Lebanese season ends amid violence and political intrigue

Empty stadiums, sectarianism, conspiracy theories and riots capped the end to the Lebanese season
Lebanese clubs Racing and Shabab al-Sahel play to empty stands at Beirut's Municipal Stadium
Lebanese clubs Racing and Shabab al-Sahel play to empty stands at Beirut's Municipal Stadium. Photograph: Joseph Barrak/AFP/Getty Images

The final call to prayer of the day washed down from the megaphone fixed to the roof of the nearby white concrete office block, over the mangled metal and broken glass that carpeted the street below. Armed Lebanese soldiers stood brandishing their machine guns on the perimeter of the carnage to keep the crowd – some curious, but most still angry – at bay. Passers-by pointed at the crushed, blacked-out BMW that sat at the centre of the crossroads, wondering loudly whether the street had been the target of another car bomb. Beirut, after all, is a city used to random acts of violence.

Crushed cars, some concertinaed in half, littered the road towards the city's main highway, as if a monster from a Japanese horror movie had lurched down the road, indiscriminately squashing passing traffic. But no, this wasn't the scene of a bombing, but rather the aftermath of a football match. The last day of the Lebanese football season, to be precise, which had just ended in a riot between the fans of the champions, Nejmeh, and the players of their vanquished challengers, Ahed.

Tensions between teams can spill on to the streets in any country in the world. But in Lebanon, with its sometime poisonous mix of sectarian hatreds, nothing is ever quite as simple as a toe-to-toe fight for footballing bragging rights. Religion, politics and mistrust had combined to produce a potent, flammable mix and sound a dark note of caution ahead of the country's parliamentary election on 7 June.

A week earlier the countdown to Lebanon's violent footballing climax had begun. Sitting on the team bus, parked outside Beirut's fancy Commodore hotel in downtown Hamra, Emile Rustom exhaled loudly when asked about the denouement of the Lebanese football season. Rustom coaches the national team and Nejmeh, the country's most popular club. They were hours away from taking on arch-rivals Al Ansar in the penultimate game of the season. Victory was vital to regain the top spot from Al Ahed, the current champions and only remaining challengers. But it wasn't matters on the pitch that were causing him concern, or to lower his voice.

"[There is a] man that pulls the strings everywhere and pays money for the games," Rustom hushed as the bus jolted through Hamra's warren of tightly-knit streets. "When teams play us, the Shia players play like they have knives out. [In one game] Ahed offered to pay the opposition players $1,000 each to beat us. Ahed won the other day. Did you see it? Their Shia players [for the opposition] were on the pitch, but didn't play. It was a very bad comedy."

The sectarianism

In Lebanon even football can't escape the sectarianism that has blighted this tiny state of 4m people. As the country has lurched from civil war, to peace, to war against Israel and back to the brink of tearing itself apart again, the beautiful game has soaked up the tensions. Each team has its own distinct sectarian identity. Al Ansar used to be funded by Rafic Hariri, the country's ex-prime minister whose 2005 assassination prompted Lebanon's Cedar Revolution and the removal of Syrian troops from its soil. The Hariri family have carried on the tradition, keeping Ansar in business while also paying out $1.5m to fund Nejmeh too. Safa is the team of the country's Druze population, Sagesse represent the Maronite Catholics. Ahed, on the other hand, are the team of Lebanon's most potent, controversial force. They are the team of the Shia and, in particular, of Hezbollah.

Every weekend used to be like a mini civil war in the football league, so much so that the government has banned fans from attending games for three seasons now for fear of a match sparking an actual civil war. More importantly, though, this season ends with the June parliamentary election looming into view. Tensions, always waiting for an anniversary, a constitutional crisis or an election to rear its head, have returned as the country once again splits along religious and political lines, between 'March 14' – an anti-Syrian group containing Saad Hariri's Sunni Future movement, the Druze and some Christian groups - and 'March 8' – a broadly pro-Syrian group containing Hezbollah and the country's other Shia grouping, Amal, and the Maronite Catholics, lead by former President Michel Aoun.

The conspiracy theories

The football league, its empty terraces, mistrust and hidden violence, are merely an extension of Lebanon's fractured political life. And, like in politics, the Sunni footballing establishment could see Hezbollah's hand everywhere. Even Rustom, a Maronite Catholic, was convinced. "Next week Ahed play another Shia team," he sighed as the bus silently rocked towards Saida. "So, of course, they will win. It is up to us to win fairly."

Outside Saida's beautiful seaside stadium, a short drive out of Beirut, armed police patrolled to prevent any fans from gaining access to the game. Once, the Nejmeh-Ansar derby would have attracted 40,000 people; now only a few of the club's dignitaries, and the press, could be bothered to attend. "I think football is dying, yes," explained Bilal Arakji, a Nejmeh board member, as his team romped to a surprisingly easy 3-0 victory. Not that Bilal was concerned by the suggestions of the press, who had cornered Rustom to ask why the game, between two teams owned by the same family, played at such a leisurely pace. For him, the conspiracy lay in Beirut's southern Shia suburbs: Ahed and its pro-Hezbollah hierarchy wanted to steal the championship as a publicity stunt ahead of the June election. Bilal was wise to it, even if no one else was.

"Is it a conspiracy? Of course it is! Everyone knows it, it's as obvious as the sun," Bilal told me as we drove back to Beirut. "Ahed and Hezbollah want to take the championship, by force if they have to. Why? What about Hitler and the 1936 Olympics? Why did he want to win that? Ahed won the league last season and presented Hassan Nasrallah [Hezbollah's leader] the cup. They said it was another victory [for Hezbollah]."

Last season's championship was still a sore point for Nejmeh and Ansar. The two teams, and Ahed, all went in to the last game with a chance to win the title. Whilst Nejmeh and Ansar drew against each other, Ahed scored in the last minute against a team from the south, piping both to the post. Ahed protested their innocence but Bilal wasn't convinced. "In Arabic we have a proverb," he laughed as the capital's city lights loomed into view. "What a big scene to see a prostitute give lessons in etiquette."

The preparations

Eight days later the moment of reckoning had arrived: the final round of the Lebanese football season. Nejmeh were due to play Safa, a team that was funded by the Druze community, again in Saida. Al Ahed was to play Shabab al Ghazieh, a Shia team from the south. The equation appeared simple: Nejmeh lead Ahed by one point. A win for Nejmeh was all that was needed. But all eyes were on the opposition to see whether the conspiracy theories were true.

Bassem Marmar, Al Ahed's captain, wandered slowly around the pitch of Beirut's Municipality Stadium, deep in Sunni territory in West Beirut, an hour and a half before kick off, counting his prayer beads and poking his boot at the shoddy turf under-foot. "The pitch is very bad," he lamented. "But at least we are not playing in Tadamon Sour [a team from southern Lebanon]. There the pitch is like a farm!"

Bassem knew that that he needed other teams to do Ahed a favour. He knew, too, of the accusations made against Ahed: that the club, with money from Hezbollah, had been paying Shia players in other teams to motivate them against Nejmeh. "We will play a fair game, unlike Ansar and Nejmeh last week," he smiled, referring to the accusation that Ansar had rolled over for Nejmeh as the Hariri family funds both. "You could see the coach [Emile Rustom] on the pitch telling his players not to score any more than three. Everything in Lebanon is political. We are supported by Hezbollah, we are with them. Not financially. It is good for them if we win the title. It shows the outside world that they are not just terrorists."

Hezbollah itself is cagey about the help it gives Ahed. Most club officials claim that the club gets only moral support. Yet the team has the best facilities in the league, most of its board are high-ranking Hezbollah members and its shirts are sponsored by Al Manar, Hezbollah's TV network that in itself is considered a terrorist network in the US. Last month a US court sentenced one man, who had his own satellite TV business, to six years in jail for providing material support for terrorists, simply for carrying Al Manar. Pictures of Hassan Nasrallah presenting the 2005 Lebanese FA cup to Ahed's then captain adorn the club's walls. He is said to be a keen follower of the team.

On the other side of the pitch Shabab al Ghazieh, the alleged stooges in Hezbollah's takeover of the league, warmed up. Not that the manager knew anything about it, laughing at suggestions that his team, a Shia team from the south aligned with Hezbollah's political allies Amal, would roll over. "Here we will play," Makram Ghaddar announced defiantly. "We're the same religion, and we are from the south but, for us, we have to prove that we'll play. This match is on TV. We will not give Ahed the game. We will play for the shirt."

Jihad Habhab, a sports correspondent covering the match for Hezbollah's Al Manar cable network, was more annoyed by the insinuations. "This is not true," he said when asked about the alleged $1,000 payments Ahed, and by proxy for many Sunni football fans Hezbollah, had been making. "This [accusation] is designed to hurt Shia players in other teams. This is to humiliate Shia players, to say that they are loyal to their religion rather than their teams. I can assure you that Shia players are loyal to his shirt, and to themselves." You can see why the accusation stung. It hit a raw nerve that many Lebanese feel about the country's Shia population, that they are somehow fifth columnists glancing looks eastwards to Tehran for direction rather than Beirut. If it was a lie, its tenuous veracity had spread uncomfortably quickly.

The games

The game unfolded like typical last days of the season do. A bearded man in a brown sports jacket pressed a transistor radio against his ear to relay reports from the match in Saida as the championship seesawed between the two teams. Safa were making a fist of it but it was Ahed scoring first, tipping the balance towards them before Nejmeh themselves scored, reclaiming the higher ground. Rumours circulated that Safa had conceded, causing the stand of dignitaries to erupt in cheering and laughter. The man with the radio sat in silence, knowing the truth. "Disallowed," he offered with a conspiratorial hint.

Then disaster. Shabab al Ghazieh scored. It took the crowd a full 20 seconds to realise their Nigerian striker Donald had just levelled the score. If there was any collusion Ghazieh hadn't been handed the script before kick-off. The match reached its frenzied conclusion, both teams determined to win until, in the last minute, Ahed forced themselves a lifeline when they bundled in what turned out to be the winner. 2-1. It wasn't enough. When the final whistle went, the Ahed players stood in the centre of the pitch, awaiting the inevitable news, their morose fug only broken by the growing celebratory moped horns blaring outside the ground: proof that Nejmeh were champions.

Confirmation came when my phone rang. It was Bilal. "We won, we are champions!" he shrieked with a touching, child-like abandon. In the background a similar noise of celebration could be heard, of shouting and horns. "Safa played like they wanted to kill us, but we won. I will let you know where the party is."

The "party"

One place the party wouldn't be was Beirut Municipality Stadium. A different gathering had been planned. The noise outside changed from the distant tweeting of innocent celebration to a bad-tempered roar. Ahed's players and staff rushed from the pitch to see what had happened. A large group of Nejmeh fans, numbering close to a hundred, had arrived with their unmistakable red flag and gold star. But the club's flag was merely a sop for political motivations. Victory in the league wasn't important anymore, not nearly as much as victory over their political and religious foes on 7 June. The crowd began to sing anti-Hezbollah songs before attacking Ahed's players. One young man, a boy really, pulled out a screwdriver, before trying to stab one of Ahed's management. Bassem had to be dragged away from the melee.

"I can't believe ... what they are ... singing," he spat, heaving in big breaths, unable to talk because of the anger. "What they say, about [Hassan] Nasrallah ... I cannot repeat it." The Ahed staff were trapped, the coach parked beyond the angry mob. A delegation from the club managed to broker a ceasefire, just enough time for the Ahed's players to sprint to safety. It was relative. The last person through the door, still wearing his full kit and boots, was Bassem, dragged backwards through the closing glass doors just as the crowd attacked again, fists raining down on the door where Bassem had just stood, cracking the glass with the first thump, shattering it with the third. Hundreds streamed out of side streets to take up their positions as they once more peppered the coach with missiles - broken bottles, pieces of car, plant pots, lumps of concrete.

The driver haphazardly tried to escape the storm. He was trapped as the crowd swarmed in, battering the windows all around. There was only one exit: over the dense traffic in front. The bus jerked forward, smashing through one car, crushing another, crumpling the side of a third. It pinballed down the street like a violent drunk, before disappearing on to the highway and back towards the safety of Beirut's southern suburbs. The street was littered with the smouldering, smoking remnants of violence – at least half a dozen destroyed cars and a mat of oil and broken glass.

Oddly for a football match in Lebanon, and even stranger for crucial league decider involving a Shia team taking place in an avowedly Sunni district, the army was nowhere to be seen.

The reporters

The next day a very different story would emerge. Some outlets reported the fighting, blaming the violence on Hezbollah or Future, depending on their political allegiance. Both sides tried to make political capital out of the incident. The reporters from Al Manar who I had stood next to at the game claimed that guns had been pulled on them and that they had been shot at by a group of Hariri supporters, a claim taken up by SKeyes, a group named in honour of the assassinated journalist Samir Kassir which campaigns against intimidation of the Lebanese press.

"Three journalists who had been with Al Ahed were attacked and the area where the attack took place is pro-Future," explained Khaled Soubeih, a journalist himself who worked for SKeyes. "The reporters from Al Manar said they were shot at. With the election close, tensions are very high. As long as tensions rise there will be many more of these incidents." Soubeih admitted that eye-witnesses had yet to confirm that shots had been fired. I hadn't heard any either.

Bassem, though, was convinced he had been shot at. I called him the next day to check if he was alright. After all, the last time I'd seen him he was being kicked and punched on his way back on to the bus. "We are all OK, the driver was a hero, but the coach was shot at. This happens only in Lebanon," he said, an anger rising in his voice that I recognised from directly after the game. "I didn't think we were going to die, but some of the players did, they were afraid of death. The driver was not scared though because we are with Hezbollah and if anything happened to us, well, we are strong, and all of Lebanon will again be with us as it was 7 May."

The 7 Mayhe refers to was last year's takeover of Beirut by Hezbollah that followed the government's arrest of one of the organisation's leading security officials. It was meant to be an attempt by the government to reassert central control of the Party of God. The clashes left 65 people dead. The government was left with no confusion as to who was really in charge.

It was a telling statement. Bassem's fallback, the place where he felt safest, was not under the protection of the police, or the army, but Hezbollah. Future TV, Bassem claimed, further inflamed matters by showing the damage that the bus had made escaping, without mentioning the rioters that had caused it to flee in the first place. "It's a bad sign," he said when I asked what this meant for the 7 June election. "If anything else like this happens, there will not be an election, that is for sure. There will be civil war."

The repercussions

The authorities won't take any more chances. The slim hope that fans would return next season has been all but extinguished and the Lebanese FA cup final, which sees Ahed take on another Shia team Shabab al Sahel, will take place outside Beirut, in Saida, under tight security. The cup will be lifted, for the third time in a row, in almost complete silence.

Back outside the stadium I was blissfully unaware of the gunshots as the army spread out over the road and as the final call to prayer filled the streets. The crowd of wired men, jumpily looking for somewhere to channel their adrenaline, disappeared in packs, back down the side streets they had appeared from, Nejmeh's seventh league title, just a few minutes old, was already a distant memory. Four middle-aged men standing on a street corner had watched the whole incident unfold.

"Ahed players had come out swearing," said one certainly, although not certain enough to tell me his name. "They [Ahed] are in our area and started saying things against the Sunni." The other men nodded silently in agreement. Bassem and the rest of Beirut would hear the same story the next day. History, as ever, had already been rewritten by the victor.

When Friday Comes: Football in the War Zone (Mainstream) by James Montague is out now

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