Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
My ambassador… my Doha,
the face of my Arab identity when lands grow narrow 🤝
I tremble…
not from cold,
but from the warmth of a wound
overflowing in my chest.
And I see you…
besieged,
between the fangs of Zionist–American cunning
that perfects deception like a dark prayer,
chanting war
in the sanctuary of oil and blood.
My beloved…
a lone palm tree
standing against an unseen wind
that uproots cities from their roots.
And I remember…
when paths narrowed around you,
the first hand extended to you
was from the one now under siege:
Iran…
not a passing shadow,
but water in a time of thirst,
a voice
when voices suffocated.
My Doha…
within you, I see my Arab identity—
it does not break,
it bends slightly
so the storm may pass,
then rises again
more rooted,
reaching further toward the sky.
And Iran…
responds today,
not suddenly,
but after forty-seven years
of a siege like an endless night,
and Zionist–American assaults
that struck twice
like daggers in the flank of patience.
Even at the table of negotiation,
deception signed
in the name of peace.
So the response came…
not out of love for fire,
but to defend the memory of the wound
and the right to remain.
As for them…
they write history
with ink of smoke,
and erase truth
with weaponized silence.
And I…
between all this,
carry you in my heart
as the last homeland
that cannot be bombed.
My ambassador…
my Doha…
the echo of my Arab soul.
If the earth narrows,
be the sky.
If wounds multiply,
be life.
For between siege and response,
truth is born—
bare…
except for the honor of resilience.
