TIME: Almanac 1995

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<text id=91TT1817> <title> Aug. 19, 1991: Deep in Kidnapper Country </title> <history> TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1991 Aug. 19, 1991 Hostages:Why Now? Who's Next? </history> <article> <source>Time Magazine</source> <hdr> WORLD, Page 34 COVER STORIES Deep in Kidnapper Country </hdr><body> Hizballah meets its newest and perhaps most potent enemy: tourists By Lara Marlowe/Baalbek Baalbek is the most schizoid of Lebanese towns, home to both ancient beauty and modern terror. Dominating the landscape are the magnificent, 2,000-year-old ruins of three Roman temples, their stone pillars rising high above the Bekaa Valley. Since 1983, Baalbek has also been under the control of the Shi`ite Muslim fundamentalist group known as Hizballah (Party of God), whose members claim allegiance to Iran. Operating under several different names, Hizballah is believed to have plotted the 1983 bombing of Marine headquarters in Beirut that killed 241 Americans. Since 1982, groups tied to Hizballah have kidnapped more than 30 Westerners in Lebanon, including more than a dozen Americans. Lebanese kidnappers still hold 13 hostages, six of them American. Though the whereabouts of the captives are unknown, rumors often place them in Baalbek or surrounding villages. Yet at the moment, Hizballah's grip on Baalbek is threatened by the advent of peace. Lebanon's 15-year civil war ended last October, when Syrian troops ousted General Michel Aoun, the renegade Christian leader, from his power base in Beirut. Over the past few months, thousands of Lebanese tourists have begun to return to Baalbek, and both their dress and behavior are anathema to Islamic fundamentalists. Slowly, Hizballah is losing its influence over daily life. The Iranian flag still flies from the watchtowers of the former Lebanese Army base, but its red, green and white stripes have faded to a uniform pastel. Many of the hundreds of Iranian Revolutionary Guards who lived inside the barracks have reportedly left. Many women used to wear chadors, but now relatively few do; over the past 18 months, the Iranians stopped paying them to wear the long black veils. But the fundamentalist Shi`ites will not give up their capital without a struggle. When 20,000 people, mostly schoolchildren, gathered in the ruins for a Peace Day sponsored by the Lebanese Ministry of Tourism in June, Hizballah fired its antiaircraft artillery and the celebration ended in panic. The ruins had been transformed, complained Hizballah in a communique, "into a market where women show their flesh and where obscene proposals are exchanged." The condemnation was accompanied by a warning: "If peace signifies debauchery and delinquency, it won't see the light of day. And if tourism means lust among the ruins, we will destroy these temples on the heads of the evildoers." Hussein Musawi, 48, leader of the Islamic Amal wing of Hizballah and the most powerful man in the city of 150,000, smiles when the communique is mentioned. "The young men who wrote this are a little hotheaded," he says. "We advised them to exercise moderation. The ruins are ours. Why would a man bury himself in his own house?" But the campaign of intimidation has continued. In mid-July a grenade exploded in one of the Roman temples, again routing the tourists. When three buses from the Christian coastal town of Jounieh arrived during the Muslim feast of Ashura last month, Hizballah followers blocked the road and told the visitors to leave on the grounds that the Muslims were mourning the martyred 7th century Imam Hussein. "Hizballah put up banners saying `Leave Our Town Alone' and `Whoever Wants to Come to This Town Must Respect Its Customs,'" says a Baalbek housewife who witnessed the incident. "That night the Hizballah TV station showed a videotape of the tourists, and the commentator said, `Look at this corruption, this sinful behavior.' But the tourists weren't dancing or singing. They just came to look." The city's several thousand Syrian troops tolerate Hizballah's activities but would probably intervene should the culture clash escalate. "The Syrians could make this place free," says a Baalbek merchant. "But this is Syria's gift to Iran." According to Musawi, Baalbek's Islamic leaders have no objection to non-Muslims' visiting the ruins. "But we cannot accept drinking in public places, men walking with women or public displays of affection," he adds. Nor does Musawi welcome the Lebanese government's plans to resume Baalbek's summer festival. From 1955 until the outbreak of war 20 years later, some of the world's leading talents performed under the stars on the steps of the temple of Bacchus. Ella Fitzgerald, Cole Porter, Ginger Rogers, Claudio Arrau and Mstislav Rostropovich are but a few of the celebrities who have signed the guest book now locked in the safe of the Palmyra Hotel, across the street from the ruins. Says Musawi: "The people of this region no longer want this loose living." But a few miles from Musawi's well-guarded office, visitors to the archaeological sites are pestered by the keepers of five camels with brightly colored saddlebags. "Have your picture taken on a camel. Only $1!" they shout in Arabic and French. Hucksters offer cold soft drinks, small brass replicas of the temples and postcards. A Kalashnikov in his lap, a Syrian soldier sits on a lawn chair in front of the monumental staircase leading into the ruins. The soldier smokes cigarettes, chews watermelon seeds, and jokes with the Syrian plainclothesmen who, like him, are there to keep peace. The ancient porticoes and 70-ft.-high granite columns dwarf the tourists wandering among them. From the esplanade of the temple of Jupiter--once the world's largest Roman temple--Anita Tarossian, 19, and her fiance, Hagop Bedrossian, 23, stand gazing at the temple of Bacchus below them. The Armenian-Lebanese couple have returned from Toronto this summer. They epitomize all that Hizballah objects to. A gold-and-turquoise crucifix hangs from a chain around Anita's neck. Both wear shorts and stand with their arms around each other. "We don't care what Hizballah thinks," says Bedrossian. "Let them object if they want to." But the battle of wills in Baalbek is about more than a question of shorts and hand holding. It is about the refusal to relinquish territory. "Baalbek was left to rot by the Lebanese government," says Musawi. "The Maronites are supposed to be the rulers in this country and everyone else their slaves. Hizballah rose up out of Baalbek to fight against Israel. Baalbek is the capital of the Islamic resistance." Lest anyone doubt it, the main road into Baalbek bears a sign saying "Martyrs of Islam Street, the road to Jerusalem." A 15-ft.-high replica of Jerusalem's al-Aqsa mosque stands in the middle of the highway. Nearby, the side of a building is painted with the face of Ayatullah Khomeini and the words ISRAEL MUST BE WIPED OUT OF EXISTENCE. Residents admit that the Iranians did many good things for the city. The Khomeini Hospital, still under Iranian direction, provides the best medical care in the Bekaa at half the cost of other hospitals. The Path to Faith discount supermarket is open to all. The Iranians dug wells, installed electric generators and even built a fishery. Yet despite these good works, the people of Baalbek resent the Iranian accents affected by their local sheiks, the ban on alcohol and the isolation of their economy. "Lebanese Shi`ites are a joyful people," says Hussein, 40, a shopkeeper. "We don't mind Hizballah fighting Israel, but they're not fighting Israel from Baalbek. Whenever there is an Israeli attack anywhere in Lebanon, they turn on the air-raid siren. It's a good way to politicize people. But if they hear people are dancing in the park at Ras-el-Ain, they also turn on the air-raid siren." In the late afternoon, as the sun god worshiped here by the ancients transforms the acropolis to a glowing pink, visitors clamber beneath friezes of grapevines and laughing fauns. Zeinab, 26, a Shi`ite woman from Baalbek, trudges down the dusty road past the temple of Venus carrying a bag of bread and an empty bucket. She is eight months pregnant and wears a long, loose-fitting dress. "The tourists should wear what they want to. I like to see them," she says. "Since they started coming, it feels a lot freer." </body></article> </text>