In Lebanon, a country exhausted by political, economic, and security crises, public opinion suddenly finds itself dragged into a pointless debate: Should a journalist—or anyone, for that matter—be detained for crude or offensive comments on social media? True, many of these comments may be politically motivated, but does that justify an iron-fisted security response?

Whoever in the state decided to target individuals for their posts, no matter how provocative, was deeply mistaken. In an age of global populism, vulgarity and indecency have lost much of their shock value. The more they appear, the less impact they have. The real problem arises when the state turns such trivialities into a matter of criminal pursuit, thereby amplifying their importance instead of letting them fade on their own.

In recent weeks, Lebanon witnessed the controversy over illuminating Beirut’s Raoucheh Rock with the images of Hezbollah leaders despite an official ban on using public landmarks for political purposes.

Instead of addressing the issue calmly, with transparent mechanisms that uphold the neutrality of public space, it spiraled into a provocative internal dispute that deepened divisions rather than reinforcing the rule of law. The case turned into a chase after the NGO that organized the illumination, and after individuals who used the sharpest “weapon” available in such cases: mockery and insult—a weapon into whose trap every authority, any authority, can easily fall.

The name Ali Berrou suddenly became a public cause after prosecutors summoned him over a video in which he mocked Prime Minister Nawaf Salam, following the Raoucheh incident.

This paradox encapsulates the dilemma of freedom of expression in Lebanon: How does society end up defending the freedom of people who add nothing to public debate except noise? And how do such figures, thanks to prosecution, turn into “heroes of free speech”?

The issue isn’t the existence of vulgar speech—it can be ignored—but rather the state’s decision to turn it into a national case. The result is a contradictory, confusing message to citizens: Freedom of expression becomes reduced to defending individuals who distort public discourse, while deeper human rights issues remain unprotected.

Summoning Berrou for what he said opens a serious debate about freedom of expression and its limits in Lebanon. The Lebanese Constitution guarantees free expression “within the bounds of the law.” But those “bounds” are vague, since the Penal Code still criminalizes defamation, slander, and insulting officials. Any statement that can be interpreted as “disrespect” may lead to questioning, prosecution, or even arrest.

By contrast, international standards are clear: even offensive or provocative speech is protected when directed at public officials, so long as it does not incite violence. In such cases, the appropriate response is civil (compensation or right of reply), not criminal (imprisonment or prosecution).

Nawaf Salam is not just a prime minister—he’s a former international judge and legal scholar. He is expected, more than anyone, to uphold international standards on freedom of expression, even when he himself is the target of insult.

By allowing prosecution under the pretext of “defamation and insult,” the judiciary sends the public a dangerous message: that the law protects the dignity of officials, not the freedom of citizens. This deeply contradicts Lebanon’s image as a country proud of its plurality of voices.

Behind this scene, Hezbollah appears to be compensating for its military setbacks in its confrontation with Israel, and for the growing pressure to disarm, by inventing internal enemies and launching quixotic battles over speech.

Instead of confronting existential questions about the purpose of its arms and its role within the state, the party has turned its energy inward, targeting Prime Minister Nawaf Salam and portraying him as an “enemy within,” through vicious campaigns led by its influencers and affiliated media.

These campaigns rely on an arsenal of vulgarity, not to challenge policies or critique positions, but to vent the base’s anger and reinforce the narrative that any criticism of Hezbollah or its conduct is an attack on “the Resistance.”

The result is that public debate collapses into personal attacks and cheap insults, while the real questions—about Lebanon’s future, its statehood, and its relationship with the world—fade into the background.

The real problem arises when the state, the prime minister, or the presidency fall into this trap, allowing such provocations to turn into battles over “freedom.”

What makes the situation even more concerning for civil liberties are the words recently spoken by President Joseph Aoun, who in a public meeting said that freedom is guaranteed “as long as it is not used to offend.” He added that “the media must not become a tool to incite against state symbols or friendly nations.”

Such vague phrasing is often used by authorities to justify restricting criticism and quickly deploying security and judicial tools against opponents.

Just days after this statement, a young man was summoned by security forces for posting a satirical comment about the president’s wife, Naamat Aoun. This incident not only reflects an over-sensitivity to criticism, but also the futility of such attempts in the age of social media: the more authorities try to suppress speech, the wider and louder it spreads.

Every act of censorship becomes free publicity for the very voices the state wants silenced.

In the era of open networks, prosecuting individuals over posts or comments is an exercise in futility.

Society no longer receives information—true or false—from a single official source, but from thousands of pages and accounts, making control or suppression impossible.

The insistence on turning a post or comment into a matter of state only weakens the image of the state itself.

The issue goes beyond Ali Berrou or his tone. The real question is: how do we define the boundaries of free expression—and ensure that the state does not impose selective censorship? Between the vulgarity of speech and the breach of a government decision by a powerful party, Lebanon stands before its own reflection: Does it want to be a state that protects free speech—even when it stings—or an authority that responds to weakness with more repression?

In the end, the question isn’t whether Ali Berrou and others like him are offensive, but whether we, as a society, deserve to be protected from the abuse of power, even when that power is offended.