Lebanese Seek To Map a Future Mired in Past

"The truth for the sake of Lebanon," some read -- a call to bring his killers to justice.

More bluntly, others simply say, "The truth."

In the outpouring of grief and fury that followed his assassination, his second-eldest son, 35-year-old Saadeddine Hariri -- a political novice, but a wealthy businessman like his father -- was anointed his successor. To many Lebanese, he is now "Sheik Saad," a title of respect and the axis around which most of Lebanon's factions joined together to enter the elections for a 128-member parliament. It will be the first chosen since 1972 without the presence of Syrian troops, which intervened during Lebanon's civil war.

Under the agreement that ended that war, the parliament is evenly divided between Christians and Muslims (Maronite Christians are reserved 34 seats, Sunni Muslims and Shiite Muslims each have 27, with the rest divided among other sects.) As a minority, Christians are overrepresented, although no one knows the exact population breakdown between the communities. The last official census in Lebanon was in 1932; a new one would probably prove too politically explosive.

Sunday marks the first of four rounds, with balloting for the 19 seats in Beirut. But like most districts, the results are largely a foregone conclusion. Across the country, groups like Hariri's, Jumblatt's, Hezbollah, another Shiite party known as Amal, and Christian factions have already come together to agree on nominees. Candidates loyal to Hariri have claimed nine uncontested seats in the capital. Of the others, only one or two have any real competition. "Democracy, Lebanese style," Jumblatt called it.

'As It Is'

For centuries, the tradition of the zaim, or feudal-like lord, has run deep in Lebanese politics. With a historically weak state, it was often the zaim who met the demands of the community, Christian and Muslim. As a group, they were acknowledged as the authority, bargained on the community's behalf and, like Jumblatt, provided their constituency with services, jobs, health care and sometimes defense. This spring, it was their equivalent who sealed the bargain over the lists of candidates.

The wild card is Michel Aoun, a former general and prime minister who fought Syrian troops and fellow Christians in the civil war's waning days. Syria exiled him to France. On his return this month after 15 years, he declared he was the real opposition to Syria -- not Hariri, Jumblatt and others. He tried to enter their coalition, but negotiations broke down, almost assuredly depriving him of seats and splitting the opposition. Since then, he has called his adversaries collaborators and run on a reform platform. (The commotion around his return was so great that Jumblatt in parliament called him a "tsunami." "A good tsunami," he later clarified.)

The bargaining and unlikely alliances have generated disillusionment after the euphoria of the Syrian withdrawal. The pullout led to an expectation that Lebanon was entering a new era, where politics would be defined by programs rather than loyalty to the zaim, and where the political elite would make way for a younger alternative. Many in Beirut often say the election is a mahdala , a steamroller. Others employ a civil-war phrase to describe the shifting, backroom deal-making: "Moving the rifle from one shoulder to the other."

"You can't all of a sudden destroy everything," said Amin Gemayel, a former president whose group joined Hariri's coalition. "It will take time. I understand the frustration of the young generation. They thought on March 14, they got everything."

In past Lebanese elections, Hariri often used the phrase, "As it is." He meant the candidate list he had endorsed, and he expected his followers to abide by his choice. He would motion with two hands, as if dropping in a ballot. This week, his son addressed a crowd in Beirut, bathed in the soft light of the sun setting over the Mediterranean. His followers chanted: "God be with you, Saad." Pictures on the stage and along the street portrayed father and son together, past and future. He waved, blew kisses and put his hand across his chest in a gesture of thanks.

"When you cast your votes, you're raising your voices against the criminals who killed Rafiq Hariri," he said.

The crowd cheered. Some women cried. Then he asked: How will you cast your ballots?