Tea with Hizbullah

“Well, I’ve never done that before,” I mutter as we walk down the stairs.

The sweet tea we’ve been given cloys at the back of my throat and as we emerge into the clamorous streets of the Dahiyeh, I suddenly realise I have absolutely no clue where were are.

A non-discript suburb of Beirut, up an annonymous set of stairs, is perhaps a fitting place for the headquarters of Hizbullah.

When I pitched an idea to my editor earlier in the week and told her the area I intended to do it in, she looked a little unsure and suggested that I go to meet her contact at Hizbullah, you know, just in case one of their depressingly numerous thugs decided to take a dislike to me.

So the next day we take a taxi through the sprawling, faceless suburbs of South Beirut to meet a representative of the Shiite group. A meet and greet with an organisation, the members of which are banned from travelling to the UK.

The organisation has both political and military wings and these men who drive down the highway with their windows down, music up and guns pointing skyward – whose supporters number hundreds of thousands of angry young men – have just lost a general election in which they got more of the popular vote.

Now might not be the best time for coffee morning chatter, I think to myself as the taxi negotiates the now-unmarked alleyways.

The man we meet is disarmingly charming – not really surprising, given it is his job to be so.

We talk on a range of issues, on politics, different countries different ideas of democracy and about the absurdity of Jacqui Smith’s decision to bar his entry to the UK not more than two months after completing his PhD at Birmingham University.

He speaks with passion but restraint, his measured responses to my questions no less heartfelt for being pre-prepared.

I’ve been told that the group are quite difficult to approach for comment, but this man seems affable, even positively keen to have me talk with him. It’s unlikely to be the start of a beautiful relationship, but could be a handy card to have in the wallet, particularly when in the dodgy end of the city.

We go for breakfast after our meeting has ended, to a bizarre restaurant/museum/ancient ruin/souvenir shop and it takes all my self-preserve to not by a mug, upon which Nasrallah’s face appears when heated up.

Must remain impartial, Patrick, impartial.