#Arab nationalism

[stupidjewishwhiteboy]

The thing is, I’m sure plenty of westerners chanting “from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free” legitimately want a secular binational state (although a fair amount of them have so reviled “Zionism” that I’m not sure how much Jewish nationhood they would view as acceptable in this theoretical binational state). The problem is, while there exist binationalists in the WB and Gaza, they are far outnumbered by Arab Nationalists and Muslim theocrats whose position on Jews existing in their Palestinian state goes from “grudgingly allowing Jews to exist as a faith community but not an ethnic group” to “expelling and killing Jews as much as they can.”

And on the other side Jewish Israelis are so invested in Jewish self-determination that they won’t roll over if Palestinians attempt to take over 1948 Israel (or even 1967 Israel). The death toll on both sides would be unthinkable.

[deadpresidents]

The good folks at W.W. Norton & Company sent me a copy of Alex Rowell's new book, We Are Your Soldiers: How Gamal Abdel Nasser Remade the Arab World (BOOK | KINDLE | AUDIO) and I'm really looking forward to reading it. There aren't enough great books about Nasser and his monumental impact on the Arab world and Non-Aligned Movement during his relatively brief but enormously influential time as Egyptian leader. We Are Your Soldiers: How Gamal Abdel Nasser Remade the Arab World is available everywhere right now from W.W. Norton.

[jadthemagnificent]

United Arab Republic

الجمهورية العربية المتحدة

1958 - 1971

[headlinehorizon]

Remembering Talal Salman: A Champion of Arab Nationalism and Journalism

The world of journalism mourns the loss of Talal Salman, founder of Lebanon's prominent Arabic-language daily, As-Safir. A staunch advocate for the Palestinian cause and Arab unity, Salman's indomitable spirit and dedication to journalistic excellence continue to inspire. Read more about his legacy.

[soxiyy]

From Levantine_gay on insta

[arabian-batboy]

I thought not casting any Arab actors for a fictional Middle Eastern kingdom that's literally called "ARABster" where the royal family is called the "Nefertari Family," whose citizens wear ghutras and abayas while mentioning eating Arabic food like Kunfa was a new low for Hollywood.

Then I learned that Marty Adelstein, the CEO & founder of the Tomorrow Studios, is a Zionists and now everything makes sense. This isn't a new low, this just regular old Hollywood.

[stereotypicaljewishmother]

So when Jews have big noses were disgusting Eastern Europeans, but when a pretty pale Arab woman has a big nose she’s indigenous?

Antisemitism I’ll tell you that much.

@spot-the-antisemitism

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Maya Yang at The Guardian:

Rashida Tlaib, the Palestinian American congresswoman, has accused a political cartoonist of racism after he depicted her next to a pager exploding days after such devices blew up across Lebanon in what the Arab country has said was an attack by Israel. A statement from the Democratic US House representative also expressed concern that the cartoon by Henry Payne would “incite more hate and violence against Arab and Muslim communities”. “And it makes everyone less safe,” Tlaib said of the cartoon – published by the Republican-friendly National Review – which also showed her thinking how “odd” it was for the nearby pager to explode. Pagers had been a preferred method of Hezbollah members in conflict with Israel, before such devices exploded across Lebanon recently. “It’s disgraceful that the media continues to normalize this racism against our communities,” she said.

The congresswoman’s statement about the publication of the cartoon “Tlaib Pager Hamas” came after many users on the social media platform X had condemned it as anti-Arab as well as Islamophobic. Among them was the mayor of Dearborn, Michigan, Abdullah Hammoud, who wrote on X: “Absolutely disgusting. Anti-Arab bigotry & Islamophobia have become normalized in our media.” The mayor added: “At what point will people call this out?” Other users condemned Payne’s cartoon directly on his own X profile. One wrote: “You should be ashamed,” and another user said: “What the fuck does she have to do with the war crimes of Israel terrorizing the [Lebanese] people? It’s because she’s Arab you thought it was okay to draw this shit?”

Payne is a political cartoonist for the Detroit News, one of two major daily newspapers in the city, which is Tlaib’s hometown. The Guardian sent him a request for comment on Friday. The slew of pager and walkie-talkie explosions to which the cartoon alludes have killed dozens of people while wounding thousands more, including children. The Lebanese government and Hezbollah have blamed Israel for the attacks. Israel has stopped short of claiming responsibility for the deadly attacks. However, in their wake, its defense minister complimented the Mossad – the Israeli intelligence agency – for its “great achievements”.

Rep. Rashida Tlaib (D-MI) fearlessly calls out Detroit News cartoonist Henry Payne’s racist and Islamophobic cartoon depicting her with an exploding pager.

[rooksamoris]

💞 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐒.

💞 — in which jamil realizes that no matter how hard he avoid the oasis, the thirst will not disappear till it is quenched.

💞 — jamil viper x reader

💞 — warnings: hurt/comfort type fic. some descriptions of gore to emphasize yearning (the arabs be dramatic, what can i say)

💞 — 1.7k words. inspired by "sawwah" the song by abdel halim hafez. you should listen to it while reading tbh. first in a series of me assigning old school arabic songs to various characters. and yes, arabic speaking jamil is back. the translations are italicized with the arabic, and i changed some lyrics to fit third person, instead of first.

Wa ana mashi fil bilad, sawwah.

And I walk through countries, a vagabond.

Jamil had a job. He was bound to eternal servitude to the Al-Asim family—practically property to Bait (house/clan) Al-Asim. He had a job, and yet he spent his nights away in his mind, wandering like a vagabond. Purposeless, jobless. 

All those nights toiling in the kitchen of Scarabia made him forget purpose and work were different things. He would never call working for that spoiled boy his purpose. He was made for more—to be praised, to rule and command. He deserved more. Jamil deserved more than having to push away his moon, his qamar (moon). 

You were like an oasis in the desert expanse that he called his mind, and yet he walked away from you. He walked away when he desperately needed a sip. When he desperately needed rest and dates from your palm.

“Qad jinint? (Have you become crazed?) I have too many things to deal with. And you’d be better off without the burden of my title. Imshi (Go on/walk off).”

Jamil saw it. He saw the way your expression faltered, the softest twitch in your brow, the smallest tremble of your lips. It was cruel, he knew it, and it hurt him to say it. But in the end, he knew there was nothing else he could say. There must have been a better way to delicately reject your confessions, and yet he took the harshest route. Jamil plucked the dates from your palm and trampled over them.

He hurt himself by doing so, denying himself the one thing he desperately wanted. In the end, it was simple. Mishwar baeed, wa hu gareeh. His life was a long journey that only injured him. He did not want it to injure you as well.

Still, his charcoal eyes would seek you out. He would still ask Kalim about you, wanting to know how the distance was affecting you. Did you become a vagabond as he did? Were you avoiding oases?

Did you ask about the brown-skinned boy who broke your heart? He just wanted to be reassured—tamainu (reassure him)—that his qamar was doing alright. Wa in la’akum habibi, salamuli alai, he wanted to tell Kalim. If you see my love, wish them peace from me.

He would never ask you himself, nor did he get the chance to since you would scurry off whenever he passed by. The one place he could not avoid you was the kitchen of Scarabia, his domain, during one of Kalim’s parties. You were hiding away from the madness, and he had been trying to hide away from you. It was the same spot in which you cooked with him, listened to him, and were eventually rejected by him.

Jamil froze after walking in, and you turned your head up from your phone once you saw him, “I’m sorry,” you said, pushing yourself off of the counter and heading for the other door. You could not face him, not after that rejection. Not after he told you that your feelings were that of a crazed djinni (genie/jinn).

He shook his head and walked to the stove top, turning it on, “Stay. I’ll make chai,” he muttered. He did not even look at you.

You still wanted to leave, but instead, you just nodded. Honestly, you were a fool for the man, for that long dark brown hair which he braided so perfectly, and his aquiline nose which you desperately wanted to trace your finger along, “I don’t want to trouble you—”

“It’s no trouble. It gives me an excuse to get away from Kalim.”

You swallowed and nodded.

The silence was horrifically uncomfortable. The only sounds in the kitchen were the boiling water in the kettle and the sound that the mortar and pestle made while Jamil began to grind the herbs for the tea. Chai, cloves, cardamom—he added cinnamon this time. The scent always made everything more cozy.

Ya qamar, ya nasini. Oh moon who forgets me. Jamil hoped you would have gotten over your feelings for him and forgotten about the rejection, but he could tell it stung. The way you looked around the kitchen proved that enough. He poured the evaporated milk into the tea, let it simmer with the racing of his heart, and then poured both of you cups. He was gentle as he set your cup in front of you, unlike the savagery that he handled your heart with. 

Jamil leaned against the island, his eyes trailing over your face, “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” you blurted, holding the cup of tea. Waseitak, waseiya, ya shahid aleiya, “I promised you—you heard. You saw,” you elaborated, “I’m fine.” Tekilu ala beiyak. You could have told him of the state you were in after the rejection, but you opted for lies veiled by a fake grin.

He understood. He did not let you see past his veil either, “I see.” 

“The tea is great.”

“Thanks.”

There it was, another uncomfortable silence. His eyes said it all, though. Had you looked close enough, you would have seen how they ached to sacrifice themselves for you. He wished his worries for you would leave him alone—he would have gouged his eyes out just to make the aching in his heart disappear. It was curling in on itself, threatening to burst with the violence of a desert storm, sand filled his lungs, suffocating him. The weeks felt like years, and he was just a nomad in the night.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he set his cup down.

You immediately frowned and put your teacup down as well, scared you would drop in, “You don’t get to say that now,” you mumbled.

Jamil nodded in agreement. It was cruel, rejecting you so harshly just to turn around and claim he did not mean any of it. Especially when he still did find you crazy for loving him as ardently as you claimed, “It’s wrong. I know,” he said, looking away from you and to the door where all the commotion was. The music was muffled by the shut doors, making the kitchen feel like an entirely different building, “But I… I feel the same.”

That was another lie. He did not just feel the same, Jamil longed for you. He yearned, his heart ached and his veins begged to be torn out for your sake. Every cell in his body called for your name, his hands begged to grasp your waist, kiss your neck—his hands which artfully painted henna, wished they could trace every curve and every dip on your body.

“Jamil…” you trailed off.

He merely shook his head, “It is because I feel the same that I must reject you. You—you have so much more waiting in your life without me. My suffering should not be yours,” he said, and he said it as if it were the law of the universe. He was a vagabond eternally bound to avoid the oases because the oases were not meant for him. They were meant for Kalim Al-Asim.

Despite all that, he did not push you away when you cupped his face. He did not protest as he drowned. He did not thrash, he did not fight. His body did as it wished, leaning into your hands, “Ya qamar… you are making this more difficult than it needs to be,” he muttered, the disdain dying before it could embrace the quiet air of the kitchen.

You frowned at him—sevens, he wanted to kiss that mouth of yours—and your brows furrowed, “Let me, Jamil. Just let me,” you said. What did you want him to let you do? You had no clue, or perhaps it was just too broad to describe.

Nawarli, wararili, seitak al-habayeb.

Enlighten and show me the path to the beloveds.

He was so weak when it came to you. Before he knew it, his hands were at the small of your back, pulling you closer and forcing you to arch against him as his lips met yours in a fierce kiss. He sighed into your mouth, his tongue slipping in when you gasped in surprise.

Jamil needed you even closer. His hands made their way down to your hips, his thumbs slipping under the hem of your shirt to feel your skin. It was just as nice as he dreamed it would be. What made it all the better was how you kissed him back.

One of your hands gripped his shirt, right at his chest, right above his cruel racing heart, and the other held the back of his head. The quietest of whimpers escaped you as he bit your bottom lip, causing him to groan. 

He pressed you against the counter, causing your hand to slip from his chest and move to hold onto the surface behind you. You kissed him till you could not breathe, “Ja—Jamil,” you stammered when your lips parted from his. 

Greedily, he went in and kissed you some more. Jamil had taken a sip, and now he wanted it all. He only pulled away when your hands pressed against his chest to push him away. His eyes widened and his hands fell back to his sides. He pulled the hood down to hide his face from you as he turned his head, “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s—It’s fine,” you replied, fixing your clothes and hair, “Are we…” you let the question hang like a date on a palm tree.

He nodded, “If you’ll still have me,” he replied. What he wanted to do was get on his knees and beg you to use your lips to end his suffering—beg that you use those hands to pull the sand out of his chest.

“Of course, I’d still have you, Jamil,” 

Your words were like a soothing balm. It was the salve that you spread over his burns, over his scars, and over the bruises that his yearning created, “Okay,” he said, and it was all he could manage to say for now. 

He picked up the kettle of tea and poured you some more. No matter what he did, he could not run away from you, his purpose. You forced the vagabond to stop and pulled the title right off of him, before pushing him into the waters of the oasis.

“We have some ma’amoul (semolina biscuit stuffed with date filling),” he says, after some silence.

[eretzyisrael]

Source

[hero-israel]

Hey man. Sorry about this, but I am arguing with one of my friends about Israel. I know you had some good posts on the arguments about the sterilization of the Beta Israel and the Nakba, but I'm struggling to find them. (I am looking for other sources, but your stuff was striking the first time I read it.) Do you know what you tagged those with? Alternatively, what sources do you recommend? Thank you!

Here are some posts I'm rather proud of, and hope you will find helpful. Tags are below.

There were no sterilizations.

What caused the Nakba?

Why the abandonment of the Jews made Zionism necessary.

There was no "peaceful coexistence before 1948".

Ottoman Muslim settler-colonialism in 1800s Palestine.

"Israeli apartheid" is a bad-faith lie.

"Palestine is a climate / environment issue" is an even bigger lie.

Was Nazism wrong, or just wrong when white people did it?

Killing Jews is not - and can never be - "liberation"

What did famous civil rights activists think of Jews and Israel?

How often did the media lie about conditions in Gaza?

BDS is the abstinence-only sex education of the Left

Palestine is the Confederate Lost Cause of the Left

[sitting-on-me-bum]

Title

Transfer of Wisdom

This lovely morning in June, while we were photographing a herd at Amboseli National Park in Kenya, a young elephant walked up to an adult and they shared a long interaction where they just stood next to each other, trunks barely touching. The whole scene seemed almost mystical to us and we were convinced that there definitely was some transfer of elephant wisdom taking place!

Prashant Chacko Preeti John

United Arab Emirates

Neutral Density Photography Awards 2023

[panimoonchild]

Russian culture is genocide

Don't forget about Ukrainian POWs. They come back to Ukraine and look like bones and skin. When we must pay for Russian prisoners to live in normal conditions. Please keep spreading our voices and remind the world.

[mysharona1987]

What is Arabic for United Nations and charity workers?

[foursaints]

was thinking about that voice hcs post & it really struck me that i have never once read anyone besides james as remotely british. whenever barty arrives in the fanfiction like "bloke" my eyes black out for a second... you can't be talking like that croatian baby

[sophia-zofia]