ABSTRACT
The first thing I noticed on arriving at the Beirut bus station that warm June day in 1952 was the magnificent new cluster of high-rise office buildings on the far left side of the bustling downtown area known as the Tower Plaza. Then another pleasant surprise caught my attention and stirred my emotions. It was the familiar warm face of someone I had met in Baghdad not too long before. A full-length picture of Camille Cham’oun, dressed in black tie and dinner jacket, hung on one of the electric poles surrounding the Plaza. The campaign for elections to parliament that had begun a few months earlier appeared to be in full swing. As I stood in line for a taxicab, I saw the faces of candidates displayed everywhere, from telephone wires to store windows, and wondered whether the campaign would indeed be as bloody as our ambassador in Baghdad had predicted. Mr. Salah had been in the diplomatic service long enough to know how to judge such events. “The Maronites will have a tough time in these elections,” he warned.
