Qudsan: Between the Sky and the Soil

Zaytara—for some, it is the land of hope; for others, the land of resilience. And still, there are those who call it the land of olive trees.

The sky knows.

The earth vouches.

It was one of the last untainted homes of the children of the sky—pure and enduring.

Telarim—the self-proclaimed land of righteousness.

A land held by occupation.

Zaytara and Telarim together once formed Qudsan.

But hidden evils twisted the truth.

Narratives were manipulated.

And the world’s indifference carved the present day.

***

Amal rose slowly from the sofa and made her way back to her room.

The walls were painted a soft lavender—sprinkled with daisies, it still felt as hers. By the window stood her writing desk, scattered with sketches of kites and paper planes, dreams wearing realities.

On the shelves rested carefully assembled models of fighter jets—each one a step toward a promise she'd made to herself.

Her dream was to soar the skies.

To be free.

To be closer to the sky.

Closer to her brother.

Amal picked up her suitcase and quietly began to pack her clothes.

She then chose two models—one gifted by her father, the other by Arish—wrapped them carefully in leaflets, and placed them in the suitcase.

Afterward, she lay down on her bed.

Once again, a round of booms sliced through the air.

Amal gazed out of the window, her eyes holding tender complaints.

The sky read them—and, in return, blessed her with sleep.

Sleep in the chaos.

***

Taha vacantly gazed at the entrance of the station, now sealed off by the remains of a disintegrated building.

He turned toward the crowd gathered near the rubble, watching as they struggled to move it piece by piece.

He had just conveyed a message to Aminah, his older sister.

A number of people were trying to excavate the wreckage. Then something drew his eyes to a single point along the railway track.

He walked toward it, almost in a trance, and began to dismantle the twisted metal with his bare hands.

He threw aside chunks of debris, his fingers scraping against stones, soil settling under his nails.

Two young men joined him, helping him quietly.

For over an hour they worked, until a faint gleam appeared in Taha’s eyes—he had spotted Usra’s gown.

Desperateness overtook him.

He clawed at the earth, his hands bleeding, but he did not stop.

Eventually, they pulled Usra from beneath the rubble.

She had fainted—her arm broken, a wound on her head, and her breathing uneven.

Taha finally breathed when he saw the faint rise and fall of Usra’s chest.

He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath.

Turning toward the station entrance, he noticed a small hole had been cleared—

Soon, it would be large enough for one person to pass through.

His eyes returned to Usra.

Worry began to press against his ribs, tangling him tighter with each breath.

Time wasn't always forgiving.

He had to save her.

For Mira.

For himself.

For life.

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