Mideast Dispatches

There goes another election and, with it, another opportunity to have a national discussion about Canada's role on the world stage.

There's no question there were larger priorities for Canadians in this campaign: The uncertainty over the economy big-footed even the traditionally pressing matter of the state of health care.

And it's true, foreign policy has rarely dominated a Canadian election. Political studies professor Kim Richard Nossal of Queen's University in Kingston, Ont., says it happened only four times: in 1911 when free trade and naval expenditures were an issue; 1917 when debate raged on conscription; 1963, when defence policy dominated the campaign; and 1988, when free trade was the defining issue.

Yet despite Canada's involvement in Afghanistan, there was little room in the election campaign this time around for a substantive discussion on international affairs, even where Afghanistan was concerned.

More than ever, it seems foreign policy as a whole has been relegated to the margins of discussion on Canada's future, reduced to one of two things — trade or aid. It's low on the list of the country's priorities, even now, when it seems to matter everywhere from the Middle East to Russia and China.

"It's a problem that's gotten worse over time," says Christopher Waddell, a journalism professor and political analyst at Carleton University in Ottawa.

Noor soap opera characters Mohannad and Noor are seen on a poster behind a West Bank shopkeeper in the town of Nablus. (Nasser Ishtayeh/Associated Press)

The heroine, Noor, is a voluptuous, independent and vivacious brunette who marries into a wealthy family. Opposite her plays her handsome, blond and blue-eyed dream of a man, Mohannad, who's chicly dressed, supportive and, most importantly, impossibly romantic.

The heroes of Noor, a Turkish created soap opera, are Muslims — but not strictly observant ones. They fast during the holy month of Ramadan, but also casually enjoy wine. They party, kiss onscreen and, most titillating of all, have sex outside marriage.

Pretty mundane, you say. But after its Arab-world debut in the spring, Noor and its broadcasters have been condemned as soldiers of Satan, blamed for everything from peddling depravity to breaking up marriages.

Beirut's new Buns and Guns eating emporium. (Nahlah Ayed/CBC)

Back on the subject of themed establishments …

They have been around, of course, since the 1950s when U.S. entrepreneur David Tallichet, a former Second World War bomber pilot, first invited customers into restaurants built around war relics.

Over the years, I am sure we've all at some point been corralled into going to a Kenny Rogers Roasters, a Hard Rock Café or perhaps even a Dolly Parton's Dixie Stampede. Why are they so popular?

Branding sells, it would seem. Whether it's hockey or rain forests or Hollywood, or even Facebook themes (see last month's column), restaurants and bars, even those with mediocre fare, can cash in on clever decor.

Most of this is rarely newsworthy. But when some Lebanese youth from Beirut's southern suburbs — a Hezbollah stronghold — created a military-inspired restaurant called Buns and Guns, it made headlines worldwide and became, for some of us, an imperative to check it out. So I did.

A distinctive ambiance

Some people would immediately assume this place is dedicated to Hezbollah, the heavily armed group that reigns supreme in this part of Beirut. They would see it as being frequented, maybe even run, by hardened Hezbollah fighters.

They might even think that the earnings would go to helping the cause of what's known in these parts as the "resistance." (One seemingly over-imaginative media outlet reported there was a Hezbollah burger on the menu. There is no such thing.)

What I found was a fast-food joint with a small terrace surrounded by, you guessed it, sandbags. Inside, the energetic culinary foot soldiers — the chef and wait staff — wore camouflage and helmets. The ceiling had olive green netting and there were plastic guns and ammunition on the shelves.

At 34, Ali is four years younger than I am. But he looks old enough to be my father.

It isn't only his graying beard or the deep furrows that mark his face. It is also his cheerless eyes and his resigned, hunched shoulders that speak to his plight. This man has been to hell and back and it most definitely shows.

Ali is one of thousands of Iraqis who at some point in their lives were victims of torture.

Many of them were subjected to inhumane incarceration and investigation techniques under Saddam Hussein's old Baath party regime. Others became victims of violent torture in the new Iraq at the hands of errant officials or marauding sectarian gangs.

Ali had the misfortune of experiencing the mercilessness of both types.

Under Saddam's regime, he was a reluctant soldier who deserted at one point after being denied leave to be with his first-born son. The authorities caught up with him and he was beaten in the relentless summer heat and forced to crawl into a hole in the ground full of mud for added humiliation.

His final punishment, he says, was to carry a bucket filled with sand around his neck and spin around. He says he was then zapped with electric cables, which sent him into a coma for several months.

When he came to, he was an altogether different person: Aggressive, combative and very violent. He started beating his wife. He would also cry at the drop of a hat.

He knew he needed help but in Ali's Iraq there was nowhere to go.

In just over four years, Internet users from around the world have made Facebook a household name and one of the 10 most popular sites on the web. But Lebanese people can now take credit for bringing the online social networking tool to a whole new level — real life.

Charbel Mouannes owns the Facebook Pub. (Hussein Alameh, CBC)

Actually, it’s one Lebanese person in particular: Charbel Mouannes, who took Facebook off the computer screen, and blew it up into a cozy, two-level, three-dimensional meeting place that's creating quite a buzz.

The Facebook Pub on Beirut's glitzy Monot Street is believed to be the first in the world inspired by the online version. Like its digital counterpart, the Facebook Pub is done up in navy blue and white; it has a "wall" on which people leave messages on their whereabouts and their plans. Every new customer gets a "profile picture" taken upon arrival to be added to the list of the pub’s friends. When the customer comes in, their profile picture is put up on a big flat-screen television that sits at the end of the bar, so that their friends see that they're "logged in." The real-life version also comes with funky, ambient music and, a well-stocked bar.

I suppose it was bound to happen. And in particular, it was bound to happen here.

If I've learned anything over the time that I have spent here, it's that the Lebanese are extraordinary at coping.

They would have to be, given all they've been through. From the different phases of their lengthy civil war, to a number of skirmishes and all-out conflicts with Israel, to endless periods of political and economic instability, they have truly seen it all.

So they are masters at adaptation. Block a road, and they immediately create a detour. Shut down the bars, and they throw spontaneous house parties. With lemons, they not only make lemonade, but they also make salad dressing, a palate cleanser, and a potent drink, complete with a decorative garnish to go on the side.

In Lebanon, it seems, when there is a will, there are a hundred ways. There is also, it seems, more than an ample supply of antidepressant medications.

Especially inventive

Lebanese get especially inventive when violence erupts. In the civil war days, they could light up an entire neighbourhood with just one generator.

When cigarettes ran out during the worst of it, they rolled their own using local tobacco. Those who ran out of rolling papers resorted to using pipes, which had other, more exotic uses at soirees apparently held in some basement bomb shelters.

I know Lebanon pretty well. It's been nearly four years since I moved here, and there's barely a town that I do not know. Beirut, the capital and my current home, I know virtually street by street.

The city is undoubtedly picturesque, beguiling — even with the pockmarked buildings left from previous wars, and even with the terrible traffic, the garish advertising billboards and the unsightly political posters plastered on every available wall space.

Yet, with all its enchanting beauty, Lebanon is equally infuriating.

Lebanese are becoming so dangerously partisan and divided, the shooting here has already started. Mostly, they use Kalashnikovs. Though on the odd night, one could hear the distant thud of what could be a rocket-propelled grenade.

Pistols are also a popular option within some of the densely populated alleys of Beirut.

The good news — if there is any here — is that they're not shooting directly at each other, at least not yet. It's only a display of the staunchest kind of political support — and perhaps the strangest.

A pro-Palestinian gunman fires in the air at a refugee camp near Sidon, Lebanon (Mohammed Zaatari/Associated Press)

In recent months, however, as the rhetoric in these "conversations" has heated up, some of the more enthusiastic supporters have unilaterally decided to chime in.

A politician barely begins to speak when some of his most ardent supporters literally start shooting into the air in a show of fanatical support, a momentary celebration. But the devotees save their most fervent barrage for the end of the speech, a kind of punctuation to the politician's words that gives the blunt rhetoric a sharp edge and a pointed warning to the opposing side.

It also terrifies the rest of this country's people.

The sun had barely risen as thousands of cars were bumping their way onto a dusty, unpaved road into the desert, just outside Qatar’s capital, Doha. These were motivated people. They were on their way to witness history.

On this day, the church of Our Lady of the Rosary opened its doors to the public for the first time. It is the first official church to be built in the Gulf country since the advent of Islam in the seventh century. For the 100,000 Catholics who call Qatar home, it was an occasion worthy of celebration.

The oil boom has slowly changed the face of this tiny nation and opened it up to the world. There are more foreigners here than locals, attracted by opportunities unavailable at home, and there are perhaps more Christians here than ever.

In the giant chessboard that is the Middle East, the United States has just made a fascinating if unexpected move.

When the U.S. military announced on Feb. 28 that it is mobilizing (at least) the USS Cole toward the coast of Lebanon, officials stressed the move isn't aimed at anyone in particular. Further, it is intended, officials said, solely as what was called a "show of support for regional stability."

It immediately became top news in this region. And no one is buying the explanation.