In Beirut, a Crisis Settles Into a Routine

Another protest, possibly the largest in Lebanese history, followed Dec. 10, along with the sit-in that continues today in scores of tents pitched at the foot of the barricaded, Ottoman-era headquarters of Siniora's government. Then, as now, the opposition has insisted that the cabinet resign in favor of what it calls a national unity government. Siniora's cabinet, its agenda largely survival at this point, has refused, with the backing of the United States, France and Saudi Arabia.

For a time, the crisis surged every few weeks, with occasional but pitched street clashes. An opposition-aligned newspaper spoke darkly this week of politicians "busy setting the table for war," and rumors swirl of civil war-era groups rearming.

But the crisis is defined more these days by rhetorical gestures and periodic but fruitless meetings that have left negotiations over the two key issues largely where they were when the crisis began.

The opposition wants 11 seats in the 30-member cabinet, a number that would allow it to block the most important decisions. (The government is willing to give 10 seats. The 11th would be ostensibly neutral.) The government's supporters want the opposition to acquiesce in the formation of an international court to try the killers of former Prime Minister Rafiq al-Hariri, whose assassination in February 2005 is blamed by many here on Syria. The opposition has yet to make its objections public, but the court, already approved by the cabinet, must also be approved by parliament. And only Berri, the Hezbollah ally, can call parliament into session.

Last week, government-aligned lawmakers asked the United Nations to set up the court on its own. Berri responded by asking Saudi Arabia to mediate the dispute, and in his speech Sunday, Nasrallah suggested that there was no room left for negotiation. He said the debate should be put to a national referendum. Both sides have tried to blame the other for the deadlock.

In parliament Tuesday, Amin Sherri, a Hezbollah lawmaker, compared the confrontation to a folk dance from southern Lebanon, the debke khaimieh, in which participants jump and skip energetically without moving from their spot. "This is what we've been doing since the crisis started," Sherri said.

Beirut's rebuilt downtown is a metaphor, in a way, for the latest turns in the crisis. Its vision, inspired by Hariri, was always controversial: Was it a sleek, elegant bridge for a divided city or a neighborhood-size playground for the rich? These days, it is neither.

On one side of barbed wire and concrete barricades, a trickle of people visit outdoor cafes or idly sample ice cream under the landmark clock tower. Children play soccer in Place de L'Etoile, home to parliament. Shops are shuttered; signs blame their closing on "overpowering circumstances." Other restaurants make the best of the situation, as pedestrians adapt to a new routine of navigating knots of soldiers and police and traffic that has been redirected around the downtown.

"Against all odds, we are now open for dinner every Saturday," declares a sign in the front window of Duo.

"Every 10 years you have a crisis here. This is Lebanon. It's always a country of ups and downs, and we get used to it," said Nassim Zakhour, 24, standing in his shop selling office supplies and stationery.

On the other side of the barricades, near the site of the Hezbollah-led sit-in, graffiti declare the area "the Street of Liberation and Resistance." Iron stakes tether the canvas tents to the sidewalks and asphalt. Many of the tents are empty during the day but start to fill at dusk, when loudspeakers begin blaring the protesters' anthem: "Oh, you most honorable people."

A sign next to a stage in Riad es-Solh Square counts off the days since the sit-in began.

"We went through 33 days of war last summer with Israel. That was death and destruction," said Jalal Hassan, a 20-year-old student at the Lebanese University who said he leaves for classes every day at 6 a.m., then returns to his tent at 3 p.m.

"This isn't that," Hassan said, waving his hand over the sprawl of tents. "We could endure this for 33 years."

"Three hundred and thirty years!" shouted his friend, 15-year-old Hassan Murtada.