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<p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Verdana><span style='font-size:10.0pt;
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<p class=MsoNormal><b><font size=4 face=Arial><span style='font-size:13.5pt;
font-family:Arial;font-weight:bold'>Pride, peace pit sides</span></font></b> </p>
<p style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><b><font size=1 face=Verdana><span
style='font-size:7.5pt;font-family:Verdana;font-weight:bold'>By Julie Goodman</span></font></b><font
size=1 face=Verdana><span style='font-size:7.5pt;font-family:Verdana'><br>
<a href="mailto:jgoodman@clarionledger.com">jgoodman@clarionledger.com</a></span></font></p>
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<img border=0 width=1 height=5 src="cid:image003.gif@01C50187.5C183430"><br>
</span></font><font size=1 face=Verdana><span style='font-size:7.5pt;
font-family:Verdana'>Julie Goodman/The Clarion-Ledger</span></font><br>
<br>
<b><font size=1 face=Verdana><span style='font-size:7.5pt;font-family:Verdana;
font-weight:bold'>The Martyrs' Statue, marking the struggle for independence
from Ottoman rule, sits in downtown Beirut. It still bears scars from the
city's brutal 15-year war between Christians and Muslims.</span></font></b><font
size=1 face=Verdana><span style='font-size:7.5pt;font-family:Verdana'> <br>
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<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>Two
months ago, I stood facing a towering fence propped up by sturdy poles, covered
in what looked like a menacing cluster of cables and barbed wire.<br>
<br>
It was the kind of fence you'd expect to see outside a high-security prison, or
maybe a nuclear testing site.<br>
<br>
But this fence was neither. It was the boundary between two countries, ones
that for years had killed each other off in a war of bullets, mortars and
rocket-propelled grenades. </span></font></p>
<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>I stood
in Lebanon; through the fence was Israel.<br>
<br>
The "fence" was the Blue Line, the United Nations-created demarcation
to confirm Israel's 2000 withdrawal from the south Lebanese border.<br>
<br>
My trip there was part of a five-week stay to cover recent political
developments in the country. I focused on one aspect of Lebanon's evolving political landscape: Hezbollah, a fighting militia that grew out of the conflict
with Israel in the early 1980s and now has infiltrated Lebanon's government, causing ripples around the globe. </span></font></p>
<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>The Party
of God, as its name translates from Arabic, is dismissed as a terrorist
organization by the United States. But in Lebanon, its role is very complex.<br>
<br>
To many Lebanese, Hezbollah is about pride, dignity and an affront to Israel. To others, it remains the force that forever will hold the potential to bring chaos
to the region and aggravate tensions on the international scene.<br>
<br>
The fighting faction reached heroic status after being credited with driving
out the Israelis in 2000. But over the years, the party also has developed a
more progressive, socially conscious side, one which eagerly embraces organic
farming and recycled paper. </span></font></p>
<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>Violence
at the border between Lebanon and Israel largely has died down, and since the
end of its devastating 15-year civil war in 1990, Lebanon slowly has remodeled
itself to become a relative bastion of peace in the Middle East.<br>
<br>
But another transformation threatens that normalcy.<br>
<br>
Recent changes have included the attempted assassination of an opposition
leader, the resignation of a prime minister, and the launch of a drone to spy
on enemy territory.<br>
<br>
In the coming days, I will illustrate the evolution of Hezbollah — where
it came from, where it's going and what its experience might say for emerging
parties in other volatile parts of the world. I also plan to examine U.S. policy in the region and the complications that come with it.<br>
<br>
The trip to Lebanon was the first chance I have had to taste authentic hummus,
to explore ancient ruins and to watch Hezbollah's military marching — in
an Iranian high step — in front of thousands of cheering spectators. </span></font></p>
<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>I saw an
unexpected side to the Middle East, witnessing in Beirut the way Western styles
have taken hold with female university students sporting tank tops and tight
jeans, and Muslim women enjoying drags of tobacco from long pipes on the
seaside. </span></font></p>
<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>A stark
contrast to some of its neighboring Arab countries, Lebanon is where you can
chug a beer while listening to the Muslim call to prayer broadcast through
loudspeakers from a mosque down the street.<br>
<br>
The country, it seems, is full of contrasts, with lush olive trees and thick
banana groves at one turn, and a painting of a gun tearing through a Star of
David at another.<br>
<br>
You easily can make a pit stop for sticky pistachio sweets off some of the same
roads dotted with haunting faces of young men — "martyrs," as
they are honored — who died in the fight against Israel. </span></font></p>
<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>Residents
can traverse the city freely, but the former Green Line, the boundary that once
divided Beirut into Muslims and Christians, is still palpable.<br>
<br>
The city is home to the pock-marked buildings and blown-out windows of the
past, and the posh storefronts of reconstruction. The balcony of my apartment in
East Beirut, the Christian side, bore the signs of plaster that had been used
to repair the damage from bullets, mortars, or whatever may have once struck
the building. </span></font></p>
<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>The
country, struggling with an imperfect democracy and perhaps a precarious hold on
peace, is accustomed to paradox.<br>
<br>
The Blue Line, for instance, is a jarring, yet intimate juxtaposition for
enemies.<br>
<br>
A Jewish settlement can be seen through its chain links. On the Lebanese side,
a sign marks the spot of a suicide bombing just in front of the "Freedom
Cafe," whose marquee includes a picture of a foaming beverage. </span></font></p>
<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>An old
tank sits nearby with Hezbollah's logo resting on top: an automatic Soviet
rifle propped up on a globe.<br>
<br>
My savvy translator, Maha, who guided me around the country during my stay,
said the Lebanese were once fond of hurling rocks at Israelis on the other side
of the border. </span></font></p>
<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>The
paradox that confounded me the most was Hezbollah's dual nature.<br>
<br>
It is angry and militant on one side; maternal and nurturing on the other.<br>
<br>
One day, I watched a small child in military fatigues execute a guerrilla
warfare stunt off a 30-meter high building. Another, I listened to a grateful
shop owner explain how Hezbollah cleared sewage backup from his streets. </span></font></p>
<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>The
question at the heart of this paradox is how one side feeds into the other, and
what this split personality could tell us about other parts of the world.<br>
<br>
The answers, I hope, lie ahead.</span></font></p>
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<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'> </span></font></p>
<p class=MsoNormal><b><font size=4 face=Arial><span style='font-size:13.5pt;
font-family:Arial;font-weight:bold'>Journal: A city transformed</span></font></b>
</p>
<p style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><b><font size=1 face=Verdana><span
style='font-size:7.5pt;font-family:Verdana;font-weight:bold'>By Julie Goodman</span></font></b><font
size=1 face=Verdana><span style='font-size:7.5pt;font-family:Verdana'><br>
<a href="mailto:jugoodman@clarionledger.com">jugoodman@clarionledger.com</a></span></font></p>
<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>BEIRUT</span></font>
— One of my stops in Lebanon was a nondescript intersection in Beirut, typical of the kind you might see at the center of any city. But this intersection
was not any ordinary crossroads.<br>
<br>
It was on the former Green Line in Beirut, and it marked the spot where
Christian gunman ambushed a busload of Palestinians, setting the city's 15-year
bloody and chaotic war into motion. </p>
<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>It was a
time when booby-trapped cars exploded and important people disappeared without
a trace.<br>
<br>
This was the Beirut of the past. The city I saw during my five-week stay in Lebanon had evolved dramatically since the days of the 1975-90 war.<br>
<br>
The language is a blend of Arabic, English and French – sometimes spoken
over Turkish coffee and cigarettes – and the people are in integrated mix
of Shiites, Sunnis, Druze, Christians and others.<br>
<br>
Parts of the Green Line are now populated by night spots where Christians and
Muslims both congregate. While there is always talk of simmering tensions
between religions, there seems to be a heavier, more prevalent sentiment, that
no one really has the energy to fight. </span></font></p>
<p><font size=3 face="Times New Roman"><span style='font-size:12.0pt'>Although
people with a range of cultures and religions mingle freely now, there is still
a tendency to place people in categories.<br>
<br>
A last name usually gives away whether someone is Christian or Muslim, and some
Lebanese won't hesitate to goad another into revealing their creed.<br>
<br>
I began my stay in Christian East Beirut. The balcony of the apartment in the
Greek Orthodox neighborhood where I lived still bore the signs of war. A worker
had attempted to use plaster to cover the damage from the bullets, shells or
whatever it was that once came flying at the building.<br>
<br>
Half way through my stay, I moved to a district called Hamra in Muslim West
Beirut, where my bedroom window looked out on to the Mediterranean Sea.<br>
<br>
Here, the call to prayer was frequently broadcast from the local mosques, one
consistent sign of Islam in a heavily Westernized city.<br>
<br>
There are turbaned and bearded men who will not shake a woman's hand, and there
are Muslim women who will not bear their heads.<br>
<br>
At the other end of the spectrum, the young women at the American University of Beirut, around the corner from my place, are fond of wearing tight jeans and tank
tops – with bra straps exposed.<br>
<br>
It is a dichotomy one professor I met called "schizophrenic."<br>
<br>
While women have the freedom of choice in Lebanon, says Mona Khalaf, head of a
women's studies program at the Lebanese American University, the choices they
make are sometimes surprising.<br>
<br>
"If you walk on campus or on Hamra street, you see girls that to my mind
are at least are shocking as the ones that are covered from top to
bottom," she said.</span></font></p>
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