At 79, Paul Mattar has a new idea. He doesn’t know whether it will work. Like much of his creative output, “it’s experimental,” and the audience will decide.

As an actor, composer, singer, playwright, and theater director, Mattar has explored many modes of expression, but he has spent a career searching for a form that’s free from constraint.

It has taken him from the star-studded stages of Golden-Age-Beirut and the cabaret halls of 1960s Paris to bombed-out venues across war-torn Lebanon. Yet even as he swapped national theaters for shelters and school halls, Mattar was frustrated by the same invisible barriers in his art.

“Everything in theater is prepared and fixed in advance. As an artist, I want to feel free,” he says.

Now, Mattar believes he has found a way to unite artist and audience in a common voice. These days, Mattar is “bored” with theater productions. He wants an authentic art form that mirrors the audience’s reality, not a mouthpiece for the writer or a stage for performance.

“I’ve seen my country invaded, its cities destroyed, my economy collapsing. We need real stories that chronicle Lebanon’s history in the words of people living it.”

He’s happy to begin with his own.

The shy second son of middle-class parents, it was Mattar’s talented elder brother who seemed destined for the stage. “I was creative, but it was not obvious to everyone, especially my parents,” he says.

Mattar was happy to stay in his brother’s shadow. The two shared a room and went to the same school. When his brother Pierre took guitar lessons, Mattar learned by watching him play.

It was Pierre who put his younger brother forward for his first role. Mattar auditioned and landed the part, performing alongside professional actors in a 1966 production called Les requins aux Presque, or “As close as possible to the sharks.”

Working at the newly opened Théâtre de Beyrouth (Beirut Theater), he met acclaimed playwright and director Roger Assaf, who helped the aspiring actor find a foothold on Lebanon’s burgeoning modern theatre scene.

The 1960s are often described as Lebanon’s Golden Age, but Mattar disputes this. For him, it was the early 1970s, up to the outbreak of war in 1975. “That was when Lebanon started to be heard in the world,” he says.

This was the height of Lebanon’s Belle Epoque, when the arts blossomed during a period of prosperity. Theater, once the preserve of a wealthy elite, was becoming accessible as literacy accelerated in the 60s and 70s. “We were discovering something we had never had in Lebanon—the power of theater,” Mattar says.

Plays were performed in every available space to accommodate the outpouring of new work. Grand hotels, including The Phoenicia and The Normandy, transformed ballrooms into stages while schools, churches, and town squares hosted smaller productions.

“It was very exciting. I was very lucky to live through this period,” he adds.

The Beirut Theater attracted a vibrant community of thespian talents. Together, they pioneered a bold era of contemporary drama that celebrated Lebanese writers over international productions and creativity over conformity.

Mattar’s mentor, Assaf, saw theater as an extension of popular culture and wanted plays that reflected the issues of the day. Landmark productions like Jalal Khoury’s Juha on the Front Lines and Ousama Aref’s Idrab al-Haramieh spoke to Lebanese audiences and cultivated the interactive spirit of the age.

Artistic expression flourished as playwrights broke new ground with daring productions that challenged social norms. Assaf’s work would push the democratic spirit of Lebanon, then seen as a bastion for free speech in the region, to its limits.

In 1969, his production of Majdaloun, written by Henry Hamati, was shut down by the Lebanese military three days into its run at the Beirut Theater. The plot confronted controversial subjects, addressing the Palestinian armed presence in southern Lebanon as a consequence of the Israeli occupation.

In a moment of triumph for creative freedom, Assaf, his co-director Nidal Ashkar, and the cast walked with the audience to the Horseshoe café on Hamra Street and continued their performance. But the play, which criticized the state’s inertia and called for domestic revolution, tapped into tensions that would continue to rise.

Politically charged works like Majdaloun resonated powerfully as the atmosphere darkened in the months leading up to civil war. The earlier climate of buoyant intellectualism and free experimentation gave way to a more urgent and ideologically driven theater as the stage became a vehicle for resistance against political forces that were propelling the country into conflict.

“The civil war didn’t stop us. On the contrary, it pushed us to perform more but in new, different ways,” Mattar recalls.

Recently returned from a period in Paris, where he acted at Théâtre de la Ville and composed songs for concerts and cabarets, Mattar was ready to forge something new. Inspired by the spirit of the music hall, he staged free performances in intimate venues, bringing audiences closer to productions that were “marginal, weird, unspecific.”

It was liberating to work in the mini-theater format. He felt free to experiment and wrote a play that merged Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens with a tale from One Thousand and One Nights. People would sit, sip drinks, and feel part of productions. “It was one of the most interesting experiences of my life,” Mattar says.

This lasted a few years before war broke out and consumed the country’s cultural spaces. For a while, Mattar composed songs about conflict, trying to make sense of the tragedies unfolding in the streets around him. Then he gave up. “There were too many.” He turned back to acting, curating a performance for children that could be staged across the country.

With a simplified set and a cast of three actors, plus puppets, crammed into the back of a tiny VW Polo, they drove from village to village, performing in every available space, sometimes under fire. During one performance for children with disabilities, they only just managed to get the audience to safety as shelling began.

By the time the war ended in 1990, most of the country’s cultural spaces lay in ruins. Yet even as he mourned their loss, Mattar saw the need for something new. “The Civil War changed artistic creation. For a while, nothing else in life existed outside the war,” he says.

When someone offered him a dirty, underground space that was lying empty, Mattar seized his opportunity. Working alongside actress and producer Jocyane Boulos, he oversaw the emergence of Le Monnot Theatre, where he would serve as director for more than two decades.

Friends questioned his decision to move from West to East Beirut, but Mattar was more interested in using art to dismantle the barriers that segregated the city during war. “When you are offered a stage, you have to go.”

And soon, audiences were coming from across the city, as the artistic community drifted back, ready to make sense of the last 15 years on stage.

Mattar is proud of his work at Le Monnot Theatre. On their 20^th anniversary in 2017, he counted over 1,000 performances, showcasing diverse talents and genres that helped revive Beirut’s theater scene.

Today, it is recognized as one of the city’s most enduring creative spaces and a symbol of cultural revival in post-war Beirut. But for theater veterans like Mattar, there are qualities that can never be reclaimed. The exuberant spirit of Lebanon’s theatrical renaissance has vanished. Passing the ruins of the Beirut Theatre in Ain el-Mreisseh, a lump catches in his throat. “I lived the most beautiful moments of my life in this place, and now there is nothing.”

That age of artistic experimentation has given way to a more globalized, trend-driven culture. “The performances we staged in these theaters were different. Today they all look the same,” he says.

He now feels that there are more direct and urgent ways to tell stories than on the stage. Tracing his career from the heady optimism of 1960s Beirut, through the trauma of war and the crises that have engulfed Lebanon since, he has found a form that finally makes sense. “For me, storytelling is the solution,” he explains.

Mattar is planning a storytelling festival that will elevate the audience, dispensing with the artifice of theater in favor of a stripped-back, raw form. He hasn’t decided on a name, but he wants to reflect life in real time, relayed by authentic voices. “The history books are biased,” he says. “I want our history to be chronicled by Lebanese people. We need to hear them talk.”

In the forest-covered slopes of Mount Lebanon, hundreds of people gathered last week for the funeral of Pierre and Flavia Mouawad. Two days earlier, an Israeli airstrike on Easter Sunday killed the couple and their neighbor in an attack on Ain Saade, a town northeast of Beirut, sending shockwaves across the country.

The conflict, which began soon after US-Israeli strikes on Iran, has intensified calls for the disarmament of Hezbollah as critics accuse the group of dragging Lebanon into another devastating war with Israel. Supporters say the Lebanese army is too weak to defend Lebanon in the face of Israeli aggression. As a 10-day ceasefire agreement between Lebanon and Israel gets underway, the controversy over Hezbollah’s weapons is expected to be a critical sticking point in direct negotiations between the countries.

Pierre, an official in the Lebanese Forces (LF), was a staunch opponent of Hezbollah. Israeli media claimed the intended target of the strike was a member of Iran’s elite Quds Force, which is closely aligned with Hezbollah. However, the attack never killed the alleged Quds Force member. Instead, it took the lives of three innocent civilians.

In the wake of the Ain Saade strike, LF followers and other Lebanese blamed Hezbollah for the tragedy, accusing the group of hiding its affiliates among civilians. Supporters of Hezbollah blamed Israel for targeting a residential building. The ensuing debate has highlighted mounting division in Lebanon over Hezbollah and its role as an armed resistance movement.

Hezbollah emerged as a Shia militia in the 1980s amidst the chaos of the Lebanese civil war. It gained popularity and support as it waged a years-long insurgency against Israeli troops occupying the country, culminating in their withdrawal from Lebanon in 2000. Alongside its military feats, Hezbollah also entered into Lebanon’s political scene, providing political representation to the Shia community along with essential services in sectors like health and education.

But while those efforts proved successful in winning over much of the Shia community in Lebanon, not all of the country is so fond of Hezbollah. The group has long been criticized for acting above the state, especially in matters of war and peace. Such criticism has grown louder in recent years, especially in the wake of Hezbollah’s decision to enter into two wars with Israel since 2023.

Anger towards Hezbollah was still raw two days after the death of the Mouawads as family, friends, party officials, and political allies gathered for the funeral in Pierre’s home village of Yahchouch. On the stairs of Saint Simon Church, LF parliamentarian Chaouki Daccache lambasted Hezbollah as he criticized the government for failing to stop the group.

“The one who dragged Lebanon into a destructive and futile war, committing a crime first against the state and against all Lebanese—it is Hezbollah, the agent implementing Iran’s agenda at the expense of Lebanon and its people,” Daccache said.

Earlier that day, the Lebanese military published the findings of an investigation that cast doubt on whether the alleged Quds Force member had really been staying among the Mouawads. Fouad K, a member of the local LF branch and a friend of Pierre, was skeptical. “Things are more complicated than that,” he said. “The Lebanese army, while it is a national army, has been infiltrated over 30 years by Hezbollah,” he added, emphasizing that his views are personal and not representative of the Lebanese Forces.

In the weeks prior to the Ain Saade strike, Israel carried out similar attacks in parts of Beirut that were once considered safe. Such attacks have deepened widespread opposition to Hezbollah, which many Lebanese have long accused of acting above the state. That criticism has deepened since Hezbollah attacked Israel on March 2, igniting the second war that Lebanon has faced in less than two years.

More than 2,100 people have been killed in Israeli strikes, which have continued in the face of widespread condemnation. In recent weeks, Israel has bombed huge swathes of the country and launched a ground incursion into southern Lebanon, displacing 20 percent of the population.

Despite the devastation, some Lebanese say there is no other way to disarm Hezbollah. “Israel is not doing us a favor. They’re doing themselves a favor. But we are benefiting from that,” said Fouad, who described the group as “a cancer infiltrating everything in Lebanon.”

Pointing across a deep valley, he picked out Shia and Christian villages dotted along the mountain slope. “People live together, but the poison is Hezbollah’s ideology,” he said. “It poisoned them over three generations.”

After the Easter Sunday attack, tensions bubbled over. Shia families who had been renting homes in Yahchouch left. Those who refused “were forced out by the people who rented (to) them,” Fouad said.

Since the start of the war, local officials and residents have placed restrictions on renting homes to Shia families in case they are affiliated with Hezbollah. Communities say they are afraid of being targeted by Israel if Hezbollah members or allies stay among them.

Less than 24 hours after the funeral in Yahchouch, there was a brief sense of relief as US President Donald Trump announced a two-week ceasefire with Iran. Hours later, however, Israel carried out its largest attack on Lebanon since the start of the war, killing at least 357 people and wounding another 1,223 others, according to the Lebanese health ministry.

As debate raged over Lebanon’s inclusion in the ceasefire, Israel announced that it would enter into direct negotiations with Beirut to discuss the disarmament of Hezbollah. The talks marked the first conversation between Lebanese and Israeli leaders in 34 years. The two countries do not have diplomatic relations.

While the Lebanese government has already taken steps since the last war to disarm Hezbollah, many people are skeptical of its ability to carry out the job.

On Friday and Saturday, Hezbollah supporters took to the streets in Beirut to protest the talks. “We want peace, we want a ceasefire,” said Ali, a middle-aged father displaced from Dahiyeh, a Shia-majority suburb south of Beirut. “Let Israel withdraw and mind their own business and let us mind our own. But to sign a peace agreement with them is impossible. They killed half of our people. It’s impossible to sign a peace agreement with them.”

Ali is staying in a tent on Beirut’s Corniche, which has turned into an unofficial displacement camp for people uprooted by Israeli strikes across the country. Unable to find work since the last war, Ali said he can’t afford to rent a place for his family of seven. The restrictions on renting to Shia families are a further barrier.

“Some people are scared. You can’t blame them… But it’s not the fault of women and children. Rent at least to women and children,” Ali said.

Ali’s only other option is one of Tripoli’s displacement shelters, which are typically overcrowded and underequipped. Not wanting to subject his family to these poor conditions, he took them to the waterfront.

Rain trickled on an overhead tarp as he ate and drank coffee with family and friends who were also displaced. Other than initial cash assistance from Lebanon’s Ministry of Social Affairs, Ali and his friends said they had not received any support from the government.

“The government is not seeing us at all,” Ali said. “The state is with Israel against us. They’re killing us.”

Following the attack on Wednesday when Israel bombed more than 100 targets across Lebanon in less than 10 minutes, Lebanese Prime Minister Nawaf Salam declared a day of mourning. To Ali’s family and friends, it seemed hypocritical. “How many martyrs (from southern Lebanon) have gone so far, and he hasn’t done any mourning day?” said Ali’s wife, Wafaa.

“People in Beirut are Lebanese, but people in Dahiyeh, the South, and the Beqaa are not,” her friend Susan added, pointing to areas across the country that are home to large Shia communities.

As she spoke, news broke of an Israeli airstrike on the southern city of Nabatieh. The attack killed 19 people, including 13 members of Lebanon’s state security.

In a country repeatedly battered by war, ordinary Lebanese are forced to find an increasingly unlikely path to peace. For some, Israeli attacks are the only way to dispel Hezbollah’s hold over the country. For others, each strike deepens opposition to disarming Hezbollah. Across society, there is little faith in the ability of Lebanon’s military to defend the country, whether from foreign incursion or internal unrest. While the ceasefire agreement announced on Thursday by US President Donald Trump offers hope of some respite for battered Lebanon, it is a far cry from resolving the issues that brought the country to this point in the first place. If Lebanon is to reach lasting peace, it will have to confront its most divisive challenges, particularly those pertaining to national security.

“How will the army protect me now? They can’t protect me. Only the Resistance can protect me,” said Ali, referring to Hezbollah.

War with Iran. Proxy escalation in the Levant. Great power maneuvering from Moscow to Washington to Paris and Beijing. Sanctions, shadow fleets, drones, assassinations, and covert deals. This is not chaos. This is transition.

We are seeing what a multipolar world looks like where power is no longer in the hands of a single hegemon but distributed among a constellation of actors. This is where the idea stops being a theory and becomes the driving force behind international politics.

Islamic theology presents the idea of barzakh, which refers to a middle realm—the suspended space between death and resurrection. That is where we are today: no longer in the American-led order, not yet in a multipolar one, but caught in an unstable passage between these two states.

Here, power does not disappear. It fragments.

In a multipolar world—rather, in the barzakh leading to it—imperial logic prevails.

Not formal empires with flags and colonies, but spheres of influence, leveraged via energy chokepoints, trade wars, technological advances and geography.

In this dispersed world order, trade is the overriding currency. Security is exchanged for access, oil for weapons, votes for protection, and silence for safety. It is survival of the adaptable, where inflexible, ideologically driven regimes struggle to survive.

To flourish, you must do business. Nowhere is this clearer than in the Levant and Iran, historic gateways at the crossroads of empire. Here, survival has always depended on managing the ambitions of surrounding powers: Rome and Persia. Ottomans and Safavids. Britain and France. The United States and Russia. Now China, Turkey, the United States and the Gulf.

The rule is simple: if you cannot balance competing interests, you become battle terrain.

For all its defiance, this is exactly what the Islamic regime has done to Iran. Through its inflexibility, Iran’s rulers have transformed it from a regional contender into a battlefield, bypassing opportunities to recalibrate and adjust.

For movements built on disruption and resistance, the adjustment is harsher. In a transactional multipolar world order, there are no permanent friends, only temporary patrons. These causes become instruments as militias morph into subcontractors and their ideology becomes branding.

Over time, many such movements mutate. They survive not through popular legitimacy but through underground revenue streams, trading in smuggling, drugs, human trafficking, espionage, and protection rackets. True believers fill the ranks. Crime lords manage the finances. The rhetoric remains revolutionary but the structure resembles organized crime.

In a fragmented world order, multipolarity does not eliminate resistance. It professionalizes, and often corrupts it. So, what of democracy? The institution that has dominated Western politics for decades will come under strain, incapable of absorbing the new imperative for pure transaction.

In places where democracy has strong institutional roots, this will resemble a crisis of confidence. Voters will grow cynical and polarization will intensify as transactional geopolitics tempts leaders to sacrifice principle for advantage. In time, democratic societies will be forced to renew themselves to remain relevant, or relinquish their foothold and hollow out from within.

Where democratic roots are weak, democracy will continue to hover beyond reach. Leaders will invoke sovereignty in the name of stability and citizens will be told to wait for security, growth and order. The waiting can last generations.

The transition to multipolarity is no clean reset. It is not the birth of a just equilibrium among civilizations. It is a renegotiation of power—conducted the way power has always been secured: through war, diplomacy, coercion, cooperation, and competition.

The end result will not be less flawed than the current order. It will simply be flawed differently. Eventually, there will be room to reassert principles and to rebuild norms but that moment will not arrive automatically. It will have to be fought for, intellectually and politically, inside societies as much as between them.

For now, we are in a free-for-all transition. The question is not whether multipolarity is coming. It is whether democracies can survive this transactional age without relinquishing their principles and becoming transactional at the core.

One way this will be tested is through the use of force. During the post-Cold War era, military action was justified through imminent threats—a regime about to attack, a terrorist network preparing a strike, or weapons programs crossing a red line.

In a transitional multipolar environment, the calculus broadens. Military action is not just for immediate danger. It is summoned by long-term positioning: containing an adversary before it consolidates power, securing critical corridors and supply chains, protecting access to energy and strategic minerals, reinforcing alliance systems, or denying rivals a technological or military advantage.

These are not threats that are easily grasped by the public. They unfold slowly, across regions and decades.

The temptation for governments is to argue that strategic action cannot wait for prolonged public debate. We see this playing out in the contest over Taiwan, where supply chains, maritime corridors, semiconductor dominance, and the balance of power across the Pacific are setting the timeline for China’s next move.

And we see it in the United States, where democracy appears to have been supplanted by strategic imperatives. The current war with Iran, initiated without explicit congressional authorization, has triggered a heated debate over executive war powers and constitutional limits.

For supporters, the strategic rationale is clear: preventing Iran from reaching a tipping point in missile and nuclear capabilities and reshaping the regional balance of power justifies the actions taken. Critics respond that no imminent threat was demonstrated and reiterate the constitutional requirement for Congress to authorize war.

Both arguments reveal a deeper tension.

Democratic systems were designed for an era in which war was exceptional and clearly defined. Multipolar transitions are messier. They generate gray zones where strategic calculations collide with democratic procedures.

At the same time, the United States is entering this transition under conditions of intense polarization. Republicans and Democrats now interpret foreign policy primarily through the lens of domestic political competition. As each side mobilizes its base, narratives harden and nuance disappears. Facts are selectively deployed and strategic debate collapses into partisan signaling.

When that happens, democratic norms begin to erode—not because democracy has failed, but because it is struggling to operate under conditions it was never designed to withstand.

Yet this conversation cannot be avoided indefinitely. At some point, American political leadership will need to re-establish a minimal strategic consensus—a recognition that certain principles and procedures must remain intact even as the geopolitical environment becomes more volatile.

Without such a framework, the transition to multipolarity will not only reshape global power. It will destabilize the democratic systems meant to manage it. And so we return to the condition of barzakh, an in-between world where the old system has lost authority but the new one is not yet legitimate. The question is whether we can cross over without losing the principles that made the previous order worth defending in the first place. Because if we cannot, the world that emerges on the other side will not merely redistribute power. It will redefine our concept of legitimacy entirely.

In a 2009 interview on a Canadian-Islamic channel, Tariq Ramadan discussed his views on women’s rights in Islam. “I don’t think Islam has a problem with women—Muslims have,” he said.

Ramadan, then a professor at Oxford University, argued that Muslim societies are mostly concerned about the roles and functions of women, when “the starting point should be your relationship with God.” Muslims must “speak about women as beings,” he said, and the hijab must not be enforced. “It’s against Islam to impose on a woman to wear the headscarf, and it’s against women’s rights to impose on her to take it off,” Ramadan continued.

This was during the peak of his career. At the time, Ramadan was a star in the Muslim world, his charisma and progressive views on Islam drawing concert-sized audiences. Many women saw him as a defender of their rights, and Time magazine named him among the 100 most influential people in the world in 2004.

That all changed in 2017, when Ramadan was accused of sexual assault. Last month, a Paris court sentenced Ramadan—in absentia—to 18 years in jail for raping three women.

He had already been convicted in Switzerland in 2024 for a separate rape case.

Ramadan’s lawyers said the 63-year-old was being treated in Geneva for multiple sclerosis and condemned the trial as a farce. To this day, he continues to claim the charges are politically motivated, citing Islamophobia.

Though a warrant has been issued for Ramadan’s arrest, Switzerland does not have an extradition treaty with its neighbor. Ramadan also faces a permanent ban from French territory.

The long-awaited conviction marks the latest fall from grace of a man who posed as a leading “moderate” figure, despite his family background. Ramadan’s maternal grandfather was Hassan al-Banna, who founded the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt in 1928, and his father, Said Ramadan, was one of the organization’s leading figures.

The making of his public persona can be traced to the 1990s, when, during his burgeoning interest in Islam, he undertook intensive religious studies in Egypt before returning to Switzerland. In his 2009 book, What I Believe, Ramadan describes his spiritual awakening as a desire to “build bridges” between the Western and Islamic worlds. He said that he favored an interpretive rather than a literal reading of the Qur’an.

Western liberals embraced Ramadan as a bridge between cultures. Born in Switzerland, fluent in French and English, he cut a suave, liberal figure for a Western audience while retaining a certain authority in the Muslim world.

Although he insisted that he disavowed the views of his fundamentalist grandfather, some observers noted that his dissertation on Hassan al-Banna’s work appeared sympathetic. Charles Genequand, his principal supervisor in the 1990s, said Ramadan’s thesis was “trying to place Hassan al-Banna within a reformist movement of Islam that existed in the 19th century, while camouflaging his very conservative vision.”

The Muslim Brotherhood, whose slogan is “Islam is the solution,” is designated as a terrorist group and banned in Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates. The US government has taken steps to label specific foreign branches of the Muslim Brotherhood as terrorist organizations.

Ramadan’s association with Yusuf al-Qaradawi, a prominent Muslim Brotherhood cleric based in Qatar, also raised some eyebrows. Egyptian-born al-Qaradawi had previously defended suicide bombings and claimed the Holocaust was a “punishment” for Jews.

Ramadan’s ambiguity was further exposed during a televised debate on secularism and Islam. Nicolas Sarkozy, then interior minister, tried to get the scholar to condemn the Islamic punishment of stoning for adultery. Instead, Ramadan said there ought to be a “moratorium” on such practices.

It’s no wonder the French writer Caroline Fourest argued that Ramadan presented a moderate face to Western audiences while conveying different messages to the Muslim world.

Despite these emerging contradictions, Ramadan’s rise continued. In 2005, he was awarded a fellowship at St Antony’s College, Oxford, and in 2009, he was appointed to the University of Oxford chair in Contemporary Islamic Studies funded by Qatar. Ramadan seemed untouchable. Ultimately, it was sexual misconduct that would undo him, as it has so many other powerful men.

In 2017, the #MeToo movement came for him with multiple allegations of sexual assault in France and Switzerland. One of the victims was Henda Ayari, a former Salafi Muslim. She said she approached Ramadan at a time in her life when she felt “lost and weak”. Ayari was separated from her husband and had been told to remove her Islamic veil to find work.

After contacting Ramadan online for advice, the mother of three agreed to meet him in his Paris hotel room in 2012. He “kissed” her, “choked me so hard I thought I would die,” “slapped” her, cursed at her, and “humiliated” her before raping her. “He pounced on me like a wild animal,” Ayari said.

She blamed herself for meeting him alone and remained silent for many years, claiming he’d threatened her children.

Another woman—a disabled Muslim convert known as “Christelle”—alleged that she was raped and beaten by Ramadan in a hotel in Lyon in 2009. She provided investigators with messages and identified an intimate scar on Ramadan’s body.

Then others began coming forward. Several women claimed Ramadan had conducted sexual relationships with them when they were underage students in Geneva. One girl who rejected his advances was 14.

Initially, Ramadan denied having sexual relations with the woman. But following his 2018 arrest in France, an investigation revealed text messages exchanged between him and Christelle that appeared to corroborate her version of events.

“I sensed your discomfort … sorry for my ‘violence’. I liked it … Do you want more? Not disappointed?” he wrote to her the following day. A few hours later, he wrote: “You didn’t like it … I’m sorry [Christelle]. Sorry.”

Ramadan was forced to admit he’d had affairs with at least five women, but insisted they were consensual. No wonder the married father of four wanted a “moratorium” on corporal punishment—under Islamic law, the punishment for adultery is stoning to death.

As legal pressure mounted, Ramadan was in and out of the hospital with multiple sclerosis. His lawyer argued that his condition was “incompatible with detention”, and he was released on bail after 10 months.

Throughout it all, the academic has framed the charges as being politically motivated, claiming most of it was down to Islamophobia. In his 2019 book Devoir de Vérité (Duty of Truth), he compared his legal troubles to the 19th-century Dreyfus Affair, claiming he was the victim of a political witch-hunt. Just as French captain Alfred Dreyfus was wrongfully convicted of treason on account of his Jewish heritage, Ramadan was, he said, being framed in an “anti-Muslim” plot.

In some of the media coverage, Ramadan was able to claim, largely unchallenged, that he was the target of a “witch hunt” and that his enemies “worked together with the Zionists” on his downfall.

His accusers also feared they would suffer if court proceedings were open to the public. One woman alleged she was spat upon, slapped, insulted, and followed by his supporters.

Moreover, the response from institutions was far from immediate. Oxford University allowed Ramadan to continue teaching for three weeks before granting him a leave of absence. Eugene Rogan, the director of Oxford’s Middle East Center, argued that some students felt it was “another way for Europeans to gang up against a prominent Muslim intellectual.

“We must protect Muslim students who believe and trust in him, and protect that trust,” Rogan said.

This prompted concerns that Ramadan was being held to different standards on account of his religion. Then, in September 2024, a Swiss appeals court in Geneva convicted the scholar of rape and sexual coercion, overturning a previous acquittal from 2023. He was sentenced to three years in prison, with one year to be served, following an attack on a woman in a Geneva hotel in 2008. Two years on, a Paris court has found him guilty of raping three women.

As Ramadan was hospitalized in Switzerland, he was tried in absentia. Switzerland does not generally extradite its citizens, making it unlikely that he’ll actually serve his sentence. Ramadan has also announced that he will appeal.

For many years, Tariq Ramadan’s contradictions and doublespeak were glossed over by a Western audience that desperately wanted to believe in an Islam that could be compatible with European societies. Unfortunately, it came at the expense of women’s dignity—something, ironically, that this venerated Islamic scholar had been claiming to defend.

In July 2005, the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS) movement was formally established with a call signed by 170 Palestinian civil society organizations, campaigning for three core demands: ending Israeli occupation of lands captured in 1967, recognition of full equality for Arab citizens of Israel, and the right of return for Palestinian refugees—nearly 7 million people, close to the number of Jewish citizens of Israel—as established under UN Resolution 194.

The movement markets itself as inspired by the international campaign against apartheid South Africa in the late 1950s. But unlike that campaign, which targeted racial segregation inside a single state, BDS operates in a national conflict between two peoples—one that includes issues of borders, competing claims to statehood, and one of the most complex refugee situations in modern history.

During its 21 years of work, BDS has achieved some milestones. It pressured several European pension funds into divesting from companies tied to Israeli settlement activity. In 2018, Airbnb briefly announced it would remove listings in West Bank settlements—the company later reversed that decision after legal complications—and the movement has been effective in raising awareness about Palestinian political rights on Western university campuses.

But alongside those achievements, BDS has built a habit of going after the wrong people, including its calls for boycotting the Oscar-winning film “No Other Land,” which describes the realities of the occupation in the Masafer Yatta villages, calling to boycott the civil society group “Standing Together,” and calling to boycott the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra, co-founded by the Palestinian author Edward Said.”

Its calls for academic and cultural boycotts have drawn serious criticism, including from Iranian American author Arash Azizi, who argued in The Atlantic that such boycotts are both counterproductive and morally misguided. His sharpest point concerns BDS’s treatment of organizations that bring Israelis and Palestinians together. The movement sees this kind of cooperation as “normalization” and pressures supporters to reject it entirely. Practically, this means the people most likely to be boycotted are not Israeli government ministers or settlement builders — they are Israeli citizens who oppose the occupation, and Palestinians who believe engagement is more useful than isolation.

This is where BDS’s position becomes self-defeating. Normalization is a real concern when joint events are used to whitewash ongoing violations. But BDS has expanded the definition until it covers almost any sustained contact between Israelis and Palestinians who are not in conflict. That does not serve Palestinians living under occupation. It simply narrows the space for anyone trying to end it.

The most recent example makes this clear. In December 2025, the UK announced—in partnership with the Alliance for Middle East Peace (ALLMEP), a nonpartisan coalition of nearly 170 NGOs—that it would host a fundraising conference on March 12, 2026, at Lancaster House, as part of its new Middle East Strategy. This came the same year the UK formally recognized Palestinian statehood. Recently, the British government called for an investigation into the killing of five Palestinians by Israeli settlers in the West Bank. ALLMEP’s member organizations lobby against settlement expansion and restrictions on Palestinian movement. The conference is designed to raise funds for Palestinian-Israeli dialogue work—not to normalize the occupation.

BDS rushed almost immediately, labeling the conference a “normalization event” and calling the UK government “complicit in genocide.” By February, it escalated and issued targeted action alerts against Lancaster House itself, where the crowdfunding is set to take place.

At the height of that peace process, the international community invested nearly $44 per capita annually to support civil society, dialogue, and reconciliation infrastructure. For Israelis and Palestinians, the equivalent figure is $2 per capita per year, twenty-two times less. The architecture that helped end one of Europe’s longest conflicts was built through exactly the kind of sustained, funded, people-to-people work that BDS is now campaigning to shut down.

A movement founded to end an occupation should not be in the business of targeting the spaces where Israelis and Palestinians try to build something different. It is possible for two things to be true at the same time: to oppose the military occupation of the West Bank and to call for dialogue between Palestinians and Israelis. Without this dialogue, how does BDS expect this conflict to end?

Perched on the side of a pyramid, Dr. Salima Ikram looks completely at ease. A photograph on her website captures the archaeologist in her element —“crawling down holes and popping out of pyramids.” Even when expeditions go awry, this is where she feels most herself.

“Some of my colleagues are more sedate,” says Ikram, whose voice is slightly hoarse after a month-long illness from inhaling too much mummy dust. She’ll be back to excavating burial chambers and examining remains as soon as her lungs clear.

Occasional setbacks are worth it for working on “extraordinary projects” and making discoveries that reshape our understanding of how people lived 5,000 years ago. Even after 43 years in the field, Ikram remains in awe of the achievements of the Bronze Age. “Almost everything about the Ancient Egyptians is interesting, absorbing, and inspiring… One wants to hang out with them more,” she says.

Ikram’s love affair with Egyptology began in childhood. On her first visit to Egypt at the age of nine, she was captivated by the civilization that built the pyramids and developed hieroglyphic writing.

This began an “endless quest” to immerse herself in a civilization spanning more than 3,000 years. It’s a journey that has shaped her both mentally and physically—falling off cliffs and breaking her pelvis are just some of the tolls on her body—but it’s all part of a career that “makes you open to adventure and less set in your ideas,” she says.

The specimens she studies are ancient, but even across millennia, they feel present. “History is part of a shared past… we learn about ourselves too,” she says, pointing to the way her specialism—human, animal, and food mummies—helps trace the origins of society today.

It’s often the smallest details that resonate the most. Examining the mummy of a mother with her baby tucked into the crook of her knee feels intensely poignant to Ikram. “It’s these moments that remind us of our common humanity,” she adds.

Quiet moments of reflection are interspersed with the excitement of discovery, but the process can be painstaking. Weeks of fruitless searching, as pressure mounts and funds dry up, are compounded by sweltering heat and flies at dig sites. “Sometimes I could do without the bats,” Ikram says.

Yet these discomforts seem negligible when the cry goes up announcing a new discovery. There’s a lot left to find. More than 200 years of archaeological activity have uncovered less than a third of Ancient Egypt. Estimates suggest that 70 percent remains below the sand, hidden beneath modern cities and Nile mud.

In particular, worker settlements, offering a window into the lives of everyday Egyptians, have been overlooked in favor of royal tombs. The world has long been enthralled by the tantalizing potential of priceless treasures buried with the Pharaohs, fuelled by sensational discoveries across the decades.

The most famous of these was in 1922, when British archaeologist Howard Carter opened the doorway to a burial chamber sealed for three millennia. Many royal chambers have been plundered by thieves across the centuries, including by the ancient Egyptians themselves, but Tutankhamun’s tomb was discovered intact.

More than 5,000 objects were found alongside the boy king, who died aged 18 or 19, possibly from malaria and a leg injury. Extraordinary treasures emerged from the site in the Valley of the Kings near Luxor, including Tutankhamun’s death mask, now considered a masterpiece of Egyptian art. “Before, people would admire Greek and Roman art, and the Egyptians were thought primitive,” Ikram says. Suddenly, the world was mesmerized by Egypt.

The craze known as “Egyptomania” or “Tut-mania” went global as ancient Egypt became a dominant theme in fashion, art, and architecture. Interest was heightened by the ‘curse of the pharaohs’, a rumor fabricated by journalists denied access to the tomb. “The Times had a monopoly, so they made it up,” Ikram says.

A century on, archaeologists have compiled a detailed understanding of Ancient Egypt, fed by more groundbreaking discoveries in the years since. For Ikram, everything is open to question as fresh finds revise our understanding of the age. In her specialist field, studies of mummification materials have revealed a more complex process than previously thought, with resins and oils imported from abroad indicating early global trade networks that were previously unknown.

These scientific inquiries are matched by the thrill of archaeological finds in the field. On a rescue-archaeology mission in Sudan in the 1990s, Ikram and her team excavated at speed in front of bulldozers that were building a new road. When a pair of tumuli was discovered intact, Ikram opened the doors to burial mounds that had been undisturbed for 2,500 years.

“I could smell the incense that was burned as part of the burial ritual. Moments like that are extraordinary,” she says.

She compares archaeology to detective work, analyzing clues to test different theories until one fits. Not all evidence is equal, however. Deciphering the paintings in a tomb can feel like looking at someone’s social media feed. “It’s what you choose to put in there,” Ikram says.

But taken together with other evidence, including the food a body was buried with, the condition of the bones, and the materials they were wrapped in, it’s possible to build a picture of the life lived thousands of years ago. At times, a feeling of familiarity echoes across the centuries. “Things that mattered 4,000 years ago to human beings are still the same things that matter to us today,” Ikram says.

Understanding these motivations and how they shaped Egyptian society has been her life’s work, though it didn’t seem achievable to everyone. Even in a country with the only surviving wonder of the ancient world, her early aspirations to be an archaeologist were considered far-fetched. “My father said you are never going to get a job. What on earth are you doing? But much to everyone’s surprise, I made a career of it.”

Over the years, she has met many people who shared her ambition to become an archaeologist, only to abandon the dream in favor of a reliable income. Many of those who did persevere also teach, like Ikram, to sustain their research.

At The American University in Cairo, where Ikram is a professor in Egyptology, she sees the same pattern play out. There is a lot of interest from students, but parents worry they won’t find paying jobs in the field. Many who major in Egyptology go on to work in business or finance, she says.

Teaching eats into the time she can spend on digs—two and a half weeks is the most she can commit to on-site, but living in Egypt means she is on hand when her expertise is needed, including for television projects.

Advising on films and documentaries, including The Mummy, allows her to bring ancient Egypt to a wider audience and meet interesting people. Describing the attraction of digging in tombs to actor Morgan Freeman, she told him, “Being an archaeologist means that you never have to grow up, and the past is always part of the present.”

She was referring, she says, to playing in the sand and crawling down holes, a process that is both thrilling and unnerving. Bumping down tomb shafts in the dark, unsure of what waits below, fear temporarily takes hold. Then she passes the halfway point, and curiosity triumphs, pushing her deeper into the past to uncover the secrets of Ancient Egypt and share them with the world. Each discovery builds on knowledge gathered across two centuries, with the potential to revise history in ways not yet imagined. It’s an enticing prospect that renders the bats and the bruises irrelevant, when, as Ikram puts it, “suddenly you excavate something and ideas that have been written in stone for at least 100 years have to be tossed out of the window in light of fresh new evidence.”

On April 8, just hours after Washington and Tehran announced a two-week pause in hostilities to allow for direct negotiations, Hezbollah declared victory, as it has done previously, regardless of the facts. Minutes later, the truth exploded all over Lebanon. Israel unleashed the heaviest wave of strikes since its war with Israel began, killing at least 254 people and injuring around 1,200.

The latest wave of violence threatened the fragile ceasefire and prompted Iran to pull back on its promise to reopen the Strait of Hormuz. The US and Israel have responded with claims that Lebanon was not included in the ceasefire agreement. Iran and mediator Pakistan say it is. Efforts to spin this as a “legitimate misunderstanding” fool no one. Lebanon’s exclusion from the deal was deliberate.

This is the moment the Hezbollah myth breaks in public: the organization that dragged Lebanon into the fire “for Iran” has discovered that Iran can protect its interests while Lebanon burns.

It is possible that Hezbollah was never included in the deal in the first place. In this case, the group was used as an auxiliary front, activated when Iran needed leverage, then sidelined once it secured a pause. Or, Hezbollah was included in theory, only to be carved out of the agreement in practice.

The second option explains the public contradiction. If Lebanon was discussed, it was discussed as an external file—a separate arena that Israel could continue to “sanitize” while Iran enjoys the benefits of a truce. That is what a carve-out looks like: the ceasefire protects the signatories, and the non-signatory becomes fair game.

Either way, Hezbollah’s strategic problem is exposed: once you choose to be a proxy, you are never guaranteed proxy protection.

The foundations of Hezbollah’s predicament were laid long ago, when the group’s founding doctrine pledged obedience to the Iranian jurist-leader and cemented its status as a mercenary group. In today’s politics, the relationship is described even more bluntly. A recent analysis cited Lebanon’s prime minister as saying that the IRGC commands Hezbollah, while commentators have claimed that the group cannot disarm without Iran’s authorization.

Hezbollah’s role in the conflict that erupted following US-Israeli strikes on Iran reflects this dynamic. Its entry into the war was not a Lebanese sovereign decision. It did it because it was ordered to do so, after the assassination of Iran’s supreme leader on February 28. That is the definition of a mercenary dynamic: a Lebanese organization initiating a Lebanese front in response to an Iranian trigger.

With that comes the consequences—the moment you learn your employer can stop the war and still watch your people bleed.

The strikes that followed the ceasefire on April 8 unleashed a wave of destruction across Lebanon, with central Beirut neighborhoods hit, hundreds killed nationwide, hospitals damaged, ambulances struck, and whole families erased in minutes. The UN described casualty reports as “appalling,” with the human rights chief calling the destruction “horrific.”

They are all to blame. Israel, for using civilian pain to squeeze political outcomes in what can only be described as a criminal act. Hezbollah for embedding within civilian communities and forcing ordinary people to become the canvas on which military messages are written. And the Lebanese authorities, for presiding over prolonged political paralysis. A state that cannot prevent war, cannot contain escalation, and cannot even establish a unified negotiating posture is less like a sovereign state and more like an emergency NGO issuing appeals over rubble.

The Lebanese government announced a ban on Hezbollah’s military activities last month after the group opened fire on Israel, but it was never backed by any action. The ban was another theatrical performance, nothing more.

The army, too, is caught in a crisis, reluctant to enforce the state’s monopoly over arms and confront Hezbollah. This undermines efforts to pull Lebanon out of war and separate the state from Hezbollah.

As officials scrambled to clarify whether Lebanon was included in the truce, Prime Minister Nawaf Salam insisted that no one negotiates for Lebanon except the state. This is the contradiction that kills countries like Lebanon, where everyone declares sovereignty but nobody wields it.

Clearly, the ceasefire has not ended the war in Lebanon, but it has clarified the status of a key political player. From now on, Hezbollah can no longer claim to be Lebanon’s shield; it is Iran’s instrument—manipulated by Iranian priorities and abandoned when they shift. The fatal weakness of mercenary politics has been exposed: the proxy is excluded from political processes and then left to count the dead. Beirut learned that lesson yesterday, and it will live with the consequences for years to come.

Soon after a ceasefire was announced between the United States and Iran, both sides began claiming victory.

In Washington, officials were quick to argue that Donald Trump’s brinkmanship forced Tehran to the table. US Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth pointed in particular to the President’s apocalyptic warning on Tuesday evening that “a whole civilization will die” as the decisive moment behind the agreement.

Meanwhile, Iran’s Supreme National Security Council also claimed victory, saying the US and Israel were forced to accept Tehran’s 10-point plan. The Trump administration will also discuss tariff and sanctions relief for the regime.

The two-week truce was brokered by Pakistan at the 11th hour, after 40 days of intense US-Israeli strikes on Iran as part of “Operation Epic Fury.” The campaign has prompted Iran to launch unprecedented strikes on neighboring Gulf nations and close the Strait of Hormuz, the narrow Gulf waterway through which around 20 percent of the world’s oil and gas shipments pass. Iran’s navy has largely been decimated, but the war has effectively cemented Iran’s strategic domination of the strait.

Cracks have already appeared in the fragile truce. While Shehbaz Sharif, Pakistan’s Prime Minister, and Iran both insist the ceasefire also covered Lebanon, this was disputed by Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, and backed by the Trump administration. On Wednesday, Israel launched its biggest bombing campaign of the war on what it claimed were Hezbollah targets in Lebanon, hitting the capital, Beirut, and leaving nearly 300 dead.

Iran has warned that it could withdraw from the ceasefire if the war against all components of the “axis of resistance,” including Hezbollah, continues. In the past four weeks, Israeli strikes have killed around 1,500 people, displacing more than one million civilians, roughly a fifth of Lebanon’s population.

“It will be interesting to see how much Israel is willing to play along with the negotiations or whether it is going to continue its operation in Lebanon. If it continues, that could potentially derail the truce,” says Jonathan Hackett, a US Marine Corps veteran specializing in counterintelligence and the author of Iran’s Shadow Weapons: Covert Action, Intelligence Operations, and Unconventional Warfare.

This tension will likely be central to upcoming diplomatic discussions, as delegations from Washington and Tehran meet in Islamabad this weekend. Whether the ceasefire holds remains to be seen, but some parties are already emerging as immediate beneficiaries.

“The winner is clearly Israel,” says Hackett. For decades, Benjamin Netanyahu had been trying to persuade America to go to war with Iran, and he has at last found a willing participant in Donald Trump, first in the 12-day war in June 2025, and again this year.

Russia has also been cited as a major victor of rising oil prices following a temporary reprieve on sanctions and a realignment of international relations that could play to the Kremlin’s advantage.

Pakistan has also benefited by adopting the role of mediator in one of the most striking developments of the conflict. Sharing a border with Iran and maintaining close ties with Washington, Islamabad was uniquely positioned to act as an intermediary—despite being mired in a war with Afghanistan.

Domestic dynamics also play a role. Pakistan has a significant Shia minority, estimated at 15-20 percent of the country’s 250 million population. Following Ayatollah Ali Khamenei’s killing on February 28, angry protesters tried to ransack American consulates in Karachi, Lahore, and Islamabad.

President Trump has previously heaped praise on the head of Pakistan’s armed forces, General Asim Munir, referring to the de facto leader of Pakistan as “an exceptional human being” and his “favorite field marshal” who knows Iran “better than most”.

China could prove to be one of the quieter beneficiaries. While not the principal broker of the ceasefire, Beijing helped create the conditions for it, providing political weight and strategic backing. Iran is also China’s partner. Beijing doesn’t need Iran to win, but to survive. An isolated, weak Tehran serves China’s interests. A stronger or Western-aligned Iran would not.

The “losers” are clear. Iran’s Gulf neighbors have borne a heavy toll while seeking to avoid direct confrontation. Even after the ceasefire announcement, several countries, including the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, and Bahrain, reported incoming missiles and drones from Iran on Wednesday.

The war has also exposed the limits of the Gulf’s security bargain with the US, which involves hosting bases and troops in exchange for Washington’s protection. But it was precisely these ties with Washington that made them Iran’s primary target.

“The Gulf countries never had the intention to fight a war or be the aggressors. We built our defense system just for defense, not for aggression,” says Ahmed Khuzaie, a Bahraini political analyst. The region may now reassess whether to remain purely defensive or move towards a more proactive posture, he adds.

For years, countries like the UAE touted themselves as regional safe havens, seeking to attract expats with the lure of low taxes and golden visas. That confidence has now been shaken, further undermined by a sweeping censorship crackdown.

In recent weeks, around 70 British nationals, including tourists, residents, and airline crew, have been detained in the UAE for filming or sharing images of Iranian missile and drone strikes, or even forwarding footage in private messages. These arrests highlight how the conflict has permeated everyday life across the Gulf.

While the status of Iran’s nuclear program and stockpile of enriched uranium remains unresolved, the “biggest loser” in all this is the Iranian people, says Hackett. “Nobody has represented their interests at all; nobody knows what’s going on inside the country.”

Thousands of civilians have been killed or injured, and there is still an internet blackout. Although Ayatollah Khamenei’s bloody reign has ended, the regime he headed survives.

As Washington and Tehran both claim some success, the reality on the ground tells a different story—a region left more unstable, and an Iranian population that has paid the highest price. The aim of the bombing, according to Trump at one point, was regime change, but the Islamic Republic continues under the same authoritarian theocracy that has been in place since the Revolution in 1979.

It’s highly likely that the war has given more power to the hardliners, and this hardened regime will undoubtedly double down on the repression of its own citizens over time.

Recent weeks have brought new images of disorder to Syrian streets: protesters massing outside the American and UAE embassies in Damascus and in city squares across the country, demonstrators on motorcycles in Daraa attempting to rush the border with Israel before being turned back. To casual observers, these scenes fit a familiar template—an unstable post-revolutionary state losing its grip, streets filling with anti-Western sentiment, the transition unraveling.

That reading is not entirely wrong. But it is incomplete. What is playing out in Syria’s streets is not a spontaneous popular uprising against normalization or foreign influence. It is a performance—staged by a coalition of actors with distinct agendas, united less by shared conviction than by shared opportunity. Understanding who they are, what they want, and why this moment suits them is more important than the footage itself.

Among the most active participants in the embassy protests were members of Palestinian factions long resident in Syria, most prominently the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine – General Command. The PFLP-GC’s record in Syria requires no elaboration for anyone familiar with the country’s recent history: it backed Assad throughout the civil war, participated in the suppression of the Syrian uprising, and served as one of the regime’s auxiliary instruments of violence. It is not a liberation movement in any operative sense. It is a militia sheltering behind a cause—well, the Cause.

That shelter is now being reclaimed and renovated. The holy vocabulary of resistance—al-muqawama, al-qadiyya (the resistance, the cause)—is being deployed with renewed confidence, doing what it has always done: foreclosing accountability, immunizing its users from scrutiny, and allowing the reassertion of failed projects without any reckoning with their failure.

But the PFLP-GC is not alone in rediscovering the Cause’s lingering utility. They are all back—the Ba’athists, the Nasserists, the Syrian nationalists, the members of the Syrian Social National Party, the assorted ideological “whateverists”, and the residual Assadists who populate the left-nationalist spectrum of Arab politics. The fall of Assad, paradoxically, gave them oxygen: the regime in its final years had been suffocating its own base. Now the transitional government’s pragmatic engagements with Washington and its implicit accommodations with Israel have handed them the narrative they needed—betrayal, normalization, and the abandonment of the cause. They did not need to update their arguments. They only needed to dust them off.

None of these movements has undertaken any serious ideological reckoning with what they actually produced, not even regarding their own role in sustaining the Assad regime through more than five decades of repression and fourteen years of civil war. There is no accounting, no self-criticism, no apology, and no attempt to explain why their ideas and the institutions built around them failed, or what would be different this time. There is only the reassertion—louder now, emboldened by the chaos of transition—that the real problem was always imperialism, Zionism, reactionary tendencies, and the enemies of the Arab nation.

Among those rejoining the fray is a different kind of leftist: those who were part of the revolution from the beginning and watched with bitterness as it was forced into armed insurrection and then captured by Islamist factions flush with Turkish, Qatari, and Saudi funding. These are not Assadists. Their grievances against the hijacking of the revolution are real. But by boarding the anti-Zionism, anti-Americanism, anti-imperialism bandwagon now, they too are choosing the comfort of a sacred vocabulary over the harder work of reckoning with what went wrong and why.

The embassy protests have given all these currents a megaphone and a moment. Anti-Israel, anti-American, anti-Gulf, anti-normalization: this is the register in which the left-nationalist tradition feels most alive and most legitimate. It is also the register in which it most reliably avoids answering for itself. The sacred vocabulary does what it has always done: it elevates the argument to a plane where ordinary scrutiny cannot follow. The Cause is the vehicle. The destination is a return to relevance.

The pressure on Syria’s transitional government does not come only from outside its circles. Within the Islamist current that brought Ahmad al-Sharaa to power, there is growing consternation, expressed carefully, but unmistakably, about the pragmatic line he has chosen to follow.

Engaging Washington, tolerating rather than confronting Israeli military actions on Syrian soil, and accepting the constraints that come with international recognition. These are the calculated compromises of a leader who understands that Syria cannot afford another cycle of isolation and war. But to those who fought and bled under the banner of a different vision, they look like surrender dressed in diplomatic language.

The Muslim Brotherhood wants to recover the influence it considers rightfully its own. Radical factions—some inside the governing structure, some hovering at its edges—want to assert their presence before the transition hardens into an arrangement that leaves them marginal. Both can point to the same evidence: talks with Israel that yielded no tangible gains, painfully slow sanctions relief, and living conditions that have hardly improved since the fall of Assad.

What makes this moment structurally distinctive, and dangerous, is the convergence it produces. Islamist hardliners and leftist nationalists arrive from opposite ends of the ideological map, carrying irreconcilable worldviews, and find themselves marching toward the same intersection. The Palestinian cause, anti-Israel sentiment, anti-normalization, anti-American, anti-Gulf—this is the shared terrain where the two traditions meet without having to resolve their contradictions.

The transitional government finds itself, then, in a pincer: squeezed from without by spoilers exploiting the language of liberation, and from within by factions that supported its political rise but are losing patience with its compromises. President al-Sharaa’s room for domestic maneuvering is considerably narrower than the optics of his Berlin and London visits, or his reception of Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, would suggest. The performance of statesmanship abroad does not resolve the contest for legitimacy at home. And that contest is increasingly being waged in a vocabulary designed not to build Syria but to prevent anyone else from doing so.

Lebanon is at war, and the most dangerous front isn’t at the border—it’s inside the state itself, where threats are now turning inward.

Since the start of the war in Iran, Hezbollah’s senior political rhetoric has moved from contempt to something far more explicit. Mahmoud Qamati, deputy head of Hezbollah’s political council, invoked the fate of the infamous Vichy government.

The Vichy regime (July 1940–August 1944) was an authoritarian state based in southern France, headed by Marshal Philippe Pétain, that cooperated with Nazi Germany during World War II. Formed after France’s military defeat, it replaced the Third Republic and implemented an anti-Semitic agenda under the banner of the “Révolution nationale,” while formally maintaining a stance of neutrality.

He said Vichy “arrested the resistance and executed them,” was later overthrown, and “the traitors in it were executed,” adding: “God willing we don’t get there.” He followed it with a promise that “Based on the current facts and positions, it appears that a direct confrontation with this political authority is inevitable after the war ends, regardless of its outcome. The government in Lebanon is no longer fit to run the country, and its positions only serve the Israeli enemy. Therefore, confrontation is coming, and the traitors will pay the price for their betrayal.”

This is a blatant death threat, delivered through historical analogy, so it can be denied later with a smirk. It places an elected government in the category of traitors and elevates Hezbollah to the role of judge and executioner. And it suggests—without even bothering to hide it—that Lebanon’s leadership may be forcibly executed if it attempts to behave like a state.

If Lebanon still had any illusion that Hezbollah can be treated as a normal Lebanese political actor, it should die here.

Hezbollah’s Vichy rhetoric is a weapon designed to justify violence.

“Vichy” is not shorthand for “weak” or “corrupt.” It means collaboration with an occupying enemy. It is one of the most morally loaded accusations in modern political memory because it turns opponents into legitimate targets. By placing the government in the “Vichy” category and speaking about how “traitors were executed,” Hezbollah is doing three things at once:

1. delegitimizing the state as a treasonous instrument,

2. sanctifying itself as the only authentic national actor, and

3. preparing the public for physical punishment against anyone who challenges its war decision.

It’s also a grotesque inversion.

A collaborator regime is one that enforces an external occupier’s will against its own people. Hezbollah is the actor in Lebanon that has long operated as a parallel sovereignty: deciding war and peace outside the state’s control, maintaining its own security apparatus, and aligning its strategic priorities with Iran. The Vichy analogy does not describe the Lebanese government. It describes the relationship Hezbollah wants Lebanon to accept: a country that exists to serve an external project, while anyone who resists that project is branded a traitor.

Lebanon’s postwar era has been stained by political assassinations. Some were solved; many were not; most have been swallowed by impunity. The most consequential example was the 2005 assassination of former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri. A UN-backed tribunal later convicted a Hezbollah member, Salim Ayyash, for his role in that assassination. Hezbollah rejected the tribunal and refused to hand him over.

Around the same period, Lebanon witnessed a wave of assassinations targeting prominent critics of Hezbollah’s terror axis. (Samir Kassir, Walid Eido, Gebran Tueini, and Pierre Gemayel among them.) These murders deepened the country’s belief that politics is enforced by bullets, not ballots. In many cases, the perpetrators were not brought to justice. That impunity becomes part of the threat ecosystem: when killers are not punished, threats become credible by default.

So when Hezbollah’s official rhetoric flirts with “executions,” it does not matter that the sentence ends with “God willing we don’t get there.” The message is already delivered: we can get there, and you should behave accordingly.

The threats have expanded from political discourse into direct intimidation of media and public speech.

A Lebanese TV station reported “death threats and intimidation messages” targeting officials and staff, describing it as an attempt to “silence the media by force” and subject free speech to “the logic of weapons.” The accusation attached to these threats was familiar and poisonous: claims that the station’s reporting on Hezbollah’s illegal activities “gave coordinates” to Israel.

Then came the digital enforcement arm. The station’s website was hit by a cyberattack that took it offline. A group calling itself the “Fatimiyoun Electronic Squad” claimed responsibility and described the outlet as “Zionist,” adding that the attacks would not be limited to denial-of-service and that the station’s databases would be exposed “successively.”

Speech in Lebanon has become a frontier of the ongoing war, and it carries penalties. If you report, you may be branded a traitor. If you are branded a traitor, threats become “patriotism,” and Lebanon knows very well that those threats are often realized.

This is how a militia governs when it cannot persuade: it makes fear a public utility.

There is a deeper scandal here than Hezbollah’s threats. The scandal is the state’s slow, cautious, and evasive response.

A state is not a state if it cannot defend the basic right to disagree without being threatened with death. When officials are publicly compared to Vichy traitors who deserve “execution,” and the state does not respond with firm action, it sends a message to every Lebanese citizen that the militia has more authority than the republic.

When journalists receive death threats, and the response is not immediate prosecution, it teaches every newsroom that survival requires self-censorship.

And when cyberattacks are claimed publicly with escalation promises, and the state still behaves as if this is a “media dispute” rather than a political intimidation operation, it signals institutional surrender.

This is how Lebanon is trained into submission. Not with one coup, but with a thousand small retreats.

For years, Lebanese officials and foreign diplomats hid behind timid vocabulary: Hezbollah’s actions were “uncoordinated,” “unregulated,” “outside the state.” Even when the results were catastrophic, the language stayed polite, as if Hezbollah’s problem were administrative rather than existential.

That framing has expired.

When a movement declares war without the state’s consent, threatens an elected government with the language of execution, and cultivates an ecosystem that threatens journalists with death and enforces fear through cyberattacks, this is no longer merely “illegal.” It is terror politics.

And that is why the next conclusion is unavoidable.

A political party does not threaten to “execute traitors.” A political party does not wrap an elected government in the language of treason and imply it may deserve the fate of collaborators. A political party does not tolerate an ecosystem where journalists receive death threats for reporting. A political party does not cultivate punishment through cyberattacks and threats of database exposure.

This is the behavior of a terrorist organization.

Hezbollah has benefited from Lebanon’s greatest national delusion that it could be treated as both a militia and a party for decades. That hybrid model is what trained the state to hesitate and society to accept intimidation as “normal politics.”

If Lebanon wants to survive this war with anything resembling sovereignty, it has to stop entertaining the fantasy of coexistence with a movement that treats disagreement as treason and treason as a pretext for death.

Hezbollah’s threats are not only about today’s government or today’s newsroom. They are about tomorrow’s Lebanon.

They are training a population to believe that citizenship has conditions: don’t speak too loudly, don’t question the war, don’t investigate the militia, and don’t oppose the chain of command.

The most frightening line in Qamati’s speech is not the reference to Vichy, but the calm assurance that the confrontation with the state is “inevitable.” That is a militia announcing it intends to discipline the republic after the war, and informs how the citizenry and its leaders will behave in the interim.

Lebanon’s answer to the current moment cannot be another season of silence. We have had enough. If the state remains inert now, then Lebanon is not heading toward a crisis. It is already living inside one and is now heading towards the end of Lebanon’s existence.

To put it plainly: Lebanon is being held hostage, and the state is suffering from Stockholm syndrome.

From the massacres of Alawites in the coastal mountains in March 2025, to the suicide bombing of Mar Elias Church in Damascus in June, to the massacres of Druze civilians in Sweida in mid-July, Syria has experienced one communal shock after another. In the northeast, clashes between the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) and the central authorities helped push large-scale Kurdish autonomy toward its end, before American mediation yielded a January 30, 2026, integration deal. Then, in March 2026, the Christian town of Suqaylabiyah came under sectarian attack after what began as a local dispute. And in the months between those two Marches, Syrians also witnessed sporadic efforts to curb personal freedoms through administrative measures, including the recent restrictions on alcohol sales in Damascus. Small wonder, then, that so many observers now speak as though Syria is simply repeating the cycle of sectarian strife once again. But the plotline is far more complex this time.

Taken separately, each episode can be made to fit a familiar narrative: minorities under siege, Islamists ascendant, the state either complicit or absent, and Syria slipping toward a new sectarian order. That narrative contains elements of truth. But it also misses something essential. What is happening in Syria today is the violent and deeply unstable renegotiation of boundaries and relations between communities, regions, classes, and local power centers after the demise of an old order and in the absence of a credible new one.

This is what many observers, especially on social media and in sensationalist media coverage, continue to misunderstand. They seize on each atrocity or controversy as proof of a fixed communal or ideological logic. But Syria’s reality is more dangerous and more complicated than that. The country is going through a moment in which old fears, accumulated grievances, wartime dislocations, economic decline, shattered institutions, local vendettas, and external meddling are all interacting at once. In that environment, even minor disputes can rapidly acquire sectarian dimensions. The recent attack on Suqaylabiyah is a case in point: what began as an altercation between young men from different communities spiraled into mob violence targeting Christian homes, shops, and property, reigniting broader communal fears—even though its causes were local rather than ideological.

Any government would struggle under such conditions. Syria’s transitional authorities, however, carry additional burdens of their own making. They came into power with an Islamist pedigree, a thin technocratic capacity, and a persistent reluctance to incorporate too many outsiders into decision-making circles. That reluctance is understandable at one level: movements forged through war and underground discipline tend to fear dilution, infiltration, and loss of internal cohesion. But it is also politically costly. It narrows the regime’s social imagination, limits its competence, and leaves too many decisions in the hands of provincial officials, security actors, or ideological zealots operating with little effective oversight.

Transitional President Ahmed al-Sharaa’s recent visits to Berlin and London are genuine foreign policy achievements, and should be regarded as such. But international normalization is not ideological endorsement. Western governments are engaging a transitional authority they hope will stabilize Syria, not ratifying an Islamist project. More to the point, the hardest constraint on any such project is not diplomatic but strategic. Israel has already declared Syria’s new leadership a security threat, seized additional Syrian territory as a buffer zone, is demanding demilitarization south of Damascus, and is actively supporting Druze calls for autonomy—and potentially independence. Any Syrian leadership that imagines it can pursue an Islamist agenda along Israel’s border, after Israel’s experiences with Hezbollah and Hamas, is not reading the room. It is courting the kind of military and territorial consequences that would accelerate Syria’s fragmentation rather than consolidate its recovery.

This produces a familiar Syrian pattern. Formal authority is centralized enough to avoid accountability but decentralized enough to allow local excesses, improvisations, and ideological freelancing. Governors and local officials act on their own instincts, biases, or calculations. The center then tries, quietly and belatedly, to contain the fallout. That may look new to outside observers. It is not. It is deeply Syrian in the modern authoritarian sense. It is how factional rule reproduces itself.

That is why I argued from the early weeks after the fall of the Assad regime that al-Sharaa would end up borrowing more from the Assad playbook than many observers expected. Not because the two projects are identical, but because the governing dilemmas are similar and because factional leaderships in Syria tend to converge in method even when they differ in rhetoric. As I wrote earlier in The Hill, Syria’s history has a way of punishing those who think they can manipulate its social balances without being consumed by them.

Under Assad, the regime’s informal justification gradually hardened into a doctrine: the state, and more specifically the security state, existed to protect minorities from a Sunni threat. The Alawites were pushed to the forefront of the military and intelligence apparatus not simply because of communal solidarity, but because the regime required a loyal social base bound to its survival by fear. That arrangement also distorted Alawite communal life itself, upsetting internal balances among clans and local networks and turning the specter of Sunni revenge into a permanent instrument of regime consolidation.

Something structurally similar is now emerging from the other side.

Yes, Syria’s new rulers are Sunni Arabs, and Sunni Arabs are the country’s demographic majority. Yes, after decades of repression under Assad, many Sunnis have developed a heightened sense of shared grievance and identity, and deadly fear of the possibility of the return of minority rule. But that does not mean the current leadership represents “the Sunnis” in any straightforward sense. It does not. The men now governing Syria emerge from a hardline Islamist milieu that remains ideologically distinct from the much broader Sunni mainstream in the country.

Most Syrian Sunnis do not share the Salafi-Wahhabi worldview that shaped Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham, the movement that toppled the Assad regime and was long designated a terrorist organization before al-Sharaa recast it as a ruling political force. Their religiosity is more traditional, socially embedded, and often influenced by Sufi sensibilities. Others are socially liberal, politically pragmatic, or simply exhausted by ideology altogether. So the return of “majority rule” is, in fact, being mediated by a faction that represents a minority current within that majority. That is one of the central facts of the present moment, and it is one of the new authorities still seem reluctant to confront honestly.

The recent alcohol controversy in Damascus made that painfully clear. Authorities moved to limit alcohol sales in restaurants and bars, triggering protests from Syrians who saw the measure not merely as a lifestyle issue but as a test of public freedom and equal citizenship. This sparked a demonstration in the neighborhood of Bab Touma, attended by a diverse group of secular activists from all communal backgrounds, as well as extensive commentary on social media and an unexpected, focused international response given other developments in the region. The Governor of Damascus ended up walking back some of the more controversial elements.

What followed mattered even more. Islamists attempted to seize on this opportunity to demonstrate strength by calling for major protests throughout the country on March 27, demanding a total ban on alcohol sales. The turnout was meager: instead of the tens or hundreds of thousands expected, only a few hundred hardline protesters appeared across different locations. It was one of the clearest signs yet that a radical Islamist social agenda does not enjoy broad spontaneous support in Syria today—not among the country’s minorities, and not among the Sunni majority either.

The violence in Suqaylabiyah, unfolding in the same period, belongs to a different story—though it has been wrongly conscripted into the same narrative. What happened there was not an extension of the national discourse around alcohol and Islamist mobilization. It began as a local brawl between men from two neighboring towns with decades of accumulated tension, a fight that escalated through false rumors spread on WhatsApp claiming a man had been killed. What followed was a mob of two to three hundred, not an ideologically organized assault. Crucially, it was contained not by the state alone but by a robust local civil network whose leaders cleared the streets before the mob arrived, almost certainly preventing deaths. Government security forces responded with reasonable speed, given their resource constraints.

None of that fits the narrative of sectarian implosion that spread immediately on social media, where the town’s wartime history was weaponized to frame the entire event as proof of Sunni aggression against Christians. That framing was opportunistic and inaccurate. But it was also predictable—and the government must reckon with why it remains so easy to manufacture. The near-universal amnesty extended to regime-era figures, without explanation or a credible transitional justice framework, leaves a vacuum that bad-faith actors will continue to fill. Demanding that affected communities simply stay patient is not a policy. It is an invitation to the next provocation.

Taken together, these episodes—the failed Islamist mobilization, the local riot misread as sectarian design, and the governor’s retreat under public pressure—tell a more honest story than the dominant narrative allows. The country is not naturally aligning behind a project of moral authoritarianism. To be sure, if the government wanted to manufacture the appearance of mass support, it could likely put far larger crowds in the streets. But that would mean embracing the Assad model more openly: choreographed demonstrations, coercive legitimacy, and the state speaking through managed public theater. And that road leads to the destruction of whatever domestic, regional, and international credibility this transitional leadership still retains.

The current leaders of Syria enjoy wide support among the Sunni Arab majority, but that support is not an endorsement of their Islamist worldview. It never was, neither among Sunnis nor among the country’s other communities. What Syrians and the international and regional powers that recognized this transition actually conferred was something more demanding: a mandate to find common ground between Syria’s diverse communities, around which something resembling a shared modern identity might be built.

But that obligation does not rest solely on the leadership. Every community must understand it. Syria did not arrive at this point because a single sect failed. Every community carries its own unresolved crisis: habits of denial, dependence on patrons, authoritarian reflexes, fantasies of innocence, and a deep reluctance to examine how fear has shaped political behavior. To turn this moment into a morality play about Sunni excess is to continue the escapism that flourished under Assad—to evade responsibility, to treat factionalism as the permanent grammar of Syrian political life, and to hand extremists an influence far exceeding their actual numbers.

The real significance of this moment is larger and harsher. Syria is confronting itself—not as a slogan, or an imposed national mythology, but as a fractured human reality. Syrians are being forced to ask, perhaps for the first time without a regime scripting the answer, who they are as a people: a collection of communities bound by history, geography, and catastrophe into a state that has never quite decided what it wants to be.

That confrontation has not been and will not be comfortable. It will produce more crises, more distortions, and more temptations to retreat into communal myths. But the meager turnout at the Islamist protests, the cross-communal character of the Bab Touma demonstrations, and the speed with which the Damascus governor walked back his overreach—these are not nothing. They are signs that ordinary Syrians, across communities, are already pushing back against the scripts being written for them. Whether citizens rather than clients, communities rather than camps, a republic rather than an arrangement among frightened factions—that possibility is still alive.

Whether it survives will depend less on the current leadership’s intentions than on its willingness to be constrained: by law, public pressure, and the evidence of what Syrians actually want. Syria has squandered opportunities such as this before, usually by allowing the loudest and most ruthless voices to fill the vacuums that the exhausted and moderate leave behind.

After everything, the question is whether enough Syrians—across all communities—have been burned badly enough in the past to stop it from happening again.

Concern is mounting over the safety of US journalist Shelly Kittleson, whose whereabouts remain unknown more than five days after she was abducted from a busy street in Baghdad. The group responsible, Kata’ib Hezbollah, has demanded the release of several members involved in attacks on the US embassy, a source close to the Iraqi Interior Ministry in Baghdad told Middle East Uncovered.

“Shelly has become a card between America and Iran,” the source said, adding that Kata’ib Hezbollah is seeking to use the hostage situation as leverage against the United States to influence the escalating conflict in the Middle East.

Security officials told the New York Times that representatives of the powerful Iraqi militia group, which is allied with Iran, contacted government figures on Wednesday, offering to free Kittleson if its demands are met.

The group was also behind the kidnapping of an Israeli-Russian academic Elizabeth Tsurkov, a doctoral student at Princeton University, was abducted in March 2023 and held for nearly three years.

Kittleson received kidnapping warnings in the days leading up to her abduction, but believed that her wide network across Iraqi society would afford protection. For the 49-year-old freelance journalist, security came from the relationships she formed, sometimes staying with families rather than in hotels and traveling to remote corners of Iraq to document stories on the ground.

“Shelly is a courageous field journalist who does not settle for reporting news from closed rooms,” said Osama Al Maqdoni, an Iraqi photojournalist who worked with Kittleson in Sinjar, Mosul, Erbil, and Baghdad. Over the years, she built up a “rare ability to access all sides,” visiting areas of western Nineveh and western Anbar to interview the leaders of Iranian-backed armed factions, he added.

“She does not chase ‘scoops’ as much as she pursues the truth—even when it is complex or uncomfortable,” Al Maqdoni said.

Iraq has long been a high-risk environment for journalists but the escalating conflict in the Middle East following the launch of US-Israeli strikes on Iran last month has deepened an ongoing security crisis as the country becomes a proxy battleground for outside powers.

Kittleson’s location remains unknown, but reports indicate that Kata’ib Hezbollah has secured the transfer of a hostage to Jurf al-Sakhr, a major stronghold of armed factions south of the capital, the Baghdad source said. The area, which was recaptured from ISIS in 2014, is difficult to access, posing complications for a potential rescue operation.

“The group aims to impose a number of demands, including pushing the United States to reduce the frequency of airstrikes targeting its positions and those of the Popular Mobilization Forces (PMF) inside Iraq, as well as pressing for the release of several of its members detained by security forces,” the source added.

The PMF, also known as al-Hashd al-Shaabi, is an Iraqi paramilitary force of mainly Iran-backed Shia militias that was formed to combat the rise of ISIS in 2014. Kata’ib Hezbollah is among the most powerful of these factions. Designated as a terrorist group by the US, the group operates simultaneously as part of the state-sanctioned PMF and independently to pursue Iranian-aligned agendas beyond the government’s control.

These blurred boundaries allow Iran-backed militias to act with apparent impunity, attacking US military and diplomatic sites in Iraq and targeting human rights campaigners, protesters, journalists, academics, and political leaders.

Kittleson’s abduction is “a tragic reminder of the extremely dangerous working conditions faced by reporters, and especially freelance reporters, in areas where armed groups are active,” said Martin Roux, head of the Crisis Desk at Reporters Without Borders (RSF).

Footage of the kidnapping at a busy intersection in central Baghdad showed Kittleson being pushed into a car by several men and driven away. The Iraqi Ministry of Interior said in a statement that security forces had launched “an operation to apprehend the perpetrators” and confirmed that one of the suspects had been arrested and a vehicle used in the kidnapping had been seized.

The incident, in broad daylight, reflects the “alarming levels of impunity with which militants and aggressors threaten and harm journalists,” said Kiran Nazish, founding director of the Coalition for Women in Journalism (CFWIJ) and Women Press Freedom.

Hundreds of mostly local reporters have been kidnapped, killed, and arrested in Iraq since 2003, when the chaotic aftermath of the US-led invasion of Iraq created a power vacuum that was filled by armed militias, sectarian groups, and terrorist organizations. According to UNESCO, 198 media professionals were murdered in Iraq between 2006 and 2018.

More recently, Iraq’s position in the World Press Freedom Index has risen from 172 out of 180 countries in 2023 to 155 in 2025. However, the security situation remains volatile and complex, with the current regional conflict exacerbating the risks of reporting in Baghdad.

Sara Qudah, director of the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) warned that “Iraqi authorities must act swiftly to secure (Kittleson’s) safe release and hold those responsible to account, while ensuring the dark era of journalist kidnappings and assassinations does not return to Iraq.”

The last kidnapping of a journalist in Iraq took place in 2020 when Tawfik Al-Tamimi, editor-in-chief of the daily newspaper Al-Sabah, was abducted and forced into a car on his way to work. This followed several abductions of journalists after the Tishreen protests in October 2019.

“Such incidents risk creating a climate of fear that undermines the press and journalists’ ability to work safely,” Qudah said.

An experienced journalist who has reported from Afghanistan, Syria, and Iraq, Kittleson has spoken about the risks facing freelancers operating on shoestring budgets, telling the Imperial War Museum in an interview that it was difficult to secure protective gear while covering the war in Syria.

Her articles have appeared in publications including Politico, New Lines Magazine, and Al-Monitor, which on Tuesday called for her release in a statement, saying “We stand by her vital reporting from the region and call for her swift return to continue her important work.”

Describing her as “persistent and resilient,” Al Maqdoni recounted how Kittleson almost lost her life on numerous occasions while reporting on the battle against ISIS in the narrow alleyways of Mosul’s Old City. “She does not write from behind barricades, but from within them,” he said.

Prior to her disappearance, Kittleson was covering civilian reconstruction in the Karrada district of Baghdad. Her commitment to on-the-ground reporting saw her build relationships with actors from across the political spectrum in Iraq, including security leaders, tribal sheikhs, government officials, and leaders of Iranian-backed armed factions.

“This made her a trusted figure, and increased her sense of safety—believing she would not be subject to kidnapping or threats,” Al Maqdoni said.

Hours before her abduction, sitting down with another journalist friend at one of the few places she could find vegetarian food in Baghdad, Kittleson dismissed warnings of a possible threat against her. “She said she loved Iraq and didn’t expect anyone to hurt her,” the journalist, who asked not to be named, said.

Nevertheless, she took steps to minimize the risks of her work, completing a security training course for freelance reporters in Baghdad last month and telling our Middle East Uncovered editor she needed to find secure channels to share information as her American passport had placed “a target on my [her] back.”

Posting on X, Alex Plitsas, a CNN national security analyst and Kittleson’s designated US point of contact, confronted “callous” posts regarding her response to these warnings. “She’s a well-known front-line reporter in conflict zones providing valuable and insightful coverage.”

“People like Shelly provide sourced and vetted reporting where transparency and truth are scarce. She has been at the forefront of world events for decades and is among the most selfless people I’ve ever met.”

Colleagues have criticized the accusatory tone of some of the comments and coverage surrounding Kittleson’s abduction.

Writing on Substack about her friend’s disappearance, journalist Lauren Wolfe called out the media portrayal of Kittleson “as some kind of renegade journalist because she’s a freelancer… as if she brought this on herself because of it.

“Most journalists working abroad today are freelance—there are no staff jobs to be had in the industry,” Wolfe wrote.

In a statement on Tuesday, Dylan Johnson, U.S. assistant secretary of state for public affairs, said, “The State Department fulfilled our duty to warn this individual of threats against them, and we will continue to coordinate with the FBI to ensure their release as quickly as possible.”

Calling for the State Department to do everything in its power to secure her release, Seth Stern, Chief of Advocacy at Freedom of the Press Foundation, said: “We hope the government is taking this matter extremely seriously and that its statements blaming Kittleson for allegedly not heeding warnings are not an attempt to evade responsibility.”

As pressure mounts for her release, colleagues warn that Kittleson’s case underscores a culture of impunity that allows armed groups to target journalists in Iraq. Petitions calling for her release demand that, this time, those responsible be held to account. More than three days after her abduction, fears for her safety are growing. “Any failure to act swiftly and responsibly will result in harming our colleague,” the CFWIJ said in a statement.

“These concerning circumstances…reflect the dangers journalists are facing today to tell the story of humanity.”

When the US and Israel launched large-scale airstrikes on Iran, killing Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, the regional spillover was swift. Within days, Hezbollah fired rockets into Israel, opening a new front in Lebanon amid a widening conflict that has disrupted global energy markets and sparked warnings of a global recession.

In a country familiar with the ramifications of war, the effect on businesses was immediate. “The moment the attacks started, we received notice upon notice from our clients in the GCC wanting to cancel their contracts,” said Natheer Halawani, who owns a creative agency in Lebanon. “Right now, the company is running on fumes, and I don’t have enough to pay salaries.”

As the conflict escalates, concern is mounting over the economic toll of what US President Donald Trump described as a “limited operation,” which has killed over 3,000 people across the Middle East since strikes began on February 28. Gulf oil flow has plunged, sending prices soaring as production facilities across the Gulf become targets and Iran maintains its chokehold on the Strait of Hormuz.

While Gulf economies absorb the immediate shock, the consequences are reverberating in fragile states like Lebanon, where the financial fallout is already devastating livelihoods.

Entrepreneurs like Halawani, who turned to the UAE for stability and security, are watching that promise wither as clients freeze contracts and place projects on hold. “It takes chunks out of your life to keep rebuilding something that someone else destroyed,” said Halawani, who steered his company, The Cabinet, through multiple crises in Lebanon before pivoting to focus on Gulf markets in 2025, after President Trump shut down USAID, his biggest client.

Unable to rely on Lebanon’s faltering economy, small business owners are now considering their future in a region where nowhere seems safe. “The Gulf was supposed to be stable and secure—everything we lacked in Lebanon,” said Halawani, who worries it may be months before business picks up again while weaker economies like Lebanon plunge deeper into debt.

Years of financial crisis and institutional paralysis have gutted Lebanon’s start-up scene. The country is hampered by one of the world’s highest debt burdens, compounded by decades of fiscal mismanagement and excessive borrowing. Denied growth opportunities at home, Lebanese startups have increasingly adopted a hybrid solution. Staff and ideas are based at home, while business expansion is concentrated in the GCC, particularly the UAE, which has become a hub for entrepreneurship in the region.

For Farah Ghanem, Dubai was the obvious choice for scaling her business. The 30-year-old runs CNSLT Lab, a corporate consultancy that draws 70-80 percent of its business from the Gulf. The UAE’s attractive regulatory environment, infrastructure, and access to regional markets make it “a natural extension for Lebanese businesses that cannot fully grow locally,” she said.

The turmoil triggered by the current conflict has forced her to reconsider. “Rather than changing my perception entirely, it has reinforced the importance of diversification, rather than relying heavily on a single region,” she added.

The scale of Iran’s response to the war has sent shockwaves through the region, with the UAE, Qatar, Bahrain, Kuwait, Jordan, Oman, and Saudi Arabia subject to a bombardment of retaliatory strikes.

Over 20 people have been killed in Gulf states, including 11 in the UAE, where authorities reported more than 2,000 missile and drone attacks in recent weeks. While most have been intercepted by air defense systems, the onslaught has punctured the country’s peaceful image, posing a threat to its reputation as a safe haven for investors and a global hub for business, travel, and tourism.

Commentators have been quick to predict the demise of Dubai, but analysts say recovery is within reach if hostilities end soon.

“The UAE’s value proposition—stability, connectivity and access to capital—remains intact, but the perception of predictability, which underpins it, has been tested,” said Carole Nakhle, CEO, Crystol Energy and Secretary General of the Arab Energy Club. “In the short term, this may lead businesses to adopt a more cautious approach, but it does not fundamentally alter the UAE’s role as a key platform for regional activity.”

The conflict has dealt a financial blow to the UAE and other Gulf countries, which remain heavily reliant on oil, despite efforts to diversify their economies away from petrochemicals. Disruptions to energy exports, aviation, tourism, and shipping routes alongside higher insurance premiums and freight costs are likely costing the region hundreds of millions of dollars a day in economic activity, according to Khaled Almezaini, an associate professor of politics and international relations at Zayed University in Dubai in the United Arab Emirates.

While the risk of a recession rises as the war continues, “if tensions de-escalate relatively quickly, the region is well placed for activity to normalize faster than many expect,” he told Al Jazeera.

Nakhle said most businesses will focus on “diversification and resilience” rather than relocating, maintaining a foothold in the UAE while exploring complementary bases.

It’s a familiar pattern for many Lebanese business owners. Alia el Khatib built adaptability into her business model after the collapse of the country’s banking sector wiped out her savings in October 2019. She relocated to Spain in August 2020 after the Beirut port explosion finally shattered her confidence in Lebanon. Since then, El Khatib has navigated ongoing instability remotely, working with Lebanese freelancers while spreading her client base across the MENA region and further afield.

“After the 2019 collapse, I made a clear decision not to depend on the Lebanese economy,” said El Khatib, who emphasized the personal and emotional toll of running a business as the country lurched from one crisis to the next.

Living abroad has cushioned her from some of the stress at home, but this time, there is no escape. MENA clients account for 70 percent of El Khatib’s business, and most have halted investment in growth and marketing while the war is ongoing. “In the past, instability was more contained. Now, the entire region feels like it’s on pause,” she said.

In Beirut, Karakna, the coffee shop Ghanem launched in 2023, still bustles with customers, but her costs have surged. Rising fuel prices affect all levels of the business, from supply chains to delivery, but she cannot increase prices for a community that’s already under economic pressure.

During the previous escalation, when Hezbollah and Israel exchanged fire over Gaza, Ghanem transformed her coffee shop into a central kitchen and distributed meals to displaced families. This time, she plans to remain open and shift the focus to delivery while moving her consultancy to online training. “Today, in Lebanon, it feels like adaptation is the only constant we live by,” she said.

While Lebanese businesses are accustomed to operating under pressure, Ghanem detects a deeper despair about the current setbacks. With no time to recover between economic shocks, the constant need for resilience is becoming unsustainable, creating a cycle in which survival replaces growth. “Lately, there’s a phrase I keep hearing in everyday conversations between business owners and entrepreneurs: ‘بس هالمرة تعبنا’ (‘but this time, we are tired’),” she said. “It’s not a lack of resilience, but rather the accumulation of continuous crises.”

For a community that has survived multiple setbacks, the impact of regional war could be a tipping point. As businesses that relied on the Gulf lose their lifeline, Lebanon looks increasingly unviable for a generation exhausted by constant blows.

Ahmed al-Sharaa shaking hands with Sir Keir Starmer on the steps of 10 Downing Street was probably not on anyone’s bingo card for 2026.

Yet the interim Syrian president, once known as Abu Mohammad al-Jolani, strolled along Downing Street on Tuesday morning, suited and booted, for bilateral talks with the British prime minister—a remarkable turnaround in his international standing.

The landmark meeting reflects the enormous shift in UK-Syria relations since the fall of longtime autocrat Bashar al-Assad in December 2024.

Later that day, al-Sharaa visited Chatham House for a conversation about his government’s position on Iran (he said he would remain neutral unless attacked), Israeli strikes on his country, and whether he was still on track to hold elections (“certainly,” he said).

Yet not everyone gave the Syrian leader a warm welcome.

Outside, dozens stood opposite the think tank in St James’ Square, waving placards and chanting “Jolani terrorist” and “shame on Chatham House.”

“There is a big terrorist inside,” a man named Daleel said. “They’re giving him legitimacy. Shame on them.”

Demonstrators, including members of the Syrian diaspora and Kurdish activists, pointed to al-Sharaa’s past as the leader of Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS). The group, which played a central role in the overthrow of Assad, had until recently been designated a terrorist organization due to its origins as an al-Qaeda affiliate.

For many critics, that history remains unresolved. Al-Sharaa himself is a former member of al-Qaeda, who once had a $10 million bounty on his head. His transformation into a Western-suited head of state has been viewed by some as unconvincing.

The protest attracted counter-demonstrators who were broadly behind their president. Some were draped in revolutionary flags, emblazoned with the date of Assad’s overthrow: 8/12/24.

“I don’t think a single one of those people is even Syrian; the majority are from Turkey,” said Muhammad, looking at the protesters. A few started chanting the anthem of the Syrian revolution: “Raise your head high, you are a free Syrian.”

Many of the people on this side of the protest had personal stories of loss and suffering under Asaad’s regime. For them, al-Sharaa is already an improvement.

“I think he is doing a good job,” said another man who declined to give his name. “Given the circumstances, he’s the best option. Our president has given them [the Kurds] more rights than they have had in 60 years, so I’m not sure what they’re complaining about.”

When al-Sharaa’s convoy left Chatham House, his supporters rushed towards him, but a police blockade kept them at least 50 meters away as they chanted “qaedna”—our leader—and “al-shab al-soori wahid”—the Syrian people are one, drowning out the opposition voices.

The demonstrations also reflected broader anxieties about the direction of Syria’s post-Assad transition, particularly among minority communities who fear the new regime is insufficiently accountable.

In March 2025, around 1,400 people, mostly civilians, were killed in coastal regions in western Syria. Alawites were the primary targets, and conflict monitors reported instances of “revenge attacks.” Bashar al-Assad was from the same sect.

That summer, a local dispute in Sweida quickly escalated into intense clashes between Bedouin tribes and Druze fighters, further inflamed when the interim government forces attempted to enter the southern province. Around 1,500 Druze were killed, with reports of women and children being kidnapped.

Members of the diaspora were planning to attend the protest, but dropped out at the last minute due to safety concerns.

However, one Druze man, Emad, did come along. He told me about three of his uncles who were killed by government forces, and several family homes that were burned.

“The Druze are still not allowed to go to Damascus, because his people have threatened them. There is no oil, food, or medicine in Sweida. Their excuse is that the Druze are supported by Israel,” he said, referring to Israel’s recent air strikes on Syrian government infrastructure, claiming it was doing so in response to attacks on Druze civilians. “But the killing started before Israel got involved. This ISIS ideology is being spread throughout Syria now—because of al-Sharaa.”

And, most recently, church leaders have canceled public Easter celebrations following a recent outbreak of sectarian violence in the predominantly Christian town of Suqaylabiyah, in the west.

Then there’s the question of Kurdish autonomy. In January 2026, fighting between Syrian government forces and the Kurdish Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) led to Damascus reclaiming much of the territory previously held by the autonomous northeast region. Once backed by the US in its fight against ISIS, the SDF has now been sidelined as Washington shifts support toward the Syrian government’s push for national reunification. While some concessions have been made—such as integrating SDF units into the army, retaining civil servants, and recognizing Kurdish rights—the loss of territory, resources, and US backing leaves the SDF in a weakened position with an uncertain future.

“I look at actions on the ground, and when you disarm a population, that doesn’t mean you support them,” says Jonathan Hackett, a US Marine Corps veteran specializing in counterintelligence and the author of Iran’s Shadow Weapons: Covert Action, Intelligence Operations, and Unconventional Warfare. “The Kurds have lost the sovereignty that they fought for.”

While violence and extremist influence continue on the ground, the international response has moved toward renewed engagement.

In July, Britain fully re-established diplomatic relations with Syria, 14 years after severing ties with Assad’s government. Starmer’s government then moved to de-proscribe HTS the following October.

Al-Sharaa’s visit is expected to accelerate that normalization process. Plans are underway for the full reopening of Syria’s embassy in London and the British embassy in Damascus, while the UK government is also preparing to announce a new export finance scheme to support British companies seeking to do business in Syria.

While al-Sharaa has swapped his khaki fatigues for a suit and tie, questions remain over whether this transformation represents a genuine ideological shift or a pragmatic rebranding designed to secure international legitimacy.

“If you noticed in the speech, he didn’t mention Turkey at all. He talked about Russia, he avoided talking about Russian bases, he talked about Israel, but very conspicuously left out any mention of this major player on its northern border…that essentially brought him to power,” says Hacket. “I think he doesn’t want to acknowledge that, he wants to portray himself as a neutral player who came through meritocracy… but that’s not what’s going on here.”

As for Ankara’s motives, “This has been a Turkish masterstroke in the region, regaining some ground in that former Ottoman space that Turkey wishes so much to reintegrate,” says Hackett.

Immediately after the fall of Assad’s regime, Russia started a large-scale withdrawal of its forces from Syrian territory. Among dozens, two remain—al-Sharaa announced at Chatham House that he was trying to turn them into training bases for the Syrian army. The Russian naval base at Syria’s port city of Tartus has been a particular focus due to its strategic significance in affording access to the Mediterranean.

Al-Sharaa also said there would be parliamentary elections, with the first session beginning soon. But “he picked one third of the parliament himself,” says Hackett. As for presidential elections, “I’ll believe it when I see it; or will it be someone that al-Sharaa handpicks?”

So what would proof of change look like?

“An alignment between statements he made—on rights and elections—and what is implemented,” says Hackett. “Even an attempt would be positive. Let’s have a referendum on al-Sharaa’s presidency. If his support is strong, let’s see.”

The London visit followed a stop in Berlin, where al-Sharaa addressed one of the most politically sensitive issues facing Europe: the future of Syrian refugees.

He suggested that Syrians who had fled to Germany should consider returning to help rebuild the country.

“These are Syrians who have studied at German universities, acquired German expertise, and are now working in German companies,” he said. “Through investments in Syria, they can then bring this expertise back to Syria.”

German Chancellor Friedrich Merz, who took office in May, has argued that with the war now over, Syrians may no longer have grounds for asylum.

Hackett, however, says, “There’s a big concern for their safety. Is Syria even ready to repatriate these people who have been gone for a long time? I think the West would like to forget the Syrian war, and they’re willing to make poorly thought-out concessions to be able to achieve that.”

Nevertheless, regional powers, including Qatar and Saudi Arabia, recognize both the strategic importance of Syria and the opportunity to shape its post-war future.

Al-Sharaa’s European tour illustrates the complex and often contradictory dynamics at play—a leader seeking international legitimacy while still facing deep skepticism at home and among diaspora communities.

The arguments playing out in St James’ Square offered a glimpse of the divisions that still define Syria’s future. For some, Ahmed al-Sharaa represents stability and a break from Bashar al-Assad’s despotic rule, while many others are still asking whether anything fundamental has really changed.

I was genuinely surprised.

Not by a statement from Riyadh or Abu Dhabi, but by an interview aired by Al Jazeera. Jasem Mohamed Al Budaiwi, Secretary-General of the Gulf Cooperation Council said:

“This is one of the most dangerous and sensitive phases the GCC has faced since its founding… comparable to the invasion of Kuwait in 1990… What Iran has done is unjustified aggression and unprovoked attacks against the countries of the region.”

For years, much of the Arab media ecosystem, including Al Jazeera, maintained a calibrated tone when it came to Iran. Critical at times, but often cautious, especially when Iran positioned itself within the broader narrative of resistance against Israel or the United States.

This interview was different. It reflected a level of clarity and frustration I haven’t seen before.

To understand why this matters, it is worth recalling how quickly the Arab position on Iran has evolved over the past decade.

There was a time not long ago when Saudi Arabia’s leadership described Iran’s supreme leader in existential terms. Mohammed bin Salman once warned that Ayatollah Khamenei was “the new Hitler of the Middle East,” capturing the depth of the perceived threat at the time.

But that phase did not last.

By 2023, the region had moved in a very different direction. Saudi Arabia and Iran agreed to restore diplomatic relations in a deal brokered by China. The agreement was widely seen as a significant step toward de-escalation after years of proxy conflict, with the potential to stabilize key states like Yemen and reduce regional tensions more broadly.

This shift was part of a broader strategic calculation across the Gulf. The priority became stability. Economic transformation agendas, particularly in Saudi Arabia and the UAE, required a more predictable regional environment. Engagement with Iran was about risk management, not trust.

And for a brief moment, it seemed to work.

The region experienced a relative cooling of tensions. Communication channels reopened, and the prospect of a managed coexistence, however tenuous, appeared possible.

That moment is now over.

The current conflict has exposed the limits of that approach. Iran is no longer perceived primarily through the lens of ideological rivalry or distant proxy conflicts. It is now seen as a direct and immediate security threat.

The targeting of Gulf infrastructure, airports, and energy assets has had a profound effect on policy thinking. These are countries that, until recently, were actively pursuing de-escalation. They engaged diplomatically, avoided confrontation, and in some cases positioned themselves as intermediaries.

And yet, they were still targeted.

From a policy perspective, the assumption that engagement could meaningfully reduce exposure to Iranian ire is now being reassessed. What was previously seen as a strategy to lower risk is increasingly viewed as insufficient in the face of direct threats.

The language coming out of the Gulf reflects this recalibration. The tone is more direct, less hedged, and increasingly aligned across capitals that historically approached Iran differently.

The Gulf has never been a fully unified strategic bloc. Qatar’s mediation role, Oman’s neutrality, Saudi Arabia’s leadership ambitions, and the UAE’s strategic pragmatism have often led to policy divergence.

What is developing now is a more unified assessment of Iran as a shared security concern.

This does not necessarily mean escalation is imminent. Gulf states are deeply invested in avoiding a wider regional war. But it does suggest that the fundamental baseline has moved. Engagement may continue, but it will be pursued with fewer illusions and under stricter assumptions about risk.

For policymakers in Washington and European capitals, this moment should be read carefully.

The Arab position is adaptive and shaped more by events than by ideology. Over the past decade, it has moved from confrontation to cautious engagement, and now back toward a more skeptical and security-driven posture.

What is different this time is the speed and clarity of the shift.

And that is why the interview on Al Jazeera matters. It signaled that the way Iran is being framed, not just by governments but in broader Arab discourse, is changing again.

The region has seen these cycles before. But each time, the stakes get higher. The Arabs have changed their minds about Iran. Again. And whatever happens next will determine whether the Gulf’s reassessment of Iran leads to lasting change or another temporary adjustment.

All individuals involved in the kidnapping of American journalist Shelly Kittleson have been identified, and a search is now underway, a senior Iraqi Interior Ministry official said, noting that the perpetrators belong to Kata’ib Hezbollah, including some who work for the group’s affiliated Al-Etejah media outlets.

Kittleson, a freelance journalist based in Rome who reports on Syria, Iraq, and Afghanistan, was kidnapped outside a hotel in central Baghdad’s Saadoun Street on Tuesday evening. Video footage of her being abducted and driven away in broad daylight circulated on social media shortly after the incident.

A statement from the Iraqi Ministry of Interior said security forces had launched “an operation to apprehend the perpetrators” and confirmed that one of the suspects had been arrested and a vehicle used in the kidnapping had been seized.

The vehicle overturned near a checkpoint in the town of Musayyib, about 60 kilometers south of Baghdad. Kittleson’s press bags were found in the vehicle as well as identification documents belonging to some of the kidnappers, the interior ministry source said.

Preliminary findings suggest that Kittleson had been transferred to another car before the crash and taken to Jurf al-Sakhar, a vast rural region known for its orchards and lakes. The area, which has been under the control of Kata’ib Hezbollah since 2014, was largely depopulated during the ISIS period.

In recent weeks, the area has been subjected to near-daily airstrikes by U.S. forces targeting sites linked to Kata’ib Hezbollah, an Iraqi Shia militia group. Iraq quickly became a proxy battlefield after the US and Israel launched strikes on Iran a month ago, in what has since widened into a regional war that has killed more than 2,000 people, primarily in Lebanon and Iran.

Kata’ib Hezbollah is one of the primary groups accused of carrying out attacks against U.S. interests, including the attack on the U.S. Embassy and the Diplomatic Support Center at Baghdad International Airport. The group was behind the kidnapping of Elizabeth Tsurkov in Baghdad in 2023.

Following intense diplomatic pressure, Tsurkov—a Princeton graduate student with Israeli and Russian citizenship—was released in September 2025 after nearly three years in captivity, during which she was subjected to torture and sexual assault.

Al Monitor released a statement saying it was “deeply alarmed” by the kidnapping of Kittleson, who was a contributor to the publication. “We stand by her vital reporting from the region and call for her swift return to continue her important work,” the publication said.

Kittleson is a longstanding freelancer in the Middle East and has reported extensively from Iraq. She arrived in the country 10 days ago from Syria, where she contributed to Middle East Uncovered. She had plans to pitch further stories to our editor from Baghdad, telling her that she needed to find secure channels to share information as her American passport had placed “a target on my [her] back.”

She was aware of security risks, but was focused on covering the ongoing regional escalation and its impact on Iraq.

“She said she loved Iraq and didn’t expect anyone to hurt her,” a journalist friend based in Baghdad, who asked not to be named, said.

Dylan Johnson, U.S. assistant secretary of state for public affairs, said on X that “The State Department previously fulfilled our duty to warn this individual of threats against them, and we will continue to coordinate with the FBI to ensure their release as quickly as possible.”

US officials are understood to have contacted Kittleson to warn of threats against her in the days leading up to the abduction.

“An individual with ties to the Iranian-aligned militia group Kata’ib Hezbollah, believed to be involved in the kidnapping, has been taken into custody by Iraqi authorities,” Johnson added.

A statement from the U.S State Department said: “The Trump Administration has no higher priority than the safety and security of Americans.”

Shelly’s reporting has brought clarity and depth to stories that are often overlooked, and her safety is of urgent concern to all of us at Middle East Uncovered. We call for her immediate and unconditional release. No journalist should be targeted for doing their job.

A missile strike lands near Tehran. Within minutes, the footage is translated and shared across diaspora networks from London to Los Angeles. At the same time, families tied to Beirut refresh their phones as evacuation warnings spread and neighborhoods are reduced to rubble.

This is no longer a distant war. For millions of Iranians and Lebanese abroad, it is a daily reality, experienced in real time, shaped from afar, and argued over across borders.

But proximity has not engendered unity. It has exposed deeper disagreements about what the future should look like and who gets to define it.

As war and economic recession continue in Lebanon, the diaspora has become indispensable. Remittances are sustaining families, funding evacuations, and replacing basic state functions.

Alongside this economic role, a more controversial idea has resurfaced among segments of the Lebanese Christian diaspora: the possibility of an autonomous, or even independent, Christian-majority entity centered in Mount Lebanon.

This reflects a growing sense that the Lebanese state, in its current form, is no longer viable. Hezbollah’s military dominance, repeated cycles of conflict, and prolonged institutional breakdown have led some to revisit older visions of decentralization or partition.

Support for such proposals is limited and difficult to quantify. Among a smaller but increasingly organized current within the Lebanese Christian diaspora, the Christian Lebanon Initiative has articulated a structured proposal for the creation of a sovereign Christian state in Mount Lebanon. The movement presents its project as a lawful, phased strategy grounded in constitutional and international frameworks, outlining steps that include building transnational community structures, developing coordinated civic and economic networks, and preparing legal arguments for potential self-determination.

While these ideas remain contested and do not represent the majority of Lebanese Christians, their growing visibility reinforces how diaspora spaces can become arenas where competing, and at times controversial, visions of national futures are articulated and debated.

Within some segments of the diaspora, particularly among communities historically aligned with Hezbollah’s political base, there are voices that continue to view Hezbollah as a legitimate actor within Lebanon’s political system and as part of the broader Axis of Resistance. Supporters argue that its role functions as a deterrent in a volatile regional environment and represents a constituency that cannot be excluded from Lebanon’s power-sharing structure. From this perspective, calls for external pressure, disarmament, or structural exclusion risk destabilizing the country further.

At the same time, other voices within the Lebanese diaspora argue that Hezbollah should be disarmed fully and without delay, framing their position as consistent with Lebanon’s official commitment to place all weapons under state authority. They point to the government’s approval in September of the Lebanese army’s plan, presented by General Rodolphe Haykal, to bring all arms, particularly Hezbollah’s, under state control. For supporters of immediate disarmament, this decision represents an institutional mandate to strengthen the state’s monopoly over force and implement existing security commitments.

Their argument is shaped not only by frustration with prolonged conflict, but also by concerns about continued Iranian involvement in Lebanese affairs, which reinforces parallel military structures and complicates full sovereignty. From this perspective, completing the army’s plan is a necessary step toward restoring state authority, stabilizing the country, and creating conditions for long-term peace.

These positions, partition, reform-within-unity, and continued resistance alignment, reflect not a single diaspora narrative, but a divided political landscape that mirrors Lebanon’s internal divisions.

The Iranian diaspora is similarly divided about who should govern Iran.

One of the most visible tensions is between those who support a return to monarchy, often associated with the legacy of Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, and those calling for a democratic system that rejects both the current regime and Iran’s monarchical past. Among monarchist-leaning segments of the diaspora, his son, Reza Pahlavi, is increasingly seen as a legitimate successor or, at minimum, a unifying transitional figure. This support is visible in diaspora protests and echoed inside Iran, where slogans such as “Javid Shah” (“Long live the Shah”) have re-emerged, alongside chants calling for the return of the Pahlavi dynasty . These expressions reflect not only nostalgia for the monarchy, but also a search for recognizable leadership in the absence of a clear alternative.

At the same time, this vision is heavily contested. Some Iranians, continue to associate the monarchy with authoritarian rule, arguing that calls to restore it overlook the repression and inequalities that contributed to the Iranian Revolution. Critics within the diaspora often emphasize that replacing one centralized authority with another risks repeating patterns of exclusion and political repression. Instead, they advocate for pluralistic and democratic frameworks that prioritize institutional accountability over individual leadership. This divide is not only ideological but generational, reflecting different lived experiences of Iran’s past and different expectations for its future.

These divisions shape how diaspora communities engage with the outside world, what kind of change they advocate for, and how they frame Iran’s future to international audiences.

In both cases, distance does not remove people from political life, but reshapes how they participate in it. Calls for partition in Lebanon or restoration in Iran may gain traction abroad partly because the immediate consequences are less visible. The risks—renewed conflict, instability, unintended outcomes—fall primarily on those on the ground.

This does not make diaspora voices irrelevant. But it does mean they operate under different conditions, with different constraints. Despite their divisions, both diasporas play a real role in current events.

Lebanese abroad are sustaining an economy in free fall. Iranians abroad are shaping how protests, repression, and war are seen globally, through media, advocacy, and political lobbying.

They influence narratives, fund survival, and keep attention on crises that might otherwise fade from the news cycle. But they do so without consensus, and often in competition with one another.

Many in the diaspora live between two realities: physically in one country, but emotionally and politically tied to another. War, protest, and collapse don’t seem so far away—they show up daily, on screens, in conversations, and in the impossible choices people have to make.

This creates a form of engagement that is immediate but uneven. Close enough to care deeply, far enough to be removed from the full consequences of every decision.

The role of the diaspora in Iran and Lebanon is complicated. It is neither detached nor decisive, neither purely constructive nor inherently harmful.

The question is how to understand their influence without overstating it, or dismissing it. Because in both Iran and Lebanon, the future is no longer being imagined only within national borders. It is being debated, contested, and partially shaped far beyond them.

And that reality is becoming harder to ignore.

A government does not need to ban something outright to make its intentions clear. Sometimes it only needs to regulate it so tightly, so selectively, and so ideologically that the message becomes unmistakable. That is what happened in Damascus last week.

The controversy began when the Damascus governorate issued Decision No. 311, barring the serving of alcohol in restaurants and nightclubs across the capital, requiring bars and clubs to convert their licenses into café permits, and restricting the sale of sealed bottles to a few predominantly Christian neighborhoods, including Bab Touma, Bab Sharqi, and al-Qassaa. The decree also imposed location rules that require outlets to be at least 75 meters from schools and places of worship and 20 meters from security facilities, with businesses given three months to comply. Reuters described it as one of the clearest signs yet of the Islamist-led authorities’ turn toward conservative social enforcement.

After the backlash exploded, Damascus officials tried to walk it back without really withdrawing it. In a late clarification carried by state media, the governorate insisted the measure was merely “organizational,” not new in principle, and rooted in older regulations dating back to 1952 and later administrative decisions. It also said five-star hotels were exempt, apologized to residents of Bab Touma, Bab Sharqi, and al-Qassaa for the “misunderstanding,” and promised to review the designation of the three neighborhoods during the three-month implementation period.

But by then, the public had already understood the deeper meaning of the move. On Sunday, March 22, hundreds of Syrians gathered in Bab Touma to protest, carrying signs defending personal freedom and rejecting the sectarian sorting of Damascus neighborhoods. One AP photo from the protest captured the sentiment perfectly: “No to dividing Damascus neighborhoods along sectarian lines.” Protesters from different sectarian backgrounds chanted, “Syrians are united.”

And that is why the official defense of the decree has fallen flat. Its supporters have tried every familiar line. They say this is just regulation, not prohibition. They point to old Syrian laws, Ottoman precedents, and even the American Prohibition era, as though historical analogy could somehow neutralize the political meaning of a decision taken here and now. They say every state regulates vice. They dismiss critics as people who only care about drinking, nightlife, or have loose morals. But that argument has backfired because almost nobody protesting this decision is really protesting on behalf of alcohol alone.

If a regulation is designed so restrictively that it effectively bans most of the population, and if the authorities designing and enforcing it belong to a political current that already favors prohibition on ideological grounds, then this is not neutral governance. It is ideological social engineering disguised as public administration. The wording of the governorate’s own clarification gives the game away: the stated aims include “public morals,” “civil peace,” and neighborhood “specificity.” Those are the kinds of elastic formulas by which personal freedoms are gradually narrowed, selectively applied, and then normalized.

This decision did not emerge in a vacuum. It follows a widening pattern. In January, authorities in Latakia barred female public employees from wearing makeup during working hours, prompting immediate criticism before officials retreated into the usual language of “professional appearance” and “balance.” Earlier, the Tourism Ministry issued beach and pool guidelines requiring women on public beaches and in public pools to wear more modest swimwear, such as burkinis or body-covering suits, while allowing more relaxed standards in luxury hotels and private venues. That move, too, was defended as culturally sensitive regulation rather than coercion, before officials scrambled to soften its interpretation amid public outrage.

Seen together, these measures do not look incidental. They look cumulative. Makeup at work. Modest swimwear on public beaches. During Ramadan, tighter restrictions were imposed on those seen eating or drinking publicly. And now, the near-elimination of alcohol service in Damascus, except in a few Christian districts that are implicitly marked as socially distinct. Each measure is small enough, in isolation, for its defenders to ask, “Why all this fuss?” But politics is often revealed less by dramatic decrees than by patterns of administrative pressure. A state telegraphs what it aims to become through the habits it tries to impose.

This is why many Syrians reacted more strongly to the alcohol decree than authorities seem to have expected. The outcry was not limited to Christians, nor to secular elites. Damascus is full of Muslims who drink, Muslims who do not drink but still reject moral policing, and Syrians of all backgrounds who understand perfectly well what is at stake when the state begins sorting rights and restrictions by communal geography. AP reported that even some protesters who do not drink joined in because they saw the issue as one of personal liberty rather than consumption.

The constitutional dimension is impossible to ignore. Syria’s March 2025 Constitutional Declaration states in Article 12 that the state shall protect human rights and fundamental freedoms, and that rights guaranteed by the international human rights treaties ratified by Syria are an integral part of the declaration. Article 13 guarantees freedom of opinion and expression and protects private life. Critics of the Damascus decree, including the Bab Touma committee and legal advocates cited in recent reporting, have argued that the measure violates both the spirit and the text of those guarantees.

There is also a sectarian danger here that should be obvious to anyone exercising even minimal political judgment. By confining alcohol sales to Christian-majority districts, authorities are not “respecting diversity.” They are drawing a target on specific neighborhoods and implicitly assigning them responsibility for supposed violations of “public morals.” This is stigmatization by regulation. It invites resentment, fuels suspicion, and imposes symbolic burdens on communities already anxious about their place in the new Syria. Reuters, AP, DW, and regional outlets all captured this point in different ways: the backlash was driven not only by concerns over freedom, but by fears that the decision was recasting Christians as a tolerated exception and Damascus itself as a city to be managed through sectarian compartments.

This is where the defenders of the decision are most disingenuous. They invoke old laws as though reviving or enforcing neglected restrictions were somehow politically neutral. But laws that sat on the books for decades without shaping daily life are not the same as laws deliberately activated by a new political class seeking to redefine the public sphere. Historical continuity in text does not equal continuity in intent. The real question is not whether some old decree once existed. The real question is why this government, at this moment, chose to make this an administrative priority.

And that question leads to a larger one: what kind of state is Syria trying to become?

Syria is not entering a period of calm consolidation in which symbolic culture-war gestures can be treated as marginal. It is emerging from state collapse, civil war, sanctions, economic devastation, and deep social trauma. The European Union moved in 2025 to lift economic sanctions, and the United States formally terminated its Syria sanctions program effective July 1, 2025, while keeping measures on Assad-linked actors, rights abusers, jihadist groups, and Iran-linked networks. The EU has also pledged fresh recovery support. But none of this means reconstruction has suddenly arrived in any practical, transformative sense. Syria still faces enormous institutional weakness, political uncertainty, and the kind of administrative drag that makes actual recovery painfully slow.

In that context, decisions about alcohol, makeup, and dress are not distractions from “real” issues. They are among the real issues because they reveal the governing ethos of the people who make them. They show whether power understands itself as limited by citizenship or entitled to mold society in its own image. They show whether the state sees itself as an administrator of pluralism or as a guardian of virtue.

Syrian rulers, present and future, need to understand something simple: Muslims, as citizens, have the same right as everyone else to buy, sell, and consume alcohol if they choose. The state is not the custodian of their piety. Nor is it the custodian of women’s faces, clothing, or bodies. A government may regulate commerce, licensing, noise, nuisance, and genuine public disorder. But once it starts using these tools to impose a moral vision aligned with a particular ideological current, it leaves the terrain of neutral regulation and enters the terrain of coercive social transformation.

And that terrain is far more dangerous than some officials appear to realize.

There is a wider lesson here for Syria’s rulers. When governments push too far in an ideological direction, they not only provoke their own citizens; they also unsettle neighbors, alienate investors, and raise doubts among the very states and institutions whose support they need. At a time when Gulf states are trying to make their own societies more attractive to investors, tourists, and global capital by removing religious strictures, and when Iran’s model of religiously driven rule is under growing regional and international pressure, few will be eager to bankroll a Syrian order that appears to be drifting toward moral authoritarianism under an Islamic banner.

This does not mean that the world will require Syria to adopt secularism in the French sense, but it will expect pluralism to be real, rights to be meaningful, and ideology not to be smuggled into public life through municipal decrees and administrative circulars. The leaders of the United States, France, and Germany, among others, have made that clear. Syria’s priorities should be securing the country, restoring order, and creating an environment that feels safe, open, and predictable—not engaging in social engineering.

This is why the Damascus controversy struck such a nerve. For though the country witnessed over the last two years several horrific episodes of inter-communal violence, many Syrians still interpret it through the language of insecurity, militias, revenge, and state weakness. This issue felt different. It was unmistakably about power reaching into everyday life and telling citizens that their rights, habits, and neighborhoods would now be rearranged according to a moral hierarchy they had not chosen.

Syrians were not really taking to the streets for a cup full of arak. (A traditional, clear, anise-flavored spirit from the Middle East, known for its licorice-like taste and milky-white appearance when mixed with water.) They were taking to the streets for something larger and far more precious: the right not to be ruled as minors or categorized by sect, and to insist that citizenship in Syria must mean equal dignity, equal liberty, and real limits on state power.