Lebanon is often praised as an oasis of freedom and democracy in an Arab desert largely devoid of these virtues—virtues that so-called ‘civilised’ nations have acquired over modern history. We admire its democracy, its sophistication, and then, inevitably, we lavish praise on its women as if they were an inseparable part of the Lebanese democratic experience.
We also praised Lebanon’s victory over Israeli aggression in the 33-day war of 2006, sympathised with its women, and admired the resilience of its men. Lebanon has always embodied much of what we, as Egyptians, feel we lack—much of what we dream Egypt could be. Egypt, the oldest state with established institutions in human history, has perhaps been weakened by its own chronic illness, one that has lasted too long.
Yet this very same ‘state’—one that captivates us with its history of resistance and its vibrant society—has now shocked us, forcing us to reconsider the credibility of this intoxicating image we so dearly cherish and consume in our naïve media narratives. A young Egyptian man (and the issue is not necessarily his nationality) was accused of a crime—a serious one, yes—but he was merely accused. Yet in this supposed ‘Arab miracle’, the people abandoned all notions of due process and the rule of law, opting instead for jungle justice.
The avengers were not satisfied with mere punishment. They tortured the ‘suspect’, mutilated his body, dragged him through the streets, and then crucified him in public, as if this gruesome spectacle were necessary for their own sense of retribution. But is this truly the law of the jungle? No. The jungle, as we are taught in books, is governed by animals living within a social order. Have we ever seen an animal crucified on a tree while others of a different species gather to celebrate its torture and dismemberment? Human beings are far stranger creatures.
Meanwhile, here in Egypt—a country plagued by almost every conceivable problem, to the extent that some pessimists and social chaos theorists might expect it to descend into anarchy—such barbaric public displays of collective savagery are unheard of. Even at its worst, Egyptian society has never embraced this level of depravity as a source of public satisfaction, nor has it normalised the darkest depths of human cruelty in such a visible, widely accepted manner.
Egypt may have lost much of its appeal in recent decades—intellectually, politically, socially, and even in terms of its women—but one thing remains certain: its people have never lost their innate sense of social peace or their instinctive respect for the law and its authority, even in their most desperate and chaotic moments. This is what allows Egypt to be called a ‘state of law’—a country where, in the face of the most horrific and humiliating personal tragedies, citizens still turn to the system for protection, justice, and retribution. And this is a social trait before it is a legal one.
Lebanon, for all its charm in our eyes, has failed to conceal a savagery that operates beneath even the rules of the jungle—a relentless thirst for blood that echoes its brutal civil war. A regression to violence unseen even among the creatures of the wild, whose instincts we often criticise. In a single moment, everything collapsed. The fragile mask of civilisation slipped, exposing raw, primal instincts, despite the existence of a state and its legal framework. But the difference is vast between a state of law and the law of the state—when the latter is nothing more than a pile of paper gathering dust in Beirut’s constitutional archives.
This article is originally published by AlBorsa in Arabic and later AI-translated by South Push.