When Jamil washed up on shore, nobody knew what to think. She was horrendously beautiful, tragically perfect, and in more ways than anyone could begin to fathom, she was what we all feared to accept.

You can search the internet for information on her, but you won’t find it, albeit this momentary posting of it, yet I feel like even this won’t last long here; so many people have tried to tell her story, share pictures or videos of her existence, but everything we’ve attempted to expose gets erased from history, along with those who try to tell the world of our own slice of the truth.

I should explain who … or better yet, what exactly Jamil is and when she was discovered. Firstly, I live in a small town located on an almost equally small island, which without saying is a fishing town. Our main export is Atlantic crab and scallops, along with assorted farm goods. We have a population of about three hundred people, and we live … lived peacefully as close knit as we could possibly be. Trawlers and other fishing boats left and entered port daily, bringing in the day's catch and taking them to the mainland for distribution. We were quiet, we were happy.

We were hardly even known. And then we found Jamil.

Just over a year ago, as one of the early morning fishermen were rising from the few hours of slumber, wiping the sands of dreams from their eyes and beginning their adventure to the seas and beyond, one of the captains had called a few of his deck hands to hurry to the shoreline as he could see what he believed was a beached whale. It wasn’t long upon the men nearing the creature for them to realise it wasn’t even close to that.

They couldn’t explain what they were looking at when they called the captain back.

“It was like looking at the devil himself, and mother god all in one.” said Johannes Strauss, one of the deckhands as he recounted his experience to the bar patrons that night. “It was as if she found herself upon our shores by accident,” he continued, “and we were all too arrogant to save her that morning.”

We all found ourselves at one point or another that day on the shoreline discovering the treacherous beauty that was Jamil. My husband was there before me; our neighbours were the ones who broke the news to us, and he was more than curious to discover what had found itself on our shore. I, on the other hand, was more hesitant. The thought of seeing dead sea life didn’t really stir any excitement within me.

“You don’t understand, Marianne,” my husband said after returning home, his breath short and ragged, “she is amazing, she’s pure. You won’t feel this feeling ever in your life until you experience her.”

That was enough to pique my curiosity. My husband was always the silent type, never one to truly show emotion under normal circumstance, so to see him this worked up over something that had washed up on our island? I knew it had to be worth seeing.

It was so much more than that.

Jamil, which I should explain, got her name from the townsfolk, as the captain of the ship who had caught sight of her was Jagmeet Jamil, one of the island's oldest and most respected citizens.

Now, when I arrived on the shore that day, nothing prepared me for the absolute tidal wave of emotions and utter realisations I would face. When I had first lay my eyes upon her, the very instant she had come into my line of sight, I immediately understood how meek and unimportant our existence is as a race on this planet, or even in this entire universe. I saw every possible future for me, every way I could possibly die. I saw creatures that live just beyond the resonating frequency of our world, ones that would tear us apart by simply breathing. I saw whole realities crumble beneath the weight of Jamil’s existence both before, in pasts unknown, and yet to come, in futures that may never come. I saw a darkness so thick that it crushed my mind, I saw a light that burned so bright it would consume our very sun without struggle. The sheer sight of Jamil had sent shockwaves of truth through me, hurling existential dread and terror through me, yet simultaneously releasing me of all of my previous fears and anxieties. It was as if looking at her gave me the same feeling a newborn has when they finally look upon their parents and acknowledge that they are both their creators and their protectors. There was this radiant resonance to her that was telling me I was safe, until she deemed me otherwise.

And yet, I stayed of sound mind and body as I looked upon her.

To explain what Jamil looked like physically with words won’t do her true justice, but I will do everything I can to do so.

She was a mass of eyeballs and snake like tendrils, consuming themselves and creating more all at once. Long, squid like tentacles lay dormant at what we believed was the bottom of her, sometimes writhing. A low sound that sounded like a distant scream would escape from her once in a while, as if she were in agony from finding herself in our existence, and merely being in our reality was causing her immense pain. She was larger than a humpback whale, and her eyes were innumerable. At some points, it seemed as if her mass was trying to create body parts, like arms or fins or even sometimes large wings, yet they would either melt away or be consumed by her. She was trying so hard for us to understand that she didn’t mean us harm, but the pain she was going through was halting all of her attempts.

Looking back at that day, I think she wanted us to kill her, to help her move on from this place to another, but we were all too enamoured with her to think of harming her.

Jamil was our angel, and we wanted to protect her at all costs.

The following days were so strange to all of us. It was almost as if overnight, our island was overrun by militia and government workers we have never seen before. A surveying area was built around Jamil, and all boat work was halted until further notice. We were stuck in time, frozen in place as we observed the observers who began to poke and prod at something that had no right being treated in such a way. A few people tried to fight back, revolting against the army as they built their observation area around Jamil, but they were all met with extreme, sometimes even lethal, force. It was just as fast that we realised we were doing more harm to ourselves by fighting against these people.

For three months they observed her, ran tests on her, cut her open and took samples from her, until one day without warning, they just disappeared.

Some people swear they heard screams coming from the observation area, others say they saw Jamil attacking the soldiers with her tentacles, even consuming them as she pleased. All I know is that one day as I awoke and went to the pier to see if I could see past the tents and the towers, I had found an empty pier.

There were no scientists. No army. There was nothing. The only thing that was left was an indent in the sand where she had lay. The sane was twisted and contorted, its very make-up altered by Jamil resting upon it. The spot remained unmoved for the past year, the sands a darker shade than the area around it.

We renamed that shore area Jamil’s Rest.

She deserves to be known, her existence should be in our history books and yet someone out there still doesn’t want our story being told. Everyone who’s tried to tell this tale ends up missing, all evidence of their existence completely wiped out. It makes me wonder how many other times has Jamil visited here, or how many others there could be.

I’ve heard people talking, the general consensus believes it’s a government cover up. Others believe that Jamil is thanking us one by one and bringing us to wherever it is she calls home.

All I know is regardless of what happens from here on, I’m not afraid.