by Alexandra Talty, When the Hells Angels arrived in Beirut this spring, they showed up at
the Four Seasons, located in the upscale neighborhood of Zaytouna Bay,
whose clean and empty streets are sprinkled with high-end hotels and
swim clubs. The unlikely setting was the site of the Harley-Davidson
Owner’s Group (HOGs) annual general assembly. Given Harley-Davidson’s
appeal to the upper middle class, the Four Seasons was not an unusual
location for a HOGs event, but few expected the presence of the world’s
most notorious motorcycle club.

Marwan Tarraf, the 47-year-old founder of Lebanon’s first Harley
dealership, recognized the outlaws instantly because of their signifying
tattoos and heavy chains. Approaching three “full-time” Angels, whom he
assumed were Germans of Lebanese descent, he asked why they were there.
When Angels expressed interest in opening a chapter in Beirut, he
explained a few things about the country to them.

“It would be like going to Somalia and trying to start an outlaw
group,” Tarraf tells me. “There are militias with 10,000 armed men in
them. The rulers of those militias are basically ruling the country.”

From a spate of trendy repair shops to the plethora of biker bars,
motorcycles are having their moment in Beirut. What began as a few men
in the 1970s and 80s drawn to the abandon of the road and the freedom of
a world outside of politics has now become a subculture in its own
right.

If the Hells Angels want to open a chapter, we will face them

But some fear that as the scene becomes more mainstream, it could
become a victim of its own popularity. With the rumor that the Hells
Angels want to open their own chapter, some fear all two-wheeled
vehicles could be outlawed, like they were in one Lebanese city where
armed groups used motorcycles to carry out killings. Or will the scene,
which has flourished outside the confines of Lebanon’s sectarian system,
become yet another partisan activity?

For now, Lebanon’s only true outlaw group is the Rebels MC. And they
are not taking the news of the Hells Angels lightly. “If they want to
open a chapter, we will face them,” says Tony Istambouly, the president
of the Rebels Motorcycle Club in Lebanon. Wearing his leather club
jacket and ruffled hair, Istambouly perpetually looks like he just got
off his Harley. Lebanon is Rebels’ territory, he says, and if the Angels
tried to open up a chapter, his club would consider it a personal
affront.

A software engineer with a penchant for daytime drinking and
chain-smoking, Istambouly points out that the Angels are most likely
looking for club business, like trafficking women, something that the
gang was recently charged with in Germany. Lebanon is too small a
country with too many well-armed players for a foreign club to begin
dabbling in the illegal.

“Rebels
forever, forever Rebels,” says club President Tony Istambouly as he
explains the significance of being a ‘one percenter’ or outlaw
motorcycle club. Photo: Alexandra Talty

Lebanon’s largest and most well-known paramilitary group is
Hizbollah, a political party with a military wing. However, many
parties, religious factions, and family groups have their own armed
followings. These are all in addition to the Lebanese military and
police force. For an international motorcycle club associated with
organized crime, Lebanon is small pond with a lot of powerful,
gun-wielding fish in it.

In Australia, their home base, the Rebels club has been associated by
police with gang violence and drug smuggling, but in Lebanon they are
adamant that they do not engage in any illegal activity to generate
income.

Despite its newfound popularity, Lebanon is not ideal territory for
motorcycles. In addition to poorly maintained roads, military road
blocks, and higher-than-average traffic fatalities,
riders have been unable to tour outside of the country thanks to the
civil war in Syria and a closed border with Israel, following the 2006
Israeli-Lebanese war. Bike enthusiasts are forced to ride a ferry from
Tripoli, Lebanon, to Bodrum, Turkey, in order to access “mainland.”

But over the past 15 years the number of motorcyclists has jumped
from 700 to nearly 5,000, according to Tarraf. Talar Partiyan, the
former director of HOGs, believes that two-wheeled vehicles have seen a
surge in popularity because of the traffic that plagues the small
country. As for the propagation of motorcycle clubs—which barely existed
on an official level ten years ago—some say that the establishment of a
Harley dealership has led to an increased interest in group rides.

But even movement inside Lebanon is constrained. Until 2000, southern
parts of the country were occupied by Israel, which meant that for many
Lebanese, the south was off-limits or only accessible with permission
from the Israeli government.

Even now, two-wheeled vehicles must obtain a permit from the
government to drive through the crusader port of Sidon. The city
outlawed all two-wheeled vehicles in the late 1990s following a spate of
motorcycle assassinations by armed groups. Lebanon’s main highway cuts
directly through the city, meaning that in order to access the southern
part of the country, motorcyclists must secure a permit before riding.
As a workaround, Tarraf hires a tow truck to ferry him and his bike
through the city for $10. Once outside of the city limits, he gets back
on the open road.

Tarraf insists that Lebanon’s bikers are apolitical. “You can be
whoever you want; you can be a Hizbollah supporter or a Lebanese forces
supporter, but don’t bring it here.” He has kicked out members for
discussing politics during meetings or on tours. Most groups, including
the Rebels, have a similar policy.

During the civil war, Beirut was split down the middle with the
so-called Green Line separating the Muslim west from the Christian east.
Afterwards, Tarraf began riding informally with a group of bikers, some
of whom he had fought against.

When they came together in the 1990s, it was like discovering a whole
new country on the other side of the line. Reaching across sectarian
and religious lines, the men were brought together by their love of
motorcycles and the open road. An award winning documentary, Wheels of War, portrays their camaraderie.

By the early 2000s, the nascent scene had grown to around 700 but
there was still a stigma attached. “You wouldn’t want to marry your
daughter to a biker,” Tarraf says.

Much has changed since then. These days, Lebanon is the first country
in the world to have a female director of HOGs—Rana Ockaili, the
27-year old web developer—and the only group that doesn’t allow women is
the Rebels. Ockaili says, “I hate it when they say it’s a guy thing.
It’s a hobby like basketball.”

One day I went for a ride with the Rebels on their quarterly camping
trip to Jezzine. I rode on the back of Istambouly’s Harley-Davidson Road
King as we weaved through the grinding traffic. The sunny weather was
perfect for riding but tensions were high that day as elections for
local representatives in the south were being held.

Istambouly signaled speed bumps and slowdowns to his troops. There
are nearly twenty gestures used by all Lebanese motorcyclists, one of
which indicates potholes on both sides of the roads.

As we left Beirut’s sprawl, traffic subsided, and we trolled in
formation with AC/DC and Metallica on full blast, the Rebels drawing
looks from packed microbuses and BMW SUVs alike We rode through three
military checkpoints on the two-hour journey, a standard number of
roadblocks in the country. The boys were waved through.

A pit stop invited the attention of the secret police, but after a
quick explanation, we were left alone to drink Almaza beer and stare
into a verdant valley. As we discussed the logistics of the trip,
Istambouly topped off his beer with Stoli from a half-pint bottle that
is perpetually stored in his leather jacket.