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bugpill · 2 months

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If I see any more misinformation about Kamala Harris to dissuade people from voting I will explode.

1. She did a lot of work as a prosecutor to dismantle the system. When she was DA in San Francisco she was labeled as being “soft on crime” which she in turn claimed was “smart on crime”. Harris made a program called Back on Track so that low-level nonviolent drug offenders could enroll in school rather than doing jail time. She has believe and continues to believe that supporting people prevents crime far better than criminalizing people.

Yes, she put people behind bars. I know she called herself the “Top Cop” and I fucking hate that. However, the number of people who served time in jail was significantly reduced due to her program. She’s not a saint, but she tried to reduce harm as much as she could in her position. Since then, she’s called for even more action in terms of legalizing marijuana and I believe recently fully endorsed it publicly.

2. She is not transphobic. Harris backed the state of California when it tried to deny gender-affirmation surgery to a trans prisoner, but as attorney general, she could not deny the state’s Department of Corrections as a client of hers. Essentially, she had no say in the denial of surgery herself, as she had to represent the department’s interests over her own. Once she realized what they were doing, Harris actually worked behind the scenes to get that very policy changed so that any inmate who needs that care could get it. Additionally, she has lead efforts to put an end to gay and transgender “panic” defenses in criminal trials.

3. Kamala Harris is Black. For some reason, people like to say that she isn’t, and that she’s Indian and pretending to be black… for what reason? Depends on who’s telling the lie to begin with. Kamala Harris is Black and South Asian. Her father, Donald Harris, is a Black man who was born in Jamaica. Her mother, Shyamala Gopalan, was born in India. Speculating about her race with so much evidence towards the contrary is so wrong. If anyone tells you shit about this, just send them her whitehouse.gov biography.

4. Harris (reportedly) has different opinions than Biden on Palestine. Whether or not she makes a clear stance against Israel, I don’t know. That hasn’t happened yet, but I’ll remain hopeful until further notice. She reportedly tried to push Biden towards “a policy on Gaza that was both more humane and in alignment with international law” but wasn’t listened to. The only reason why this is one of my points is that I’ve seen a lot of people stating that she is totally behind every decision and stance Biden made as president, which isn’t necessarily true. I don’t want to give her credit for being pro-Palestine if she isn’t, just to be clear. That is not what I’m trying to do here.

I desperately want her to stand for a free Palestine. I cannot make the promise that this will happen. All I can hope for is that her policy will be less harmful than Trump’s- who wants Israel to “finish the job” and promises to “throw (pro-Palestinian protestors) out of the country”.

Conclusion: the fact of the matter is that people make shit up all of the time. Sometimes it’s propaganda they accidentally absorb, sometimes it’s deliberate misinformation. People often take rumors as facts, and we need to be more vigilant about it. What I know is that some people will do anything for you to not vote tor Kamala Harris, when in reality she’s our only hope here.

Is Harris my favorite person ever? Absolutely not. Does she share my exact views and opinions? Nope. Would I rather vote for someone who more aligns with my personal views? Yes.

Is voting for Harris the only way to stop Donald Trump and Project 2025? Yes.

Disclaimer for the blog: To be 100% transparent, this is only my (Fanya’s) opinions. Although this is a shared blog, I cannot claim that my stance and my voice speaks for everybody involved in this blog. Some members are not American. Some may have different takes. All I know is that all of us are anti-Trump. Don’t go after my friends if you have beef with what I’m saying. I’m trying my best here.

#long post #our voice #Fanya #politics posting #us politics #kamala harris #harris 2024

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doubleca5t · 5 months

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bro I hate how conspiratorial people are rn like I'm not even talking about Qanon people and other like dedicated conspiracy theorists I just mean like how the thought processes have seeped their way into the brains of average everyday people, many of whom are young and left-leaning.

Like bumble recently put up these billboards in LA

which is kinda lame like I'm not gonna act like this is some kind of genius marketing. But the number of people I've seen saying these billboards are propaganda against the 4B movement???? Girl what the fuck are you talking about 4B isn't even that big a thing in Korea let alone in the US there is no way that was even a consideration for them when making this. I saw another person throwing out that this is in response to low birth rates. Like she literally said this bumble ad is supposed to be propaganda to trick women of color into having more babies so that the elites can have enough low wage workers to keep the economy going I am dead serious.

Like it is so frustrating to scroll through a feed of hot takes where people come up with sociopolitical analysis for every circumstance and the only reasnable response to their video is "no it fucking isn't????"

#doubleca5t oc

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chososdiscordkitten · 7 months

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Synopsis: The first time Toji Says 'ily'(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Pairing: Toji x GN!Reader Content; smut nd Fluff, penetrative sex, soft!toji propaganda

MDNI

Toji was never a man who expressed his true feelings with words. Often trying to keep a stoic, unamused face whenever you’d talk to him.

But when you stumble over your words- following them with a shy giggle. It always made the corner of Toji’s lip curl up in a small smile.

Preferring to show his feelings in his actions rather than words.

At night when he would place his head on your chest- holding you close subconsciously.

Even with a firm spank on your ass with a small grunt- his way of telling you how good you looked.

Leading to you being the one who first said, ‘I love you.’ You had a suspicion he wouldn’t say the words back. Even if they were just words.

But he saw that you loved him long before you said them. How you’d hold his calloused hands in yours, gently kissing the rough tips of his fingers to show him that it was fine that they were rough.

How insistent you were when kissing him—always making sure to kiss the little scar on his lip first. This was a small act Toji never knew he needed until you did it—“Reminds me that you’re strong,” you explained.

He tried not to let it affect him, being so used to being treated rough and well set enough to not to be held with caution. But you always touched him like he was delicate—even if he wasn’t.

Your hands hardly took on an aggressive grasp with him- always gently caressing his skin with your fingertips.

That was part of why he fought with the infiltrating thoughts in his mind- how kind you could be to him.

And Toji was never the kind to lie, especially about such a serious topic. So, instead of lying, he didn’t say them.

Instead of saying those three words back to you, he would only offer a hum in return. Knowing if he said anything like ‘okay’ or ‘thanks,’ it would sound smug and heartless.

Toji was aware he liked you—perhaps a smidge more than like—but he had just come to terms with saying he liked you.

There were times when he would look at you and feel a slight tinge in his chest- almost like a shock of pain, but it was gone in an instant.

He was aware of the feeling and what it meant, but he refused to even think about it, chalking it up to heartburn or a heart palpitation.

The revelation only snapped in his mind one late evening.

Tired, hazy eyes looking at your face- one knee hooked on his forearm with your back flush against the bed.

Kept a slow slopping pace with his hips- watching your expression churn with every deep roll of his hips he did. His mind was blank and focused on finishing so he could go to sleep.

Heavily breathing and looking at your body- feeling his cheeks tingle knowing you were all his. That no one would ever be graced with seeing you this way.

Throwing his head back, straightening his back, and closing his eyes. Warmth shivering down his spine as his lips moved without permission.

‘I love you.’ he whispered. That’s all it took to start spilling himself inside of you with a breathy grunt.

When the words registered in his mind, he snapped his head down to look at you- to see if you had heard him.

Only you were caught up in your own orgasm to hear his illegible confession.

That night, Toji stayed up, thinking about whether he really meant the words he said or if they were just words.

Looking at you for a few seconds every time he heard you take a deep breath in your sleep. Pinched eyebrows in worry as he thought of the words he said.

Pondering if he really loved you-

The relationship started as just a one-night stand, not expecting to see you ever again. But out of the many- you were the only one who stuck around after.

The one who managed to make him break his unamused farce- and actually managed to make him crack a small chuckle.

No label was placed on what you had- Toji just knew you had come to love him. Scars, baggage, rough spots, and all. And Toji knew the possibility of loving you was very real. And scared for it to be.

After that, he looked at you with a bordering on mortified expression- anytime you’d ask him something, fearing you were just cruel enough to pretend you didn’t hear him and tease him for it later.

But you didn’t—you pretended not to notice that Toji looked at you differently now. He no longer saw a person he kind of liked. Toji looked at you with terrified eyes now, knowing he didn’t just kind of like you. He loved you.

What Toji didn’t know was that you did hear his small proclamation. But knowing how standoffish he was when it came to feelings, you chose not to acknowledge it until he had the guts to repeat it.

You could see how much it had plagued him thinking about it.

Mornings where you’d leave for work and kiss him goodbye, “Love you-” you’d grin before leaving. Watching his lips part to say it back with tense shoulders. But he never said it- too afraid it would come out shy and embarrassed.

One thing Toji did not want- is for you to look at him as shy or embarrassed.

But on one night- making dinner and thralling your hands onto his shoulders. Looking up at him- sick and tired of him holding back his feelings.

Toji’s hands instinctively landed on your hips- looking at you with a raised brow.

“You like me?” You murmured, caressing his nape with your thumb ever so slightly.

He pouted his lip, trying to fight off the warmth rising to his cheeks. “I already told you I did,” he scoffed, watching your smile show your intentions.

“How much though?” you pressed, eyes low and with a goal in mind.

Toji rolled his eyes, giving you a light squeeze on your ass mindlessly- thinking it over.

“Do you like me the way you like…” thinking of a non-filthy thing to say- “Gambling?”

Toji scoffed- “Meh, you’re alright.” you parted your lips at his refusal to answer. Even more so because he said you were just ‘alright.’

You decided to abandon the topic for now, knowing that if you pressed even harder, he would keep making little sarcastic comments like that.

Later that night, you were watching a show, sitting on the couch with Toji’s head on your lap. Playing with his hair with one hand and the other on his chest as you focused on the TV show.

You were unaware of his eyes looking up at you- ignoring the action noises from the TV as you scoffed.

Sucking your teeth before, “So fuckin’ stupid!” looking down at Toji, bewilderment in your expression. “They’re running this show into the ground.” you looked down at his face. Noticing his brow was unfurrowed, and his lips parted.

Squinting your eyes with a feigned severity, “...What?” you mumbled, looking at his soft expression. Halting your hand movements.

Inhaling softly with gentle eyes, “I love you.” he murmured. A tone so soft you don’t think you had ever heard it from him. Widening his eyes when he realized what he had said.

It felt as though the world went silent after you heard those words- looking into his eyes and feeling his heart beat quicker against your hand.

“I love you too.” you whispered, cheeks warm and eyebrows pinched.

Though you wanted to jump up and down in happiness- ecstatic Toji was finally coming to terms with his feelings.

All you did was press a kiss down to his lips- some assurance that you wouldn’t tease him for it.

Leaning back up and continuing the soft movement with your hand, you looked back up at the TV, not even bothering to try to focus on what was happening. Too giddy from Toji’s confession.

Those words started being spoken more and more often now-

The goodbyes you’d bid Toji in the mornings before work, “Love you.” you’d mutter, pressing a kiss to his cheek and hearing a quiet-

“Love you.” he whispered back into the air in a gruff tone.

Mornings sitting across from him, drinking coffee and basking in each other’s presence.

Looking up from your phone and admiring his expression- “I love you.” you muttered. Watching Toji’s eyebrows furrow and look at you bewildered.

He looked back down at his coffee cup. “Love you,” he muttered with a pouty lip.

And at night- His arms holding your knees wide. Deep thrusts paired with an occasional grunt in your ear.

Your hands gripping his shoulders and biceps- moaning his name as his heavy breathing warmed your ear.

“I love you.” he groaned against your cartilage- his thrusts were firmer and full of passion. Whimpering in response as he rode into an orgasm.

And every deep roll of his hips- whispering the words repeatedly. One after the other in tandem with every loving thrust.

“I love you.”

(a.n) got cavities from writing this

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kedreeva · 7 months

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For the past 2 days I have been back and forth with a person that runs a rooster sanctuary, after they posted an infographic about how hatcheries deal with male chicks that was WILDLY inaccurate and incendiary and CLEARLY made by an ARA group. I've had to explain that when you see "asphyxiation" as a euthanization method, it means "they used CO2" not throwing LIVE chicks into dumpsters out back by the thousands to suffocate to death (which is what ARAs love to say every US farm is doing), and that when you see language like "their brothers" this is VERY SPECIFIC propaganda from ARA groups attempting to anthropomorphize animals in your mind. It's 100% meant to invoke the idea of the human bonds often formed between siblings, the familial bonds chickens do not have any concept of.

The conversation ended shortly after I said more than 1 in a million males is needed for breeding purposes (another claim made), and I'm like 99% sure they aren't pulled from the sale stock anyway, they're selected at the breeding facility, and they responded with that actually only one male is needed for every million hens because, and I quote: "The eggs and sperm are collected in a common trough that feeds into a bucket. Water is added to the eggs and sperm to induce fertilization. The excess sperm, ovarian fluid, and blood are rinsed away. The fertilized eggs are gently poured into an incubator tray."

and I had to inform them that they were copy pasting from a first search result on google, and that it was from a SALMON FISHERY.

Anyway. ARAs continue to be fear-mongering fools who will say anything with little to no research if it means they can get a knee-jerk reaction from someone that doesn't know better.

#wank for ts #animal death for ts #animal death #if you're wondering there are two approved euth methods in the US #the most widely used is maceration and the newer one is CO2 #Maceration is... not great #and we definitely SHOULD be looking at alternatives #but straight lying about things to get a reaction is not the way to do it

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jewelleria · 6 months

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I don’t usually talk about politics on here, if ever. But it’s been almost six months since the conflict in the Middle East flared up again, and I’m finally ready to start. Here are some of my thoughts.

I say ‘flared up’ because this has happened before and it’ll happen again. Because, even though what's currently going on is absolutely unprecedented, those of us who live in this part of the world are used to it. Let that sink in: we are used to this. And we shouldn’t have to be.

But I use that term for another reason: I don't want to accidentally call it the wrong thing lest I come under fire for being a genocidal maniac or a terrorist or a propaganda machine, etc., etc.—so let’s just call it ‘the war’ or ‘the conflict.’ Because that’s what it is. Doesn’t matter which side you’re on, who you love, or who you hate.

This post will, in all likelihood, sit in my drafts forever. If it does get posted, it certainly won’t be on my main, because I'm scared of being harassed (spoiler: she posted it on her main). I hate admitting that, but honestly? I’m fucking terrified.

I also feel like in order for anything I say on here (i.e. the hellscape of the internet) to be taken seriously, I have to somehow prove that a) I’m “educated” enough to talk about the conflict, and b) that my opinion lines up with what has been deemed the correct one. So, tedious and unnecessary though it is, I will tell you about my experience, because I have a feeling most of the people reading this post are not nearly as close to what’s happening as I am.

How do I explain where I live without actually explaining where I live? How do I say “I live in the Red Zone of international conflicts” without saying what I actually think? How do I convey the fear that grips me when I try to decide between saying “I live in Palestine” and “I live in Israel”? I don't really know. But I do know that names are important. I also know that, due to the various clickbaity monikers ascribed to the conflict, it would probably just be easier to point to a map.

I haven't always lived in the Middle East. I've lived in various places along America’s east coast, and traveled all over the world. But in short, I now live somewhere inside the crudely-drawn purple circle.

If you know anything about these borders you probably blanched a bit in sympathy, or maybe condolence. But in truth, it’s a shockingly normal existence. I don't feel like I've lived through the shifting of international relations or a war or anything. I just kind of feel like I did when COVID hit, that dull sameness as I wondered if this would be the only world-altering event to shape my life, or if there would be more.

I've been told that, in order for my brain to process all the horrific details of the past six months, there needs to be some element of cognitive dissonance—that falling into a sort of dissociative mindset is the only way to not go insane under the weight of it all. I think in some ways that’s true. I have been terrifyingly close to bus stop shootings when my commute wasn’t over; I have felt my apartment building shake with the reverberations of a missile strike; I have spent hours in underground shelters waiting for air raid sirens to stop.

But. I have also gone grocery shopping, and skipped class, and stayed up too late watching TV, and fed the cats on the street corner, and cried over a boy, and got myself AirPods just because, and taken out the trash, and done laundry on a delicate cycle, and bought overpriced lattes one too many days a week. I have looked at pretty things and taken out my phone because, despite it all, I still think that life is too short not to freeze the small moments.

So I'd say, all things considered, I live an incredibly privileged life—compared, of course, to those suffering in Gaza—one filled with sunsets and over-sweetened knafeh and every different color of sand. One that allows me to throw myself into a fandom-induced hyperfixation (or, alternatively, escape method) as I sit on the couch and crack open my laptop to write the next chapter of the fic I'm working on.

But there are bits of not-normalness that wheedle their way through the cracks. I pretend these moments are avoidable, even if they’re not.

They look like this: reading the news and seeing another idiotic, careless choice on Netanyahu’s part and groaning into my morning coffee. Watching Palestinian and Jewish children’s needless suffering posted on Instagram reels and feeling helpless. Opening my Tumblr DMs to find a message telling me to exterminate myself for reblogging a post that only seems like it’s about the war if you squint and tilt your head sideways.

These moments look like all the tiny ways I am reminded that I'm living in a post-October seventh world, where hearing a car backfire makes me jump out of my skin and the sound of a suitcase on pavement makes me look up at the sky and search for the war planes. They look like the heavy grief that is, and also isn’t, mine.

Here's the thing, though. I know you’re wondering when the ball will drop and my true opinion will be revealed. I know you’re waiting for me to reveal what demographic I'm a part of so that you, dear reader, can neatly slap a label on my head and sort me into some oversimplified category that lets you continue to think you understand this war.

No one wants to sit and ruminate on the difficult questions, the ones that make you wonder if maybe you’ve been tinkered with by the propaganda machine, if you might need to go back on what you’ve said or change your mind. We all strive for our perception of complicated issues to be a comfortable one.

But I know that no matter what I do, there will always be assumptions. So, while I shudder to reveal this information online, I think that maybe my most significant contribution to this meta-discussion spanning every facet of the internet is this:

I am a Jew.

Or, alternatively, I am: Jewish, יהודית, يَهُودِيٌّ, etc. Point is, I come from Jews. And, like any given person, I am a product of generation after generation of love.

I'm not going to take time to explain my heritage to you, or to prove that before all the expulsions and pogroms, there was an origin point. If you don’t believe that, perhaps it’s less of a factual problem and more of an ‘I don’t give weight to the beliefs of indigenous people’ problem. But, in case you want to spend time uselessly refuting this tiny point in a larger argument, you can inspect the photos below (it’s just a small chunk of my DNA test results). Alternatively, you can remember that interrogating someone in an attempt to make their indigeneity match your arbitrary criteria is generally not seen as good manners.

Now, let’s go back to thathateful message (read: poorly disguised death threat) I received in my Tumblr DMs. I think it was like two or three weeks ago. I had recently gained a new follower whose blog’s primary focus was the fandom I contribute to, so I followed them back. I saw in my notes that they were going through my posts and liking them—as one does when gaining a new mutual. Yippee!

Then they sent me this:

I tried to explain that hate speech is not a way to go about participating in political discourse, but the person had already blocked me immediately after sending that message. Then, assured by the fact that I surely would never see them complaining about me on their blog (because, as I said, they blocked me), they posted a shouting rant accusing me of sympathizing with colonizing settlers and declaring me a “racist Zionist fuck.” Oh, the wonders of incognito tabs.

Where this person drew these conclusions after reading my (reblogged) post about antisemitism…. I'm not actually sure. But I greatly sympathize with them, and hope that they weren’t too personally offended by my desire to not die.

For a while I contemplated this experience in my righteous anger, and tried to figure out a way to message this person. I wanted to explain that a) seeing a post about being Jewish and choosing to harass the creator about Israel is literally the definition of antisemitism and b) that sending a hateful DM and refusing to be held accountable is just childish and immature. But I gave up soon after—because, honestly, I knew it wasn’t worth my effort or energy. And I knew that I wouldn't be able to change their mind.

But I still remember staring at that rather unfortunate meme, accompanied by an all-caps message demanding for me to Free Palestine, and thinking: the post didn’t even have any buzzwords. I remember the swoop of dread and guilt and fear. I remember wondering why this kind of antisemitism felt worse, in that moment, than the kind that leaves bodies in its wake.

I remember thinking, I don’t have the power to free anyone.

I remember thinking, I’m so fucking tired.

And before you tell me that this conflict isn’t about religion—let me ask you some questions. Why is it that Israel is even called Israel? (Here’s why.) Why do Jews even want it? (Here’s why.) But also, if you actually read the charters of Islamist terrorist organizations like ISIS, Hamas, and Hezbollah (among others), they equate the modern state of Israel with the Jewish people, and they use the two entities interchangeably. So of course this conflict is religious. It’s never been anything but that.

But I do wonder, when faced with those who deny this fact: how do I prove, through an endless slew of what-about-isms and victim blaming, that I too am hurting? How do I show that empathy is dialectical, that I can care deeply for Palestinians and Gazans while also grieving my own people?

There's this thing that humans do, when we’re frustrated about politics and need to howl our opinions about it into the void until we feel better. We find like-minded souls, usually our friends and neighbors, and fret about the state of the world to each other until we’ve gone around in a satisfactory amount of circles. But these conversations never truly accomplish anything. They’re just a substitute, a stand-in catharsis, for what we really wish we could do: find someone who embodies the spirit of every Jew-hating internet troll, every ignorant justifier of terrorism, and scream ourselves hoarse at them until we change their mind.

But, of course, minds cannot be changed when they are determined to live in a state of irrational dislike. In Judaism, this way of thinking has a name: שנאת חינם (sinat hinam), or baseless hatred. It's a parasite with no definite cure, and it makes people bend over backwards to justify things like the massacre on October seventh, simply because the blame always needs to be placed on the Jews.

So when a Jew is faced with this unsolvable problem, there is only one response to be had, only one feeling to be felt: anger. And we are angry. Carrying around rage with nowhere to put it is exhausting. It's like a weight at the base of our neck that pushes down on our spine, bending it until we will inevitably snap under the pressure. I’m still waiting to break, even now.

I wish I could explain to someone who needs to hear it that terrorism against Israelis happens every single day here, and that we are never more than one degree of separation away from the brutal slaughter of a friend, lover, parent, sibling. I wish it would be enough to say that the majority of Israelis (which includes Arab-Israeli citizens who have the exact same rights as Jewish-Israelis) wish for peace every day without ever having seen what it looks like.

I wish I could show the world that Israel was founded as a socialist state, that it was built on communal values and born from a cluster of kibbutzim (small farming communities based on collective responsibility), and that what it is now isn’t what its people stand for.

I wish the world could open their eyes to what we Israelis have seen since the beginning: that Hamas is the enemy, Hamas is the one starving Palestinians and denying them aid, Hamas is the one who keeps rejecting ceasefire terms and denying their citizens basic human rights. Hamas is the governing body of Gaza, not Israel. Hamas is responsible for the wellbeing of the Palestinian people. And Hamas are the ones who are more determined to murder Jews—over and over and over again, in the most animalistic ways possible—than to look inwards and see the suffering they’ve inflicted on their own people. I wish it was easier to see that.

But the wishing, the asking how can people be so blind, is never enough. I can never just say, I promise I don't want war.

When I bear witness to this baseless hatred, I think of the victims of October seventh. I think of the women and girls who were raped and then murdered, forever unable to tell their stories. I think of the hostages, trapped underneath Gaza in dark tunnels, wondering if anyone will come for them. I think of Ori Ansbacher, of Ezra Schwartz, of Eyal, Gilad, and Naftali, of Lucy, Rina, and Maia Dee, of the Paley boys, of Ari Fuld and of Nachshon Wachsman. I think of all the innocent blood spilled because of terror-fueled hatred and the virus of antisemitism. I think of all the thousands of people who were brutally murdered in Israel, Jews and Muslims and Christians and humans, who will never see peace.

My ties to this land are knotted a thousand times over. Even when I leave, a part of me is left behind, waiting for me to claim it when I return. But when I see the grit it takes to live through this pain, when I see the suffering that paints the world the color of blood, I look to the heavens and I wonder why.

I ask God: is it worth all this? He doesn't answer. So I am the one, in the end, to answer my own question. I say, it has to be.

Feel free to send any genuine, respectful, and clarifying questions you may have to my inbox!

EDIT: just coming on here to say that I'm really touched & grateful for the love on this post. When I wrote it, I felt hopeless; I logged off of Tumblr for Shabbat, dreading the moment I would turn off my phone to find more hate in my inbox. Granted, I did find some, and responding to it was exhausting, but it wasn’t all hate. I read every kind reblog and comment, and the love was so much louder. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 🤍

Source Reading

The Whispered in Gaza Project by The Center for Peace Communications

Why Jews Cannot Stop Shaking Right Now by Dara Horn

Hamas Kidnapped My Father for Refusing to Be Their Puppet by Ala Mohammed Mushtaha

I Hope Someone Somewhere Is Being Kind to My Boy by Rachel Goldberg

The Struggle for Black Freedom Has Nothing to Do with Israel by Coleman Hughes

Israel Can Defend Itself and Uphold Its Values by The New York Times Editorial Board

There Is a Jewish Hope for Palestinian Liberation. It Must Survive by Peter Beinart

The Long Wait of the Hostages’ Families by Ruth Margalit

“By Any Means Necessary”: Hamas, Iran, and the Left by Armin Navabi

When People Tell You Who They Are, Believe Them by Bari Weiss

Hunger in Gaza: Blame Hamas, Not Israel by Yvette Miller

Benjamin Netanyahu Is Israel’s Worst Prime Minister Ever by Anshel Pfeffer

What Palestinians Really Think of Hamas by Amaney A. Jamal and Michael Robbins

The Decolonization Narrative Is Dangerous and False by Simon Sebag Montefiore

Understanding Hamas’s Genocidal Ideology by Bruce Hoffman

The Wisdom of Hamas by Matti Friedman

How the UN Discriminates Against Israel by Dina Rovner

This Muslim Israeli Woman Is the Future of the Middle East by The Free Press

Why Are Feminists Silent on Rape and Murder? by Bari Weiss

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mageofminge · 7 months

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REMINDER TO BOYCOTT EUROVISION

Here's a quick run down of everything they've done + why you should boycott

Despite banning Russia for its actions in the Russia-Ukraine war, Israel is still in the contest (despite committing war crimes, attacking Gaza with genocidal intent etc)

"But Hamas attacked first on Oct.7" - Then why is Israel also bombing southern Lebanon if Hezbollah and the Lebanese government aren't involved?????

Israel often uses ESC as a platform for propaganda

One key example is their promotions for their 2019 broadcast, where they tried to turn attention away from the occupation and portray the country as a liberal haven of democracy, with the lines "... it's a land of war and occupation. But we have so much more than that!" and pointing out its the only place in the middle east where "gays are hugging in the street". (as if the rest of the Levant INCLUDING PALESTINE isn't actually relatively chill when it comes to gay rights)

Another example is them sending an Ethiopian Jewish singer to perform a song called "Set me Free" the same year they stormed Al-Aqsa during Ramadan, which seemed to be very intentionally trying to shift the narrative away from Israel as a colonial occupier, and more as a persecuted people who have finally found safety

As well as the issues with Israel as a competitor, ESC is SPONSORED by MoroccanOil, an Israeli company (ik the name is misleading, but speaking as a Moroccan Israel just really loves to steal our culture while treating our people they stole like shit [I could go on an entire rant ab this but I won't])

So what this means is we can't just boycott this year and then forget about it the next. Until Israeli presence is completely removed from EUROVISION, your views and your money will be funnelled to support an Apartheid regime. I already know people who are still watching Eurovision despite not supporting the occupation, because they love the artists and the spectacle. But no spectacle is worth supporting an Apartheid regime. The best way we can help the Palestinians is by making Israel a pariah state, and pressuring politicians to cut all their funding. That way they won't be able to put down uprisings and maintain the brutal police state they have - at which point they can only resolve the conflict peacefully and end occupation, or find themselves in the throw of a violent revolution. It was these strategies that ultimately helped end the apartheid regime in South Africa, and it is these strategies which can help end Israeli apartheid.

#eurovision #esc 2024 #palestine #israel #free palestine #apartheid #moroccanoil #eurovision 2024 #eurovision 2019 #set me free #europapa #joost klein #eden golan #hurricane

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 2 years

Text

Trust (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader)

Summary: You and Ghost have been captured for questioning. Loyal to a fault, you'll do anything to avoid seeing his face before he's ready to show you.

AN: I'm not immune to military propaganda. Nor am I immune to the babygirlification. In a slump writing wise so I gave this a go. I might try one with Soap next but no promises since it'll probably end up on the never-ending pile of unfinished fics.

Content warnings: Descriptions of torture, injuries as a result of torture, moments of vulnerability (aka 141 care for each other).

Reader uses they/them pronouns and is part of 141. Fic can be read as platonic or romantic.

Masterlist // AO3

A palm smacked across your cheek; the sting brought you back to consciousness. Screwing your eyes up, you tried to settle them in your skull so that you could take in your surroundings. Your hands and legs tied to a chair was what you noticed first. A fold-out table was a few feet out of reach in front of you.

Then, beyond that, a sliver of light in the roof – a hole, not a light bulb – dropped onto a body, bound like yourself and twenty feet away. The carved mask hiding the face was illuminated.

Your body wrenched against your restraints, “Hey!”

Another slap silenced you. You looked up at the offender you had somehow looked over. A lackey. No one you recognised from any intel or manilla folder or briefing, so you surveyed their appearance for just how much this soldier was trusted with.

Single gun on one hip.

KA-BAR on the other.

Kevlar vest that was more slack on the right shoulder.

More weapons that you had, now that your arsenal had been torn from you.

With the clanging of metal, a rectangle of light broke into the room. Room felt like the wrong word. This was too empty, echoey to be a mere room. A silhouette appeared in that light then vanished as the door closed behind them. Footsteps, slow and steady, approaching you, and the lackey left your side.

Ronin Foster bent at the waist to meet your unwilling gaze. He looked almost identical to the photo you’d been given in your briefing about him. One difference was clear: the burn mark running parallel to the left side of his chin. You couldn’t fathom where or how he’d gotten that injury, nor did you have a lot of time to look at it before Foster turned silently and unrolled a sleeve of weapons onto the table.

You caught Ghost’s eyes, the whites stark against the shadows and black paint. He didn’t avoid your gaze. He held it, and even when Foster stepped in the way, you felt that conflicted comfort you had grown to know in the presence of your Lieutenant and his masks.

The rest of the 141 were possibly being held elsewhere. Or they could’ve made it out. But it would take days to reconvene and organise a rescue mission.

This was your new home.

Your training did not desert you as your captor removed his gloves, tugging at the fingers to free them. One reached behind him and withdrew from his belt a gun.

Following the arc of his arm’s swing, his body wrenched around. A slash of agony struck your forehead against the butt of his gun. Your ears rung around the hollow of your skull like the bells of Notre Dame. The room wobbled as you righted your head. You couldn’t make out the details in Ghost’s mask anymore, not as Foster pulled off the skull plate and tossed it aside. Its clattering on the ground punctuated the air. Your gaze wavered against the dizzying disorientation as Ghost writhed to get away. But Foster was still unrolling the balaclava off his face. The second you saw a hint of Ghost’s chin, your eyes snapped shut.

Boots strode across the concrete. Suddenly your chin was grabbed up, no doubt facing your captor. Ghost’s gruff grunts boomed across the gap between you as he struggled against his restraints – that’s what you presumed, your eyes still closed.

But Foster was ignoring that side of the room blatantly, his grip crushing your cheekbones like he could wrench it off and throw it alongside Ghost’s mask. You narrowed your breaths to control yourself. While you couldn’t see, you couldn’t predict what could happen. But your defiance refused to let this awful man dictate when you saw Ghost’s face for the first time.

“Who told you about this place?” Foster asked quietly.

Nothing was heard from Ghost now, besides his breathing. You tried to match yours to his, pressing your lips together, your nostrils flaring against the throbbing pain.

Sharp pain splintered through your big toe, up your right foot. Your body fought the restraints and channelled your masked yelps into the bindings. Slowly, your chest puffed out all the air before sucking some back in.

“You’ve got at least nine more chances to tell me,” and Foster tapped his weapon – presumably the butt of his gun - against the rest of your toes. “Now tell me, how did you find this place?”

Between internal screams, you prayed that Ghost wouldn’t give up, and that his presence would give you the strength to do the same.

-----------------------------------------------

“Gambit, you still with me?”

You let out a hum, since it was all that your throat would allow. A sigh emitted from your Lieutenant. You couldn’t tell if it was relief or remorse. Sure, Ghost cared for you. You were on his team; it was in his job description to give the bare minimum amount of shits about you. However you could only hope that he gave as many as you did him. Or maybe now you hoped he didn’t, so that the mental barrier holding back the intel didn’t break so soon – or at all.

Your eyebrows raised and scrunched to stretch your face, but your eyes remained shut. Ghost hadn’t said a word about his mask being replaced and you doubted that Foster been kind enough to replace it between sessions.

The sound of the door opening reached you again; you could tell by the pattern of the foot fall that it was Foster. So, you cracked a joke in your head, that you were privileged that a terrorist with a notoriously busy schedule had made way for you and Ghost.

The laughter in your head was cut off when a fist yanked at the roots of your hair, forcing you to face the ceiling. Your eyes winced but still did not-

“Open.”

You waited for Foster’s response to your inaction.

A gloved hand suddenly grappled with your jaw, which was as clenched as your eyelids.

“Your mouth. Open it.”

Eventually, Foster managed to get it open long enough to pour something in. You choked on the first splash but began glugging it down once you realised that it was water and that Foster wasn’t pinching your nose. This wasn’t waterboarding. This was survival – extending your torture to reap its potential benefits. Thus you didn’t savour any of it nor save any to spit back in Foster’s face. Your torturer threw your head aside, strain twinging up your neck. A few seconds later, you could hear similar sounds – Ghost’s turn. That other benefit of not having to see whatever Foster was doing to Ghost. Unfortunately, your shoulders could not reach high enough to shield your ears.

A scrape from the table told you Foster had brought back his tools. Last time he was here, he’d tried to use them on Ghost. However since you weren’t opening your eyes, the effect was not as intended. As a reflex, you attempted to dissociate. One might think the injuries and blood loss might make it easier to fade away from your body. But no, the pain grounded you in your body. So it only made things worse when you found your jaw getting wrenched at again.

“Let them go!” boomed Ghost, causing your heart to ripple against your ribs. Him showing an ounce of care scared you more than Foster did. It meant something worse than before was coming and you were both getting close to breaking.

A bang shattered against your ear drums; the darkness before your eyelids grew a tad bit brighter. Your neck was sharply encircled by Foster’s arm, and your chin struggled against the crook of his elbow. Airway trapped, you were immobilised and drowning on dry land. The grip on you tightened, squeezing your eyes out of their sockets but still you held strong. If this was the last thing you did, you would not betray your friend.

The shouting began, all blended together, overwhelming your fractured mind. It grew and grew into a crescendo of bellows that shrilled with its urgency. Your mind bubbled at the edges a

Then it stopped. A snap. Foster’s weight dropped onto you. Something metal clattered onto the floor. Wet dribbled down your neck.

Thunderous absence of noise surrounded you, your weak attempts to suck in a deep breath barely a prickle in it. You hunched under Foster’s weight. There was no energy left to make a pitiful attempt to dissuade him. You were so encompassed by it that you failed to notice the approaching footsteps right up until you felt the air punctuated into your cheek by this new person’s presence.

A hand wiped at your forehead, lifting gently as it went.

“Gambit, you with me?”

You let out a sigh crossed with a laugh, “Gaz?”

Gaz replied with a chuff of relief, “Let’s get you home.”

The weight on your shoulders was yanked aside; your wrists felt an inch of relief as the plastic bindings were severed. There was din all around again: radio chatter, mumbled remarks about the location, and echoes around the concrete.

You tried raising your head to see “Ghost?”

“I’m here,” and his voice was oh so close now, “I’m here. You’re ok.”

Then you felt the binds on your wrists slacken completely. Your body tipped forwards and your head knocked into someone else’s.

“Gotcha.”

Ghost’s.

“You can open your eyes.”

Your grimy, sweat-stained skin rubbed harshly against his as he instructed you to open your eyes. Your whimper could not be contained as you shook your head:

“No. I don’t want to.”

“You need to open your eyes, Gambit.”

“Your face,” Your arm wavered, preventing you from emphasising your point, “I can’t.” And your body slouched further into him. True darkness took over the edges of your eyelids. The last thing you recalled was being caught by three hands and someone saying your name – not your callsign, but your name.

-----------------------------------------------

Your feet were in bandages, bones reset, though amputation was not out of the questions just yet. Turns out three days with sprains, breaks, and no toenails were not beneficial to you. It was a good thing that you had been carried to the helicopter and not made to walk

Stiff with lack of use, you deduced, and you didn’t try to wiggle them as you opened up your eyes. The bulbs above your bed burnt your sight; you winced away from them. Curtains surrounded your bed. They protected you from the shame you might’ve felt had anyone seen the state you were in. With a sigh, you willed yourself to sink into the mattress a little deeper and return to slumber.

However a set of approaching footsteps caught your ears. Then a gloved hand peeled back one of the curtains to reveal Ghost, his other arm still in a sling that was stark white against his normal gear and the basic black balaclava that was back where it belonged.

“Gambit,” he said, hesitating in the gap between the curtains before drawing them.

You went to say his alias, but you were halted by a sudden coughing fit. Your throat had decided now was a good time to curl up into sandpaper. At your side, Ghost held the cup to your lips. Your weak hands tried to take over holding it; Ghost’s firm ones curled around yours steady. His gloves were worn and rough like the calloused skin beneath, warm against your feeble fingers.

Once the coughing fit had abated, Ghost sat back in the chair adjacent to your bed whilst not quite making eye contact with you. Normally, he had no issues staring you down. Perhaps he had been worried about you.

Sniffing behind his mask, Ghost said, “You did good not giving up that intel.”

A compliment. He must have been really worried about you.

“As did you, sir.”

His eyes wavered towards the passing clogs beneath the dividing curtain as a medic passed by your section. Remaining rigid, he adjusted the inside of his hoodie pocket before speaking again.

“You should’ve opened your eyes. It might’ve helped you with Foster.”

“He’d’ve seen how I reacted to you. Gauged better how to get us to give up.”

How to get me to give up, you thought.

You continued quickly, “It’s better that he just had you. You’re better at controlling yourself than me.”

Ghost was silent for a while, and you were too. It was only a tad uncomfortable; you chalked it up to your injuries, your elbows being the only thing that really felt relief in this hospital bed. Perhaps that was what compelled you to explain him your reasoning further.

“I didn’t want to see you if you didn’t want me to.”

“You’ve seen my face before.”

“Hardly.” That was true for the most part. All you’d allowed yourself to see was one hell of a chin when Ghost lifted his mask up to eat or drink something in a mess hall. You concluded, “Showing your face is your call, Ghost. Not Foster’s or mine or anyone’s.”

His shoulders rose and fell with a deep sigh. Then Ghost grabbed the neck and peeled his mask up in one smooth motion, his chin on his chest. A shock of dirty blond hair – an inch of it pure white at the roots – was flattened against his scalp, until Ghost’s fingers combed through it twice. It matched his dainty eyelashes.

He looked back up at last. Your sight was stuck mainly on his eyes, still surrounded by their superhero mask painted onto his skin where the holes in his mask had been. Then you started making concentric circles around his face. Scars cut from the corners of his lips through his cheeks. Little ones dotted about his prominent nose, eyebrows, forehead, lips. A few bruises highlighted where Foster had gotten him.

You realised that you were staring with your lips parted and eyes wide so that you could commit his face to memory. But you couldn’t help yourself either.

In short, your suspicions were confirmed: he was goddamn gorgeous.

He was just about to hide it away again, his matching skeleton gloves going to pull down his balaclava when you sat up quickly.

“Wait.”

Stilling, Ghost waited for you to speak again.

Your outstretched hand closed into a loose fist, “Just… Can I touch you?”

His reply was staggered with a blink, “Yes.” And he leant forwards with his elbows on his knees.

It struck you then why he was so unlike himself: he wasn’t here as Ghost.

The backs of your knuckles clumsily made contact with his right cheek, dragging down his jaw. Simon closed his eyes. His head tilted a fraction against your touch. Tears sprung free and tracked down your cheeks, contradicted by your smile that was brimming with the delight of being trusted.

“You’re right,” Simon mused when he opened his eyes, “Good thing you kept your eyes closed.”

“Yeah,” You sniffled. “But at least now I can tell Soap you’re not ugly.”

Scoffing, Simon tugged his balaclava back over his face and adjusted it to fit properly, “Fuckin’ hell.”

“How wrong he was,” you almost giggled with glee.

Even as the laughter ceased, your smile remained. And you could tell by the small crinkles at his eyes that Simon was too.

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AN: In my head, Ghost has Marie Antoinette syndrome, but before he had sandy blond hair.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley fanfic #ghost x reader #simon riley imagine #cod x you #cod mwii fanfic #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mwii #cod mwii x reader #r: gn #wc: >2.5k #my writing

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