KIDNAPPED BY THE LEBANESE STATE
BY KAREEM CHEHAYEB
This article was originally published in Beirut Syndrome on June 18, 2016.
Yesterday on Friday, June 17, 2016, I was kidnapped by the Lebanese state at 5:15 PM in broad daylight in Downtown Beirut at the Beirut Souks for being a bystander. I was having a cup of coffee before a class I was taking in the area. As I was walking I saw an altercation between a muscular man in jeans and a t-shirt and activist Neamat Bader Al Deen from local protest movement “We Want Accountability”.
He was grabbing her, while she was resisting and screaming at the police, who seemed more concerned about the growing crowd of people around them, rather than the fact that someone was being assaulted. Standing to my left was a young woman videotaping the incident. Moments later, two men (who looked like they just came back from the beach) came by to see what the fuss was about. One took his phone out to check the time, and then asked me about what was going on. He was a Lebanese-Canadian visiting family and friends while on vacation.
…And there goes my phone
An officer in uniform belted, “Sir! Please calm down! Sir! There’s no need to make a huge deal out of this with so many people watching.” That’s when I realized that the attacker wasn’t some random person. It was either a superior police officer in plain clothing or someone who is part of a security detail of one of the Lebanese establishment’s political parties. The man turned around and noticed the crowd. Unfortunately, I was clearly in his immediate line of sight. He snatched the phone off the woman videotaping him, and the man who spoke to me- his friend wasn’t visible, as he stood behind him. He yelled at them, saying, “Shame on you for taking pictures and videotaping the police!” He then looked at me, put his hand in my pocket, forcefully removing my phone. It was horrifying to say the least. He gave the phones to one of the police officers observing, and ran away.
I immediately followed Neamat and the three other bystanders to the officer who held the phones. I immediately asked him, “What’s going on? Why do you have my phone? Are you going to give it back to me?” He simply responded with, “I have nothing to do with this.” Nothing to do with this? Typical Lebanon. That’s when I knew that things were going to get bad.
More officers came to the scene, and the officer with our phones crossed the street to convene with those that just arrived. We followed them and kept asking about why our phones were confiscated, and why that man was allowed to do what he did. Though the officer was ignoring us, one that just arrived carrying handcuffed grabbed my arm and threatened me. “If you keep talking, I’m going to smash your head against the wall.” I was violently threatened by an officer simply for asking about my confiscated phone, the rest of the bystanders began to confront the officers about that. The officers urged him to let go of me, saying, “Put your hand down! Don’t talk to him like that! People are videotaping us.”
Am I actually getting arrested?
“We’ll take care of the situation at the police station.” After asking about which police station several times, one of the officers surrounding us calmly told me it was the Burj police station.
I was just on my way to class after downing a cup of coffee, and someone snatched my phone. Why am I going to the police station?
Despite writing articles on Lebanese politics (as an “unlicensed journalist” for an “unlicensed platform”), attending and documenting events at many protests, it looks like the one time the police were going to apprehend and arrest me was when I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time; how ironic.
Actually it wasn’t an arrest. It was a kidnapping. I wasn’t told what I was being arrested for. I was kidnapped.
Even though the man whose phone wasn’t confiscated wasn’t getting arrested, he got punched in the stomach after constantly asking for the police to return his friend’s phone. Steel handcuffs came out; he was handcuffed to Neamat. The other bystander and I were surrounded by police officers ushering us to a police truck. The officer handling Neamat and the man was rough; he pushed her off the sidewalk, and she narrowly avoiding getting hit by a car.
Fortunately, I saw a classmate walking by, and immediately gave him a phone number of a family member to call to let them know that I’m going to be taken to Burj police station. Alas, their cellphone was off.
By 5:30, I was crammed in the back seat of a police truck with three others, on my way to Burj police station in Beirut.
“Find a way to get in!”
“Sit on his lap or something.”
“I don’t care if you don’t fit; this isn’t a taxi ride.”
We were vocal throughout the ride, demanding that we should be told what were charged for, and why we were being detained, and so on. They would constantly tell us to keep quiet.
And so we wait.
We arrived at the police station and were sat down. An officer who sat at a desk greeted Neamat, as if he’s known her very well. According to her, these are the police officers that are often sent to suppress protests at Martyrs’ Square and Riad Solh Square. I sat silently. At this point, I stopped asking all the questions that I’ve been asking myself ever since my phone was confiscated, and scanned the area: a poster of the police’s oath, a trilingual board that states citizens’ rights, tacky photos of Lebanon’s tourist cities, and a pile of magazines. I have to admit that I was slightly entertained that the police have their own magazine.
Neamat started pushing their buttons…verbally.
“Please bring me some water. I’m fasting, and I have decided to break my fast.”
“Can you please remove the handcuffs from me? I’m religious, and I don’t feel comfortable being attached to a stranger from the opposite sex. This violates my rights.”
“May I call my lawyer?”
“You can call him later.”
The Lebanese-Canadian and I joined…
“May I call the Canadian embassy?”
“You may call whoever you want…just later.”
“I need to call the American embassy.”
“I said later.”
The questions continued.
“What am I here for?”
Silence.
“That banner clearly says that the first right a citizen has is to call a lawyer, a family member or friend, or someone to call a lawyer on their behalf. No ifs or buts. Why can’t we use the phone?”
The officer got up and walked towards us.
“Listen, I know your rights. You aren’t fooling me. The more you ask and talk, the longer this is going to take.”
Sounds like a kidnapping to me…
The focus went back to Neamat Bader Al Deen. She began to criticize the police for not doing anything, and called them servants to the corrupt establishment. The rest of us threw in a few sarcastic comments, inspired by the Lebanese Ministry of Tourism and corporate elite’s nostalgic romanticism about Lebanon.
A man in plain clothes came in and started to ask her questions. She refused to answer, stating that she won’t talk to anyone who isn’t in a uniform. “So we all have to change our clothes now?”
I took advantage of the water cooler in the humid and stuffy room. I drank about two liters of water in the first hour.
“May I use the bathroom?”
“I’ll have to ask.”
“Sir, can he use the bathroom?”
“Sure. I mean, I don’t see why not.”
I was escorted upstairs to heed Mother Nature’s call. The more I saw in the police station, the more I was terrified about the worst-case scenario — and this isn’t Beirut’s notorious Hbeish police station or, dare I say it, Roumieh. I wasn’t used to seeing a man in plain clothing casually twirling a handgun, and I certainly hoped I wasn’t going to be interrogated.
An uncomfortable resolution
I started hearing chants and music outside. People from “We Want Accountability” and perhaps “You Stink” gathered outside to demand our release … the police were horrified, the others were entertained. I, on the other hand, just wanted to leave.
The chants and music were similar to the ones I heard at the dozens of protests and rallies that I attended over the past 10 months, reminding me of the optimism I once had when Lebanon’s garbage protests flooded the streets of downtown Beirut …
The uncertainty of the whole situation was beyond irritating. I thought of my friend Hassan, who was arrested as a volunteer photographer last October. He was badly beaten and was thrown into a crammed prison cell for a few days for something he did not do: throwing rocks at the police. I was fortunate I was not in his situation.
Two hours later after arriving at the police station, the Lebanese-Canadian, who only carried Canadian identification, was taken upstairs briefly. I don’t know what happened or what the conversation was like. He came down a few minutes later, appearing unfazed by the experience. Neamat was then called up, and after fifteen minutes, a lawyer was allowed in. He asked us about what happened with Neamat and what led to us getting arrested (kidnapped …) as well. That’s when I discovered some sickening details.
According to Neamat, the man who originally attacked her was indeed part of the state security apparatus, but was also affiliated with a powerful party of Lebanon’s establishment. He was active in suppressing the activists — only in more unorthodox ways. I heard that some of Lebanese protests movements wanted to sue the individuals who were behind it, and I suppose he was one of them. She was parking briefly waiting for the other bystander to meet her before going elsewhere. The man told her she wasn’t permitted to park there, despite other cars being around here. He told her those cars were diplomatic cars. She called the police to confront the man in plain clothing. He then reminded her about who he was. She claimed he told that he will “smash Lebanon’s civil society movements”. What was he doing there? Was someone from the party he represents at Beirut Souks having lunch at one of the lavish restaurants there? I’m not sure. I’ll just leave it at that though.
Over two hours later, I still wasn’t permitted to call a family member, friend, or lawyer.
On a more positive note, the two other kidnapped bystanders and I were released later. Neamat followed us not too long after. Unfortunately, the police forced us to go through our phones to ensure we didn’t take pictures or videotape before returning them to us. There is no law about documenting what the police does, but with smartphones being amazing tools to document crime and corruption, I can imagine the state being more defensive than ever.
Lebanon is considered to be benign compared to surrounding countries. The first thing I thought while I was leaving was, “Imagine what would have happened if that took place in Cairo.”
I’m worried.
I’m glad that I wasn’t interrogated, nor charged with a crime. On the other hand, I’m worried. The four of us that were apprehended, as well as the Lebanese-Canadian’s friend, were surrounded by at least twice as many police officers. There were at least 15–20 people watching. Why didn’t they say anything? Why didn’t they do anything? They saw what happened. Neamat was assaulted. We were bystanders, just like them. They stayed quiet, and went on with their business after we were driven away.
How did the state benefit from this kidnapping?
What “lesson” did I learn?
To ignore the sound of someone screaming for help?
To just walk away when I see an assault or other crime on the street?
Maybe.
Maybe this was just the state trying to tell us that this is Lebanon. This is how things are. This is why being neutral and apolitical is being on the side of the oppressor, and this is why lasting change can’t come from within this feudal mafia state.
I’m glad that this experience was what it was, and nothing worse, because it could have been far worse. At the same time, I’m so glad that it’s over.
Kareem Chehayeb is a journalist and editor/publisher of Beirut Syndrome — an independent English-language website based in Lebanon that gives a “different perspective on social, economic, and political issues, as well as art and culture.”
