From Hopeful To Helpless At a Protest In Lebanon

"Enough!" the banners read, the black and white offering a resolute contrast to the cream-colored stone of the parliament building. "Together for Lebanon."

Police and soldiers responded. The building's black iron doors were shut. Metal barricades followed. Commanders spoke in a formal Arabic that conveyed sarcasm. "My brothers," one said. "If you please." Another grew angry, arguing with Geha and others.

"We're not allowed? This is our parliament!" Doumit insisted.

Ten minutes later, Doumit and Youmna Fawaz, 25, stood on the square's black brick to read a statement. Fawaz managed only a few words, a call for "an open-ended national dialogue," before police stopped her and escorted the few reporters from the square. It was a symbol, in a way, of the status quo, still dominated by many of the warlords who waged the civil war, where the unquestioned loyalty of religious communities is taken as a given. In the sometimes cynical backroom negotiations that define politics here, that fealty means that nobody has to listen. No one else's voice has to be heard.

"Unfortunately, we live in a country you call democratic, but as you can see, it's a country where citizens can't make an impact," Doumit said, his long hair wet as a rain began driving again. "The whole world is involved except us. The Saudis are involved, the Syrians, the Americans, the Iranians, the French, the Arab League, but not us."

By 2:30 p.m., the e-mails had gone out. So had the text messages. Geha made calls. She asked Lebanese reporters to come. Their reply: Which side are you on? She called a lawyer to help them negotiate with police. And she called friends, urging them to join.

"They should be on their way," she said.

A little while later, Doumit called out, laughing, "Support has arrived!"

It was his 26-year-old sister, Jinane, with two friends. No one else came.

The afternoon wore on, police no longer hassling the small crowd. Every so often, the protesters broke out in the national anthem. "All for the country," it went. But the mood was somber. Sara Mourad, a 20-year-old student, stood under her umbrella.

"When I see this, I lose hope, in a way," she said.

She planned to leave the country after she graduated.

"Anywhere is safer -- or more predictable," she added.

Geha took a break from the rain, sipping coffee in a restaurant that takes its name from the square, where former prime minister Rafiq al-Hariri dined before he was assassinated in February 2005, an event that, over time, helped give rise to today's crisis.

"Every hour that passes is a wasted hour," she said. "They have to answer us."

Will they? "They should. They should," Geha answered.

It was a plea rather than a demand, her words more helpless than angry.

"There's only so much we can do," she said.