In the face of recent football frenzy, as Lebanese political flags were, for once, pushed into the background by the colours of competing nations, a common refrain has been circling: if only the Lebanese could disagree about politics as good-naturedly as they boisterously root for their adopted teams. Convoys of cars full of flag-waving, face-painted fans choke the streets after every victory, however minor, leaving passers-by deafened but indulgent, telling one other, So long as its not politics.

And yet, such comparisons are only drawn because of similarities in supporters’ behaviour. A political victory, like a win on the pitch, is celebrated with fireworks and sometimes celebratory gunfire; in politics its the same story wwith the proportions reversed. In both domains, the sheer number and the variety of flags are remarkable, and Lebanon’s fractured political scene could be described as a never-ending round of 16, save for the ever-changing alliances.

Both phenomena share a common basis: a deep-seated desire to display one’s identity. While supporters around the world drape their homes and vehicles in their team’s colours, fewer give their religious and political inclinations the same amount of publicity.

I wonder what the many Lebanese expats in France think of the ostensibly secular ban on conspicuous religious symbols in French schools. Perhaps this nation’s incredible aptitude for adaptation attenuate its impact somewhat, and of course Christians would be less affected than Muslims. But here in Lebanon the diverse camps are what can only be described as purposefully ostentatious.

Foreign money pours in to fund the building of larger, more central churches and mosques, each side seeking to dominate the capital’s centre and other key vantage points. Forlorn Jesus posters and ornate Allah inscriptions can be seen not only in private homes, but also plastered over public areas and shops; here money comes in various sectarian fragrances. Virgin Maries sit soberly watching the road in wall alcoves which locals always keep lit by candles, even as the mid-afternoon sun melts the wax before the flame. Larger icons embellish balconies, where they temporarily fought for attention alongside a flurry of football flags. In town, I round the corner and come to an abrupt halt, feeling as if I have blundered into someone’s home: a green rubbish bin on wheels (wheelie bin), next to it a pair of boots, and then a street sweeper on his knees facing the bushes, his forehead bowed low. The dusty pavement makes no mark on his already dirty brow. Later, in the bus, my neighbour, behind her bursting bags of lettuces, sports a gold chain dipping deep below her neckline. I know that at the nadir it is weighted down by a large gold crucifix. Every car on the motorway is labelled with the consistency of marathon runners, whether it be by a sticker on the bonnet or a charm on the rearview mirror.

Such devotion is in itself arresting but what steals the stage is the great outward display. Practising believers and secular types alike, in a society which barely distinguishes between religion and politics, hunger after idols in their many forms as a means to secure their place in a clan and provide a feeling of belonging. In  many areas of the western world, football fever may have been a welcome change from prevailing apathy and lack of community spirit; here in Lebanon where divisions are – without exception – communitarian and fervent, it provides light relief with a cathartic twist.

or: fickleness of a Buddhist SriLankan who tells me she wears a cross because she likes Christians is refreshing.

income – flashy in other ways.