Essays and Features

 

As a Lebanese and as many others who grew up not far from Beirut and the Raouché district — also known as Pigeons’ Rock — I was captivated by its grandeur. Two massive limestone outcrops rise from the Mediterranean along Beirut’s western coast, separated from the mainland by an ancient earthquake. This natural landmark is not only a symbol of beauty but also a silent witness to Lebanon’s triumphs and tragedies.

 

There is a sense of irony, or perhaps tragic justice, in that the story of a woman whose life and presence were forcibly erased from the public sphere continues to linger on the minds of many, unforgettable even 50 years after her death. Just as she forged a path through the social and political barriers confronting her, the Egyptian feminist, poet, and editor Doria Shafik’s legacy as one of the leading figures of the Egyptian women’s liberation movement in the 1940s cannot be forgotten. Shafik strived to make her voice and the voices of all Egyptian women known, undeterred by the many who hurled insults, slander, and mockery her way — but in exchange for her efforts, all her work was seized, her allies turned their backs on her, and she lived out her final years in silence and isolation.

 

Marwan Harb offers a sharp critique of Hezbollah’s estrangement from Lebanese national identity, portraying it as a militarized organization that derives its legitimacy not from democratic participation but from its arsenal. Harb traces the evolution of Hezbollah’s weaponry — once venerated as a sacred tool of liberation — through three distinct phases: initially serving as a sectarian shield during vulnerable times, then an instrument of internal political domination, and ultimately a hollow burden, clinging to relevance without justification. This trajectory illustrates the symbolic decay of the ‘weapon,’ transforming it from a shield of defense to a mechanism of control.

 

Like others reacting to the state of Syria following the fall of the Assad regime, Nour al-Sayed’s response is heavy with disappointment and dismay, expressed in the title of her essay for Al Modon, “If We Knew the Depth of Our Hatred… We Wouldn’t Have Needed a Revolution.” Sayed, adding a surprising levity, acknowledges the title comes across like something a child might say after not having their way, but just as quickly states that the severity of Syria’s predicament is not a matter that can be treated as “a child’s folly.” Her assessment of the country is sobering: the ‘victory’ against the Assad regime has “failed to mend the wounds, but instead has reopened them and deepened the pain.”

 

For decades, Ziad Rahbani occupied a unique place in the Syrian imagination — a figure at once satirist, musician, and political voice, whose art offered both entertainment and coded dissent. His relationship with Syrians moved through phases of clandestine admiration, public estrangement, and finally to a bittersweet mixture of betrayal and a lingering, conflicted gratitude that survived even the most profound political disappointments. His artistic journey intertwined with Syria’s own political and cultural shifts, making his transformation all the more personal for those who once claimed him as their own.