Since the adoption of the proportional representation law with closed lists and a single preferential vote—commonly known as the "George Adwan Law"—in the 2018 elections, Lebanon's political “steamrollers” and “buses” were disrupted. Yet, in some cases, certain MPs still managed to hitch a ride to Parliament through what could be described as a political "auto-stop." Representation improved, allowing Christian communities, in particular, to elect their deputies through their own votes, reaching around 54 out of 64 seats.

This shift brought greater transparency to the real weight of political parties based on actual votes, exposing the inflated influence of certain political players who had previously benefited from older electoral systems. Proportionality also enabled breakthroughs in districts that had been historically closed to political diversity, introducing a plurality of voices in Parliament that challenged longstanding binary alignments.

However, this significant step forward in representative accuracy was not matched by an equivalent leap in the quality of electoral discourse. The issue isn’t the electoral platforms—most are impressive, yet often copied from one another, sounding promising but disappointing in practice. The core problem lies in campaign rhetoric, which rarely engages with Lebanon's existential crises, the very issues threatening the nation’s identity, role, and structure. Instead, the political discourse has become a mix of utopian and populist proposals, full of inflammatory appeals and the weaponization of history—whether through selective war narratives or sectarian and tribal provocation.

Now that ballot boxes have closed on the municipal elections, the race for the May 2026 parliamentary elections has officially begun. Several key dynamics have changed since the last national vote in 2022:

- The era of General Michel Aoun, who leveraged the full weight of the state to support his political party, is over.

- A new era has begun with General Joseph Aoun, whose electoral alignment remains unclear. Will he stay neutral, lend discreet support, or enter the fray directly? The third option seems unlikely.

- The October 17 protest movement is, in fact, over. The once-powerful slogan “All of them means all of them” has lost its edge, and the so-called “Change MPs” have squandered the public trust granted to them. They failed to present a viable alternative and became mired in infighting—an outcome that, in hindsight, was predictable due to their deep ideological splits on sovereignty, politics, and economics. Attention now turns to where their 2022 support base will align in 2026.

- The Assad regime, once able to sway Hezbollah’s electoral choices or influence candidate selection, is now irrelevant in this context.

- Hezbollah is preparing to contest the election without its longtime Secretary-General Hassan Nasrallah for the first time. The man who once managed the group’s electoral strategy, Sheikh Naim Qassem, has now assumed the top leadership role. Hezbollah finds itself in a vulnerable position due to shifting regional dynamics and battlefield changes. Will it succeed in rallying voter sympathy by framing the ongoing war as an attack on the entire Shiite sect, thus boosting turnout in its favor? Or will the proportional system and the erosion of its security aura embolden dissenting Shiite voices at the polls?

Crucially, these elections are taking place at a pivotal existential juncture for Lebanon amid the political earthquake reshaping the region. The hour of reckoning is near—there is no room for ambiguity. Lebanon must choose: Does it cross over into a true statehood model or continue paying the price of harboring a parallel armed state? Does it integrate into the region’s emerging political order or remain isolated and irrelevant? This vote is a referendum on what kind of Lebanon we want and on the future of the current political system.

Ironically, as these weighty questions loom, early signs of trivialization have begun to surface. Some political actors, as in every election cycle, are reopening old wounds from the civil war for political gain. MP Tony Frangieh, for example, effectively torpedoed the Bkerké reconciliation with the Lebanese Forces by reverting to wartime rhetoric—invoking the old saying: “When bankrupt, return to your grandfather’s books.” His language rewinds history to 1977, debating who broke the ceasefire or stormed which neighborhood.

But the future cannot be built on the grudges of the past. This kind of inflammatory rhetoric might energize a core base that would vote for him regardless, but it alienates swing voters and won’t attract broader support for the Marada Movement. Instead, sacrificing national reconciliation on the altar of electoral gain robs these politicians of credibility and casts them as merchants of lost causes.

Wouldn’t it be better if these elections were fought with a new mindset—one that abandons incitement and forgoes recycled platforms? Let the vote be a national referendum: What Lebanon do we want, and under what system? A state or a battleground? A nation of exclusive arms or a state monopoly over force? A country defined by diversity and equality or dominated by sectarian arithmetic? A Lebanon integrated with its Arab surroundings and the global order, or one isolated and marginalized?

These are the questions that matter. And it’s about time to start answering them.