Chalk up another, final, victory for the Cedar Revolution.

The Lebanese government formally announced the election will be held on time - on May 29th 2005.

The million-person demonstration, the two-month sleep-in at the tent-city, the countdown campaign, the village campaign, the media pressure, the international pressure - it all came together. It's a new era in Lebanon now. The time of post-war occupation and oppression is over. The Cedar Revolution is now over, too.

It wasn't easy living in a tent-city in downtown Beirut.

700 people were there for more than 60 days, eating outside, sleeping outside, and using outhouses set up next to a pricy Virgin Megastore. They all agreed on the basics: Lebanon should be free of Syrian occupation, free elections should be held on time, and a national Lebanese identity must be forged to counter the tribal hatefest of the past.

They don't agree about anything else whatsoever. Some are left-wing. Some are right-wing. Some fixate on their own narrow particular interests. Some have national and even global concerns. They argued about this stuff constantly. That's fine because that's democracy. But they're cranky. They're exhausted. And now they're finished.

I've been impressed with the way such an extremely diverse group of people have been mixing it up. Militia guys ate breakfast with art school students in the next tent - and they affectionately bonded with each other. That's not something you're ever likely to see in America. But the camp was getting tense at the end. Fights began to break out as the perfect storm that brought them together began to blow over.

The Syrian military has now withdrawn to their side of the border. The secret police are almost certainly still around, but they're a lot less scary when they can't back up their agenda by force of arms. Syrian intelligence agents can still operate as terrorists and spies, but without an army they can't control what happens on the ground. The pall of fear over Lebanon has largely been broken. The democracy activists feel the difference. I feel it, too. I wouldn't quite call this a free country yet - not while Hezbollahland still exists as its own entity - but it feels like one now. The air is different. It's lighter.

Forging a new national identity will take a long time - if it ever truly happens at all. Lebanon will never have a true melting pot culture like the United States. This is an ancient land. Every last inch of it has been fought over and fiercely defended for centuries. Different parts of the country feel like separate micro-civilizations. But the people here have some things in common with each other that they don't have in common with anyone else. Lebanese Christians can understand and relate to Lebanese Muslims in ways that they never will be able to relate to, say, Christians from Kansas.

When I first arrived in Lebanon all the tent-city activists I spoke to said they thought the chances that the election would be held on time were near zero. They were wrong. Barring any last-minute shenanigans, the election will in fact be held on time.

So the tent-city movment is finished. Their objectives have been achieved. It is time to take down the camp.

Art school students from Alba University, Académie Libanaise des Beaux-Arts, are making a model of the tent-city so everyone will remember what Martyrs' Square briefly looked like. (Notice the Roman archeological site at one end of it.) The camp still stands as I write this. But tomorrow - with sadness, joy, and relief - it will be dismantled. They won and now they can go home.

Syria abducted Lord-only-knows how many citizens off the streets of Beirut and out of the green valleys of Lebanon and carted them off to dungeons in the desert across the border. The Lebanese government, good slave that it is, has not whispered a word about this.

Yesterday the mothers of the Lebanese disappeared went down to parliament and demanded the release of their children. A large group of people from the Martyrs' Square tent-city joined them. A list of their demands was printed on a single piece of paper which they wanted to deliver in person.

The ministers of parliament left the building and completely ignored the demonstrators. They got in their cars with their drivers and bodyguards and tried to drive away.

The demonstrators blocked the road. All they wanted was to deliver a piece of paper in person to their own government.

MP Adnan Araqgi's driver nearly ran over a demonstrator named George Badra. Badra jumped out of the way and hit the car with a Lebanese flag.

Then hell broke loose.

Araqgi's bodyguard leapt out of the car and pointed a pistol at Badra. Seized by the briefest flicker of reasonableness, he fired shots into the air instead of into Badra. Then he pistol-whipped Badra on the back of his head. Badra fell unconcsious to the ground. Blood pooled on the pavement.

Demonstrators charged Araqgi's bodyguard and a full-blown clash exploded in the streets between the demonstrators, the military, and riot police. Citizens were beaten in the streets with clubs and the butts of Kalashnikovs. The fight lasted twenty minutes.

(Photo courtesy of the Daily Star.)

One of the tent-city residents, who prefers to remain anonymous, saw what had happened and walked up to one of the military officers at the scene. "You should be ashamed of yourselves," he told me he said to the officer's face. "You have blood on your hands in the service of a foreign country."

The officer looked at his feet. "You are right," he reportedly said. "You are right."

At night back at the tent-city I talked to one of the injured demonstrators - Hady Souid - right after he was released from the hospital. He was in pain, but also in good spirits. He shrugged off the fight, laughed at his injuries, then said "ouch" as he sat in a chair at one of the tent-city's computers.

Tough people here in Lebanon. They grew up with bigger problems than these and are not easily cowed.

Following is a letter to the Lebanese independence movement and opposition from The Honorable Vaclav Havel, former president of the Czech Republic and co-Chairman of the Committee on the Present Danger.

The letter was arranged by Ambassador Mark Palmer a Member of Spirit of America's Advisory Board.

13 April 2005

Dear friends,

Let me convey my greetings, solidarity and support to all of you who are pursuing, by peaceful and democratic means, goals similar to the ones that we in Central Europe set ourselves more than fifteen years ago: the path of freedom and independence, complete withdrawal of the occupying troops and renewal of the democratic system. What we consider important is that all this was achieved by peaceful demonstrations; by open, quiet but firm civic resistance.

Today, the Czech Republic is a member of the European Union, gradually establishing itself as an open, democratic and prosperous European country. As such, it simply cannot ignore the state of democracy anywhere in the world. We have followed with great sympathy how the Lebanese, scarred by fifteen years of bloody civil war and post-war troubles, have set out to peacefully work for their country’s freedom and independence. What makes this especially important is that an open democratic Lebanese society might become a major source of inspiration for the whole sorely tried region.

The tragic death of your former Prime Minister Rafiq Hariri, a patriot and statesman whom I knew and respected, was not in vain. Thanks to your resolve, discipline and confidence in the future, the death has triggered off a process that nobody will stop now. By peaceful civic action you have managed to overcome not only fear and indifference, but also differences of opinion and religion, and to join hands for a better future.

On behalf of all freedom-loving people in the Czech Republic, let me convey to you our best wishes and hopes for the fulfilment of Mr. Hariri’s legacy, for the victory of the freedom and democracy that you are pursuing with such patience, courage and self-sacrifice. Try to never forget these days full of solidarity, hope and common quest for freedom and truth.

Yours,

(Signed) Václav Havel

Lebanon may be the only place in the world where you can buy a necklace with a Christian cross and a Muslim crescent moon fused together as one. What other country would even think of making something like this? I've never seen one before. But now I own two.

Lebanon is approximately 40 percent Christian and 60 percent Muslim - that is if you count the Druze as Muslims, something they themselves don't do. Most people who live here - but sadly not all - have had enough of hatred and sectarian violence. They desperately want to bury the past. They spent the last 15 years learning to tolerate one another without going on rampages. Now they are moving beyond mere tolerance and are learning to like each other. It's so easy to break a truce. Much harder to break a friendship.

Beirut may not be the only place in the world where you can find a church and a mosque right next to each other. But it's certainly a more common sight here than anywhere else. No other country has so Christians and Muslims living in the same place that you'll regularly hear both Christian church bells and the muezzin's call to Muslim prayer downtown at the same time.

It's important to understand that the democratic opposition in this country not only wants Syria out, democracy in, and the remaining militias (Hezbollah and Amal) disarmed. Just as urgently they want to bury tribalism and hatred forever.

Hate is and has been Lebanon's weapon of mass destruction. That weapon was not a gun pointing outward, but a suicide-bomber's belt strapped around Lebanon's very own waist.

Some of the tent-city residents have told me their goals are not only national. The goals of some of them (but not all of them) also are global. They truly believe they are resolving the clash of civilizations here in Beirut by proving that Christian and Islamic civilizations can co-exist in peace and in friendship. Lebanon has long been a bridge between East and West. In the future it may play the crucial role of a peace broker.

But it is not going to work if Lebanon cannot become a mature liberal democracy. Dictatorships notoriously use divide-and-rule tactics to pit their enemies against one another. Syria has been playing that game inside Lebanon - and on the world stage - for a long time. Terrorism is only one of the sinister byproducts of that. War is another.

Lebanon's civil war drew in four foreign powers: Syria, Iran, Israel, and the United States. Those four powers are still simmering in a state of cold war today. Naturally enough, the two that are ruled by dictatorships - Syria and Iran - are also state sponsors of terrorism.

A victory by Lebanon's democratic opposition will deliver a blow against Syria, a blow against Iran's Hezbollah proxy, a blow against dictatorship, a blow against terrorism, and a blow against hate. I've said it before and I'll say it again: These people are fighting not only for themselves and for their own country, but - sometimes consciously and sometimes not - on my behalf and for my country too.

-

If you care about the people of Lebanon, if their victory - by no means assured at this point - over terror and dictatorship is important to you, please help us help them. You can donate as little as five dollars, or as much as you can afford. Every little bit really does help.

It was hot as a steambath in Beirut at 9:00 in the morning. Mount Lebanon and the Chouf range, which normally dominate the skyline over the city, were veiled by the thick sticky air.

I hopped in a car with Charles and Alaa (one a Maronite Christian, the other a Druze) and we drove out of Beirut and into the mountains to continue the week-long village campaign. Flyers, stickers, and mock ballots are being distributed to every single city and village in Lebanon. The tent-city activists are asking people to vote on whether or not they want to vote in a free and fair election on time in May.

Charles was born in Lebanon and lived in Sydney, Australia for 13 years. He speaks English - and perhaps even Arabic - with a Down Under accent. "Australia is a part of me now," he said. "But it's good to be home. I've never felt so much at home here in Lebanon as I do now."

Lebanese flags rippled in the wind out the windows of the car. Alaa played Arabic music at full blast on the CD player. A necklace with a Christian cross and a Muslim crescent fused together - Lebanon's unofficial new symbol of national unity - hung from the rearview mirror.

"I'm a Christian at heart when I'm in my house," Charles said. "But when I'm outside I am first Lebanese. During the war we Christians and Druze fought each other. But looks at us now." He gestured at Alaa.

Alaa continued for Charles. "Now we're driving around in the same car to build a new Lebanon."

You have to drive up into the mountains for 45 minutes before you see any actual nature. One dense city is stacked on top of another for several thousand feet of elevation. When you finally break out of the climbing urban sprawl, villages are still spaced closely together on the sides of the mountains. "Villages" isn't even the right word, not really. These places are small clusters of apartment towers with shops at street level. Rural Lebanon looks and feels urban - and modern. They even have Starbucks up there.

The air was cool, a refreshing change from the sauna below down at sea level. Small leftovers of snow clung for dear life on the highest peaks. The pace of human activity was dramatically reduced. I had a feeling few foreigners went up into the villages. There were no tourist hotels or resorts.

I felt a bit cautious when I stepped out of the car with Alaa and Charles. How well would an American - even one who is only observing - be received when tagging along on a subversive political campaign?

As it turned out, I did not need to worry. I kept my distance and didn't actively participate in any campaigning. Some people ignored me. Others walked up to shake my hand and asked in the friendliest possible tone of voice where I was from. No one seemed to think it the least bit unusual that an American with a notepad and a camera was tagging along. If they did, they kept their feelings well to themselves.

We went to a medical school and a hospital in one of the "villages." When the students saw us getting out of the car with a ballot box, flags, and Independence '05 stickers they mobbed us. Every single person wanted to write his or her name on a ballot and stick it in the box.

"Doesn't anyone in these towns oppose what you're doing?" I asked Charles.

"Not this time," he said. "We're not asking people to vote for the opposition. We're asking them to vote on whether or not they want to vote in a free and on-time election. They all want to vote whether they'll back our candidates or not."

It's a clever strategy, really. Even those who approve of the Syrian occupation (and yes, they do exist) support the opposition on at least this one point - free and fair elections must be held, and they must be held on time. Democratic culture is far deeper and more widespread in Lebanon that it appears from outside the country. There isn't much of an argument here about whether or not Lebanon should be a democracy. The arguments are over whether Lebanese democracy should be overseen by Syria (ahem), whether Hezbollah should be disarmed, whether Israel is an enemy, whether Lebanon is a united country or a divided country of factions, whether the so-called "war generation" should still be empowered or not, along with a whole range of smaller points of contention. But there is no serious argument about whether Lebanon should be a democracy or a dictatorship.

We went to the administrator's office at the hospital. Charles and Alaa wanted to ask if they could leave their ballot box in the waiting room.

"Come in, come in," the administrator said in perfect English.

He sat us down in soft black leather chairs.

"What do you want to drink?" he said.

"Nothing," I said. "I'm fine."

"I am the physician here," he said. "And I say you are not fine."

"In that case I'll have a coffee, please."

A nurse brought me a small cup of strong Arabic coffee that tasted vaguely of oranges.

"The Syrians don't understand this country," the administrator said. "Nobody understands this country. We want democracy here. We want to put an end to the past. They can't just go around killing people. We're not going to put up with it anymore. The Syrians thought they could get away with it forever and they were wrong."

Of course he gave Alaa and Charles permission to leave the ballot box in the waiting room. Patients, hospital employees, doctors, nurses, and medical school students all lined up to put their signature on a ballot and drop it in the box. No one shied away from the voting. Everyone grinned with satisfaction when they were finished.

A TV in the corner with the sound turned off showed a live news broadcast from downtown Beirut. Demonstrators marched through the streets carrying Lebanese national flags. Soldiers armed with machine guns watched from the sidelines. It seemed so far away from this untroubled mountain village with its cool air, its dramatic vistas, and its peaceful ways. But it was not far at all. It was only 45 minutes downhill.

Charles, Alaa, and I climbed in the car and headed back down to ground zero.

Beirut's tent-city activists are doing everything they can to nurture a democratic culture while the Lebanese government shows as much interest in the project as its Baathist police state patron in Syria. They decided to hold their own mock election across the country by cleverly asking people to vote on whether or not they want to vote. They made their own ballots, their own ballot boxes, and they're carrying them to every city and town in the country.

Yesterday I traveled north with three of them to a handful of small-town universities in the hills above the Mediterranean. I got the whole thing on video and packaged together some excerpts.

Click here to watch a high-bandwidth video using Windows Media Player. Click here to watch a low-bandwidth video using Windows Media Player.

A Lebanese-American blogger based in New York City who calls herself Ms. Levantine identifies Lebanon's principal internal problem precisely:

"Lebanon’s tragedy is that instead of creating The Greater Beirut, we came up with The Greater Mount Lebanon...Lebanon’s tragedy was that the city was never able to impose its political role, and that instead, the old rivalries of the mountain took over the life of the country. Those rivalries were not condusive to the creation of a modern state, and we ended up with a fragmented country where local chieftains tried to protect their power with the help of a wide array of foreign countries...we have to shift the balance of power from the countryside to the city."

Even though roughly half of Lebanon's people live in or around Beirut, most of the voting districts are out in the countryside. If your grandfather is from Shweir, you must go to Shweir and vote for a rural sectarian candidate. Your representative in parliament will not be, cannot be, an urban cosmopolitan even if you're an urban cosmopolitan yourself.

One of the benefits of Lebanon's miniscule size is that every last inch of it is close to the city. Anyone in the villages can easily visit Beirut. And anyone in Beirut can visit the villages.

Until the districting laws are changed, Beirut will not be able to impose its political role on the countryside. But people who live in the city can project their culture and their values into the villages. That's exactly what the tent-city protesters are going to do every day for the next week.

A core group of sixty people will divide themselves into smaller groups and visit every single village in Lebanon - even those controlled by Hezbollah. They will campaign for their cause there in person. Part of their campaign will be the distribution of the following flyer:

Here is a translation:

"Respect you constitutional deadline Exercise your right Vote for freedom

The youth in the Freedom Camp would like to invite all the Lebanese people to come with us on with the path to Freedom, Sovereignty, Independence, and Democracy by participating in daily events that will be held at the Martyrs' Square at 6:00 p.m. in order to pressure the state to comply with the election laws and notify the public that general parliamentary elections will be held by the constitutional deadline.

- The Camp Youth"

Those in the democracy movement insist their support in much of the countryside is high despite, not because of, the fact that the countryside is still deeply sectarian. If they're right about this - and I have little reason to believe that they aren't - it's a good first step toward forging Greater Beirut from the Greater Mount Lebanon.

-

If you care about the people of Lebanon, if their victory - by no means assured at this point - over terror and dictatorship is important to you, please help us help them. You can donate as little as five dollars, or as much as you can afford. A donation from you is more than just charity. They are fighting for all of us here.

And it will be blogged from the tent-city by the revolutionaries themselves.

They have electricity in Freedom Camp now, along with four computers and a broadband wi-fi connection. They also have their own Web site called Pulse of Freedom '05 where they hope to transmit their message of independence, democracy, and peace to anyone in the world who cares to listen.

A group of Web masters, graphic design artists, writers, and photographers stayed up all night for several nights in a row putting the Web site together.

It wasn't easy. 700 people live in the tent-city. Everyone has their own opinion about how the site should look and what kind of content should be published. But they hammered it all out after a series of all-night meetings and arguments. Lebanon is one of the most varied and least homogenous countries on Earth. Compromise and the ability to reach a consensus are skills all mature Lebanese people acquire.

(The Pulse of Freedom editorial board, from left to right: Jad Ghostine, Nabil Abu-Charraf, and Joumanna Nasr.)

The Pulse of Freedom '05 site includes information about the history of Lebanon, the civil war, Syrian rule, and the current political crisis. Links to related news articles are posted daily, as are photo galleries and the tent-city residents' own take on current events. A debate forum page will been created where people both inside and outside Lebanon can discuss what is happening. They will post their own announcements, press releases, and campaign news.

As far as I'm aware this is the first Web site of its kind anywhere in the world. The leaders of a democratic revolution are openly blogging about their experience from the center of the action. They're lucky the Syrians are on their way out. And so are we. Be sure to bookmark their site. It is definitely going to be one to watch. And please donate some money to help them while you're at it. Freedom is not free, and it never will be.

The government has 13 days to call for elections or face consequences and wrath from the people of Lebanon.

Lebanon's Prime Minister Omar Karami resigned for the second time. It looks like good news for the democratic opposition, but not everyone thinks that it is. I asked Nabil Abou-Charraf, student leader and one of Lebanon's original 200 democratic oppositionists, what he thought of Karami's second ouster. His answer surprised me, and it may surprise you as well.

Click here to watch a high-bandwidth video interview using Windows Media Player. Click here to watch a low-bandwidth video interview using Windows Media Player.

I also captured the dramatic unfurling of the opposition's new Countdown to Elections campaign. Click here to watch a high-bandwidth video in Windows Media Player. Click here to watch a low-bandwidth video in Windows Media Player.

The Cedar Revolutionaries briefly lost their focus after the million-person demonstration in Martyr's Square. They weren't sure what to do next, exactly, aside from setting up a tent-city next to Rafik Hariri's grave site. Some dissidents felt like they had already won - when they clearly had not. Others were worried they would never be able to bring yet another million people down to the square for demonstrations.

The Syrian puppet regime in Beirut has been playing for time, changing the subject, and coming up with all manner of public distractions - the Pope's funeral was only the latest. People here are sick nearly to death of it, especially those who are playing a waiting game in the tent-city. So yesterday, in response to all this, they unfurled a new public campaign. It is simple, unambiguous, and pressing.

They are demanding elections on May 29. And they are demanding the government call for those elections by passing the necessary election law 30 days in advance.

Opposition members of parliament (yes, they do exist) were invited along with the media to witness the launch of the campaign. First to arrive was Nayla Moawad, the staunchest member of the opposition in Parliament. Her late husband Rene Moawad was briefly President of Lebanon in 1989 before he was assasinated by (guess who?) the Syrian Baath regime.

A giant red, white, and black sign was dramatically erected next to the tent-city. Supporters gathered around as the sign was tied to its frame and bolted to the side of a stage at the edge of the camp.

The sign says, simply, that the people of Lebanon demand elections on May 29.

On the other side of the stage an electronic sign was erected with the number 16 emblazoned across it. That's the number of days the government has left before they must call for elections or face the consequences and wrath of the people of Lebanon. Tomorrow the number on the sign will say 15. And the day after that it will say 14.

Putting these signs up in public gave the people down at the tent city a desperately needed and long-overdue shot in the arm of confidence. Music, singing, and dancing commenced.

Yesterday Prime Minster Omar Karami resigned his post for the second time. He resigned once before, was put back in power, then resigned yet again. Some members of the oppostition see this as a victory, thinking they finally got rid of him once and for all. Others think this is just political theatrics designed to distract people from what is really at stake. This isn't about Karami or any other Syrian goon in particular. This is about independence and democracy - period. The new countdown campaign will be a daily reminder of that.

-

If you care about the people of Lebanon, if their victory - by no means assured at this point - over terror and dictatorship is important to you, please help us help them. You can donate as little as five dollars, or as much as you can afford. A donation from you is more than just charity. They are fighting for all of us here.

Yesterday, April 13 2005, was Lebanon's National Unity Day. It used to be Lebanon's national disunity day.

Exactly 30 years ago Palestinians attacked a church. Radical Christians retaliated with a massacre on a bus. And so began Lebanon's plunge into the hell of civil war that pulverized the city center to powder and carved the rest of Beirut (and the rest of the country) into besieged ethnic cantons ruled by militias. The beginning of that war wasn't being celebrated, exactly. Rather, the anniversary was re-branded and its meaning turned into its opposite. April 13 is now being associated with unity rather than balkanization and war.

The streets of Christian East Beirut and Sunni Muslim West Beirut emptied into Martyr's Square and the rest of downtown. Groups of families and friends marched into the city center waving Lebanon's national cedar tree flag. Drivers honked their horns more insistently than they do all the time anyway, if such a thing is even possible. Famous Lebanese musicians performed set pieces for an ecstatic crowd on an enormous stage next to the tent-city.

Thousands of people raised their hands into the air and placed their thumbs and index fingers together into the shape of a cedar tree.

Lebanon's unity festival was closely associated with the democratic opposition. The pro-Syrian crowd didn't come down here. But to those who say this is primarily a movement of middle-class Christians: nonsense. My hotel is in the Sunni Muslim quarter of West Beirut. By evening the streets in my neighborhood were empty. Not only were they empty of people. The streets were also empty of parked cars. The neighborhood was abandoned as totally as if it had been forcibly evacuated. It appeared every single last person was downtown doing as much as they could to heal their country.

But Lebanon is still not united, not really. A Hezbollah spokesman said earlier in the week that his group would participate in the festival. I saw no evidence of that whatsoever. They did not appear to come into the city. So I went down to their stronghold in the southern suburbs myself. It is only a five minute drive from downtown.

East and West Beirut are packed from one end to the other with restaurants, bars, nightclubs, casinos, bohemian bookstores, outdoor cafes, and shopping districts that rival the best in the world. Hezbollahland is a world apart. It is like another country down there - a bad country. It is a terrorist-ruled security-state within a state. The Lebanese Armed Forces are not allowed to enter Hezbollah's territory. Most Christians and Sunni Muslims never dare set foot inside. (Hezbollah is a radical Shiite Muslim militia.) They don't even know what Hezbollahland looks like. I do, and I took some photos.

Few portraits of Rafik Hariri are on display. Far more prevalent are pictures of Syrian dictator Bashar Assad and Iran's Ayatollah Khomeini.

Most prevalent, however, are portraits of slain Hezbollah "martyrs." A new one appears every couple of feet. The streets are ruled by their ghosts as much as they are ruled by the religious fanatics with guns.

Those fanatics with guns are everywhere. Some wear the Hezbollah uniform. Most don't. I took few photos of these men because I was told, in no uncertain terms, that doing so would be extremely unwise. I did, however, manage to sneak in one snapshot from a long way away. You can see him in the bottom-left corner below.

Buildings are sandbagged. Surveillance and security watchtowers are erected in front of restaurants and stores. A Lebanese-American historian based in West Beirut told me that Hezbollah is better armed and more militarily powerful than the Lebanese army. East and West Beirut are as free-wheeling as Hong Kong, but Hezbollahland is a virtually sovereign fascist police state. It is so near to downtown I can walk to it. Now that I've been there and know how close by it is, I can almost feel its breath on my neck.

This cannot continue. Parts of Lebanon are still mobilized for civil war. Peace, democracy, and genuine national unity require not only elections but the disarmament of Lebanon's terror militia. It can't happen unless Syria, Hezbollah's patron, is first thrown out of the country entirely. Even then it will be a long, arduous, delicate, perilous process.

-

If you care about the people of Lebanon, if their victory - by no means assured at this point - over terror and dictatorship is important to you, please help us help them. You can donate as little as five dollars, or as much as you can afford. A donation from you is more than just charity. They are fighting for all of us here.

You don't have to be a journalist, an activist, or even a Lebanese to get into the Freedom Camp tent-city. All you have to do is show up.

I went down there without an escort, without a guide, with no one to introduce me to anyone else just to see what would happen. Would I be welcome? Thought of as too nosy? Suspected of being a trouble-maker? Not likely. Not from the look of the place.

I slung my camera around my neck and walked up to the edge of the camp looking as much like an "aw shucks" American tourist as possible. A military jeep with machine gun barrels poking out the sides like pins stuck in a cushion roared past. A man in his thirties saw me poking around and walked up to the edge. He wore a red baseball cap and a "Timberland" t-shirt affixed with a pin of Walid Jumblatt, Druze leader and head of the Progressive Socialist Party.

"Bon jour!" he said.

"Bon jour" I said back.

"Parlez vous Francaise?"

"No," I said. "Anglais?"

"No," he said and laughed. "Arabie?"

"No," I said and laughed.

Then he beckoned me in, pulled up a chair, and told me to sit. He summoned some of his friends: another man in his thirties, a kid who wasn't a day older than fifteen, and a shy quiet woman in her fifties. I assumed the rest were Druze, too, but I couldn't ask. None of them spoke any English.

The man with the pin of Jumblatt poured me some Turkish coffee in a small plastic cup from a silver pot. We all sat in a circle and smiled, sipping our coffee and enjoying the shade from the sun. We couldn't talk to each other. But somehow it wasn't awkward. They expected nothing from me. They just wanted me to feel comfortable and welcome among them. And I did.

Two more of their friends came over, both young men in their twenties. They spoke excellent English.

"Welcome to Lebanon!" they said.

"Thank you," I said. "This is a wonderful country."

Talk turned instantly to politics, as it almost always does here. A Lebanese-American I met in a restaurant told me it has always been this way in Lebanon. It's not just because of the upheaval now.

I wanted to make sure these guys knew a huge cross-section of the American people support what they are doing.

"It feels kinda weird, man" Hisham said.

"Why?" I said.

"Because we don't know what you want from us. What's in it for you?"

"Look," I said. "We live in a free country."

"Oh yes, I know," Hashim's friend said. "We really envy you for what you have."

"So we want you to be free, too," I said. "Americans hate dictatorship and oppression. No one should have to live like that. You're fighting for what we believe in, so of course we support you."

They seemed slightly wary, like I was blowing smoke.

"Okay," Hashim said. "Who decides what kind of freedom we have in Lebanon?"

"You," I said and pointed at him personally.

"Yes!" he said. "Who decides what kind of freedom people will have in Iraq?"

"Iraqis," I said.

"Yes!" he said. He then took out a card and wrote his name, phone number, and email address on the back of it. He handed it to me, shook my hand, and said "You have a friend in Lebanon now. You will always be welcome here."

Later, inside a different tent, a young woman took me aside. And she said: "I must tell you something. If we didn't think we had American support we would never have done this. They would kill us. We need you. It is just a fact."

In his book From Beirut to Jerusalem Thomas Friedman quotes Lebanese writer Fouad Ajami:

"The Lebanese, like all Middle Easterners, are a people with a vivid imagination. That is why a great power should never wink at anyone in the Middle East. Small winks speak big things here. You wink at Ariel Sharon and he goes all the way to Beirut. You wink at Amin Gemayel and he tries to invade the Shiite suburbs of Beirut."

The U.S. and Europe are both winking - big time - at Lebanon now. We had better be serious. I get the impression the Lebanese have no idea how important their tiny country's struggle is to the rest of the world. And I wonder if Americans and Europeans have any idea how powerfully the tiniest word of support, even in a politician's throw-away line at a press conference, resonates here.

This country has nine hundred pounds of significance, but it is miniscule in actual size. Seattle is not only larger than Beirut, it is larger than all of Lebanon. The smallest smidge of support - moral, verbal, or material - has a bigger impact here than you can imagine if you're far away.

If you care about the people of Lebanon, if their victory - by no means assured at this point - over terror and dictatorship is important to you, please help us help them. You can donate as little as five dollars, or as much as you can afford. A donation from you is more than just charity. They are fighting for all of us here.

The Streets of Beirut are no longer empty. Nightclubs, restaurants, coffee shops, and bars are no longer filled only with ghosts. This is National Unity week, and that means it's time to have fun.

Beirut is nothing if it isn't fun. The city is solidly packed from one end to the other with the classiest hotels, the hippest night clubs, the most stylish bars, the coziest cafes, and the best shopping districts this side of New York and Paris. Deserted streets mean a shattered economy. And empty establishments only compound everyone's fears.

A huge outdoor concert, complete with colorful lights and a gigantic electronic video screen behind the musicians, was staged Sunday night on Martyr's Square next to the tent-city. One set of musicians after another played emotionally powerful patriotic songs. People in the crowd cheered, applauded, jumped with excitement, and waved Lebanon's national flag instead their own sectarian flags which have been all too commonly jammed in everyone's faces the past couple of years.

Another smaller, more intimate, stage was set up just down the street from Parliament for outdoor poetry readings. This event, too, was well-attended. I could only pick out a few words here and there in the Arabic poems, but I felt a palpable sense of relief and catharsis when the audience cheered and applauded.

Civic leaders unconnected to the Syrian dictatorship asked everyone in the country to, please, go out and have dinner. Enjoy Beirut's normally-irrestisible nightlife. Restaurant owners downtown got together and printed a standard placemat to use on everyone's table. It presents the Lebanese Cedar tree flag along with a national unity slogan printed in three different languages, Arabic, English, French: "Lebanon: United for Life."

Abdel Mounim Aris, mayor of Beirut, delivered the following message to the people of his city:

"Let us all together agree to practice faith in the future, to work for an anchored national solidarity, to affirm our commitment to preventing the return to war, and finally to renew our promise to new generations that we will offer them a prosperous, free, and honorable country founded on respect for coexistence among all citizens of Lebanon."

I've been told the streets are still more quiet than usual. But there are ten, perhaps twenty, times as many people out and about now as there were when I got here. Taking back the streets is less dramatic than a million demonstrators in Martyr's Square. But it's still extremely important, and it's important for some of the very same reasons.

This upcoming Wednesday, April 13, is the thirty-year anniversary of the outbreak of the civil war. That war casts a long shadow over Beirut even now - especially after four car bombs exploded in Christian neighborhoods in the past couple of weeks.

The streets have been quiet, restaurants have been empty, sidewalk cafes have been mostly abandoned. People aren't afraid of the bombs, per se. So far the attacks seem more like warnings than anything else. What people here are afraid of is a violent social convulsion if the bombings continue. Everyone here over the age of 20 has vivid memories of horrific atrocities in their own neighborhoods.

Bahia Hariri, sister of the assasinated Rafik Hariri, teamed up with Nora Jumblatt, wife of famed Druse leader Walid Jumblatt, to kick off the National Unity Initiative festival in downtown Beirut. It was inspired by the March 14 rally in Martyr's Square where demonstrators, for the first time in years, flew the Lebanese flag instead of their own sectarian flags. The country seems ready to heal its divisions. And with Syrian agents trying to restart the war, the country must heal its divisions.

An enormous outdoor concert stage is now being constructed next to the dissidents' tent-city.

Also next to the tent-city is the finish line for a five kilometer mini-marathon through the heart of downtown Beirut.

Across the square from the tent-city, next to Saifi Market, are a series of tennis courts. A "Tennis for Peace" event for the city's children was held on Saturday. No one actually played any tennis. Rather, the courts were used as a playground for Christian and Muslim children to play and romp around together under the supervision of parents and older siblings.

The kids had a great time having their faces painted, eating ice cream, running around, shrieking, and throwing balls at their parents and each other.

The parents enjoyed themselves, too. Beirutis have been secluding themselves in their houses for weeks. Those who came to this event were happy to be outside and, more important, they were happy to be outside together instead of barricaded in their own ethnic enclaves.

A Hezbollah spokesman said over the weekend that even his group intends to be somehow involved in the ongoing festival. I have no idea what Hezbollah plans to do there or how they can possibly avoid being a controversial lightning rod, but perhaps we shall see.

The only Lebanese group not invited is the Syrian puppet regime. In any case, the leadership is hiding from the wrath of their people in Rome. Tent-city residents say the government decided it loves the Pope all of a sudden and just had to leave the country for a while to show their respects. That's okay. The Lebanese people clearly can organize and govern themselves on their own.

After one-million pro-democracy demonstrators in Martyr's Square set off a political earthquake that stunned the Middle East and the world, 700 democratic opposition leaders set up a semi-permanent tent-city - called Freedom Camp - where they insist they will remain until Lebanon is a free country.

They picked the perfect location. Not only is the site on Martyr's Square just a few short blocks from Parliament, it is the place where all of Lebanon converges in its lush variety. The edge of the camp is only a few feet from a Roman archeological site. From inside you can see both the soft turqouise waters of the Mediterranean and the snow-capped peak of Mt. Lebanon rising in its majesty above the city. Across the street are Rafik Hariri's grave site and shrine, the Khatem Al Anbiyaa Mosque, the Church of St. George, and a Virgin Megastore selling iPods, plasma screen TVs, and the latest video games and DVDs. In the center of the camp is the Statue of the Martyrs, still riddled with bullet holes from the civil war.

Christians and Muslims live together not only in the same camp, but inside the same tents. (Christians make up around 40 percent of Lebanon's population.) Not only have Christians and Muslims in Lebanon been divided against each other, they have been (and in some ways still are) divided against themselves. During the civil war different sects and tribes sometimes fought each other with the same ruthless zeal they brought to the fight against people from other religions. Most of the tent-city residents had nothing to do with all that. They were, for the most part, terrified children during the war. The last thing they want to do is create a similar living hell for their own children.

After Hariri was killed, images of a Christian and a Muslim kneeling and praying together in front of his coffin were broadcast live on Lebanese television. The images stunned the nation and jolted millions of people out of their lingering sense of unease and distrust toward the "other." The scene has been replayed over and over again as the people of Lebanon watch transfixed in both horror at the atrocity that prompted it and in awe of what it means for the future of their country.

The tent-city is Lebanon's crucible. Here is where the hard work of reconciliation and the forging of national unity is taking place. These kids are the future civic and political leaders of Lebanon. Their countrymen look upon them with the deepest, most profound, admiration. They stay up all night strategizing about what they can do to oust the Syrian agents and clear the way for free elections. But just as importantly they stay up all night getting to know each other for the first time. They are building the bonds of trust that will, or so they hope, last the rest of their lives and lead to a permanent solution to Lebanon's long-simmering and sometimes explosive fratricidal conflict. The invisible Berlin Wall in their minds is disintegrating.

Student leader Nabil Abou-Charraf gave me a tour of the camp. I was slightly nervous and I had to ask: "Are you worried this place is a terrorist target?" Murderous Syrian agents still operate here, as does Hezbollah.

"Nowhere is safe in Lebanon," he said. "But this is one of the safest places. As you can see, we are surrounded by the Lebanese Armed Forces. They are protecting us. We talk to them regularly. We have their unflinching support. Many of them say if they were not in uniform they would be inside the tents with us."

Like Hariri's grave across the street, this is a crucial little piece of this world. Its importance is all out of proportion to its physical size. I can't help but think these people are fighting not only for themselves and for their own country, but - whether they consciously know it or not - on my behalf and for my country too.

"Rafik Hariri is the person who made Lebanon a nice place from a place that had nothing nice in it." - Hand-written message on a poster at Rafik Hariri's grave site.

Rafik Hariri is buried in downtown Beirut, at the foot of the steps of the Khatem Al Anbiyaa Mosque and across the street from the democratic dissidents' tent-city on Martyr's Square. A shrine has been built that includes Hariri's coffin, his slain bodyguards, photo-montage memorials, and a quarter mile-long wall covered in hand-written messages by people from all over the country.

It is not just a grave site. It's a 24-hour funeral site and a pilgrimage site.

I showed up with my camera and notepad feeling partly like a journalist, partly like a tourist, and partly like a simple interested outsider. All that changed the minute I stood in front of his coffin.

Rafik Hariri was a Sunni Muslim. And his grave is surrounded by candles. Candles are not a part of the Muslim tradition. They are Christian. The shockwave from Hariri's assasination, most likely at the hands of Syrian agents, reverberated powerfully through all sectors of Lebanese society. In life he was a Muslim hero. In death he is a national hero. He's rapidly becoming an international hero, as well.

It has been more than fifty days since he was killed. Yet every day, all day, people line up to mourn and pay their respects. They stand by his coffin. They sign their names and their messages on the wall. They look at the pictures. Sometimes they add more of their own. They light candles. They hug their children and cry.

Grief is contagious. I did not know the man. I'm not even sure I had heard of him before he was gone. But I felt the floor drop out from under me when I saw what he meant to the people of Lebanon. His assasination kicked off a liberal-democratic revolution in an Arab Middle East country - the first ever of its kind - and I knew at once when I arrived that I was standing on an important little piece of this world.

Never in my life have I seen so much affection for a single man. They miss him so much. Their grief has brought them together. And their rage is bringing the Syrian Baath agents down.