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Saudi Arabia sat at his desk, fingers twitching like restless sparrows, his nails scraping against his own skin in a nervous rhythm. His mind was a storm of worst-case scenarios. What if no one comes? What if they come late? What if they come at all? Even though the invitations hadn’t even left his hands yet.
He smoothed out the parchment, his calligraphy pen hovering like a judge’s gavel. Every stroke had to be perfect. Every word had to carry the weight of tradition, the gravity of respect, the unshakable standard he demanded of himself and, by extension, of them. This majlis was not just an event to him, or to anyone, he was hoping it to be a declaration. A reminder. A lesson.
“You are cordially invited to a majlis of unity, tradition, and respect. I hope you consider, and if you do-”
He paused, rewriting the words in his mind like a scholar poring over sacred text. No. Too weak. Too hesitant, he murmured aloud, ever critical of himself and his thoughts.
“There is a dress code. Traditional and modest attire is required. No distractions. None.”
His teeth found the miswak tucked in the napkin beside him, and he began to clean them with mechanical precision, as if scrubbing away the doubt creeping into his chest.
A postscript, sharp as a blade:
“Do not be late. No matter what. Do not embarrass this family.”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl, and extended the invitation to his carrier pigeon perched near the window of his infrastructure. The bird took flight, wings cutting through the dry air like a messenger of fate. Almost everyone would receive it.
Almost.
Oman’s pigeon, however, had been distracted mid-flight by a particularly shiny palm frond, and now circled lazily above a date grove, utterly unaware of its duty. Kuwait’s pigeon arrived at her tower just as she was mid-handshake with Egypt, her grip tightening like a vise around his fingers.
Crack.
Egypt yelped.
“So-sorry-” she stammered, wincing at the sound of his pain.
“Oh, no worries! Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, I, uh. Forgot something. Ah. I’ll, um-” She practically shoved him out the door, patting his shoulder with exaggerated sympathy. “I had a lovely time discussing… things with you. Yes. See you later!”
Egypt blinked after her, rubbing his sore hand. Did she even remember what they’d been discussing?
The moment the door clicked shut, Kuwait bolted. She threw on the first bedazzled thobe she could find: gold thread glinting like scattered stars, a designer clutch clutched in her other hand, its sequins catching the light like a warning. Let them judge. Let them all judge. She didn’t care. She wasn’t here to be subtle. She was here to exist. Gloriously.
And Saudi? Well. He was a fan of luxuries too, wasn’t he? She arrived fashionably late.
Qatar, ever the flamboyant showman, had ensured his arrival was documented for posterity. Or at least for his small but devoted online following.
His thobe was custom-made, the sleeves embroidered with Qatar’s flag in gleaming gold thread, the fabric so crisp it might as well have been cut from the moon’s surface. A designer watch: obnoxiously expensive, obnoxiously shiny, wrapped around his wrist, catching the majlis lights like a beacon of modernity in a sea of tradition.
He stepped inside, grinning like a man who had already won. “First content of the night!” he announced to his underwhelming but loyal audience, adjusting his posture like a model on a runway. He edited the caption with a flourish:
#GulfVibes
#TraditionNeverLookedSoFresh
And then, of course, he was late. What is a man if not prioritizing what comes first? His following, of course!
Bahrain was the only one who had taken the invitation seriously. He arrived early, hands trembling like leaves in a storm, fingers adjusting the cushions with surgical precision, aligning the incense burners until they sat at exactly the right angle. The coffee pot steamed beside him, its aroma curling through the air like an offering. He was nervous. Oh, so nervous. The thought of so many strong personalities in one room made his stomach twist. But he was determined.
This majlis would be perfect. Or at least, he would try his hardest to make make sure it was.
Oman, who had not received an invitation, because who needed formalities when you had intuition? Arrived bearing a steaming plate of harees, Bahrain’s favorite dish.
“Thought you might appreciate this,” he said, offering it with a sheepish but kind smile. His eyes were warm, his presence a balm. Bahrain accepted the plate, his throat too tight for words. His anxiety had coiled around his ribs like a second spine. He nodded instead, his fingers grazing Oman’s in gratitude.
Iran, of course, had declined. Her message to Saudi was a dagger wrapped in silk:
“Trust me, believe me. This won’t end well. I have better things to do with my time than watch you all embarrass yourselves.”
Saudi’s fingers curled into his palms, nails biting into skin to ground himself as his pride stung, but he swallowed it. Swallowed it whole. Others were coming. It would be fine.
Right?
He rolled his eyes at the thought, already bracing for the chaos.
Saudi exhaled through his nose, a sound like a bull preparing to charge. His guests were seated, most of them, at least. Two out of four were late. Two. And not just late in the “oops, traffic was bad” way, late in the “I chose to defy you” way.
His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. Disrespect. It was written in the way they slouched, in the way their eyes darted like caged birds, in the way they hadn’t even bothered to hide their tardiness. But he would not let that break his attempt at a peaceful day. Not yet, at least. if it continued his promise to himself wouldn't remain.
He cleared his throat, and his voice trained, resonant, the voice of a man who had spent years perfecting the art of command filled the room. “Welcome, everyone, to the majlis. A place of tradition, unity, and-”
Kuwait did not let him finish. Her voice, sharp, bright, dangerous, was a spark to dry tinder “Saudi… Your majlis setup is so boring. Where’s the gold? The chandeliers? The nice markets?”
Qatar, damn him, had to add his own match. “Yeah, and what hashtag do I even use for this? It’s dull. I need to sponsor it somehow, you know?”
Saudi’s eye twitched. Once. Twice. A storm gathering behind his ribs. He ignored them. He had to.
“-and respect for our shared-”
Kuwait stood, her bedazzled thobe catching the light like a disco ball in a mosque. “What? You won’t even answer us? Come on…” She circled the room like a queen inspecting her kingdom, pointing at the cushions, the incense burners, the beige walls that had dared to exist without her approval. “I mean, what’s even this? Or that? Or-”
She bumped into Bahrain, who was pouring coffee with the precision of a surgeon, hands shaking like aspen leaves in a hurricane. The cup splintered against the floor, coffee staining the rug Saudi had painstakingly chosen for its austere elegance.
“O-oh—! I’m so sorry,” Bahrain whispered, already on his knees, dabbing at the mess with a napkin that did nothing to stop the spread.
“Ooopsss…” Kuwait hissed, turning to Oman, who usually would have scolded her for her carelessness. Oman, however, was too busy. He sat in the corner, harees steaming in his hands, nodding along to Saudi’s speech like a puppet on strings. His eyes were glazed, his expression carefully blank, as if he were mentally elsewhere. Perhaps in a hot ocean breeze, perhaps in a dream of tranquility, perhaps just praying for this to be over.
Saudi’s chest ached. He had planned this so carefully. So perfectly. And yet...
There was a knock. Saudi’s soul left his body.
“Allah, what now…”
He dragged a hand down his face, already exhausted. The door creaked open, slowly, cautiously, before being violently thrust wide by a loud, booming voice:
“HEEEEEYYYY!”
Iraq stood in the doorway, grinning like a maniac, arms spread wide as if he were about to embrace the entire room. Saudi’s vision whited out for a second.
Great. Just what we needed.
Iraq plopped down beside Kuwait. Too close, like a puppy that refused to be ignored, and rubbed his hands together. “What’s happening? Oh, are we telling stories?”
“I wish,” Qatar groaned, not even looking up from his phone. “We’re bored, and Saudi dragged us here.”
Iraq’s grin widened. “I have one. You know the first majlis was invented by a stupid drunk poet in Basra. True story.”
Saudi’s lungs forgot how to work. Kuwait and Qatar perked up like hounds catching a scent.
“Waaait… Reeealllyyyyy?” Kuwait drawled, feigning shock with theater-worthy flair. “Tell us more! Tell us the WHOLE story, why don’t you?”
“No, no… please, just-” Saudi’s voice cracked. “Focus on what I’m trying to talk about. We are here to-”
“Was he a good poet?” Qatar interrupted, again. “Because when I imagine a drunk poet, I think he’d either be the absolute best in his field, no competition, or worth nothing. You know..?”
“Iraq. Please.” Saudi’s groan was a physical sound, a wounded animal’s cry. He pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it hurt. “I’m already trying to get them to listen.” Desperate, he clapped his hands. The sound cracked through the room like thunder, making everyone jump. “Now! We should begin with poetry! If you’re interested in poetry, let’s start with that, yeah? I have hired a real poet to read us such.”
All eyes turned to Lebanon.
Lebanon stood frozen, unassuming but impossible to ignore. His thobe was simple, almost austere: white fabric draped like moonlight over sand, a dark blue sash cinching his waist like a promise of depth. In his arms, he cradled a small notebook, its pages worn from use, its edges slightly frayed. His eyes scanned the room like a general assessing a battlefield, measuring their worth, their attention spans, their capacity for respect.
Saudi introduced him with false pride. “This is Lebanon. He will recite a classic poem for us. Given, I think, he has the most expertise on such a beautiful and historically significant, culture rich form of writing! You guys like poetry, right?”
Kuwait and Qatar sank into the cushions, already bored. Bahrain perked up, eager to listen. Oman kept eating harees, nodding along like a metronome set to ‘apathetic’. Lebanon began. His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of centuries, he recited the poetry about a hot desert wind whispering through ruins, a storyteller’s patience, what have you.
He spoke of the warmth of the desert, the unforgiving sun, the beauty in barrenness, and-
Kuwait did not let him finish. “No, no, you’re saying it wrong!” She pracically no less than danced around him, arms flailing like windmills in a storm. “The real way to describe it would be with more tangible flourish… you know?”
She grabbed the book from his hands, flipping through the pages with reckless abandon. She pinched and rubbed her nose. “I can practically taste the dust on this thing, dude. How old is it? Saudi really should have given you something more… new. Okay, here-” She cleared her throat dramatically. “-Let me add a better spin. It’ll be more enjoyable.”
And then Saudi had to listen as she completely and totally butchered it. Her voice wobbled, her words stuttered, her “improved” version of the poem was a train wreck of mispronunciations and exaggerated gestures. Lebanon stood there, stoic, almost amused, as if he had already accepted this fate of being talked over. Saudi, however, was not amused. He was one wrong word away from collapse.
Qatar, never one to miss an opportunity to monetize the chaos, leaned into his livestream, grinning like a used car salesman. “Bro, this poetry needs a revision. I could hook him up with the best in the business, he really needs a coach. Chat, what we thinkin’?”
“Kuwait, FOR THE LOVE OF ALLAH, GIVE LEBANON BACK THE BOOK. NOW. PLEASE!” Saudi’s voice was a whip crack, raw with desperation.
Kuwait, for once, listened. “Oh… fine. Dude, chill,” she muttered, almost sheepishly, as she handed the book back to Lebanon. “Sorry. Continue on, I guess.” She stepped down from her imaginary stage, her bedazzled thobe catching the light like a fallen constellation. Lebanon’s confidence wilted. His voice stuttered, his words hesitant, as if he were treading through a minefield.
“And the fool who wears gold like a peacock, thinking themselves to be the…”
His eyes locked onto Kuwait’s, as if seeking salvation or absolution.
“…thinking themselves to be the fairest in the land…”
He finished, maintaining eye contact with her the entire time, as if daring her to strike. Kuwait’s gaze dropped, then snapped back up to meet his.
“What? Hey! You should really know that my thobe is hand-made with actual gold thread...” She whined.
“THIS IS NOT THE POINT!!” Saudi screeched, his voice shattering like glass.
Oman glanced over at Bahrain, who was staring at his feet, fingers twisting together like strangled vines. “Ya Allah… It’ll be over soon. Don’t worry.” Bahrain returned his gaze, grateful for the small mercy of silence. But just as Oman’s words began to settle like a fragile truce, the door creaked open.
And Iran walked in. Iran took one look at the scene: Kuwait and Qatar mid-argument, their voices clashing like cymbals, their gold-threaded thobes gleaming like a warning. Saudi red-faced, his temple veins throbbing, his fists clenched like he was one wrong word away from apoplexy.
Lebanon cowering, his notebook clutched to his chest, his voice barely a whisper, and Bahrain trying so hard to zone out, to find a happy place, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact.
Iran sighed, long and exhausted. She smirked, but her eyes betrayed her. She was entertained.
“See? I told you. Why did you think I would possibly want to see something like this unfold?” She sat down without an invitation, poured herself tea, and took a sip. Slow, deliberate, like she was savoring the moment. Then she looked around the room and unleashed hell. “Saudi, your majlis looks like a mosque threw up in here. It’s all beige and seriousness. It’s plain.”
Saudi gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a fish gasping for air.
“EXCUSE ME?! WHAT?!”
“THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING!”
She turned to Kuwait, her eyebrow arched like a dagger. “But you? Oh, you’re even worse. Your robe looks like you just got done raiding a circus."
Kuwait didn’t even dignify that with a response. Iran swiveled to Qatar, her lips curling like a cat about to pounce. “And… you?! Did you dress yourself, or did your stylist do it? Who do I yell at?”
Qatar rolled his eyes, trying to play it cool. “Obviously, my stylist. Do you even know what a stylist is?”
Iran sipped her coffee, a small, rare laugh escaping her. “I know that if the two of you don’t sit down and shut up for once, I’m leaving, and actually done with this place forever. I’m sure Australia would be a better neighbor.”
The room froze. A heavy, suffocating silence fell, so thick it was almost palpable. Kuwait and Qatar sat down. Even Saudi, grudgingly, lowered himself onto his cushion. Iran leaned back, satisfied, and pulled out a book. Floral patterns embroidered with diamonds, its spine gleaming under the light.
“Now. Who wants some real culture?” She began to recite.
And this time, this time, everyone listened. Even Iraq, who had been mid-snack, leaned in, his grinning face softening into something almost respectful. Lebanon perked up, his eyes widening, drinking in every word like a man dying of thirst. Halfway through, Iran caught his gaze and smirked. “Finally. Someone with actual respectable taste.”
Saudi, who had been bracing for another disaster, couldn’t help but sit down. He listened. For the first time since this disaster began, the room was peaceful. Perfect.
Almost.
The room was quiet. Truly quiet. Kuwait and Qatar exchanged a look, Qatar collapsing onto the ground with a huff, too intimidated by Iran’s presence to bicker like they usually did. Oman, ever the peacemaker, wrapped an arm around Bahrain, his voice a low murmur as he explained the deeper metaphors to his clueless but appreciative little brother.
“See? That line there, that's not actually supposed to be interpreted as the desert. It’s about resilience, about standing tall even when the world tries to bury you.” Bahrain nodded, his anxieties easing just a little. Iran slapped the book shut, placed it down, and looked around the room with satisfaction.
“There. That was all it took. See, Saudi? It’s not hard. So, I don’t know how you keep going wrong…”
She hadn’t even finished her sentence before Iraq snatched the book. With a grinning flourish, he slid it across the floor like a game show host revealing a prize. “OKAY! Who wants to hear about the time I witnessed a full revolution start in a bakery??”
The room erupted. The peace shattered. Saudi’s temples throbbed.
“NEXT TIME, I’M HOSTING A FUNERAL.”
Iran, who had been lying on the ground, rolled her eyes and looked up at him. “I’m confused. We’re already at one, are we not?”