I pine for the days when a person could say they are Arab, without being asked about their faith and sect, or without having their names scrutinized so that something could be learned about their background. I was never a fan of those who exploited Arabism and climbed to power riding on its coattails, or those who exploited it to deny people's their freedoms and their dignity. I was never a fan of the ‘saviors' who came on the back of a tank, and showed nothing but contempt for constitutions and the citizenry. Nor was I a fan of the tyrants who leaned on Arabism, and used the “central cause" as their pretext, to establish schools of assassination, torture, and deception. I never believed the statements of the ruling party, or the official press, and I knew that the results of the government's development plans usually passed through the intelligence services, which would manipulate the figures. I knew all this by virtue of my profession, which is the equivalent of a lie-detector. Yet I always considered Arabism to be like a cushion that protects against the nightmares of unknown alternatives, and against narrow suicidal identities in a region that is difficult to ‘accuse' of being tolerant. I wagered on time, in the hope that we would one day sail in the direction of civilized Arabism that would reconcile us with the present, and spare us from the discourse of daggers and graves, and decay and obscurity. The feeling of being Arab shielded a person from sliding into small poisoned gardens, and falling under the spell of sectarian peddlers, their enticing blind armies, and their rallying calls that know only how to dig graves and hold frenzied funerals. Arabs could feel that a thread linked them to many capitals, and that they could sleep in Baghdad, Damascus, and Cairo, without having to inquire about the identity of their neighbors at the hotel. I write about the cloak that has ruptured because of my extreme fear of the coming days, and the terrible new features of our region. They have opened the wounds of history, which are now weeping on the screens, in the streets, and in press articles and editorials. As you watch, you feel your clothes become soaked in blood. As you read, the taste of blood jumps into your eyes and throat. And as you listen to a political talk show, you could almost hear the clanging of the knives and the bones. Do not get angry, my dear reader. You can no longer say you are an Arab. They will mock you. That cloak has ruptured and frayed. You can no longer say you are an Iraqi, as you must clarify whether you are Sunni, Shiite, or Kurdish. You can no longer say you are Syrian, without explaining whether you are Alawi or Sunni. You cannot say you are Lebanese either. You must make it clear from which island you come, and what position do you champion on the Orthodox Law and the battle of Qusayr. I, the occupant of a quiet office in a quiet faraway city, feel terrible fear. They have opened the gates of hell and awakened the dormant toxic wells. A new region is being born, at the hands of extremists, zealots, risk-takers, and the reckless. Entire countries have imploded under the weight of injustice and adventurous policies. The entire region has burst under the weight of programs that are more than the region can bear. States and central governments have crumbled. The sanctity of international borders has been torn to shreds. Armies have splintered, and indulged themselves in carnage against those they once claimed to protect. Toxic gases are emitting from the corpse of coexistence. I can almost see peoples in tents, peoples of widows and orphans, mountains of blood, and pyramids made out of coffins. My profession is news and I am dedicated to my job. I follow the flow of militants coming to the “Syrian arena," either to support the revolution or to suppress it. I scrutinize the calls for “jihad" and the promises of victory. I track the coffins returning from Syria, and categorize its occupants in accordance with their real and deep affiliations. This goes to Basra and this goes to Nabatieh. This goes to Maan in Jordan and this goes to Tripoli in Lebanon. This one fought to prevent the fall of Qusayr and this one fought to do just the opposite. And what is even more difficult than the return of coffins is the return of fighters booby-trapped with triumphalism, hatred, and bitterness, only to explode in their countries and their neighbors. The new terrible Middle East is being born to the tune of the open-ended carnage in Syria: Frightened and frightening countries, frightened and frightening armies, and frightened and frightening sects; concerned majorities and panicked minorities, civil wars and interventions, and militants slipping in and coffins returning; belligerent identities, aggressive arsenals, and invasions and incursions; rockets, explosives, field courts, communities, and many, many concerns. Forget, dear reader, Arabism, the central cause, coexistence, tolerance and recognition of the other and the international border. Get ready for the bitterness of being at the heart of the terrible new Middle East.
