Lebanon's Shiites Grapple With New Feeling of Power

The Shiites "were poor, and they were left to fend for themselves for 40 years of Lebanon's independence," Mattar said, staring from underneath his thick, black-rimmed glasses. "But this is not an excuse to do what you are doing."

The critique of Mattar and Fayad and others runs from the question of representation (unaccountable, in Mattar's view) to Hezbollah's ties to Iran and Syria (an instrument of their foreign policy, he said) to the very culture of resistance to Israel.

At a deeper level, their critique illustrates the contradictions of Lebanese politics: In the grammar of sectarianism, where Sunni, Shiite and Druze communities have coalesced around leaders, each claiming an effective right of veto, national identity has become second. As the Shiite community reaches for its greatest power ever, there is little debate within the community -- beyond articles, statements by dissident clerics and vestigial influence of clans -- over how to use that power.

"We are stranded. We can neither go here nor there," Mattar said. "People like me are left on our own."

'They Became Something'

In some ways, Hossam Yassine represents the changing fortunes of Lebanon's Shiites. Yassine is college-educated, back from a job in the Persian Gulf. And every day this week, he has gone to the festival-like protests, in part for the party, in part because Hezbollah wants him to and in part because he believes.

"Hezbollah came and made something for the Shia, that we are here," the 22-year-old said.

He pulled his black leather jacked around his shoulders. His cheerful face was lined with the trace of a goatee.

"They were nothing, and they became something."

He walked past rickety stands selling date-filled cookies, bread with melted cheese and popcorn. A banner-size cartoon of two men hung to the side: "Are you a Christian or Muslim?" one asked. "I'm hungry," the other replied. Flags, shirts and caps were for sale -- yellow for Hezbollah, orange for its Christian ally, former general Michel Aoun. A little ways down, another placard asked, "What's more beautiful than living with dignity?"

"In two weeks," Yassine said, smiling, "they're going to have to pay the people to get them to leave."

He walked through the sleek downtown, its upscale offices and pricey condominiums at the heart of the vision of a new Beirut downtown promoted by former prime minister Rafiq al-Hariri, a Sunni Muslim billionaire killed last year in a car-bomb assassination.

"There are a lot of places in Beirut where people are building homes no better than tents. They flood in the winter. Why don't they take care of these people?" Yassine asked. "Why only here, in this small spot of land?"