Reflections on a Scene Rolling from the Basket to Power

As if we were before a surrealist painting, where shadow sways with light, and playfulness merges with cunning—where sport is borrowed as a mask, and a smile is invested as rhetoric. Between a loose athletic jersey and a tightly buttoned diplomatic suit, two men emerge—not to play a game, but to test the elasticity of the collective mind, to measure how readily people believe in sleight of hand disguised as innocence.

What era is this, where dribbling a ball becomes official discourse? What language is this, where sweat translates into political terminology? We have moved beyond symbols, drowning now in an age of non-symbolism, where the image has no code, the message no intent—yet still... it stirs stagnant waters and provokes dormant minds.

The video that brought Ahmad al-Shaara and his minister together in a fleeting sporting moment was nothing more than a short dance on a grand stage. Some thought it meant nothing—yet it meant everything. In politics, absence sometimes speaks louder than presence, and silence roars louder than the storm. Behind the minister’s smile, beneath the playful glint in his gaze, hides an Ottoman-style counsel—paid for in Gulf coin, signed in Brotherhood ink—whispering to France: "Receive him, for this man carries no rifle... only a rubber ball."

As if the scene declares: We do not intimidate, we play. We do not rule, we jest. But it is jest laced with dynamite, delivering its message not through words but through gesture, not through speech but through spectacle—crafted to speak to the Western politician’s imagination, soothing his anxieties with a raised knee and a hand reaching for the basket, not the gun.

Meanwhile, in Suwayda, the story takes another turn. Here, there is no ball—only dignity. No video—only facts. Men of an ancient mountain have refused to be actors in a farce -script-ed by Eastern and Western capitals, choosing instead to forge their own fate—written in blood if necessary, in wisdom if possible. And when the media hounds accused them of defiance, they answered not with statements, but with steadfastness. And from Palestine, the Druze voice rises—not in betrayal, but in another kind of Arabness, reminding us that identity is not confined by borders, but by a shared thread of blood.

Here, there is no shame in solidarity—so long as it does not translate into subservience. No blame in convergence—so long as it does not lead to submission. The irony? Those who once sought treatment in Tel Aviv hospitals now raise banners of excommunication against those who seek solidarity—not support. By what logic is solidarity with one’s own sect forbidden, while treatment in the enemy’s embrace is permitted? By what measure is patriotism judged, when its standard is the interest of the faction, not the dignity of the nation?

Federalism? It is no heresy, but an exit. No conspiracy, but a rational structure for an age that no longer tolerates dictatorship masked as centralization. Those who oppose it today do so not because it is evil, but because it means sharing power—and exposing hegemony. As for Israel, it pushes in this -dir-ection not out of love for the Druze, but because every fracture in Syria brings it closer to its grand design: a fragmented neighbor, managed from its edges, not its heart.

And the electronic flies buzzing on the tightropes of so-called patriotism? They are nothing but an army without creed, easily hacked and -dir-ected. One day they attack in the name of religion, another in the name of the state, and yet another in the name of a morality they do not know. This digital generation does not reflect the spirit of the nation—only the echo of the highest bidder. And as long as the state remains absent from its own narrative, others will speak for it, and its name will be written by hands that know nothing of it beyond the files they are fed.

As for Paris, it prepares for a new show—where oil is not sold, but promises are. Where no agreements are signed, only possibilities sketched. Al-Shaara enters the ancient city not with a map, but to sell the future in installments. And Macron, dreaming of restoring France’s role in the East, may find in this guest an opportunity—or a trap...´-or-perhaps both.

We are in a moment where geography blurs with tactics, betrayal intersects with interest, and innocence merges with deception. From the basketball hoop to the basket of interests, everything moves on taut wires. And the question remains:
Will the ball through the net—or into a bottomless abyss?

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