A Donklephant contributor and freelance journalist, Michael Totten, attended a Hezbollah gathering in Beirut recently.
There were two separate entrances, one for women, the other for journalists and VIPs. A gaggle of Hezbollah security agents manned the doors. Several sat behind a long table. This, apparently, was where I was supposed to check in.
I showed my passport and press credentials to the man who looked like he was in charge. He stuffed them in his briefcase.
“Which hotel are you staying at?� he said.
I didn’t like the idea of telling Hezbollah where they could find me. Fairly or not, they are listed by the U.S. government as a terrorist organization. But I answered his question. I didn’t tell him I planned to move into an apartment two days later.
A security agent stepped behind me as I scribbled in my notebook while I waited. He craned his neck and tried to read over my shoulder. I frowned at him and abruptly turned so he could not read what I was writing.
I hadn’t noticed, but a military band was assembling behind me. The drummer banged once on his drum like a rifle shot. I jumped in my seat. A Hezbollah security agent who looked distinctly Iranian laughed not with me but at me.
More journalists showed up and were allowed to enter the building with minimal hassle. What was their problem with me? My passport and press ID were stuffed into the briefcase and that was that. They were making me wait for no apparent reason at all.
“What is the problem?� I said. “Why can’t I go in?�
“Just five more minutes, please,� the head of security said. Five more minutes for what? I was invited and I had credentials.
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