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From Hopeful To Helpless At a Protest In Lebanon
Activists from the nonsectarian Khalass! or "Enough" campaign stand in front of the Lebanese parliament protesting the country's worst crisis since the 15-year civil war ended in 1990. Their signs read: "Enough! Together for Lebanon."
(By Hassan Abdo -- Special To The Washington Post)
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Geha and her colleagues think they do.
"Tuck in your shirt," she told one of the activists as they gathered in the office to run through the final preparations for the protest.
Gilbert Doumit stood at the front. An organizer, he was one of a handful of people who, over coffee and cigarettes, came up with the idea for the Khalass! campaign in July, bringing together several activist groups. "What we were afraid of is now here," he recalled thinking. "We're at the door of another civil war." Before the group on this day, he spoke with an urgency tinged with an intoxicating playfulness.
"We need cigarettes," one activist shouted.
Everyone donned their T-shirts. "Enough!" they read in Arabic. "Who wants to be the spokesman?" asked the tall, bearded Doumit. "Who speaks Arabic, English and French?" Other questions followed: Who would make the statement at 2 p.m.? Where would the activists hide before gathering at parliament? Who would send out the 3,000 e-mails and 2,000 text messages by cellphone urging others to join the protest?
"Join Khalass! activists NOW on the stairs of the parliament!" the e-mail read.
The last instruction followed: Everyone needed an excuse to give to police officers manning barricades for why they wanted to enter Place de l'Etoile, the home of parliament.
"Not all of us can be going to get coffee," Geha said.
Geha was working on a master's degree at the American University of Beirut when clashes erupted at another university in Beirut in January. She decided then to leave school and work full time as an activist. As she drove to Wednesday's protest, she confessed to sharing a trait that sometimes defines Lebanon: She thrived on the country's chaos. Lebanon's lack of order meant there was always an opportunity to bring about change. But these days felt menacing and ominous. She shared with many others a resignation that the crisis would persist. But she had to do something. Otherwise, she said, regret would haunt her.
The car passed through streets soaked with rain. The gray sky accentuated an urban landscape that can sometimes seem funereal: poster after poster pays respect to the dead, victims of assassination or war. "So that Lebanon lives," one reads over the face of a murdered politician.
"I feel like I'm living in a city whose glory is based on dead people," Geha said.
The 30 or so activists waited in nearby restaurants and cafes. At 1:52 p.m., the signal arrived; Doumit headed for parliament. Geha followed, along with other groups of three and four people each. Under umbrellas, on the steps of parliament, they unfurled two banners.
