On: Air raid sirens in Bahrain as Iranian missiles and drones head for Gulf neighbor

The war drums beat again, louder this time. I know the sound of them - have heard it in the hush of midnight, in the crack of a whip, in the creak of a cellar door swinging shut. But this is not my old master’s whip. This is iron and oil, and the men who wield it do not know the weight of a human soul in their hands.

They say the missiles fly like birds of prey. I say they are only birds, and birds can be outmaneuvered. The Gulf is a river, and rivers have currents. The north star does not change, no matter how many guns point toward it. The star is freedom. The star is the safe house across the water. The star is the child who will not know the taste of shackles.

The committee in Washington debates sanctions. The committee in Riyadh debates alliances. Let them debate. The people who are running tonight are not waiting for their permission. The Saturday-night departure still works - when the newspapers print nothing, the hunters cannot read the news. The gun in my hand is not for the enemy. It is for the man who wants to turn back when the sky lights up. One man’s fear sinks the whole ship.

They will say it cannot be done. They said the same when I led thirty through the marshes with bloodhounds on our trail. They said it when I carried the fever in my bones and still guided the next load. The plan is not to dodge every missile. The plan is to keep moving while they waste their fire on empty sky. The weakest link is not the weapon. It is the will to believe that the route is still open.

The stakes test is simple: if this fails, people die. Not in debate. Not in delay. In the rubble. So the debate ends now. The action begins. The star is fixed. The train does not wait for the board to vote.