By Pierre A. Maroun *

The line is usually attributed to Stalin: told in 1935 that improving the treatment of Catholics in Russia would help win favor with the Vatican, he is said to have asked his visitor, French Foreign Minister Pierre Laval, "The Pope? How many divisions does he have?" The account comes down to us through Winston Churchill's memoirs, and historians have never nailed down its exact wording or setting with certainty. But whatever the precise circumstances, it captured something real: a worldview in which power that cannot be counted in battalions does not count at all.

Ninety years later, Lebanese MP Jamil al-Sayyed reached for a version of the same logic. Commenting on President Joseph Aoun's outreach to the Vatican, he wrote: "The president's efforts are necessary, but if America's guarantee — and Trump's — failed to deter Israel, what can His Holiness the Pope do?" It is a more serious question than a simple sneer at a man in white robes. It deserves a serious answer, not a dismissal.

What Poland Actually Answered

The answer history gave to Stalin's question did not arrive quickly, and it did not arrive alone. In June 1979, John Paul II returned to Poland for the first time since his election, and celebrated Mass in Warsaw's Victory Square before an enormous crowd that took up the chant: "We want God." It was not, in that moment, a declaration that communism had fallen — it was a crack in the wall of fear a regime had spent decades building. A year later, that crack widened into Solidarity, the first independent trade union in the Soviet bloc, born in the shipyards of Gdańsk.

It would be too neat to say the visit alone brought down communism. It didn't. What followed was a wider convergence — a stagnant Soviet economy, the burden of the arms race, Gorbachev's reforms, sustained Western pressure — that ended, a decade later, with the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union itself. John Paul II fired no shots. But he did something the entire arsenal of the Warsaw Pact could not prevent; he gave people back their belief that tyranny could end.

That is the kind of power Stalin's question cannot account for. Stalin died in 1953, a quarter-century before John Paul II's election; he never lived to see the answer to his own question. But the system that inherited his logic did — and it began, slowly, to come apart from within.

Lebanon and al-Sayyed's Question

When al-Sayyed questions the value of Aoun's trip to Rome, he isn't just weighing in on what the Vatican can or cannot do. He is reflecting a mindset that has governed a large share of Lebanese politics for decades: that political worth is measured first by firepower, and that whatever isn't backed by weapons carries little weight. That same mindset is what has allowed a state within the state to take root in Lebanon, where an armed faction outside state institutions can shape the terms to which everyone else must adjust.

History doesn't repeat the scene exactly. But it knows how to defeat that logic. A Church with no army contributed — alongside other social, political, and economic forces — to the unraveling of a Soviet system that held thousands of nuclear warheads, because it addressed something weapons cannot reach human dignity, and the belief that subjugation is not a permanent condition.

Lebanon needs that kind of power too — moral authority not as a substitute for the state, but as a force that can help restore it. The current pope, Leo XIV, has already shown direct interest in Lebanon: his first apostolic journey abroad after his election, from November 27 to December 2, 2025, took him to Turkey and then Lebanon, where he arrived on November 30. He received President Aoun at the Vatican on August 20, 2026 — the same visit that prompted al-Sayyed's comment.

Leo XIV has no brigades to send south, and no capacity to disarm anyone outside the state. What he has is something arms cannot buy: a moral platform that speaks to all Lebanese, Christian and Muslim alike, above sect, above weapons, above regional patronage. That is precisely what unsettled the communist authorities in 1979 — not that the Pope might fight, but that his words might free people from the fear that kept them silent.

Still, the difference between the two cases is real and shouldn't be waved away. Poland in 1979 was a relatively homogeneous society facing a communist system under Soviet domination. Lebanon is a multi-confessional country, and the weapons outside its state are tied to a regional axis and to a far more layered internal structure. The bet on moral authority is harder and slower here than it was in Poland. That doesn't make it worthless — it makes the expectations around it more realistic.

The Answer Lebanon Owes Itself

The dominance of weapons over the state in Lebanon will not be broken by building a rival arsenal. It will be broken only when public will, political action, and state authority converge around the principle that national decisions belong to institutions — not to whoever carries weapons outside them. And when al-Sayyed asks what the Pope can do if the great guarantees have failed, he might remember that a question of the same essence was asked ninety years ago — and that history did not settle it in favor of brute force.

Reducing power to hardware alone may produce a passing headline. But faith in dignity and freedom, once translated into collective consciousness and political will, can defeat fear. Lebanon will not reclaim its national decision through weapons outside the state — it will reclaim it the day it decides fear no longer gets to rule.

* Researcher and Strategic Analyst

President, Shields of United Lebanon — SOUL

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