Every desert is a woman—each one, mysterious, and alluring. No cartel or caravan could capture her despite their concerted efforts. Instead, she has them captivated; they covet her like treasure.

But she will not be bought by any bearded Bedouin! She cannot be collected in jars, or hidden away in some harem. Her Sahara will remain as free as the Arabian horse; only without a saddle can one truly experience the world.

She doesn't mind that her hair is streaked with dirt, or that the soles of her bare feet have turned black. Listen closely and you'll even hear them sizzling from the scorching Saudi sun.

A sly grin appears on her face as she performs a serpentine dance, intoxicating.

Like smoke, she moves with sinuous grace, slithering smoothly through these sombre Syrian streets.

Watch as her hips become hypnotists who stun through spins and twists like a mirage.

Listen to the jingle of the coins on her belt;

the same gold and silver some sultan or sheikh felt should measure her worth.

With battle cry, she removes her veil in violent defiance and whips it at the ground.

Unwilling to be a victim anymore by bleeding in the sand, her only demand is her freedom from their wicked government.