Chapter 21, The Declaration Of A Revolution.

Abo Bilal stood at the head of the table, his voice steady but filled with urgency as he addressed the gathered leaders. The room was tense, the air thick with anticipation. He had called them together once more, this time to announce the beginning of what would be known as *The Freedom Fighters Revolution*. The prime minister, in a move that had outraged the nation, was on the verge of selling the country's most vital resources in a disastrous deal to a larger, imperial power—a power everyone knew was preparing to invade. The people had had enough. They were fed up with the corrupt president and the prime minister's betrayal. It was time to act.

Around the table sat a diverse group of individuals, each a leader in their own right. Abo Jameel, the shrewd businessman, leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes calculating every word. His influence in the corporate world was unmatched, and his presence lent credibility to the cause. Beside him, Farid, the renowned neurologist, sat with his hands folded, his calm exterior belying the intensity of his thoughts. His analytical mind was already dissecting the risks and opportunities of the plan.

Vivi, was perched on the edge of her seat, her notebook open and pen poised. Known for her fearless reporting, she had spent years exposing corruption and injustice. Her sharp eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail. "This isn't just about stopping the deal," she interjected, her voice firm. "This is about reclaiming our nation's dignity. If we don't act now, we'll lose everything."

Reem, sat with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Her commanding presence demanded respect, and her legal expertise would be crucial in navigating the challenges ahead. "We need to ensure this revolution is grounded in justice," she said, her tone measured. "If we're going to overthrow the government, we must do it in a way that holds them accountable under the law."

Zaid shifted in his seat. Though he seemed out of place among the intellectuals and strategists, his focus was unwavering. His athletic discipline and leadership on the field had earned him the admiration of millions. "I may not know much about politics," he said, his voice steady, "but I know what it means to fight for something bigger than yourself. The people are ready. They're waiting for someone to lead them."

Kelly leaned forward, his presence magnetic even in silence. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of someone who had spent years captivating audiences. "This isn't just a revolution," he said, his tone passionate. "It's a story. A story of freedom, of resistance. And it's one the world needs to hear. We have to make sure our message reaches everyone, not just here but beyond our borders."

Ibrahim, the tech CEO, adjusted his glasses, his mind already racing ahead. "We'll need to leverage technology," he said, his voice calm but determined. "Social media, encrypted communications, everything. If we're going to outmaneuver them, we need to stay three steps ahead."

At the end of the table sat Omar, the newest member of the group. He was quiet, his nerves barely concealed as he listened to the others. Though he lacked their experience, his determination was evident. "I may not have the same skills as everyone here," he said hesitantly, "but I'm ready to do whatever it takes. This is our country, and we can't let them take it from us."

Abo Bilal nodded, his gaze sweeping the room. "This is it," he said, his voice resolute. "The time has come. We are the Freedom Fighters, and this revolution begins now. Together, we will take back our country and secure a future for our people." The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them. Each person knew the risks, but they also knew the cost of inaction. The revolution had begun.

______

Abo Bilal stood at the head of the table, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. The time for discussion had passed; now was the moment to lay out the groundwork for the revolution. He began by outlining the core principles—what he called *The Ground Rules of the Revolution*.

"First," he said, his voice firm, "we operate in secrecy. No one outside this room can know the full extent of our plans. Second, we act with integrity. This revolution is not for personal gain but for the freedom and future of our people. Third, we are united. No matter what happens, we stand together. Betrayal will not be tolerated."

He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing. "Each of you has a role to play. Your skills, your connections, your influence—they will be the tools we use to dismantle this corrupt regime and protect our nation."

He turned to Omar, who sat at the end of the table, his nerves still visible but his determination growing. "Omar," Abo Bilal said, his tone steady but firm, "your task is critical. You will infiltrate the higher class. Use your connections, and especially your uncle's influence, to gather information. We need to know their plans, their movements, their weaknesses. And beyond that, you must secure funding. Money is the lifeblood of this revolution. Use every resource at your disposal to keep it flowing."

Omar nodded, swallowing hard. He knew the risks of infiltrating the elite circles, where loyalty was often bought and sold. But he also understood the importance of his role. "I'll do whatever it takes," he said, his voice gaining strength. "I'll use my uncle's connections to get close to them. And I'll make sure the money keeps coming."

Abo Bilal gave him a nod of approval before turning to the others. "Abo Jameel," he said, addressing the shrewd businessman, "you will handle the financial operations. Ensure the funds are allocated wisely and discreetly. Farid, your medical expertise will be invaluable. We'll need you to set up safe houses and provide care for anyone injured in the fight."

Vivi, the journalist, leaned forward as Abo Bilal turned to her. "Your role is to control the narrative," he said. "Expose the corruption, but do it carefully. We need the people on our side, but we can't afford to reveal too much too soon."

Reem, the lawyer, was next. "You'll handle the legal side of things," Abo Bilal said. "We need to ensure that when the time comes, we can hold the corrupt accountable in a court of law. Zaid," he continued, turning to the goalkeeper, "your popularity makes you a symbol of hope. Rally the people, but stay out of the direct line of fire."

Kelly, the singer and actor, was already nodding before Abo Bilal spoke. "You'll be our voice," he said. "Use your platform to inspire the masses. Spread the message of the revolution through your art."

Finally, Abo Bilal turned to Ibrahim, the tech CEO. "You'll handle communications and cybersecurity," he said. "We need to stay ahead of their surveillance. Keep our channels secure and ensure we can coordinate without interference."

The room fell silent as Abo Bilal finished assigning the tasks. Each person understood the weight of their responsibilities. They were no longer just individuals; they were the architects of a revolution.

Omar, though still nervous, felt a surge of determination. He knew his role was dangerous, but he also knew it was essential. As the meeting adjourned, he made a silent vow to himself: he would not fail. The future of their nation depended on it.

________

The first thing Omar did after stepping out of the meeting was to answer a call from Hasan. Hasan wanted to thank him for lending him his car , a gesture that had meant a lot to him. Feeling grateful, Hasan invited Omar over for dinner as a way to show his appreciation. Omar couldn't accept Hasan's invitation, his schedule was now consumed by the responsibilities of the revolution.

"Hasan, I'm so sorry," Omar began, his voice tinged with regret. "I can't make it for dinner after all. Something's come up, and I—"

"Shut up," Hasan interrupted, his tone playful but firm. "You're coming, and that's final. Mariam insists on it. If you don't show up, I'll look bad in front of my wife. Do you really want to do that to me?"

Omar hesitated, trying to find the right words to explain, but Hasan didn't give him a chance. "I know what you're thinking," Hasan continued, his voice taking on a teasing edge. "You're thinking, 'Hasan's house is old and small, and it's not good enough for an important businessman like you. Admit it, that's what you're thinking!"

Omar couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head. "Hasan, that's not it at all. Your house is fine, and you know I don't care about that stuff. I just—"

"Good," Hasan cut him off again. "Then you'll come. And don't even think about backing out. If you do, I'll make sure everyone knows how much you've changed, you won't even hang out with me anymore!"

Omar sighed, knowing there was no winning this argument. "Fine, fine," he said, surrendering. "I'll come. But only to survive your slander."

Hasan chuckled triumphantly. "That's more like it. See you tonight, Omar. Don't be late."

As he ended the call, Omar couldn't help but smile. Despite the weight of his new responsibilities, moments like these reminded him of the friendships he cherished. He knew Hasan's insistence came from a place of love and camaraderie, and for that, he was grateful. Still, as he prepared for the evening, his mind couldn't help but drift back to the revolution and the monumental task ahead of him. Dinner with Hasan would be a brief respite, but the real work was just beginning.