The Limits of Lebanon's "Confessional" Model
Danny Dedeyan Saturday, 17 December 2005
This holiday season, I am thankful for a political system that establishes, both explicitly and implicitly, the freedom of religion. As I observe the U.S. government debate how similar privileges can be guaranteed in Iraq, I am taken back to Lebanon, where I spent seven months of this past year studying the Armenian language and exploring Middle Eastern politics and culture. I first conceived of this trip after researching a framework for conflict transformation in Lebanon for a Masters program in International Affairs. I am of Armenian descent and Beirut is arguably the most dynamic cultural and political center for Diaspora Armenians. Consequently, I traveled to Lebanon to see for myself this mosaic of religious communities that was sewn together by force — but remains weak at the seams.
As I made my way to the Levant, I wondered how it could maintain a plethora of different factions that had fought each other so recently, and whose children now lived together. As I eventually observed, the "confessional system" that characterizes Lebanon's governing system is an unsatisfactory answer to these problems.
No sooner had I landed in the country than I began to enjoy the Levantine hospitality. I befriended individuals from all faiths. Locals who became instant friends took me to tour Beirut and its surrounding attractions. "This is Jounieh," they would comment. "It's all Maronites here." Then in the surrounding hill-country..."Oh, Beittdine? That's Druze... Here we are in Zahle — Catholic." Similarly, I would peer from my hosts' balcony overlooking Beirut: "See?" They would explain, "To the South is the airport, that's mostly a Shiite neighborhood." Thus, in the midst of abundant goodwill, one quickly perceives Lebanon's pronounced geographical sectarianism.
This engrained social confessionalism stems both from the Lebanese legal structure and from its violent history. In fact, back in 1943, the National Pact established a confessional representation, including the top levels of government: a Christian President, a Sunni Prime Minister, and a Shiia Speaker of the Parliament. Until 1946, Lebanon was a French Mandate in which the French had sought to bolster the Maronite Christians as their proxies in the region. The colonials' hard-line administration, however, did not fare well, and when they removed their forces spéciales from the Lebanon, they left a people thirsting for independence but more polarized than ever along confessional lines. Christians, Shiites, Sunnis and Druzes had clashed in the past, but violence was the exception during centuries of coexistence. Now, both the Ottomans and the French were gone, and the remaining communities were left to vie for power.
Two civil wars and half a century later, Syria imposed a truce between the myriad warring factions that had developed since Lebanon's "Golden Age" of independence. The framework of the truce was the 1989 Ta'if Accords, which reaffirmed the National Pact, implying that, somehow, the "confessional system" could be redeemed, despite years of conflict that had polarized the various factions along sectarian/community lines.[1] The war and consequent displacement of peoples have made these distinctions more acute.[2]
The vision of a unified Lebanese state under a common nationalism is bleak after years of infighting. Yet the desire for peace is strong, and not all aspects of this complex conflict are as difficult to overcome as a "religious war." Christians were fighting each other, and Muslims were doing the same; in other words, some aspects of the conflict are plain power struggles, and have little or nothing to do with the identity politics of belonging to different religions. The Lebanese know this.
Western perceptions of Lebanon tend to vary between two dichotomous stereotypes: vague memories of Islamic Jihad and Hezbollah terrorism, on the one hand, and the image of a more Westernized Beirut that still allows Christians a presence in the Middle East, on the other. The reality reflects both, but is more nuanced, offering hope tempered by the ongoing risks of flashes of aggression.
Personally, I have noticed a pattern of cross-religious friendships, especially in the cities. In mixed education institutions, at work, and sometimes with neighbors, the Lebanese develop close friendships across sects. Close interaction arguably makes the Lebanese much more aware of other religious practices than in other regions of the world. Yet there continue to be challenges that undermine these hopeful signs. Shortly before my arrival in Beirut, for example, a Christian was killed in Sunni-dominated Tripoli trying to remove a bomb that was intended for an evangelical minister and his family.
The government, made uneasy by such occasional incidents, tries to minimize their importance instead of addressing them. It believes it must maintain the tenuous status quo of the confessional system, and is worried not only about interfaith conflicts but also proselytism and even dialogues. It is nervous when the Muslim Forum proselytizes Christians in Northern Beirut, or when the Near East School of Theology responds with an open discussion forum between Muslims and Christians. Authorities would like to monitor such activities to avoid any proselytizing, because this means cross-confession interaction on religious grounds, which threatens the ascribed role for religion as a community identifier.
The confessional system's self-sustainability faces a problem in trying to give all religious groups proportional rights, but with incentives for national unity, because it assumes that citizens will always take sides with their confessional community. On this count, there are three main issues: reform of the political system, a national identity for Lebanon, and Lebanon's sovereignty. These three concepts are interdependent: Lebanon's sovereignty hinges on the whims of Damascus, national identity was shattered by civil war, and the confessional system created quotas for religious representation, failing to reflect the real change of religious ratios in the population. The latter breeds volatility, as it frustrates political majorities, who fear a reduction in their power, and the popular majorities, who want more political power.
Meanwhile, certain minorities, especially newer ones, are left to wonder about their fate. For example, I met a young Lebanese in the U.S., Joseph, whose family had left the country for Europe, seeking security and employment.[3] They eventually reached the U.S., but when Joseph came of age, he decided he needed to return to his beloved homeland to evangelize. Tears would roll down his olive skin as he would describe the situation to the eager Americans he was enlisting for a short mission trip: "Lebanon still allows for Christians to give Bibles, but at the rate we are going, Christians will soon be silenced there." Thus, because religious affiliation is so closely nit to politics, the same system that is supposed to give proportional representation actually encourages an inter-faith conflict with high stakes: perceived survival.
Consider also the example of Aamer, a respected Christian surgeon in Lebanon, who gets along quite well with Muslims. Muslims are often his clients, yet when he begins to speak in terms of broader trends and whole communities, he becomes much less pleasant: "It is a war against the Christians! We are being destroyed from the outside, while from the inside, Christians fight each other." His feeling of being besieged not only echoes his unhappy war experience, but also refers to the battle of demographics, which is in the favor of Muslims even though in Lebanon the confessional system ensures that the President remains a "Christian."
The reactions to religiously-based struggles for power vary depending on who you ask. My Sunni friend, Taoufiq, would rather never talk politics and religion and focus instead on the common bonds of business transactions. So he is studying business; but his escape route, like so many others, is to find someone to sponsor him so he can go work outside of Lebanon.[4] His weariness is shared by an entire new generation of Lebanese, who unfortunately would rather secularize than find true, pacifying faith. Some choose to address their differences aggressively, as illustrated by the American University of Beirut's recent student elections; on an otherwise tranquil campus, the elections featured fist fights and violent partisan language — a microcosm of national political realities.
The underlying fear that is rarely expressed in this patron-client society is that if a religious community relinquishes its allocated power in the confessional system, it may be crushed. This is what a jovial Christian IT worker, Edmund, expressed to me. Fond of jokes about his own countrymen, he became grave, however, when I asked him what he thought would be the ideal system for Lebanon:
"A secular government," he replied, unhesitant. "But the Muslims will never want that. They think they can only have their own principals for everybody."
"What do you think will happen?"
"It will continue to be like this. One group, whether Muslim or Christian, will not want another to gain any power, because then that means that they will be [crushed] by the other group."
"I know that Hariri [until a few weeks ago the prime minister] is Sunni," I pressed on, referring to a previous comment, "but you were talking about the religious leaders fanaticizing the political following, and he doesn't strike me as a devout religious leader. What do you think?"
"I think he's the worst! What drives him is money and power, and he knows at the same time how to please the Sunnis. But when you allow power and money to combine without a check on it, it will turn people into inhuman beings. The worst kind."
Edmund does not think war will break out again any time soon, but he is pessimistic about his state's ability to provide for its people, much less to create an environment for peaceful cohabitation and a level playing field for all religious groups. Moreover, by attempting to institutionalize a limited number of historically representative religious groups, the confessional government neglects a considerable part of the population.
This reflects socio-cultural norms also, but the law itself gives little to no recognition to the non-official denominations or to migrant workers. The latter, flying in from the Sudan, Ethiopia, Sri Lanka, Indonesia, the Philippines and elsewhere, are often stripped of official papers and work for private enterprises as manual labor, or as maids in middle- to upper-class homes, where they are often abused. They add to the hodgepodge of beliefs and culture, but many fit into the Christian and Muslim categories. Though some of their religiously devout employers are kind to them on an individual basis, the corporate psychology is stubborn. For example, I once tried, with the help of a friend, to invite an Armenian congregation to visit a Philippine church of a similar denomination. The original positive response dwindled down to about four people on the actual meeting day. This was a completely novel experience for both groups. Though they found a common bond, this interaction simply broke the norms, and did not sit well with some. Thus even where there is goodwill, awkwardness lies between communities as a whole.
In more extreme cases, one's religion may cause serious repercussions. The prisons are especially harsh and devoid of humane regulations. One migrant worker I met, Dong, was a Buddhist monk who converted to Christianity. Police found him without his papers and immediately incarcerated him. Because of his Buddhist background, he was severely beaten. He was more fortunate than others, however, as his new church pulled the necessary strings to extirpate him from prison.
Dong's case is an apt illustration of the ambiguity of today's Lebanon, for despite all his trials he refuses to leave the country. He feels that he is better accepted in Lebanon than if he returned to his native Nepal and that the employment market is better. Lebanon is a land of relative tolerance compared to similar countries, yet its leaders have not built a political system that, beyond this perpetually fragile tolerance, inspires inter-communal respect and robust religious freedom. Granted, this small territory riddled with factions is uncommonly complex to govern. Still, the Lebanese experience is a cautionary tale for those who would impose a confessional system for a sectarian Iraq rather than a real regime of religious freedom.
1. Between 1975 and 1987 alone, 160,000 people died directly from the fighting, and 17,415 remain missing; two thirds of the population was displaced, and the major cities have suffered a devastation rarely surpassed. The numbers (if such comparisons can be made) pale in comparison to Cambodia's in 1978-79, the Sudan's, or Rwanda's in the 1990s, yet in terms of the proportion of the population killed, the Lebanese conflict ranks among the most devastating of the 20th century.
2. Samir Khalaf, "Culture, Collective Memory, and the Restoration of Civility," Peace for Lebanon? From War to Reconstruction (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1994), p. 277.
3. Real names are not used here.
4. An estimated 8 million Lebanese live outside Lebanon.