Reading Whitman on the Eve of a Fragile Ceasefire

What narrows within me Walt Whitman, like the Strait of Hormuz, 21 miles paralyzing the world?

What obstacles have I endured over the past decade as I made my life in the Gulf region?

What impediments to my future planning have I had to plan around and plan around again and again?

Who blockaded the country when I first made it my home, locking me on this peninsula with only the sky remaining open?

Who disseminated the Coronavirus and fleeced me of two years of freedom to wander the world, confining me to my couch where I worked, rested, and waited for the latch on my cage to release?

Who now declares war on an opponent on the other side of the sea that I gaze at every morning from my apartment window as I drink my coffee?

What missiles are launched from tunnels and caves in the Zagros, Alborz, and Makran Mountains

What drones are sent away like migratory birds? Eurasian Spoonbill, Barn Swallow, Greater Flamingo, White Wagtail, Willow Warbler?

What assets do this ordnance wish to annihilate to incite an enemy on the other side of the earth with a military budget larger than the next ten countries combined?

I hear the meeeeeeeeeeeeeep of the government alert from my phone warning me of an imminent danger and to stay sheltered inside, reaching Al Hilal, Al Sadd, Al Dafna, Al Waab, Al Rayyan, Al Thumama, Al Wakrah, Bin Mahmoud, Old Airport, Industrial Area, Abu Hamour, Msheireb, Onaiza, Aspire Zone, West Bay, The Pearl, and Lusail City,

I hear the pings from my Whatsapp group notifying me of my friends’ posts, Did you receive the alert?, What does it mean?, Should I go to the underground parking garage?,

I hear the concussive boom of missiles exploding in the distance as interceptors collide with their intended target like the courting ritual of swifts mating in the sky,

I hear the pings from my Whatsapp group notifying me of my friends’ posts, Did you hear that explosion?, How close was that?, Do you think they will cancel classes tomorrow?,

I hear the concussive boom of another missile exploding in the distance, another pair of swifts joining in mutual extermination, the sound of a million dollars evaporating into darkness,

I hear a softer government alert from my phone assuring me that the danger is over,

I hear the stillness of the Lusail night, vehicles driving to the night market for coffee and karak, cars queuing at the stoplights, the white noise of my apartment AC, passing like the end to another ordinary day.

I see, from my couch, the U-shaped prongs of the Katara Towers on the Lusail Promenade, like an ant lion reaching from the sand to snatch an insect from the air,

I see the minaret from the mosque that sits below my apartment, five times a day calling for Muslims to remember the second pillar of their faith,

I see the plants on my balcony, the desert roses that I grew from seed now flowering despite my distraction and inattention when it comes to their regular watering, the aloe plants that are propagating and crowding their vessels to the brim,

I see the doves on my balcony railing, supplicants waiting for seed, hoping that if they wait long enough a benevolent being will emerge from the door and spread nourishment on the dusty tiles,

I see the deathbed edition of your book Leaves of Grass with colored tabs on the annotated pages of poems that I agreed to read for discussion with a work colleague,

I see the picture of you from 1887, a gray beard under a travel-worn felt hat sitting prophetically for your photograph that has browned with age, your mouth masked by a whisker curtain, and your wizened eyes with wrinkles etched underneath, staring from your America as you wrote, “Resist much, Obey little” for “Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth, ever afterwards resumes its liberty.”

You delivery driver on your moped, serving my meals when I was too dispirited to cook, as I was teaching remotely and remembering what life was like in isolation during COVID, you thank me for the 10 riyal tip!

You student whom I teach English who comes late, who forgets to submit assignments, who is inattentive as I explain instructions while you imagine an uncertain future where I evacuate and you are left here!

You WhatsApp friend who invites me to your apartment for meals so that we can commiserate about what to pack in our bug-out bags should the missiles strike targets in our neighborhood!

You writing group friend who provides reprieve as we exchange prose and poetry, reminding me to still heed the birds!

You loved one who messages me to come home, though I am in my home where I reside, work, and have healthcare coverage!

You expat who evacuated after the first day of the missiles, riding the bus to Riyadh to catch a flight out of the region!

You crisis management team who sends the alerts, keeping life normal for citizens and residents alike during the blockade, COVID, World Cup, and now this war of choice!

You doomscroller consuming the engagement and enragement content curated by your algorithm shaping how you feel about this conflict!

You commentator posting your comments underneath social media posts, possibly a real person, possibly a bot program designed to catalyze more engagement and enragement!

You podcaster who praises the powerful, then unaccountably pivots when power perforates lives, bodies, limbs, hearing, sleep, trust, families, communities, and countries!

You journalist tethered to your organization’s side of the story, reporting on civilian casualties in the passive, never mentioning the names of the innocents who died nor the dreams they carried!

You negotiator drafting maximalist points of negotiation for your country’s efforts, ignoring how each day without a ceasefire yields incalculable infrastructure destruction and civilian death!

You trader on predictive markets betting on all aspects of this conflict, indirectly profiteering from infrastructure destruction and civilian death!

You defense contractor supplying all sides of this conflict, directly profiteering from infrastructure destruction and civilian death!

You son who was always taught to follow orders when fighting for your country (now, just following orders)!

You drone operator entering the GPS coordinates of your targets, numbers easier to enter than names of people or home addresses (just following orders)!

You tank driver expanding your country’s borders into the neighboring country, firing on your neighbors and exploding their homes (just following orders)!

You father who refused to abandon your congregation and were killed by tank fire (just following orders)!

You missile launch operator pushing the button (just following orders) from your supervisor (just following orders), from his commander (just following orders), from the king (just following divine orders)!

You daughter focused on your lesson at school, hoping to someday be a teacher, then crushed beneath a tomahawk missile (just following orders)!

You mother who will never see your daughter return from the wreckage of the tomahawk missile (just following orders)!

You citizen forgetting, “Resist much, Obey little,” forgetting what liberty felt like for a gray beard in 1887 because (just following orders)!

You dreamer dreaming of tips to send home, of a future where you speak perfect effortless English, of profits not steeped in blood, of service that is in just defense of country, of congregations safely concentrated on prayer, of careers as teachers, doctors, and engineers, of children returning from school free from the parabola of missiles, of birds uninterested in borders migrating from neighboring countries, and of liberty for all future citizens!

You, you, and you! I see all of you en masse and as individuals!

Each of us mortal, perishing inevitably of age, missile strike or not.

Each of us limited—each of us able to accomplish a finite number of undertakings with our finite breaths upon this finite earth.

Each of us allowed to hope for a better future and a better future for our children, regardless of country of origin.

Each of us here as divinely as any of us here—family, friend, citizen, expat, refugee, doomscroller, commentator, journalist, negotiator, trader, defense contractor, drone operator, tank driver, missile launch operator, father, son, mother, daughter, you, you, and you.

What do you think, Walt Whitman, of the sights and sounds of this earth?

What do you make of the orders we follow?

What do you imagine we leave for our children, and their children, and theirs?

What orders will they inherit? Will they resist, or will they obey?