#pickled whitewash

[youmakemelikecharity]

Living Room - Rustic Living Room Example of a mid-sized mountain style open concept dark wood floor living room design with white walls, a standard fireplace and a concrete fireplace

[paulinecroze]

Mudroom Foyer Entryway - mid-sized rustic dark wood floor entryway idea with white walls and a white front door

[signetringsandpreppythings]

Rustic Deck

An illustration of a medium-sized mountain-style backyard deck with a water fountain and an awning

[doctorjohnsmith]

Rustic Deck An illustration of a medium-sized mountain-style backyard deck with a water fountain and an awning

[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.

[gladdpoles-pond]

Hii Fantroll community here is my silly little fantroll <3 He is a royal man but very humble and loves pickles!! Very bubbly person and Ill probably grow his character more latter on here. (has mexican undertones so please dont whitewash him!)

Type quirk is □ as "o" and uses lots of pink hearts with this :*]

Ex:

Hii, h□w are y□u g□rge□us!! 💓💗💗💕💓

:*]]

[untowonder]

❝ 𝐀 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲.  She is a member of the prestigious 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐮𝐥 dorm,  where she appears to often get underfoot.  After being discarded by another student,  she has adopted that no-good little monster,  Grim,  having found him to be rather endearing.  Yet,  gentle as she appears ...  there is just something disconcerting about Heartslabyul's so-called tenderhearted 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬. ❞

ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛɪɴɢ  :  Through the Looking-Glass,  and What Alice Found There ( Lewis Carroll ; December 27, 1871 )

ɴᴀᴍᴇ  Mary Ann  ( pronounced mare-ree-ann ) ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ  November 4  ( Scorpio ) ᴀɢᴇ  18? ʜᴇɪɢʜᴛ  157 cm ᴅᴏᴍɪɴᴀɴᴛ ʜᴀɴᴅ  Left ʜᴏᴍᴇʟᴀɴᴅ  Queendom of Looking Glass  ( existing beyond Twisted Wonderland / on the other side of the mirror ) ᴇᴘɪᴛʜᴇᴛꜱ             Marianne Liddle ( pronounced mare-ree-ann lid-ill )            Regret            Queen of Rot            Black Queen,  Ruler of the Black Chess Pieces and the Spaces In-Between            Queen of Night,  Lady of the Long Dark,  the Forgotten,  the Abyss ɴɪᴄᴋɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ            Cuddlefish  ( by Floyd )            Herbivore  ( by Leona )            Dame des Roses  ( by Rook )

ɢʀᴀᴅᴇ  Freshman,  class 1-A ᴄʟᴜʙ  none ᴇᴍᴘʟᴏʏᴍᴇɴᴛ  waitress,  Mostro Lounge ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜱᴜʙᴊᴇᴄᴛ  Alchemy ɢᴇᴍ ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ  dangling from a satin ribbon wound around her throat,  hidden beneath the collar of her uniform  ( hiding away the fact that the stone has turned nearly black moments after receiving it ) ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ  unknown,  boundless,  without form or purpose

ʜᴏʙʙɪᴇꜱ  dressmaking,  tailoring,  sewing ᴘᴇᴛ ᴘᴇᴇᴠᴇꜱ  being treated like a child ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴏᴏᴅ  Japanese Strawberry Shortcake ʟᴇᴀꜱᴛ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴏᴏᴅ  Pickles ᴛᴀʟᴇɴᴛ  playing chess backward

ᴜɴɪQᴜᴇ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ  𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠-𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 ;  all that has come before and all that shall be,  shall come to rot

Called the Queen of Rot for a reason,  Mary Ann is able to corrupt the world around her by imposing her will,  a proxy of the will of Looking Glass,  upon the natural order of the world.  Her will,  however,  is to corrupt,  to rot.  As a being akin to a phantom,  yet something more,  Mary Ann will force the world around her to succumb to blot.  She may also impose her will upon those around her,  causing them to overblot.

ᴏᴠᴇʀʙʟᴏᴛ  can a phantom overblot?  is it possible for that which has transcended the veil between human and phantom?

  𝐎𝐧����𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞,  𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧,  𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦. No one knew who had dreamt the dream,  but such a tiny dream it was.  The tiny dream began to think,  ❝ 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫.  𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞? ❞  The tiny dream thought and thought,  and finally,  it came up with an idea.  ❝ 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞,  𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝. ❞

          𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄,  𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐍.  Mary Ann,  however,  is the only exception to this rule,  as she was created by the 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥 and 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 as a vessel for the very 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥 of Looking Glass through means that some might consider inhumane.  To take what was foreign,  what was not native to Looking Glass,  and corrupt it,  destroy it,  use it.

What's true is this :  deep within the Queendom of Roses lay a peculiar house,  long forgotten,  and ultimately abandoned.  A house whose whitewash walls had been claimed by creeping ivy,  by creeping roses.  This house,  which had once stood so grand among the twisting and winding paths,  the tall trees,  and the great red-marbled white roses,  was simply called Looking-Glass House.  And in the spring of some ill-forgotten year,  a young child of some seven and a half found his way into the forgotten house and traversed through the antique mirror upon the fireplace's mantle into a world that ought to have been cut off from all.

This child,  a young mage,  named Alice Underhill,  like Alice Liddell a scant few years prior,  would find himself caught up in the madness of this bizarre world beyond the mercurial surface of the mirror.  A world bound by the rules of a game of chess,  instead of a game of cards.  He was invited to play,  to traverse the nine squares of the board,  to receive a prize that no child could wrap their head around at such a curious age.  To be crowned as one of the Queens of Looking-Glass.  To receive a weightless title within the ancient and near-mythical lands.  A title befitting a child,  of course,  something which could be left behind when Alice inevitably returned to his homeland.  A title that would,  at the time,  change nothing over the course of stagnant time.

Yet,  to the surprise of the denizens of this bizarre land,  the curious child,  Alice,  had left quite the mark upon Looking-Glass,  even as a false Queen. The lands had shifted,  creating for him black squares,  and spaces between the other squares.  A Queendom for him to arrange,  to decorate,  to change as he was able to.  And this interesting turn of events caught the eye of the Red Queen,  the very Heart of Looking Glass.  This interest brewing within his empty chest spurred his desire to know more and more about the world Alice had come from.  About the magic of this world,  the way it shaped the being of each mage.  And this curious thing called blot.

One must understand,  magic was as natural to Looking Glass as breathing.  It was the foundation of each creature,  each being that called the bizarre world home.  It was magic which coursed through one's veins,  which made up the air one breathed.  And yet there was one rule which befell all of Looking Glass  :  magic was neither positive nor negative,  it was forever cycled.  And so the existence of blot,  that which was negativity,  the runoff,  the waste of spent magic was not a concept that existed within Looking Glass.  It had no place here.  But the idea of this concept still drove the Red Queen to desire to observe this phenomenon.  All he needed,  of course,  was someone who could produce blot.  And so he,  like all of Looking Glass,  awaited Alice's return.

Alice would,  of course,  return just after his eighteenth birthday,  weary from a world that demanded him to be the best of the best.  Weary from his studies at a newly established all-boys Academy.  He was an easy target for Looking Glass' rulers,  who probed and pushed and forced upon the young man all sorts of strange new games which caused him to use more and more of his foreign magic.  Driving the boy to his breaking point,  it is no wonder he would overblot before their eyes,  however,  the overblot was different from any other on the other side of the mirror.  Blot bubbled forth from behind him,  splashing against his back as slender arms found purchase around him,  and a shadow of a girl manifested behind him.  A girl who looked akin to the Alice who had caused the Queen of Hearts quite some grief in her day.  This phantom would consume Alice,  rotting him from the inside out,  swallowing him whole in his regrets,  his despair,  his grief,  until all that remained was she.  Faceless,  distorted,  constantly fluctuating.  This phantom,  newly crowned as Alice's Regret,  would become something new for the Red Queen to obsess over.

And obsess he did,  wishing to keep her around,  some newly made poppet from the ashes of the lost.  He sent out his own pawns,  even the White Queen's pawns,  to seek out children named Alice to feed this creature,  to keep it whole.  For though this phantom was born within Looking Glass,  it could not keep its shape.  It could not keep its own sentience.  It ate away at all it touched,  leaving only a trail of corruption,  of rot behind in the wake of its endless wandering.  It's desperate desire to stay alive.  Each Alice that was brought to Looking Glass was quickly overtaken by this wandering phantom,  forced to overblot and then be consumed,  merged into the ghost of a girl.  But each one of these children became a part of the phantom.  Their appearance,  their voice,  their mannerisms,  and so on.  This phantom was becoming a chimera of Alices,  yet it still had no purpose,  still remained half-mad and volatile.

This came to an end,  of course,  when the creature latched on to the Red Queen's subordinate,  White Clover.  The once famed right hand of the Queen,  he who had been the Queen's great tactician.  He who had been loved and adored by the Queen,  by the people,  only to rebel  ...  only to fall.

As the phantom consumed Clover from the inside out,  he began to nurture it instead of fearing it,  instead of loathing it.  As a father ought to.  He named the phantom, Mary Ann,  for an assistant he could neither see nor hear,  who was as faceless as a ghost.  It was in that moment that the phantom ever-present in his heart manifested at long last,  not as a creature of ink and glass and tattered cloth,  but as a girl of some small stature,  whose appearance was like a washed-out memory of a child he had once known some years ago.  Under Clover's care,  Mary Ann was taught her letters and arithmetic,  was taught how to live and survive in Looking Glass.  She was taught that her nature,  though destructive,  was a necessity within this land.  And at the behest of the White and Red Queens,  she was to inherit a new title,  a title which had once meant nothing and now meant everything.

Mary Ann was to become the Black Queen,  an heiress to a throne on the other side of the board,  where the board had grown black with an inky blot,  and the monstrous shapes of the chess pieces had become glass soldiers sloshing around with ink spilling from every crack.  It wasn’t difficult to raise Mary Ann from a nameless phantom of horror to a Queen worthy of this forsaken land.  And he loved her,  as any father ought to.  He loved her as if she were his own child and not a creature of calamity in the shape of fragility.

There were consequences to allowing the phantom to eat away at Clover.  He would eventually cease to be,  leaving behind his phantom daughter,  with only his will,  and all those lessons behind.  Still,  within her youth,  and more a princess than a Queen,  she would remain in this too-small cottage under the watchful eye of the Red and White Queen.

There is no passage of time in Looking Glass,  not really,  it neither moved forward nor backward nor up or down,  it stagnated as it was want to.  Days and nights blurred together if they even happened,  and Mary Ann continued to follow in Clover's steps,  to study his many books,  to make tea at precise moments,  and to tend to the garden of curious glass flowers.  The crawling rot,  the corruption,  no longer spread across the squares indiscriminately,  it had long receded into the squares which had been designated as her own,  to mark her new lands,  her black squares on the eternal chessboard.  Although,  in the eyes of the Red Queen,  she was not yet ready to rule.  So,  instead,  he gave her a new task,  though she didn't know his intentions at the time.  He scattered about curious papers which were rumored to bring to life whatever he imagined,  to give this world its life,  and to repopulate when he went on a rampage,  whenever he so felt inclined. 

But there was something else the child-Queen discovered amongst these pages.  Something which did not belong here.  Did not even reflect the world which she was borne into.  Among these carelessly scattered pages was a new tale,  a very human story of a boy and the cruelty of his mother,  peppered with mention of a distant father.  A loveless family story,  and she,  with careful and precise letters,  would expand upon this tale.  She would fill in what the other Queen had left out.  She would fuel mother's violent rage,  gift abused child a glimpse of friendship to be taken away.  She would color his story with heartache and loss until all that was left was the dying gasps of a rose about to give in to rot,  a glass about to be tipped over and shattered.

Over the course of writing this boy's story,  some queer part of Mary Ann had,  strangely, developed a desire to leave this Queendom of ink and glass,  this place between.

Some part of her desired to see the world of the story she had built up as if it were real.  And,  if the desperate cries of the souls which had been stitched into her being were to be believed,  then yes,  yes this world existed.  This Twisted Wonderland.  She merely needed to pass through the mirror to get to it.

Without any consideration of the consequences of her actions,  Mary Ann would use her dominion over blot and glass to create the perfect mirror to lead her to the world where the boy resided,  though she knew not what awaited her beyond that dark mirror.  She knew not how it might change her,  or alter her identity.  She stepped through the glass and entered an ever-extending hall marked by black and white checkered flooring,  illuminated by distant spotlights.  And as she made her way through the winding path,  she did not know,  nor seem to care,  how the world that awaited her would take to her existence.  If this world would be ready to accept the sudden appearance of the Black Queen,  and the very corruption that made up her nature.  Was this world ready for an ascended phantom stitched from a chorus of screaming,  weeping,  desperate Alices?

And if it wasn't ready,  then that was no problem of hers.  She need only appear as something gentle,  at first,  adorned with a mask of a polite stranger until she knew this world from the inside out.  Even if that meant corrupting all that she touched.

[doppoorochisimp]

Anime didn't whitewash Pickle incident, 17 healed 4 revived

[docholligay]

Wings Edinburgh

@moonwhing your tip covered this! Mainly because I thought it would be funny for whing to sponsor wing

The name of the restaurant tells you all you need to know. There are wings. The menu is kept mostly to that, though they will make small allowances for those of you who are vegetarian, which a tot, and chicken nuggets dipped in sauce, for those of you who are children. Other than that, you are mostly on your own. 

A place that serves beer, wings, and not much else, down a tiny and steep close, is about the most perfect way we could have spent the early evening. Despite being, and this is not a joke, about 1 minute, or 300 feet, off the main drag, it was the one place in town where most of the accents we heard were Scottish, echoing off the low ceiling of the whitewashed quasi-cellar where the air burned with spices. 

I started with a heather ale and a shake of the head. My wife wanted me to try the wall of flame challenge, which is an excellent way to end an evening, but not a way for me to endanger my tour that night. The heather ale, unlike the regret of not proving my manhood, was excellent, a floral beer rich with malts that forces you to sit up and take notice. These qualities make it, in truth, not what I would necessarily recommend for pairing with chicken wings, but I like it even if it’s wrong. 

I began with three sauces, three wings each: Blazing saddles, essentially a spicy ranch, and merely three flames, Maelstrom, billed as a smoke and pepper joint at 4 flames, and 8 flames, so named for being 8 flames, and the highest one can reach without entering the 11 flame challenge arena. 

Blazing saddles: I love a good spicy ranch. Fuck, I love a bad spicy ranch. The ranch was creamy and clearly homespun, which I think is mostly your only option in the UK but I’m impressed anyhow, and it tastes as thought its been mixed with something akin to Cholula, resulting in a creamy spice that is mildly warming but mostly yielding. It does lack a bit of dill and peppercorn, which I think of as being crucial to making ranch, ranch. 

Maelstrom: I was disappointed in this one at first, having tasted the Islay whiskey that was rather like dipping my face in a bonfire (more on this later--that review is taking me some time) and the smoke in this was very mild, very likely just a touch of liquid smoke in the sauce. Once I stopped pouting about the smoke I was able to really enjoy the blend of chilis, which I did not find HOT, but I did find extremely spicy and pleasant. 

8 flames: I could have done the wall of flame challenge and passed, I think. I know wing one in a row is not wing three, but this, while truly hot, is not in any way uncomfortable for me, and I think the 11 would be uncomfortable but doable. If we have time we’re going to go back and have me do it. All that being said, I LOVED this sauce. Truly hot, but also well balanced--sometimes sauces designed to be hot are one trick ponies--with layering in the flavor that I am actually pretty impressed by and HONESTLY I get more smoke out of this than the maelstrom, likely owing to at least some chipotle, and what I think must be smoke paprika. 

Having finished that and having no intention of stopping, I get a little four flame sauce with their ‘tots’ just to try it. 

Now here’s where it gets tricky. I like spicy pickle dips quite a bit and have no reason to believe this would have been any different. The peppers were carefully picked to offset the pickle in a way that allowed both to shine and while I’d like a bit more heat, I think I could have really enjoyed it. 

But I SHOULD NOT have ordered tots. 

So, I don’t know how it is in the UK, as I normally don’t order fried potatoes. But in the US, a tot is shredded potato, put into little tubes, and fried. These were mashed potatoes, in long cylinders, fried. Now, I LOVE culinary difference and innovation, and I don’t think these were BAD, but they were in no way what I wanted and I found the texture a turnoff. it was too smooth against the boldness of sauce, with little structural integrity for heavy dipping. I wanted to ask them to bring me a chicken wing to try the pickle sauce with ahaha. 

Now, based on the above, you may say: Oh okay Doc, these were middlin. FUCK NO. These were the best fucking chicken wings I have ever had. The fry on them was delicate and perfect, no excess breading just a dry skin crisped in the fryer so perfectly it doesn’t wilt under the sauce. Did I have notes for the sauces? Of course, sauce is deeply personal as wine and we all have our preferences, and in general my spice-o-meter is tweaked higher than much of the UK dining I’ve experienced. But as far as wings I’ve had in a restaurant? Or even mine? Blows them out of the water. 10/10. The sauce menu is very large and if I had time I would go by and try all of them eventually, marking my favorites. 

Jill and I nearly waddled out of the restaurant into the daylight, even at 7:30 showing no sign of dimming. The streets were abandoned, even though they had been packed a mere 2 hours before, as is Edinburgh had been turned off like a switch. We walked up the royal mile, nearly alone as we pointed out the architecture, and, in truth, enjoyed it far more than we had earlier. 

Or maybe we were just full of chicken wings. 

[siteinventionmumbai]

Hydrated Lime for Steel Industry - Synergy Chemical Industries

Hydrated lime (either dry or as a slurry) has a number of miscellaneous applications in the manufacture of steel products. It is commonly used in wire drawing, acting as a lubricant as the steel rods or wires are drawn through dies, and in pig and slag casting in which a lime whitewash coating on the molds prevents sticking. Lime is used to neutralize the acid-based waste pickle liquor in which iron salts are also precipitated. After pickling, steel products are often given a lime bath to neutralize the last traces of the pickling acid adhering to the metal. Hydrated lime is used to provide temporary corrosion protection in the form of a whitewash coating on steel products and to neutralize acid in coke by-product plants. Read More...

[incorporatedmmorg]

Grizzly bear rag player piano

Silks And Rags (Waltzes) THANE, LOGAN (NAT E. Trombone Johnsen (Ragtime Cakewalk) STONE, FRED S. Sponge SMITH, CHRIS AND EUROPE, JAMES REESE Ballin’ The Jack (Fox Trot) SMITH, LEE OREANĬampin’ On De Ole Suwanee (Characteristic March, Two Step, Polka or Cakewalk) SNYDER, TED Wild Cherries (Rag) STARK, E. Lumb’rin’ Luke (Cakewalk and Two Step) SILVERMAN AND WARD, That Hand Played Rag SIMON, W. PHILIP Jungle Time (A Genuine Rag) SEYMOUR, CY Holy Moses (Rag) The Whitewash Man (March and Two Step) SCOTT, JAMES A Summer Breeze (March and Two Step) Sleepy Sidney (Ragtime Two Step) SCHWARTZ, JEAN Dusky Dudes (Cakewalk) Too Much Raspberry (Fox Trot) SCHEU, ARCHIE W. The Eight O’Clock Rush (Rag) RUSSELL, SYDNEY K. M., Walkin’ On De Rainbow Road (March, Cakewalk and Two Step) ROBINSON, J. The Pride Of Bucktown (Ragtime March) ROBERTS S. The Junk Man Rag ROBERTS, JAY The Entertainer’s Rag ROBERTS, ROBERT S. Pork and Beans (One Step or Two Step Trot) Funny Folks (Ragtime March and Two Step) PRATT, PAUL Colonial Glide PUCK, HARRY The Foot-Warmer (One Step or Two Step) ROBERTS, C. Trouble (Rag) NIEBERGALL JULIA LEE, Horseshoe Rag NORTHUP, JOSEPH Cannon Ball (Characteristic Two Step) O’HARE, WILLIAM CHRISTOPHER Levee Revels (An Afro-American Cane Hop) POWELL, W. Whistling Rufus (Characteristic Two Step, March or Polka) MORRISON, WILL B. Rastus on Parade (Characteristic Two Step March) Rags To Burn MILLS, KERRY At A Georgia Campmeeting (Characteristic Two Step, March or Polka) The Pippin (A Sentimental Rag) MATTHEWS, ARTIE Pastime Rag No. I Got The Blues (Characteristic Ragtime Two Step) MARSHALL, ARTHUR Ham and Eggs (A Ragtime Two Step) On Easy Street (Ragtime Two Step) MAGGIO, A. That Madrid Rag LODGE, HENRY Temptation Rag LYONS, BOB AND YOSCO, GEORGE Spaghetti Rag MACEACHRON, J. BODEWALT Creole Belles (Ragtime March)ĭixie Girl (Characteristic March and Two Step) LENZBERG, JULIUS Haunting Rag Sensation (A Rag, arranged by Joplin) LAMPE, J. Tiger Rag (One Step) LAMB, JOSEPH American Beauty Rag Shake Yo’ Dusters (Piccaninny Rag, Two Step) LA ROCCA, D. That Teasin’ Rag (Rag and Two Step) KAUFMAN, MEL B. Swipesy (Cake Walk) JORDAN, JOE Nappy Lee (A Slow Drag) Something Doing (A Ragtime Two Step) JOPLIN, SCOTT AND LOUIS CHAUVIN Heliotrope Bouquet (A Slow Drag Two Step) JOPLIN, SCOTT AND MARSHALL, ARTHUR Lily Queen (A Rag and Two Step) Weeping Willow (A Ragtime Two Step) JOPLIN, SCOTT AND SCOTT HAYDEN Felicity Rag (Ragtime Two Step) The Chrysanthemum (An Afro-American Intermezzo) Dill Pickles (Rag and Two Step)ĭoc Brown’s Cakewalk (The Original Kansas City Rag) JOPLIN, SCOTT A Breeze From Alabama (March & Two Step) Why We Smile INGRAHAM, HERBERT Poison Ivy (Rag) JANZA, MARK Lion Tamer (A Syncopated Fantasia) JENTES, HARRY Bantam Step (Fox Trot or One Step) JOHNSON, CHARLES L. Ragtown Rags HUMFELD, CHARLES Who Let The Cows Out? (A Bully Rag) HUNTER, CHARLES Just Ask Me (A Ragtime Two Step) I’m Alabama Bound (Ragtime Two Step) HOFFMAN, MAX Rag Medley Queen Raglan (Cakewalk and Two Step) HOFFMAN, ROBERT A Dingy Slow Down "Cleanin’ Up” in Georgia (Cakewalk Patrol or Two Step) HAHN, TEDDY The Amazon Rag HENRICH, A. Jinx Rag (arranged by Matthews, Artie) GILES, IMOGENE Red Peppers (Two Step) GLOGAU, JACK The Aeroplane (Ragtime Two Step) GUY, HARRY P. BENNET) Sweet Pickles (Characteristic Two Step) FRANKLIN, BERNARD Blackville Society (Cakewalk Two Step) GIBLIN, IRENE Chicken Chowder (Characteristic Two Step) GIBSON, L. Oh! You Devil (Rag) DOBYNS, GERALDINE Possum Rag EUROPE, JAMES REESE The Castle (Doggy Fox Trot) FLORENCE, GEORGE (AKA/THERON C. The Shovel Fish (Rag) COZAD, IRENE Eatin’-Time Rag CRABB, DUANE Fluffy-Ruffles (Two Step) DABNEY, FORD C. You Tell ‘Em Ivories COOK, WILL MARION Cruel Papa! (Fox Trot) COOK, HARRY L. The Mazie King Midnight Trot CONFREY, ZEZ Coaxing the Piano Russian Rag (Interpolating the world famous Prelude by Rachmaninoff) Policy King (Two Step) BURGESS, MATTIE HARL Rag Alley Dream COBB, GEORGE L. The Chevy Chase (Fox Trot) BOLEN, GRACE Smoky Topaz (March and Two Step) BOTSFORD, GEORGE Chatterbox Rag A Cyclone In Darktown (Rags) BLAKE, EUBIE Fizz Water (Trot and One Step) Worlds Fair Rag BARGY, ROY Blue Streak (Rag Fox Trot) МультфильмĪDLER, BERNARD Dat Lovin’ Rag (Two Step) ANDERSON, WILLIE Keystone Rag (Rag) ARNDT, FELIX Nola (A Silhouette for the Piano) AUFDERHEIDE, MAY Dusty (Rag)

[downtoearthmarkets]

Picture this…you’re sitting relaxing in a little outdoors taverna somewhere on a sundrenched Greek island overlooking the glinting Aegean, surrounded by whitewashed houses and their cobalt blue roofs, with a lutist strumming faintly in the background. Sounds quite lovely, right? While we can’t guarantee you a seat on the next flight to Athens, we can recommend the perfect summer dish that will at least transport your taste buds to this magical setting and provide you with the bulk of its ingredients! A traditional Greek salad (or “horiatiki” salad which means village or peasant salad in Greek) is the ideal combination of summer ingredients that could practically stand alone as its own food group given its nutrient-dense content. Unlike many Americanized versions, Greek salad does not contain any lettuce, as lettuce only grows during the winter months in Greece. Rather, authentically seasonal Greek salad is a mixture of roughly cut tomato, cucumber, green bell pepper, onion and Kalamata olives tossed in red wine vinegar and olive oil, sprinkled with a little sea salt and oregano and topped with feta cheese. While many assume that Greeks have been consuming their eponymous salad since ancient times, it is actually a relatively modern creation. Tomatoes, which are native to the Americas, were only introduced to the shores of Southern Europe back in the early 16th century when Spanish conquistadores sailed home with some tomato seeds onboard. It’s hard to think of Mediterranean cuisine without its stalwart tomato, but it was not an integral part of the food culture until only a few centuries ago! The Greek salad as we know it today was born during the country’s tourism boom of the 1960s and 70s. During that period, business-savvy taverna owners circumvented the government’s fixed prices on ‘simple salads’ by putting a block of feta on top which allowed them to charge whatever they wanted. Given its simple preparation requirements and ease of access to its ingredients, the Greek salad has since become a widespread and familiar household staple both at home and abroad. My first encounter with a true Greek salad was as a student traveling across Europe on spring break during a study-abroad semester in the south of France. A group of American friends and I used our Eurorail passes to trek down to the southern Italian port of Brindisi, where we hopped onto a crowded overnight ferry and sailed over to Patras on the Greek mainland. We then caught another ferry headed to the island of Santorini. The latter leg of our journey deposited us onto a beach in the wee evening hours where, in a famished state, we sought out the nearest open taverna. The Greek salad that I ordered for dinner that night was truly transformational. It was unceremoniously plopped in front of me alongside a stack of warmed pita bread and came topped with an enormous slab of fresh feta. I couldn’t believe the size of the feta block, but once I broke it up into the salad with my fork, it added just the right amount of salty, creamy goodness. I’ve had a love affair with Greek salads ever since that first encounter, and they are something I eagerly anticipate come the arrival of mid-summer. Not only do Greek salads make the ideal healthy, light summer meal, they are simple, quick and easy to prepare. As we enter peak tomato season towards the end of this month, you’ll be able to find the majority of necessary ingredients at many Down to Earth Farmers Markets. Our larger markets usually feature revolving small-batch Greek (and Californian!) olive oil and vinegar producers, and our pickle vendors typically carry an array of olives. Some of our local cheese purveyors sell fresh feta, and, by August, our farmstalls are brimming with sun-ripened tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and peppers. And be sure to pick up some bread to sop up the delicious juices with while you’re in the market – it’s one of the best parts of the Greek salad experience!

[stairset]

Shout out to Tech and Omega for being the only Bad Batch members I don't have theme songs for yet

[frownforme]

white washing cringe comp. 😳

all by the same person as the last one btw

[jim-webster]

All the time in the world

All the time in the world

Over the years I’ve travelled more widely than many of my fellow citizens of Port Naain. Some of this is perhaps due to my romantic nature, my love of the new vista, new people, new customs. Rather more of it is probably due to the cantankerous nature of some of my fellows. Off the cuff, I produced a short verse about Boggis Callow, who irritated me immensely for reasons I can no longer…

[purgatorypoetry]

Matthew 5:29

a nickel for your thoughts, penny for divinity, plucked out my eyes for the sake of their offending me,

lord, I’m blind now and all outta hands there’s no soft touch to mend these regrets that I pen (yes, and yes with two bloody stumps)

one pickled liver and two blackened lungs, sweet lord,

sweeter fuck,

doth my form not offend enough!?

harumph!

to the slick men of god that frightened me as a child, I owe you my gratitude, the short, the long and latitude plotting those boreholes thru my skull, and the pressure released like demons on knees like worshipping you’re speaking in forked tongues tower-of-babbling pretense for the forthcum martyr,

gods spunk sliding down the insides of marys thighs, lord, I can’t carve this imagination from my mind what happens when my devils won’t be cast aside and I am but a sentience mired in predestination, a complication blent with contradiction and not to mention crafted in your fucking image?

if I am made as a form of grace then all I know about god is that when he was single-digit-age he would leave splinters in his fingers just to see how long they took to fester,

look, in his late teens god fell out with himself and took to whitewashed mercenary work in exchange for a college education he failed to finish, then, in his twenties god found solace in chemicals and he’s barely been heard from since