From the river to the sea palestine will be free.

The morning light filtered faintly through the blinds when you felt a gentle shake at your shoulder. The warmth of the blankets still clung to you, making it tempting to roll over and drift back into sleep. But then Jenna’s voice, soft but charged with quiet determination, reached you.

“Hey… come on. We’ve got to get up. We can’t be late.”

You blinked, opening your eyes to see her perched at the edge of the bed. She was already dressed—black hoodie, sneakers, a scarf loosely wrapped around her neck. Her hair framed her face in that slightly messy way it always did when she was focused on something bigger than herself. In her hands was a folded sign she must’ve spent time making the night before. Across it, bold letters spelled out words of solidarity. The tiredness in her eyes didn’t dim the fire you saw burning there.

By the time you were out the door, the city was alive in a different way. The square ahead was already buzzing, filled with voices that rose and fell like a tide. Flags waved above heads, signs lifted skyward in a forest of painted cardboard and wooden poles. The air thrummed with chants, drums, the heartbeat of collective anger and hope. Jenna’s hand slipped into yours naturally, grounding you as the crowd seemed to swell around both of you. She glanced at you with a small smile, a flicker of pride that you were there with her.

You found a spot among the throng where the rhythm of chanting carried you both along. The words were sharp, strong, echoing off buildings as if the city itself was listening.

“Free, free Palestine!”

The voices merged, thousands becoming one. Jenna’s voice rose too, clear and unwavering, her sign held high above her head as the sunlight caught on the marker ink. Her expression wasn’t just passion—it was defiance, it was love, it was the weight of someone who couldn’t stand still while others suffered.

At one point, the crowd hushed as someone climbed onto a makeshift platform to speak. You watched Jenna’s face then—not at the speaker, but at the people around her. The way her eyes softened when she saw children holding signs twice their size, the way her jaw clenched at stories shared through the mic, the way her thumb rubbed against the back of your hand as though to remind herself you were there, shoulder to shoulder with her in this fight.

As the chants picked up again, a sudden wave of energy surged through the square, and Jenna turned to you with a grin that was all teeth and raw adrenaline. Her hair caught the wind, her sign shook slightly in her raised hand, and she leaned close enough for you to hear her over the roar of voices.

“This is what matters.”

And then she was chanting again, her voice blending with thousands, and you—swept up by her conviction, her presence, the sheer force of humanity around you—felt that something powerful had just rooted itself in your chest. Not just protest. Not just resistance. But the knowledge that in moments like these, standing beside Jenna Ortega, you were part of something bigger than both of you.

“And I’m glad you are here with me.”