LA Weekly

Photos by Daniel Pepper

BEIRUT — Syrian occupation troops have withdrawn from Lebanon, but the country has not yet regained its full sovereignty. The radical Shiite Hezbollah militia still controls its own territory in the suburbs south of Beirut and along the border with Israel. The Islamic Republic of Iran props it up with military and financial support, and it is arguably more powerful than the Lebanese army. It ranks high enough on Lebanon’s list of problems that last year the United Nations Security Council passed Resolution 1559 mandating not only the evacuation of Syrian troops but the “disbanding and disarmament” of all militias, of which Hezbollah is by far the largest. Hezbollah’s Secretary General Hassan Nasrallah recently said it will “cut off any hand that reaches out to our weapons” and “fight them like the martyrs of Karbala.”

Now that the international community is ratcheting up its pressure on Hezbollah, I went down to its militarily held state-within-a-state in the suburbs south of Beirut to see what the group is up to. Hezbollah invited me to an iftar — the first meal of the day just after sunset during the month of Ramadan — where Nasrallah was scheduled to speak.

I expected a warm reception. In October Hezbollah’s South Lebanon Commander Sheikh Nabil Qaouk said the militia wants to build strong relations with American journalists and academics. Yet its attempt to make a good impression on me failed spectacularly.

Thursday night’s iftar — this one was only for women and journalists — was held outside Hezbollah’s territory across the street from the Marriott Hotel. The area was controlled, if that is the word, by the Lebanese government.

Dozens of people, nearly all of them women, walked up a flight of stairs toward a double set of doors. Most wore an enveloping black abaya or a head scarf over their hair.

There were two separate entrances, one for women, the other for journalists and VIPs. A gaggle of Hezbollah security agents manned the doors. Several sat behind a long table. This, apparently, was where I was supposed to check in.

I showed my passport and press credentials to the man who looked like he was in charge. He stuffed them in his briefcase.

“Which hotel are you staying at?” he said.

I didn’t like the idea of telling Hezbollah where they could find me. Fairly or not, they are listed by the U.S. government as a terrorist organization. But I answered his question. I didn’t tell him I planned to move into an apartment two days later.

A security agent stepped behind me as I scribbled in my notebook while I waited. He craned his neck and tried to read over my shoulder. I frowned at him and abruptly turned so he could not read what I was writing.

I hadn’t noticed, but a military band was assembling behind me. The drummer banged once on his drum like a rifle shot. I jumped in my seat. A Hezbollah security agent who looked distinctly Iranian laughed not with me but at me.

More journalists showed up and were allowed to enter the building with minimal hassle. What was their problem with me? My passport and press ID were stuffed into the briefcase and that was that. They were making me wait for no apparent reason at all.

“What is the problem?” I said. “Why can’t I go in?”

“Just five more minutes, please,” the head of security said. Five more minutes for what? I was invited and I had credentials.

My first meeting with Hezbollah a few days earlier had gone much more smoothly.

I liked Hussein Naboulsi, the media relations liaison, the moment I had met him in the center of Hezbollah’s stronghold in Dahye south of Beirut. His firm handshake, his exuberant warmth, and his permanent grin had put me right at ease with the Party of God.

“I used to live in New York,” he said. That explained his terrific English.

“Really?” I said. “Did you like it?”

He looked at me as though I had asked if he liked rotten cheese.

“You must have lived there in the ’80s,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “It is better now, I know. I have heard about your Giuliani.”

“What do you think about the media in the United States?” I asked him. Hezbollah routinely denounces the American media as “Zionist.”

“I don’t like CNN as much as I used to,” he said. “Just look at Larry King. We need someone more fresh.”

“Have you caught an episode of The Daily Show With Jon Stewart?” I said.

He shook his head no as if he had never heard of it.

“That’s what the kids are watching these days,” I said.

Then he broke the bad news. Hezbollah was more or less closed. I was not allowed to visit Hezbollah’s schools, summer camps or hospitals. None of Hezbollah’s fighters on the Israeli border had permission to speak to me.

“We can’t give you a guide or a tour,” he said. “But you can walk around and take a look by yourself. Just don’t take any pictures.”

“What’s the problem?” I said. Wasn’t Hezbollah supposed to be reaching out?

“I was given a security directive a few weeks ago,” Hussein said. “I am sorry, but I have to obey it.”

Later Hussein did invite me to the iftar. Yet now, days later, there I was outside the iftar hall, prevented by security from going inside Hezbollah’s one open event.

I whipped out my cell phone and dialed Hussein. Perhaps he could get me in faster. The instant the head of security saw my phone he said, “Okay, you can go in now.”

Thousands of conservatively dressed women were being seated at rows of tables in front of me. No one bothered to tell me where to go or what to do. So I walked toward the tables.