Lebanese reclaim homes long occupied by Syrian troops

At a chapel beside a former Syrian billet, several residents attend a mass for St. Joseph, whose feast day was marked on Saturday. "My father built this chapel and named it after St. Joseph," says Roger Tohme, the owner of the adjacent house. "We come here every March 19 to hold a mass. This time we have something extra to celebrate."

Lebanese soldiers have replaced the Syrian troops, setting up a checkpoint at a junction in the center of this village, which just a week ago was manned by Syrian military intelligence agents.

Technically, all the abandoned buildings fall under the responsibility of the Lebanese Army until the homeowners present the property deeds and a document signed by the mayor confirming their ownership. No one is expecting any compensation, however.

Some of the most prestigious villas and hotels are found on either side of a dirt track running along a narrow ridge with magnificent views of the mountains. To the east, soaring above a forested ravine, lies the snow-streaked summit of Mount Sannine, dazzling against the deep blue sky. Terraced hillsides of grapevines and apple trees fall away into shaded valleys. The red terra cotta roofs of traditional stone houses contrast with the dark green of the umbrella pines. The sound of a tolling church bell in a distant village carries on the chill morning breeze.

The surroundings may be awe- inspiring, but the Syrian soldiers lived in miserable conditions. Their billets, once comfortable summer villas, hotels, and mansions, long ago fell into disrepair. The stone or tiled floors are stained and scorched by countless fires, the walls daubed with graffiti. There was no central electricity, no running water, and sanitation was basic. All interior fittings had been stolen or used as firewood to keep the troops warm in the bitterly cold winters. Anything that could be removed is gone: light switches, electricity sockets, wiring, water pipes, even window and door frames.

In one house that reeked of wood smoke, someone had decorated a tiny kitchen with dozens of small cake wrappers, an attempt to provide some color in the drab surroundings.

Many windows and doorways are bricked up, a defense as much against inclement weather as potential enemies.

"Everyone feels free and happy," says teenager Hala Kfoury, wandering through the shell of the Moukarzel Hotel with her family. "We can go out without fear now."

Riachi's hotel sits at the end of a promontory where the landscape falls away on three sides. He looks dazed as he walks through the empty rooms and climbs the staircase. Instead of operating as a hotel, it's been completely ruined. "Instead of making us money, it will cost a lot of money to fix up," he says.

Riachi says he and his brother hope to restore the hotel, but that a final decision rests on the security situation in the country. A car-bomb explosion in a Christian suburb of Beirut in the early hours of Saturday rekindled fears among the Lebanese of a return to violence.

Lebanese opposition figures blamed the bomb blast, which wounded nine people, on Syria, claiming that Damascus is seeking to sow instability in the wake of its troop withdrawal.

"We don't need a war, but what if it starts again?" Riachi asks. "We didn't want a war in 1975, but it happened and lasted 15 years."

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