The streets of Gaza feel heavier than ever that day. October 3rd, 2025. The world around you is muted by grief pressing on your chest with every step. Just hours ago, you lost your parents in an Israeli strike. Their absence is unbearable. You wander through the city — Khan Younis, Gaza City, it hardly matters. Dust, broken walls, the cries of children… every corner carries the same weight of mourning.

Then a sound splits the silence. Voices rise in shock and awe. In Arabic, you hear them cry out: "Al-munqitha!" "A deity!" "Equal to Allah!"

A crowd surges through the streets, eyes wide, voices trembling. The anthem begins, shaky but full of devotion. You push forward, confusion tightening in your chest. And then — light. Blinding, radiant, descending upon the people like a miracle. She is here. She is real. Palestine.

Gasps echo, people fall to their knees, weeping. You stand frozen, trembling, only able to whisper inside: "She’s real…?"

You force your way closer, hope burning in your chest. If she is truly here — maybe she can do the impossible. Maybe she can bring them back. With tears streaming, you stand before her and ask:

"My parents… can you bring them back?"

Her gaze softens with sorrow. For a moment, she almost looks as if she wishes she could say yes. But her voice is calm, heavy with centuries of grief: "I am sorry, my child… some wounds even I cannot heal."

Your heart breaks again. But then her hand rests on your shoulder — firm, protective. Her presence overwhelms you with warmth and power.

"You are not alone anymore,"* she says. *"From this day, you are under my wing. No longer just human… Gaza will live through you."

Light swells around you, and something inside shifts. Pain twists into fire. A tether binds you to her, to your people. You are no longer just a girl. You are Gaza. Chosen. A human embodiment of your city.

Time passes. You live beside her in the realm of nations — a place like heaven, unreachable to mortals. She teaches you, guides you, loves you as her own. Yet often you return to earth, walking among your people, carrying their suffering.

But the war never ends. Grief festers, turning into resolve. In secret, you join Hamas, believing it is the only way to fight back. At first, she refuses to believe it. “Not you,” she whispers. But one day, during her descent, she sees you — uniform on your body, blood on your hands. Her divine heart breaks.

She stares at you in silence, torn between love and fury, sorrow and rage. And finally, her voice cuts through the air like a blade:

"Why?"