prolonged Syrian occupation.

  They have taken a major step forward, but I wonder whether Lebanese youth will continue to break the patterns of the past. With Syria out of Lebanon, Lebanese youth can no longer blame all of their problems on occupation. True, in Shi’a areas there was a temporary Israeli occupation in its war against Hezbollah in the summer of 2006, but this was different from an eighteen-year occupation. More significantly, they must move past the traumas of their war-torn childhoods. The current generation of Lebanese youth were born into a society characterized by alienation, humiliation, and suppression; they were raised in a country where bombings and shootings were a daily occurrence. And so they distracted themselves from the bleakness of their lives with social and recreational indulgences. Their escapism was wholly excusable: During both the war and the Syrian occupation, there was little reason to believe that Lebanon would change; one can hardly blame Lebanese youth for trying to make the best of an awful situation.

  Superficiality, a more substantive part of Lebanese youth culture than many people realize, has shielded young Lebanese from the realities of the difficult and traumatizing environment that they associate with their childhood. But it must not be mistaken for reality: While many young Lebanese drive expensive cars, wear extravagant clothes, and attend lavish clubs, they do not want you to know that they live with their parents and share a small room with their two brothers. They do not want you to know that their parents had to take out a loan so that they could drive a fancy car. They want to create the appearance that going out is an easy luxury, and they will not reveal that they didn’t eat dinner so that they could afford to buy a single drink, which they nurse all night. They do not want you to know that every day they worry about their future and what will happen when they no longer have their parents as a source of income. Young Lebanese loved to talk about international issues with a foreigner like me, but in truth, it’s the economy and the lack of opportunity that really frustrate them. It was only through building and nurturing friendships with Shi’a, Sunni, Druze, and Christians that I realized these sad truths.

  Superficiality has become a crutch, and Lebanese youth have grown tired of the charade. One of my friends once said to me, “I love this country, and that is why I hate it so much.” Lebanese youth are frustrated by the disconnect between Lebanon’s potential and its reality.

  They embraced the nightlife and are truly proud of Lebanon’s cosmopolitanism, but behind closed doors, almost all young people will admit they want to leave. They love Lebanon but fear that it has nothing real to offer them. Students would always tell me that there are sixteen million Lebanese (nine million in Brazil) and only four million of them live in the country. Lebanon is experiencing a massive brain drain, and as in Iran, the emigration of so many young people is a direct result of the domestic troubles that the government has failed to address.

  Though momentum from the Cedar Revolution is beginning to fade and hostilities between Hezbollah and Israel are destabilizing Lebanon, Lebanese youth remain poised to build upon their newfound sovereignty. Although still given to scapegoating and superficiality, Lebanese youth are breaking the patterns of the past by embracing democracy—even if they don’t like to call it that.

  My friend Ziad and I were walking down Marrad Street one afternoon when he stopped and pointed his finger to the crowds around us.

  “Do you see all of these women with their makeup and fancy clothes?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you know where they are from?”

  I assumed they were from Lebanon, but Ziad corrected me.

  “They are mostly from Saudi Arabia and others are from the Gulf States. Do you know why they come to Lebanon?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because here they are free to do as they please.”

  I thought about this for a moment, but I think Ziad could tell I was a bit confused.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “They can behave as human beings naturally want to behave. They don’t have to hide under the rules of their governments.” Ziad put up his hand as if to demonstrate that a light bulb had just gone off in his head. “I can show you,” he told me.


  Just then, Ziad reached into his pocket and pulled out his small Motorola mobile phone. I watched him activate his Bluetooth mechanism so he could connect to other Bluetooth users. I could see him eyeing the half-dozen or so tables of women all sitting together. Within a few moments, he showed me the screen of his phone, which listed the nearby Bluetooth devices his phone had detected. The names were obviously fake. It reminded me of the Internet cafés in Iran, where all the young people’s online identities contained sexual innuendos or references to Western rappers.

  I then watched Ziad type a text message:

  I AM WEARING A RED T-SHIRT AND STANDING AT THE TOP OF MARRAD STREET.

  He pressed send, and off it went to all of the people whose names had come up on his Bluetooth network.

  Within moments, I watched table after table of Saudi and Gulf women turn around and look at him.

  “You see?” Ziad said to me as he laughed to himself.

  One thing is certain: There was more political and social freedom, in Lebanon than in any other country in the Middle East. As Ziad showed me that day, Lebanon’s progressive reputation made the country a destination for youth from Saudi Arabia, Iran, Jordan, Egypt, and across the Middle East.

  While the social and political progressiveness of Lebanon provided temporary relief for Lebanese youth and Arab tourists who came to enjoy the country’s freedoms, the young Lebanese now have a long road ahead of them. They have suffered tremendously on their path to freedom, and Lebanon still has its share of serious, structural problems: Its sectarian divides are still deeply embedded in the culture; religious allies are beset by political rivalries; and resentment from the war still brews under the surface.

  Worse, Hezbollah is ushering in a new era of violence, instability, and occupation in Lebanon, giving young Lebanese a legitimate excuse to revert back to scapegoating and superficiality. A year before their war with Israel, I had the opportunity to spend some time with young members of Hezbollah.