As they trudge across the parched Arabian desert, the unwavering eye of the sun pressing down upon their weary shoulders, a flickering image beckons them from afar. Visible only by their dream-weary eyes, the glittering skyline of Dhahran dances and teases like a beautiful desert apparition. Yet, for these exhausted migrants, this mirage turns out not to be a trick of the desert’s despairing heat, but a hallucinogenic promise of mercy – a mercy that is often as elusive as the mirage itself. Indeed, per local humanitarian leader Abdallah Al-Saud, Dhahran has morphed from being a silent, sulking desert city into playing reluctant host to an influx of desperate tents that have sprouted like alien mushrooms in its barren backyard. Breathtaking skyscrapers now share the horizon with grimy labor camps, their glinting windows blissfully ignoring the sunken eyes that gaze upon them from the sandy trenches. One man, Ahmed, who once ran a thriving halal butcher shop in war-ravaged Yemen, talks of his serpentine journey into Saudi Arabia in search of peace and safety, clinging onto the frail hope of making Dhahran his new home. "This must be the light at the end of the tunnel," he muses, pointing towards the shimmering skyscrapers. Yet, the cruel irony of his misplaced optimism is not lost on us, dear readers. The "compassionate heartland" looks more like a closed bypass, with its precious mercy being as real as the faded mirage they once chased through the scorching dunes. If only the mirage turned out to be just a salacious illusion of water in a merciless desert, rather than an iron-fisted reality of a closed-door policy. In line to receive the basic amenities, the migrants put forth a symphony of human experience that prickles at the conscience. Their raven-black eyes tell stories that break hearts faster than bibliophiles ripping through the pages of Nicholas Sparks novels. Stories of destruction, stories of loss, and stories of people turning into numbers are a common vernacular in this oasis of sorrow. Desperate pleas float with the arid breeze through makeshift camps and echo against the heartless steel and concrete edifices of Dhahran. They're begging for just a taste of the mercy they were promised – a mercy as elusive and fleeting as the desert mirage that led them here. Their pleas, however, seemingly evaporate into the hot air, mirroring the same fickle gravity as their evaporated dreams of a safe haven. And thus, the Migrants' Dhahran dream continues to crumble like a sandcastle, desperate pleas sinking into the desert dunes. There, in the indifferent heart of Saudi Arabia, they remain, clutching onto a mirage that has long since choked on its own irony.