#part 7 of 16

[andnowanowl]

Since "Palestine Speaks: Narratives of Life Under Occupation" is suspiciously not available in the US in the form of an e-book, I purchased a physical copy and wanted to share it here for anyone else also unable to get access.

EBTIHAJ BE'ERAT

Homemaker, 52

Born in Kafr Malek, West Bank

Interviewed in Kafr Malek, West Bank

We first visit Ebtihaj Be'erat at her house in the hilltop village of Kafr Malek in 2010. Her house is easy to find: a giant banner in honor of her son, Abdal Aziz, hangs against a whitewashed wall above red geraniums. Two years before our visit, just up the road from the house, Abdal Aziz was shot and killed by Israeli soldiers. Inside the house, there is a room devoted to him, with pictures and plaques on the walls and more pictures piled on the floor.

Ebtihaj is a warm woman with oval frame glasses, a gold heart necklace, and deep dimples that appear when she smiles. Her name, in fact, means "joy." Yet, the death of her son is clearly still part of her everyday life. As we ask her about her childhood in Kafr Malek, her experiences during the First Intifada, and her family tree, her answers circle back again and again to the loss of her son and the day he was shot. Still, evidence of her five other children also covers the walls, including photos of them dancing in a well-known dance troupe, framed university degrees, and various awards. Throughout our interview, her house is bustling with family members and neighbors coming and going. And although she downplays her skill as a host, she offers us an impressive spread of food, including homemade bread, jam, pickles, as well as local eggs and herbs.

When we come back to the house two years later, the banner honoring Abdal Aziz has been moved further up the street to the place where he died. Ebtihaj is now able to tell the story of his death without being completely overcome with grief, and she's more willing to talk about the life that continues in his absence. Besides telling us of her son, Ebtihaj shares stories about the changes she remembers in her home village since the Six-Day War in 1967, a conflict that led to Israel's occupation of the West Bank. Though Ebtihaj and her family had the opportunity to join the hundreds of thousands of Palestinians who emigrated from the West Bank following the Six-Day War, she decided to stay in Kafr Malek and raise her children in a Palestinian community.

OUR WEDDING PARTIES ARE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL

My name is Ebtihaj, and I'm from Kafr Malek, which is a very social village where everyone knows everyone else.¹ I was born in the spring of 1962.

All my family is from the village. My grandfather and my great-grandfather were born here. The people of this village have always been known for their hospitality, and anyone who comes to Kafr Malek loves it here. It's beautiful. We receive visitors with hospitality, male or female. We're more moderate than some nearby villages. We're more civilized. We're not like the other villages where a man can't enter a woman's house when she's alone. Our wedding parties are the most beautiful in the area because all of us wear traditional dresses, even the small girls. Also, many people in our village have lived in the United States or Latin America,

they can speak English or Spanish. I don't know the exact numbers, but approximately 20 to 40 percent of the people born in this village are living abroad at the moment, mostly in the U.S., but also in Colombia and Brazil. A number of families emigrated during the First Intifada, but they come back for visits.²

I was the sixth of seven children. I have four sisters and two brothers. My father worked for the post office in the village. It was his job to go to Ramallah and pick up the mail, and then to deliver it to everyone in Kafr Malek. He also had a second job as a butcher in the market. When I was a young child, Kafr Malek was surrounded by farms. Many villagers had farms on top of Al-Asur Hill behind the village, and many farmers grew grapes.

Then in 1967, Israeli soldiers invaded the village.³ I remember fleeing with all the other villagers to a grove of almond trees. Some villagers fled to their fields. My family lived under almond trees for two weeks while the war was going on, and I remember we each had just enough food and water rations to last two weeks.

Later that year, the Israeli military moved in and built a base on top of the hill. They cleared a lot of the farms on the hill and demolished the homes of some farmers as well. We got used to seeing soldiers in the village. There weren't any Jordanian policeman anymore, just Israeli soldiers. We got used to hearing about homes being raided as well. Soldiers would take men and boys in the middle of the night, from young children to the oldest men.

I met my husband when I was very young, when I was fifteen years old and he was twenty. He fell in love with me. He's my cousin, a relative from my mother's side.⁴ We were engaged that same year we met, and we married when I was seventeen. Nowadays, it doesn't happen like that. Mostly now, women wait until they finish university and then they get married. I was sad because I wanted to finish my studies. But my father told me, "No, you have to get married." I didn't even finish high school.

I moved into my in-laws' home right after our marriage in 1979. Before the war in 1967, my husband's family had farmed at the top of Al-Asur Hill. After the war, soldiers ordered his family out of their home and blew it up, so they moved to another house in the village. When I married my husband, he was still a farmer and also worked as a stone cutter.

In 1980 we had our first child, my daughter Maysa, when I was eighteen. By then I'd settled into my husband's home as a housewife. I did the housework along with my mother- and sisters-in-law, I cooked, and if any visitors came, I welcomed them. Over the next few years I had two more daughters and a son—Haifa, Rafa, and Fadi. Every day I would cook lunch for my children and for my husband. I'd buy my own groceries. And I'd tend the garden—we planted wheat and olives. During Eid, I'd make cookies, you know, ma'amoul.⁵ Everyone would ask for them.

During this time, in the early eighties, many villagers were leaving to live abroad. I had two older brothers and an older sister get visas to work in the United States, and my brothers encouraged our family to fill out the paperwork to do the same. There was more opportunity to work there, and more freedom. In the U.S. we wouldn't have to worry about soldiers coming to our house. So we filled out the paperwork and applied,and when we didn't get a visa the first year, we kept reapplying every year.

Finally, in 1986, my family was granted visas to live in the United States. But by this time, I had three daughters, and I wasn't sure I wanted to raise them in America. My sister had brought two daughters to the U.S., and they had ended up marrying foreigners. I wanted my daughters to grow up and marry Palestinians—hopefully, young men from the village. So we reconsidered it and decided to stay. My husband found work as a taxi driver in Ramallah, so he was able to support our family.

THE SOLDIERS FORBADE US TO LIGHT CANDLES

I gave birth to my middle son, Abdal Aziz, on December 5, 1987, in Ramallah, when the First Intifada had just broken out.⁶ He was born nine pounds, blond, and with green eyes. The nurse who was on shift, she held him and said to everyone, "Come and see the child from Kafr Malek. He is so beautiful." I named him Abdal Aziz after his grandfather—his father's father.

When I got out of the hospital, Israeli soldiers were closing the shops because they said that the Intifada was moving from Gaza to the West Bank. I couldn't even find a pharmacy to buy vitamins or a bottle, the basic things we needed with a new baby in the house. The soldiers imposed a curfew, and it was forbidden for anyone to be outside, even in our own yards, for over a month. We had to stay inside our houses, and we couldn't open a window to look outside. The soldiers even forbade us to light candles. If they saw the light of a candle in a house,they would come and break the windows. During this time we ate mostly bread, olive oil, and za'atar.⁷ When we were able to find other kinds of food, my mother-in-law would have to hide it well in the house, because if soldiers searched our home, they would know we had broken curfew if we had fresh food.

Sometimes they'd arrest someone every month or two, sometimes it seemed like every night. Checkpoints were set up, so we couldn't travel to the top of the hill anymore, where the base was, and there was only one entrance into and out of the village. Sometimes, depending on what was happening during the Intifada, they would set up a checkpoint at the main entrance of the village, and they wouldn't allow anyone to enter or leave except to go to neighboring villages. Even when someone was sick, or even if a pregnant woman was having a baby, they'd go to Taybeh, the next village, instead of to the hospital in Ramallah because when the soldiers set up the checkpoint, they wouldn't allow anyone to leave.⁸

All the men in the village had left their houses, because if the soldiers came in and saw a man in the house, they would sometimes beat him so badly. So all the men stayed in the fields, and they would go to Ramallah to look for food. During the night, they'd sneak home with food and basic supplies like sugar, and then go back to the fields.

My house is in the center of the city, so the soldiers would come often. Once, when my Abdal Aziz was two months old, I was sitting outside with him because I was cleaning the bread oven. My mother-in-law was at a neighbor's house and my husband was in the fields. A few soldiers saw me from the street, and they chased me into my house. I ran into the kitchen where the rest of my children were at the time—I was holding Abdal Aziz in my arms. The soldiers had these batons, and one soldier tried to hit me with one. I moved my head just in time to avoid the blow, and he struck the refrigerator instead. But he was aiming for my head. All my kids were screaming and crying, including Abdal Aziz in my arms. I think that made the soldiers back off. My children protected me.

Then the soldiers closed the kitchen door on me and locked me inside with my kids. They left the key on the outside of the door, and we were locked in the kitchen for around two hours until my mother-in-law came back. At that time, there weren't any mobile phones like today, not even house phones. If my mother-in-law hadn't been at the neighbor's house, she would have been with me inside, and who knows how long it would have been before someone unlocked the door. When she returned and let me out of the kitchen, I just collapsed. I was so scared, I fainted. She didn't know what to do, and there wasn't any way to call a doctor or nurse. So she got the idea of throwing open all the windows and turning on a lamp in the window. It attracted the attention of the soldiers, and when more came to see what was going on, she begged them to get me a nurse or doctor. That was the only way she had to get me medical attention.

I believe Abdal Aziz always remembered that day. He had an image of it burned in his mind. At two months, he was too young to form memories. But the memory was like an inspiration from God, at least that's what I think.

WHAT HE FELT THROUGH THE STONE

As a child, Abdal Aziz was unique. There wasn't anyone like him. He was kind and beautiful. Abdal Aziz had a lot of friends, and he was a leader among them from a young age. Part of it was that he was just so affectionate and generous. I remember he us to come up to me when was washing dishes or something and give me a big hug. He was the same way with his friends. If one of his friends mentioned that he saw a shirt in the market that he wanted, Abdal Aziz would save his money until he could buy the shirt for his friend. I had another child, Muhammed, in 1990, and Muhammed always looked up to Abdal Aziz. Abdal Aziz was thirteen at the start of the Second Intifada in 2000.

During the Second Intifada, the Israeli military closed the village for a month, and we couldn't leave our homes. They even cut the electricity and water for a month. When the soldiers came, we'd close everything, all the windows, and we'd stay inside. I can remember two occasions when we forgot to close a window, and teargas got inside the home. We felt like we were suffocating.

Abdal Aziz was born when the First Intifada started, so it was in his blood to be active.⁹ But Abdal Aziz wasn't affiliated with any political party. He wore one bracelet that said "Fatah," another one that said "PFLP," and another one that said "Hamas," all together on one hand.¹⁰ I used to ask him, "Which one are you?" He'd say, "I'm Palestinian." That's another reason why everyone loved him.

Ever since he was a kid, he always talked about how much he wanted to throw stones at the jeeps and tanks when they passed our house, to drive them away. The kids don't have any weapons to defend their country, they only have stones—a stone versus a tank. I knew my son loved to throw stones at soldiers when they came at night, and I knew that he was in danger. The soldiers arrested so many teenagers and they injured others. My cousin is now spending twenty-five years in jail for throwing stones, and another one was put in jail for fifteen years. One of my neighbors has been in jail for eighteen years now, just for throwing stones at the soldiers.

The soldiers usually come into the village at two or three a.m. That is their normal time. Every time they enter the village, the youth have an agreement to start whistling to let everyone know. It's a signal for others when they are on the streets to go back home so the soldiers don't catch them and beat them. I'm always so afraid whenever I start to hear whistling.

There were many nights when I would hear whistling, wake up, and put on my clothes to go out and search for Abdal Aziz. I would go to his friends and ask them where he was. When Abdal Aziz came home in the early morning, I'd go hug him as soon as I saw him on the stairs outside of the house and tell him, "Thank God, you're okay and nothing has happened to you." I would make him sit and talk to me because he wouldn't listen. I used to tell him, "When the soldiers come, they have armor, they have weapons, and they are much stronger than us." I asked him if throwing stones would make them leave the village. He always said, "This is our village. Why did they come to our village?" I would ask him, "Can you forbid the soldiers or the tanks from coming into the village?" I would tell him that if they killed him, I would go crazy. He would say that if a patrol came into the village and he didn't throw a stone at it, it would hurt his conscience. He wanted to protect his country. He wanted to express what he felt through the stone, that this is our country and not theirs. I was angry with him because I knew that something bad would happen to him.

Once, I left the house and all my neighbors were asking me, "Where are you going? The patrol is near." And I told them, "Let them shoot me. I want to go find Abdal Aziz." He was at the neighbor's house. I stood in the street and called to him, and I told him, "If you don't come to the house now, I will go to the patrol and make them shoot me." If they saw anyone at night in the village, there was a chance they would shoot.

It didn't matter whether it was a woman or a man. He told me, "I'm coming, I'm coming," and he came back with me. We snuck home safely. He came back with me, but when I went to sleep, he snuck out again.

WHY DO YOU THINK EVERYONE WANTS PALESTINE?

It was difficult living in Kafr Malek during the Second Intifada. I was so worried about my children. But still, I wasn't tempted to move.

In the summer of 2002, I visited my older brothers, who were still in the United States. They'd been there since the early 1980s and were living in Chicago, I loved America, I loved the people there. I liked how organized everything was in the city. In general, the people were welcoming to me. My brothers' neighbors were very nice. And people are free there. You don't have soldiers coming into your house at two a.m. and ordering you out into the streets.

But Palestine is so beautiful—why do you think everyone wants Palestine? When I was in Chicago, I remember telling my brother, "I like America, but I haven't seen anything in the U.S. that I like as much as sitting on the front steps of my own home when there's a breeze, or being able to go into the yard and pick fresh grapes and figs." So my brother went out and bought me some grapes and figs, all the things I had named. But they didn't taste the same to me. I didn't like the grapes at all! Everything was imported, nothing fresh. I was supposed to stay in Chicago for four months, but I could only make it for a month and a half. I was homesick. Also, it was so hot!

A few years later, in 2006, my husband ended up going to the States to work with some family and neighbors who had a store in Miami. My husband would ask a lot about Abdal Aziz when he called home. He didn't ask about the other sons as much as he asked about Abdal Aziz.He was worried. When he talked to Abdal Aziz on the phone, my husband would preach to him, "Calm down, don't throw stones."

It was hard to be alone with my children, but by that time my sons were all grown-ups and they were working. Only Abdal Aziz and Muhammed, the youngest, were still at school. My three daughters were already married. Abdal Aziz finished high school in 2007, did the tawjihi exams,¹¹ and wanted to apply for Al-Quds Open University,¹² He didn't like school so much, but he liked everything else: soccer, dabka,¹³ and all his other after-school activities. After the tawjihi, he spent one year not studying, but he wanted to eventually study business I have a cousin who runs a supermarket, and Abdal Aziz spent a lot of afternoons helping him out there, learning about how to run a small business.

I FELT I WOULD LOSE HIM SOMEDAY

Abdal Aziz was a soccer player, and he was the goalkeeper for the Al-Bireh Institute team in Ramallah. He was also a coach in Kafr Malek for younger boys. In early October 2008, he was twenty years old and getting his passport ready, because his team had an opportunity to go play in Europe.

During that time, Abdal Aziz was still going out every night to be with his friends. On the night of October 16, I went to sleep at around eleven-thirty. Abdal Aziz called at one a.m. He had a habit of asking me when I answered the phone, "How are you, Ma?"

I told him, "I'm going to sleep now. Do you need anything?" He told me, "I'm coming with friends, so please make us some dinner to eat?" I told him, "I don't sleep very well because of you, and you want me to prepare dinner for you now?" So he asked me to speak with Muhammed, and he told his younger brother to prepare dinner for him, all his favorite things. My room is just beside the kitchen, so when Abdal Aziz came back with his friends, he'd close the door so they wouldn't bother me, and they'd sit outside to eat dinner.

Still, that night I heard him come in with his friends, so I got up and put on my dress. I looked at him through the door eating dinner with his friends outside. I looked at my watch, and it was around three a.m. I thought, It's late. Abdal Aziz won't go out again. His friends will leave, and he'll go to sleep in his room. And because I was comfortable that Abdal Aziz was at home, I went back to bed.

Not long afterward, I woke up again and opened the window. Although it was October, it was still hot. When I opened the window, I realized my son Muhammed was outside, crying and calling for a car. He told me that there had been a shooting. I went to Abdal Aziz's room and saw that he wasn't there. I put on my clothes and started screaming that Abdal Aziz had died. I knew then. I felt it immediately that he was dead. My heart dropped.

I went to our neighbors' house. I told Abu Adel, our neighbor, that Abdal Aziz died. He told me no, but I insisted that he was the one that had been shot. I told my neighbor's son to take me to the hospital because he had a car, but he reassured me that it wasn't Abdal Aziz who was injured. But I insisted. I wanted to be with my son. That was that. My son Fadi showed up at the house, and he and Muhammed tried to comfort me and told me it wasn't Abdal Aziz. I told them, "No, it is your brother. It is Abdal Aziz." They told me that Abdal Aziz was with his friends, and I told them that if that was so, to bring him to me. Then some of Abdal Aziz's friends came and told me that he'd run away with some of the others. I asked if there were any more soldiers in the village, and they told me there was a patrol nearby. And so I asked them, "Why did Abdal Aziz run away? Abdal Aziz doesn't run away if there's a soldier in the village, so I don't believe you."

When my three daughters heard that someone had been killed, they came running to my house with their husbands, asking, "Where is he?" They too felt that it was Abdal Aziz who had been killed. The women from our neighborhood came to my house for an hour and tried to calm me down, to tell me that it wasn't Abdal Aziz, or that he was just injured. I told them, "No, it Abdal Aziz. I know that he is dead." Then finally someone else from the village came to the house and told me, "The thing that you've suspected is true." She had witnessed the scene.

In a few moments, a huge crowd showed up at the house, and they were all crying because they loved Abdal Aziz, and he was not there anymore. No one would take me to see him at the hospital because they felt would be a shock for me. Finally, at around ten a.m., the Red Crescent ambulance brought his body back to the house.¹⁴

I learned the story from Abdal Aziz's friends who had been with him that night. They said that after I went to sleep, Abdal Aziz got a phone call from a friend who told him that a patrol of soldiers was coming. Abdal Aziz used to stand on a particular roof and throw stones from there, so that's where they both went to wait for the soldiers. But on this night, the soldiers were down below in the garden hiding between the trees, waiting for him. He was with his friend on the roof, and when they threw the first stone, the soldiers opened fire on them. His friend was shot in the shoulder, and Abdal Aziz was shot in the leg.

Abdal Aziz's friend told him, "We're being ambushed! Let's hand ourselves over to the soldiers." Abdal Aziz's reply was, "I would rather die than hand myself over." Because Abdal Aziz was injured in his leg, he couldn't run, but his friend was able to run away. He wanted to help Abdal Aziz, but he couldn't. According to my son's friends, when the soldiers came up to the roof and saw that it was Abdal Aziz, they kept him there. The bullet had entered the back of his left leg and come out the front. They left him to bleed, and they wouldn't allow a doctor to see him. They surrounded the area, and only after he died did they let the Red Crescent ambulance come and take him. The neighbors all came outside to check on him, to help him, but the soldiers told them, "If you come near us, we will shoot you, too."

He didn't die among his family or his friends. That's what hurts me the most. That's the most painful thing. The soldiers handed him over to the ambulance with the cuffs on his hands.

The day after Abdal Aziz died, my husband was in a café in Miami, playing cards. A relative had gone there to tell him the news, but before he even said anything, my husband saw the look in his eyes and told him, "Stop. I know Abdal Aziz just died." He came back to Palestine as soon as he could—he was home within two weeks. For two days after he returned, I couldn't speak to my husband. He did all the talking. And then he decided to stay in Kafr Malek.

The boy who was with Abdal Aziz survived. He's married now, his wife is pregnant. That night he ran away, he was treated for his injury, and he was arrested and put in jail for two years. Many of my son's other friends have been arrested since. They were brought to trial on so made-up charges and all sentenced to five and a half years. I wish they some had arrested Abdal Aziz and not killed him.

It was what God wanted. I always advised my son to stay at home, not to endanger himself. I would tell him that I felt I would lose him someday. Two weeks before his death, Abdal Aziz was with his friends in a car and he was hanging out the window. It was the night of Eid.¹⁵ And the guys told him, "Come inside, you don't want to get killed on a holy night." He told them, "I won't be killed. I won't die like this. I will die a martyr." He knew.

I'VE DECIDED TO LIVE

If you ask anyone in the village, they can tell you about Abdal Aziz. The day he died, seven satellite channels came to the village here to document what was going on. When they brought him in the hearse, there were hundreds of cars following behind. His funeral was so big. I didn't expect so many people.

After a death, we have three days for people to come and pay their respects, but for Abdal Aziz it took three weeks. His friends from all over came to the house and called me to go outside. We have a tradition where you kiss a person's hand and hold it to your own forehead as a sign of respect. One by one, they all kissed my hand, held it to their foreheads, and told me they were my sons now instead of Abdal Aziz. Even now, they always come visit me, and I go visit them. There was also a bus of girls who were friends of Abdal Aziz from the dabka team, and they came crying and searching for Abdal Aziz's mother.

They even put a tent near the hall in the village center, and thousands of people came. The student senate at Birzeit University suspended classes because of Abdal Aziz's death.¹⁶ Usually they don't suspend classes if someone dies, not even a student at the university. Even though he wasn't a student, everyone knew Abdal Aziz, even the teachers, and they put upposters with his photo inside the university. One year after his death, one of his friends had to present his graduation thesis, and he invited me to come. I went to the university and everyone, all the students were saying, "That's Abdal Aziz's mother. That's Abdal Aziz's mother." I didn't know what to do—to cry, or to feel proud, or to smile.

When someone loses a son, what do you expect? I raised him for twenty-one years, and I used to look at him when he went out and think to myself, Is it possible that this is my son? And I lost him overnight. And he was so beautiful, my son. He is now with his God in heaven. Whenever I go outside now, there's a banner with his photo on it hanging in the place where he died. Whenever I see it, I feel guilty because I couldn't hold him and hug him during the last minutes before he died.

After he died, life was complicated. For one whole year, I didn't sleep at night. I drove everyone crazy after his death, especially at two or three a.m. It's the time when Abdal Aziz died, and I would always be awake then. I'd wake up and feel like I needed to leave the house. I either went to one of my daughters' houses or even my cousins. I was so tired, and my daughters were so worried about me.

I went to the doctor, and he found my blood pressure to be at very dangerous levels. He told me, "You will have a heart attack if you continue living like this." It was so scary. For three whole years, they gave me sedative shots, sometimes every day and sometimes twice a week.

Since Abdal Aziz died, I stopped doing embroidery. I used to make traditional dresses, but now I've stopped. I don't see 100 percent, and I need good vision to embroider. I used to sell the dresses to help my husband, as our financial situation now is very hard. My younger son, Mohammad, studies journalism at Birzeit University. He wants to continue and get his master's, and Birzeit University is more expensive than the other universities. My husband only works as a taxi driver. Even the taxi that he drives belongs to someone else. He only covers the university tuition and Muhammed's daily expenses. I can't ask my other son for help because he wants to build his future. My oldest son is a teacher. Now he should start building a new house, but there are no good jobs. He wants to get married, but it all depends on the money.

My second daughter once came and told me that Abdal Aziz is alive. In Islam, in our religion, we consider martyrs to be alive in heaven. She told me, "You are crying every day for Abdal Aziz, and he's only one person, and he's alive with God." She told me that there are fifteen people in our family, including the cousins and the grandchildren. She asked, "Do you want to die and leave us all too?" Since then, I've decided to live my life for my daughters and sons who are still alive, and my grief is only in my heart now.

Sometimes one of my daughters comes and sees my eyes are red and asks me if I was crying, and I deny it and say, "No, why would I cry?" I do it to make them feel stronger because they were affected by the death of their brother also. It's been four years now, and I feel every day that it was like yesterday, and I always see him and always remember him. In Palestine, we often say that problems that start so heavy begin to disappear with time. But this weight stays. It's not fading. I am honored that my son is a hero who defended his land. He defended his country and his village. But I don't want my other sons to get killed. Abdal Aziz is enough.

---

Footnotes

¹ Kafr Malek is a village of about 3,000 people located nine miles northeast of Ramallah.

² The First Intifada was an uprising throughout the West Bank and Gaza against Israeli military occupation. It began in December 1987 and lasted until 1993. Intifada in Arabic means "to shake off."

³ 1967 was the year of the Six-Day War that culminated in Israel occupying the West Bank.

⁴ Marriage between cousins was once considered an ideal match in Palestine and throughout the Middle East, especially in rural areas.

⁵ Ma'amoul are shortbread pastries filled with dates or nuts and pressed in a wooden mold with an intricate design, and are commonly made during Eid Al-Fitr and Eid Al-Adha, the major Muslim holidays. Palestinian Christians also make them for Easter.

⁶ The protests, clashes with Israeli military, boycotts, and other acts of civil disobedience that marked the beginning of the First Intifada started in December 1987. Most of the organized action began on December 9, two days after Abdal Aziz's birth.

⁷ Za'atar is the name of both a spice similar to thyme that grows wild in Palestine and a blend of spices. Za'atar is a staple of local cooking in Palestine and much of the Middle East.

⁸ Taybeh is a neighboring Christian village of 1,500 people about one mile away from Kafr Malek. It's locally famous for a brewery that makes Palestine's only beer.

⁹ In Palestine, saying someone is "active" is shorthand for saying the person is involved in protests, to throwing stones, to more militant activity.

¹⁰ Farah, PFLP, and Hamas are political parties within Palestine.

¹¹ An exit exam for high school.

¹² Al-Quds Open University is a mixed on-site and distance-learning university system with campuses in the West Bank, Gaza, Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates. There is also a separate university system in the West Bank called Al-Quds University, which isn't affiliated with Al-Quds Open University.

¹³ Dabka is a traditional Palestinian dance.

¹⁴ From the glossary -

International Red Cross and Red Crescent Movement: A group of international humanitarian organizations founded in 1863 with the purpose of assisting victims of disasters and providing developmental aid to strengthen communities in crisis. The movement is made up of three distinct organizations: the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), which safeguards human rights in conflict zones; the International Federation of the Red Cross and Red Crescent (IFRC) which coordinates relief assistance missions around the globe; and National Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies, which address humanitarian needs and are organized on the national level. The Palestine Red Crescent Society is one of the National Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies. It was formed in 1968 and has over 4,000 employees and 20,000 volunteers. Because the Palestinian Authority administers only a patchwork of territory within the West Bank, the Palestine Red Crescent Society provides some essential services to Palestinian citizens, including ambulance service and some medical care.

¹⁵ Eid Al-Fitr is a major feast that marks the end of the month of Ramadan.

¹⁶ Birzeit University is one of the most prestigious universities in Palestine. It's located just outside Ramallah, not far from Kafr Malek.

[eternal-confusion-of-han]

how it started

how it's going

[hislittleraincloud]

...I just had to explain to someone, seven chapters in, that Satisfying Afterburn is a love story, since they complained(!) that they "didn't like Wednesday in love" because she's acting more like a teenage girl.

Well sorry not sorry, she's still sixteen (since I'm going by N/Canon and following the canon story). No matter what attributes she holds as a character, she still has teen girl qualities that are embarrassing sometimes...except that that behavior only comes out with Donovan, and that she isn't much embarrassed by them when with him. Why? I could get deep into the psychology of it, but what's the use if people are just looking for straight-on, graphic smut?

I'm also at a loss as to where in this last chapter I deviated from the character that I've already established (which is really not too far off of N/Canon). Where did she even act any different than she usually does? Her reactions are pretty consistent. She became a real bitch when she thought she was threatened/betrayed/harmed (Enid, Kinbott) and then went after Enid's boyfriend. Is that the part? Because the way she targeted Ajax is in-character/IC, since he will prove useful in the long run for her. She's a user, and that hasn't changed. Here I thought I'd get complaints about Enid (who I deep dive into in the chapter, and Wednesday's Day Off has BFF/Wenclair vibes...I mean, she's literally got both Donovan and Enid on the brain)...so this was unexpected.

Gah.

Anyway. They're standing closer in the above comic photo. They're also surprised at that kind of feedback.

[irradiatedsnakes]

i think? it's been said there's going to be more exploration of the teen/aya vers of the characters in the pnf reboot and i am dreading that for a number of reasons but especially the relationship between a 17/18 year old and a 26 year old whose fucking idea was this

[mart-singer]

I have been told several times that my preparatory drawings are interesting. But they are small and I don't want to part with them: they are part of my archives. I always wanted to redo them larger but how can I convey the messy and dirty spirit of the drawing without making a hyperrealistic and soulless copy. Here is an attempt with the help of monotype and colored pencils. Since for monotype, you have to draw upside down so that it prints right side up, I didn't always understand the numbers I was printing. It produces weird things, sometimes incomprehensible but it keeps the spirit of the original. Monotype and colors pencils on paper, 16,1 x 11,7 inches / 24 x 29,7 cm

[leahcee]

trying to look for babysitting gigs for extra money and it’s like you can’t even babysit nowadays without having a degree (bachelor’s minimum), CPR certified (required), non-smoker, and minimum of 3 references

[misty-moth]

There’s more to read, but I started getting eepy an hour before posting time 😭 future me shall resume ~later~… which will either be in a couple hours or 8+ hours, I really have no choice in the matter 🤷‍♀️

[arcaneyouth]

I'm back and I'm FUCKING insane holy shit.

Ok first off

WHAT WAS THAT ENDING?????????

That was a cliff hanger and a HALF holy SHIT I'm so excited to see what we have next time around... oh wow, I'm so fucking conflicted about Dara cuz like. Ohhh I know I KNOW she wants the best for the kids but DAMN she's got issues.... and also HELLO???? THERON??? Ok so like. Ok. I don't know how much I'm allowed to say for spoiler reasons but the story that Rowena told made me go 🤨 BUT THE MEANING???? THE MEANING. HOLY SHIT. so many thoughts and theories and I'm rotating your blorbos around in my brain. I don't want to give away the story publicly but just know. I see the meaning. I see it. I have SO many thoughts I'm insane -Ollie

AHAHAHAHA WE GOT ANOTHER ONE BOYS

I'm so glad youre having fun this comic is my pride and joy and getting to see new people get into it is so fucking exciting. I've worked so hard for this I cannot WAIT for everyone to see what I've got in store for the next chapter there's so much more story to unpack we're not even halfway through the comic yet

[h4zardousch3micals]

PoAL

Okay so funny story—

There's actually four of them (four seperate scene ideas that I threw together and added more to make a cohesive project)

And none have actually happened yet :')

[pepprs]

[fandomtrashhh]

I’m doing this acting camp that’s High School Musical (not my thing, I know, but there’s not exactly a lot of choices where I live) and I’m just so upset because I HATE HATE try outs that give you a song to sing and give you 5-10 minutes to memorize it before you go up and sing it in front of everyone. Because of neurodivergency, I can’t fucking do that. I need time to prepare and be told what I’ll be doing ahead of time, like they ACTUALLY do in try outs in the acting world. So of course I did horribly and forgot all the words and my pitch was off and the 10 year old children did better than me. Then of course the dancing portion of the audition I sucked at because I can’t fucking dance for the life of me, but I KNOW I did good on the acting portion because I CAN act!! That’s why I do this!! I had so much fun doing the acting portion!! But I don’t think they gave me enough of a chance because of how bad the other portions went and now I’m literally stuck with a character that has 3 lines (Which is a huge blow for someone who played Dorothy Gale in the 5th grade) while little kids have bigger parts than I do. 

[another-dra-anew]

:angy: the fact i can’t talk about [redacted], a character who’s such a interesting culmination of how hopes peak and their system fails and neglects people, and also of how having a school like this has given people the opportunities to do great things which change lives, all because they’re a spoiler for something THAT IS LITERALLY [redacted] fucking GETS ME sometimes.

[yardsards]

gotten so fed up with the inability to find some decent goddamned blue hair dye that i've resorted to buying my usual brand *online*

[angelamontoo]

The Maltese Falcon(1941) Directed by John Huston

If you've been on this blog for any amount of time, you know how obsessed I am with Peter Lorres portrayal of Joel Cairo, but I really should sing the praises of Mary Astor as Brigid o Shaughnessy more often. Compared to some other 'femme fatales' in films of the time, who's supposed moral failings rather unambiguously disappear thanks to the love of some man they usually just met, I appreciate that there's no reason to assume Brigid truly fell in love with Spade anymore than theres a reason to assume she genuinely was inlove with Thursby or really even Archer.

Honestly, Mary Astor gives my second favourite performance in the film and that's stiff competition. It's a shame that she and Peter Lorre weren't in any other films together(that I know of)

[sunshineandlyrics]

There is already a ​AOTV Premiere London red carpet queue, 16 March 2023 x x

[nobully]

16 or 17 for the kiss meme... 👀

KISSING  MEME | 16. a kiss to gain control and 17. a  kiss  to  give  up  control.

In hindsight, she gets him with the lamest pretext ever.

"But what do you taste like?" Nicolette half-asks, half-whines one evening at his condo. It's not a special day by any means—not even Game Night with Zhilan, just an ordinary weekday in an unordinary town with Wang Yi testing a recipe for sweets because he now knows two guys obsessed with them in the city.

Wang Yi stops licking his spoon to look at her blankly. ' The hell you talking about. '

"Our kiss, Yiyi!"

Wang Yi's face flushes as red as the raspberries as he fumbles setting his spoon aside. ' Why are you thinking of that now?! '

"Who told you to stick out your tongue just to taste-test some cream?"

' What, am I supposed to stick the whole spoon down my throat or something?! '

After a few rounds of retorts treading well-worn paths, Wang Yi decisively cuts them off. ' This is a stupid argument. '

"My points still stands," Nicolette insists.

' What do you mean your point still stands, you bit my lip the first time, ' Wang Yi sputters back. ' You've tried my blood, I've tried yours; we're even. '

"The first time we did it," Nicolette corrects him, "it was after you drank my wine. Plus my abilities deal with blood all the time. That's no different from—from me tasting myself!"

As Wang Yi tries to work through that (slightly faulty) logic, Nicolette takes the initiative and pushes him where it'll hurt.

"...I just don't think it's very fair," she murmurs in a softer voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him freeze minutely and has to suppress a laugh, keeping up the pitiful air. "You got what you wanted but I've just been told to play along, both times..."

' Wait but, ' Wang Yi's flagging rationality chooses to wake up at this moment. ' You offered the last time and, and returned it, the kiss I mean— '

"That's because I'm a person, Yiyi, not some fancy free-to-drink fountain? Besides, it would've just been awkward if I didn't kiss back. Think about the chemistry of these things and how they work! Physically!"

' I guess you would know... ' Wang Yi trails off and while that sounds like an insult, this time Nicolette knows he doesn't mean it that way, he's just deferring to her superior experience in making out. Not like she'd take offense now, when she was so close to getting what she wanted.

Hiding another laugh, she prods him with her elbow. "So? Are you going to pay me back?"

He almost yelps. ' Now? '

"Well, no one's home, right?" God that sounded like lines out of some teenage movie. "Or if you're still shy...we could move to your room? I've already slept there a couple times, anyways."

Wang Yi hesitates and Nicolette privately thinks she's going to give up if he's still so damned stubborn, because it's hurting her pride to put so much on the line and still have him reject her without a second thought every time. Actually, maybe she should retract her offer first, since that'd be at least slightly less humiliating than hearing him say no.

With a huff, she turns away from him on her chair. "Fine then, if you want to be selfish—"

' No, uh— ' A hand grabs her sleeve at the same time Wang Yi speaks. ' I was just...let me clean up this stuff on the counter first, okay? I don't want to leave a mess for my roommates. '

That's better! Nicolette instantly brightens and turns to him with a smile. "Oh, let me help."

***

When they're finally sitting on his bed (in his room, with the door locked and windows drawn because apparently Wang Yi's paranoia goes harder when he's stressed), Nicolette almost regrets not kissing him right then and there in the kitchen because he's so freaking nervous.

' So, uh, ' Wang Yi's fidgeting, so much that when his knees accidentally brushes against Nicolette's beside him he almost jumps. ' Should we do this on the count of three or...? '

"Yiyi, we're not running a marathon."

' I know, but like, how else do we know when to start? '

Nicolette just stares at him. They hadn't had this problem the last two times, but in retrospect there were other things going on at the same time. In the first he'd been dead drunk, and in the second she'd been bleeding out. Now with nothing but a kiss between them, Wang Yi's mind is working overdrive to fill in all the empty space.

It annoys her more than it should because—hey, there's a pretty girl sitting right next to you, isn't that enough? If he'd just focus on her instead of his, she doesn't know, performance anxiety or whatever she's sure things will be fine! He's a natural, after all!

"Wang Yi," she lowers her voice, only half-joking. "Have you ever kissed a girl? You know, besides me."

He doesn't even need to think before shaking his head. ' Uhh, no? You're my first. Is that bad or something... '

She has to quell the smug feeling of satisfaction even as she demands, "Why would that be bad?!"

' Because I don't have experience? '

"Oh, believe me," Nicolette narrows her eyes with a giggle that's positively girlish, "You have ways to make up for it."

' Glad one of us is confident, I guess... '

"Why don't you," Nicolette tries, "just leave it to me?"

' Like how? You say people aren't fountains— '

"Stop thinking so damned much!" she cuts him off. "Look, it's easy. I'll start us off and you just...relax and react, okay? Just learn what feels good and...go with that, it's fine."

' Those were the vaguest fucking directions I ever heard. '

Oh, but fucking's a whole different rodeo, she thinks privately before snapping at him. "I told you to stop thinking! In fact, start right now and close your eyes!"

In the end, orders seem to work best. Wang Yi shuts his eyes and simply sits there, waiting for her next move. He's oddly blank this way, and Nicolette finds herself missing the dozen or so things he tries to hide behind those bright green irises even though his creased eyebrows reveal his nerves. She raises a hand to casually brush his cheek; he trembles slightly but doesn't open his eyes.

' What is it? ' His question comes out as a hiss.

"Nothing, just checking that you're still awake."

' What the h—mhnn! '

She catches his open lips on "hell" and smiles around them as she urges, "Remember, don't think."

' Nngh...okay... '

Wang Yi's remarkably pliant when he doesn't fight back. Even though his muscles are still tense and his fingers curled like death around the sheets, he keeps his lips relaxed as he's been told, accepting everything that Nicolette gives him. It's as if he's suddenly stripped away his walls to leave the vulnerable center exposed, leaving her exulting in her private triumph. She's not sure if this counts as trust, but it certainly tastes just as sweet.

"Kiss me back—you can, mmnh, be rougher, ah," she murmurs as she languidly sucks on his lips, a slow teasing motion that stimulates them both.

He obeys—working partially on memory as he deepens their connection—and she almost wants to laugh, with how earnestly he tries, how easy this is.

Since when had anything been easy when it came to Wang Yi?

He tastes like candy today, she thinks, and it's probably the fruit cream to blame, but that adds another layer of unreality to this whole thing. Sugar and spice and everything nice—it's pleasant, but it feels like a dream—or maybe this is Wang Yi too, except the part she doesn't get to see? She glimpses it often enough, when he's talking to Lanlan or Sun or anyone similarly gentle, but it's never been her turn until now.

The slightest trace of bitterness creeps into her thoughts before she hears a whimper—she looks down and realizes she's overpowering him, pushing Wang Yi so far backwards that he's almost falling on the bed. He doesn't though, bracing himself against the bed frame as he bears her assault, though the involuntary cry is enough to show that he's close to giving out.

She breaks contact then, leaving his mouth open and confused and wanting, before grabbing him by the shirt and throwing him against the mattress. His eyes fly open in surprise but she covers them with one hand as she leans in to take in the sound of him panting for breath.

' N-Nicolette, I— ' He stutters and she can feel his eyes darting back and forth beneath her palm, the lashes brushing against her skin like the wings of a trapped butterfly.

"Shh... I told you to relax," she coaxes him and waits until his eyelashes stop tickling her to dive in again, because she hungers and thirsts and it's so, so rare to find Wang Yi in a moment where he actually lets her take.

As promised, she guides him the entire way, until he's lost enough to sink, to fall, and to take back control. She lets him flip their positions so that he's on top and revels in all the sensations: tongue upon tongue, fingers against skin, even the sound of their breathless gasps mixing with rustling sheets and quiet moans in some sort of New Age symphony.

At some point his hand finds the spot on her waist where she was wounded last time and gives it a squeeze—in fondness or memory, she doesn't know. Her hands aren't idle either—she's never been shy when it's time to indulge—slipping beneath his shirt with soft caresses that turns the pace of Wang Yi's kisses almost desperate at times.

They might've kept going—they could've, if it wasn't for the sound of the oven timer going off. He stops in the middle of sucking the skin along her neck, eyes still hazy with arousal, and mutters in confusion, ' The fruit tarts are done. '

The next second he looks down—realizes Nicolette's shirt's pushed halfway up her torso and his hand’s fondling somewhere it shouldn't be—and sputters out, ' Weren't we supposed to be just kissing? '

His eyes dart to her face accusingly but Nicolette just smiles like the cat with the cream and licks her lips, pink tongue teasing him with the tiniest glimpse. "Congratulations, Yiyi. You graduated with honors."