#Get a second passport in Lebanon

[elitepassport123]

Why Should Lebanese Citizens Consider a Grenada Passport?

For Lebanese citizens seeking broader horizons, securing a Grenada passport can be a transformative step. Beyond its appeal for visa-free travel to numerous countries, it offers unique benefits tailored for those aiming to expand their global footprint. With the ability to get a second passport in Lebanon, this option is an ideal pathway to economic growth and international connectivity. Whether for business expansion, access to global markets, or a safety net for the future, a Grenada passport opens doors to unparalleled opportunities.

What makes this citizenship program particularly appealing is its comprehensive approach to creating a secure and prosperous future. From tax advantages to the ability to invest in global education, it offers a well-rounded package that suits diverse needs. Lebanese citizens can leverage the Grenada citizenship passport in Lebanon to not only access international markets but also enjoy the freedom to travel without restrictions.

Discover how you can embark on a journey to greater mobility and financial security here. For more insights read the full blog here: https://medium.com/@elitepassport255/why-should-lebanese-citizens-consider-a-grenada-passport-5afaf11c80ff.

[thatdebaterguy]

Some history

I had a feeling someone would mention this, so I had something prepared.

First off, that's an inflated figure.

Secondly, Canaanite really just means people descendent from the Levant area, and more people from Lebanon have ancestral heritage with Canaanites, who intermixed with various cultures. Back when they were still a civilisation, the Canaanite people were predominantly Jewish, it was the main faith in the area, seconded by Christianity. The wave of Islam started sometime around the 8th century under the first few invasions of the various Muslim nations around, predominantly Egypt. The thing is, the more Jewish Canaanites intermixed more with Europeans, Greeks who had settled Anatolia, generally people across the Northern Mediterranean and had European ancestry, but these people often moved to Europe due to the generally higher acceptance of Jews (for a while in some places) and the higher living standards and opportunities, and they mainly favoured Orthodox countries, with Catholic Poland being a key exception. The Palestinian Canaanites intermixed with the other Levantine based cultures or descendants, like Iranians, Lebanese people, Egyptians and Mesopotamians. Since it was the Egyptians and Arabs who conquered the land and it was ruled under Islam for over a thousand years, it was more favourable for the Palestinians to stay there. They continued to intermix with Egyptians, Syrians, and Bedouin people, who shared even more in common with the Canaanites than the Palestinians. The simple thing is, while many more Jews share heritage with Europe, they can pretty much all be traced back to Canaan, as can the Palestinians. The Muslims invaded, the Jews migrated, people intermixed. However, the culture of modern Palestinians was altered to be much more intertwined with the Muslim faith, which was spread via missionaries, similar to how Christian missionaries operated in European colonies.

In the end it's a whole cultural mess of heritage, but each of them lay claim to the land, since their ancestors on both sides originated from these Levantine lands, but the Jews got more European and the Palestinians got more Muslim, meaning while Palestinians share a lot in common with Canaanites still, the Canaanites who had been living in the regions both sides inhabit now, have practically no modern equivalent, since the Palestinians mixed with other Levantine cultures, Egyptians, Iranians, etc, which makes defining ancestral homeland tricky, since if you say it's all Canaanite descendants, then the Lebanese have a better claim than anyone, but The Canaanites who'd been local to places like Jerusalem have no modern comparison, which leaves you with the two main modern variations of the Canaanites who had lived in these lands; the Palestinians and Israelis. Even though a fair amount of the Jewish population in Israel had emigrated from Europe, it was still Canaanite Jews who'd mixed with those Europeans, and legal immigration to a country offering a home to those of your faith is still a very fair way to enter a country where your people historically have lived and even in modern and recent history have lived. Me as a Brit who's 25% Irish could apply for an Irish passport and live in areas once held by English settlers hundreds of years ago, but are rightfully Irish now, so it's fair if Jewish people legally immigrate to historically Jewish lands where many of the Israeli people have lived their entire lives and who's families have lived there far longer. Tel Aviv was built by Jews, Gaza was built by Palestinians. Barely any Israelis want to own Gaza, a scary amount of Palestine supporters want to either burn down or occupy Tel Aviv for Palestine. Let the two exist, they've both been there, just get Hamas out the picture and they can go about their lives.

[gkathleenk]

LEBANON

DAY ONE

As of right now, there is a travel advisory for Lebanon due to crime, terrorism, civil unrest, kidnapping, unexploded landmines, and armed conflict, but we are going to ignore that for the next 2 days.

To get to Lebanon, you must have a valid passport for the past 90 days, with no Israeli stamps or visas. You aren't required to have any vaccinations, but you have to have a tourist visa. People recommend bringing lightweight clothing, toiletries, money belt, portable umbrella, snacks, and snorkel gear. The best months to travel are during the spring and the fall. The national language is Arabic, and their currency is the Lebanese Pound ($1 = 89966.08 LBP). The population is 5.4 million and the climate is Mediterranean (95 °F in summer and 59 °F in winter).

The place I decided to stay at in Lebanon was The Harmony Villa, located in Maryouba, a city located an hour drive away from the capital Beirut. The Harmony Villa costs 26,989,824.84 LBP ($300) a night. I will be staying one night, so my total is just that. It comes with a pool and a hot tub.

After checking in, I wanted to learn about the culinary history in Lebanon. The national food of Lebanon is kibbah, which is a paste of lamb and wheat mixed with spices and cooked. It is very similar to meatballs. Lebanese people eat lamb because from 1516 to 1918 when Lebanon was controlled under the Ottoman Empire, they brought over their dishes and soon lamb became a staple in Lebanese cuisine. The national dessert of Lebanon is mafroukeh. Mafroukeh is a type of cake that is mixed with oranges and rose water and topped with eshta, which is a light cream mixture. The national drink of Lebanon is arak. Arak is an alcoholic drink that is basically grape brandy. Even though the Lebanese say “if you breathe, you can drink,” their drinking age is still 18, so I was unable to try this.

After my scrumptious meal, I went to Jeita Grotto, the number one best thing to do in Lebanon according to TripAdvisor. Located in Beirut, Jeita Grotto are two interconnected limestone caves that stretch across 9 kilometers. There is a lower grotto, and an upper grotto. If you were to tour the lower grotto, it would be a 1650 ft boat trip. The upper grotto can only be traveled by foot, and only 2460 ft of the 6990 ft are accessible to visitors. In the upper grotto you can see stalagmites, stalactites, ponds, and mushrooms. Tickets to get in cost 719,728.66 LBP ($8). They do not allow phones into the caves, but I still manager to snag a few pics for you guys ;)

Next on my list, I wanted to hit The Shrine of Our Lady of Lebanon. The Shrine of Our Lady of Lebanon is an 8.5 mile high statue made up of bronze of the Virgin Mary, and it was built in 1907. After seeing this ginormous statue of the Virgin Mary, you will probably the main religion of Lebanon is Christianity, but it actually isn't! The top religion is Islam with 67.6% of the population (31.9% Sunni and 31% Shia). Christianity is the second though with 32.4%.

DAY TWO

Last day ever travelling the world. I better make it good! I started off with the Temples of Baalbek located in Baalbek, an hour and a half drive away from Maryouba. There are two temple ruins in Baalbek that people often run to, the Temple of Bacchus and the Temple of Jupiter. Both are two of the largest Roman temples to ever exist. The Temples of Baalbek were both listed was UNESCO World Heritage Sites in 1984.

The Temple of Bacchus is 6 meters long, 35 meters wide and 31 meters high. It is rumored to be built in second century CE, most likely commissioned by Roman Emperor Antoninus Pius, who was born 138 AD and died 161 AD.

The Temple of Jupiter is the second-biggest Roman Temple in the world. It is unknown when the temple was built and who commissioned it. The columns are 19.9 meters high with a diameter of nearly 2.5 meters.

Lebanon was wonderful! I feel as if I had more time here, I would seriously love it. I prefer Kuwait way more, seemed totally more my style. There is not a whole lot going on in Lebanon in a tourist standpoint.

[hudsonmckenzie]

Countries that provide dual citizenship with the UK

In the UK, having dual citizenship means having simultaneous citizenship in the United Kingdom and another nation. Those with family links abroad or those who wish to move freely between nations may find it advantageous.

Although having two citizenships has certain drawbacks (such paying taxes twice, having military responsibilities, or not being eligible for some government programmes), they are usually offset by the positives according to the top immigration lawyers in London. With a few notable exceptions, the UK permits dual citizenship with several other nations.

Advantages of Dual Citizenship

If you are not a British citizen and you want to relocate to the UK, you may wish to think about requesting dual citizenship. The following are some advantages of dual citizenship with the UK:

1. Staying in Both Nations

You are able to reside in two nations concurrently. This implies that you can still go to or remain in England for extended periods of time without losing your rights as an Englishman, even if your spouse or children have relocated abroad and you intend to retire there.

2. Right to Vote

You are eligible to vote in both nations' elections. Since it is lawful in the majority of nations with dual citizenship legislation, many people actually take advantage of this opportunity by casting two ballots during elections.

Keep in mind that several nations only permit voting in parliamentary elections—not municipal ones. You will not be eligible to vote in local or parliamentary elections if you have resided outside of the UK for more than 15 years.

3. Hassle-free Travel

You don't need a passport or a visa to travel freely across the UK. When travelling as a dual citizen, there should be no issues as long as you carry your British passport with you and consult one of the immigration lawyers in London.

4. Social Benefits

Possessing dual citizenship entitles you receive social advantages from both nations. This covers social security, health insurance, and other government-funded initiatives.

More About Dual Citizenship in the UK

Being a citizen of more than one nation, or holding two citizenships, is known as dual nationality.

This may be the result of your parents' different nationalities or the fact that you were born in one location and later relocated.

Additionally, there are other kinds of dual citizenship:

Dual Nationality by Birth

In the event that you were born in the United Kingdom or a British Overseas Territory, you must verify your eligibility and apply for citizenship.

Depending on where and when you were born, as well as the circumstances surrounding your parents, you may potentially qualify if you have a parent who has a British citizenry.

You could be able to register as a British citizen, for instance, if both of your parents are British citizens, or if one of them is and the other has the right to remain in the country indefinitely.

Dual Nationality through Naturalization

You might have to give up your original citizenship if you wish to seek for naturalization in another nation to obtain a second citizenship.

Countries That Provide Dual Citizenship with the UK

There are many countries which allow dual citizenship. Some of the countries that permit UK dual citizenship include:

Armenia

Australia

Bangladesh

Barbados

Belgium

Canada

Croatia

Cyprus

Czech Republic

Denmark

Egypt

Finland

France

Germany

Greece

Hungary

Iceland

Iraq

Ireland

Israel

Italy

Kenya

Latvia

Lebanon

Liechtenstein

Luxembourg

Malta

Pakistan

Philippines

Poland

Portugal

Romania

Serbia

Slovenia

South Africa

Sri Lanka

Sweden

Switzerland

Syria

Thailand

Tonga

Turkey

United Arab Emirates (UAE)

United States

Eligibility for UK’s Dual Citizenship

There are conditions that must be fulfilled if you are a citizen of the United Kingdom and wish to get dual citizenship. Finding out if you qualify for dual nationality in the UK—that is, having dual citizenship with another nation—is the first stage in the process.

To qualify for this opportunity, you must be:

18 years of age or older

possess a minimum of 12 months' worth of UK residency (unless married to a British citizen or established person)

You must have passed the Life in the UK exam and the English language proficiency criterion.

have not violated any immigration laws in the UK while you were a qualified resident

You must fulfil the prerequisites listed above in addition to possessing another citizenship or being eligible for

[fleabaqs]

TIPS FOR WRITING LATINOS FOR DUMMIES! 

because y’all can’t seem to get anything right.

under the cut you will find a lot of useful (maybe) information when writing latino characters. please consider leaving a like/reblog if you find this useful.

                                                      FIRST OF:

yes, karen, we will call you gringo. that’s not on the table, that’s not a discussion. all latinos use the word gringo, and if you say it’s a racist slur ONE MORE TIME, i swear you will regret it, filha da puta.

                                                                   SECOND:

NOT ALL LATINOS SPEAK SPANISH!! i know, crazy, right??? brazilians speaks PORTUGUESE, yes PORTUGUESE!!! bitch

yes, portuguese and spanish are really similar, but don’t write the “even though i speak only spanish/portuguese i can understand spanish/portuguese” depending on the country/state you’re born, you CAN’T. so just avoid that. 

if you’re character/fc was born in united states, they probably won’t be considered latino in latin america. PERIOD. that’s not up for discussion either. 

if your character/fc was born in latin america, he ISN’T going to be considered a person of colour if they have white skin. take for example the family from one day at a time. in usa they can be talking about racism and everything, but in latin america you only suffer racism if you have clearly black/asian descent. plus: if you’re white and you decided to shit rules into racism in latin america (at least in brazil) you’ll probably get beaten up. not a joke. and as a white latina, i support that.

WHY are you all so lazy? If you wanna write ANY character, from ANY country that is not yours = YOU SEARCH INFO ABOUT THAT COUNTRY!! i swear your hand is not going to fall of! im taking as example my country, if you wanna write a brazilian, search about the states! a cearense and a gaúcho are TOTALLY different!!! a carioca and paulista are totally different even tho rio de janeiro and são paulo are so close. DECIDE the country, the area, the state and city of your character!

moving on from geography: other types of stereotypes!! NOT ALL LATINA MOMS ARE CRAZY AND CONSERVATIVES! some are pretty chill! really… there are moms who won’t go crazy about anything. so don’t be afraid to write a mom that is okay with their child going out at night, being LGBT or being pro choice. okay???

okay, but why aren’t you using the word “latine”? most latino community are against this word. shocking, right? everyone has their reasons why they don’t like it, my case is because my family is really poor/my grandparents didn’t go to school and everything and as much as they would respect and understand non binary people, they would not be able to use it. not even my mom, who is a teacher, is able to use it. she respects their existence, but they gotta respect other people existence too. my family is one of the lucky ones, there are people in worse conditions. when using the word latine, UNDERSTAND the background of the character! 

ASIANS LATINOS EXISTS!! my god, this is a hard one. i never see asian latino representation in unitedstaten midia. like, what’s that about? they don’t have to choose between their ethnicities!! now shut up, karen

we DON’T call unitedstatens americans, or united states america! i don’t know what happened in their education system, but they really gotta understand america is a fucking continent with more than 30 countries. you’re not special, desgraçados parasitas do caralho

if i see one more latino drug dealer and latina sex symbol, IM GONNA KILL A GRINGO!! that’s not all we are!

we will get offended if you say we are from a country we are not, after we already said our country. i know it’s hard for you to memorize more than five countries, but i gonna be cheering for you!

most latinos hate, or at least dislike, our colonizers. in brazil, we make jokes about portuguese people all the time and we will ask for the gold they stole from us at any given opportunity. so when writing a latino character, know who colonized their country.

latinos are clean. i know this may sound a little off for non latinos, but our sense of personal hygiene is really important. again, this variates from country to country, but in brazil we are thought that we should brush our teeths after every meal (at least 4 times a day), and that we should shower EVERY day. no, no, don’t come with that unitedstaten shit about showering only when you exercise, or that during summer going to the pool is showering BECAUSE IT’S NOT, THAT’S FUCKING DISGUSTING HIJA DE PUTA. if your character has access to clear water and personal hygiene products, he will do this kind of things.

just... read abou that country you wanna write. here goes some ideias: *country* traditional food, *country* sports, *country* music (in this one, learn how to say the language of the country in the language of the country. example: don’t search “portuguese songs”, search instead for músicas brasilieiras. don’t search for “mexican songs” search for canciones mexicanas.), *country* books/writers, *language of the country* basic phrases! ]

latin america is part of three americas! america is devided in three. north america = mexico, and the other two; central america = cuba, costa rica, etc; south america = brazil, chile, etc. DON’T go to my ask to say “oH mExIcO iS nOt NoRtH aMeRiCa” because i swear i’ll track you down and shove a atlas down your throat!

latin america is not just tropical vibes, dumb bitch!! we have snow too! this is fucking brazil.  and this is argENTINA! 

just remember these facts when writing brazilians: brazil is the second country with the biggest japanese community, second country out of germany with more germans, and get this!! brazil has more lebaneses than lebanon.

latino accent when is speaking english is not just lydia from odaat. it changes. 

english is second or third or fourth (and so it goes) language for latinos. keep in mind that mistakes are made. and most latinos (myself included) love their accent!! we want you to listen to our voice and ask where we’re from, and that gets to: 

WE ARE COCKY! yes, we are very cocky about our culture, get over it! 

most latinos cried/got really happy when parasite won the oscar. now you ask me, why are you writing this on a guide on how to write fucking latinos??? well, my dudes, latinos are tired of imperialism. just that. don’t write a character that worships usa culture (can we call hamburguers and coke culture, my ladies? I DONT THINK SO), even if they moved to usa. “it’s also important to remember that the american dream is sold to all of us, since forever.”

i guess this is it??? just, talk to a latino and ask “is this correct?” when in doubt. we are indeed very energetic and we talk loud and a lot, but we don’t bite. writing us is difficult, you’ll probably get something wrong. but if we see that you did basic research, we will get really happy about it. bye, gringos!

edit 001: this link and this link are great! use them.

edit 002: any fc can be latino! ANY FC CAN BE LATINO! fun fact: the brazilian passport is one of the most expensive ones, because anyone can pass as brazilian. anyone can be latino! wong yukhei? big brazilian energy! madison beer? can be latina. ester expósito? latina. kim taeyeon? I HEAR THE LATINA DRUMS!! idk, kj apa? can be latino too! 

not all latinos are good dancers and not all latin dances are salsa. check “#latinodancecheck” on tiktok, if you have one. 

there are differences between spanish speaking surnames and brazilian ones. first of: the number of surnames changes with the country. second: spanish speaking countries surnames end in “ez”, while brazilian surnames end in “es”. examples: rodriguez, rodrigues; lópez, lopes; hernandez, fernandes; martinez, martins. but sometimes, we exchange surnames. you can find a brazilian with the surname “gonzalez” instead of gonçalves, if their family comes from a spanish speaking country.

this ask sent by the lovely anon! 

this other ask sent another sweet anon!

this.

[paxful-account24]

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[silent-era-of-cinema]

Norman Kerry (born Norman Hussey Kaiser, June 16, 1894 – January 12, 1956) was an American actor whose career in the motion picture industry spanned twenty-five years, beginning in 1916 and peaking during the silent era of the 1920s. Changing his name from the unmistakably German "Kaiser" at the onset of World War I, he rose quickly in his field, becoming "the Clark Gable of the [1920s]." He often played the heroic dashing swashbuckler or the seductive lothario and was extremely popular with female fans. On a personal level, Kerry was known as a prankster and was said to have a wonderful sense of humor and to be very popular. He also achieved some recognition as a dog fancier, maintaining kennels at his home that were "known throughout the world among lovers of aristocratic dogs." As his film career waned in the 1930s, he became known as an international bon vivant and adventurer who lived in the French Riviera and even joined the French Foreign Legion.

Kerry made his first film appearance in the 1916 comedy Manhattan Madness, starring Douglas Fairbanks and directed by Allan Dwan. Dwan needed young people with horses to appear in a scene and Kerry volunteered himself and his friends to fill that need. The following year, Kerry rose to leading actor status in A Little Princess, playing opposite actress Mary Pickford. He again appeared with Mary Pickford in 1918, in Amarilly of Clothes-line Alley, and that in turn led to his being chosen by Constance Talmadge as her leading man in Up the Road with Sallie. He was "on his way!"

Kerry's career flourished from the time of those early successes and throughout the 1920s--the silent film era. In 1920, he was paid a salary of $750 per week and by 1930 he had been under contract with Universal Pictures for twelve years and was thought to be among the actors who had played the most roles in his career. He wore a fancy waxed mustache and slicked-back hair, exemplifying the "tall, dark, and handsome" matinee idol of the time.[7][6] In 1923, he starred in two of his most popular films, the enormous box-office success The Hunchback of Notre Dame, with Lon Chaney and Patsy Ruth Miller and the controversial Merry-Go-Round, opposite Mary Philbin. In Merry-Go-Round, Austrian director Erich von Stroheim chose Kerry to play von Stroheim's alter-ego 'Count Franz Maximilian Von Hohenegg', but producer Irving Thalberg replaced von Stroheim with director Rupert Julian during filming. The film is now considered a classic.

Kerry was again cast with Lon Chaney and Mary Philbin in the 1925 horror classic The Phantom of the Opera, playing Philbin's love-interest, the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. The film was an enormous financial and critical success and solidified Kerry's position as a leading actor during the 1920s. That same year Kerry starred with Philbin in the melodrama Fifth Avenue Models and with Patsy Ruth Miller in the adventure film Lorraine of the Lions. In 1927, Kerry again shared the screen with Lon Chaney in The Unknown, also starring Joan Crawford. By the end of the decade, he had appeared in high-profile roles opposite Anna Q. Nilsson, Marion Davies, Bebe Daniels, Mildred Harris, Lillian Gish, and Claire Windsor, among others.

At the beginning of the talkie era, Kerry reunited with Mary Philbin to film talking scenes for The Phantom of the Opera, reissued with sound 15 Dec 1929. However, this was the beginning of Kerry's decline; he made only a few American films after 1930. Among them were Air Eagles and Bachelor Apartment in 1931 and Kerry's final film, Tanks a Million, in 1941. During the 1930s, Kerry also made some movies for British, German, and Italian producers.

For his contributions to the motion picture industry, in 1960 Kerry was awarded a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame at 6724 Hollywood Blvd., Hollywood, California.

Born in Rochester, New York on June 16, 1894, Kerry was the son of Isaac and Eunice Kaiser. As he was growing up, he lived with his family in New York City and Long Island. He was a student at the DeLaSalle School, St. John's College, and the University of Maryland, where he was an athlete. Kerry's father, Isaac Kaiser, was a leather goods manufacturer and dealer and Kerry himself spent some time as a representative for that company.

Around 1916, Kerry befriended Rudolph Valentino, who was then known as an exhibition dancer, in New York City. He is said to have introduced Valentino to Bonnie Glass, who became Valentino's dance partner. Later, Kerry encouraged Valentino to try making a name for himself in film, staked him for a trip to Los Angeles, and helped him get his first roles.

In 1917, despite having already achieved some success in the motion picture industry, Kerry enlisted in the British Royal Flying Corps and was to report for training in Toronto, Canada in September of that year, with a commission as a lieutenant. However, on November 2, Kerry's father died, leading to his being granted six months leave. In 1918, he served briefly (October 2 to December 4) in the U.S. Army, returning to Los Angeles and his film career by the end of that year.

Kerry had been living in a Los Angeles hotel in June 1917 but by the end of the year, he took up residence in a bungalow in Hollywood, where he was joined by his mother and sister. They moved to a house at the entrance to Laurel Canyon the following June. Kerry was still living with his mother and sister as of January 1920.

About six weeks later, Kerry was married for the first time. His bride was a 22-year-old divorcee, Rozene (Tripp) Greppin, said to be an heiress. The marriage did not last. The couple separated on November 11, 1928 and Rozene filed for divorce the following April, charging that Kerry called her vile names in front of others, stayed away for extended periods, and ignored her; the divorce was granted on June 7, 1929.

About two weeks after the divorce was granted, Kerry made a very public effort to win Rozene back. On June 20, 1929, she was scheduled to board the ocean liner Majestic in New York, bound for England. After learning that she was there, Kerry attempted to board the ship, seeking a reconciliation. Having neither ticket nor passport, Kerry was not allowed on board. Nevertheless, he then scaled a fence around the baggage area, evaded crew members who tried to stop him, and entered the ship on an escalator used to load baggage. Once in England, he was required to put up a passport bond and remained there for about two days. His efforts to save the marriage were unsuccessful.

Kerry's second wife was Helen Mary (Yost) Wells, ex-wife of a New York grain broker. They were married in New York on November 2, 1932. The couple said that they had been friends since before their previous marriages; he was 38 and she gave her age as 32. Just over two months later, they separated and Helen moved out of their home and into a hotel. There followed a reconciliation, but the following year Helen filed for divorce, alleging that Kerry drank heavily. The divorce was granted on September 17, 1934.

This divorce was not the end of Kerry's relationship with Helen. Though there were rumors of a reconciliation with first wife Rozene, Kerry later followed Helen to Vienna, Austria, and the two eventually remarried there.Kerry had often been living and working in Europe since the beginning of their marriage. He lived in Brussels for a time and by 1940 he and Helen were living in the French Riviera, near Nice.

Kerry's life then took a surprising turn: in January 1940, he enlisted in the French Foreign Legion. He explained to Helen, who ultimately acquiesced in his decision, that he owed it to the French, whose hospitality he had been enjoying, and that he had been dissatisfied with the shallowness of his life as an actor; he wanted to have "real experiences, not just make-believe." In the Legion, he saw service in Luxemburg and Morocco, but his tour of duty lasted less than a year because of the fall of France to Nazi Germany. In January 1941, Kerry returned to California.

The following year brought news that Kerry had become engaged to actress Kay English, though their marriage would have to wait until there was a final divorce decree between Kerry and Helen. Kerry and English did eventually marry, in 1946, and they remained married until his death in 1956.

At the age of 61, on 12 Jan 1956, Norman Kerry died from a liver ailment at Cedars of Lebanon Hospital in Los Angeles, California. He was interred at Holy Cross Cemetery, Culver City, Los Angeles County, California.

[idkhowbutimgayer]

re: to the asks about brazil (im a different anon tho) do you have any notes/tips on how to accurately do brazil in any sort of medium? holidays, the way the people act, etc?

HMHmHmHm

Me like it

Okay, first of: Brazil is fuckin gigantic man, each region has its own geography, accent, culture and looks. Its like 5 different countries in one.

Second (and a most know tip) : Not everyone is a big fan of Carnaval or knows how to play soccer (I'm a non player btw), or even likes the brazilian popular kind of music ( a W A S T E if u want my opinion, our music is g o o d)

Third: Brazilians doesn't have "type". There's no "Brazilian average face". Our passport is the most expensive in the black market for a reason, bc everyone can be a brazilian. We have the second biggest Japanese population outside Japan, there's almost as much Lebanese in Brazil as there is in Lebanon, the south region has one of the biggest German and Italian population outside Europe, we still have a lot of native folks (and some of them have a bunch of technology), and let's not brush of the 'latino' type. So yeah, anyone can be brazilian

Fourth: About holidays.... It's kinda hard, really. Each region has different importance tones to each one of them. Let's use Carnaval as an example: Rio de Janeiro is Hyped Up™ in Carnaval, that's not a lie, but they celebrate it with samba and big parades, but in Pernambuco, also Hyped Up™, celebrate it with frevo (a specific kind of dance and music) and with big groups of people walking down the street in "blocks", each one of them under a different name and banner. Another holiday, São João, is the Biggest Party in the Northeast, like, REALLY big and important, but its really 'meh' in other states. So, about this point, is really important to search about the region that u are talking about, because its really not just a big ball of same culture

Fifth: People, in all ways, are different. But one thing is common between almost all brazilians: We are really receptive. Like, look at me, I'm just writing a whole essay about Brazil and explaining it deeply just because u asked for it. We like to help and we do our best to make you feel like home. We want you to see our country, state, city, people as their best because, even if we complain about it, we actually love our big mess of a country. We all agree that this place is the best place ever, but its rotten and messy due politics. This brings another point: Only brazilians can talk shit about Brazil. Like that younger sibling that you complain about everyday but if someone complain too you become a wild beast.

Man, I think that is getting really big. But I think that was a good compass for u... I guess. Maybe I just zooned out and spoke a lot about things not that important.

Hey, any @ brazilian folks, you can come here and talk about things I forgot or I don't even know bc I'm really not an expert bc I'm a ~ teenager ~ and didn't even traveled around the whole country, so you can add ur stuff

And any other people that wanna talk a little about their own country, go on and talk too, mate. I really love to know about other places and their own culture and people.

Yo, anon, u can always come back here and ask more stuff, I'll be glad to answer, or even my dm!!!! I'm always open!!!

[royedeno700-blog]

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[halogensleep]

a warzone could be the happiest place on earth (if i was there with you)

Charlotte looked to the overhead cabin for a moment to gather herself, her thoughts, her last bit of patience. The other passengers had started to disembark with grumbles and agitated, inconvenienced tsks. Charlotte refused to remove her seatbelt, still. The human sales-jingle sat beside her began to nudge her fingers towards the buckled clasp in an attempt to gain some progress.

Charlotte slapped her hand away.

“Rebecca I am not getting off of this fucking plane,” Charlotte dropped her voice to a severe whisper.

Becky lifted her chin. “Oh believe me, yes you are!” She nodded emphatically.

“I’m not,” Charlotte protested with a petulant shake of the head. “Nope, I’m not doing this.”

“We’re going to get up and go to the hotel for the night,” Becky insisted softly, as if she were reassuring and placating a child throwing a tantrum. “The bus drops us off, it picks us up in the afternoon, and Bob’s your uncle, we’re off to Tel Aviv!” It was said with the most upbeat, cheery voice possible.

The human sales-jingle tried to unbuckle the seatbelt again. Charlotte slapped her hand away a little harder this time.

“Please don’t do this,” her wife warned, already anticipating the meltdown.

“Cyprus is forty minutes west. This plane is either taking us there, or I’m going to sit here until a charter jet is on the runway ready for us.” Charlotte forcefully tempered her voice into a strange, deceivingly calm tone. “I’ll sit here on the tarmac all day, please try me. I am fresh out of fucks, Becky.”

“Do not do this.” Becky pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is really not the time or place to make a scene—”

“Oh, so now I’m making a scene!” Charlotte lost it, her head bobbing sarcastically. “Don’t worry, Charlotte. I’ll book a secret getaway, it will be like we’re on an episode of The Bachelor!” She parroted Becky’s words from a few, short weeks ago. “Good one, Becky! Look at us now, stuck here!” She pointed to the dusty, mountainous terrain beyond the window where civil unrest and war was brewing.

“Listen to me,” Becky lowered her voice to a tight, Irish whisper. “If you don’t march your arse off of this bloody plane I promise that you will never, ever, for as long as you live, see my rose again—”

“You know what I see right now?” Charlotte snapped and fidgeted deeper into the aisle seat. “Our lives, flashing before my eyes. You promised me relaxing! And this?” Her pointer finger gestured towards everything and nothing. “This ain’t it, chief.”

“Well maybe if you stopped being so dramatic then we could start relaxing!” The Man challenged and thumped herself backwards into her seat, embarrassed and glaring. “People are staring. We’re now that couple. The couple people stare at. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

“Becky we just made an emergency landing in the middle of Beirut!” Crescent-shaped marks were left either side of her nose from the pinching. “The plane had to corkscrew the landing so we didn’t get targeted by anti-aircraft fire!”

“That was a precautionary measure!” Becky snapped back.

“We are two women travelling alone who just so happen to be very western, very gay, and very famous, and you just want us to waltz off this plane into the nexus of the middle-eastern conflict. That’s what you’re asking me to do right now?” Charlotte clarified quite seriously. “Do you have a pre-made target that you want to stick on our backs or should we stop off at the gift shop to get some red paint?”

The aisles of the plane started to thin and empty out as the passengers dispersed into the arrival gate. It left them in an awkward predicament. The few other people onboard—namely, the air hostesses—beamed perfect lipstick smiles and gestured towards the aircraft exit, encouraging them to disembark, becoming more uncomfortable by the second as the couple in Row 42 continued their argument.

“I have been to places like this before and it’s not as scary as you think it is. We’re in the city, the touristy bit. And so long as we don’t go looking for trouble then trouble won’t come looking for us,” Becky urged and stood up from the seat, growing more flustered by the second. “Now, can you please move?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Charlotte furrowed into a look of disbelief. “Name one place you’ve been too that is nearly as dangerous as Lebanon. Please, I’ll wait.” She raised her hands and shrugged.

“I am literally from Dublin,” Becky glowered.

“Don’t do that. You don’t get to bring up The Troubles right now. It’s not the same thing—”

“Agadir, Lahore, Karachi, Mombai, Belfast, I can reel them off quicker than you can ask where they are.” She wasn’t lying. “Oh, and the United States of America! I’ve been there a fair few times too. Now, can we get off the plane yet?” Becky cocked a look.

“Right,” Charlotte sighed and closed her eyes, remembering suddenly. “You were an air hostess - got it.”

“That word is offensive and outdated, we prefer the term cabin crew,” Becky nibbled with irritation.

“Oh I’m sorry I didn’t realise it was a racial epithet.”

“Right that is it!” Her wife burst and climbed across her lap, a knee jamming and rattling the small dinner tray as she clambered over and spilled into the aisle. “I am going to go and get in line for customs and you can come and join me when you’re finished with your temper tantrum!” Becky straightened her jacket and stormed down the galley.

…

To her surprise, the airport was modern, was metropolitan, was clean and lingering with the smell of expensive perfume from the designer duty-free stores that were dotted along the route towards customs and baggage.

When the pilot announced that the aircraft was being diverted to Beirut Rafic-Hariri Airport, Charlotte had imagined cratered buildings; taliban militants; gunfire whizzing overhead; a wartorn village with goats roaming free; children in dusty mismatching flip-flops that she would have to bribe to send SOS messages to the American embassy.

She glanced around the light airy airport terminal in disbelief as businessmen in sharp suits dodged around her. This… was not what she had in mind.

The relief was mind blowing.

The film reel of her worst case scenario was collated from movies and news coverage she had seen concerning the situation in the middle-east, or rather, places that were definitely not Beirut if the advertisements for their Gucci and Prada stores were anything to go by, Helmand Province and the Gaza Strip were certainly lacking in that department after all. Charlotte sighed and slunked through the arrivals terminal in search of her wife, well aware that she may have possibly, slightly, potentially, overreacted to the crisis.

She found Becky on a bench. She was eating something that smelled delicious, people watching, content with her solitude. Charlotte cleared her throat and stood straighter.

“Hi,” she said, nonchalantly.

“Try again,” Becky didn’t skip a beat, her tone slightly testy.

“Becky—”

“Again.” Becky insisted. “You know where this needs to start.”

“I’m sorry I embarrassed you in front of the sacred sisterhood of the cabin crew!” Charlotte slumped and sat down beside her.

“And?” The brown eyes landed on her with a weight of expectancy.

“I’m sorry I made a scene.” Charlotte folded her arms. “Can I have a bite of your food now?”

“Not on your life.”

“A little one?” Charlotte sniffed the burrito-looking wrap with lamb spilling out of the end. “Smells good.”

“It’s a shawarma. Ah ah!” Becky hogged it away from her reaching hand. “You refused to get off the plane and made a huge scene less than six hours into our vacation. No shawarma for you.”

“Well since you’re so in love with Lebanon already we should probably go through customs and get the rest of our twenty-four hours here started.” Charlotte snatched her hand back to her lap and pouted slightly.

The food did smell very good after all.

…

“This is a bad idea.” Charlotte began to sweat.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Look!” She hissed and pointed at a large, bold fonted arabic sign that had been courteously translated into English. The crowd shuffled forward toward the border security officers waiting to stamp passports. Charlotte dropped her voice to a hiss, “I have been arrested before, Becky! I can’t enter the Lebanese Republic!”

“And that is why you’re going to smile, and you’re going to breathe, and when he asks if you have a criminal record, you’re definitely not going to mention you were arrested ten years ago—”

“She says, as if it wasn’t my fault!” Charlotte interrupted, displeased by the accusing tone.

“I know,” Becky hushed and patted her arm. “You’re right, it wasn’t your fault but I don’t think they will care about the semantics so let’s just leave it out, alright? You are clean as whistle, never even gone over the speed-limit as far as he’s concerned. Are we clear?”

Charlotte felt tiny beads of sweat form and drip along her brow as a border security agent waved them over. The pair of them walked slowly to the man staring at them from behind the glass. Charlotte fiddled with the strings on the hoodie and pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose, looking guiltier by the moment.

“How long will you be staying in Lebanon?” He took both of their passports.

“Flight DA322,” Charlotte blurted. “We diverted here, for the night. So hopefully not very long.” There was a small, uncomfortable laugh.

“Mhm.” He hmph’d and stamped their passports, glancing at them both. “Go,” he waved them through.

“Wait, that’s it?” Charlotte tilted her head slightly. “No further questions? You’re not going to ask if I have a criminal record?”

“What?” He raised an accusing brow. “Do you have a criminal record?”

“Well… define criminal?”

“No! She’s just… she’s just being silly, sir.” Becky waved her hand dismissively and grabbed Charlotte’s wrist. “She drinks a lot, not to mention the amount of Ambien she took on that flight back there! It’s a wonder she’s still on her feet...” She smiled and tugged Charlotte by the hand through the small gate. “Come on love, I’ve told you before about mixing your sleeping pills… we better find you somewhere to lie down before you say anymore very untrue not accurate things…”

Becky sighed once they were out of earshot, her entire body relaxing into a state of annoyed relief. She blinked a few times and sucked her lips between her teeth, nodding her head, trying her hardest not to be furious because this was no doubt the one vacation they would get this year. They walked through the airport towards the baggage claim while a pensive silence loomed between them.

“Charlotte, I love you, but if you get yourself thrown into a foreign jail I am fucking denying that we’re married,” Becky lowered her voice to a threatening whisper. “I am not going down for you.”

“Considering we’re in a country where homosexuality is illegal go ahead and does both a favour and stick with that plan anyway!” Charlotte hissed quietly in her ear.

…

“Oh, you’re both married!” The hotel receptionist noticed their wedding rings with a smile.

“Yes,” Charlotte forced a tight smile too and drummed her nails on the marble counter, determined to leave it at that.

“Where are your husbands?” The receptionist made pleasant talk and clicked her keyboard in search of an available room.

“Back in the States.” Charlotte wasn’t technically lying, she did have two ex-husbands after all, and for all intents and purposes, she was more than happy for Becky to borrow one of them for the next ten minutes until this ordeal was over. “We’re here on business.” The lie deepened.

“You’re here on business?” The receptionist looked up with a slightly befuddled expression. “But you’ve only asked for one room? Normally when we get people here for business they book ahead, like their own privacy, that sort of thing.” She glanced between them both.

Becky sighed and blinked rapidly. “Reduced expenditures,” she explained casually with a wave of her hand. “Our boss is a bit of a cheapskate so I’m stuck with this one for the night.”

“What is it you both do?” The receptionist blinked, her smile unwavering, the questions refusing to end.

Charlotte began to feel like maybe she was growing suspicious.

“We’re Avon representatives.” She thought on her feet.

Becky hid her mouth behind a magazine and whispered beneath her breath, “That was what you came up with?” She gave Charlotte a look. “Avon representatives?” There was a mocking nod.

“She’s my trainee.” Charlotte beamed a bright smile and stuck to the story.

…

“Would you look at the view!” Becky gasped and stuck her hands on her hips. “Oh, I could live here. I could honestly live here!” She shook her head in awestruck disbelief.

“This is where you want to live, Becky? The middle of Beirut?” It was said pointedly. Charlotte raised an exasperated eyebrow and visibly deflated with relief now the door was closed and they were in private. “I can’t with you.” She stuck out her hand and shook her head.

“Oh somebody is just grumpy because they haven’t eaten yet!” Becky pished and drew back the curtains for a better view of the city.

Charlotte opened her mouth to protest but then her stomach grumbled, she knitted her lips together and rolled her eyes at the betrayal of her gut. Truth be told, she was absolutely starving. There was a room-service menu sat on the desk and so she picked it up and gave it the once over, desperate for a reason not to answer her wife’s abundant chirpiness.

Becky turned around, her eyes widening at the menu in hand.

“We are not ordering room service, Charlotte!” Becky snapped with abject horror in her eyes. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Have you lost your mind?”

“I know,” Charlotte relented and was thankful for a bit of common ground. “I’m nervous too but this hotel is rated five stars on TripAdvisor and it was the nicest one I could find on the Marriott app. The kitchen has to be up to code—”

“You’re unbelievable.” Becky closed her eyes.

“Honey, I have Immodium in my purse we will be fine—”

“I’m not saying no to room service because I’m worried about the kitchen! I’m saying no to room service because we are clearly going out tonight for dinner!” Becky opened her eyes and pointed to the city landscape outside. “Don’t you want to enjoy our vacation?”

“This was not the vacation I signed up for!” Charlotte’s eyes widened defensively.

“Well I am the wife you signed up for and I am telling you to change your outfit because we’re going out for dinner tonight!”

“God I hate you,” Charlotte half complained.

“Well why don’t you just go ahead and file a complaint with HR when we get back to Avon headquarters!” Becky nodded emphatically and stormed to the bathroom.

Charlotte turned her head and followed Becky with her eyes. “We could save water if we showered together—”

“Don’t even try your luck.” Becky put an immediate halt to it.

…

Beirut, as it turned out, was a clash of cosmopolitan and Ottoman architecture. It was vibrant, it was friendly, it was teeming with heat and the loud chatter of tourists and locals colliding together the closer they got to the harbour. The food was also ridiculously good. So much so that Charlotte went for a starter, main, and dessert too. An aperitif between each course to boot. Becky just stared at her the entire time with a ‘told you so’ type smirk while the top button of her high waisted slacks was let out.

“Here’s to us,” Becky raised a glass of champagne when the meal was cleared. “All things said and done, I’d say this is a great start to our vacation.” She looked towards the glimmering evening sea beyond the terrace.

“We’ve been to worse places, sure,” Charlotte managed a small concession as she clinked her wife’s glass. “You know,” she stopped and swallowed, unsure of how to say it without Becky gloating at the change of disposition. “If we have time tomorrow maybe we could go and see those rocks the cab driver mentioned?”

“Raouche? You want to visit Raouche tomorrow morning before the bus comes?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, she changes her tune quickly.”

“If you’re going to be like that…” Charlotte leaned back in her chair and glanced to the water, then to the bustling kitchen, at everything and anything other than her wife.

“I’m just playing.” Becky reached over and put her hand over Charlotte’s knuckles, her beaming white teeth on show with the emphaticness of her smile. “We can go see the rocks tomorrow, bright and early.”

“Breakfast too?” Charlotte lifted a brow.

“Pushing it but sure, why not?”

“Well alright,” Charlotte sighed and played with Becky’s thumb. “Do you want to go back to the hotel and commit a private liberty crime with me as judged by the Lebanese Republic?” She lifted a playful eyebrow.

“Well when you put it like that…”

…

Hans Zimmer - You’re So Cool - Song To Set The Scene

Outside, the cicadas hummed on the wind of the evening air, and the breeze drifted the curtains and kept the room cool and airy. Charlotte leaned back against the headboard of one of the twin beds in the room and rubbed her sleepy head, unsure she had the energy to kick off her trousers now the food was beginning to settle.

The buzzing of the bathroom light and fan whirred, along with the occasional thump of Becky’s footsteps as the Irish woman brushed her teeth and got ready for bed. Charlotte sighed into the peacefulness of it and fiddled with her phone. The bathroom door unlocked and creaked open. Charlotte peered up, her eyes widening at the sight.

The black lingerie was nearly see through, it clung to Becky’s soft muscular frame in all the best ways possible. Her long taut legs were clad with the thin fabric of dark suspenders, her breasts cradled in the flimsy material of a bralet that was trying its hardest to contain her tan cleavage, her bright ginger hair was coiffed and falling behind each shoulder blade. Becky just stood there and smiled, well aware that she was the type of meal her wife would always be hungry for no matter how well satiated her appetite.

“Well hello to you too,” Charlotte licked her lips nervously.

“Avon calling,” Becky whispered and strolled over. “You want to push these beds together so I have more room to show you our Summer collection?” She danced a hand up and over her suspender belt. “So many new products to show you, so little time.”

“Oh god.” Charlotte’s eyes widened.

“Oh yeah,” Becky nodded with a mischievous smirk. “We’re doing this.”

Charlotte damn near flew off the sheets to wrestle the beds together.

“The greatest wife, the best wife ever, so weird, so perfect,” she mumbled to herself and wiped her sweating brow as the beds were pressed against one another. “You never realise just how in the mood you are for weird roleplay sex until it creeps up on you out of nowhere.” She nodded seriously.

She could tell Becky was trying to stifle laughter, which only somehow made the whole affair more perfect. Charlotte watched her saunter over, her jaw nearly dropping at the sight of it, teeth sitting on the edges of one another with excitement as two dainty hands slipped over each shoulder and pushed her backwards onto the double bed they had fashioned.

“Do you like my lipstick?” Becky whispered and crawled on top of her until she was sat on Charlotte’s hips. “Does the shade suite me?” She puckered up and kissed her cheek.

“What’s the colour called?” Charlotte choked out the words and played along as her wife’s fingers awoke goosebumps along her biceps.

Becky stopped and smirked again. “It’s called Frustrated Wife.” The laughter was forcefully withheld behind her tight lips and she raised a suggestive eyebrow. “We also have a sister shade called Criminal Lesbian Activity...” Becky slipped a hand down Charlotte’s belly towards her pant zipper. “I’m just dying to show it to you, Mrs Flair.”

“Those seem like really off brand names for Avon shades?” Charlotte’s eyebrows did the thing.

“Shut up.”

“It’s just Frustrated Wife and Criminal Lesbian Activity don’t really seem like names for Avon colours you know? Maybe if we were doing an Urban Decay roleplay—”

“I said shut up,” Becky leaned forward and dropped her voice to a sultry whisper. “You’re ruining this.” She nibbled her earlobe. “You’re ruining it so bad.” A little giggle broke.

“Well alright.” Charlotte conceded as her pants were pulled off her hips. “So… how long have you been working for Avon? Are you… unionised?” She tried her hardest to get back into it.

“Mrs Flair!” Becky shot up with a playful gasp, her eyes widening a bit. “I have no idea how to respond to that piss-poor attempt at dirty talk and so I’m going to pretend it was a filthy euphemism!” She sing-songed slightly, burying herself forward until they were giggling nose to nose.

“Thank you for saving me,” Charlotte whispered and tucked her hands around the back of her wife’s thighs, sighing in relief. She adjusted Becky a bit and pulled her closer until they were tangled and warm, giggling slightly into the heat of each other like two happy idiots.

“Always,” Becky pecked her neck and slung her arms around the back of her shoulders. “You could never really ruin it if you tried.”

“So, given all of your expertise and many years of training,” Charlotte cleared her throat and felt her lips tug into a blushing smirk. “What kind of makeup do you think I should wear?” She leaned forward with an expectant stare.

Becky sighed and smiled. She grabbed Charlotte’s chin softly, her brown eyes glimmering with playfulness as she appraised the woman stuck between her finger and thumb. Finally, she let go of Charlotte’s chin and traced her finger down the slope of her nose, satisfied.

“Confidence is the sexiest thing a woman can wear.” Becky pushed a rope of blonde hair behind Charlotte’s ear. “And you have tons of it, baby, so I think you should wear that and nothing else.” Her hand slipped around Charlotte’s spine towards the bra strap.

“Well aren’t you smooth.”

“They teach it at Avon school, it’s all part of the sales pitch.”

“You must really sell a lot of lipstick.”

“I don’t get many returns or complaints, you’re quite correct.”

To Charlotte, the woman in her lap was insane. But the slackened smile, the way her eyes grew bigger when she met her eyes, the mischievous wriggle of her lips, the everything, just made her smile back.

Still smiling, she twisted their positions and put the troublemaker on her spine where she belonged. It was one of her favourite things to do truth be told, whether it be professional and violent or… not so professional or violent. The first time they slept together she had expected it would crumble mountains, make the earth stop on its axis, but it was nothing like that. It was imperfect, silly even, and just like that it became the favourite most looked forward to part of her day.

“Nothing gets me going like when you’re in a stupid mood,” Charlotte chuckled as she kissed and nibbled.

“Does this make your top five?” Becky asked seriously.

“Oh, my top two for sure.” Charlotte nodded enthusiastically and slipped one of her black bra straps over the creamy ball of her shoulder. “Maybe even number one, the night’s still young.” She nibbled her collarbone.

“Number one, huh?” Becky raised a surprised brow. “I thought the Paris Situation was your favourite? You know I hate it when you go on tour without me...” She pouted slightly and played with the long blonde hair that framed Charlotte’s face. “Though, creative problems mean creative solutions.”

“We could have just had phone sex.” Charlotte whined. “You didn’t need to put a voodoo doll that looked like you in my luggage with a note to finger it every night.”

“Mmm, but I did though.” Becky smirked, utterly pleased with herself.

“You did,” Charlotte agreed and rolled her eyes, seeing the funny side. “You wanna let me get in these panties yet or are you planning on laying here all night giving me the memoriam reel of our sex life? Because I want you to scream my name so loud tonight the police throw us in jail and Stonewall have to campaign for our release… it would be a hell of a vacation story.” Charlotte lifted a serious brow.

“Proceed.” Becky lifted a leg and popped one of the tiny clasps on her suspenders.

It was the strangest, nerdiest sense of arousal. One moment they were joking around and the next Becky’s slender leg was in the air with that barely-there lingerie popping open like a scene from the Moulin Rouge. Her wife would always be capable of doing that to her, Charlotte had long since given up the belief she even had the modicum of will power necessary to deny it — war zone or no war zone.

Charlotte dove forward and didn’t spare the lingerie, her hands tugging and making a meal of it as she sucked and nibbled the underside of her wife’s taut jaw. It earned little throttled gasps, pleased noises, happy moans, small giggles, everything and nothing. When slender nimble fingers creeped around and felt along the dips of her back muscles she knew the kind of mood her wife was in, the type where she wanted to be thrown around and made sore with unhinged arousal. Charlotte was more than happy to oblige.

“Shit!” Becky gasped, and not in a good way.

The twin beds parted like the red sea and their bodies made an instant cracking thud against the marble floor. Luckily, Becky’s body broke the fall and so Charlotte was relatively unscathed. The same couldn’t be said for the troublemaker.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Becky managed quite calmly and raised her sidebent knuckles. “Well I think I went and dislocated some of my fingers, that’s all we need!” She rolled her eyes at the mild inconvenience.

Charlotte nearly vomited.

“You think!? You think!?!?” Charlotte chided with wide eyes and couldn’t snatch her stare away from the injury. “Your middle finger is on the wrong way round, Becky! We need to go to the hospital!!” She pointed, horrified.

“Well there’s no need to be a drama queen about it,” Becky said quietly.

“We’re going to the emergency room.”

“For a few dislocated fingers?” Becky raised and incredulous brow. “You do know the emergency room is for emergencies only, right?” Becky pushed out her mangled hand. “Just give them a hard tug and I’ll be right as rain. I can’t promise I’ll be able to finger you tonight but I’ll give it a good go—”

“Your fingers look like fucking Crunchy Cheetos. If you think you’re ever putting them inside me again...” She hid her face away so she wouldn’t have to look at them. “I don’t know if we’re ever going to have sex again.” Charlotte swallowed hard.

“Oh for goodness sake,” Becky clambered up with a roll of her eyes as if Charlotte was being entirely unreasonable. She breezed straight past her and walked out of the room. “I’m going to reset and splint my fingers in the bathroom and when I come out you better be ready to kiss me where it counts. First day of our holiday and you’ve got your knickers in a twist over a few twisted fingers, shame of my bloody life!” She pointed one of her mangled fingers accusingly, albeit the finger was bent sideways and so it pointed off towards the drawers.

…

“I’m fine,” Becky slurred the attempt at trying to sound decisive as her wife shouldered her towards the plane they were now running slightly late for.

“You woke up crying three times. I had to wander the streets of Beirut at four this morning to find a pharmacy willing to sell me painkillers using traveller’s cheques. You are not fine. We are not fine. This is not fine.” Charlotte reminded, glancing at the bruised splinted fingers that were now straight and swollen.

“Traveller’s cheques.” Becky giggled to herself under her breath. “You’re such an old lady.”

“Well now you’re just being rude,” Charlotte couldn’t help but smirk.

“You still love me?”

“More than the air I breathe,” Charlotte didn’t skip a beat as the short troublemaker hopped and clutched at her arm.

“All things said and done I think this might be the best trip of my life so far,” Becky hmph’d tiredly and pressed her sleepy face against Charlotte’s arm as the line for the flight slowly came to a stop. “Here, with you, right now.”

“Relax,” Charlotte smirked and shook her head.

“I could be in a warzone and still have the best time so long as I was with my wife.”

“Becky—”

“I know, don’t spoil it.”

“Well alright,” Charlotte blinked and craned down to kiss the troublemaker’s temple. “Thank you for never letting me be annoyed for too long.” They shuffled forward towards the plane doors.

“You try so hard,” Becky pouted and patted her belly.

“You work me like a pro.” Charlotte eyeballed her seriously.

“Well, the Avon sales training is very thorough.”

“Excuse me?” Charlotte blushed and feigned ignorance.

Becky peered up at her mischievously. “You heard me,” she whispered, glancing away with a knowing smirk.

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[sharedarticlesworld-blog]

Carol Prunhuber: "Venezuela is a war between the state and the population."

In Venezuela, the rule of law died. This is as strong a truth as the death of 157 people in the 2017 protests -according to unofficial figures-, whose cases today rumble and go unpunished, while the regime hides them under the carpet of a badly called consecrated revolution for 20 years. The same happens in countries with warlike conflicts.

"Venezuela is the Syria of Latin America," says Carol Prunhuber.

The specialized journalist relates a history of crimes, murders, torture, military trials of civilians, arbitrary arrests and acts of corruption, which was triggered by the protests of 2014, and which weighs on the shoulders of Nicolás Maduro and his military and paramilitary forces.

Over time, the number of victims has increased. Prunhuber, a journalist and expert in the conflicts in Kurdistan, compiled the testimonies of the victims in Sangre y asfalto, a kind of atrocious newspaper that vindicates the struggle against authoritarianism in Venezuela.

Comparisons with countries like Syria or Iraq sound terrifying, but the sound is revealed in the 23,047 violent deaths with which 2018 closed, according to the Venezuelan Observatory of Violence. Syria, for its part, ended that period with a total of 19,799 deaths.

"Venezuela lives a war every day, the war of the State against the population," Prunhuber said in an interview with El Estímulo.

The journalist, who during the 1980s dedicated herself to denouncing the international silence surrounding the genocide of the Kurdish people - which culminated in the publication of the book The Passion and Death of Rahman the Kurd - cannot fail to recall the testimonies of these protests in Iran and compare them with the current situation in the country of the Bolivarian revolution.

"It's different because the Kurds are armed. They have been fighting their leaders for years. The similarity is that they are people who are oppressed by the regimes. Where their wars are, they are considered a second-class population, while the first-class are with the government and the second-class have no access to anything.

This second-class citizenship also includes the families and close friends of the victims, whose voices Prunhuber picks up. Also, in the book, he used testimonies published in social networks and the press, plus interviews with two journalists.

His first meeting with the parents of those murdered by the repressive forces of the State was during the presentation of Sangre y asfalto in Madrid on April 4, two years after the demonstrations.

"We're never going to get the brush of justice because the government continues to dance on the blood of the boys," said Israel Cañizales, whose son, Armando, was shot in the trachea when he protested in Las Mercedes, Caracas, in 2017.

The man denounced that the regime has turned a blind eye to the crimes. In 100 percent of the cases, the culprits have not been identified, the hearings have been postponed on multiple occasions, and the culprits have not been tried.

"These people have become spokespersons for the suffering of an entire nation, there you have the real testimony of what is happening in the country," says the writer.

"It is for them that she wanted to safeguard the memory, to gather the cries and tears in a document so that they would not disappear, so that the executioners would not change history," she said.

The text also includes nearly 200 color photographs provided by photojournalists.

Prunhuber accuses a blind left that prefers not to read and not to be informed so as not to know, of the text "Verdades alternativas de Almudena Grandes" (Alternative Truths of Almudena Grandes), written lightly on March 31 in his El País column. "It is necessary to speak to them".

The former journalist of El Nacional and the French agency Gamma TV, followed closely the events of 2014 in Florida, United States.

Realizing the repetition of the events three years later, he decided to collect the testimonies and archive them for later use. "I was indignant, I was shocked by the chronicles of ordinary people suffering, I who had been with the Kurdish guerrillas in Kurdistan could not believe that something similar was happening in my country.

After two years of research and compilation of material, the journalist assures that the book comes at a time when the Venezuelan opposition has taken a turn in the fight against the Maduro regime, with interim president Juan Guaidó at the head of the leadership. Although Prunhuber doesn't believe in coincidences, he says the book was supposed to come out in September 2018, but it was delayed.

Is his book a vindication of the youth movement and even of student leaders? It is a tribute to the whole country, but without a doubt also to the youth who are the engine of dissidence.

Guaidó is the result of that youth, leader of the student movement of 2007 and his book comes out at the moment when it has become the head of the opposition. Yes. Guaidó is part of that generation that are effectively the leaders of the movement. That generation that has never left the street, in which many were born and grew up with chavismo and died in it, too. Now a large mass of people from popular sectors that are the majority of the country has been added to that protest, which makes it more important. Guaidó what he doesn't have is baggage, but he does have courage, expertise, charisma, intelligence and a back full of pellets from that era. It was always said that this generation was the one that was going to change the country and it is doing it.

Is this shift what has changed the international community's view of Venezuela?

He (Guaidó) and Almagro's work have helped a lot internationally. It has been very hard because Chavismo has been in charge of keeping alive in the region the myth of the left over U.S. imperialism; the U.S. boot and the interventions. But what is affecting change is the danger of immigration to the rest of Latin America and Europe.

We are the Syria of Latin America. Suddenly, Venezuela becomes an exporter of an immense mass of people and that affects the bordering countries and affects the balance of Latin America. Disaster is spreading. The same thing is happening as it did decades ago with drug trafficking. Also the political change in Latin American governments, which became right-wing or conservative, has allowed us to gain international support. And, of course, Trump. I don't support him, but he has tightened the screws that Barack Obama could not.

Is there a war in Venezuela?

In Venezuela there is a war, a war of the State against the population. But in this case, the Venezuelan is an unarmed people and has not taken up arms to overthrow any regime. What we have are sticks of cardboard and stones, a situation of unusual helplessness, and we follow the Constitution to the letter. The Kurds, on the other hand, which are 40 million people who do not have a state, are armed. But who is going to arm themselves in Venezuela if they are all malnourished?

Is the country suffering the consequences of the regime's links with extremist leaders in the Middle East?

In 2008, when I published the story of Abdul Rahman Ghassemlou, the Kurdish leader assassinated in Vienna, Maduro was on his honeymoon with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and that is why I speak of Iran in the book. I was then surprised by Iran's presence in Venezuela. I knew that Hugo Chavez was going further. That's when the fear of Hezbollah's presence in the country began. The expansion that Iran established or even the direct links that Tareck El Aissami has both in Syria and Lebanon with Islamic terrorists, who were given Venezuelan passports. There is an intriguing Middle East much deeper than we see. With Chavez and 21st century socialism the door was opened to Islamic terrorism in Latin America, which has ramifications we don't understand.

Is that interventionism?

We are an occupied territory, an occupation invited by a regime. We are occupied by Cuba, Russia, the ELN, Hezbollah and now Chinese soldiers are arriving. We will have Chinese boots too. It's been going on for years.

It is not a very hopeful panorama, do you have hopes?

We can't lose hope. The situation is difficult and very dark, but that doesn't mean that we don't have to continue. However, I don't know what the solution is. Remembering the Kurdish experience, when there was the attack with chemical bombs against the population. People, out of fear, left in a mass exodus. Bernard Kouchner, then Minister of Health and Humanitarian Aid, as well as founder of Médecins Sans Frontières, introduced the doctrine of the right to humanitarian interference into the United Nations. This consisted of authorizing the use of force when there was a people massacred by their state, when it was a question of protecting national sovereignty and when there was an attack on national peace. The doctrine can be used without a majority vote of the Security Council. In Venezuela it is a possibility because there is a danger of international peace, a problem of sovereignty because we are occupied and a population massacred by its State.

Original Source: http://elestimulo.com/blog/carol-prunhuber-venezuela-es-una-guerra-entre-el-estado-contra-la-poblacion/

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[digoxinpurpurea2-blog]

One of my grandfathers died of AIDS complications before I was born.

There, that's my pound of flesh. You have to present those before anyone listens to you on this fucking website.

I didn't delete my tumblr because oh no I'm the Hamilton cannibal mermaid freak. I have been that for years. And, for what it's worth, I never interacted with Israa as Israa. She tried to interact with me, once, two years ago, about the intentionally dumb garbage I wrote in my spare time. I ignored her because I didn't know who she was and I didn't care.

Nah, I deleted my tumblr because you freaks kept sending me death threats and I couldn't exactly deal with that after being awake for four days and trying to manage the emotional fallout of this monster.

Don't send people death threats, you fucking loons.

This was not about fandom, because I do not orient my world around fandom. This was about my grandfather, and not just him, and not just the other people I have known who have had their lives irrevocably altered by HIV, and not just the fact that she stole money. This was about basic common decency. It's not about me. I'm not going to pretend I'm an angel or anything but I have never done anything like this.

But this is not about me.

The person behind hivliving, Alix McLiar:

1. Lives in a $500,000 waterfront house in a wealthy suburb in the US with her married and very wealthy parents, both of whom have terminal degrees in the sciences

2. Goes to a prestigious private out-of-state university on a merit scholarship worth approximately $250,000 over four years. Or maybe not. Maybe she got kicked out. Still not sure. Her school has been contacted multiple times by multiple people, and the chief of police of her university told me that she would be punished appropriately. I believe, at least, that she's no longer involved in the school's anti-racism groups as an administrator, and I know that her advisor knows, and that the head of the diversity office knows, and that her friends all know and have completely stopped talking to her. Rephrase: she went to a prestigious university while this was going on, majoring in a healthcare-related field.

3. Went to one of the best high schools in the United States

4. Started racefaking on the internet early in her senior year of high school, possibly earlier - she was 17 at the time and is 19 now

5. Vacations internationally with some frequency

6. Is white and cisgender and REALLY FUCKING RICH, meaning she definitely used the money she got as “Israa” for drugs or something

7. Is probably going to do this again

She used the following identities:

1. Israa, Liar Prime - bigender bisexual Chinese-Pakistani 19-year-old, from the China-Pakistan border (once or twice specified as westernmost Xinjiang), HIV+ after being trafficked into sexual slavery by her parents as a young teenager, Muslimah, hijabi, once had her eye popped out of its socket after someone found out her HIV status, once raped and robbed by police at gunpoint, pregnant, miscarried, married, living in India with her wife - blueskysapphic/hivliving/angischuyler

2. Muk(h)ta (she spelled it different ways) - Somali, Catholic, raised in America by her American father who was implied a few times to be a diplomat of some sort, 18, trans woman, lesbian, married to Israa, trafficking victim, not HIV+ - thewarsnotdone

3. Naj, American lesbian POC (never specified other than that), congenitally HIV+, fairly active in ace discourse -allolesbean/hivliving

A bonus identity discovered while investigating:

4. Alix, Lebanese Jewish lesbian, self-identified as an Arab, from Lebanon, living in the states for college - lesbianeclipse

(the Jewish community in Lebanon numbers about forty, by the by. She's fond of doing this)

Israa lied a fuckton but she didn’t just pop out of the blue. She had put together the biracial trafficking victim persona before she started posting her fic. She had convinced other people of this persona before she started writing fanfiction - named the wife, picked out Chinese and “Muslim” names (yes she called Israa her Muslim name), found a beta for her fic, made up a backstory. 

And it wasn’t just hivliving that she was involved in. Israa and friends' modus operandi in fandom was to declare someone a pedophile over fanfiction, sic followers on them, threaten to dox them, force them to divulge (often sexual) traumas, and then use those traumas to harass them into self-harm. She did this multiple times, mainly to young gay teenagers and young trans men and young impoverished women. Some of those people did self-harm. And she knew it. And she kept on bullying, and told anyone who said “Stop it” that how DARE they, she is HIV+, she can do this.

And, given that Israa and her crew placed so much emphasis on IP address hits to Tumblrs as "stalking," it is absolutely impossible that none of them - including the one who followed her on her "Lebanese Jewish" tumblr and Facebook-linked twitter - did not know. This was a squad of teenagers dedicated to threatening and sexually harassing rape victims over fanfiction, with their core defense being 'Israa has been much more traumatized than you, by people like you, and she's protecting other people by hurting you.'

Yeah, no. Weirdly enough, most trauma victims don’t go out of their way to tell victims of child sexual abuse that they should kill themselves.

Israa used the social capital and following she gained being a moral arbiter and Teller Of Wise Truths About HIV in fandom (she and her crew also picked on an HIV+ member of the Hamilton cast on Twitter such that I believe he blocked them, by the fucking way) to start hivliving. 

The person behind Israa is not Muslim. Or Jewish. Or HIV+. Or Somali. Or biracial. She was not trafficked to another country by her parents. She grew up wealthy. It was incredibly obvious she was not who she claimed she was. A basic knowledge of geopolitics would have nipped this shit in the bud literally years ago, because nothing Israa said made any sense. This should have been caught day of. Other people knew and let it ride because it’s fun to cloak your repulsive behavior in the language of social justice to get away with it. Other people should have figured it out.

Point by point:

1. Language

Israa claimed to speak Chinese and Urdu natively and English, Spanish, and Kannada as second languages. She exclusively used English on her blog. She learned English as an adult and yet had absolutely perfect grammar, spelling, mastery of American slang, etc. Is this impossible? No, of course not, but learning a second language as an adult - especially in a non-immersion environment, especially one from an entirely different language family, presents a ton of difficulties. I am currently learning a second language in a non-immersion environment. Writing and reading are easier than speaking, sure, but they do not come easy.

Israa wrote like a native English speaker. She never made the mistakes in grammar or spelling common with people learning English from Chinese. She never had slightly odd turns of phrase borne from not grasping all the tiny nuances of a given English word. She never had an accidental character inserted when she forgot to rotate the language on her keyboard. (I rotate keyboards. Lemme tell you, it happens frequently.) She used British spellings pretty consistently, but not British or Indian English phrasing. Her slang was all American, young, Tumblr-approved. The media she talked about was almost all in English, minus one Chinese-American film and one Chinese novel available in English translation. She never used Chinese or Urdu on her blog, except to write brief greetings or her name. She never talked to anyone in Chinese or Urdu or Kannada. Her punctuation was completely American. She never, ever forgot a word.

This person, from a family poor enough to knowingly traffick a child into sex slavery, was fluent in 4-5 languages, presumably literate in at least 3 (meaning she could effortlessly cycle between 3, possibly 4 different writing systems) and somehow so fluent in a language she had started learning only two, three years before that she was indistinguishable from a native speaker.

How?

How was her English so native-perfect after only two or three years?

Because she didn't only have two or three years to build on. Because she was a native speaker. Duh.

2. Offensive racial stereotypes

Israa consistently presented herself as from western China, right along the China-Pakistan border. Never specified city or town, presumably because Alix was not invested enough in the character to pick a random town name off of Google Maps. She also once posted about her family having a dispute about the family rice farm.

There is almost no rice agriculture in extreme western Xinjiang. Not none, but almost none. Too arid.

But rice, China, right?

Also, bit of a digression as the character could have started wearing it while not living there, but about wearing hijab in Xinjiang: it's not exactly legal, right now. Crackdowns on specifically Uyghur Muslims in Xinjiang have been front-page news in major English-language publications for years. Crackdowns on Hui Muslims (the ethnic group she occasionally claimed to be a part of) are less common, but they happen. And, of course, not all Muslim women wear hijab...but all Muslims are the same, in Israa-world. Speaking of.

Israa claimed that she had relatives in Gaza and that she did medical research at a clinic in Gaza under the auspices of her university.

1. How did she get a passport? It would have to be either a Pakistani or Chinese passport. Traveling from India to the Gaza strip on a Pakistani passport would be, shall we say, extremely difficult. It would be difficult for her to acquire a passport in the first place (did she have any documentation before she was trafficked? After? She was trafficked into India and India repatriates trafficking victims. Presumably she would have been repatriated to China. Would she, an HIV-positive member of a Muslim ethnic minority breaking the law in Xinjiang, be allowed to acquire a passport? How would she afford a passport? etc) 2. How would a 19-year-old non-medical student undergraduate receive permission to enter the Gaza strip, especially if she was traveling on a Pakistani passport? 3. Current Israeli law gives the Minister of the Interior the right to deny access to Israel (and thus Palestine and Gaza) to any HIV+ alien or migrant worker. Presumably Israa counted as an “alien or migrant worker,” so how did she get into the country to travel to Gaza in the first place? 4. Did Israa not realize that Pakistan and Palestine (and China) are culturally very dissimilar because they're in very different parts of the world? This is another China = rice moment. Alix assumed that all Muslims are the same? How would the aforementioned impoverished ethnic minority family be wealthy or mobile enough to have relatives at the other end of the continent?

I'm pretty sure her logic there was "Chinese Muslims are oppressed, Palestinians are oppressed - basically the same, right? Family!"

Oh and by the way she seemed to not remember if her family was based in western Xinjiang or in Karachi. She had sisters living in Karachi at some point and then she told me and, apparently, told quite a few other people, that she would be moving back to her loving parents in China soon after graduating university, at the age of 19.

Her parents who trafficked her.

Hokay.

Oh and besides the 80s high school AIDS crisis AU fic she wrote a lot of seriously offensive “Muslim AU” fic that trafficked in a lot of incredibly harmful and racist tropes about Muslim women but I said I wouldn’t mention fandom

3. Her wife

Mukta/Mukhta - Somali, Catholic, raised in America by her American father, somehow ended up in India as a trafficking victim, monolingual in English. She implied a few times that her father was some kind of diplomat. Muk(h)ta married Israa and they lived happily together as an interfaith couple, doing such coupley things as packaging Christmas care packages at Muk(h)ta's church and having wanted pregnancies.

1. As far as I can tell, Mukta and Mukhta are not Somali names, and if Muk(h)ta was monolingual in English wouldn’t she, like, spell her name in the Latin alphabet consistently 2. There are approximately 100 Somali Catholics. (Like I said, she liked doing that.) 3. An American-raised child of a diplomat being kidnapped (?) and trafficked for sex in India would have made international news. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH. IT WOULD HAVE BEEN INTERNATIONAL NEWS.  4. Legal gay marriage does not exist in India. I wouldn't bring this up, people can call their partners whatever they want in the absence of legal recognition, but Israa made a distinction between "wife" and "girlfriend" and talked about having a wedding in a religious space, so - 5. How were two married female teenagers living together with apparently no problem in Bengaluru? 6. Muk(h)ta and Israa ended up in the same brothel together after being trafficked and one day decided to take the bus out. TO WHERE. HOW DID THEY GET THE MONEY. How Israa talked about the brothel was completely bullshit too and seems to have been based on legal brothels in Australia or Nevada - personal amenities, private bathrooms, private rooms, et cetera. 7. Again, India repatriates, or attempts to repatriate, known minor victims of trafficking - so why were either of them still in India?

Oh also Muk(h)ta's blog literally only talked about how awesome her wife was and Hamilton and she almost never interacted with other people by herself and she would have had the same non-Bengaluru IP address as Israa (same blog organization, frankly, as allolesbean), so -

4. Being a student in India

Israa insisted she, a Chinese (and?) Pakistani national, was a science student at a university in Bengaluru. She would not have been able to do this without documentation and you have to apply for a student visa in India outside of the country.

So:

1. Again. How did she acquire a passport? 2. How did she prove her residential address outside of India? 3. How did she put together the money to pay student fees? 4. How was Muk(h)ta living with her in the interim, if Muk(h)ta wasn't an Indian citizen? 5. How did she overcome the language barrier in either English or Kannada in enough time to start studying science? 6. Where was Muk(h)ta during the application process? In China? In Pakistan? In India? How?

6. The pregnancy

Jesus Christ where do I start

Israa always, always insisted that Muk(h)ta presented as a woman, was understood as a woman, etc, and the pregnancy was expected and wanted - the old ladies at church (who 100% accepted her) cooed over her baby bump.

Two AFAB people and their magic desired child baby bump. 

NO 19-YEAR-OLD HIV+ PERSON IS GOING TO RECEIVE IVF. ANYWHERE. EVER.

When someone pushed back on this, she started insisting that Muk(h)ta was a trans woman, taking hormones, and then later she conveniently miscarried.

1. How did Muk(h)ta access hormones? 2. How did Israa access her HIV medications such that she was fine with having unprotected sex (she stated a couple of times that she and Mukhta were a serodiscordant couple), and/or how did Mukhta access PrEp? 3. Why would two impoverished teenagers living on student visas (and it had to be student visas as, again, India repatriates foreign trafficking victims) plan to have a baby? 4. How did Muk(h)ta, a devout church-going Catholic living in India, safely and successfully navigate as a lesbian trans woman married to a Muslim woman such that her church accepted her and the pregnant partner unconditionally? 5. Same question but about Israa and Israa's mosque, which she apparently attended regularly 6. If the child was planned, how did Muk(h)ta, a young (17? 18?-year-old) trans woman on hormones, access the healthcare that would have assured them both that her hormones weren't interfering with her fertility? 7. How did Israa access neonatal care? 8. How could they afford all of this and yet Israa needed to ask for donations on hivliving to deal with vague miscarriage-related medical bills?

And on. And on. And on.

Am I saying it's impossible for someone to learn a language quickly, or to be Pakistani and have relatives in Gaza, or be a victim of trafficking, or be a lesbian in India, or any of the other things she claimed separately? No, of course not. I'm sure there's actually someone who is very like Israa out there, minus all the lies.

I'm just saying - are you fucking kidding me? Are all of you so illiterate about how the entirety of the world works that this bullshit was allowed to pass unchecked for two fucking years??? Are all of you so illiterate about how the world works that no one wondered why a person with this background would be spending her internet time primarily writing god damn Hamilton fanfiction??? Yes, you are, because instead of putting together this incredibly obvious idiotic racist garbage in a post to point out the many insane consistencies, I had to wade through the goddamn cash.me terms of service LITERALLY MONTHS AFTER SHE STARTED DEFRAUDING PEOPLE.

And that was obviously not the only time she'd demanded money, she just deleted her tumblrs before I could find the "friend's paypal" she had used earlier on blueskysapphic/angischuyler.

Did she ever talk about living with HIV in any meaningful way? Did she ever talk about it in a way that wasn't just yelling about not blaming asexuals or complaining about people twenty years older than her not using Tumblr-approved phrasing or whatever? Did she actually do anything with hivliving besides reblog things other people had posted and tell people to pm her for more information? The real Alix is a 19-year-old college sophomore who is so stupid about public health that she told people RENT is a good introduction to the AIDS crisis in twenty god damn seven teen and told me that she checked herself into a hospital for narcissism (spoilers: there's a huge lack of beds in psychiatric hospitals and no psychiatric ER is going to admit a person not immediately in danger, especially not for NARCISSISM). She had absolutely nothing of value to contribute. She was clearly not talking from a place of expertise. She did not sound like she knew anything about anything and what she did regurgitate was highly Americanized. If her value as the person who ran hivliving was as an HIV+ pregnant married nonbinary non-American trafficking survivor, then it should have been obvious earlier that she was none of those things.

It is not difficult to figure out things like it is costly and difficult to move between countries, or that midcontinental aridity precludes heavy-water-using agriculture, or that adults who are learning English as a third or fourth language from a non-Germanic language will have quite a bit of trouble with grammar and vocabulary even several years in, or that a nineteen-year-old bigender woman-aligned person would have difficulty living safely with her wife anywhere, or that it’s nigh impossible that a person holding a Pakistani passport could get to the Gaza strip, or that most Somalis are not Catholic.

BASIC KNOWLEDGE. BASIC COMMON SENSE. BASIC GEOPOLITICS. A few hours on Wikipedia could have thrown all of this into the garbage. 

Why did any of you believe this garbage?

Easy! Because:

1. Tumblr fetishizes oppression, especially that of trans people and Muslim women, and Alix made herself a persona that hit every jackpot possible 2. Tumblr consumes only fanfiction and thus elevates it to an insane level of importance in culture, therefore fights over fanfiction content are actual justice (it's not that fucking deep) 3. Tumblr has an extremely warped understanding of social justice theory and abuse dynamics 4. Tumblr refuses to absorb any news or history besides that which is presented on Tumblr 5. Alix was so prone to leading harassment mobs that any pushback would lead to more abuse 6. Tumblr hates gay men and would rather listen to an obvious bullshit artist than anyone the community that is primarily affected by HIV

Really can't stress that last one enough. REALLY can't. I remember some big name ~tumblr LGBT-community famous~ blogger telling their thousands of followers that the pogrom against gay men in Chechnya wasn't happening, partially because they were so stupid that they didn't know how to click through on tabloid publications to the serious reporting done by actual journalists, but mostly because Tumblr has decided that gay men aren't oppressed and AIDS is over or some bullshit.

At least five people, five men, five GAY AND BI MEN, came to Alix with their status, begging for help. She fed them garbage and lies. She looked them in the face and decided she would continue with this monstrousness and you just fucking let it happen and then you made it about fanfiction because you don’t understand that there are things way beyond fandom. She was a psychopath who OPERATED IN FANDOM and 15 years ago she would have pulled this shit on the TWOP boards or the scarleteen message boards or neopets or something.

God, fuck all of you.

I have a tiny bit of money spare this month. If you send a receipt of a donation to an HIV/AIDS-related organization of your choice to thatwhichechoes@protonmail.com, personal information redacted as you so choose, I'll match it, multiple its, for a total of $50 from my end. If that doesn't happen by February 15, I'll just send it all to one of my choice. I can hold a couple bucks spare each month so that, God willing and my rent don't rise, I can consistently send to Rainbow Railroad or my home LGBT center's HIV/AIDS program.

Nothing is going to fix what she did and she's never going to get held to account in the way she should but I'm going to post receipts every so often anyways because I am nasty and angry enough to care about other people. I am angry enough to do penance on her behalf. I have been furious and horrified and sick about this ever since I found out and dealing with her vileness has caused actual tangible harm in my life but again, it's not about me, and I'm going to remember that even if you motherfuckers won't.

I would seriously advise anyone under the age of 21 to get the fuck off of this website and go learn how to communicate with other people in a healthy manner. Go outside! Interact with other people in the real world! Read a book. Read a fucking newspaper! Learn about the world. Or you can stay here and burrow in the echo chamber and become credulous fauxwoke racist homophobic morons who prioritize calling other teenagers pedophiles til they try to kill themselves because Steven Universe or something over doing literally anything that could help the world. Your choice.

The rest of you: comport yourselves like normal fucking human beings for once in your fucking lives and sort out your goddamn priorities. Read a fucking newspaper. Stop giving obvious racist fraudsters like medievalpoc and Israalix the benefit of the doubt and actually think about the information that is being presented to you and then maybe do something more useful with your time than getting into internet fights. For example, I organized an auction in my spare time that, with the help of another lovely person and dozens of wonderful donors, raised $3,917 for various charities over six months, including $200 for GMHC and about $75 for an HIV/AIDS organization in Wisconsin. Go do something similar or get off the fucking internet! It’s 2018! You’re adults! Try tangibly helping other people, at some point, instead of engaging in this terrible narcissistic performative circlejerk where trauma has become a cudgel to beat others!

If any of you do anything like this again I will find you and I will fucking destroy you. That is a promise. 

Go to hell.

[warrensb]

Prologue - My Saviour Arrives

Two and a half hours later, just as I am beginning to think that I might be spending the night at the border, my saviour arrives.

A battered yellow Syrian taxicab draws in, flashes its headlights and drives towards me. 

Beaming, the driver rolls down the widow and asks if I am looking for a ride. Without even asking how much he wants, I grab my case, dump it into the trunk and hop into the front set before he can get away.

“I’m Warren,” I say, sticking out my hand, and pumping his with the excited relief of someone who has just been told he’s going to live. “I need to get to Beirut. Going all the way?”

As we coast towards the Lebanese border post at Masna’a, I ask the driver, whose name is Mahmoud, why he’s still making the trip. Isn’t he worried about the missile strikes?

“Of course,” he replies. “But there’s too much money to be made to worry. Anyway, our lives are in God’s hands. If it’s my time, there’s nothing I can do about it. Right now, I’m going to pick up a guy who called an hour ago. He’s promised $1500, if I’ll take him and his family from Beirut to Damascus.”

That’s quite a sum. Momentarily, I blanche. Mahmoud laughs. 

“Don’t worry, khaweja. You are a bonus. I thought maybe I would not have any passengers. People aren’t really travelling to Beirut these days, so you get a good price.” It’s the second time that day I’ve heard someone refer to me using the polite term for term for ‘foreigner’. I suppose I should ask what that ‘good price’ might be but as I’m already in the car and I really don’t have any other choice, I figure it’s best to leave any potential disagreements until we arrive. 

It may be old truism, but there’s definitely profit in war. Three days into this one, Mahmoud is making money hand over fist. A journey that cost $15 a head a few days ago now runs to a minimum of $100. 

“Yesterday when it got bad, one Kuwaiti guy offered me $2000 to take him, his wife and daughter to Damascus. I told him he had to pay up front and then I picked up four more people on the way.” Mahmoud’s eyes crinkle. “He started to shout and threaten but when I told him I’d be happy to return his money and leave him by the road to go with someone else, he quickly stopped yelling. That was a really good trip.” 

Not that the others have been bad, either. By cramming seven or eight passengers into the cab, he’s been making upwards of $1000 a run. Multiply that by the three or four runs he’s been making a day and it’s little wonder Mahmoud hasn’t had time to bathe. He’s making more in a day than he normally makes in a month, probably longer.

“That,” he says, nodding at his feet with a cheeky grin, “is the smell of money.”

On the edge of Masna’a, we pass the still smoking remains of the cars hit earlier that day, and the unshakable resolve I’ve felt since Thursday, wavers. Suddenly, I find myself to wondering why the hell I am going back to Beirut. I am a journalist, but I rarely write about politics or war. I’ve made my living from the lighter stuff; features on architecture, art, design, travel and the odd social issue from time to time. I have reported from conflict zones, southern Lebanon during the Israeli occupation, the West Bank and briefly, Iraq, but by no stretch of the imagination am I a war journalist. I’m not even sure whether I will cover this one, once I get back. Truth be told, I’m not really sure why I’m going back at all. I just know that watching the city I love being destroyed on television makes me feel like I am dying.

Mahmoud starts cracking jokes. They aren’t particularly funny but they keep me from thinking about what I’m doing. Him too, I imagine. My intestines, locked in stony constipation from the moment I’d seen those missiles slam into Beirut International on Thursday morning, begin to roil and my stomach feels like it’s trying to digest itself. 

By way of distraction, I run through the route home in my head. The Beirut-Damascus highway, which cuts straight across the Beka’a Valley and up over the mountains is closed because the new bridge at Mdeirej, the highest in the Middle East, was bombed earlier in the day. That leaves the old road, which zigzags across the valley, through the vineyards of Zahle and then up and over the mountains to the Mediterranean, a narrow, twisting ribbon of poorly-lit, pot-holed tarmac best navigated by day.

The Lebanese border post is similarly deserted. I get out and walk towards Immigration. It’s so dark and so quiet that from the car park, I can hear the sound of some nearby television broadcasting details of the latest airstrikes. As if to underscore the news, the dull thud of explosions echoes across the Beka’a. 

On normal days, Masna’a is a circus of honking horns and people clamouring to get in or out but once again, I’m alone. There’s no one at Immigration, so I call out for assistance. A few seconds later, a trio of rather bemused border police pop their heads around a door. Adjusting his belt and smoothing his hair back into place, as though he’s just woken from a nap, one of them ambles over and takes my passport.

“Where did you fly from today? Dubai? Journalist? Ah, yes. Bien sûr. Hamdillah as-salemeh. Welcome home.”

With a flourish, he stamps me in and hands my passport back. He doesn’t even bother asking for my residency permit.  

“You know there’s a war, right? Yes? Well, OK then. Allah ma’ak.”

 Passport in hand, I get back into the cab. Mahmoud slaps the steering wheel.

“Ready?” he says, starting the engine.

I’m not, really. I peer out the window and up at the night sky. It’s cloudless, a carpet of gently twinkling lights. I check to see if any of them are moving. Or flashing. The way I imagine fighter planes would probably look from the ground at night. Thankfully, the heavens appear to be stationary. My head, however, feels like it is spinning. So, no bombers. Well, none I can see, anyway. 

We roll slowly towards the exit. Mahmoud turns off the headlights “so the planes won’t see us”. For a minute, I’m really impressed. Then I remember that modern missiles are heat-seeking. Even with the lights off, the car’s engine will probably be hot enough to home in on, especially if, as now seems likely, there is no other traffic on the road.

I squeeze my eyes shut and hope the Israeli air force won’t notice us. Or that if they do, they’ll leave us alone. Or that if they don’t, at least we don’t see the missiles coming.

I think of Joseph, a sweet, generous and kind-hearted man, my Lebanese brother, who is waiting anxiously (and angrily) for me in Beirut. He has packed his family off to his brother-in-law’s house in the mountains in the north of Lebanon and was preparing to leave himself, when I called him that morning to say I was on my way back. 

“What? Why in God’s name would you do that? ” Joseph had shouted after a moment of stunned silence, his voice rising by several decibels in the process. “Anyway, you can’t. There’s no airport. It’s blown up. How are you going to get in?”

I told him that I was about to get on a plane to Damascus, take a taxi across the Beka’a and that I’d be home by the evening. Even before I finished explaining, he’d begun swearing.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! The Israelis are bombing everywhere. The Beka’a too. Do you want to die? Stay there. You don’t need to come back. I can’t believe it! Stay in stupid Dubai. It’s safe there. Do you hear me? Do not come back to Beirut! Ya Allah, is this boy stupid, or just crazy?”

We get cut off. I try to redial but I can’t get through. The lines are busy. Or down. Or blown-up. I wish I could have told Joseph that I am coming back because Beirut is my home, that it is the place where some of the people that matter the most to me live, that it is part of my heart and that I can’t bear to be away while the place and the people I care about are in danger, but his anger, born of concern, makes such rationalisation seem flimsy. Why was I going back to a country that hundreds of thousands of people were busy trying to flee? What the hell was I doing? Maybe I was mad.

The car stops. I must look a bit green because Mahmoud reaches over and taps me on the chest.

“Don’t worry, English. No planes,” he says, looking up and out of the window and then tapping himself on the chest. “Heart of iron, my friend, heart of iron.”

As the gate opens, I flash my passport at the guard. He couldn’t possibly be less interested. Abdicating any and all responsibility, he waves us through wearily. Mahmoud guns the engine. And then, at 160 kilometres an hour, we shoot across the border into darkness, straight into a war.

[elitepassport123]

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