Lebanon and a lifetime of assassinations

A journalist can occasionally be plagued by a certain subject during their career. It seems I have been cursed with the issue of assassinations. I was very close to danger during one assassination and was on the other end of the phone when another figure was assassinated.

Add to that the fact assassinations are never too far away in Lebanon, disappearing for a while before emerging to claim a man with a project or a man who is hindering one. I only grew more intrigued with assassinations when I visited Iraq, Libya and Syria, each with their own stories to tell.

In mid-March 1977, I was at the beginning of my career at Lebanon’s An-Nahar newspaper. I was visiting an uncle in the town of Mazraat El-Chouf, near  Mokhtara, the stronghold of the Jumblatt family. At one point during the visit, my uncle’s neighbor and friend Suleiman Abou Karroum started anxiously shouting for us to come over. Arriving at his house, he told us with a shaky voice: “They killed Kamal Jumblatt.” That was a seismic event in Lebanon at the time.

Abou Karroum shut his windows and told his sons and relatives to guard the house against any attacks. Throughout the coming hours, Abou Karroum would assure us that everything was going to be fine, but the look of concern on his face said otherwise. At that point, we did not know that anyone who was not being protected by their Druze neighbor was being killed. It was said that some 53 people — including my uncle and six members of his family — were killed that night. His house was located no more than 100 meters from where we were. We were safely escorted out of Abou Karroum’s house two days later.

Several years later, Walid Jumblatt would recount to me how he spent that night trying to dissuade his father’s grieving supporters from carrying out reprisals, telling them that their Christian neighbors had nothing to do with his father’s assassination, which was actually carried out by Syrian intelligence.

More than three decades later, and after having lunch with Walid Jumblatt in Mokhtara, I headed to Mazraat El-Chouf. I asked around about Abou Karroum in the hope of thanking him for protecting us. My search led me to an old man in his 90s who was working in his garden. He embraced me as he fought back tears. One man kills his neighbor because he does not look like him. Another man protects his neighbor who does not look like him. I decided that the majority of the Lebanese people are like the latter.

Another harsh lesson in assassinations came in early March 1980, when I was summoned by An-Nahar’s editor-in-chief, Francois Aql, who told me that renowned journalist Salim Al-Lawzi, the editor-in-chief of Al-Hawadeth magazine, was lying in the morgue at the American University of Beirut hospital. Along with a colleague, we were instructed to head to the morgue to identify him. There, an officer barred us from entering and an argument ensued, during which we reminded him of our right to see our colleague. He eventually complied and opened the drawer where Al-Lawzi lay. We noted the evidence of terrible torture on his fingers for daring to write what he did. Several years later, the demands of my job would have me interview his presumed killer. May God forgive me.

For decades, the newspapers I have worked for have covered the funerals of men I interviewed and whose lives were claimed by assassinations.

Ghassan Charbel

On Sept. 14, 1982, I was at my office at An-Nahar when an explosion rocked the Achrafieh district in Beirut. A bomb had just killed newly elected President Bachir Gemayel and his project for the country. Years later, I would meet with former President Amin Gemayel, who appeared to be worn down by several wounds, most notably the assassinations of his son, minister and MP Pierre, and his brother Bachir.

On Feb. 14, 2005, I was interviewing a Syrian official about the US invasion of Iraq and Damascus’ strained ties with Rafik Hariri. When I left the meeting, I found a string of phone messages that said Hariri’s convoy had been targeted in an explosion and that he had been assassinated. That night, I was supposed to pen from Damascus an article about this extraordinary man and to send from there the headline of the front page of Al-Hayat newspaper. The months and years to come would be flooded by assassinations and funerals.

A terrible lesson from assassinations. On Oct. 19, 2012, a dear friend told me that he believed that Col. Wissam Al-Hassan, head of the intelligence bureau in the Lebanese Internal Security Forces, was in London and that I should invite him to lunch or dinner. I was not in the habit of telephoning Al-Hassan, given his busy schedule, but we used to get together in London or Beirut whenever both of us were in town.

I telephoned Al-Hassan but before we could get our greetings out of the way, the line suddenly cut. I tried to call him over and over again but got no response. I expected him to call me back. After about 20 minutes, my friend told me that Al-Hassan had been targeted in a bomb attack. Apparently, he had secretly returned to Beirut, where his killers were waiting for him. The intelligence bureau found his telephone and identified my number as his last caller.

For decades, the newspapers I have worked for — including Asharq Al-Awsat, which I am proud of belonging to today — have covered the funerals of men I interviewed and whose lives were claimed by assassinations. Sunday’s funeral of Hezbollah Secretaries-General Hassan Nasrallah and Hashem Safieddine reminded me of assassinations. Israel assassinated these men to assassinate their projects.

Lebanon is a difficult tale. Every Lebanese citizen has shed tears over an assassination that remains in their memory. Every Lebanese citizen has been to a funeral, whose pain they will pass on to their children. Can the tears shed by the divided Lebanese be reconciled? Can they live together in a normal house that is not damaged by assassinations?

How difficult it is to be an Arab journalist in this part of the world. How difficult it is to endure a lifetime going from one assassination to another.

• Ghassan Charbel is editor-in-chief of Asharq Al-Awsat newspaper. X: @GhasanCharbel This article first appeared in Asharq Al-Awsat.