The Sweet Era

When Lebanon tried to hold a presidential election in 1958, the tiny country exploded in civil war. More than a thousand Lebanese were slain, the Soviet Union rattled its rockets, and 14,000 U.S. marines landed to ward off a threatened Communist or Nasserite takeover. Yet last week, when the Lebanese tried another election, the event was as quiet and disciplined as a New England town meeting. After a vote in parliament, President Fuad Chehab peacefully surrendered his office to President-elect Charles Helou. Since Helou means "sweet" in Arabic, newspapers headlined that his inauguration would begin "a sweet era" for Lebanon.

The recent past has been remarkably sweet too. During Chehab's six-year term, Lebanon became one of the few nations untroubled by the continuous turmoil of the Middle East.

Contradictory Glories. The 1958 civil war began when Moslems staged an uprising against the unconstitutional attempt of the then President, Camille Chamoun, a Christian, to serve a second term. At the time, General Chehab commanded the 9,000-man Lebanese army but refused to lead it against the rebels, because he was convinced that if he did, the Moslem members of the armed forces would mutiny. This decision won him great popularity with the Moslems. The Christians, who make up half of Lebanon's 1,700,000 population, were at first outraged, but gradually recognized the wisdom of the Christian commander. As a result, Chamoun stepped down, Chehab was named President by parliament, and when he reluctantly accepted, the U.S. marines withdrew.

Chehab ruled by doing nothing, at home or abroad. Despising politicians, whom he calls fromagistes (cheese eaters), Chehab would rather let Lebanon boom or bust than go in for planning. In this, he again proved how well he understood his countrymen, for the typical Lebanese is both capitalist and anarchist, and glories in contradiction.

The Lebanese way of life is reflected in Beirut, which is the noisiest, dirtiest, liveliest and loveliest capital in the Middle East. Surging traffic bewilders a stranger, with tramcars plunging the wrong way down one-way streets, pedestrians and pushcarts jaywalking heedlessly. Garbage lies uncollected around stunning glass-walled apartment buildings, and any car parked below is certain to be littered by melon rinds and pistachio shells tossed from the balconies and windows. As fast as the police write out traffic tickets, motorists throw them away, and cars are double-and triple-parked all over town.

Needs Understood. The noise begins at dawn with the loudspeaker chants of muezzins from minarets, followed by the clangor of bells from Christian churches. Auto horns, the plaintive cries of peddlers, and the bray of donkeys blend with the screech of jet planes. With evening comes the sound of 64 nightclubs, the throb of motorboats carrying gamblers up the coast to the Casino de Liban, and the shrill cries of prostitutes in the block-long Bourg Central Square in the heart of town.

Beirut is also beautiful, with cool groves of umbrella pines and great clusters of purple bougainvillaea. It is rich, not from oil but from oil revenues of more than $3 billion a year, poured in by sheiks from Kuwait and Saudi Arabia; they flock to Beirut to play among a people who speak their language and understand their needs. Moreover, 92 banks flourish on deposits from Arabs who are distrustful of their own governments and appreciate the Swiss-like secrecy enforced by law. Recently, Intra Bank of Lebanon bought the 28-story Canada House on Manhattan's Fifth Avenue for its U.S. branch.

Airfreighted Oysters. Tourists are drawn to a land where ski resorts are only two hours from Mediterranean beaches, and by such antique monuments as Byblos and the massive stone platforms and columns of Roman Baalbek. Hotels are so jammed that the new Phoenicia Hotel, opened in 1962, is already building a 250-room annex. Restaurants serve airfreighted French oysters, Scotch salmon, Danish ham and English beef.

Beirut has four universities, and publishes more books and magazines than even Cairo. Next to tiny, oil-rich Kuwait, it has the highest per-capita income in the Arab world ($500 annually); yet public and social services are woefully inadequate. Every rainstorm knocks out the power and phone systems, and virtually no one pays income taxes except benighted foreign residents. The public schools are regarded as hopelessly inferior. Yet Lebanon also has the highest literacy rate in the Arab world, and parents starve themselves to send their children to private schools.

Lambs on the Doorstep. Charles Helou, 50, the new man in charge of this chaotic but thriving country, is likely to follow his predecessor in letting things alone. A fleshily handsome man, the son of a Maronite Christian druggist, he was graduated from the French-oriented College of St. Joseph and became editor of the French-language daily Le Jour, which has since folded. Helou became Lebanon's representative at the Vatican, later served in parliament and the Cabinet, most recently as Minister of Education. During the 1958 civil war, he joined a "third force" that was neutral in the conflict, and therefore, like retiring President Fuad Chehab, he is acceptable to both sides.

In the parliamentary voting last week, Helou got all but seven of the 99 secret ballots cast.* At the news, Lebanon celebrated with fireworks and bonfires of old rubber tires. In the mountain summer resort at Aley, peasants warmly welcomed Helou's return from the city by killing lambs on the doorstep of his villa. Happiest of all was Chehab, who told Helou: "I am delighted at your election because it gives me a warrant of release."

* Some of the ballots read, "His Excellency Charles Helou," or "Charles Bey Helou," and so on. The writing on such ballots is in fact a code. If a Deputy promises his vote to a candidate for office but there is some doubt as to whether in the actual voting he will really come through, he is instructed to phrase the ballot in a certain way, known only to the candidate and himself. When the ballot is read aloud, it thus reveals the Deputy's identity. In this typically Lebanese manner, it is possible to maintain the convention of a secret vote and still ensure that a politician who has made a deal will actually deliver.

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