The Weary Soul: When Existence Becomes Rebellion in a Land That Lost Its Dream

In the heart of the Middle East, where the soil still carries the scent of blood and mud, and the horizon chokes beneath the weight of smoke and illusion, people walk like ghosts through a labyrinth with no exit. The uprisings that erupted in 2011 are no longer read as the dawn of a new era, but as the end of a dream once believed possible. These were not mere political tremors—they were a collective scream from a people exhausted by waiting, by tyranny, by poverty, by marginalization. But the scream was not heard as it should have been—or rather, it was heard by ears that know only how to silence sound.

Since 2003, and with greater intensity in 2011, the region has entered a new trajectory—not merely a shift in power balances, but a disintegration of the very fabric of societies. Iran, which seemed to emerge as the main beneficiary of the Arab earthquake, now finds itself trapped, squeezed between internal hostility and external pressure. Israel, which watched from the sidelines, has pounced on the scene with unfathomable violence, as if hastening the erasure of everything Arab, everything resistant, everything human. As for the Arab world, once a political and intellectual center, it has scattered. Egypt, once the beating heart of the nation, now sees its own people as an internal threat. Saudi Arabia, which tried to fill the void, failed to turn Yemen into a backyard garden, and has fallen silent in the face of the Palestinian tragedy—as if the cause no longer touches its dignity.

All of this paints not a picture of revolution, but of collapse. The uprisings did not produce democracy—they produced a vacuum. They did not topple tyranny—they replaced one form with another, more brutal. In Iraq, social cohesion has turned to fragility, and Sunnis seem to have vanished. In Syria, sectarianism did not begin with the new Assad regime—it was rooted since the 1970s—but today it marches toward what resembles genocide. Revolutions are no longer calls for freedom-;- they have become raw material for manufacturing more violence, more fragmentation.

And from here emerges a shattering question: Why did the uprising yield nothing? Why did it not produce new elites, new ideas, new movements? Because the people were not only resisting tyranny—they were resisting a culture of death that has flowed through their veins for decades. A culture that sees war as the only path to identity, martyrdom as an honorable end, and destruction as an expression of existence. This culture—what might be called a "culture of thanatosis," the worship of death—was not defeated by revolution-;- it fed on it. When the regime collapses, democracy does not rise in its place. Instead, militias emerge, armed authority takes over, extremist groups rise.

Those who rose up in 2011 were not merely victims of poverty and tyranny, but victims of deep intellectual and social accumulation. They had no tools for organization, no alternative vision, not even a shared language to unite them. All they had was anger. And no matter how justified, anger alone cannot build a nation. When the movements began to crumble and extremist groups emerged, it was not surprising—it was inevitable. In a power vacuum, democracy does not fill the void-;- weapons do. As Ibn Khaldun said: when the state weakens, innovation shifts to the margins—to those who hold arms, even if fewer in number, even if less legitimate.

Tunisia, once the model of the Arab Spring, has now become an example of the dream’s retreat. Parliament is elected with only 11% voter turnout, and hard-won -union-s and rights are being quietly rolled back. In Iraq, cities the size of Mosul fell without resistance—not because the army was weak, but because society had already disintegrated from within. There is no longer a sense of belonging, no collective will to defend. And when this will collapses, a few hundred armed men can occupy cities of millions. This happened in Mali—and it could happen anywhere.

Amid this fragmentation, Islamic groups emerge—not as a solution, but as symptoms of the disease. The Muslim Brotherhood, which tried to present itself as a civil alternative, failed not only because they were denied opportunity, but because they failed to understand themselves and their societies. They believed they could transform a complex reality through preaching and charity, but they could not build a sustainable model. When they turned to force, they lost their legitimacy. As for more extreme groups like Al-Qaeda and ISIS, they were not religious movements—they were expressions of existential despair, a desire for destruction as a means of identity. ISIS was not built on an idea, but on emptiness. It was not merely a military force, but a symbol of the simultaneous collapse of state and society.

But what is most alarming is that these groups have not truly been defeated. The Islamic State may have fallen, but the dynamics that gave birth to it are still alive. Poverty, marginalization, social fragmentation, and loss of identity persist. As long as these elements remain, the ground will stay fertile for revival. Worse, some international powers that condemned terrorism yesterday now look at it with eyes of negotiation—even alliance. In Syria, some see extremist groups as a solution to chaos,´-or-at least as tools of pressure. But this is short-sighted thinking. Chaos cannot be stopped by chaos—it only feeds it.

And in the midst of this nightmare, Kurdistan emerges as a different phenomenon—not because it has succeeded, but because it is trying. In Rojava, in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq, in Kurdish-populated areas of Iran and Turkey, there is a movement attempting to merge identity with democracy, rebellion with organization. There is recognition of diversity, of women, of participation. There is an attempt to build a society not based on tyranny, sectarianism,´-or-marginalization. But this dream remains fragile. Divisions among Kurdish parties, pressures from surrounding states—these keep the project in a state of suspense. No one knows whether this moment will lay the foundation for a state,´-or-be erased like the Arab dream before it.

The greatest question today is not about alternatives, but about the possibility of an alternative. Can exhausted, weary, humiliated peoples produce a new idea? Reimagine themselves? Rebuild their world from within? The answer does not lie with elites, leaders,´-or-foreign powers. It lies in the streets, in schools, in neighborhoods—in the woman who refuses silence, in the youth who refuses to emigrate, in the artist who refuses to lie. Because democracy is not imported, nor imposed—it is built day by day, in habits, in relationships, in the way we see the other.

The Arab world today does not need new revolutions—it needs an internal revival. A recognition of diversity, fragility, and pain. A new language that lifts people from a state of existential rebellion to one of construction. A project that -restore-s meaning to life, rather than turning death into a profession. This may seem distant, but it is not impossible. Even in the darkest crises, there are glimmers: in a film, in a song, in a small protest, in a meeting between two young people from different sects. These are the seeds—not strong, but alive.

And if the future cannot be built on optimism, neither can it be built on despair. Despair is the most dangerous weapon in the hands of tyranny. Hope, on the other hand, is not illusion—it is work. Daily, humble, but persistent work. Because peoples do not die—even when buried. They remain beneath the ashes, waiting for the moment to ignite the fire once more. Perhaps this is not that moment—but it may be the path toward it.

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