The auditorium had never looked this intimidating. It was the same place where they'd held morning assemblies and talent shows, yet today it felt transformed—bigger, brighter, heavier. Flags from different countries hung in perfect rows, swaying slightly whenever the air conditioner hummed. Parents filled the seats, some fanning themselves with programs, others adjusting their glasses as they waited. Teachers walked around with clipboards, whispering with the seriousness of people preparing for an international summit.
Team Seven sat in the very front row, shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel one another's nerves. No one said a word. Each was trapped in their own thoughts, each feeling the weight of what they were about to do.
Maliya's leg bounced rapidly, the rhythm uncontrollable. Leo noticed almost immediately.
"You okay?" he whispered, leaning slightly toward her.
She took a shaky breath. "Not really."
It startled him—Maliya was always the solid one, the calm one, the one who never cracked. Seeing her afraid added a strange pressure on his chest.
"Hey," he said quietly, "we've got each other. Remember that."
Behind them, Khadija twisted the rings on her fingers, hands trembling even though she tried hiding them under the program sheet. Matteo's phone remained locked; he stared at the black screen like it held answers. They sat close but didn't look at each other, their unspoken tension floating between them like something fragile.
The principal finally stepped up to the microphone. His shoes clicked against the floor, echoing through the spacious hall.
"Today," he began, his voice carrying across the room, "we are not simply showcasing cultures. Today, we speak for nations. For truth. For pain. For hope."
The crowd hushed instantly.
Maliya's breathing slowed. Khadija's hands stilled. Matteo's shoulders straightened. Leo felt his heart bang once—loud, sharp—like it understood what was coming.
This wasn't just a school event anymore.
This was responsibility.
When Sudan's name flashed on the screen, Team Seven stood together. Not one leader. Not one speaker. All of them—side by side. The lights hit them as a unit, bright and golden, like the stage itself recognized their unity.
Maliya began, her voice soft but steady. "Sudan is a land of ancient history… home to the Nubian pyramids… a place older than time itself."
She spoke with a tenderness that quieted the entire room.
Khadija continued, describing the Nile like a living heartbeat, flowing through centuries of civilization. Her voice trembled only slightly, but the hall was silent enough for everyone to hear it.
Amir stepped forward next. "Sudanese culture is warm… generous… built on community and respect." His words carried a sincerity that made a few parents nod slowly.
Matteo followed, speaking about the strength of families, the resilience of ordinary people who refused to give up no matter how heavy life became.
And then Leo stepped forward—not to take over, but to complete the unity the team had created.
"But Sudan…" His voice softened, almost breaking. "Sudan is tired."
Behind them, the images changed—ruined streets, abandoned homes, collapsed buildings, people fleeing. The darkness of war filled the massive screen.
A parent called out gently, "How can we help Sudan?"
The team exchanged glances. None of them answered alone.
Maliya spoke. "By listening."
Khadija added softly, "By caring."
Leo finished, "By acting—not from pity, but responsibility."
Another woman asked, "What was Sudan like before all of this?"
Amir stepped forward. "Alive," he said. "And still fighting to stay alive."
Quiet applause spread, delicate and trembling, as if the audience feared drowning the sadness with sound.
Khadija walked up next for Brazil. Her steps were slow but firm, shoulders straight even as her hands trembled at her sides. She began with laughter—streets glowing under Rio sun, music that felt like celebration pouring through the air. Her voice painted Brazil like a place bursting with color and rhythm.
But then her smile faded.
"Brazil also hurts," she said. "Behind the beauty is poverty. Violence. Corruption. But still… joy. Because Brazilian hearts keep beating even when they're tired."
A teacher raised a hand. "What does Brazil need?"
"To be understood," she replied. "To not hide pain behind forced smiles."
Matteo watched her longer than he expected, admiration flickering in his eyes even though he tried to hide it.
Then it was Matteo's turn. He stepped forward slowly, breathing deeply before he spoke.
He talked about Turkey—its warm spices, its lantern markets, its rich history that never seemed to fade. He described America next with a careful balance: a place of big dreams… but big mistakes. A country that was brave but often frightened by its own reflection.
Someone from the audience asked, "What does America need?"
"Honesty," Matteo answered. "The courage to admit when it's broken something."
When Amir presented Morocco, he carried the country like something precious. The deserts, the souks, the culture—gentle strength woven into every word. Then he spoke of the earthquake, the hidden suffering, the resilience people didn't always see.
"Moroccans endure," he said. "But enduring shouldn't be the price of survival."
Then came Maliya.
When she stepped into the light, something in the room softened. She spoke of Italy with warmth—its cathedrals, pasta, canals, chaotic beauty, and the emotions tied to it.
"Italy and Nigeria share something," she said. "We laugh through pressure… we smile through struggle… even when it hurts."
A parent asked her why she chose to speak about emotions.
"Because culture isn't just buildings," she replied. "Culture is people. And people are emotion."
Finally, Nigeria.
Leo walked up alone for the first time. His steps were slow, heavy, like the weight of the nation was resting on his shoulders.
"Nigeria is hurting," he began.
Gasps broke through the hall.
"Insecurity. Kidnappings. Corruption. Hunger. Fear. Nigerians smile… but they shouldn't have to smile through suffering."
Someone asked him, "What can be done?"
Leo breathed out shakily. "We need safety. Accountability. Leaders who love us."
Then the unexpected happened.
Students from other countries stood.
Ukraine. Palestine. Israel. Congo. Yemen. And more.
Each stepped forward, one by one, each voicing a single line about their nation's pain.
In seconds, the stage held twenty nations. Twenty stories. One shared suffering.
The judges whispered fiercely. Teachers shifted in their seats. Parents stared in disbelief.
Finally, the principal stepped forward.
"Team Seven… your presentation broke event rules."
A sharp silence sliced through the room.
"But it also broke silence."
He took a breath.
"You cannot win first place."
Maliya felt her chest drop.
"But the team who won… has chosen to give their trophy to you."
The rival captain approached slowly, handing the trophy to Maliya with both hands.
"You didn't perform for points," he said. "You performed for the world."
Cheers erupted instantly—explosive, emotional, overwhelming. People stood. Flashes lit the room. Teachers hugged them. Students congratulated them. Reporters swarmed them like they were young diplomats.
Khadija slipped backstage quietly, needing air. Her heart thumped wildly.
Matteo followed, stopping a careful distance away.
"You said you wanted to talk," he said softly.
She turned slowly. "Did you spread the rumors?"
His eyes dimmed. "No. But I didn't defend you either. I stayed quiet… and it hurt you."
"So you let me stand alone?" she whispered.
He swallowed hard. "I was scared. I thought silence would protect you. I was wrong. I'm sorry."
Khadija exhaled, voice trembling. "I just want us to be cool again. I miss my friend."
"I never wanted to lose you," he whispered.
A fragile peace settled between them.
When they returned, reporters were everywhere, students cheering, teachers emotional. And in the back of the hall, the visiting President watched silently.
Team Seven didn't know it yet…
But this moment was not an ending.
It was a beginning.
The world had heard them.
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