لحظة ادراك

 

Upon Whom Will You Cast Your Psalms, David?

"The tragedy is not that the harp falls silent, but that the roar of artillery rises so high that no one can hear it anymore."

As the ancient stories tell us, whenever the earth grew too narrow for its people, David would take up his harp—not to numb their pain, but to remind them that humanity was created to hear a song before it ever heard the beating of war drums. He believed that a word could delay the sword, that a melody might precede reconciliation by a single step, and that a heart stirred by psalms was far less likely to be driven into the abyss by anger.

But if David were to return to this world today, he might not search first for his harp. He would search for an ear still capable of listening.

Upon whom will you cast your psalms, David?

Upon the generals who measure time by the number of air sorties?

Or upon the politicians who draft their statements in ink while their consequences are written in blood?

Or upon the arms merchants whose prosperity grows with every expansion of the cemeteries?

Or upon peoples so exhausted by war that they can no longer distinguish between the anthem of life and the wail of air-raid sirens?

In politics, wars do not begin on the day missiles are launched. They begin on the day fear becomes a common language, suspicion outweighs trust, and power ceases to be a means of deterring war and becomes an end in itself.

In the Middle East, the region now appears to be walking a tightrope suspended above a sea of fire. Everyone watches for the next spark, while many overlook the fact that the tinder has been piling up for years.

The tension between the United States and Iran cannot be viewed merely as a bilateral confrontation. Every wave of escalation spills far beyond the borders of the two countries, reverberating across the Gulf, Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, the Red Sea, and potentially throughout global trade routes. The real question, therefore, is not: Who will fire the next shot? Rather, it is: How far will the echo of that shot travel?

The Middle East is no longer a collection of isolated conflicts. It has become an interconnected web; if one strand trembles, the entire web quivers.

Perhaps the most dangerous aspect of the present moment is that so many eyes remain fixed on missile launch sites while, in the background, new maps of influence, maritime corridors, and regional alliances are quietly being drawn.

Great wars are not measured solely by the number of airstrikes they produce, but by the changes they leave behind—in the balance of power, the routes of commerce, and the geography of strategic interests.

That is why discussion of the possibility that tensions may spread to the Bab el-Mandeb is about far more than a narrow waterway. It concerns a vital artery through which a significant share of global trade flows. Should those waters become a theater of confrontation, it would not be ships alone that bear the cost. The repercussions could extend to energy markets, supply chains, and commodity prices around the world.

Strategic waterways are not merely lines on maps; they are the nerves of the global economy. When tension grips them, the entire world feels the pain.

As for Israel and Iran, they have been engaged for years in a conflict fought on multiple fronts—military, security, political, and informational. This rivalry has produced recurring cycles of escalation and deterrence, each side pursuing its own calculations and priorities.

In conflicts of this nature, each party may find that the other's escalation reinforces its own domestic narrative or justifies its political and security choices, even while each continues to pursue objectives fundamentally different from those of its adversary.

Here lies one of politics' enduring paradoxes: adversaries may move along parallel paths in terms of outcomes, even when their motives and ultimate goals diverge. Escalation breeds escalation. Fear breeds fear. The entire region becomes captive to a cycle that grows increasingly difficult to break.

Bab el-Mandeb is not merely a name in geography books.

It is the neck of the sea.

And when the neck tightens, the entire body begins to suffocate.

Through it pass not only ships, but also the hopes of nations, the food of cities, the energy of factories, and the interests of states. Any major disruption there transcends the realm of military affairs to become a global issue affecting economic stability, security, and international order.

When flames approach the world's strategic waterways, they do not ask the nationality of the vessels, the language of the sailors, or the flags they fly. Fire consumes whatever lies in its path.

The irony is that humanity today seems far more capable of producing weapons than of producing trust.

Technology can now build a missile capable of crossing thousands of kilometers in minutes, yet it has still failed to build a bridge across the abyss of hatred.

The precision of guidance systems has advanced, while the precision of our moral compass has declined.

Human beings can identify targets from space, yet too often fail to see the humanity of the person standing on the other side.

History teaches us that wars often begin with brief speeches, but they end in lengthy books written by historians—long after the victims have departed the pages of life.

And when historians return to these years, they will ask not only how many missiles were fired or how many airstrikes were carried out. They will also ask: When was the last opportunity for dialogue lost? At what moment did escalation become the only language everyone still knew how to speak?

David...

The general reviewing his operational maps may not hear you.

The politician tallying today's political gains may not hear you.

The arms dealer counting his profits may not hear you.

But perhaps a child hiding in a basement beneath falling bombs will hear you—a child who knows neither why the war began nor when it will end.

Perhaps a sailor crossing Bab el-Mandeb will hear you, realizing that the sea that once carried commerce can, in an instant, become a battlefield.

Perhaps a mother waiting for her son along borders that change faster than the seasons will hear you.

For their sake, the psalms must never cease.

Nations do not collapse on the day they fail to manufacture more weapons. They collapse on the day they lose the ability to listen to wisdom before the guns begin to speak.

When the thunder of artillery drowns out the sound of the harp, it is not poetry alone that suffers. Humanity loses its final opportunity to remember that it was born to build civilizations, not to count their ruins.

And so the question remains suspended above the skies of the East, seeking not so much an answer as a conscience:

Upon whom will you cast your psalms, David?

For perhaps the true tragedy is not that David has stopped playing, but that the world has chosen to make the noise of war louder than every psalm of peace.