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In a small town in Palestine, the morning used to start with the call to prayer echoing through narrow streets, followed by the smell of fresh bread rising from clay ovens. Children played barefoot, chasing soccer balls through alleys, their laughter dancing in the air. Among them was Amal, a young girl with a notebook always tucked under her arm. She dreamed of becoming a writer, of telling stories the world would one day hear.

But her stories changed when the sky did.

One night, the stars disappeared behind clouds of smoke. The walls of homes shook. Screams filled the silence that once belonged to sleep. Amal’s notebook, once filled with poems, now held sketches of tanks and helicopters—drawn with trembling hands.

Her brother, Kareem, once known for his bad jokes and wide smile, stopped speaking altogether. He just stared out the window, waiting for a tomorrow that felt like a lie. Their mother, strong as the olive trees in their yard, kept them close, even as the world crumbled around them.

They didn’t ask for war. They asked for schoolbooks, for electricity, for a safe walk to the store. But instead, they got checkpoints, curfews, and the cold stares of soldiers who didn’t know their names.

Still, hope stayed.

Even when their home was reduced to rubble, Amal held onto her notebook. “One day,” she whispered, “someone will read this and understand.” She wrote about her friends, about stolen childhoods, about the way her father still prayed with his hands raised to a sky that betrayed them.

To live in Palestine was not just to survive. It was to resist with every breath. To laugh, to love, to write — all acts of defiance in a land where even dreams were censored.

And somewhere, deep within the dust and echoes, a voice keeps rising.

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