Three Random Reflections on the Lebanese Press

People walk past a newsstand in Hamra street, Beirut. (Photo: Marwan Tahtah)

 

By: Ibrahim al-Amin

Published Saturday, September 29, 2012

 

Joseph’s Legacy

 

The real debaters have disappeared. The death of Joseph Samaha drained the Arab press. He confounded his adversaries even in death. He diminished them. Many were relieved when Joseph died because he showed them up so much. But without the incentive to match him, in order to counter him, they deteriorated, and have continued to do so.

 

There are no initiators left in the Arab press today. There are no advocates of new ideas, just hordes of commentators on political events. You can predict their conclusions before you begin reading their texts. You gain nothing from them, other than fulfilling your professional obligation to read this or that writer. None have any fresh thoughts, themes or even theories to offer. All revolve within the circles they have turned in since they decided to adhere to this line or that.

 

Many - very many - used to know Joseph. Some feel they have a share in him. It is not in the least bit complicated to define his legacy. It doesn’t matter what any of us may claim he told us or said he wanted to do. The man used to produce an article for us every morning. If we love and believe him, we should all concur that this is his only legacy.

The stagnation of the Lebanese press was what most motivated Joseph to write his version of One Thousand and One Nights. But his death undid the magic, and the creativity went out of the Beirut press again. Joseph was laid to rest before he could see the army of imitators - some not very knowledgeable, experienced or educated, and some whose problem is simply that they deem themselves too knowledgeable for the public good.

 

Hazem Saghiyeh and Co.

 

Assembled on the opposite bank are members of the Veterans’ Club of the “Serving the Peoples from Afar” society. Among the shivering congregation, I can only make out Hazem Saghiyeh. His face is clear. He wears no mask or make-up, and appears authentic, unlike the cut-price imitations that surround him.

 

Hazem’s return to Beirut provided him with a sun to keep out the cold, but not to give him a tan. He remains the “White Man” he likes to be.

 

But it seems he has been afflicted by the acting bug. Just as you switch between channels and find the same the same actor playing different roles, we have started reading different versions of Hazem.

 

Remaining resolute in al-Hayat was no longer enough. The days of spending long hours far from the clamor, listening to the sound of pen scraping on paper, were over. With the Arab world lost to the conquests of the guardians of the faith, his efforts had gone the way of the colored revolutions. And as he is under doctor’s orders not to utter the name of Saudi Arabia, he had to acclimatize to Beirut.

In debauched Beirut, Hazem presented us with a second version of himself: in Now Lebanon. And how “now” he is there. You would think he was writing on the run. He pens a single open sentence, as though the shopkeeper is hurrying him up before closing-time. He is clear about what he means. He does not stray politically, and does enough to appease one publisher. But his “Lebanese” terminology loses him the distinction he once had from the March 14 juveniles. He might be acting on the assumption that any comparison would be unthinkable. But his fat-free writing does him, and us, an injustice. Hazem is putting us on an even “lighter” diet than the doctor recommended.

 

Then he appears in a third version as a keyboard warrior. This obliges him to be quick, and makes his luck contingent on a brief phrase. But the adolescent revealed in his comments is not always amusing. He justifies that on the grounds that it’s a rule of joining the Facebook club to abandon any semblance of seriousness or discretion in choosing terms.

 

Yet he remains the best member of the Veterans’ Club, and certainly better than his students, or those who try to vie with him in search of a liberalism that lost its way between the cafes of the last pavement.

 

“Like”

 

Suddenly, everyone – the veteran and new generations alike of journalists, intellectuals, thinkers and commentators – discovered a trick that works so long as the electricity does: a virtual wall that they keep themselves busy writing on.

 

It doesn’t even need to be cleaned up after they have soiled it. This wall has turned everyone back into kids on the street. Except that they don’t need the night to hide by. They can do it openly, with signatures added.

 

The walls impose themselves on everyone. They are part of the cause of the introversion that is becoming prevalent these days. An entire generation or more fools itself that it has an army of friends.

 

This virtual game is filled with temptations. People stop thinking of it as virtual: Look at the picture; Look what I did, or we did, today. There’s no longer any need to pay a visit to make sure. No need to waste time or effort making direct contact. No need to read facial expressions. You have to imagine what face someone makes when they read you, are impressed, and give you a “Like” – or when they attack someone or other... or when doing whatever else they might be doing with themselves as they make sarcastic comments.

You can now claim proud ownership of your own site, or at least a share in one. Paper, envelopes, and postmen and boxes can be dispensed with, along with carrier pigeons, telephones, and travellers bearing greetings to children and relatives. The rituals associated with visits and meetings have been made redundant. Longing has been reduced to a matter of moments, and you can take a friend out for coffee remotely. You can converse voicelessly, and yawn – and do whatever else you want – in private.

 

You can even imagine that there are tens of thousands of people staying up on the other side of the screen who are desperate to hear your opinion. You deliver them your killer sentence, step back, clear your throat, do whatever else you might be doing, and wait for the comments. And when morning dawns, you emerge exulting in the ferocity of the battle, and in your ability to achieve the maximum number of “Likes.”

 

Ibrahim al-Amin is editor-in-chief of Al-Akhbar.

This article is an edited translation from the Arabic Edition.

 

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