In the early 1940s, France—by then a stunted and drained superpower—was no longer calling the shots in international affairs. And it was doing less so in the Levant. Britain was the dominant superpower and by default the artisan of what became the modern Middle East and its Arab sovereign-states system. The Middle East polities we know today were birthed out of a defunct Ottoman Empire; they were not the handiwork of Gallic contrarians invested in a minorities policy bent on carving out the Middle East but were instead drawn by British colonial cartographers consumed by a duty to stately constancy and oneness. This vision of the Middle East as a uniform Arab world was imperial—not to say imperialist—in an eminently British fashion. It was also a model that went against the nature of the dismantled polyphonic Ottoman dominions, taking no stock of the region’s inherent ethnic, cultural, sectarian and linguistic divisions.
But as Lawrence of Arabia admitted some ninety years ago, this was the standard Englishman’s view of the world; a vainglorious illusion of an Arabic-speaking dominion, akin to some fancied English-speaking counterpart. Lawrence would incidentally go on to depict his countrymen’s conception of an “Arab Middle East” as “a madman’s notion for [the twentieth] century [and the] next.” Nevertheless, the die was cast, and an essentially “Arab” (English-designed) “Middle East” would prevail. This was a setback to France’s colonial prestige and its own vision of a region set apart by its différence; a mosaic of smaller, ethnically homogeneous and potentially less fractious ministates. This was also a blow to Near Eastern minority peoples—Alawites, Maronites, Shis and others—to whom France had issued postwar pledges of protection and guarantees of self-determination. But the rights of Near Eastern minorities were ceded to colonial prerogatives and to the English taste for uniformity and empire; la raison du plus fort est toujours la meilleure (might is always right) taught France’s celebrated seventeenth-century fabulist Jean de La Fontaine.
Under the Levantine Sun
For a good part of this past year, Syria’s minoritarian rulers have put La Fontaine’s aphorism to great use. The former slaves have taken a fancy to the craft of their former masters. Indeed, despite the awesome odds stacked up against them, the Alawites have shown remarkable staying power—bloody and depraved as this might be to those unversed in the Middle East’s ways of self-preservation. But what other alternatives are being offered?
Earlier this month, as Russian and Chinese diplomats scuttled yet another U.S.-backed UN Security Council resolution meant to curb the murderous deliriums of Syria’s tyrant-apprentice, the ancient city of Damascus seemed to reemerge as the battleground of age-old communal rivalries, international ambitions and seething sectarian grudges. The early twenty-first century seems hauntingly evocative of the early twentieth. Sure, some of the actors, local and foreign, have changed, and superpowers sparring over regional influence have donned more modern colorings. But in all, little else looks any different under the Levantine sun.
Its apparent endurance notwithstanding, the history of the unitary state in Levantine societies is short and its legitimacy tenuous. A mere sixty years ago, Syria, Jordan or Palestine didn’t even exist as conceptual constructs—let alone as sovereign unitary state formations. The Middle East is inherently pluralistic and multi-ethnic. As such, it is incompatible with the demands of the unitary “national” state model as devised by early twentieth-century Britain. This is at the heart of the fault lines running through and trouncing today’s Syria. But Syria is only one example, and, as in Syria, in most modern Middle Eastern polities the sovereign state has come to incarnate the hermetic stronghold of minority rule, or else the bane of minority communities seldom attuned to the histories and ambitions of the dominant culture.