Lebanon village struggles after Syrians

By Sebastian Usher
BBC News, Anjar, Lebanon

The killing of the former Lebanese PM, Rafik Hariri, set off a series of changes in the Middle East, including the withdrawal of Syrian troops from Lebanon. Last year, as the Syrians prepared to leave, Sebastian Usher visited Anjar, home to a community of Lebanese Armenians and a contingent of Syrian troops. Almost one year on, he has been back to see what has changed.

When night comes, almost all the lights to the border on the Beirut-Damascus road are out.

Anjar was the Lebanese home of Syria's feared intelligence service

The little shops - mini-supermarkets, grocers - have closed and gone.

The muddy river of cars and trucks and buses that used to belch their way back and forth across the border has weakened to a dribble.

The Syrians have left and for the moment they are not coming back.

In the garages and workshops that litter the Bekaa Valley, Jordanians and Egyptians are already replacing the Syrians.

But the Syrian presence is not completely eradicated.

In the wintry fields on the way into Anjar - a Lebanese Armenian town nestled against the eastern mountains of the Bekaa - you can see the remaining Syrian farm workers huddled in makeshift tents.

In the daytime, you can catch them working, but at night they are all but invisible. One of the senior members of Anjar's little world tells me there is an unwritten law that they are not to come into town.

'Import'

Ten months ago, I found a mixture of hope and fear about the imminent Syrian pullout.

Anjar had been - as one resident now reminds me - the epicentre of the Syrian occupation.

The dreaded Syrian intelligence service was based here and Anjar was the final redoubt of its troops as they grudgingly withdrew.

People in the town told me then that they worried for their safety when the Syrians left.

They feared the Muslim villagers surrounding them, who they said had always regarded Anjar as a foreign import dumped onto their land.

There was concern over whether the Lebanese army would be an adequate replacement.

Lebanese tastes

Now, I visit the Lebanese army headquarters at the top of the town.

Many in Anjar remain reluctant to join the chorus in Lebanon that now blames Syria for all its troubles

There are tanks and a few hundred soldiers inhabiting the bleak barracks that the Syrians built.

Like the houses the Syrians commandeered, they had to be refurbished to suit more refined, Lebanese tastes.

But the local economy has been hit.

The Syrian officers, their families, day-trippers from across the border - including the Syrian elite - provided an important customer base for the town's opulent restaurants and other businesses.

The Syrians have been scared away by the rage directed at them in Lebanon since Rafiq Hariri's assassination and the other bombings and killings that have been blamed on them.

Many of the labourers who were essential to Anjar's agriculture have left, but one, who has now returned, tells me everything is fine, there is no problem.

The irony of the Syrian presence in Lebanon - that its army controlled the country, but its people worked like serfs for Lebanese masters - is etched into his weather-beaten face.

Screams and beatings

Many in Anjar remain reluctant to join the chorus in Lebanon that now blames Syria for all its troubles.

In the distance, on a hill overlooking Anjar, crowned by a mosque, the discovery of a mass grave a few months ago seemed to confirm people's grimmest fear

After all, they reached a kind of accommodation with the Syrian troops, who were stationed in their town for more than 25 years.

But that does not mean there was not fear too.

The leader of the Armenian people in Anjar - a retired language teacher - tells me women and girls used not to go out alone because they feared harassment by Syrian soldiers.

And he describes how he used to hear screams and beating from the interrogation centre as he walked to work in the morning.

I visit the site. Bizarrely it is part of Anjar's main attraction - a field of early Muslim ruins.

The Syrians carried out their interrogations in the old citadel almost within earshot of tourists.

A young goldsmith tells me the Syrians put their interrogation centre and prison there, among the historic ruins, to deter Israel from bombing it.

He then points out a school bus, saying it made him shudder because it reminded him of the coaches that used to ferry the Syrian intelligence agents, the mukhabarat, across the border every Friday and bring them back on Monday.

Receiving orders

We go to the house where the head of Syrian intelligence, Rustom Ghazali, was based.

Ten months ago, leather-jacketed heavies ensured you kept your distance.

Human remains recovered from a mass grave near Anjar

The goldsmith points out the car park in front of the building, saying: "This is where all the Lebanese leaders, even Rafik Hariri, had to queue up to receive Ghazali's orders."

Now, I lean over the fence and photograph the empty house, once resonant with a menace that enshrouded Lebanon.

In the distance, on a hill overlooking Anjar, crowned by a mosque, the discovery of a mass grave a few months ago seemed to confirm people's grimmest fears.

The rumour was the bodies were Lebanese prisoners executed by the Syrians. The remains were taken away for DNA tests, but no results have been published.

A little later, I am drinking coffee in the al-Sham restaurant when there is a power blackout.

In the darkness, the goldsmith who has been showing me around tells me: "That is one of the biggest changes since the Syrians left.

"When they were here, we had 24-hour electricity, unlike the rest of Lebanon. Imagine telling Rustum Ghazali there is no power! But now we are truly Lebanese."

From Our Own Correspondent was broadcast on Saturday, 11 February, 2006 at 1130 GMT on BBC Radio 4. Please check the programme schedules for World Service transmission times.