Dance of the Dead Upon the Ruins of Conscience: Syria and Reflections on the Shattering of Humanity’s Mirror

The blood spilled on the sidewalks of history is but a tarnished mirror, reflecting the contorted faces hiding behind masks of illusory heroism. In every that soaks Syrian soil, echoes of existential questions pierce the silence of the cosmos: What dark fate transforms man into a beast that savors the snapping of bones before extinguishing souls? What sick divinity smiles as slaughterhouses become stages for “dances of vengeance,” singing only to the anthem of death’s grand symphony? Here, where children are butchered beneath the howl of bullets and women’s breaths are stolen by those who claimed to liberate them, every mirror of ideology shatters. The delusions of “revolutionary legitimacy” dissolve, revealing a single face: humanity’s visage when it becomes a wolf to its own kin.

The scandals of Arab media are but a shadow of this bleeding body. How cruel that the camera lens—once a tool for unveiling truth—morphs into a blade that adorns the victim’s wound before the slaughter! Propaganda channels have twisted tragedy into a blood-soaked play, where killers become heroes, criminals masquerade as reformers, and piled corpses fade into décor for fluid ideological rhetoric. Is this not the same curse that reduced Iraq’s Halabja to a mere digit in a ledger of horrors? When media narratives conspire with executioners, history becomes the biographer of victors. Yet the blood of innocents remains ink, indelible on the pages of night.

In this surreal theater, where ethics and bloodstains shuffle like cards, the specter of history looms to remind us: the “fascist religious gang” is no newborn monstrosity. It is the legitimate child of a culture rooted in the soil of sectarian schism. What difference is there between those who dance on Alawite corpses today and those who exterminated Kurds yesterday under hollow nationalist slogans? It is the same cycle of vengeance, reborn in a lexicon of greater savagery. When power becomes a gang, and resistance becomes gangs, all of Syria transforms into an arena of “war of all against all,” where the only law is the law of the jungle, and the sole spoils are the skulls of the innocent.

But what meaning remains for “legitimacy” in a land where legitimacy is trampled under mercenaries’ boots? The “new Golanis” have proven that changing slogans does nothing to the nature of wolves. When a warlord crowns himself “rightful leader” after a life of banditry, he strips the mask not only from his own face but from Truth itself: the regime did not fall to “revolutionaries”—it rotted into an ethical carcass under the weight of its own decay. Yet this collapse is no end, merely a station on the journey of absurdity, where successors compete to mimic their predecessors in slaughter, as if the homeland were a corpse divided among vultures.

As for silence, it is the most cunning crime. Those mute in the face of atrocity are not neutral witnesses but accomplices who polish the executioner’s blade with their indifference. Did history not teach us that the silence of the “sane” allowed Saddam’s Anfal to unfold in broad daylight? That the absence of a scream turned Halabja into a tragedy read in books but un-carved into conscience? Every martyr slain on the coast today screams a question that pierces time: “Where were you when our humanity shattered?”

In the end, Syria is but a shattered mirror reflecting humanity’s disfigured face. What unfolds on its soil is no fleeting political conflict but an existential test of what “human” means in an age of collapsing sanctities. The blood of children watering its earth is not mere blood—it is a scar on the brow of the cosmos, reminding us that evil is not vanquished by silence, nor are homelands liberated by those who slaughter their children in the name of salvation. Shall we piece together the broken mirror of conscience before every land becomes Syria, and every era becomes the Tigris and Euphrates?

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