They asked her,
What do you feel when you bring your attention to your belly?
Not your thoughts.
Not your fears.
But the place beneath language.

She closed her eyes.
Paused.
And answered:
Nothing.
Just a black void.
Empty.

But the body has its own memory.

In the stillness, something stirred.
A flicker.
A shape.
An embryo.
Herself.

And in that moment,
she was no longer just in her own womb,
but in her mother’s.
And her mother’s mother’s.
And all the wombs before them.

She could feel it
a line stretching back across time,
through birth and bone,
through seeds and soil.

Then, the cord lit up.
Not as a biological thread,
but as the ancestral one
the one that carries stories,
sorrow,
wisdom,
and light.

And that cord didn’t end at her mother’s body.
It reached outward, upward, downward
into the land.

Into a hill.
Where women stood in an endless line.
Hand in hand.
Still.
Strong.
Fierce.

At the front… her grandmother.
But not as she remembered her…kind and calm.
This grandmother had strength in her eyes
and earth in her spine.
She did not wait to be remembered.
She called to be witnessed.

Then the women began to throw stones.
Not for war,
but as a shield
for their life,
for their land.

Because resistance is not always loud.
It speaks through soil, not sound or shout
Like roots that hold when the world pulls out.

Down the hill, soldiers waited
protected by tanks, by metal, by fear.
But the women did not flinch.

The stones were not meant to wound.
They were meant to protect.
To hold space.
To hold ground.

Because there is a force older than war.
A story older than conquest.
A knowing older than maps and flags.

There is a light passed from hand to hand
that cannot be destroyed.

The soldiers had machines.
But the women had pride.
The soldiers had commands.
But the women had the land.

Because what they carried
was untouchable.
Uncolonizable.
Unbroken.

And as the child in the womb—herself—watched,
she felt it:
a deep truth rising from within.

They’ve got my back.

A thousand hands I could not see,
A thousand voices called to me,
Flowing through time like a sacred sea.
Rooted in land, in pain, in peace,
Lit by the oil of olive trees
An ancestry of light.

This was not a vision.
It was a remembering.

It wasn’t the beginning.
It was a call to return.

And since that day,
she’s carried the whisper in her blood:

We are the light.
We are the cord.
We are the land.
We are your beginning and your becoming.

Walk like you are remembered.
Create like you are not alone.
Because you never were.

A story written from the heart, a picture shaped by AI