The New Beirut

Saad Hariri's father was killed while he was leading the call for an end to Syria's occupation of Lebanon. But Syria had no intention of leaving the country it had dominated for 29 years.

Most people believed that the regime of Syrian President Bashar al-Assad was behind the killing. And a U.N. investigator has linked top Syrian officials – and their Lebanese allies – to the assassination.

But instead of being intimidated, the Lebanese were outraged. As Saad Hariri helped carry his father's casket thru the streets of Beirut, angry mourners chanted anti-Syrian slogans.

Who killed Saad's father?

"I don't know," he says. "But no matter who it is, they have to pay the price. And not only because he's my father. He is the father of democracy in this country."

The wave of huge demonstrations that followed, demanding Syria's withdrawal, were unheard of in the Middle East. What became known as Lebanon's "Cedar Revolution" forced Syria into a humiliating withdrawal of its troops from Lebanon.

And Saad Hariri – in the name of his father – led the anti-Syrian opposition to victory in May elections.

"It's true that people, you know, voted for me. But they voted really for my father. I need to prove myself now," Hariri says.

Saad Hariri says the new Lebanon is independent and unified but "it's a fragile unification."

Lebanon has always been a fragile, and fractured, country. Loyalties here are to family, tribe and religion. Eighteen Moslem and Christian sects – to say nothing of the Druze, who are neither – compete for influence and power.

In 1975, those tensions exploded into a civil war that raged for 15 years. Thousands were killed and Beirut was devastated.

Beirut used to have an area called the "green line," the border between Muslims and Christians. During Lebanon's long bloody civil war, it was dangerous, perhaps fatal, to stand near the line. But Beirut today is a different place entirely. Most of the signs of war, like bullet-holes in walls and damaged buildings, have been replaced by a modern, gleaming skyline.

Monot Street is where the young and the hip meet in Beirut. On a visit one evening, 60 Minutes came across a bar with an unusual theme: sandbags, artillery shells and bullet-holes. It's called "1975," the year the civil war broke out. That's before most of the patrons in the bar were born.

The Beirut we saw is trying to replace war with wealth. It's a place to flaunt your assets, on the ground and in the air. More than 100 new high-rises dot Beirut's skyline. Apartments in one new tower start at $2 million..

It all happened because Hariri turned downtown Beirut into a private development project and lured wealthy Arabs from the Persian Gulf to invest and do business in Lebanon.

Jamil Mroue is the publisher of Beirut's English-language newspaper, "The Daily Star." He told 60 Minutes many Lebanese were skeptical at first.

"Rafik Hariri was not a charismatic leader. He was a man with a lot of presence, but not charismatic and not very well-liked either, for a long time," says Mroue.

The elder Hariri was disliked because people wondered whether he was rebuilding Beirut to help Lebanon or to line his own pockets. After all, Hariri's company did most of the reconstruction. But success made believers out of most Lebanese.

Where does Mroue think Lebanon is today? "It's like a person out of prison. Lots of confusion. Lots of energy. Lots of hope. Lots of insecurity," he says.

But many public figures in Lebanon are genuinely fearful for their lives, and Mroue thinks they should be.

"We live in a fault line diplomatically and in terms of changes that are taking place. We are smack in the center of a fault line. And, yes, they should fear for their lives, yes," he says.

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