 The Arab spirit of the mid-twentieth century was a time known for excitement and promise. Middle Eastern nations gained autonomy and independence. Culturally, the Arab identity had found its voice. Music, theater, literature, amongst other expressions, took on a level of ingenuity and confidence never seen before. Arab nationalism was at its peak. But then, a major disaster struck. The Six-Day War. The Nexa. When Arabs lost more than a war to Israel. Like many academics and thinkers, Nizar Qabbani was an Arab nationalist. A Syrian poet inspired by the many poets and linguists of Al-Nahva, the Arab awakening in the 19th century. But after the shocking defeat to Israel in 1967, the ever-so-powerful movement of Arab unity crumbled ever so fast, ripping off the thick and wide-eyed blinds that had masked the many cracks in the egg-shelled fabric of the Arab dream. For many, but specifically for Qabbani, being the romantic believer of the Arab dream, this freshly cured blindness devastatingly revealed way too much. His own version of an awakening exposed many things that he had already known. The true and genuine condition of the Arab world. Far from the uplifting speeches, far from the prideful ideology, and so far from the overwhelmingly broken promise. It took Nizar Qabbani a long time to reconcile with the loss of his Arab dream. More than four decades to be clear. The real shock to his system was in questioning how real or unreal was such a fantasy. Was it all an illusion? In 1998, totally disenfranchised, Qabbani would compose an 18 stanza poem. When will they announce the death of the Arabs? That would summarize his critique of the Arab world and draw the wrath of Arab leaders and their censoring governments. But first, in order for Qabbani to represent his pain and suffering, he had to build up and convey the promise that was held so high within his heart. His idyllic Arab nation that was ultimately never meant to be. I tried to draw a country that teaches me to eternally be deserving of adoration. In turn, I spread beneath you in summer a cloak of my devotion. I tried to draw a country that befriends my poetry and doesn't come between me and my thoughts, and where soldiers do not march above my psyche. I'm trying to draw a city of love, liberated from all complexity, where no one massacres femininity and where no one suppresses the body. And I founded the first love hotel in the history of all Arabs to welcome lovers and thus all ancient wars were abolished between men and between women and amongst the pigeons and those who slaughter pigeons and between the marble and those who desecrate the purity of marble. Qabbani paints a beautiful vision of an Arab land that exudes freedoms of thought and speech where patriotic longing and belonging are intertwined between the heart of the nation and its Arab peoples, a nation of kindness and purity that is fundamentally based on a commitment towards love and peace, a garden of Eden if you may, with all the sensory, intellectual and emotional connections that make life truly worth living. After painting such a vivid oratory picture, Qabbani's resentment starts to show. Halfway into his poem, the criticism comes fast and often. It is as if Qabbani relives the catastrophe of the crumbling of his idyllic vision. But they shut down my hotel and said that passion does not suit Arab history and Arab purity and Arab legacy. What a shocker. I try with poetry to grasp the impossible, so I plant palm trees, but in my country they cut the palm branching. I try to make the horses' name louder, but the people of the city abhor the horses' name. I only see newspapers taking off their undergarments, for any president who appears from the unknown and colonels who walk on the corpses of the people and moneylenders who pile up gold in their palms. What a wonder. The Arab dream has now been transformed into a nightmare, injustice reigns, money is power, and the sole victims are the people. There's no unity, and togetherness is replaced with conformity. Freedom of expression is no more, and in reality, never was. Neither in the arts, nor with the facts. Apathy, corruption, and lack of creativity are everywhere. Everything serves the subsistence of the regimes that govern the Arab world. It was tremendously hard for Qabbani to deal with the death of the Arab dream. The only remnants left were his sorrows and regrets. When I awoke, I discovered the fragility of my dream. There was no moon in the skies of Jericho. There were no fish in the waters of the Euphrates, and no coffee in Aden. I saw Arabism displayed at the antique auction house, but I did not see the Arabs. When the drawing ended, I asked myself, if one day they announced the death of the Arabs, in which cemetery will they be buried, who will cry for them? They don't have daughters, and have no sons, and there's no sadness, and there's no one to mourn. If you know, you know, and if you don't, then join the Chronicles, where we present content about Middle Eastern history, culture, and heritage. Who don't know Nizar Qabbani should know that the essence of his poetry prior to 1967 revolved around love, passion, and the adoration of femininity. Only after the next set did his poetry shift towards sociopolitical commentary. This shows the cataclysmic nature of the event and its impact on Qabbani's psyche for the rest of his life. Qabbani was one of many Arabs who felt the full force of this disaster. The question is, has anything changed? How applicable is this poem today? If one day they announced the death of the Arabs, in which cemetery will they be buried, and who will cry for them?