God’s Own Theme Park

A visit to this war museum set up by Hezbollah—literally ‘God’s party’—in Lebanon reveals more than a little chest-thumping about its claimed ‘victory’ over Israel

A visit to this war museum set up by Hezbollah—literally ‘God’s party’—in Lebanon reveals more than a little chest-thumping about its claimed ‘victory’ over Israel

Something was amiss, I realised, when our easygoing taxi driver bit his nails, and mumbled a prayer to the Jesus icon on his dashboard. “I better change my accent so they don’t think I’m from Beirut,” he said, rolling down his sleeves to hide the large cross tattooed on his upper arm. We were driving, after all, to the Lebanese-Israeli border to visit the just-opened Hezbollah Museum, and our driver’s agitation was understandable.

The carefree English-friendly urban sprawl of Beirut had given way to roads hemmed in by posters of gung-ho fighters, and billboards welcoming Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmedinejad, who had visited in mid-October, just a week before us. The eerie towns, with numerous bombed-out buildings, that we passed were largely Muslim, with women in burkhas and men in green turbans eyeing us suspiciously from roadside cafés. The Dutch girls in the back, who had travelled through Iran alone for three weeks without a hitch, turned subdued and hid behind their earphones. I felt that familiar tightening in the stomach, and pushed hard against the backrest to ease the tension.

After the drama of the journey, however, the Shia militia ‘Disneyland’—built on the Mleeta hilltop critical in Hezbollah’s victory over Israeli forces in the 2006 Israel-Lebanon war—was like a glass of cold beer on a hot summer afternoon. The spacious parking lot, English-language signs, spotless interiors, and visible lack of Hezbollah guards soothed our jangled nerves. The modernist theme park itself, with its landscaped gardens and jagged panels of perforated metal slabs framing displays, felt like something in the West. There was even a gift shop with fridge magnets of Hassan Nasrallah, head of the Hezbollah, and other paraphernalia.

It’s the sleek design of the park that lessens the horrors of the Abyss, a large pit filled with destroyed Israeli tanks, jeeps, cluster bombs and the helmets and ripped boots of killed or captured soldiers. The turrets of the tanks nosed up against the sheer jagged walls enclosing the pit bring to mind the aftermath of a battle chase scene.

It has been only four years since the war between Israel and the Hezbollah, and the pummelled Merkava-4 tank, with its snout tied into a knot, evokes a chill that reminds one of the terrible cost of war. “It’s sad, so sad to see all this,” laments our taxi driver, the most sensitive of the group.
Our mood lightens somewhat walking down the ‘Path’, a shady walkway through the trenches that shield Hezbollah militias from Israeli bomb raids. Prominent place is given to the prayer nook of Hezbollah co-founder Abbas Moussavi, who was killed by an Israeli airstrike in the 1990s. A simple prayer rug, two AK-47s and a copy of The Quran emphasise the ascetic life that Moussavi led. Elsewhere, effigies of Hezbollah militants hide between RPGs (rocket propelled grenades) or recover from their wounds on an IV drip, as a doctor tends to them.

The park is a tribute to Hezbollah’s long war against Israel, and it wastes no opportunity to score propaganda points and strengthen its version of history. Green billboards with writing in perfect English praise the spartan life and commitment of Hezbollah troops, who spent three years building a series of tunnels through the mountains with simple tools. Entering their underground headquarters was a challenge for a claustrophobe like me, but the Dutch girls sallied forth despite their fears, thus goading me into action. The tunnels converge on the bunker headquarters of the Hezbollah military, whose old-fashioned computer, telephone and bulky walkie-talkies give it a Cold War Dr Strangelove touch. Nasrallah’s booming, defiant voice echoing out of the speakers brings us back to the present, and evokes hazy memories from the CNN of yesteryear.

It feels here, as it often does at the park, that you could activate some war app on your iPhone and the whole complex would spring to life.
The ‘Rocket’ garden leading up from the tunnels proudly displays the Russian 120 mm Katyusha rockets, thousands of which were fired on Israel at the height of the conflict. There were also RPGs, anti-tank guided missiles and US-made Tow missiles, which were supposedly acquired by Hezbollah after the Iran-Contra arms swap in the 1980s. While we passed, young boys were swooning over all the impressive weaponry, while their burkha-clad mothers captured that Kodak moment for the album back home.

There were no other foreigners during our visit, but there were plenty of Lebanese Muslims, many of whom had clearly come from afar to visit the museum. There was a discernible sense of exhilaration among visitors, who were clearly proud of the role Hezbollah was playing in acting as a bulwark against Israeli aggression in the region. ‘Israel is not invincible’ read a sign at the door to a theatre, whose screen looped a slick propaganda film about the history of Hezbollah’s battles against Israel. Set to the music of Richard Wagner, Hitler’s favourite composer, the movie had the audience stomping their feet and clapping at the end. We climbed up the steep steps to the Victory Monument to escape the gung-ho crowds, and took a breather to admire the view of the spare, rocky mountains around.

Just 10 km to the southeast was Israel’s border, with their avant garde troops prepared to charge in the event of another conflict. This museum could soon be a casualty of war: its very existence seemed as fragile as the ever-changing currents of Middle Eastern politics.

At that moment, though, even the Israeli drones said to circle the museum constantly were silent. We unfurled our map and realised that the infamous Golan Heights were just beyond the last range of hills.

For a better view, I walked curiously to the edge of the hill, and craned over the parapet. In the faraway haze, I thought I could detect a larger settlement. Just then, my Ukrainian phone, which hadn’t been able to get a signal in Lebanon, beeped twice. ‘Welcome to Israel’ read the display on my phone. ‘For emergencies, call 112.’ It was then that we heard the drones circling above, watching us with their hidden cameras.

The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and we wordlessly departed, quickly buckling our seat belts for the ride back to easygoing Beirut with its Starbucks and sports bars.

About The Author

Vijai Maheswari