Rumbles of Battle

The first explosion is distant. Just a low thud behind the hills. But the second is sharper. Closer. Followed by gunfire.

You freeze for only half a heartbeat, eyes toward the south.

The ground vibrates beneath your boots, a slow, rhythmic rumble carried on the wind. Around you, villagers flinch, pause mid-task. Buckets drop. Hands tremble. Children cling tighter to rifles that look too big for their frames.

Fear moves like smoke. Quiet. Fast.

You step into it. Moving through the square, you walk tall, calm. Focused. Even if inside your ribs, everything is on fire. You clap a hand on Samir’s shoulder. Nod at a teenage girl dragging a crate of ammo. You stop to straighten an old man’s scarf, whispering something only he hears.

Then you find the rubble. The broken stone steps of the old bathhouse. Half a wall, now just jagged stone. But it’s tall enough. Central enough. And you climb it, rising just above the sea of eyes looking for a reason not to run.

The village slows. Turns.

You stand tall, wind catching your scarf, your hands open at your sides.

“We hear their guns.”

A murmur. Nods.

“We hear the echoes of fire in the hills. That is not the sound of ****.”

You scan them. Let the silence sit.

“That is the sound of resistance. That is the sound of men like Yousef buying us time. That is the sound of Zahiriya refusing to be forgotten.”

You take a step forward on the rubble.

“We do not have tanks. We do not have planes. We barely have enough bullets to last the night.”

You let it hang.

“But what we do have, what they will never understand, is why we fight.”

Your voice hardens.

“Not for kings. Not for flags. Not for glory. We fight for each other. For our children. For every grave we couldn’t dig deep enough. For every prayer cut short by artillery. We fight because this dirt remembers our names."

They breathe you in. They feel it. The silence after your words is thick.

From somewhere in the crowd, you hear it.

“ASAD AL-ZAHIR!”

Um Sawsan’s voice. Clear. Stronger than it has any right to be.

It rises like a wave. ASAD AL-ZAHIR! again and again, until it’s echoing off every ruined wall and broken arch. The villagers beat their fists against crates, clap shoulders, raise rifles.

You hold the moment. Let it live for just a second. Let it breathe. Until your voice slices through the noise like a blade.

“TO POSITIONS! I WANT EYES ON EVERY ROOFTOP AND HANDS ON EVERY TRIGGER!”

The roar becomes motion. A village of Lions, moving not out of fear. But out of faith.