The Tapestry of Nations: A Symphony of Conflict and the Echo of Hope

The scene begins when speeches dance to the rhythm of storms, and the mind and heart wander, torn between the pain of reality and the yearning of hope—like a poet who places the light of the moon and the mist of ambiguity on his lips simultaneously. We can only ask ourselves: Are we the ones drawing the map of conflict,´-or-is conflict drawing our maps? (Indeed, it seems that the chaos of events is far more complicated than our weekly grocery lists!)

At the heart of this fiery tableau, Iran gleams like a hesitant comet caught between the neighing of armies and the shadows of nuclear negotiations. The meeting between Abbas Araghchi and the American envoy in Muscat was like a short-lived golden hour, described as “positive” and “moderate,” but the stillness of words does not play the melody of safety. The Iranians have learned the hard lesson time and again: health does not arise from disarming, and Khamenei, who has urged military vigilance, may know better than us that diplomatic smiles sometimes do not substitute for a barrel of water when the bullets fly (and no, this is not a joke—because in this atmosphere, a barrel of water is worth its weight in gold!).

As for Iraq, it has become the next chessboard in a game of massive influence. After the erosion of Hezbollah’s power in Lebanon and the retreat of Damascus’s ally, the Iranian interest box now groans under the weight of Iraq’s reality. Sudan’s visit to Erbil was not a tourist trip, but a celebratory chapter in the theater of balance between Baghdad and Erbil—an attempt to tie a taut rope between two warring poles without letting either side slip. (Do you know? Sometimes, I feel like the Iraqi scene resembles trying to tie your shoes in a sandstorm!)

When we reflect on the oil file, the voices rise like a discordant choir: Baghdad, insisting on “exclusive signing,” the Kurdistan region, basking in its federal dreams, and foreign oil companies, which have chosen to withdraw as though fleeing from a tough exam session. As for the phantom employees in the ranks of the Peshmerga, they appear like a bitter, comedic apparition-;- collecting multiple salaries without anyone knowing if they are really fighting ISIS´-or-just coloring the numbers in their reports!

And the Iraqi political reality doesn’t end with oil-;- it stretches to the disputed land of Kirkuk—the warm piece of earth that holds the greatest share of both tears and cunning. Each side waves around Article 140 as if it were a magic wand, reading the disputes between Baghdad and Erbil like a never-ending novel. These disputes don’t only concern oil but extend to salaries, resources, and identity—as if every rock in the hills has a political writer waiting to publish his memoirs. (But I admit, I, too, would love to read those memoirs!)

In Syria, where darkness sometimes seems even darker than the absence of electricity itself, equations ripen at the Antalya diplomatic forum, while Ahmad al-Sharaa receives a warm embrace from Turkey for the sake of traditional images that are not without messages: “He who shakes hands with Turkey shakes hands with power,” like a silent poem, a vision steeped in diplomatic hypocrisy. America wanted to wave its human side, but it forgot that some masks hide only the harbingers of modern intervention and colonialism (But never mind, perhaps titles, not bows, are what we need!).

And not far from the scene are the Gulf disputes, where Qatar moves between the American line and Arab gas, and the UAE waves the warm Israeli hand as a political offering, while Saudi Arabia cautiously navigates between the shores of interests, offering fifteen million dollars for the Syrian World Cup reconstruction, as if placing a heart compress on a chest drowning in crises, trying to balance between survival and slipping from the grasp of Iran and Turkey. (True, it may seem like a tug-of-war, but who said politics is a springtime game?)

In the northeast of Syria, the ghost of federalism looms, allegedly near. Reuters published news of an impending declaration, but the truth is, the steps of the people require Ankara’s approval first, and the satisfaction of semi-autonomous forces second. The political landscape there has become like a chapter in a book whose heroes have yet to write it. We don’t know if they will knock on Riyadh’s door, Washington’s,´-or-Moscow’s, before their final chapters!

When we turn to Lebanon, life is half ghosts and half memories-;- the fiftieth anniversary of the civil war still lives in the cracked walls of Beirut, and when we talk about Hezbollah’s disarmament, it feels like attempting to remove a deep tattoo that only painful political surgery can erase. As for the Lebanese army, it attempts to step here and there, like a skilled dancer avoiding broken music sticks. (Truly, Lebanon is a stage that needs professional foreign actors!)

In Gaza, the death toll has reached about fifty-one thousand since October 8th, where blood has not known mercy, and children and women have become the carpets for the cannons. In light of the failure of Cairo talks, hope and tears continue hand in hand like the final dance in a smoke-free café. (What a bleak imagination! But perhaps there must be a moment to smile amid the sorrow!)

Then the door opens to the West Bank, where Israel chases every soul filled with hope, increasing its attacks, and Palestinian resistance tries to swing the balance while Mahmoud Abbas, at ninety, changes officers bearing images of his youthful past, as if saying: “Don’t leave me alone in this farcical play!”—and we respond: Don’t worry, the chair will remain yours until the stage collapses on its own.

Finally, questions rise in a last moment of an eager audience: about the possibility of an American-Israeli attack on Iran, about Iraq’s next role, and the joint anti-ISIS committee. The answer comes like a folkloric murmur, groaning under the weight of uncertainty: “Anything is possible, and everything depends on the flicker of a decision and the movement of feet. Let’s wait for the coming chapters of this open book…” As if the present hides in the corner of absence, and the decision is about to be born in the belly of fracture.

In the conclusion of this symphony of discordant strings, hope flickers like a dim candle in a dark courtyard, where people now have a thousand faces, each reading the map of the world from the window of their own path, certain that wisdom does not lie merely in accumulating words, but in harmonizing action with the awareness of its consequences. And to make us laugh from the heart for a moment, let’s remember that the grand game may lie in the way we sit on our chairs, attempting to navigate around an irresistible gravity that shows no mercy to the young´-or-the old!

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