#the dubai trio is killing me

[hermit-frog]

another trailer?

[wiener-soldiers]

love is for idiots - peter parker

summary: You have been alone all your life, and from a young age, you learned that love doesn’t exist. However, as soon as you met Peter Parker, you learned to love again.

pairing: Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

words: 2,477 (goddamn that’s a long one)

warnings: kinda agsty, kinda fluffy, couple of swears, my really bad spanish skills (I SPEAK FRENCH STILL LEARNING SPANISH) also first fic so there’s that

a/n: guys i did it. first ever fic. i don’t know if y’all will hate it or love it, but it was so much fun to write. ALSO THERES AN IN THE HEIGHTS REFERENCE.

You didn't need love.

You were an independent person who didn’t need to feel satisfied by having someone love you.

You were strong, independent, and brave.

That's what you told yourself everyday when you looked in the mirror.

Truth be told, you lied to yourself everyday. Everybody needed somebody, but you just weren't used to that. With your mom out of the picture, and your dad always gone for work, you had convinced yourself that love was for the weak.

You just never realised how emotionally weak you actually were.

"Hey sweetheart. It's me, dad. I, uh, I don't know that I'll be home in time for your birthday. Work has been crazy as hell. I'm actually flying out to D.C. tonight for a conference, then I'm going over to Paris for another convention. I'm so sorry baby, I'll talk to as soon as I can."

A loud beep follows the end of the voicemail.

This has been the third voicemail this week from your dad saying that he might not be able to come home as soon as you thought. First, it was a convention in Dubai, then a lecture at MIT, and finally this one.

Rolling out of your bed, you shiver as your feet come in contact with the cold hardwood floors. It was a chilly Tuesday morning, which was the norm in New York City during the spring. You shrug it off, knowing that it was an amazing excuse to wear comfortable clothes.

Deciding that a pair of boyfriend jeans rolled up a couple times and a white NASA tee tied in the front was decent enough, you hastily comb through your (Y/H/C) hair with your fingers and trudge into the kitchen, wear Kevin, your uncle was waiting.

"Morning Kev," you mumble midway through a yawn. Ever since your Dad started going on extended work trips, your uncle Kev, who lived an hour away, give or take, would always take care of you.

"Well, buenos días to you mi amor," Kev says sleepily.

You scoff. "You're practising Spanish for that guy again, what's his name...Michael?"

"Miguel, el cariño, his name is Miguel. And he's single."

You smile slightly. "Love isn't real, Kev."

He rolls his eyes playfully as he hands me a granola bar, "Wow. Is that you or your teenage angst talking?"

You narrow your eyes at him as you snatch the bar from his hands. Slipping on some black Vans, you call back, "That's me talking. Bye Kev! Good look with Miguel...I guess."

You speed walk down the stairs of the subway station and barely make it to your train. You glance at your surroundings and see that the only empty seat is next to a boy, probably your age. Huffing slightly, you walk over and stand in front of him, preparing to ask if the seat is taken.

His earbuds are in and his eyes are closed, so you decide to just sit down next to him. The noise must have woken him up because mystery boy jolts up, ripping his earbuds from his ears. You giggle.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." For the first time, you get a good look at him. With his brown hair, dark brown eyes, and his obvious liking for music, you deem him kinda cute.

He smiles, "It's totally fine. I shouldn't have been dosing off anyways."

He's smooth, you think to yourself, very composed.

However the brunette was freaking out. A very, very pretty girl just happened to walk into the Subway car with one seat open, which just happened to be the seat next to his. He was so distracted by your blinding beauty, he didn't realise you had asked him another question until he realised that you were staring straight into his eyes.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

You laugh, "I said how did you even hear me sit down? You had earbuds in and it's pretty noisy in here, regardless."

The boy freezes, knowing if he slips up, his identity might be revealed. From that question alone, he can tell that you’re smart, and that a girl like you would easily find out his secret.

"I uh, you just, uh, you just hit my arm accidentally," he blurts out.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry! First I wake you up, then I hit you? I'm so sorry," you squeak, a blush beginning to come up your neck and cheeks.

"It's all good. I'm Peter by the way. Peter Parker," Peter says, sticking his hand out to shake.

You smile in return, sticking your hand in Peter's to shake. You let your hand linger on his, oddly finding a form of comfort in his touch.

"(Y/N) at your service."

And that was the start to something beautiful.

After riding the Subway to school together, (you had learned that you went to the same school and were shocked that you've never met before) you and Peter had become inseparable. The two of you would embark on adventures, which basically consisted in going off campus for lunch and finding the best spots in town, and the best bodegas to eat in. Ned, who completed your version of the modern day, American Golden Trio, always teased you that one day you and Peter would get married, and have children; to which you would always reply with:

"I told you guys, love is for--"

"For idiots, we get it." Peter interrupts with a small smile on his face. Deep down though, he felt his heart tear a little.

Faster than he'd liked to admit, Peter had fallen in love with you. Well, not really. He is still falling in love with you. Every second of every day, Peter Parker falls more and more in love with you. Maybe it was fate, maybe it was soulmates, but Peter didn't care. He didn't wanna risk scaring you away. He already knew that you believed that love was absolute bullshit, and he knew that his friendship with you was far more valuable than saying "I love you" to the girl who didn't believe in love.

On the day’s latest adventure, you and Peter had planned to go to a little bodega in Washington Heights. Both of you were aware that it was more than an hour ride on the subway, but you both knew it was a great way to explore the city, and you had also insisted that the bodega had the best coffee and sandwiches you had ever tasted.

With only one period left to go, you raced to your English class excitedly. Bursting into the classroom, which was on the other side of the building from your last class, you let out a huff as you sit beside Peter, who shared the class with you.

"How'd you get here so fast?" he asks with an amused look on his face.

"Oh, don't look so smug. I ran. Yes, that's right, you heard me. Actual physical exercise," you retort. Peter throws his head back in laughter. You pout, fake punching him in the arm.

"Aw, boohoo. Is little (Y/N) winded by a little running?" Flash Thompson, aka the biggest douche in the school, taunts from the back of the class.

Peter's face contorts, and is about to defend the beautiful girl sitting beside him, but said girl beats him to it.

"Oh, shut up. Your nickname might be 'Flash', dickwad, but you do Barry Allen no justice. Don't think I was the only one who saw you fake an injury to get out of the mile run."

The class let's out a series of 'ohs' and 'damns', (most of them coming from Flash's friends) while you turn around with a smirk etched on your face. Peter smiles out  you, with eyes filled with adoration. One thing he learned was that you could always stand up for yourself.

The teacher walks into the class and attempts to settle down the noise. Peter steals another glance at you, nose deep in To Kill A Mockingbird and already working on the book report due soon.

After an uneventful rest of the period, the final bell rang, and you and Peter were out of the classroom faster than you could say 'bodega'. The duo were on the Subway as soon as possible as the chatted about the day’s latest events.

"So," you stated, "Homecoming is coming up."

Peter laughs, a little too loudly, and almost chokes on the Boba they had bought before they hopped on the train. You attempt to shush him as people were beginning to stare.

"Sorry, sorry. It's just, when did you care about Homecoming? I though we were gonna binge watch Lord of the Rings together that weekend. Besides, it's in like, what, three months?" He replies.

You shake your head. "Peter, I'm serious. Who is she?"

Peter nearly spits out his tea. "What?"

"The girl, Parker! The one I hear you and Ned talk about when you think I'm not listening." You retort. A part of you wants your best friend to go to Homecoming with the mystery girl, happy. But the other part of you wants Peter to go to Homecoming with you.

Peter coughs. "It's no one, I swear."

"Well," you start, "do I know her?"

Peter hesitates. "You do actually. You know her really well."

"Really?" you say in disbelief. You couldn't think of many people. The first name that popped into your head was MJ. Or maybe Liz Allan. "What's she like?"

"Well, she's smart. Like ridiculously smart. Smarter than me, even. She's funny, in her own way. Like sarcastic, satirical humour. She also really like reading. Um...she can definitely stand up for herself and hold her own. Very confident. And she's beautiful," Peter gushes.

"Hmm," you say in shock. Logically, you think he's talking about Liz Allan, one of the most popular girls at school. But once again, your mind drifts to the thought of being with Peter. What it would be like to hold his hand, hug him, and kiss him. It sounded wonderful.

"(Y/N), did you hear me?"

Your realise that Peter is nudging your arm. "What?"

"I said this is our stop. C'mon. I'm getting hungry and you said this place had good sandwiches." Peter grabs your hand and pulls you out of the Subway car, throwing your empty Boba cups in the trash can as you walk by. He doesn't let go of your hand as you march up the stairs and exit the station, and walk the streets that alive with salsa music and great smelling food.

"So, where is it again?" Peter asks, only now becoming conscious that he was still holding your hand. His grip falters a little, not knowing if you were freaked out, but to his surprise, you squeezed his hand a little tighter, enjoying the feeling of his fingers caressing yours.

You blush a little, "It's just up the street. It's beside this salon and has a beautiful mural on the side of the building. Oh! It's right there,” You explain while pointing to a bodega at the end of the street.

The two of you step inside to the small bodega, greeted by the smell of fresh coffee.

"Well, if it isn't (Y/N). How ya doin', mi amor?" the dude at the cash whistles. You roll your eyes and are about to respond to his antics when Usnavi, the bodega owner, walks in from the back room.

"Cut that out Sonny. I'm serious. You ain't gonna pick up girls with that attitude. Besides, (Y/N) seems to have a niño with her," Usnavi says.

"Usnavi!" you cry in embarrassment.

He laughs, "Lo siento, (Y/N). Two sandwiches, I'm guessing?"

"And two coffees!" Peter calls out beside you, "I hear that you have the best coffee in all of Washington Heights?"

The man lets out a laugh. Peter finds himself laughing along. He kinda liked it in the Heights.

"Si, señor. Whatever the lady says."

As they wait for their sandwiches, you realise you haven't introduced Peter to your Latino friends. "Oh! Peter, by the way. This is Usnavi, the bodega owner, and his cousin Sonny."

Peter smiles, "I'm Peter Parker. Nice to meet you."

Sonny, who is sitting on the counter replies with a 'sup bro', and Usnavi, who is sporting his signature hat, waves in response.

"¡No me diga! (Y/N), is that you?" a voice from outside the bodega exclaimed.

"Diana! No way!" You said excitedly, running outside to greet your old friend while mumbling an 'I'll be back' to Peter.

Not long after you left, Usnavi comes to the counter with two sandwiches (which smelt incredible) and two coffees. Peter began to pull out some money from his school bag to pay when Usnavi stopped him.

"No, it's on the house kid. That girl out there, she's special. More than she'll ever let on. She thinks she can do it a alone, but we both know that no one can. I know that she told you that she doesn't believe in love, but trust me, that girl loves you. You treat her right, you here me?" Usnavi tells him. He can't help but think that (Y/N) sees Usnavi as a role model if Usnavi cares that much.

"Yes sir."

Usnavi smiles. "Good, now go enjoy your sandwiches!"

About half an hour later, the duo find themselves under the George Washington bridge, munching the last of their sandwiches and sipping their coffee. They both lean against a rock listening to seagulls and the traffic above them.

You stare at Peter. For the first time in your life, you feel like doing anything with him is better than doing it alone. You felt something in your chest, something you haven't felt since you were a kid, before your mother left and your father became addicted to work.

Something like love.

You watch as Peter looks at the scenery, a smile on his face.

"Where'd you find this place? The bodega, I mean," he asks you, while pretending to yawn and putting his arm around your shoulders. You blush a little; it was a classic move, but it still worked.

"Kev has a crush on this guy, Miguel. He's completely head over heels for the dude. He just so happens to be Sonny's older brother. So Kev started bringing me here a lot. He introduced my to Miguel and Sonny. Sonny then introduced my to Usnavi and soon, the entire neighbourhood knew who was, it seems." You explain, while leaning your head on Peter's shoulder.

"Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"What does love feel like?"

Peter furrows his brow. "Well, it's kinda like a magnet. Like you seem to be opposites, but you fill each others missing pieces, so you work in perfect harmony. And everything seems to be pushing you together. If you try to turn your backs on each other, the world puts you back together...why do you ask?"

"Peter Parker, I think I'm in love with you."

Peter sits up in shock and turn to face her, studying her face for signs to show that it was all a joke. "What? I--I thought you believed that love was for idiots."

You shake your head, "Then I must be the biggest fucking idiot in the galaxy, because I'm in love with you."

Peter searches your eyes, in search for any signs of regret. However, your were filled with determination and love.

So he kissed you.

And like magnets, the whole world seemed to push you together.

[itsfinancethings]

Mustafa Karali is a freelance photojournalist and founder of Duzen, a humanitarian organization that runs art, culture, and filmmaking workshops for Syrian and Turkish youth in the border city of Gaziantep. A Syrian national, he worked with reporters James Foley and John Cantlie to cover the uprising against Syrian President Bashar al-Assad in 2011. The trio collaborated on multiple stories together until jihadists kidnapped Foley and Cantlie, and forced Karali, then their translator, to flee at gunpoint. After 21 months as an ISIS hostage, Foley was brutally murdered in 2014, in an execution filmed by his captors. The whereabouts of Cantlie remain unknown.

I first met James and John at a protest in my hometown of Binnish, in northwestern Syria. They were taking photos and I was working with local media. I wasn’t a professional photographer, just a guy with a camera. They came to my home and we ate barbecued chicken. I remember John looked through the images on my SD card and he said, “f*** you, you’re not a photographer.” I got so angry. But I said, “okay then, teach me something.” He agreed, but he said he would tell me the truth about my work, and if I got upset, he’d stop teaching me.

John taught me so much about composition and framing; how to shoot fighters on the front lines. James taught me how to work safely because I didn’t have any war reporting experience: how to take different routes to avoid snipers and what to do during shellfire. They were great teachers. John put me in contact with news agency the Associated Press and I started shooting for them.

The day James and John were kidnapped we were trying to get out of Syria. James had shrapnel in his leg and medics at the local field hospital couldn’t take it out. We decided to go to Turkey for treatment but we stopped at an Internet cafe on the way. A jihadi with a beard and a beret came in while we were uploading files. John called out to him, “Che Guevara!” The man looked at us, opened his laptop for one or two minutes, closed it, and left. I knew we were in trouble. James was angry at John for drawing attention to us.

We told a taxi to take us to the border but on the way, a van approached fast from our left. There were armed men inside wearing masks, four or five of them. They signaled for us to stop. I told the driver to keep going, so did John. James told him to stop because they might shoot at us. The driver was confused. He stopped.

One of the gunmen got out and fired bullets into the ground. I didn’t know what to do. They said, “why are you with these men?” I said, “I am their friend.” They asked me where I was from and I told them Binnish. They asked for my ID. Then they said, “go.” I said, “I won’t go without my friends.” The man pointed his gun at me and said, “if you don’t go now, I will kill you here.” John looked at me and said “not again. Help me.” He had been kidnapped before. I remember, he said it twice. “Not again.” I had tears in my eyes. “I will help you, bro,” I said. Then the taxi driver said, “Mustafa, let’s go.”

John Cantlie with a Free Syrian Army fighter in in Aleppo, Syria, on Nov. 06, 2012. The photo was taken by the author.

After the kidnapping, I was traumatized. I couldn’t work for six months. Eventually, my producer at AP called and said “what’s happening Mustafa? Why are you not sending photos?” She told me my work was important and encouraged me to continue. She gave me hope and I went back to work, photographing the revolution. In late 2014, I went to Turkey to attend workshops run by Human Rights Watch and Witness, a humanitarian organization that trained me to collect video evidence of war crimes committed by Assad’s forces and armed factions.

By the time I returned to Syria, conditions had worsened. If you wanted to take pictures in the northwest, you had to grow your beard and dress like a jihadi to be left alone. At checkpoints, militants would question me and take my camera and laptop. I was followed everywhere, even away from the front lines just taking photos of civilians at refugee camps.

The space for free movement was getting smaller and smaller and I was kidnapped twice more. The second time I think my captors were from Al Nusra, a jihadist group then aligned with Al Qaeda, but I can’t say for sure. They held me for two days and accused me of everything: being a thief, working for the U.S. government, working for ISIS. One of the guys dragged me outside. He made me get down on my knees. He loaded a Kalashnikov and put it against my head. My life flashed before my eyes the way it does in films. Then the gunman shot a single bullet into the ground in front of me, right next to my ear. I thought I had been executed, but I could still see and hear. I was touching my head to find the wound. The guy said we are not going to kill you this time. We are just scaring you.

It was my wife Hiba that pushed for us to leave. She said, let’s go to Turkey, let’s go anywhere else but here. She told me to think about my daughter and the danger I was putting her in. I knew she was right. We first tried to cross into Turkey with a smuggler but when they demanded I give my daughter sedatives I refused. Later, a producer colleague helped my family get permission to cross into Turkey legally.

Halil Fidan—Anadolu Agency/Getty ImagesSyrians fleeing from clashes between the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS) militants wait at the Turkish-Syrian border to cross into Turkey on Sept. 18, 2014.

When we arrived here, I didn’t have a plan. For a few weeks, we stayed with my wife’s brother in Turkey’s southernmost province Hatay, which borders Syria. Then we moved to Gaziantep, a big city in southern Turkey where there are lots of humanitarian organizations and media offices. At first, things were okay. My brother sent me a new camera from Dubai and I picked up assignments with Al Jazeera. I shot photos for them when they did interviews in border areas like Gaziantep, Hatay, and Kilis. Gradually, I saved enough to buy my own camera bag, tripod, and lighting equipment.

I also started to work with Gate of Sun, a cultural endeavor that aims to create bonds between Turks and Syrians through filmmaking workshops. This year, my Iraqi friend Bahaa and I set up our own program along similar lines. It’s called Duzen, which means balance in Arabic. We teach students how to use simple tools like mobile phones to document their experiences and train them in editing and post-production techniques. We currently have 30 Syrian and Turkish students in Gaziantep and receive funding from the U.N.’s International Organization for Migration.

Back in 2014, when I came to Turkey for training, things were different. Turkey had granted millions of refugees temporary protection status and nobody seemed to have a problem with us. But over the past few years, the situation has deteriorated. There’s a lot more tension.

Last year the Turkish government started to crack down on Syrians living here illegally, sending them back to Syria. That set off a wave of hate speech and gave nationalists and racists a platform to abuse refugees. There were anti-Syrian riots in Istanbul. Refugees were beaten in the streets. Syrian-owned stores were vandalized.

It’s bad in Gaziantep too. A couple of weeks ago I was playing with my daughter and we were speaking in Arabic. An old man stopped us in the street and asked whether we were Syrian. When I told him yes, he started shouting at us and he spat on me. We can’t retaliate out of fear that the government will kick us out.

My wife and I started thinking about leaving Turkey last year. We have two daughters now and the eldest is almost ready to start school. If I send them to school in Turkey, they won’t learn Arabic or English. When they grow up they will say, “Dad, what are we doing here?” Then there’s the difficulty of finding stable work. As a freelancer, I sometimes have to borrow from friends to pay the rent. This month we were five days late and even though we have been renting our house for more than two years the landlord said we have to leave by the end of the month.

I was planning to apply for legal immigration to the Netherlands. Friends have told me there is no racism there and my family can get their papers quickly. I’ve contacted people at the Dutch Embassy, and friends have been trying to help. But we can’t wait much longer. At the end of February, when Turkey said it would no longer block refugees from leaving, I thought: this is our chance.

The war has been going on for nine years and the idea of moving again is difficult. Syria will always be home. I miss it and sometimes I think about whether one day we’ll be able to go back. Now we are going further away but I feel like there’s no other choice.

Some of my friends in Gaziantep are planning to leave tomorrow. I’ve been following the news and have heard stories about violence at the border. They tell me, “Mustafa, you have a family, don’t put them in danger.” They say they will go first and tell me if it’s safe. If there’s a way to get into Greece, we will just leave. I will not wait one minute longer here.

As told to Joseph Hincks. This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

[eragonpaolini]

ugh that moment in restless heart syndrome where it goes "i am my own worst enemy.... know your enemy" and then the solo kicks in????? i fuckin FELT that bro

sorry it took so long to get to this i was just listening to the song on repeat for 6 hours

but yeah

I’d never really listened to the entire album (cause it’s over an hour long); I’d only listen to the “21st Century Breakdown”, “Know Your Enemy”, and “21 Guns” (basically the title track plus the singles that actually found radio airplay in the US)*. I finally found time to listen to the whole thing on the 14 hour flight from Dubai to Seattle last summer... and wow. “East Jesus Nowhere” came on and I thought “hey this a really good song”. And then the whole 5-song build-up from EJN to “¿Viva La Gloria? (Little Girl)” was fantastic. Then “Restless Heart Syndrome” came on and I basically fell in love with it immediately. The way the piano at the intro echoes the opening acoustic guitar from “Little Girl”? Stellar! But then I honestly felt so cheated, so ROBBED when the solo didn’t start right at the end of the first chorus. I thought “they better have a fucking KILLER solo after the next chorus.” And they did. And it was glorious. It’s like the promise they made at the end of the first chorus was fulfilled, like getting to see someone you missed after years apart. And then it’s followed by this fantastic outro, with those last 5 chords sounding like it needs to be accompanied by a video of someone pounding on a wall in frustration/heartbreak. Honestly, just imagining that with the outro of this song is a great way to let off steam. 

And the worst part was I couldn’t even headbang too hard. I was sitting on a tight airline seat, with my mom asleep next to me, and a random guy who, over the course of the flight so far (maybe 4 hours in), had drank about eight (8) of those little liquor bottles they sell on planes. And he continued to drink more until he fell asleep for the last 8 hours of the flight. 

Anyway, my point is this song is severely underappreciated (probably overshadowed by “21 Guns”). Also, “Mass Hysteria” makes a very strong case for Billie Joe and Mike Dirnt to share the “lead singer” role of the band more often. As a side note, Green Day’s trio of albums from 2012 are also quite underappreciated. “Kill the DJ”, “Stray Heart”, and “Ashley” are all gifts and “Nightlife” sounds like if Green Day made an Arctic Monkeys song for AM. 

* When I looked up the singles for the album, the Wiki page for for “21st Century Breakdown” (the title track, not 21st Century Breakdown, the album) said the music video was directed by Marc Webb. I thought “No way. The Andrew Garfield Spider-Man movies director Marc Webb?” (which I only know because it’s a shitty pun). But it is. That’s him. You know what else he’s done? Fuckin’ MCR’s “Helena” and “Ghost of You” (among other MCR songs). He did the video for “Bad Day” by Daniel Powter. He did “Move Along” and “Gives You Hell” by The All-American Rejects. “Harder to Breathe” by Maroon 5. “Call Me When You’re Sober” by Evanescence. “I Don’t Want To Be” by Gavin DeGraw. “Boyfriend” by Ashlee Simpson. “Ocean Avenue” by Yellowcard. Guy directed basically every pop/rock song of the early 2000′s I cared to look up on YouTube** (which was really new at the time and Vevo wasn’t a thing so all the music videos were technically “illegal”), because we didn’t have cable for MTV back when there was music on there. 

** I say I looked up the videos on YouTube but really I made my brother look them up for me (because I was a small child and still didn’t really know how to use YouTube/the internet) and he’d give me a hard time because he didn’t like that kind of music, but he’d give in eventually... God this turned into a nostalgia post didn’t it? I’m just gonna end it here

[lilysevans-archive]

Hey honey thank you for being so cute and lovely, I love your blog. I'd kill for one of these sweet analysis things. I'm Eloise (otherwise known as Elle or Ellie by some), I'm recently 17 and... hmm five things let's see. I absolutely live for musical theatre and I'm a soprano. My favourite flowers are sunflowers and calla lilies, because I love Vincent Van Gogh and lilies remind me of my late mother. I love the stars, wildflowers, and the scent of the sea. I'm a Gryffindor and love adventures x

@jedi-pumpkin-pie aw that is so sweet, sorry about your mother :’( 

⭐️ blograte

url: cute | sweet | pretty | gorgeous | beautiful | james potter

icon: not going to rate because im pretty sure it’s a selfie of your beautiful face | cute | sweet | pretty | gorgeous | beautiful | remus lupin

theme: cute | sweet | pretty | gorgeous | beautiful | sirius black

mobile theme: cute | sweet | pretty | gorgeous | beautiful | regulus black

updates tab: don’t have one |cute | sweet | pretty | gorgeous | beautiful | marlene mckinnon

posts: cute | sweet | pretty | gorgeous | beautiful | mary macdonald

overall: good stuff | pretty nice | amazing blog! | OMG YOUR BLOG IS GOALS | lily evans

following: no, sorry but you’re so beautiful | why wasn’t i before? | yes, of course | until the very end

🌹 aesthetic

element: fire | water | air | earth

time: dawn | midday | dusk | midnight|

season: spring | summer | autumn | winter |

color: burgandy | navy | gold | ebony | ivory | coral | silver | violet | pastels | neutral

weather: blue skies | summer heat | drizzling | storm | cool breeze | snow |

stone: diamond | sapphire | amethyst | ruby | opal | emerald | pearl | amber |

location: new zealand | sao paulo | dubai | sydney | moscow | tokyo | los angeles | nyc | paris | milan | london |

☁️ name aesthetic

eloise: the sun’s radiant kiss upon cold skin; flowers weaved together into a floral halo; the sparkle of stars, found not in the universe, but in glistening eyes gazing into the sky; gentle crooning of a vinyl record player;  

⚡️harry potter aesthetic

Blood type: muggle-born | half-blood | pure blood |

house: gryffindor | ravenclaw | hufflepuff | slytherin

ilvermorny: pukwudgie | horned serpant | thunderbird | wampus

era: fantastic beasts | marauders | lightening era | next gen

title: the cutest firstie most popular witch/wizard at school | prefect | head girl/boy

pet: toad | cat | owl | pygmy puff | dog? | illegal magical creature (you rebel)

Subject: DADA | herbology | charms | transfiguration | divination | care of magical creatures | potions

Spell/charm: alohomora | reducto | accio | wengardium leviosa | protego | stupefy | expecto patronum |

Curse: imperio | crucio | avada kedavra

Deathly Hallows: invisibility cloak | resurrection stone | elder wand

Quidditch: spectator | commentator | no. 1 fan | chaser | beater | seeker

Hogsmeade Hangout: zonkos | honeydukes | the three broomsticks | Hog’s Head | Shrieking Shack | Madame Puddifoot’s

Hogwarts Hangout: room of requirement | common room | empty classroom | great hall | astronomy tower | dorm

Best friends: the golden trio, luna and neville!

Dating: ron weasley was your first kiss but now you’re dating dean thomas! 

Enemies: no one except snape 

want one?

[itsfinancethings]

March 07, 2020 at 06:01AM

Mustafa Karali is a freelance photojournalist and founder of Duzen, a humanitarian organization that runs art, culture, and filmmaking workshops for Syrian and Turkish youth in the border city of Gaziantep. A Syrian national, he worked with reporters James Foley and John Cantlie to cover the uprising against Syrian President Bashar al-Assad in 2011. The trio collaborated on multiple stories together until jihadists kidnapped Foley and Cantlie, and forced Karali, then their translator, to flee at gunpoint. After 21 months as an ISIS hostage, Foley was brutally murdered in 2014, in an execution filmed by his captors. The whereabouts of Cantlie remain unknown.

I first met James and John at a protest in my hometown of Binnish, in northwestern Syria. They were taking photos and I was working with local media. I wasn’t a professional photographer, just a guy with a camera. They came to my home and we ate barbecued chicken. I remember John looked through the images on my SD card and he said, “f*** you, you’re not a photographer.” I got so angry. But I said, “okay then, teach me something.” He agreed, but he said he would tell me the truth about my work, and if I got upset, he’d stop teaching me.

John taught me so much about composition and framing; how to shoot fighters on the front lines. James taught me how to work safely because I didn’t have any war reporting experience: how to take different routes to avoid snipers and what to do during shellfire. They were great teachers. John put me in contact with news agency the Associated Press and I started shooting for them.

The day James and John were kidnapped we were trying to get out of Syria. James had shrapnel in his leg and medics at the local field hospital couldn’t take it out. We decided to go to Turkey for treatment but we stopped at an Internet cafe on the way. A jihadi with a beard and a beret came in while we were uploading files. John called out to him, “Che Guevara!” The man looked at us, opened his laptop for one or two minutes, closed it, and left. I knew we were in trouble. James was angry at John for drawing attention to us.

We told a taxi to take us to the border but on the way, a van approached fast from our left. There were armed men inside wearing masks, four or five of them. They signaled for us to stop. I told the driver to keep going, so did John. James told him to stop because they might shoot at us. The driver was confused. He stopped.

One of the gunmen got out and fired bullets into the ground. I didn’t know what to do. They said, “why are you with these men?” I said, “I am their friend.” They asked me where I was from and I told them Binnish. They asked for my ID. Then they said, “go.” I said, “I won’t go without my friends.” The man pointed his gun at me and said, “if you don’t go now, I will kill you here.” John looked at me and said “not again. Help me.” He had been kidnapped before. I remember, he said it twice. “Not again.” I had tears in my eyes. “I will help you, bro,” I said. Then the taxi driver said, “Mustafa, let’s go.”

John Cantlie with a Free Syrian Army fighter in in Aleppo, Syria, on Nov. 06, 2012. The photo was taken by the author.

After the kidnapping, I was traumatized. I couldn’t work for six months. Eventually, my producer at AP called and said “what’s happening Mustafa? Why are you not sending photos?” She told me my work was important and encouraged me to continue. She gave me hope and I went back to work, photographing the revolution. In late 2014, I went to Turkey to attend workshops run by Human Rights Watch and Witness, a humanitarian organization that trained me to collect video evidence of war crimes committed by Assad’s forces and armed factions.

By the time I returned to Syria, conditions had worsened. If you wanted to take pictures in the northwest, you had to grow your beard and dress like a jihadi to be left alone. At checkpoints, militants would question me and take my camera and laptop. I was followed everywhere, even away from the front lines just taking photos of civilians at refugee camps.

The space for free movement was getting smaller and smaller and I was kidnapped twice more. The second time I think my captors were from Al Nusra, a jihadist group then aligned with Al Qaeda, but I can’t say for sure. They held me for two days and accused me of everything: being a thief, working for the U.S. government, working for ISIS. One of the guys dragged me outside. He made me get down on my knees. He loaded a Kalashnikov and put it against my head. My life flashed before my eyes the way it does in films. Then the gunman shot a single bullet into the ground in front of me, right next to my ear. I thought I had been executed, but I could still see and hear. I was touching my head to find the wound. The guy said we are not going to kill you this time. We are just scaring you.

It was my wife Hiba that pushed for us to leave. She said, let’s go to Turkey, let’s go anywhere else but here. She told me to think about my daughter and the danger I was putting her in. I knew she was right. We first tried to cross into Turkey with a smuggler but when they demanded I give my daughter sedatives I refused. Later, a producer colleague helped my family get permission to cross into Turkey legally.

Halil Fidan—Anadolu Agency/Getty ImagesSyrians fleeing from clashes between the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS) militants wait at the Turkish-Syrian border to cross into Turkey on Sept. 18, 2014.

When we arrived here, I didn’t have a plan. For a few weeks, we stayed with my wife’s brother in Turkey’s southernmost province Hatay, which borders Syria. Then we moved to Gaziantep, a big city in southern Turkey where there are lots of humanitarian organizations and media offices. At first, things were okay. My brother sent me a new camera from Dubai and I picked up assignments with Al Jazeera. I shot photos for them when they did interviews in border areas like Gaziantep, Hatay, and Kilis. Gradually, I saved enough to buy my own camera bag, tripod, and lighting equipment.

I also started to work with Gate of Sun, a cultural endeavor that aims to create bonds between Turks and Syrians through filmmaking workshops. This year, my Iraqi friend Bahaa and I set up our own program along similar lines. It’s called Duzen, which means balance in Arabic. We teach students how to use simple tools like mobile phones to document their experiences and train them in editing and post-production techniques. We currently have 30 Syrian and Turkish students in Gaziantep and receive funding from the U.N.’s International Organization for Migration.

Back in 2014, when I came to Turkey for training, things were different. Turkey had granted millions of refugees temporary protection status and nobody seemed to have a problem with us. But over the past few years, the situation has deteriorated. There’s a lot more tension.

Last year the Turkish government started to crack down on Syrians living here illegally, sending them back to Syria. That set off a wave of hate speech and gave nationalists and racists a platform to abuse refugees. There were anti-Syrian riots in Istanbul. Refugees were beaten in the streets. Syrian-owned stores were vandalized.

It’s bad in Gaziantep too. A couple of weeks ago I was playing with my daughter and we were speaking in Arabic. An old man stopped us in the street and asked whether we were Syrian. When I told him yes, he started shouting at us and he spat on me. We can’t retaliate out of fear that the government will kick us out.

My wife and I started thinking about leaving Turkey last year. We have two daughters now and the eldest is almost ready to start school. If I send them to school in Turkey, they won’t learn Arabic or English. When they grow up they will say, “Dad, what are we doing here?” Then there’s the difficulty of finding stable work. As a freelancer, I sometimes have to borrow from friends to pay the rent. This month we were five days late and even though we have been renting our house for more than two years the landlord said we have to leave by the end of the month.

I was planning to apply for legal immigration to the Netherlands. Friends have told me there is no racism there and my family can get their papers quickly. I’ve contacted people at the Dutch Embassy, and friends have been trying to help. But we can’t wait much longer. At the end of February, when Turkey said it would no longer block refugees from leaving, I thought: this is our chance.

The war has been going on for nine years and the idea of moving again is difficult. Syria will always be home. I miss it and sometimes I think about whether one day we’ll be able to go back. Now we are going further away but I feel like there’s no other choice.

Some of my friends in Gaziantep are planning to leave tomorrow. I’ve been following the news and have heard stories about violence at the border. They tell me, “Mustafa, you have a family, don’t put them in danger.” They say they will go first and tell me if it’s safe. If there’s a way to get into Greece, we will just leave. I will not wait one minute longer here.

As told to Joseph Hincks. This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

[itsfinancethings]

Mustafa Karali is a freelance photojournalist and founder of Duzen, a humanitarian organization that runs art, culture, and filmmaking workshops for Syrian and Turkish youth in the border city of Gaziantep. A Syrian national, he worked with reporters James Foley and John Cantlie to cover the uprising against Syrian President Bashar al-Assad in 2011. The trio collaborated on multiple stories together until jihadists kidnapped Foley and Cantlie, and forced Karali, then their translator, to flee at gunpoint. After 21 months as an ISIS hostage, Foley was brutally murdered in 2014, in an execution filmed by his captors. The whereabouts of Cantlie remain unknown.

I first met James and John at a protest in my hometown of Binnish, in northwestern Syria. They were taking photos and I was working with local media. I wasn’t a professional photographer, just a guy with a camera. They came to my home and we ate barbecued chicken. I remember John looked through the images on my SD card and he said, “f*** you, you’re not a photographer.” I got so angry. But I said, “okay then, teach me something.” He agreed, but he said he would tell me the truth about my work, and if I got upset, he’d stop teaching me.

John taught me so much about composition and framing; how to shoot fighters on the front lines. James taught me how to work safely because I didn’t have any war reporting experience: how to take different routes to avoid snipers and what to do during shellfire. They were great teachers. John put me in contact with news agency the Associated Press and I started shooting for them.

The day James and John were kidnapped we were trying to get out of Syria. James had shrapnel in his leg and medics at the local field hospital couldn’t take it out. We decided to go to Turkey for treatment but we stopped at an Internet cafe on the way. A jihadi with a beard and a beret came in while we were uploading files. John called out to him, “Che Guevara!” The man looked at us, opened his laptop for one or two minutes, closed it, and left. I knew we were in trouble. James was angry at John for drawing attention to us.

We told a taxi to take us to the border but on the way, a van approached fast from our left. There were armed men inside wearing masks, four or five of them. They signaled for us to stop. I told the driver to keep going, so did John. James told him to stop because they might shoot at us. The driver was confused. He stopped.

One of the gunmen got out and fired bullets into the ground. I didn’t know what to do. They said, “why are you with these men?” I said, “I am their friend.” They asked me where I was from and I told them Binnish. They asked for my ID. Then they said, “go.” I said, “I won’t go without my friends.” The man pointed his gun at me and said, “if you don’t go now, I will kill you here.” John looked at me and said “not again. Help me.” He had been kidnapped before. I remember, he said it twice. “Not again.” I had tears in my eyes. “I will help you, bro,” I said. Then the taxi driver said, “Mustafa, let’s go.”

John Cantlie with a Free Syrian Army fighter in in Aleppo, Syria, on Nov. 06, 2012. The photo was taken by the author.

After the kidnapping, I was traumatized. I couldn’t work for six months. Eventually, my producer at AP called and said “what’s happening Mustafa? Why are you not sending photos?” She told me my work was important and encouraged me to continue. She gave me hope and I went back to work, photographing the revolution. In late 2014, I went to Turkey to attend workshops run by Human Rights Watch and Witness, a humanitarian organization that trained me to collect video evidence of war crimes committed by Assad’s forces and armed factions.

By the time I returned to Syria, conditions had worsened. If you wanted to take pictures in the northwest, you had to grow your beard and dress like a jihadi to be left alone. At checkpoints, militants would question me and take my camera and laptop. I was followed everywhere, even away from the front lines just taking photos of civilians at refugee camps.

The space for free movement was getting smaller and smaller and I was kidnapped twice more. The second time I think my captors were from Al Nusra, a jihadist group then aligned with Al Qaeda, but I can’t say for sure. They held me for two days and accused me of everything: being a thief, working for the U.S. government, working for ISIS. One of the guys dragged me outside. He made me get down on my knees. He loaded a Kalashnikov and put it against my head. My life flashed before my eyes the way it does in films. Then the gunman shot a single bullet into the ground in front of me, right next to my ear. I thought I had been executed, but I could still see and hear. I was touching my head to find the wound. The guy said we are not going to kill you this time. We are just scaring you.

It was my wife Hiba that pushed for us to leave. She said, let’s go to Turkey, let’s go anywhere else but here. She told me to think about my daughter and the danger I was putting her in. I knew she was right. We first tried to cross into Turkey with a smuggler but when they demanded I give my daughter sedatives I refused. Later, a producer colleague helped my family get permission to cross into Turkey legally.

Halil Fidan—Anadolu Agency/Getty ImagesSyrians fleeing from clashes between the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS) militants wait at the Turkish-Syrian border to cross into Turkey on Sept. 18, 2014.

When we arrived here, I didn’t have a plan. For a few weeks, we stayed with my wife’s brother in Turkey’s southernmost province Hatay, which borders Syria. Then we moved to Gaziantep, a big city in southern Turkey where there are lots of humanitarian organizations and media offices. At first, things were okay. My brother sent me a new camera from Dubai and I picked up assignments with Al Jazeera. I shot photos for them when they did interviews in border areas like Gaziantep, Hatay, and Kilis. Gradually, I saved enough to buy my own camera bag, tripod, and lighting equipment.

I also started to work with Gate of Sun, a cultural endeavor that aims to create bonds between Turks and Syrians through filmmaking workshops. This year, my Iraqi friend Bahaa and I set up our own program along similar lines. It’s called Duzen, which means balance in Arabic. We teach students how to use simple tools like mobile phones to document their experiences and train them in editing and post-production techniques. We currently have 30 Syrian and Turkish students in Gaziantep and receive funding from the U.N.’s International Organization for Migration.

Back in 2014, when I came to Turkey for training, things were different. Turkey had granted millions of refugees temporary protection status and nobody seemed to have a problem with us. But over the past few years, the situation has deteriorated. There’s a lot more tension.

Last year the Turkish government started to crack down on Syrians living here illegally, sending them back to Syria. That set off a wave of hate speech and gave nationalists and racists a platform to abuse refugees. There were anti-Syrian riots in Istanbul. Refugees were beaten in the streets. Syrian-owned stores were vandalized.

It’s bad in Gaziantep too. A couple of weeks ago I was playing with my daughter and we were speaking in Arabic. An old man stopped us in the street and asked whether we were Syrian. When I told him yes, he started shouting at us and he spat on me. We can’t retaliate out of fear that the government will kick us out.

My wife and I started thinking about leaving Turkey last year. We have two daughters now and the eldest is almost ready to start school. If I send them to school in Turkey, they won’t learn Arabic or English. When they grow up they will say, “Dad, what are we doing here?” Then there’s the difficulty of finding stable work. As a freelancer, I sometimes have to borrow from friends to pay the rent. This month we were five days late and even though we have been renting our house for more than two years the landlord said we have to leave by the end of the month.

I was planning to apply for legal immigration to the Netherlands. Friends have told me there is no racism there and my family can get their papers quickly. I’ve contacted people at the Dutch Embassy, and friends have been trying to help. But we can’t wait much longer. At the end of February, when Turkey said it would no longer block refugees from leaving, I thought: this is our chance.

The war has been going on for nine years and the idea of moving again is difficult. Syria will always be home. I miss it and sometimes I think about whether one day we’ll be able to go back. Now we are going further away but I feel like there’s no other choice.

Some of my friends in Gaziantep are planning to leave tomorrow. I’ve been following the news and have heard stories about violence at the border. They tell me, “Mustafa, you have a family, don’t put them in danger.” They say they will go first and tell me if it’s safe. If there’s a way to get into Greece, we will just leave. I will not wait one minute longer here.

As told to Joseph Hincks. This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.