Lebanon Fails to Elect New President

"It is a caretaker government," said Ali Hassan Khalil, an opposition lawmaker with Berri's bloc, "and they shouldn't try to do more than that."

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In practical terms, Lahoud's decree probably will do little to change the political landscape. The army had already taken charge of security. Government allies were sure to dismiss any move that Lahoud took, and both sides seemed willing to wait. In a statement late Friday, Siniora called his government "legitimate and constitutional" and said it would exercise authority in the vacuum following the end of Lahoud's term.

"Tomorrow is going to be a normal day," said Ahmed Fatfat, a cabinet minister.

This week, negotiations focused on two candidates for the presidential post, which under Lebanon's system of sharing power among its religious communities is reserved for a Maronite Catholic. One was Robert Ghanem, a 65-year-old lawyer. The other was Michel Edde, 81 and a veteran politician, whose self-professed appeal was in part that age might prevent him from completing his term, making him a merely transitional figure.

In Washington, State Department spokesman Sean McCormack urged the factions to elect a new president quickly. He said the United States and its allies "will not waver" in their support for Lebanese attempting to resist "foreign interference and intimidation."

The last time Lebanon was without a president was in 1988, toward the end of the civil war. Then the candidate was Mikhail Daher, and U.S. efforts to get him elected were led by Assistant Secretary of State Richard W. Murphy. A line attributed to Murphy remains famous here: "It's Mikhail Daher or chaos." In the end, it wasn't Daher, and it was chaos for two more years, as rival governments claimed legitimacy amid some of the war's bloodiest episodes. (Murphy has never laid claim to the quote. "Too pithy for me," he has said.)

The specter of that bloodshed still haunts the country. Television ads have appealed for dialogue: "If not for us, then for our children: Talk to each other."

In the streets, where knots of soldiers were deployed at intersections, disgust mixed with resignation that the crisis was far from over.

"These politicians are making fun of us," said Fatima Osman, 35, a hardware-store clerk. "They're all liars." She ticked off on her fingers what was making her angry: higher prices, a troubled economy, no sense of safety and day after day of uncertainty. Overhead, a sign in Arabic prohibited talking politics inside the shop.

"If you stay here too long, your head will get like this," Osman said, raising her hands a few feet apart. "You'll go crazy!"

Staff writer Robin Wright in Washington contributed to this report.