Campus election reflects Lebanon’s deep divisions

Maroun Kisirwani tried everything to keep toxic national politics from seeping into student elections at the American University of Beirut -- only to find the army deployed at the university gate this week, fearful that campus politics could destabilize the country.

Kisirwani, the harried dean of student affairs, banned visitors, even alumni, from the campus. He outlawed militia flags and photographs of Lebanon’s communal patriarchs. He warned against religious slurs. But in the end, the only thing he could do was lock up the ballots.

Lebanon is a tiny country ready to snap, so divided and fragile that even a campus battle over cafeteria food and orientation programs can turn into fuel for violence.

“It was for the safety of the country,” Kisirwani said, explaining why he did not allow the ballots to be counted on election day. “If somebody starts a fight, and you have hundreds and hundreds of people from opposing factions -- well, you know how it starts, but you don’t know how it will end.”

Despite its deserved reputation as a school for rich kids, AUB, 140 years old and the country’s premier university, reflects Lebanon’s political schism. When the university elected campus representatives this week, party leaders watched intently to see who would win bragging rights.

Students include Hezbollah loyalists who complain about America, Christian youth whose parents collaborated with Israel during and after the civil war of the 1970s and ‘80s, and clean-cut Sunni Muslim business students who say “Syria” as if it were a disease and paste pictures of former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri on their cars.

“I always tell my students, ‘You guys should try to do something new, and stop copying your parents,’ ” political science professor Karim Makdisi complained. “It’s been a source of great frustration for me.”

But very few students owe their political loyalties to critical thinking, said Zaid Matraji, a 25-year-old graduate student in computer science and a rare independent. “You see it on both sides. If you are a Sunni, you support Hariri. If you are Shiite, you support Hezbollah,” he said. “That’s how they are raised.”

Wednesday was election day, and all around Matraji, students passed out leaflets, chanted slogans and flirted aimlessly.

The polls closed as the last of the sun slid into the sea. Outside the campus, demonstrators surged up the darkened streets. They toted militia flags, carried pictures of sectarian figureheads and sang old civil war anthems. Stone-faced, the army deployed along the university walls, flanked by riot police and other security forces.

Panicked, the university postponed the tally. Fury ran among the students as word spread: The votes wouldn’t be counted.

“Tonight! Tonight! Tonight!” the students chanted, massing over the flagstones of the campus.

It looked like one crowd, but there were two mobs pressed against each other in the dark: Hezbollah and its Christian allies among the followers of Gen. Michel Aoun milling around on one side; the students allied with the “anti-Syria” coalition -- Sunnis, Druze and some Christians -- on the other.

The students have been hardened by watching their country struggle for independence from Syria, and radicalized -- often either for or against Hezbollah -- by the summertime war with Israel. Many say they feel even more polarized than their parents’ generation.

Their voices roared up into the sky. Skinny kids climbed up into trees and wedged themselves into the branches.

“All they do is talk about how this is the American University, we’ll teach you about democracy!” yelled a 19-year-old Christian named Victor Aboud. “And now the only thing we have that’s a little bit democratic, they take it away.”

Jostled by the crowds on the darkened campus, a 17-year-old student named Yasmine Rifai surveyed the demonstrators with kohl-ringed eyes. Glittering earrings dripped from her lobes; her tight jeans disappeared into leather boots.

“The hate in this election has been very, very, very strong,” she said. “I don’t think there will be a civil war like before, but I think there will be a lot of problems.”

Rifai is a follower of Saad Hariri, who became the communal chief of the Sunni Muslims here after his father, the former prime minister, was assassinated. Like many Lebanese youth, she insists that she is not as dogmatic as her friends.

“My friends won’t even criticize him. They say he’s always right,” she said, referring to Hariri. “I ask myself why. Maybe it’s just the instinct of us. Our instinct.”

When the fight erupted at the campus gate, it wasn’t clear who started it. Somebody gave the middle finger to the other faction; at least, that was the story that coursed, fast as fire, through the street. Shouts burst out. Men swelled out their chests, pushed each other back, stepped forward. Riot police swarmed into the streets, yanking sullen young men away from each other.

Somebody was playing a recording of one of Hezbollah chief Sheik Hassan Nasrallah’s speeches; his voice spilled into the crisp night.

“Everybody has a president, but we have a donkey!” chanted a group of students.

“The government will not be toppled!” screamed a girl toting a picture of Prime Minister Fouad Siniora.

“Who killed you, Rafik?” others yelled. “Syria! Syria! Syria!” They jumped up and down every time they named the country, cords standing out on their necks.

“We want our revenge!”

“You want forces to fight?” the demonstrators yelled. “We will join.” It was an old song, left over from the civil war.

The night dragged past. Most of the students headed for home. The most dogged among them stood outside the window of the dean’s office until dawn, keeping an eye on the ballot boxes -- the Venetian blinds were taken down to clear their view.

When Thursday morning came, the students surged back onto campus, and the two groups took up the same positions they’d held the night before. All over town, people were talking about the university elections. News of the angry crowds and locked-up ballots was splashed on the front pages of the papers.

Faculty volunteers began to count the ballots, one by one. Students hovered over their shoulders, dark circles under their eyes. Word kept slipping out to the crowd outside -- text messages, rumors passed down by students who’d seen some of the votes counted. First one mob cheered, then the other.

As the counting ended, Kisirwani loitered on the porch, looking haggard. Rumors spread that university officials had tampered with the ballots. Supporters of Hezbollah and its allies began to shout.

“Siniora, get out!” they yelled, referring to the prime minister.

“Fatfat is a Jew!” they chanted, jumping in time as they shouted the name of the interior minister. “Fatfat is a Jew!”

Student leaders dangled over the metal barricades, leaned into Kisirwani’s face and screamed their accusations.

“Not only will the Lebanese government be toppled, but also some of our administrators!” a man shouted to the crowd. A cheer swelled at his words.

Kisirwani asked the students to be calm. “I swear on my children’s lives,” he said, “nobody has touched the boxes.” He read the names of individual winners. The political factions to which they owe allegiance won’t be known for weeks.

The crowd began to melt away, leaving flags trampled on the campus grounds. Janitors moved slowly among the buildings, cleaning up soda cups and torn student newspapers.

By nightfall, both sides had claimed victory. But their announcements were mostly bluster. No one yet knows who will win.

megan.stack@latimes.com