A Meditation in the Labyrinths of Identity and the Corridors of Power

O Syria, trembling thread of history at the cusp of fate, riddle of identity laid bare upon the altar of legitimacy—torn between the tunnels of oppression and the crumbling pillars of ambition. You are not merely a country, but a legend limping on the edges of wounds, whispering to the present in the dialect of blood, calling to the future with a breath choked by rubble.

What kind of destiny makes your agate soil a sanctuary for blood, and the skies of Damascus a cold pulpit for hollow speeches? Power, in your lands, is like fleeting perfume—touched by fingers but never held in palms. Positions of authority are handed out as consolation prizes for rivals, not as sacred trusts to guard the nation. As for identity, it has become a patched robe of statements and slogans—worn hastily in political salons, discarded shamelessly at the crossroads of the people.

It is no surprise that sovereignty has become the castle of yesterday s knights—men who now govern as well as they once hunted. And does it shock you that justice today is written not with the ink of constitutions, but with the ink of edicts? The pen has become a sword, the courtroom a prayer niche, and the scales of rights now tip with the hand of sect, not the hand of fairness.

And the minorities? They are like stars suspended from a crumbling ceiling—beautiful to the eye, but distant, powerless, offering no warmth and guiding no caravan. Their representation is symbolic, like masks in a theater-;- their presence more decorative than deliberative. The Kurds are scribbled in pale ink in the ledgers of power, yet their blood still writes the true declaration on the soil of the North. As for the Christians, their silence is no longer golden—it has become an echo of sorrow in a language no one hears anymore.

And the West? Don’t put your faith in candles lit by the gusts of self-interest. The international players lower their heads in the hallways of chessboards—not to honor your pain, but to secure their piece in the maps of the after-war. As for your neighbors, their windows are shut tight. The cries of your blood do not disturb them-;- the echo of your ruin stirs no fear. As long as the border fence stands, let doomsday fall next door.

Economy? What economy, when you walk the blade of hunger? What investment, in a nation ruled from the shadows and governed by ghosts? Poverty has become a system. Destruction an institution. Division a religion recited differently by every sect. The people have become scattered islands of longing, exchanging signals through a thick fog of distance.

Maps are redrawn without permission. The creeping federalism is not a promise of democracy, but a warning that the knife is drawing near the body of the nation. What is imposed by rifles cannot be called independence. What is written in the language of tribe cannot be called a constitution. Your fragmentation is not relief, but yet another splinter on a table crowded with wolves.

Syria, flower of the East, kneaded with rain and blood—do you still linger as a dream in the hearts of lovers?´-or-have you become a tale told on the sidewalks of the exiled? Your resurrection will come only when you grow from your ashes a tree that knows no sect, when you write your constitution in ink that knows no creed, when your state is built on the stone of justice—not the foam of domination.

So, Damascus, Horan, Qamishlo, Maaloula, Tartous… isn’t it time for pain to grow weary of itself? Isn’t it time for identity to wear its true garment and step out of the mirror of fear? Isn’t it time for this homeland to scream: "Enough!"

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