Mourners in Lebanon Say Syria Must Go

Their bodies and psyches still etched with the wounds of Lebanon’s civil war, the people of Beirut shepherded their former prime minister’s body through the capital’s bullet-scarred streets Wednesday in a funeral march that turned into a protest against Syria.

The day began with somber prayers over the body of Rafik Hariri but gave way to a jostling outpouring of religious fervor and nationalistic rage as at least 150,000 mourners crammed the streets. They yelled until they were hoarse, mixing Islamic incantations with anti-Syria slogans.

Although it is unclear who was responsible for the car bombing that killed Hariri and 14 others Monday, many here blame their neighbor to the east. Syria sent troops into Lebanon shortly after the civil war began in 1975 and maintains de facto control over the country.

In the stunned nation, Hariri’s slaying has increased demands that Syria withdraw its 16,000 soldiers and agents. Hariri had resigned in October amid the growing political debate over the issue.

Hariri’s family shunned Lebanon’s offer of a state funeral, opting instead for a groundswell of civic grief.

President Emile Lahoud and other prominent Lebanese officials closely affiliated with Syria stayed away, heeding the warnings of the family.

Hariri, a Sunni Muslim who had served as prime minister for 10 of the last 15 years, is credited with restoring Beirut’s city center after it was ravaged by war. A politically moderate construction magnate, he soothed the nation with promises to return Lebanon to splendor, heal its scars and get business booming again.

Now his death has spawned fears of renewed upheaval and economic downfall.

“I am afraid of so many things,” said Raifa Dahar, a 42-year-old schoolteacher who muttered prayers as Hariri’s coffin passed.

“I’m afraid of war, of sectarianism. That these things may resurface.”

“The people are scared, because Hariri was a symbol of unity,” said former Finance Minister Fuad Siniora, one of Hariri’s closest political allies.

The 60-year-old former prime minister was buried in the unfinished limestone mosque he had been building in the city’s seaside center, where the scars of the 1975-90 war have been masked by a facade of posh shops, sidewalk cafes and sparkling office buildings.

Assistant U.S. Secretary of State William J. Burns represented America at the funeral. French President Jacques Chirac arrived after the services and disappeared behind closed doors to mourn with Hariri’s family.

Wednesday morning, Hariri’s body was carried from the hospital at the American University of Beirut to his home in the Hamra district, a palatial residence decorated with chandeliers, Phoenician relics and Persian carpets. Mourners poured into the home to hold hands, console the family and pray over the bodies of Hariri and his bodyguards and medic.

“May God grant us victory over our enemies and avenge the crimes of the killers,” intoned an Islamic cleric, whose words were piped through the house. “The enemies give us no methods to make up for this loss.”

Blinking back tears, mourners prayed in unison, their palms turned skyward: “There is no God but God. God is strength.”

The cries of an old woman rose over the murmuring of prayers.

“They planted the bomb for him under the ground!” she yelled hysterically. “Speak and do not be afraid! We won’t remain silent anymore!”

Outside, beyond the lush lawns, orange trees and towering hedges of the property, the crowd swelled. Helicopters circled the mansion, startling pigeons from the rooftops. The streets were packed with mourners bearing flags and banners, waiting to escort Hariri’s body to the burial site.

As the pallbearers hoisted the coffins onto their shoulders, women began to wail and men covered their faces, their shoulders shaking. Former Economy Minister Marwan Hamadeh, an outspoken opponent of Syria who barely survived a car bombing in October, was propped unsteadily between a crutch and a nurse.

Talal Salman, a newspaper editor whose cheek bears a scar carved by a bullet in the civil war, crossed the room to join Hamadeh.

The two men wept as Hariri’s coffin was carried away.

As the ambulance bearing the casket crawled toward the city center, the crowd shouted: “Syria out! Syria out!” and “We don’t want sisterly relations! We just want Syria to leave!”

“Bashar, what do you want from us?” cried others, addressing Syrian President Bashar Assad. “Just leave us alone!”

The coffin was paraded through the shabby parts of town, where the apartment blocks are still marked with bullet holes from the years of fighting. Run-down pharmacies and clothing shops were shuttered in mourning, veiled women wept on balconies, and residents tossed water to cool the marchers below.

Instead of the political party banners that usually dot demonstrations in the streets of Beirut, the march was dominated by the Lebanese flag: a cypress tree against a red and white background.

Christians, Druze and Sunni and Shiite Muslims mingled seamlessly.

“This man was a man of moderation and unity,” said Beirut’s Maronite bishop, Boulos Matar. “Losing him, our unity is a little bit under pressure. It could be dangerous both politically and economically.”

The sectarian divisions that plunged Lebanon into civil war have been replaced by a new point of contention: whether Syrian troops and intelligence agents should be forced to relinquish their grip on the country.

Hariri resigned in protest over Syrian involvement in Lebanese politics. He wanted to restore the civil liberties, economic prowess and progressive social atmosphere Lebanon enjoyed before the war, and he had begun to join forces with opposition groups demanding a Syrian withdrawal.

Many of the mourners said that with Hariri’s death, the anti-Syria movement had found a new call to arms. They referred to themselves as members of a newly emboldened, cross-sectarian nationalist movement that is dedicated to fighting the occupation.

“We want Syria out of Lebanon,” said three young women who sat gloomily on a curb as the crowds began to melt away.

“Syria says they’re protecting us. Enough. Let’s go after them,” snorted one, a 24-year-old English teacher named Iman. “We used to be afraid, but now they’re the ones who are afraid -- the Lebanese government and Syria. They’re not safe anymore.”

Assem Zeineddine, a 64-year-old former officer in the security forces who had made his way to Beirut from his home in the Chouf mountains, agreed.

“The nationalists are those who love Lebanon,” he said. “This death will unite us. I consider it the beginning.”

Special correspondent Rania Abouzeid contributed to this report.