The spectacle that unfolded at Beirut’s Raouché Rock was not an ordinary event. It was not simply a light show or a commemorative act. It was a political maneuver by Hezbollah, a message of defiance to the Lebanese state, its institutions, and indeed the international community. What the party tried to frame as a tribute to its “martyrs” was, in fact, a reminder that Hezbollah remains a militia above the law, dragging Lebanon further into political paralysis and international isolation.
The danger lies not in the laser beams projected onto the rock, but in the message behind them: that weapons are the ultimate arbiter in Lebanon, and that defying state authority remains Hezbollah’s modus operandi. Prime Minister Nawaf Salam, through a formal government decision, had explicitly banned such stunts, limiting activities to gatherings near the site. Yet Hezbollah, led visibly by Wafic Safa—better known for storming the Justice Palace and threatening the Beirut port blast investigator—openly defied that order. The act revealed once again the militia’s disregard for state authority, and its reliance on intimidation and theatrics to sustain political dominance.
Hezbollah began its political life steeped in organized crime, assassinations, and illicit networks, and it continues to rely on those methods today. Its Raouché spectacle was not about honoring the dead, but about mocking the living—especially the thousands of Lebanese who were displaced, impoverished, and stripped of dignity by the very policies and wars Hezbollah championed.
Far from being a tribute, the display exposed the party’s existential crisis. Instead of demonstrating strength, it showed desperation: the inability to convince even its own community that clinging to weapons serves any national cause. What the party projects as defiance is, in reality, the admission of a lost wager. By continuing to equate resistance with the perpetuation of arms, Hezbollah only proves that it has no political project beyond violence and subservience to Iran’s Revolutionary Guard.
The greatest casualty of this performance was not Lebanon’s skyline, but its credibility. For investors, diplomats, and partners abroad, the message was unmistakable: Lebanon remains a risky and losing bet so long as a non-state militia dictates the rules of politics and economics.
Lebanon’s institutions once again looked weak. The military, the police, and the judiciary all stood by as a militia usurped national symbols. Yet the issue is not mere incompetence; it is structural. The state is not absent, but paralyzed, shackled by the reality of arms it cannot control. This is why symbolism matters: a laser on Raouché is not trivial—it is a test of whether the state can uphold its word on something as basic as public property and national monuments.
If the Lebanese government cannot impose its authority in the heart of Beirut, how can it credibly enforce sovereignty on the border or guarantee security across the country? The rule of law begins with small acts of accountability. By tolerating such open violations, the state reinforces the culture of impunity that has corroded Lebanon for decades.
The incident at Raouché must be understood as part of Hezbollah’s broader strategy to undermine the August 5 resolution calling for its disarmament. By projecting an image of control and normalcy, the party seeks to convince both its base and its opponents that the decision is meaningless. Yet in doing so, it exposes its greatest vulnerability: the realization that the Lebanese question is no longer whether Hezbollah should disarm, but how and when.
This is precisely why Hezbollah resorts to theatrics. Guns and intimidation may silence opponents temporarily, but they cannot substitute for a sustainable political project. The more the party flexes its muscles in Beirut, the more it alienates both Lebanese society and the international community.
Equally troubling is Hezbollah’s attempt to frame this confrontation as a Sunni-Shia dispute, even projecting images tied to Rafik Hariri—a man whose assassination was linked to Hezbollah operatives. By doing so, the party insults not only Hariri’s memory, but also the intelligence of the Lebanese public. It reduces national debate to sectarian posturing, while avoiding accountability for the devastation it has inflicted: the destruction of Beirut’s port, the collapse of the banking sector, and the international isolation caused by its drug networks and proxy wars.
What was once resistance has become racketeering. What was once portrayed as sacrifice has become profiteering. The Raouché show epitomizes this transformation.
International reactions, including from the United States, underscore a growing impatience. Donors and partners are unlikely to pour money into a country where the state cannot enforce its own rules. This is a decisive moment: either Lebanon demonstrates that it can uphold law and order, or it risks permanent classification as a failed state.
For the Lebanese Armed Forces to retain international support, it must stay the course on its disarmament plan while also handling “small” provocations like Raouché. Symbolic infractions, if ignored, become precedents that hollow out state authority.
Hezbollah’s acrobatics at Raouché were not a show of strength, but of weakness. A militia that once thrived on the mythology of resistance now resorts to light shows to assert relevance. Its victories are empty, its theatrics transient, its message hollow. The only true victory for Lebanon will come when the state reclaims full sovereignty—when the rule of law, not the rule of the gun, governs public life.
Like the fleeting light that illuminated the rock, Hezbollah’s display will fade. The question is whether the Lebanese state will seize the moment to assert itself, or remain a spectator in its own capital.
Makram Rabah is the managing editor at Now Lebanon and an Assistant Professor at the American University of Beirut, Department of History. His book Conflict on Mount Lebanon: The Druze, the Maronites and Collective Memory (Edinburgh University Press) covers collective identities and the Lebanese Civil War. He tweets at @makramrabah
