When National Icons Become Battlegrounds: Lebanon’s Identity Crisis Projected on Raouché Rock
The projection of rival political figures onto Beirut’s most famous natural landmark reveals a nation where even its symbols have become contested territory.
The recent display of Hassan Nasrallah and Rafik Hariri’s images on Raouché Rock—Beirut’s iconic seaside formation that has long served as a symbol of Lebanese resilience—has ignited fierce debate about the country’s political paralysis. Lebanese journalist Nadim Koteich’s sharp criticism of the incident as evidence of the state’s capitulation to Hezbollah touches a raw nerve in a nation struggling to maintain its sovereignty and identity.
A Tale of Two Leaders, One Fractured Nation
The juxtaposition of these two figures could not be more symbolic of Lebanon’s deep divisions. Rafik Hariri, the billionaire prime minister assassinated in 2005, represented Lebanon’s aspirations for economic prosperity and integration with the West. Hassan Nasrallah, Hezbollah’s secretary-general, embodies the Iran-backed “resistance” narrative that has increasingly dominated Lebanon’s political landscape. That their images would share space on Raouché Rock—a landmark that predates both men and their movements—suggests a troubling normalization of what many Lebanese see as an occupation of their national symbols.
Koteich’s criticism extends beyond mere symbolism to the heart of Lebanese state capacity. His accusation that the Lebanese Armed Forces remain “powerless” against Hezbollah reflects a widely shared frustration among Lebanese who see their military—once a source of national pride and unity—reduced to a bystander in their own country. The army’s inability or unwillingness to prevent such displays on national landmarks becomes a metaphor for the broader erosion of state authority.
The Price of Institutional Capture
This incident illuminates the broader phenomenon of institutional capture that has plagued Lebanon since the end of its civil war. When armed non-state actors can project their imagery alongside that of assassinated statesmen on national monuments without consequence, it signals not just weakness but a fundamental breakdown in the state’s monopoly on legitimate symbolism. The Lebanese state’s institutions, from the military to the judiciary, have been systematically hollowed out, leaving them unable to perform even basic sovereign functions like protecting national monuments from political vandalism.
The international community’s response—or lack thereof—to such displays also merits attention. While Western nations continue to provide aid to the Lebanese Armed Forces, ostensibly to strengthen state institutions, incidents like this raise uncomfortable questions about the efficacy of such support when the military cannot even maintain control over the country’s most visible landmarks.
Beyond Raouché: A Nation’s Soul at Stake
What makes this incident particularly poignant is Raouché Rock’s place in Lebanese consciousness. For generations, it has served as a backdrop for family photos, marriage proposals, and moments of personal reflection—a rare constant in a country marked by perpetual upheaval. Its transformation into a political billboard represents more than just another encroachment by Hezbollah; it symbolizes the gradual loss of neutral, shared spaces that all Lebanese can claim as their own.
As Lebanon continues its economic free fall and political paralysis, with inflation soaring and basic services collapsing, the battle over symbols like Raouché Rock may seem trivial. Yet these symbolic struggles often presage more concrete losses of sovereignty. When a state cannot protect its monuments, can it protect its borders, its economy, or its people?
The question Koteich’s critique ultimately poses is whether Lebanon can reclaim not just its landmarks but its fundamental identity as a sovereign state—or whether, like the images projected on Raouché Rock, its independence has become merely a fleeting illusion against an ancient, enduring backdrop.
