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tastysemochka:

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from that day on I was his

— 1 week ago with 34443 notes

kropotkindersurprise:

November 29, 2023 - Kissinger has finally died! 🦀🦀🦀

(via crimeronan)

— 2 weeks ago with 31929 notes
#yeee 

aye-of-newt:

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— 1 month ago with 6966 notes
#go watch blue eye samurai!!! 

pilferingapples:

mostly-funnytwittertweets:

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#there’s a name for this!#it’s called a “familect” and it evolves in every relationship type!#often dropping out of familect elicits the “are you mad at me?” response#because it makes your brain think “something is wrong but I can’t put my finger on it”#it’s usually the lack of familect use (tags via @deesarrachi)

(via asleepinawell)

— 1 month ago with 41600 notes
#this is me & my partner  #actively made worse by the fact that he makes up words that don't actually mean anything all the time 

bloglikeanegyptian:

it goes against so much of what i stand for to share “palestinians are humans, they have hobbies, they have pets, they laugh and cry” kind of posts because i’ve spent so much of my life and career completely rejecting the notion that we should humanize ourselves, that we should ever be defensive, that we should entertain this racism at all

but it breaks my heart when i have to share them from people in gaza, who are using their five minutes of internet connection, their 25% of battery charge collected from a macguyvered car battery, emotionally exhausted, thirsty and hungry, sleeping in schools that have turned into refugee shelters and still making the time to say “please, i am human too, i am still alive, please fight for me” in english to appeal to the only people who have the power to help

i shared a tweet from a jjk artist in gaza i follow about a bts photocard being found in the middle of the rubble. even the love of anime and kpop and sports is no longer just a hobby, but an appeal to humanity. what was once a source of joy is now proof of life.

the worst part is that you won’t find this content in arabic. palestinians don’t post like this in arabic. but when they translate themselves, they recognize that they must humanize themselves first. it’s an unspoken understanding of dehumanization, one that has dictated a whole region’s understanding of the value of human life. in arabic they speak with dignity, with anger, with sorrow. in english, they appeal for their existence.

i share these posts not just because we have to reach everyone we can, because im being asked to and i will not refuse. but i also share them because they’re evidence of how deep the racism has run. at what dehumanization leads to. of war crime after war crime. this too i will not forget.

(via villainanders)

— 1 month ago with 37741 notes

sarahseeandersen:

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(via elfgrove)

— 1 month ago with 28846 notes
#:)  #(screams) 

everythingeverywhereallatonce:

Opinion | ‘I’m still alive. Gaza is no longer Gaza.’ By Atef Abu Saif October 30, 2023 at 11:16 a.m. EDTALT
Sunday, Oct. 8ALT
Yasser — who, at 15, has witnessed only two wars — is still scarred by memories of the 2014 war. He was 7 at the time and remembers it vividly. His sister Jaffa, who was only 2, claims she remembers it, but when she describes it, I suspect she’s describing videos she has seen. She has a kind of nostalgia for it. Memories of war can be strangely positive, because to have them at all means you must have survived.ALT
Survival was the topic of conversation today. The hotel’s other guests — all from the West Bank — had decided to leave through the Rafah Crossing Point into Egypt. They held passports, and many had diplomatic clearances. Before breakfast was finished, arrangements had been made with the Egyptian side. My name and Yasser’s were included, and we packed our things. Then, as Mohammed headed to the car, I announced that I’d be staying. This might not prove to be the wisest decision I’ve ever made, but it felt like the right one. I couldn’t flee out of fear, abandoning my father, brothers and sisters Eisha and Asma. I was only 2 months old when my first war broke out, in 1973, and I’ve been living through wars ever since. Just as life is a pause between two deaths, Palestine, as a place and as an idea, is a timeout in the middle of many wars.ALT
Monday, Oct. 9 The city has become a wasteland of rubble and debris. Beautiful buildings fall like columns of smoke. I often think about the time I was shot as a kid, during the first intifada, and how my mother told me I actually died for a few minutes before being brought back to life. Maybe I can do the same this time, I think.ALT
Tuesday, Oct. 17 I see death approaching, hear its steps growing louder. Just be done with it, I think. It’s the 11th day of the conflict, but all the days have merged into one: the same bombardment, the same fear, the same smell. On the news, I read the names of the dead on the ticker at the bottom of the screen. I wait for my name to appear.ALT
Thirty minutes later, I was on his street. Rulla had been right. Huda and Hatem’s building had been hit only an hour earlier. The bodies of their daughter and grandchild had already been retrieved; the only known survivor was Wissam, one of their other daughters, who had been taken to the ICU. Wissam had gone straight into surgery, where both of her legs and her right hand had been amputated. Her graduation ceremony from art college had taken place only the day before. She has to spend the rest of her life without legs, with one hand. “What about the others?” I asked someone. “We can’t find them,” came the reply. Amid the rubble, we shouted: “Hello? Can anyone hear us?” We called out the names of those still missing, hoping some might still be alive. By the end of the day, we’d managed to find five bodies, including that of a 3-month-old. We went to the cemetery to bury them. In the evening, I went to see Wissam in the hospital; she was barely awake. After half an hour, she asked me: “Khalo [Uncle], I’m dreaming, right?” I said, “We are all in a dream.” “My dream is terrifying! Why?” “All our dreams are terrifying.” After 10 minutes of silence, she said, “Don’t lie to me, Khalo. In my dream, I don’t have legs. It’s true, isn’t it? I have no legs?” “But you said it’s a dream.” “I don’t like this dream, Khalo.”ALT
Wednesday, Oct. 18 This is my second night in Jabalya Camp, where I should’ve been from the beginning, where my family — father, sisters, brothers — have gathered. There’s no internet. No social media. We’re back in the radio age. Explosions continue, each one feeling closer than the last, each one inspiring me to reach for my own body to see whether I’ve been hit. Why do I even want to survive? What is survival good for, if I live only to spend another day fearing my death? It’s been a dark and terrible night. Hundreds were killed at al-Ahli Hospital last night. They’d sought life and a future in the sanctity of this hospital, thinking, mistakenly, that it would be safe.ALT
I could barely sleep, thinking of the children who had been sleeping on the grass in the gardens of the hospital in front of the church, lying under the darkening sky, protected by only a few scattered clouds, awaiting the morning sun they would never wake up to. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine not waking up myself. A friend texted: “What’s happening in Gaza?” I replied: “The proper question is not what is happening, but what has been happening for more than 75 years.” We live in a war film, and the producer doesn’t want it to end. The studio keeps feeding the script with new scenes, keeps adding millions of dollars to the budget. It’s going be a blockbuster, as long as they never stop filming.ALT
News came that the Israelis wanted to evacuate more than 60 percent of the Strip’s inhabitants, presumably so they could flatten Gaza City. Helicopters dropped leaflets everywhere. In Arabic, they announced that anyone who remained north of the Wadi waterway would be considered a partner to terrorism — meaning the Israelis can shoot on sight. I will not obey their orders. I’ve spent this whole time in northern Gaza City and Rimal, two of the hardest-hit areas. Sometimes all you have are the choices you make. Hanna pleaded with me by text to relocate to Rafah, so Yasser and I could be close to the crossing. “I don’t trust the Israeli army,” I replied. “So why should I obey them?”ALT
Sunday, Oct. 22 Today is the 16th day of the conflict. I’m still alive. Gaza is no longer Gaza. When I woke this morning and looked down from my window into Jabalya Camp, I saw dozens of young men removing the rubble from buildings hit by missiles, desperately trying to recover the corpses crushed beneath. For eight days now, we haven’t been able to retrieve the bodies of my wife’s sister, her husband and their son. Hanna phones every morning asking for news. Each day requires a survival strategy. Of course, getting bread is the most important task. Families send one of their kids to queue in front of the bakery before sunrise. They have to wait for as long as five hours before they return with their precious cargo.ALT
This morning, the bakery queues were longer than usual. In front of Shanti Bakery on Wihda Street and Family Bakery between Wihda and Nasser streets, they were more than 500 meters long. According to the head of the Bakeries’ Association, seven bakeries have been hit by Israeli missiles. Two nights ago, the one near my sister Asma’s house was destroyed, along with the lives of most of those queuing outside. It’s not just bakeries that are being hit but also other places where people gather. Last night, they hit the souk in Nuseirat Camp, along with two of the camp’s best-known restaurants: Jenin and Aqil. I’d grabbed a sandwich from Aqil on the fifth day of the war. The people who had been queuing there yesterday are now dead.ALT
Monday, Oct. 23 Last night was the most violent so far. Some 600 people were killed in attacks on the Strip. Around 11 p.m., I experienced the usual sequence: the screech of a rocket, a flash in the darkness, the sound of an explosion. I was lying on a mattress in the middle of the flat and had almost dozed off when a dark and noxious cloud began filling the street below. I began to cough. The smell was that of ash and burning metal. I counted 12 ambulances heading toward the end of the street. I miss real food. Most days, I eat falafel for breakfast and falafel for dinner. Two days ago, I was lucky enough to get some chicken and quickly fried three pieces for Mohammed, Yasser and me. A feast! Every time I eat, I feel that it’s the most delicious meal I’ve ever had. Deep down, I think I’m telling myself this because it might be my last.ALT
I made my way toward Eisha’s place in the Tel al-Zaatar neighborhood of the camp. Heaps of rubble and half-collapsed buildings lay everywhere. By this stage, I’ve become indifferent to the explosions ripping holes in the city around me. Everyone who dies here dies by sheer bad luck. They just happen to be where the missile strikes at that moment. One small consolation is that when you hear the sound of the rocket, you know it’s not going to hit you. This is a lesson all Gazans learn. When you’re the target, you don’t hear anything; you just die.ALT
Wednesday, Oct. 25ALT
When I arrived at her bedside, Wissam made a request that broke my heart. She wanted to know: Could I give her a lethal injection? She was confident that Allah would forgive her. I smiled and said, “But he will not forgive me, Wissam.” “I am going to ask him to, on your behalf,” she said. I cited a verse on the wisdom of the Almighty. I told her he preferred that she be alive amid all this death. She insisted that she could no longer stand the pain. She had been given no drugs. Her face was pale, and she seemed ready to give up. There is no sign of this war ending. No one in power speaks of a cease-fire. On the news, there’s discussion of a few hours’ truce for humanitarian purposes, to let in a little food and medicine. I find it unbearable to listen to the way they talk about us, decide things for us, without ever asking any of us.ALT
In the past week, many Gazans have started writing their names on their hands and legs, in pen or permanent marker, so they can be identified when death comes. This might seem macabre, but it makes perfect sense: We want to be remembered; we want our stories to be told; we seek dignity. At the very least, our names will be on our graves. The smell of unretrieved bodies under the ruins of a house hit last week remains in the air. The more time passes, the stronger the smell. Jabalya is famous for its narrow alleys, but now they’re all blocked with fallen masonry, chunks of concrete, tangled metal. Standing on a pile of chaos that a few hours ago was someone’s home, I think about the neighborhood where I was born and raised. I know its maze of narrow streets by heart; I can navigate them with my eyes closed. Soon all that will be left will be a memory.ALT

(Source: Washington Post, via robobee)

— 1 month ago with 988 notes

opteekaal:

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A Cactuar Garden

(via windupiceheart)

— 1 month ago with 871 notes

chocolettchoo:

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Catstumes

My website! :3

— 1 month ago with 1019 notes

roychewtoy:

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my watery friend… are you too brushed with the pattern of the dappled light…?

(via villainanders)

— 1 month ago with 66142 notes
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