#Security Fencing East Arm

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

As I wind down the pines 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, grief, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Left alone after the death of your grandparents, you must survive the remote backwoods.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

The sun peeks through the fluttering leaves, shadows rippling overhead. You shiver against the large oak knees bent, arms around your legs, woozy with the ache of your stomach. Those acorns only made you feel sick.

You need more than nuts and half-grown mushrooms. The trap you set didn't get you anything but a toad and you're second-guessing not boiling it up in a stew. You rub your eyes and let your head fall into your hands. The forest floor shifts. You can't stay out here much longer.

It takes a while to find your strength. You press your palms to the rough bark and slowly scale up to your feet. You sway and drag your feet through the twigs and soil. You stumble into a white birch.

You trail your fingers up and peel a strip off. You yank it and tumble into the dirt. Your fingers are raw from the effort. You can boil the bark and make a stew. Your grandmother would gather the same bark but used it more as seasoning or to bulk out a heartier mix.

You work at stripping away more bark. It won't be much but it's something. You tuck it into the loose pocket of your grandfather's jacket. He has no use of it anymore. You shouldn't need it out in the sun but you can't stop shivering.

You plod down the slant of the forest floor and stop. This is the wrong way. You blink and turn. You've never been lost in these woods before. You grew up here, you know it like you know your reflection, but you're lost. You close your eyes as you try to chase away the pulsing behind them.

Another deep breath. You think you know that elm. Right around to the east is the shell of Chester's mill. Your grandfather told you about the old man that once owned it. He called him a curmudgeon with too much to say.

There's the old fence post but it's no longer crooked or lonely. There are new slats hammered in next to it, secured with cross bars. You slip and dig your heels in. The old mill is not what you remember. The hanging door is back in place and the gate has been replaced with a stronger one. The shed shows signs of repairs in its mismatched boards and the mill house is surrounded in scaffolding.

The house looks best of all. The cracked windows are replaced and there's a lone chair on the porch, reinforced so it no longer dips. Someone's moved in but no one ever comes all the way up here. They only leave, in a coffin or otherwise. 

Change. Things aren't like they were. They won't be. They can't. 

There's a scent on the air that draws you. One you should have filling your nose in the mornings and simmering from the oven at night. The fresh, delectable waft of a tomato vine.

There isn't thought in your head as you advance across the long strands of glass. There is only the clenching in your stomach and the slickness on your tongue. You see no life as you approach. You stop at the gate and wait. 

The windows shine in sunlight but curtains within keep the haze without. You search through the fog of hunger for a threat. There's only a squirrel skittering along the top of the fence, likely on a mission for its own harvest.

You slip your hands between the high slats and feel around. You flip the inner latch and the hinges give. You ease the door inward and shuffle through. You leave it open without catch.

You sniff the air and follow your nose. The lush plateau of soil and greenery delight your vision and your starving stomach. You want to fall upon it and devour every leaf and seed.

Sense flickers and guilt boils in your guts. The work that went into all this and you look to plunder. That same work that did not bear much from your own dirt.

It doesn't matter. You can't hold yourself back. You need more than dry bark and boiled water. You will take only a little. They won't notice with all they have. Two tomatoes, a bright orange pepper, and a single potato.

You use the large pockets of the oversized jacket to store it all and retreat. You stop at the gate, waiting to be caught out, waiting for the holler or worse, the gun shot. Nothing. Just the sunlight and the scent of the garden.

You shut the gate and head for the trees. It's a far way home but the promise of a flavourful stew keep your feet moving. And after...

You'll have to figure that out.

🌳

The old house stands between two broad oaks, the roots extending into the foundation. The once white stained wood is chipped and splintered. Your grandmother's old basket planters are dried out and barren. Your grandfather's bench still stands but without anyone to sit on it.

You climb the steps, the rain spout creaking, the windows groaning. You try not to see the empty garden. The wilting leaves and the churned soil. First the rains flooded out the soil, then the sun dried it to dust, and the little that sprouted fed the family of rabbits who cared little for the bristles of your broom.

Calamity. Tragedy. You planted too early. You had that feeling, your grandfather's voice in your head, but you did not trust it. After the winter blew over the shed and smashed the years of preserves, you were too eager to have something. Anything.

Desperation is the eight deadly sin. Your grandparents always said. Patience, though, is the best of all the virtues.

The door clatters behind you. You get your pot and bring it to the stove. It's the old sort from more than a century ago. You open the little door and add a small log to the ash and remnants of the last burn.

Your hands shake as you light the fire. The flames do not come easy and your fingers are sore with the effort. You shut the door and leave the stove to warm as you unpack your wares...

Stolen goods. You take out a knife chop up half the pepper and one tomato, then half the potato. The rest You'll store in the cellar where the shelves have rotted away. They will keep at least a few days.

You put water onto boil. You add the veggies and use the mortar and pestle to crush up some of the birch. You season it and put a lid on.

As it steams around the brim, you sit on the drooping sofa and lean back into the cushions. You're so tired you're weak yet all you seem to do is sleep and look for food. You're in no short supply of the former.

🌳

The stew holds you over for a week. Maybe longer. The days are hard to track in the smear of anxiety and lingering hunger. You only eat a little, never gorging, never satisfied. 

Nuts. Half the shells you find have been emptied by squirrels and chipmunks. You choke down a handful of earthworms only to spew it up just as painfully. A dead bird tempts you but the diseased stench keeps you from that mistake. 

You chew on the birch and some leaves of mint. You stop at the river and put your feet in. It only makes you shiver more. It's summer. You shouldn't be shivering. Oh well. You just need to eat. That's all you can think about.

You trod on, stopping to gather what you can. If you can't get more, even just squirrel meat, you won't have the energy to walk so long. Once that happens...

Your grandparents would be disappointed. They taught you better. You did fine last year, the first without both of them, but this year is not last year.

As searing as the hunger is the loneliness. You miss them both terribly. They were your people. The only ones that ever looked after you. They taught you well because they wanted to take care of you always and you squandered it.

You crash down your rear in the dirt. You sit in the shade of the pines and stare at the mill house. You shouldn't. You really shouldn't. Once was more than too much.

Your head spins and you try to steady your vision as you grip the sides of your skull. Are you going insane? It sure feels like it.

You stand before you know what you're doing. The trek through the treeline and across the clearing isn't very far at all. It can't be. You're right there at the gate.

You feel along the slat like before, reaching, reaching, reaching. You flick the lock and swing inside. No one's there but you forgot to even check.

You walk cautiously over the grass to the plot of vegetables, even riper than the last time you came. The tomatoes are so big some have fallen off the vine. Carrots!

Not yours! Remember. What are you doing here?

The juice of the tomato floods your mouth as the answer drifts away. You don't care. You're starving. On your knees in the dirt, gnawing like a ravenous rodent.

You devour the tomato and reach for another. A knife flies into the red skin and splits the fruit in half, seeds and guts exploding onto you. You recoil and cry out. 

You wipe your face and look at the man at the end of the plot. His expression is as friendly as the knife that nearly sliced you. You blink and your lip trembles. You're pathetic. You're no better than the gluttonous squirrels.

"I'm... sorry. I... I... I..." you choke.

He comes forward. You stare as you take in all of him. Tall, broad, startlingly so from your vantage on the ground. 

His blue eyes bore into you as the muscles of his right exposed arm bulge. His other shoulder is blunted and his shirt pinned over it. His dark hair is past his shoulders, drawn back in by a tie as a few strands slip free. His beard is dense across his gritting jaw.

You wilt and accept your fate. It's quicker this way. He stops in front of you and bends to retrieve the knife. You watch him grip it and wait for him to aim the tip at you. He wipes it on his pant leg and slides it into his belt. 

He stands straight, towering over you as his hand goes to his hip. 

"That's two today." He says. "Plus two before, a potato, and a pepper."

You bat your lashes at him and sway. You gulp. You shake your head and show your hands.

"I'm hungry..." you croak. "I'm so hungry."

"You're a thief," he snarls. "You're gonna pay me back."

"I don't... I got nothing, mister. I'm sorry. Please," you shrink down and cover your face.

"You got two hands and a brain." He growls. "So get up and get to work."

You look up above your fingertips. The sun limns the man's silhouette like an otherwordly wraith. You snivel and nod. You have no other choice, not unless you want to see his knife again.

You plant your feet and slowly straighten your legs. You rock as he turns on his heel and marches off. You stare after him confused. Do you follow?

You stay as you are and peek down at the mangled tomato. You're hungry enough to pick it out of the dirt. You're kept from that as the man reappears with a round apple basket in hand.

You stagger back as he approaches. He shoves it at you and grows. "Fill that up. Don't eat them."

"Um..." you hug the basket as you gape at him.

"That'll even us out." He taps the top of the basket and you nearly topple.

"Yes, mister." You agree to keep him at bay. To hope he doesn't hurt you.

You back away and turn to the tomato vines. You bend first to gather the fruits off the ground. Your head feels heavy as you plunk down the basket. Your stomach mulches the quickly absconded tomato and adds to the sudden wave.

Your head pulses and silver stars speckle in your vision. You shake your head and set your feet. Dizziness swirls in your head and you lock your knees to stay up. Before you know it, the world is black and the world is only a memory.

[jessesluvr]

im going crazy imagining jesse watching reader fight a bloater by herself like what tommy did on the show, while jesse is trapped somewhere and can't get to her and help. could you write something about that?? she wins in the end ofc

through the glass | jesse x reader

author's note : heyy ! i actually loved this idea, i hope it's written to your standards ! slowly, making my way through the requests currently. tysm, please request anything else!

summary : while trapped behind reinforced glass, jesse is forced to watch helplessly as you face a deadly bloater alone in a collapsing outpost. against all odds, you defeat the monster—but the ordeal leaves jesse shaken and unable to hide just how much you mean to him.

word count : 1.8k

the snow crunched beneath your boots, brittle and thin in the mid-morning sun. you adjusted your grip on your rifle and glanced back over your shoulder. jesse was two steps behind, shotgun slung casually across his chest, brows furrowed.

“did you have to volunteer us for the outpost sweep?” he asked.

you smiled thinly. “it was either that or sorting rations all day.”

“sorting rations sounds like less of a death sentence.”

you rolled your eyes, but jesse’s grin was fond, warm. the easy banter had become a comfort between you two—a buffer against the cold, the fear, and the grief that hovered around jackson like its own form of weather.

the patrol route had started routine enough. a two-hour hike east to an abandoned power station tommy wanted cleared for possible supply caches. the place had been sealed off for years, the old chain-link fence still mostly intact.

it wasn’t supposed to be bad. just a sweep. in and out.

famous last words.

you’d barely made it through the main generator room when the first runners appeared, screeching as they hurled themselves down rusted catwalks. it was manageable at first���jesse on your flank, your rifle picking off the fast ones, his shotgun roaring like thunder in the enclosed space.

the problem wasn’t the runners. the problem was the collapse.

you’d heard the groan of metal and shouted a warning, but too late. a support beam gave way with a shriek, crashing through the walkway between you and jesse.

the world shuddered, dust choking your lungs. when it cleared, you were alone on one side of the control room, jesse on the other—separated by a thick pane of cracked security glass, reinforced and spiderwebbed but still intact.

you ran to it, pounding with your fist. “jesse!”

he was already up, bruised but moving, slamming his own fist against the other side. “shit. you okay?”

“yeah.” you coughed. “you?”

“fine.” his gaze flicked over your shoulder, sharp suddenly. “behind you.”

you spun. two more runners. you dispatched them quickly, breath coming fast.

“i can’t get through this,” jesse said, trying the door next to the glass. it was fused shut from the collapse, handle twisted uselessly. “stay put. i’ll find another way around.”

but your heart had already started to pound harder—not from exertion, but from the low, guttural roar that echoed up through the lower level vents.

a roar you’d only heard once before.

“bloater,” you whispered.

jesse’s face paled. “no. fuck—no, no, no.”

there was nowhere to run.

the floor vibrated with its steps before you saw it—a hulking shape emerging from the far end of the room, tearing a reinforced door clean off its hinges.

moss-covered plates of fungus armored its body, thick and rotted with age. the smell was suffocating—wet decay and spore-thick air that burned your throat even through your scarf.

the bloater paused, its eyeless head tilting, sensing movement. then it let out a roar and charged.

you barely had time to roll behind a concrete pillar, the thing’s massive arm smashing down where you’d stood a second before. shrapnel of concrete and spores exploded into the air.

through the haze, you heard jesse’s voice, frantic.

“(y/n), move! you can’t fight it alone—don’t! just hide until i—”

“i can’t!” you shouted, shouldering your rifle and firing. the bullets hit its armor with sickening thunks but didn’t slow it. “i have to.”

and jesse couldn’t reach you. he could only watch, fists white against the glass.

“please,” he said, voice cracking. “don’t do this.”

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. not with the bloater closing in again.

you ran. not away, but to higher ground—a rusted metal staircase half-collapsed but still climbable. you scrambled up as the bloater swung at the supports. the whole thing shuddered under its strength.

from your vantage point, you lobbed a molotov, the flame blooming against its fungal plating. it roared in fury but kept coming, tearing a pipe from the wall and hurling it toward you. the metal bar missed by inches, embedding in the wall behind.

“come on,” you muttered, reloading. “burn, you son of a bitch.”

jesse’s voice came again, hoarse. “it’s too armored! you need to hit the soft spots! under the plates!”

you knew. but knowing and hitting those weak spots while being hunted was another matter.

the staircase groaned ominously as the bloater grabbed it, pulling the whole structure down. you leapt clear, landing hard on your shoulder. pain lanced through your side, but you rolled to your feet, teeth gritted.

jesse was still pounding on the glass. “(y/n), you gotta move! there’s a gas line—see the valve near the generator!”

your gaze snapped to it. a bright red wheel near a rusted pipe.

you sprinted. the bloater chased, slower now but relentless. you reached the valve and turned it hard. the hiss of escaping gas filled the room.

“now what?” you gasped.

“spark it! spark it!” jesse shouted.

heart hammering, you drew your pistol, aimed at a nearby fuse box sparking with exposed wires—and fired.

the explosion was deafening.

fire rolled through the lower half of the room. the bloater shrieked, flailing in the flames. pieces of armor cracked and fell away, revealing raw, fungal flesh beneath.

now. now.

ignoring the heat and smoke, you ran, vaulting a fallen beam to get close. you switched to your shotgun, hands shaking but steady enough. you fired point-blank into the exposed tissue at its side. again. again. fungal matter sprayed in wet chunks.

the bloater swung wildly, catching your side with a glancing blow. you hit the ground hard, ribs screaming in protest.

“get up!” jesse’s voice cracked over the ringing in your ears. “please—get up!”

you forced yourself upright. the bloater was wounded now, sluggish, but not dead. you had one shell left.

you limped forward. blood trickled down your temple. you met its blind gaze—and fired the last round straight into its exposed throat.

for a moment, there was silence.

then the bloater collapsed with a final, shuddering groan, its body steaming and smoldering.

you stood over it, swaying. the room swam around you. but you were alive.

you heard the sound of metal giving way. jesse had found something—an old crowbar—and was prying the damaged door open with desperate strength. he burst through the gap moments later, sprinting toward you.

“(y/n)!”

you tried to smile but staggered. he caught you before you fell, arms wrapping around you like a lifeline.

“jesus. jesus christ.” his voice was rough, torn. “i thought—i thought—”

“i’m okay,” you managed, voice hoarse. “i’m okay.”

“you’re not. you’re bleeding.” his hand hovered near your side, eyes wide and glassy. “i just—i couldn’t do anything. i had to stand there and watch, and it killed me. you could’ve—” his voice broke off.

you reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “but i didn’t.”

his gaze locked with yours. for a second, it looked like he was going to say something else—then the dam broke.

“i love you, okay?” the words tumbled out, raw and desperate. “i’ve been trying to hold it in, trying to be smart about it, but watching you fight that thing and thinking you were gonna die and i couldn’t do a damn thing—” his breath hitched. “i can’t—i can’t do this anymore without telling you. i love you. you’re it for me.”

your heart stuttered. through the pain, the smoke, the blood, the words landed like a spark in your chest.

“jesse…” you cupped his face with a shaking hand. “i love you too. i—i didn’t know if i’d get the chance to say it. i kept thinking: if this is it… you should know.”

relief washed over his features, almost breaking him. a breathless laugh escaped him—half joy, half grief.

“come here,” he whispered, and leaned in.

the kiss was soft, trembling, reverent. no more words needed.

when he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours. his voice was quieter now, steadier.

“you scared the shit out of me.”

you managed a faint smile. “no promises.”

he exhaled a shaky breath, then straightened, slipping one arm beneath your shoulders. “let’s get you home.”

you nodded, and this time you didn’t argue—you let him carry you out of the wreckage.

weeks later, when your ribs had mostly healed and the bruises faded to dull yellow, jesse still woke some nights gasping, sweat-soaked.

you could always tell when it hit him worst. his breathing would change first—short, sharp. you’d wake before he even spoke.

“jesse,” you’d murmur, pulling him close. “i’m here.”

he’d clutch you then, as if grounding himself. sometimes he’d shake. sometimes his voice broke:

“i couldn’t reach you,” he’d whisper into your hair. “i just had to watch you fight that thing—i thought i was gonna lose you.”

and every time, you’d kiss him, slow and certain, fingers stroking his jaw. “you didn’t lose me. you won’t.”

he never argued, not anymore. he just held you tighter, as though afraid the promise would vanish if he let go.

it was a month after the outpost when tommy finally cleared you both to return to lighter patrols. that first evening back from the foothills, jesse surprised you—he didn’t head straight to the mess hall, didn’t suggest meeting the others.

instead, he led you quietly through the back streets of jackson to his cabin.

there were no words as you kicked off your boots by the door. he lit the stove, set a kettle to boil, then crossed the small space to where you sat curled on the couch.

jesse knelt in front of you, brow furrowed. he cupped your face gently, as though still half-afraid you’d vanish under his touch.

“i meant it,” he said softly, searching your eyes. “what i said back there. i love you.”

you smiled, fingers curling into his shirt. “you’ve shown me every day since.”

his breath caught—half a laugh, half relief. “yeah, well. i plan on keepin’ at it.”

you pulled him in then, your kiss slow and sure. there was no desperation in it now—just warmth, belonging, the quiet truth that neither of you had to run anymore.

later, after tea and laughter and shared silence beneath the worn quilt on his bed, jesse whispered against your temple:

“i used to think i had time. that i could tell you later.” his voice cracked faintly. “but watching you fight that thing—thinking it was too late—it changed everything. i won’t waste any more of it.”

you shifted closer, your voice a murmur. “me either.”

outside, snow began to fall again, soft against the windowpane. but inside, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world was warm, steady, and—at last—safe.

[gooblecontrol]

Echoes of the Ark Part 18:

Shadow touched down on Earth with a quiet thud, his mind focused on one thing: collecting the supplies the Professor needed to repair the ARK. Then collect the Master Emerald.

He swooped down onto a rooftop, his gaze scanning around the perimeter. The city’s lower districts had warehouses filled with the specialized materials the ARK required.

Shadow dropped down into the alley below. The sooner he finished, the better.

Meanwhile.

“There’s no doubt about it,” Tails muttered, adjusting his scanner. “Shadow’s around here somewhere.”

Sonic nodded. “Then it’s time to get to work.”

Tail glanced at him. “You really think he’s just going to sit down and have a heart-to-heart, Sonic? He… he looked pretty done with you back on the ARK.”

Sonic crossed his arms. “Yeah, well, I’m not done with him.”

Amy hesitated. “We'll find out soon enough. We just have to find him first.”

Tails looked up from his device. “Wait! I've got him. He’s moving fast.”

Sonic nodded. “Then let’s move.”

A blur of blue shot across the rooftops.

Back in the warehouse district.

Shadow moved through the storage facility, slipping past security. He pulled out a small device Gerald had given him, scanning for the materials they needed.

Almost done.

Then—his ears twitched.

A sudden rush of air.

Shadow barely had time to react before a gust of wind slammed past him, a sensation he knew all too well.

“Finally found ya,” Sonic said, his voice casual, but Shadow wasn’t fooled. There was a tightness to it, something raw beneath the bravado.

Shadow didn’t turn. “Go away.”

Sonic scoffed. “Yeah. Not happening.”

Shadow’s fists clenched. He felt the Chaos Energy begin to swirl around him.

Sonic took another step. “Shadow, don't you dare—”

But before he could finish, Shadow was already a blurr of black and red.

Shadow darted through the warehouse district. Just a few more supplies, and he could get out of here.

“There he is!”

Shadow barely suppressed a groan. He turned just in time to see Tails flying above him, his scanner blinking wildly.

“Shadow, wait!” Amy called, already on his tail.

Absolutely not.

Without a word, Shadow bolted.

“HEY!” Sonic’s voice rang out from nearby. Shadow didn’t bother looking up—he knew what would come next. Sonic would zip in, block his path, flash that stupidly confident grin, and try to tell him how wrong he was.

Nope. Not happening.

Shadow shot around a corner, quickly weaving his way through a maze of shipment containers and over a chain link fence. He barely landed before Tails’ voice crackled from nearby.

“He’s heading east! I’ll cut him off—”

Shadow changed course mid sprint, pausing two blocks over in a narrow alleyway.

Finally safe.

For exactly two seconds.

Because Amy was already there.

She stood with her hands on her hips, a knowing brow arched over her face. “You might be fast, but you’re not getting off this planet again without talking to him.”

Shadow exhaled through his nose. “I don't know what he told you, but I am not hearing it.”

Amy shook her head with a sigh. “You don’t have to listen. Just… talk.”

Shadow turned on his heel—

And Sonic skidded into the alley behind him.

Shadow cursed under his breath. Trapped.

Sonic dusted himself off and gave him an easy grin. “C’mon, Shads. You gonna keep running forever?”

Shadow stared at him, then slowly… deliberately… turned toward the nearest fire escape.

Sonic’s grin faltered. “Don’t—”

Too late.

Shadow launched himself upward, grabbing the ladder and up onto the metal steps. He took off, rushing from atop building to building. Sonic immediately gave chase.

“Oh, you're running again! Okay, cool, great, love that. Real mature!”

Shadow moved over the rooftops using every trick in the book—sharp turns, unexpected jumps, even knocking over scaffolding to slow Sonic down.

It didn’t matter. Sonic was faster.

He was always faster...

Shadow grit his teeth. Fine. Time for desperate measures.

With his next jump between buildings, he reached into his supply bag and hurled an object directly at Sonic’s face.

Sonic flinched, forcing him to a halt. Reflex took over—he caught it.

"BWAK—" it squawked on impact.

A yellow rubber chicken was clutched in his fist.

Sonic stared at the floppy yellow plastic in confusion. "Why do you even HAVE th—"

By the time Sonic looked up, all that was left was the crackle of chaos energy. Shadow was gone.

“…Why did he have this?”

Sonic stood there, holding the chicken like it held the answers.

The town of Green Glade was as quaint as Shadow remembered it. It was the last place on his list.

One final stop for a few components before he went after the Master Emerald.

It was also a place Shadow had hoped to avoid. The last time he was here, he had tried to save the town from one of Eggman’s robots, but his efforts had ended in disaster.

The bakery was wrapped in fresh construction work, and the fountain was barricaded off, caught in the same fate.

Shadow was determined to be discreet. He kept to the shadows. The professor needed specific parts to repair the ARK, and Shadow wasn’t about to let another mishap delay their mission.

He slipped past the warning tape surrounding the rusted remains of the giant EggBot he had fought, now abandoned on the outskirts of town.

He rummaged through its carcass, plucking out gears and wires before stuffing them into his bag. Then—

"Hey!"

His quills bristled. Not them again. He braced himself.

But when he turned, he was met with wide, hopeful eyes.

A young opossum stood there. They couldn’t have been more than ten years old.

"You’re Shadow the Hedgehog!" they gasped, gripping a tattered action figure that suspiciously resembled him. "The one who punched that robot so hard its head flew two towns over!"

Shadow stared. "That’s… not what happened."

"That’s what I saw!" The kid pointed dramatically at the wreckage. "You saved us!"

Shadow’s ear twitched. "I didn’t save anyone. I destroyed half your town."

The opossum shook their head. “No, you didn’t! You stopped the robot! Sure, the bakery got smooshed, and Old Man Clem’s fence is still in the river, but there's no more robots wrecking our town."

Shadow opened his mouth—then closed it. He wasn’t equipped for this. "You don’t understand. I caused more problems than I fixed."

"So?" They shrugged. "I trip over my own tail all the time. Doesn’t mean it's not super useful to."

Shadow blinked. "That’s… not the same."

"Why not?" They thrusted the action figure at him like it gave a counterargument. "Sonics, cool, but I wanna be just like you! Dark! Cool! Mysterious! And also punching evil robots!"

Shadow’s expression flattened. "No."

"Why?"

"Because I’m not a hero." The words came out sharper than he meant.

Silence.

Before either could break it, what was left of the EggBot flickered a glowing red.

A low hum vibrated through its rusted frame.

"Uh…" The opossum took a step back. "Is it supposed to—"

"Move."

Shadow yanked them aside as what was left of the robot’s clawed fist slammed down where they’d been standing.

The bot swung again—Shadow leapt, driving his fist straight into its chest panel. Metal crumpled like foil against his chaos energy. His fingers closed around the last thing he needed: the power converter, still pulsing with fading energy.

He growled—ripping it free.

The robot collapsed back into a heap of scrap.

The kid stood frozen. Shadow tossed the converter into his bag and turned to leave—

"THAT WAS SO COOL!" They beamed shaking off their shock.

Shadow didn’t stop walking. "Next time, stay away from broken robots, kid. Or working ones. Or any Eggman machines, really."

The opossum scrambled toward the hedgehog, undeterred. "But what if I find another one? What if it’s evil? What if—"

"Then run." Shadow activated his skates. "And pray I’m not the one who has to save you."

With a burst of speed, he was gone.

Shadow didn’t look back. He had seen his mistakes as proof that he didn’t belong in Sonic’s world of heroics. But maybe it wasn’t as true as he had thought.

<< Part 17 | Master Post | Part 19 >>

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Caroline Glick

Two underlying assumptions guided Israel’s security establishment for the past generation. The first asserted that with the end of the Cold War, the era of conventional wars had ended. In the present age, brains, rather than brawn, would rule the roost.

The primary author of the “small and smart IDF” doctrine was Ehud Barak, who served as Chief of General Staff of the Israel Defense Forces when the Berlin Wall crumbled. In later years, the slogan was finessed.

A generation of IDF Chiefs of General Staff organized around the vision of a “small, technological and lethal army.”

As Maj. Gen. Yitzhak Brick, (retired) who served as the IDF ombudsman for ten years, has documented, operating under the spell of Barak’s doctrine, the IDF shut down multiple reserve divisions. It cut its artillery forces by 50%. Armored brigades were shut down. The reserve force was reduced by 80% between 2003 and 2017. The non-commissioned officer corps was gutted. The bulk of the IDF budget and nearly all the U.S. military aid were diverted to the Air Force—the strategic arm of the “small, technological and lethal” IDF.

The doctrine was repeatedly exposed as a farce. But to no avail. The air force didn’t defeat the Palestinian terror factories in Judea and Samaria in 2002. The ground forces did. The air force never had a response to missiles from Hezbollah to the north and Hamas to the south. Without regional brigades defending the borders, Israel’s “peacetime” borders with Jordan on the east and Egypt at its west became highways for weapons smugglers.

Brick’s warnings fell on deaf ears until the “small, smart army” fallacy was obliterated by Hamas invaders on Oct. 7. Israel’s multi-billion shekel “smart fence” was felled by bulldozers. Its automatic response system was obliterated by RPGs. Hundreds of soldiers manning these worthless technological wonders were slaughtered or kidnapped. Everything failed.

A microcosm of all things oppressive

This brings us to the second underlying assumption that guided Israel’s security establishment for the past generation. This assumption, also championed by Barak, asserted that Israel’s most important strategic asset was the United States.

Leaving aside the obvious fact that a strategy of dependence on an outside actor effectively gutted Israel’s national independence, on the surface, Barak’s dependence concept seemed reasonable.

The Americans rescued Israel with its weapons airlift in the 1973 Yom Kippur War. In 1992, the United States was the sole global superpower. Because Israel was seen as Washington’s “mini-me,” countries worldwide lined up to be friends with Israel, which they perceived as the gateway to Washington. The vast majority of Americans supported Israel. U.S. military aid to Israel enjoyed wide bipartisan support.

Under the spell of Barak’s U.S. dependence doctrine, Israel gutted its domestic military production capabilities. Nearly everything that it had produced domestically—from uniforms to rifles to bullets, to artillery and tank shells—was shut down. Thousands of military industry workers lost their jobs. Knowledge was lost. The contracts moved to the United States. Even projects developed jointly by Israeli engineers financed by America were transferred to the United States for production. So it happened that Israel’s Iron Dome missiles are solely produced in the United States.

[victusinveritas]

Here's the full piece (pulled from https://www.armeniapedia.org/index.php?title=Understanding_Oil without any edits.

The brutal attacks/bombings this week in New York, and Washington D.C., along with threats of attacks there and elsewhere in the country have changed our times forever. While the mass media concentrates on the details of the destruction, and the blanketed words of politicians, I will attempt to understand and explain the events from the fence. BOMBING AND BEING BOMBED ARE THE SAME THINGS ON DIFFERENT SIDES OF THE FENCE.

Terror is not a spontaneous human action without credence. People just dont hijack planes and commit harikari (suicide) without any weight of thought to the action. No one in the media seems to ask WHY DID THESE PEOPLE DO THIS HORRIFIC ACT OF VIOLENCE AND DESTRUCTION?

To be able to understand the answer to this, we must first look at our U.S. Mideast Policy. During most of the 20th century, U.S. businesses have worked on attaining oil rights and concessions from countries in the Middle East and Eastern Europe. After WWI, secret back door deals by our State Dept. yielded oil rights from then defeated Turkey to fields in what is now Iraq and Saudi Arabia, in return for looking the other way at a crime against humanity, the Genocide of the Armenians by the Turks. Oil profits have been the motivating factors behind many attempts at counterinsurgency of democratic regimes by the CIA and the U.S in the Middle East (such as Iran in the 1950s, where the Shah replaced the Prime Minister who refused to give up oil rights to the U.S., and since the people couldnt deal with the Shah, an extremist government headed by the Ayatollah Khomeini ultimately prevailed). During the Iran-Iraq war, America supplied both sides with weapons and advice. These are not the actions of a rich superpower wanting peace. Lets not forget that Saddam Hussein, before being Americas vision of the Anti-Christ, was a close ally of the U.S., and the CIA. So what was the firm belief system of consecutive American administrations that caused all this to occur ? PEACE IN THE MIDDLE EAST WILL LEAD TO HIGHER OIL AND GASOLINE PRICES. Lets not also forget the power of the Arms industry, disguised as defense, that still sells billions of dollars of weapons to the area. Therefore it has not been in the short-term economic interest of the U.S. to foster Peace in the Middle East. Using the above reasoning, the U.S. has encouraged extremist governments, toppled democracies, as in the case of Iran to replace it with a monarchy, rigged elections, and many more unspeakable political crimes for U.S. businesses abroad. Lets not also forget the Red Scare. During the war between the then Soviet Union and Afghanistan, the U.S. armed and supported the Taliban, a fundamentalist Muslim organization, and allowed them to export opium and heroin out of their country to pay for those weapons. Therefore the Taliban rose to power and control with the help of the U.S.A. Today, the bombing of Iraq still continues, no longer covered by the media, the economic embargo still remains, killing millions of children, and recently, while the world and the U.N. General Assembly have cried out to bring in peacekeeping forces into Israel and Palestine, to end the escalated war and recent assassinations, the U.S. has vetoed the rest of the Security Council and has halted the possibility of peace, there, in the most volatile place in the world.

People in Serbia, Lebanon, Iraq, Sudan, and Afghanistan to name a few have seen bombs fall, not always at military targets and kill innocent civilians, as the scene in New York city yesterday. The wars waged by our government in our names has landed smack in the middle of our living room. The half hour of destruction closed down all world financial markets, struck the central headquarters of our military, and had our leaders running into bunkers, and our citizens into fear and frenzy. What scares me more than what has occurred is what our reactions to the occurrences may cause. President Bush belongs to a long generation of Republican Presidents who love war economies. The media has only concentrated on the bombings, if you will, and what type of retaliations are looming for the perpetrators. What everyone fails to realize is that the bombings are a reaction to existing injustices around the world, generally unseen to most Americans. To react to a reaction would be to further sponsor the reaction. In other words, my belief is that the terror will multiply if concrete steps are not taken to sponsor peace in the middle east, NOW. This does not mean that we should not find the guilty party(s), Bin Laden, or whoever they may be, and not try them. Put simply, as long as a major injustice remains, violence precipitates to the surface of life.

Native American folklore, the Bible, Nostradamus, and many other major religious beliefs point to this era with the visuals of yesterdays disasters, and conditions of ecological disasters we experience daily in our lives today. War, rumors of war, famine, long burning fires, etc., are at our doorstep. We can prevail over this possible vision with the power of the human spirit, understanding, compassion, and peace. ITS TIME TO PUT OUR NEEDS FOR SECURITY AND SURVIVAL, ACHIEVED ONLY THROUGH PEACE, ABOVE AND BEYOND PROFITS, ESPECIALLY IN THESE TIMES.

SOLUTION:

The U.S. should stop sidestepping the U.N. Security Council, and allow U.N. Peacekeeping troops and missions to the Middle East. Stop the violence first.

Stop the bombing and patrol of Iraq.

With todays gains in the use of alternative fuels, develop them to full usage with autos and other utilities, to make the country less dependant on an already depleting natural reserve, oil.

By initiating peace, we would have already shaken the foundations of support for Bin Laden, and/or all those that sponsor activities like those we saw yesterday, and break the stronghold of extremists on the world of Islam. On the other hand, if we carry out bombings on Afghanistan or elsewhere to appease public demand, and very likely kill innocent civilians along the way, wed be creating many more martyrs going to their deaths in retaliation against the retaliation. As shown from yesterdays events, you cannot stop a person whos ready to die.

Source: http://donce.awardspace.com/esej.html [dead link]

[cynicalone94]

Please Don't

Read on AO3 here.

Jay is at his desk, already hard at work on the case by the time the rest of the unit returns from the crime scene.

He clearly doesn’t want to talk about what had happened so they follow his lead, settling in to go over leads.

Jay’s already made up the first case board with history on their victim.

“I think I have an angle on this and I don’t like it.” he says, looking up at them.

“Let’s hear it.” Voight says.

“Our vic, Darren Redford, worked security at the water treatment plant.” Jay says. “Located on the shore of Lake Michigan, all running water that goes through Chicago is processed through the facility. The Middle East angle suggests a possible terror attack and this would be an ugly one.”

“If he works security, he might have been able to give them access to the plant.” Hailey comments.

“We need to find out if he did.” Voight says. “Maybe they had to give up and cut their losses.”

“Even if they did.” Jay says. “They’ll find a way into the plant or somewhere else they can cause a lot of damage.”

“We need to find them too.” Voight agrees. “We’ve got pods from the park where he was found and patrol is canvassing for victims. Was there a missing persons report?”

“No.” Jay says. “I do have a next of kin, a sister who lives in Englewood.”

“Take Hailey and make the notification.” Voight orders. “And then head out to the plant. We need to narrow down when he was kidnapped.”

He nods, reaching for his jacket and heading for the stairs with Hailey following.

“Sorry for ditching you earlier.” he says quietly.

“Don’t worry about it.” she tells him. “You okay?”

“It… uh… it threw me for a minute. But I’m good.” he tells her honestly. “I talked to Will.”

She nods, squeezing his arm as they split, going to opposite sides of the truck.

“We need to handle this.” he says as he starts the engine. “But maybe when it’s over we can do our thing?”

“Of course.” she tells him quickly.

He offers her a smile and she feels her stomach flip. As if she would ever deny him their thing.

The sister is shattered by the news but can’t tell them anything. She and Darren don’t see each other often and haven’t spoken even by phone for almost two weeks.

After making sure a neighbor is able to sit with her, Jay and Hailey head to the plant.

It isn’t much more productive.

Darren had taken an unexpected vacation a little over a week ago and nobody has heard from him since.

They are able to ascertain that his credentials haven’t been used to access the plant since then. Jay encourages the management to increase security until they can find the killers and to ensure that his access his terminated immediately.

After getting information on any threats that have been made they reluctantly leave, calling Voight with an update as soon as they get outside.

They get their first big break in the case just as they pull out of the plant.

And it isn’t a good one.

A large truck comes out of nowhere to ram into the passenger side of the truck as Jay pulls onto the road, sending the truck careening off the road to impact the security fence.

Jay is tossed around roughly by the impact, head bouncing off the door several times before the truck comes to a stop.

He looks over, blinking to clear his vision to see Hailey slumped against the console, the door of the truck brutally indented and blood running down the right side of her face.

“Hailey!” he shouts, reaching over to place his fingers against the side of her neck while he reaches for the radio with his other hand. “5021 George. Need an ambulance and CFD to the Water Treatment Plant, Officer injured. Suspect vehicle rammed us off the road.”

His door is pulled open and he glances back to see two individuals in dark clothes and ski masks standing behind him.

“Who the hell are you?” he snarls.

It’s a dumb question. It’s whoever had murdered Darren Redford. But why come after them? This doesn’t move whatever plan Darren had spoiled by refusing to talk forward.

“You’re coming with us.” the man says, pointing a rifle at him.

So they can torture him like they’d tortured Darren his mind is quick to supply but he shoves the panic down. This isn’t the time.

“You leave her alone.” he says.

Hailey’s hurt but she’s breathing and her heart is beating. Paramedics are on the way and they’ll take care of her.

“Get out of the truck.” the man snaps back and Jay unbuckles his seat belt, sliding down with his hands up.

His gun is pulled from his holster and thrown carelessly onto the seat. It’s followed by his phone and then he’s being shoved away from the truck and toward a dark SUV.

He ends up in the backseat, sandwiched between two men with guns as the doors slam closed.

He hasn’t been restrained but that doesn’t make him feel any better about the whole situation.

He tries telling himself that he doesn’t care what they do to him as long as Hailey is okay but the truth is that he does care.

He cares a lot.

They can beat him, shock him, burn him and he really won’t care that much. He can take a beating and keep on kicking. He always could, even in elementary school when his worst enemies were bullies on the playground.

But if they fuck around with needles there’s a good chance he’ll lose his shit.

And Will is definitely going to have to come to his apartment with his flu shot next year.

“So what’s the plan then?” he says darkly. “Cause things didn’t work out so well with your friend, Redford, did they?”

“Should be more worried about yourself than our plans.” the man in the front seat says, turning to look at him. “You’ve seen what we do to the people that we need information from.”

“Yeah.” Jay scoffs. “And what exactly is that you want to know?”

“Nothing.” the man says. “But I saw you at the scene, saw you when your team found Redford’s body. Something that we did to him got to you. And I want to know what.”

Jay’s stomach flips but he forces his face to remain neutral.

“That’s a pretty dumb reason to kidnap a cop. Did you even think this through? My team is going to find you. And whatever plan you had goes out the window.”

“I don’t think so.” the man says. “But it doesn’t matter. I want to see you break.”

Jay returns the eager, overly exciting look with a glare and doesn’t say anything.

All too soon, they arrive at a warehouse in a dying industrial district. He’s pulled from the car and drug inside, strapped tightly to a chair in the middle of the open room.

His captors start small, attacking him with their feet and fists.

The blows are painful but nothing that he hasn’t endured before and they quickly abandon that method.

The man from the car is just standing there nearby, watching him and Jay can see him mentally checking something off his list.

He hands one of his men a knife and Jay just raises an eyebrow as it bites into his skin.

He chuckles, waving to them to keep cutting and Jay rolls his eyes, trying to force his tense muscles to relax.

When the man finally waves them off, he looks down to see the words ‘filthy pig’ carved into his chest.

They try electricity next and try as he might, he can’t hold back the screams that escape him with every press of the cattle prod against his vulnerable flesh.

But it doesn’t even come close to breaking him and the man quickly sees that, shaking his head after only five shocks and waving his men on to the next torment on his list.

Waterboarding is hell on earth and anyone who tells you otherwise has never experienced it or is lying to you.

He can’t help fighting back as he’s released from the chair and taken over to the slanted table.

It doesn’t take a genius to know what’s up next and while he can ultimately handle it, while it won’t be what the bastard is looking for, that doesn’t mean that he’s ready to let it happen.

A blow to the back of the head sends him tumbling to the ground and then they take hold of his arms and drag him over to the table.

He doesn’t get much chance to fight back, still disoriented from the hit, before he’s strapped down, wrists and ankles first and then additional straps ensuring that he can’t move even a little.

Soaked cloth is placed over his face and he quickly holds his breath.

He was trained for this. It doesn’t make it pleasant but it does mean that he knows everything the US Army has been able to learn over its extensive history about surviving being waterboarded.

Then water is pouring over his face and all he can do is struggle against the straps holding him down, struggle to get free, struggle to breathe.

The water stops and he coughs hard, choking and spluttering as he tries to clear his airway, tries to catch his breath.

The man is leaning over him, watching with a detached interest.

“Interesting.” he says finally. “That is when Redford started sobbing, begging us to stop. When he gave up the first code.”

Jay glares at him.

Someone grabs his hand and he screams as they jerk his index finger harshly to the side, snapping the delicate bones.

“That … shooting hand… fucker.” he chokes out and the man laughs.

“I’m so glad I’ve had the chance to play with you.” he says with a wide grin. “I’ve never had so much fun in my life.”

His hand closes around Jay’s throat and he tenses, hands pulling desperately against the straps binding them as it tightens and his air is cut off.

But their hold is unrelenting and as he thrashes about, dark spots begin to appear at the corners of his vision.

The man holds his grip until Jay starts to black out and then releases it.

“Maybe he needs longer.” one of the other men suggests.

“He reacted so severely to seeing signs that it had been done to someone else.” the man says, shaking his head. “It won’t take more than one time to get the reaction I’m looking for.”

He’s burned, first with a cigar and then with a hot poker, whipped, and sits for nearly an hour in the complete, deafened, darkness of sensory deprivation.

None of it is pleasant and a number of agonized screams are drawn from his throat. But never once does he lose control the way that the man wants so desperately to see.

Not until he’s strapped back to that damn table and the man wheels over a small tray with needles lined up on it.

His pulse immediately begins to race, eyes locked on the tray no matter how hard he tries to rip his gaze away.

No longer is he worried about Hailey, wondering how badly she was injured, if she’s awake and worrying about him yet.

All he can think about is those needles. About what the man is planning to do with them.

Pain spreads through his right shoulder, lancing down his entire arm and he lets out a choked whimper despite knowing that the man hasn’t done anything yet.

A damp, musty smell invades his senses and he writhes against the restraining straps.

“What. is the code?” a voice echoes in his ear and he turns his head.

He needs to calm down. He can’t lose control now, can’t let this bastard win.

Five things he can see.

Walls. Flick – Needles.

His breathing accelerates; short, gasping breaths that aren’t bringing in any air.

He can hear screams in the distance, the rustle of footsteps on uneven stone, and gunfire.

No.

He’s in Chicago.

He’s not there anymore. His team is coming for him. He just needs to stay strong.

Stay present.

“This is it, isn’t it?” a voice says next to him, the man unwittingly helping to ground him in the moment. “This is what shattered you yesterday morning. The needle marks on Redford’s body. You realized what had been done to him. Perhaps because you’ve experienced it.”

Jay is shaking, still breathing hard, but at least the flashbacks are held at bay for a moment.

The man picks up a needle from the tray and he winces, pulling away from him as much as he can as another whimper escapes his throat.

The man ghosts the needle across his bare flesh, raising a trail of goosebumps in it’s wake and Jay closes his eyes.

“Please don’t.” he whispers. “Please.”

The needle is lifted and moved to hover over his left hip.

Jay starts screaming, thrashing wildly against the restraints.

“Get that away from me you motherfucker.” he shouts before his words devolve into a stream of threats and insults and then further into incoherent pleas.

It doesn’t take long to get his first glimpse of Jay as the team storms across the warehouse floor, shouts of ‘police’, ‘don’t move’ and ‘get away from him’ flowing easily from their mouths.

It’s the only easy thing about the situation because it’s also not long before he realizes that Jay is completely panicking.

“Drop the needle now!” he booms as he sees the object in the man’s hand, sees it’s identical twin buried deep in Jay’s hip.

The man’s face twists in a disgusting fury but he does as ordered.

The other men are equally quick to give up, raising their hands and stepping away from Jay.

As soon as hands are on them, beginning the process of cuffing them and searching for weapons, Kevin holsters his weapon and presses close to Jay’s side.

“No please.” Jay is still begging, sobbing as he fights against the restraints. “Please don’t. Please no. Please.”

Kevin ignores the litany of desperate pleas, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Easy Jay.” he says. “It’s over. You’re safe now. We’ve got you and we won’t let them hurt you anymore.”

Jay doesn’t respond but the pace of his pleas slows slightly, a slight twist of confusion settling on his face and Kevin keeps talking, falling into a steady cycle of reassurances.

Silence falls around them, Voight pulling back the team to give them space as Kevin fights to bring Jay back to the present.

After what seems like forever, Jay’s struggles finally fall still and he’s blinking up at Kevin with something approximating clarity in his eyes.

“Hey.” he says, forcing a smile onto his face as he starts to unfasten the straps holding his friend down. “There you are are.”

“Kev?” Jay gasps.

“I’m here.” he says. “Whole team is here and those bastards are getting locked away forever. Got an ambulance and paramedics waiting to look you over.”

“‘m fine.” Jay says and the smile on Kevin’s face becomes more real.

“Sure you are.” he agrees. “But you know how EMTs are. Get real worried about things like burns and lacerations.”

Jay doesn’t respond to the joke and he sighs.

“You’re beat to hell man. Gotta let them do their job.”

“Hailey okay?”

“Couple fractured ribs, broken arm and a concussion.” Kevin fills him in. “But she’s awake and spitting mad that we wouldn’t let her come on the raid.”

Jay nods and Kev turns away to signal to Voight that they’re ready for the bus.

Jay grabs his arm and he looks back.

“No needles.” Jay whispers. “Please.”

He frowns.

An IV is a given with Jay’s condition. He doesn’t want to make a promise that he can’t keep but he also doesn’t want to refuse his friend this one request.

A very justified request under the circumstances.

“Can’t give you pain meds without an IV.” he says slowly.

“Don’t want them.” Jay says, shaking his head.

“Jay.” he says, biting his lip. “I wish I could give this to you, man, really I do but the IV is not negotiable. What can I do to make it easier for you?”

Jay stares back at him, eyes watering.

“Stay?” he finally whispers and Kevin puts his hand over the one still resting on his arm.

“Done.” he promises. “Not going anywhere, bro.”

[a-land-lacking-sleep]

PLA Fic: A New Home - Chapter 1: Prelude Beach

Here's the fic I promised you back in June, lul. I had about half of it written back then, but I just finished the second half of it today. This was originally going to be a really long one-shot, then a 3 chapter fic, and now who knows. Not me. I hope it's just 4, but it could be 6!

While this story is connected to my Electric Trains series of fics, it is also made as a stand alone! I hope you all enjoy.

Chapter Summary: Jubilife is established, and The Diamond Clan makes themselves known. Chapter Word Count: 4440

As always, read below or on AO3! Comments and reblogs always enjoyed!

September 30th, 1869

The name came from one of his more optimistic captains, Zisu Perilia of the Security Corp. Another victim of the war that Johto had endured with Kanto during the Imperial Unification, though thankfully a tad too young to endure many of the battles personally. Unlike Denboku, who had tempered his mettle with blade and tactics on the field of battle, where he watched both men and Pokemon bleed out their last.

But it was from her mind that the name of the beach landing sprung. “Prelude Beach,” she had said with a smile on her face. “The start of our new life, away from the pain that everyone had to endure back home.” A fine sentiment, and one that the other arrivals had latched onto with a fervent need. It wasn’t just Johto that had been hit by the succession crisis, but even the rural Hoenn had refugees fleeing from the nobles who felt that they were owed power and slowly crept their way south until they were trapped in Slatesea Port and either killed or imprisoned by the newly restored Imperial forces.

In fact, that was how Beni had joined him in that tiny village outside of Azalea, before the two became brothers on the field of war.

But that was all in the past now. Hisui is going to be a new beginning for them. It has to be. They will carve themselves a piece of land separate from the wilds and build themselves a village, one where they can live with jubilation and grow old without fear. And really, Denboku isn’t surprised when he finds a sign planted at the southern end of the planned layout of the settlement, and another at the northern end, both labeled “Site of Jubilife Village”.

Though he keeps his face set in the permanent scowl that is expected of him, his heart swells with joy to know that the people, the refugees of war and their protectors alike, felt safe enough to boldly claim such a name for themselves.

Nearing the end of the first week, they properly built a perimeter fence around the Village, though even calling it such in this state was almost humorous. It is a collection of tents, centralized in the middle of a large clearing split by a river and surrounded by small cliffs. The fence was barely chest high, just enough to keep curious Pokemon out, but not quite enough to keep actual threats away without a constant guard. Up against the cliffs to the east, Colza and Tao Hua are setting up the crop fields, and amongst the tents Sanqua and her right hand Flaoro are busy designating the spots where foundations will be built for houses.

It is an uneventful week, in all honesty. Their security patrols consisted of 8 men armed with daggers, along with trained Geodude and Scyther, with a Golbat to help patrol at night. And with that, the local Pokemon swiftly learned to stay away from the fences, in fear of concussions or gaping wounds leaving them as easy prey for other Pokemon. The only ones that still come close are the blue and black cats, which remind some of the Security Corp of the Manectric in Hoenn, and even they flee with a well placed Mud Bomb. 

It is the night of the 8th day in Jubilife that Denboku found himself sitting in the moonlight on the cliff east of the village, quietly meditating. He had picked up the habit while protecting the Sprout Monks back in Johto, during the war when they had become easy targets. After a long week of plotting out housing and preparing for the second ship to arrive in a week’s more time, sitting in the cool autumn air and listening to the odd big Pokémon chiming in the fields below felt like bliss. 

“Good evening, Captain,” he says brusquely as Zisu makes a spot next to him and sits down. 

“Evening, Commander,” she responds, a smile across her face as she settles into place. “You don’t mind if I join you, do you?” It was phrased like a question, but Denboku knew it wasn’t; Zisu knows she is welcome at any time.

“Are you here for meditation, or do you wish to speak about something?” Denboku hasn’t yet turned to face her, keeping his eyes closed as he slowly breathes in the night air. 

Zisu is silent for a moment before speaking. “Beni said he found a Pokémon rooting through his food supplies.” Denboku’s eyebrows furrow as he leans forward and rubs a hand against his temple. “I’m sure you know that means that it had to sneak in using more than just instinct. Especially since it was a Munchlax.”

That gets Denboku’s attention, causing him to look over at Zisu for the first time since she sat down. “Those are rarer than the Beasts in Johto,” he mutters before straightening his posture. “If there is a Munchlax ransacking our stores, then we need to stop it from continuing to do so. And if it can slip past a ninja in his own home, then it has to be well trained.”

“I already told my men to be on the lookout for any locals,” Zisu says. “If they see one, they’re to get a Captain who can speak the local language to talk with them and find the owner of the Pokémon.”

Denboku absently nods as he strokes his moustache. He was thankful that Ginter and those of the Gingko Guild were able to help his Team learn the local language, as they have been doing some trade with the natives for over two decades now. Ginter had also been keen to let them know that no foreigners ever set up on Hisuian land. “Do you think this is targeted? Or is this creature acting on its own?”

Zisu immediately shakes her head. “This Pokémon is most likely trained, but we haven’t seen anybody nearby this week since we’ve started setting up. I doubt we’re completely unnoticed, Commander, but I don’t think we’re being targeted.” Denboku huffs quietly, and nods in agreement after a moment.

As his companion starts to stand, though, he holds his hand out. “Stay awhile Zisu. I have a story to share.”

“You haven’t exhausted your stories yet, Kamado?” Zisu says with a laugh as she sits down into a more comfortable position.

“A Cianwood girl like you has plenty of Johto she doesn’t know about,” Denboku says with a glint in his eyes and a twitch of his facial hair. “I know you’ve been to the Ilex Forest when I was preparing the Galaxy Team.” Zisu nods, remembering the forest vaguely from her short time walking through it to Azalea. “But I’m sure you’ve never heard of the Protector of the Forest?”

When Zisu shakes her head, all Denboku does is nod and close his eyes. “Ilex Forest is special amongst the forests of Johto. It’s been tranquil since my grandfather’s youth, and it was tranquil through the war.” He breathes in deep as he hears Zisu settle in and lay back on the grass. “The forest has a protector, a sprite that keeps the trees tall and the waters clear. Even as the war raged and nearly burned down Goldenrod, it was untouched. All because of Celebi.

“Celebi is what allowed Azalea to be a safe haven during the war, what allowed me to go through Johto and find those in need of help and protect them, like it protected us.” He looks out over the fieldlands, the moonlight illuminating the grass and trees, and the distant river a smear of silver ink from this view. “It had fantastic powers, befitting a legend. It has taken platoons of men and moved them forward past the time of their battles. Brought us lost items days before they were lost. And so a shrine was built in the middle of the forest.”

“Never expected you to be a shrine goer,” Zisu says with a tease in her voice, looking over at Denboku with a smile to match her voice. “You always fit in with the monks, but never in that sense.”

“Wouldn’t call myself a shrine goer, neither,” Denboku says with a huff. “I would go before I left Azalea on journeys, but I wouldn’t go and leave offerings on a set schedule like a true devotee. But that’s beside the point.” He waves his hand to refocus the conversation and then strokes his moustache. “But it’s said that Azalea is not the only forest that was visited by a Celebi. Viridian was home to one for several decades, and people claim in Celadon to have seen two of them flying through the trees.

“But once war reached those forests, and people began to pare the forests down to settle in, the sightings vanished. Now only Ilex, a forest that has remained peaceful and untouched even after all these decades, has one.” Denboku looks out over the fieldlands, out to the forest beyond the silver river. “I want to ensure that our land here in Hisui would be one that Celebi would find hospitable.” 

There’s a moment of silence before Zisu responds with a soft hum. “Yes, I think that would be nice. Being able to keep this place peaceful and safe for everyone.” The two continue to sit quietly, letting the stars and the moon circle overhead.

—

October 10th, 1869

Though the cold was beginning to quickly set in on the Village as fall progressed, the men working on the foundation of the main Galaxy Building often found themselves dressed lightly. And most lightly dressed was Denboku himself, who is wearing but a gray hakama as he shovels dirt towards the ever-filling corner that his Golem is ever-emptying. And it is when he is in this state that Ress comes running from the town’s fence. “Commander Kamado, we have a local wanting to speak with you!”

Denboku sighs, and waves at his Golem to keep up its work, which it happily obliges to by rolling into the dirt and bulldozing it flat. Once he climbs out of the pit, Denboku quickly douses his face in the river water to wash any dirt off, and pulls his coat over himself, leaving it draped over his shoulders as he stalks towards the fencing to the east of the Village.

He is slightly surprised when he catches sight of the local, though he shouldn’t be as she at least seems a few years older than Zisu is despite his smaller stature. When it comes to her companion, however, he is completely unsurprised to see a rather large Munchlax chewing away at a berry.

“Greetings,” Denboku says, bowing slightly at the fence as he speaks in Hisuian to the best of his abilities. “Apologize for the state of my look. I have been at work. I am the Commander, Kamado.”

To her credit, the young woman only has to cover her mouth briefly as she holds back her laugh, then resets her face into neutrality. “I am Mai,” she says in heavily accented Kanto-ben. “I have more experience with your tongue than you with mine, so let us make this easier for us both.” While relieved, Denboku tries to hide it from his face by pursing his lips and twitching his moustache. “I believe you’ve been looking for me, Commander?”

Denboku nods, then gestures to the Munchlax absently eating beside her. “More specifically, I’ve been looking for whoever is the owner of that beast. We’ve caught it going through our food like it owns the place.”

“It has a better claim to the land than you do,” Mai says with a slight shift in posture, her hand resting on her hip as she leans slightly to the side. Not confrontational, but decidedly not welcoming. “You all showed up on your boats without warning, and he smelled food. While I didn’t plan for him to raid your storerooms, I can’t exactly blame him for getting easy food.”

“That easy food is what we need to survive, child,” Denboku says, glaring down at the young woman as she shakes her head. “We are working on getting farmland cultivated, so the food we brought with us is what we have. My people and I would greatly appreciate if you kept control over that beast of yours.”

“And I would appreciate it if you didn’t act like you were the lord of this land just because you believe you own this Village,” Mai shoots back, her tone unchanged from the neutral tone she’s held this entire conversation. “I would also refrain from telling others you own this land, unless you think you can convince my Leader, Adaman, to accept you.”

Pausing, Denboku takes a deep breath and releases it, then squares his posture and stares into Mai’s eyes. “Then how may I talk with your Leader? We don’t wish for conflict, we just want to live our lives.”

“He sent me a message this morning,” Mai says, a smirk forming on her lips. “He will be here in a few days time to discuss your ability to remain here.” Before Denboku could argue another word, she bows respectfully and turns to walk away, effortlessly scooping up Munchlax and carrying it away from the Village.

Denboku watches her walk away, then turns on his feet back towards the village. “Ress, go gather Zisu and Colza, and tell them to meet me by the main bridge. I’ll get Tao Hua and Sanqua, we need to discuss their arrival.” As Ress runs off into the Village proper, Denboku keeps his path towards the pit where the Galaxy Building will be, doing his best not to grind his teeth. Once he gets within earshot, he shouts out “Sanqua! Get on out of there!” He turns towards the store that is half-assembled across the grassy road. “You too, Tao Hua!”

There’s a bit of grumbling from the store as Tao Hua makes his way out of the building, sneering back at the way he came and holding his hip in place as he walks. “No need to yell, Kamado, I can hear you just fine!” He straightens with a grunt, his hip popping into place as he hobbles off of the store step. Across from him, Sanqua clambers up the ladder, wearing a simple white top streaked in mud, just like her hair and face. “What’s the big fuss?”

“We’re holding an Officers Meeting,” Denboku says, scratching slightly at his moustache. “That Mai woman told me that her Leader will be coming in a few days to discuss our right to be here.” Tao Hua sneers and looks in the direction of where Denboku had come from, while Sanqua gets a worried look on her face.

“Do you think they’d remove us? This is technically their land,” she says, looking back at the large hole for the building foundations that they’ve dug, as well as multiple skeletons of buildings around. Sanqua was younger even than Zisu, having gotten her position in Galaxy by being a fantastic worker and a good head for math. “This was the only good place in this area from what Ginter told us.”

“We won’t be leaving if I have anything to say,” Denboku grumbles as his Golem burrows his way up out of the ground behind the pit. He stalks past the pair to cross the simple bridge over the river to the southern side, catching sight of Ress coming his way with Zisu and Colza in tow. Giving a short wave, Ress breaks away to go cover the eastern gate again as the Captains all assemble.

“Something up, Commander?” Zisu says immediately before even stopping, her face pulled into a worried expression that seemed to mirror Sanqua’s, while Colza’s was filled with anxious energy. “Ress mentioned that he saw you speaking to a local?”

Denboku nods stiffly, setting his jaw for a moment as he thinks. “Mai is a member of one of the native Clans,” he starts, noticing the look of understanding on Zisu’s face and the grimace on Colza’s. “She says that her leader will be here in a few days time, and she’s also made it clear that she, at the very least, believes we are overstaying our welcome.”

Zisu, Colza, and Sanqua all share a look at one another, while Tao Hua simply glances away from the conversation. Finally, Colza speaks. “Are we in claimed land?”

A fair question. While a part of the reason that they had chosen this strip of land to build their homes was because it was by a river and relatively flat and protected, it was also because Ginter had claimed he’d never seen a Clans Member in this area. The Gingko Guild had even led their ships here before splitting off to land in their usual port on the eastern edge of the island, to ensure that they landed in supposedly unclaimed territory. “She didn’t say anything of the sort,” Denboku says after a moment of deliberation. “Just not to claim ownership of it ourselves.”

“Which we are by building,” Tao Hua says bluntly, looking past his juniors to look over the mostly finished structures that line the small road that they have leading toward the beach. “Homes, stores, farmland, and a large office for the Galaxy Team’s management. We even have a security detail, and signs.” Tao Hua scowls and spits on the ground in the direction of the entrance to the Village where Mai and Kamado had spoken. “Which they should have done if they wanted to claim this land themselves.”

“The Emperor doesn’t put a sign upon every shaku of land,” Denboku chides with a sharp glare. “And yet I don’t see you claiming ownership of Viridian Forest, Tao.”

“The Emperor is a mightier foe than some backcountry Clans,” Tao Hua mutters before turning away from Denboku entirely while Sanqua steps between them.

“What is the plan going to be, Commander?” Her eyebrows were knit together in worry, but her mouth was pulled into a determined frown. “Should we halt our work?”

Denboku sighs again, bringing a hand up to stroke his moustache as he thinks. “No, continue to finish the housing. Halt work on the Galaxy Hall, though.” Sanqua nods, and with a flick of Denboku’s head, she rushes to the pit where the Hall would be to stop the workers still there. “As for the preparations for the Leader of the Clan to arrive, we should prepare to ready defenses.”

“Ready the defenses?” Zisu asks with an incredulous tone, giving Denboku an unsure look. “Putting up an aggressive front doesn’t sound smart, sir.”

“You’re right, Zisu,” Denboku says with a nod. “I simply want you to have security on the southern end, and people ready to move to the eastern gate if needed. I do not want to start an altercation, but if they seek to remove us by force, we must be prepared to defend ourselves.”

Colza and Zisu look at each other, still uneasy at the thought, but Zisu eventually nods. “Alright. I’ll get people together. Hopefully the ship that Cyllene is on will be here in time for this meeting, she would do good to cover the east gate for us.”

“I’ll be sure to get some Medicinal Leeks growing,” Colza says with a sigh. “I’ll probably have to uproot one of the Sitrus saplings, but I think I still have a pot to fit it in.” With that, both of the younger Captains broke away from the meeting. With a final nod, Denboku dismisses Tao Hua back to his shop, and walks down the singular street south out of the village, back to the beach.

—

October 15, 1869

It had been just after daybreak that the young sentry Rei, fresh off of the boat, had seen the group approaching through the Fieldlands, still nearly an hour away. This gave Jubilife time to prepare, though, with the Captains all getting themselves presentable and meeting with Denboku Just outside of the simple gate that Sanqua had finished working the afternoon before. Within the town, multiple houses were now finished on the far side of the river, arranged in two parallel rows facing each other.

“How many did Rei see approaching?” Denboku asks Cyllene, Zisu’s number two, as he approaches the gate himself. Cyllene had been an unexpected friend in Hoenn several years prior when Denboku and Beni had gone down there in a chase after a rebel Lord. And with her time with Professor Zelkova Elm having ended, she was willing to join the Galaxy Team with her protege Rei. 

“He claims there were seven people,” she says brusquely, keeping a hand on her sheathed katana while her Abra hovered nearby. “There was a large Stantler-like Pokemon, and what seemed to be a large Bird Pokemon flying overhead with one of the seven riding it.”

Denboku nods and looks out over the Fieldlands. Even from this distance, the Bird Pokemon was visible as it soared through the sky, presumably keeping an eye over the group directly below. “And that is it? Seven people and two Pokemon? That Mai woman had a Munchlax with her, did Rei happen to catch sight of it?”

Cyllene shakes her head, her gaze never leaving the Commander’s. Denboku nods, and turns to watch as Zisu arrives with Sanqua. “Then we can assume that at least one of them will have a Pokemon with them, if not each of them. Zisu, how are the defenses?”

Zisu straightens her top and gives Denboku a short bow. “Ress and Wenton are on standby down the road, and Cyllene’s Abra will teleport them in if they end up being needed.”

Denboku nods, and turns to Sanqua. “And did you finish the safehouse at the end of the Village? It looked complete when I went by this morning.”

Sanqua nods as Colza runs up to the group, tying his sash in place as he does so. “It’s fortified well enough to withstand your Snorlax running into it, and the tunnel to Prelude Beach is sufficient. If needed, the entire town could escape to the boats at the beach.”

Denboku nods grimly again as Tao Hua approaches the gate and passes through. “With Celebi’s grace, that won’t need to come to pass. Let us hope that this Leader is more willing to talk than Mai was.”

The Galaxy Captains stand in an uncomfortable silence for some time. They had all made good time arriving at the gate, and if Rei’s estimate was correct (which had proven to be reliable previously), they were still some 15 minutes away. Though Jubilife was up the hill from the Fieldlands proper, the gate was actually just past the crest of the hill, thus they didn’t have a good vantage of how close the traveling group actually was.

It was near the 50 minute mark that the large Bird Pokemon suddenly shot forward towards Jubilife Village, causing Denboku, Zisu, and Cyllene to all tense as it flew over their heads. No attack came, however, as the bird went to the far cliffs on the western edge of the Village and wheeled around to circle the entirety of the Village before returning to its previous location, dipping down out of sight.

“That rider looked quite old,” Tao Hua mutters, rubbing the sun from his eyes as the bird takes back to the air after a few minutes, now without said rider. “They must be quite experienced if they wouldn’t slip at such an age.”

“Did any of you recognize that bird?” Sanqua asks as they watch it come slowly closer, its tight circles showing that it was now following the group once more, and that they were quite close. As everyone gathered shook their heads, she sighs and slumps her shoulders. “So a native and unknown Pokemon. Let’s hope we don’t need to worry about it.”

Native and unknown. “Cyllene,” Denboku says, looking over at the swordswoman, who faces him in response. “Depending on how this talk goes with the Leader of the Clan, I want you to contact our Professor friend in Hoenn. He mentioned that some professor in Galar was looking for a project to work on with grant funding?”

Cyllene blinks, then nods in recognition. “Yes, sir.” With that, she looks over at the hill, and nods slightly towards it as she begins to step back towards the gate. “It seems our visitors have arrived.”

The Galaxy Team turns to face the road as a large Deer Pokemon crests the hill, the morning sun shining off its horns and giving it a slightly golden appearance to its fur. Atop it sat Mai, perched sideways, looking up from her conversation with a young man next to her. The young man’s hair was down, hanging to his shoulders with the bottom edges seemingly dyed green and an open blue haori with white trim.

Behind the two was a small group of others in blue clothing. A taller man with long lilac hair and a conical hat; A young woman with bright red hair with a red gradient on her legwear; A tall dark-skin man who was looking around everywhere with an anxious energy; Finally, an old man who notably was using a cane with a pair of simple slit goggles hanging from his neck, and a young girl with tumbling green hair running behind him, wide eyes staring directly at Denboku.

Once the group comes closer, Denboku breaks away from his Captains and takes a few steps forward, bowing at the waist in greeting before straightening up. “Greetings, Clansmen,” he says in Hisuian. “I am Commander Kamado, of the Galaxy Team.” Unsure of who exactly to speak to, Denboku put his gaze mostly towards the old man.

The young man looks up at Mai with a sly grin, then shakes his head and steps forward in kind, raising a hand and pushing it forward in some form of salute. “Greetings, Commander Kamado-han,” he says in heavily accented Johto-ben. “I agree with Mai, it would probably be easier to speak your language.”

The young man takes a moment to look over the group, and nods with the smile still on his face. “My name is Adaman, and I am the Leader of the Diamond Clan. I appreciate you making sure to be punctually, it’s always nice to be met at the gates instead of waiting around and wasting time. Good thing, too, because I believe we have some discussion ahead of us about you being here on my Clan’s land, yes?”

[mycorrectviews]

Beyond the Carnage: Credo of a democratic Zionist

October 2023

No Monopoly on Barbarism

We buried our cousins in four freshly dug graves at Kibbutz Revivim, 40 miles as the crow flies from the killing fields of Kibbutz Beeri where they made their home.  Chen, a burly farmer, the kind of guy you want in your corner;  Rinat, a veteran social worker;  17 year old Alon and 14 year old Ido.  Two smaller siblings survived when Rinat and Alon spread their bodies over the little ones, like a blanket at bedtime, taking the bullets in a final act of love.  Hundreds of people wept in silence, an extended family of farmers from agricultural communities across the Gaza envelope, dozens of them young men and women on "funeral" leave from their reserve units, rifles slung over their civilian clothing.  Rinat had texted the family that dark October morning, as I huddled with my partner and nine-year-old son in our own safe room, just 10 miles north of Beeri.  We were sure that Chen – veteran of an elite IDF reconnaissance unit – would get them out.  Electricity and cell phone service were down all morning at our kibbutz as fighting raged on the perimeter fence.  By the time we received her message, she was likely dead, as scores of heavily armed killers hunted for Jews -- Gazan civilians in tow, rounding up livestock and home appliances like shoppers on black Friday.  Did the Hamas warn them that their own homes would soon be reduced to rubble by the inevitable IDF response?   For 21 hours I stood at the threshold of our safe room, listening for sounds of the battle raging at the edge of our own kibbutz, knowing that if they broke through, we'd be next.  Only the resourcefulness and bravery of a handful of volunteers kept the killers at bay until we could evacuate.  At Revivim, rows of fresh graves extended beyond the funeral site, waiting to receive another hundred members of Kibbutz Beeri. It was a scene to be repeated throughout the country for other communities who shared the same fate.  At Kibbutz Nir Oz, a quarter of the population was murdered. A day before I had debated a friend about whether the massacre resembled the German Einzatzgruppn or 19th century Russian pogroms.  Either way, I reflect, Islam has no monopoly on barbarism.  And Israelis are not immune either.   

The Jewish State or the Boer State

Siblings and schoolmates eulogized the Even-Segev family in a quiet ceremony, closed to the press, soft Hebrew music playing in the background.  The grief was palpable, but the word "revenge" was not to be heard.  No room in their hearts for gratuitous hatred or racism.  Never was.  These folk work with Bedouin farmers and colleagues on a daily basis, and many remember a time when personal and commercial interaction with the Gaza Strip was routine.  Here in the Negev, civil society has a depth and breadth that crosses ethnic boundaries and ideological preconceptions.

Elsewhere, however, things look different.  Right wing groups have draped banners from overpasses around Israel demanding revenge, as if a dose of their sickening screed could reverberate through a society already numbed by atrocity.   They may be right.  Just over the Green Line in the West Bank, nationalist fanatics are already creating their own, violent fantasy world.  Since October 7th, at least seven Palestinian farmers have been shot dead by Israeli settlers.  The occupation of this swath of Palestinian territory was once justified by the need to secure a defensive line along the Jordan rift valley, a formidable geographic barrier against invasion from the east. No longer. Today the IDF is tasked with protecting the 460,000 Israeli settlers who live between the Jordan and Israel's internationally recognized boundaries to the West under a separate and unequal legal regime designed to preserve and extend their hegemony; and controlling their 2.6 million Palestinian neighbors who subsist in a legal twilight zone, bereft of political rights, their civil liberties and freedom of movement curtailed and their land often confiscated for Israeli use.  Former Mossad chief Tamir Pardo, has called this apartheid. Indeed, today's West Bank might be properly described as a kind of Boer state, where armed colonists are the law and even the Israeli army treads lightly for fear of incurring settler wrath. Israel's infantry provides the muscle that keeps armed Palestinian groups at bay. But security coordinators in the settlements – settlers who are deputized, armed and trained by the IDF – often call the shots on the ground. A pervasive atmosphere of lawlessness invites violence against Palestinians. Brutal and primitive in its tactics, it has included defacing mosques, burning fields, destroying olive groves and vandalizing property. In the Palestinian village of Hawara, perpetrators set 200 buildings and 30 cars ablaze, killing one resident.  Now, with the armed force of the IDF massed on Israel's northern and southern borders, their wildest fantasies may seem within grasp.

Hamas or no Hamas, the Boer state is a dilemma of our own making.  No Israeli government, save those of Yitzhak Rabin and Ariel Sharon, has had the courage – or the incentive – to defy settler political clout. This must change.  Once this war is over and the IDF eradicates the Gazan terror regime, Israel must be asked to choose:  advanced American weapons systems or housing developments on the West Bank. Israel needs robust US military aid to survive.  But every home, industrial zone, municipal subsidy, road, streetlight, or sewage pipe for Israeli settlements in the West Bank should be deducted from that sum. Put these funds in an escrow account to help relocate settlers to new homes within within the Green Line. Or use them to compensate Palestinians for loss of income due to restricted access to farmland.

Always a Reason to Kill Jews

Some folks insist on seeing Palestinian victimhood and Jewish malfeasance whenever innocents are killed, like some uncontrollable, Pavlovian response, no matter how Orwellian the logic.  Thus on October 8th, with the killing still in progress, Mohammed R. Mhawish explained in 972 magazine that "for us [Palestinians]. . . It is the moment when we defend our very existence and right to live peacefully in freedom."  UN Secretary General Antonio Gutteres ruffled a few feathers when he proclaimed that the October 7th massacre "did not happen in a vacuum.  The Palestinian people have been subject to 56 years of suffocating occupation."  Without justifying the murder spree itself, Gutteres seems to have identified its cause as the 1967 war.  More often than not however, critics of Israel point to the blockade imposed on Gaza in 2007, after the Hamas took over the enclave, as the proximate source of violence. "The international community has for years neglected the plight of the 2.3 million Palestinians living under a 16-year-long Israeli siege," explains Jonathan Kuttab of the Arab Center in Washington, DC.   Indeed, back in 2008, the Red Cross had already warned that 70% of Gaza's population suffered from food insecurity and chronic malnutrition as a result of Israeli policy.  Perhaps mass murder is a natural response from people who have been starving to death for 15 years, though one wonders if it is biologically possible to starve for so long while building an arsenal of tens of thousands of rockets, hundreds of miles of military tunnels, and highly trained death squads.  Or perhaps one might ask why food was lacking, if it was lacking, with such plentiful military resources on hand.  But the ultimate reason Hamas does its thing, according to some observers, is the Naqba, the displacement of 700,000 Palestinians by Israel in the war of 1948, ground zero – we are told – of the Arab Israeli conflict.  Historian Ilan Pappe sums up the events of October 7th with the pithy insight that "[Israel's] present genocidal policy towards Gaza are [sic] part of the ongoing Naqba."  2007, 1967, 1948, take your pick. But don't stop there.  In 1929, long before the Naqba, Palestinian marauders killed 133 Jews in Hebron, Safed, Jaffa and Jerusalem, most of them ultra-orthodox, with no connection to the Zionist movement, many of them neighbors with whom they had lived for years.  As Hillel Cohen painstakingly explains in his landmark study, Palestinians had come to see all Jews as representatives of the same Zionist enterprise. So it was and so it is.  Any organized Jewish national presence in this land, apparently, is a legitimate cause for "armed struggle." Perhaps it is time someone reexamined the causal relationship between this culture of death and the Naqba, occupation and blockade that followed.

When a Zionist Sees Palestine in the Mirror

Palestinian nationalism may be irredeemably poisoned by nihilism, but Palestinian identity itself defines the very humanity of millions of people, some two million of them Israeli citizens.  If our democracy is to rise again after the war, we must learn to distinguish between the two and embrace the latter – nuanced as the idea may be.  I have devoted my own career to building a more inclusive paradigm of shared culture for Jews and Arabs in the Negev.  Below the surface, civil society may now be laying its foundation.  In the midst of the crisis, dozens of grass roots initiatives are mobilizing Jews and Arabs for collective action to help everyone in need, from Jewish farmers in the Western Negev to the unrecognized Bedouin villages in the east. Some 15 Arab citizens have been killed by Hamas rockets and another dozen were murdered or kidnapped on October 7th.   In this wartime emergency, even the most innocuous display of Palestinian colors can lead to arrest, termination at work or suspension from university.  This will have to stop.  In the end, Jews must be able to see in the pain, pride and determination of the Palestinians a reflection of our own.  No, we cannot bridge the unfathomable political gulf that separates us.  But a dose of mutual respect would serve us well. 

Rethinking Ukraine

The international show of support for Israel so far has been impressive.  Biden, Macron, Scholz, Sunak, Ursula Von der Leyen – leaders from across the democratic world have rushed to embrace Netanyahu, a man whose signature contributions to Israeli diplomacy have been to drape Likud headquarters with a massive poster of Vladmir Putin, embrace Victor Orban and glorify Donald Trump.  It must be humiliating for Bibi to bend the knee in gratitude to the liberal order he has done so much to disparage, but this is no mere personal matter. America's massive resupply of military hardware – a replay of Nixon's strategic airlift in 1973 -- and the deployment of two carrier strike groups to protect Israel against a regional conflagration, should be a stark reminder to Israel's political class as a whole that sometimes you have to choose sides.  Israel's flirtation with Russia and the Visegrad bloc was, perhaps, the product of Bibi's own delusions of self importance, but Israel's shameful failure to support Ukraine in its struggle to survive was an act of cowardice that crossed political lines.   Biden's Oval Office address linking aid to Ukraine and Israel was a formative statement, and something this country would do well to ponder.  Israel turned a cold shoulder to Ukraine, it is widely assumed, for fear of provoking Russia to launch its S-300 antiaircraft rockets in Syria against Israeli jets, thereby limiting our ability to strike Iranian proxies in that country.  Those rockets are a serious consideration, to be sure, but if Biden is willing to take political risks for Israel, we can show a little moral fiber as well.  Russia has interests at stake in Syria too, and striking Israeli jets would put those at risk.  In 1970 Soviet personnel manned Egyptian anti-aircraft batteries that fired on Israeli planes, and Israeli jets held dogfights with Russian pilots over the Suez Canal.  Not a few Russian servicemen paid with their lives.  When the present crisis is over, the time will come for Israel to take a stand – for Ukraine, and for the democratic prospect writ large.

Going Home

No, I'm not a farmer. Everything I know about wheat comes from the back of a cereal box.  For the past six years I've been at Kibbutz Nir Am, never of Nir Am. It was simply where I slept and parked my car before heading off to work in the morning.  But something has broken in my own suburban, residential paradigm.  The government says kibbutzim such as Nir Oz will take years to rebuild.  Nir Am, we hope, will bounce back sooner.  While my family is settling in to its temporary refuge in Jerusalem, we are eager to get back to our community on the Gazan border fence, replant and rebuild.  Rehabilitating the kibbutzim and the towns of the Gaza envelope, caring for the orphans and shattered families, reconstructing the homes, nurturing devastated communities back to emotional health, and weaving the multicultural fabric of life back together in the Negev will be the final challenge of my generation, and the first one for that of my son.  We owe it to our country.  We owe it to Chen, Rinat and their kids.  

[theclichefortunecookie]

[image ID: A screenshot of a tweet by @numetal_moment the text reads: Two days after the 9/11 terrorist attacks Serj Tankian of System of a Down posts the essay "Understanding Oil" to the band's website. Sony would remove the essay amid claims Tankian was justifying the attacks and the band was monitored by the CIA for subversive activities (2001)

The tweet has three screenshots containing the essay "Understanding Oil" on System of a Down's website.

essay transcription:

Understanding Oil

by Serj Tankian 9/13/2001

The brutal attacks/bombings this week in New York, and Washington D.C., along with threats of attacks there and elsewhere in the country have changed our times forever. While the mass media concentrates on the details of the destruction, the blanketed words of politicians, I will attempt to understand and explain the events from the fence. BOMBING AND BEING BOMBED ARE THE SAME THINGS ON DIFFERENT SIDES OF THE FENCE.

Terror is not a spontaneous human action without credence. People don't hijack planes and commit harikari (suicide) without any weight of thought to the action. No one in the media seems to ask WHY DID THESE PEOPLE DO THIS HORRIFIC ACT OF VIOLENCE AND DESTRUCTION?

To be able to understand the answer to this, we must first look at our U.S. Mideast Policy. During most of the 20th century, U.S. businesses have worked on attaining oil rights and concessions from countries in the Middle East and Eastern Europe. After WWI, secret back door deals by our State Dept. yielded oil rights from then defeated Turkey to fields in what is now Iraq and Saudi Arabia, in return for looking the other way at a crime against humanity, the Genocide of the Armenians by the Turks. Oil profits have been motivating factors behind many attempts at counterinsurgency of democratic regimes by the CIA and the U.S. in the Middle East (such as Iran in the 1950s, where the Shah replaced the Prime Minister who refused to give up oil rights to the U.S. and since the people couldn't deal with the Shah, an extremist government headed by the Ayatollah Khomeini ultimately prevailed). During the Iran-Iraq war, America supplied both sides with weapons and advice. These are not the actions of a rich superpower wanting peace. Let's not forget that Saddam Hussein, before being Americas vision of the Anti-Christ, was a close ally of the U.S., and the CIA. So what was the firm belief system of consecutive American administrations that caused all this to occur ? PEACE IN THE MIDDLE EAST WILL LEAD TO HIGHER OIL AND GASOLINE PRICES. Let's not also forget the power of the Arms industry, disguised as defense, that still sells billions of dollars of weapons to the area. Therefore it has not been in the short-term economic interest of the U.S. to foster Peace in the Middle East. Using the above reasoning, the U.S. has encouraged extremist governments, toppled democracies, as in the case of Iran to replace it with a monarchy, rigged elections, and many more unspeakable political crimes for U.S. businesses abroad. Let's not also forget the Red Scare. During the war between the Soviet Union and Afghanistan, the U.S. armed and supported the Taliban, a fundamentalist Muslim organization, and allowed them to export opium and heroin out of their country to pay for those weapons. Therefore the Taliban rose to power and control with the help of the U.S.A. Today, the bombing of Iraq still continues, no longer covered by the media, the economic embargo still remains, killing millions of children, and recently, while the world and the U.N. General Assembly have cried out to bring in peacekeeping forces into Israel and Palestine, to end the escalated war and recent assassinations, the U.S. has vetoed the rest of the Security Council and has halted the possibility of peace, there, in the most volatile place in the world.

People in Serbia, Lebanon, Iraq, Sudan, and Afghanistan to name a few have seen bombs fall, not always at military targets and kill innocent civilians, as the scene in New York city yesterday. The wars waged by our government in Native American folklore, the Bible, Nostradamus, and many other major religious beliefs point to this era with the visuals of yesterdays disasters, and conditions of ecological disasters we experience daily in our lives today. War, rumors of war, famine, long burning fires, etc., are at our doorstep. We can prevail over this possible vision with the power of the human spirit, understanding, compassion, and peace. ITS TIME TO PUT OUR NEEDS FOR SECURITY AND SURVIVAL, ACHIEVED ONLY THROUGH PEACE, ABOVE AND BEYOND PROFITS, ESPECIALLY IN THESE TIMES.

SOLUTION:

The U.S. should stop sidestepping the U.N. Security Council, and allow U.N. Peacekeeping troops and missions to the Middle East. Stop the violence first.

Stop the bombing and patrol of Iraq.

With today's gains in the use of alternative fuels, develop them to full usage with autos and other utilities, to make the country less dependant on an already depleting natural reserve, oil.

By initiating peace, we would have already shaken the foundations of support for Bin Laden, and/or all those that sponsor activities like those we saw yesterday, and break the stronghold of extremists on the world of Islam. On the other hand, if we carry out bombings on Afghanistan or elsewhere to appease public demand, and very likely kill innocent civilians along the way, we'd be creating many more martyrs going to their deaths in retaliation against the retaliation. As shown from yesterdays events, you cannot stop a person who's ready to die. /end image ID]

Posting these for no reason at all on a perfectly normal day of no cultural significance.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Oag, Nuss: Two Caught, 200 Miles Apart," Kingston Whig-Standard. July 18, 1972. Page 1 & 2. --- By STERLING TAYLOR Staff Reporter Police, acting on telephone tips, swept down on two escapees from Millhaven Institution almost simultaneously this morning at Napanee and Niagara-on-the-Lake, more than 200 miles away, and captured both without incident.

Donald Oag, 22, of London, Ont., was captured just outside Napanee with nothing but a little green apple in his pocket, and Rudolf Nuss, 25, of St. Catharines, was caught at his parents home at Niagara-on-the-Lake.

Four of the original 14 convicts who cut their way to freedom through wire fences at the maximum security prison more than a week ago are still at large.

Police and Canadian Armed Forces personnel, who are conducting the search, reported that another sighting had been made in the Conway area, about 10 miles west of Millhaven, just after dawn today and men, tracking dogs, two helicopters and a fixed-wing aircraft were circling overhead.

Still at large are Streto Dzambas, 25, and Gerald Larocque, 32, both of Toronto; and Charles Boomer, 33, and Thomas McCauley, 35, both of Edmonton.

The tip that Nuss was at his parents' home came from an anonymous caller and the tip to Oag's capture came from a 68-year-old Napanee widow who heard neighbors' dogs barking at 3 a.m.

Mrs. Hazel Lasher said: "I'm glad they caught him, because I was awfully frightened."

Mrs. Lasher, who lives alone on the south-west edge of Napanee, said she had been "terrified" ever since the escape.

Her 16-year-old grandson had spent the first few nights with her, but was not there Monday night.

She called police at 3:10 a.m. and Napanee police Constable Peter Cruji investigated. His report to provincial police led to the search.

About the same time, another Napanee resident, George Brown, who lives on the north-east edge of the town, reported seeing someone in the area.

OPP Constable Ray Carson of the North Bay detachment, with his tracking dog Club, and OPP Constable P. J. McCaffrey of the Napanee de tachment, went to the area.

The dog picked up the scent, tracked Oag about three-quarters of a mile and the constables took Oag with out an argument.

Oag is serving 11 years for manslaughter, assault causing bodily harm, escape, two charges of robbery and possession of burglary tools. He was the only one of the 14 escapees to have been sentenced in the April, 1971, Kingston Penitentiary riot.

Nuss is serving 20 years on five charges of armed robbery.

It was also about 4 a.m. when a combined force of OPP and Niagara regional police converged on the house in Niagara-on-the-Lake to grab Nuss.

Oag's capture squelched rumors that he had been sighted in Ottawa last weekend and that his fingerprints. along with those of McCauley, had been found in a car aban doned in Ottawa.

The car had been reported stolen from Kingston early last Wednesday.

While these captures were being made, OPP, military, tracking dogs and a force's helicopter cordoned off the Conway area where another escapee is believed hiding.

OPP, hoping to keep the convict in the area between the Ontario lakefront and Highway 33, lined the road a hundred yards apart and military men patrolled the spaces between through Monday night.

The OPP cruisers kept their headlights on during most of the night to ensure no one crossed the highway and the helicopter searched the area with spotlights from overhead until after 2 a.m.

In addition, an OPP patrol boat worked along the shore-line.

Telephone calls from worried residents continued to pour into police and military headquarters.

The searchers, employing a number of floater' vehicles, continued to investigate every one in hopes that, like the tip from Mrs. Lasher, another might pay off.

Captured to date, in addition to Nuss and Oag, are Ed-ward Woods, 26, of Burlington: Robert Clark, 38, of Tillsonburg: Ronald Filion, 25, of Toronto; Gaston Lambert, 22, of Ottawa; John Taylor, 31, of Hamilton; Thomas Smith, 34 of London: Richard Smith 32, of Petrolia; and William Yardley, 24, of Toronto.

There were no further re-ports about reported abductions that might have had a connection with the Millhaven escape.

Last Friday, a mail truck driver reported being hijacked near Spencerville, Ont., and forced to drive two men to Dorion, Que.

Early Monday. Donald Parkinson, 32, of Odessa, just north of Millhaven, called his wife from Montreal to tell her he had been forced at knife-point to drive a single hijack-er there.

He said the abductor had jumped into the cab of his truck while he was stopped at a stop sign on his way to work.

Mr. Parkinson also said the abductor had taken his hospital orderly uniform before leaving him unharmed in Montreal.

[theultrablog]

Pulp Storytime #68: Back In The New York Mood. Based on characters from Pulse-Pounding Pulp by Garnett Elliott.

May 1935. Raucous applause in the Cotton Club. Madame Valeria, formerly Valerie Schmidt, gave her all to introducing one of tonight’s stars, Florence Ziegler. The Australian songbird was competing with Bebe Broussard in a “friendly” competition. Soon, the applause-o-meter was exactly tied, a tie broken by the late arrival of some rowdy staffers from the Australian embassy. They, along with music agent Bert “the Beast” Wilde had messages for Florence… But someone else was sending a message, too. By burning down Ziegler Security Services! Luckily, butler extraordinaire Aldous Bingen was on hand to rush the team to Fifth Avenue, where the smoldering clues led to a hobo camp in Central Park*. At first, there was no sign of an arsonist. But Madame Valeria had a talent besides theatrical introductions… Speaking with the dead! It turns out, their arsonist was also a killer, and not just any killer…But ZSS’s foe Peck, the Swan Street Slicer. And he was ready to slash the party to pieces, cutting Florence and terrifying Bingen. Luckily, the players had an ace in the hole: photographer/gunman Javid Kulfi! He found secret passages through the man camp, and was able to wound the killer in the kneecaps and the stabbing arm. A brief interrogation followed. The miscreant was hired by America’s richest man, Doc Midas, whose office was the top two floors of the Empire State Building. The town wasn’t big enough for Doc and Florence, but a coffin would be the right size. Additional questions were silenced by a sniper! Peck took one right through the eye, and more shots followed. Valeira panicked, fleeing the hobo camp into open ground, getting a hole in the rib cage for her trouble. She faked death. Aldous helped the rest sneak to safety, rescuing Valeria under the cover of Emergency Services. The group regrouped. How could they hope to take on the Midas organization? He was beloved, wealthy, and surrounded by corporate titans. The question was answered with good old detective work. Midas was aided by his Fearsome Four, and they were arrogant enough to be featured in Forbes. I’ll give the summaries below:

“Happy” Herman Haas, war vet and sniper. A dour man who wears elaborate suits and has a passion for fencing. Hap represents Midas Industries as its main White House lobbyist. Joe “Gobbler” Gobbler serves as Doc Midas’s PR man, lawyer, and closest confidant. Small and dapper, he is also the main announcer for the Golden Hour radio program. Joe got his nickname from both his voracious appetite and rapid speaking voice. Francis Todd, a brooding giant of a man and brilliant engineer, who heads the weapons division that created Compound Z. Francis is rumored to be a psychopath, kept out of jail only by Doc’s influence and the legal skills of Joe Gotlieb. Esther Crane: An assertive 34-year-old businesswoman, Esther tends to treat people below her station as “the help,” and that means nearly everybody. Last seen in "The Devil’s Wat."

The party called in every favor they could. They had a lot of friends in New York: it was time to aggressively re-organize. Gobbler Gottlieb was a victim of his own ego. The players had friends and family call him at all hours of day and night, promising prestigious events and canceling, or rebooking. A scheme that could only work a few days, but that’s how long it needed to. For Todd, they tried a legal option. Madame Valeria took a boat onto the East River, searching for and recovering a disappeared body. Todd fought back by clobbering Javid outside of the club. But the bruiser overplayed his hand. Indian millionaire Devika bribed his secretary to turn state’s evidence, and the next day, the bruiser had to trade French cuffs for handcuffs. Happy was easier. The players snuck into his apartment and faked an urgent telegram from Washington. Aldous chuckled from a nearby shoeshine booth as the mark headed up to the nation’s capital. Florence tried the personal touch with Esther Crane. Flo found her prey belittling a sales girl at the Macy’s beauty counter. Florence argued from naked self-interest: did Crane really want a scandal she couldn’t 'cover up'? The argument was half convincing…but not fully. Luckily, Florence moves indirectly. She riled up the shopgirl under her breath. Esther continued berating. When the 17-year-old slapped the cosmetics giant in the face… SCANDAL! Crane swore she’d fire everyone in the store, everyone on the block! Florence took the raging chemist outside, leading her to a taxi...and telling the driver ‘pronto to Poughkeepsie’. The next day, the gang pored over newspapers. Their tricks had worked. The only wrinkle was the front page of the Tribune, reporting that a Nazi zeppelin had docked at the Empire State Building! The party loaded itself for bear. It was easy enough for Madame Valeria to lie them into the building. But she was the only master of disguise: the others would be found out soon enough. Another complication arose when she got into Midas’s office… and heard the loud flapping of an oxygen machine! Midas’s alchemical innovation, the one who wanted to sell to the Reich, had given him terminal cancer. Worse, Florence’s nemesis, Klaus Adler, was sitting in the buyer’s chair! But only a fool would count out our gang when their back’s up against it. Selling chemical weapons to foreign powers? The response wasn’t gunfire, but journalism! Florence and Valeria stole janitor disguises so they could break into filing cabinets. Javid and Aldous pretended to be window washers, secretly snapping pics of the conversation. It pained Kulfi not to blow up the zeppelin, but he couldn’t risk metal debris raining over Midtown. But hadn’t they forgotten something? Oh, Bert and the embassy! Both barged into Florence’s dinner party. And they both had amazing offers: Bert promised a world tour, the first of its kind. Florence could dine with queens and sing for sheikhs. She’d be a more common household word than “window”. The Aussie Rep had a much more subdued itinerary. She was a hero in Australia… It was time for her to prove it. Bookings up and down both coasts, bringing joy and hope back to a beleaguered nation. Mutually exclusive from the other offer, and not as lucrative… But she was needed. Florence, once obsessed with fame and glory, a former hobo who had bartered her soul for financial success, chose her country. Bert was utterly irate, and so was Devika (who had accepted a large deposit on her personal jet). But there was no arguing with her: Not money, not fame, not hordes of beautiful women, could overcome her loyalty to the grand old land of Oz. A great send-off to a great character. (The player will stay, luckily.)

*(That was a real thing, look it up.)

[honestauthentically]

Christmas Eve, 2024 Since I dreamed of fighting our wars, with burritos, as close as weapon to a warriors armor, not less leap of barbed fence, to pledge reason, to return our hope from battle, I have wished my Tiny-Greenhome, proving the contentment of honesty, authentically. What Middle-East would wish hostages prevented from seeing a captors promise to provide, beyond oppression of location?  What city of wealth would wish their nobility without the honor of their laws promised protection, extended to continue, by a bliss forgiving both to honest reason?  What borders would continue to try the guilty, if the conduct of the citizen is proved to be honest, authentically? Reviewing a gift, from the visual author, of focus to missing friends and a home, for them, more difficult to reach, I encountered the following image [SibtoAlaska].  The image, I photocopied, searching our public library for what foreign to my home, as I left for boarding school, could be as more distant, and true, to my return. What would the present wars be, to the Shah of Iran, or the President, of the independent nation of Ukraine—to our waiting Prince, suspending will to meet the truth, with attempted survival [of Super Massive Black Hole], just, before all war denying this true hope; to those able and willing, to fund my cross-country travel, with my Tiny-Greenhome, internationally? Will President Zelenskyy fund my travel through His front lines?  Will the Shah prove our engine of muscle to reach the honest meek?  Will a Prince, not yet proven the Prince of Honest Contentment, allow me to draw the peace of Alska, on His Banks, returning home? Crossing through the craters where speech of the Blue Helmet Azov soldier spoke through mistake, reading to a foreign country, with a look to know this jeopardy wHould not keep Him from defending His country; the team of hidden drone signal, able to find the Constance of Their connections, outreach prevented by master switch, aboard the Tiny-Greenhome, gathered again.  With the switch engaged, enemy yet converted approached with intent to kill, or as their knowledge would find true.  For the sixty men, and some ladies, that wished at first to take my life, that I refused to kill, and did not seek allow as pursuant threat; for the friends, and family, dead, and not yet daring to live beyond the threat of waiting void; silkscreened to streaming banners, alongside our run, my sign of the cross, true to the form of Our Lord; and all Goddess of Ancestor to know saved by hero team, engaged as God; by the power of music, at full disciples, and with request to all fronts, to carry mic; what song would turn the fire of the drone?! Tenzin, weary from Those that knew, and would not yet guide a more honest way, at the sidecar, of vehicle [behind], like a battleship's manned-two-armed cannons, to a song, blasted by 'acoustic horn', hurtling into the battle; blueprints, of proof to beginnings, beyond breach to find reconfigured attack; the honest means of true reason to secure forward climb! MacLean FrancisH Tiffany ( Though as per delay, as choir to love of good ideas has possibly made my delay to publish )

[flash-fresh]

Securing Delhi: Stringent Measures for Farmers' Protest

As the ‘Delhi Chalo’ march commenced with thousands of farmers converging towards the national capital to press for their demands, Delhi has transformed into a heavily fortified zone. Stringent security measures have been implemented at border crossings to deter the protesting farmers from entering the city.

Amidst the unfolding ‘Delhi Chalo’ protest march, authorities have ramped up security along the borders of Delhi and neighbouring states to obstruct the farmers’ entry into the capital.

DCP Ankit Singh of the North East District revealed that Section 144 has been imposed to curb assemblies and the entry of tractor trolleys into Delhi. More than 2,000 personnel from various units, including the Central Armed Police Forces (CAPF) and the Crime Branch, have been deployed to maintain law and order.

Despite inconclusive talks between farmer leaders and Union Ministers, the farmers remain resolute in advancing their agenda despite the significant security presence.

Here’s an overview of the stringent security measures in place for the farmers’ protest:

Fortification in Haryana: Authorities in Haryana have fortified the state’s borders with Punjab using concrete blocks, iron nails, and barbed wire in locations such as Ambala, Jind, Fatehabad, Kurukshetra, and Sirsa. Riot control vehicles, including water cannons, have been stationed along the Punjab and Haryana borders to dissuade advancing protesters.

Multi-Layered Barricading: Singhu, Tikri, and Ghazipur borders have been barricaded extensively to seal entry points into Delhi. Concertina wires, nails, concrete blocks, and containers reinforce these barricades, aiming to prevent breaches. Drones are deployed for aerial surveillance.

Presence of Security Forces: Over 50 companies comprising Delhi Police and paramilitary personnel equipped with tear gas launchers, bulletproof vests, helmets, and advanced weaponry are stationed strategically along the Singhu, Tikri, and Ghazipur borders. Advanced weapons are on standby to manage any escalation.

Multi-Layered Blockades: Iron barricades, jersey barriers, shipping containers, barbed wire fencing, and vehicles create multi-layered blockades at the borders, further impeding the progress of protesters.

Prohibitory Orders and Traffic Restrictions: The Delhi Police has imposed prohibitory orders, banning processions of tractors, trucks, or vehicles into the city for a month. Traffic restrictions at Singhu, Ghazipur, and Tikri borders aim to deter vehicles carrying protesters from entering Delhi.

As the ‘Delhi Chalo’ protest gains momentum, the stringent security measures underscore the complexities surrounding the farmers’ demands and the challenges in maintaining public order during such demonstrations.

[jobaaj]

ALERT: India-Myanmar relations are in danger! India is fencing its border with Myanmar!! According to official reports, India will fence 1,643 km of land it has in common with Myanmar. In addition, India is also terminating its Free Movement regime with Myanmar. In case you didn’t know, FMR was introduced in 2018 as a part of India's Act East policy in Myanmar in a bilateral agreement. The agreement allowed people from both sides to enter each other's territory up to 16 kms without any documents.

Why scrap it? Meitei groups have alleged that tribal militants enter the country and smuggle narcotics through the weak borders! Moreover, Myanmar is going through a massive civil war which has resulted in political instability. Thus, there is a higher risk of refugee and militant influx. Thus, the government is taking these steps to ensure “internal security” and to “maintain the demographic structure of India’s Northeastern states bordering Myanmar”. However, not everyone is happy. Several Naga and Mizo groups have spoken against it, claiming that it would unjustly divide ethnic groups!! Is the Modi government right to do so? Follow Jobaaj Stories (the media arm of Jobaaj.com Group) for more.

[lesteerrr]

Territorial Dispute: Decades long war of the Jews and Arabs

Terrorists from Hamas attacked Israel across borders in a way never seen before on October 7. They launched a well-planned, covert attack that destroyed the border fence in several locations, ambushed Israel's security apparatus, and overran the armed forces. The attackers, taken aback by the lack of opposition, escalated the operation into a violent and disorderly rampage into residential areas. In spite of such attacks, Hamas has categorically denied any charges of sexual assault or mutilation. Israeli authorities have charged Hamas soldiers with war crimes during the assault, including torture, rape, and mutilation. According to an Al Jazeera tally based on official Israeli statistic, at least 1,139 individuals were murdered in the aforementioned invasion, including 766 civilians and 373 security forces, and approximately 240 more people were taken as hostages.

Before the attack had occurred, the conflict started long way back. The discord between the two parties  commenced, with historical roots dating back to the late 19th and early 20th centuries. In 1947, the year Britain took over Palestine, there were more arabs than jews residing there , which led the UN to enforce Resolution 181, also referred as Partition Plan, with the goal of dividing the British Mandate of Palestine into Arab and Jewish state. With the establishment of the State of Israel on May 14, 1948, the first Arab-Israeli War began. After Israel won the war in 1949, 750,000 Palestinians were forced to flee their homes, and the region was split into three sections: the Gaza Strip, the West Bank (across the Jordan River), and the State of Israel. 

However, with Israel's invasion of the Sinai Peninsula in Egypt, which resulted in a six-day fight, tensions flared up once more, especially between Israel and Egypt, Jordan, and Syria. Following the battle, Israel was granted sovereignty over the Golan Heights from Syria, the West Bank and East Jerusalem from Jordan, and the Sinai Peninsula and Gaza Strip from Egypt. After six years, Egypt and Syria shook Israel by launching a surprise two-front invasion on Yom Kippur, in an attempt to recover lost territories.

Even after the war was done, Palestinian self-determination and self-governance remained unresolved. The country was divided into two, the west bank and the Gaza — which is a small piece of land on the Mediterranean Sea that borders Egypt to the south. The west bank was ruled by the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) and the Gaza Strip was governed by Hamas.

An Islamic political and military group from Palestine, Hamas, which is an acronym for its official name, the Islamic Resistance Movement is in charge of the Gaza Strip in the Israeli-occupied Palestinian territories. The major Palestinian party, Fatah, which still holds power in the Palestinian Authority, was defeated by Hamas in the 2006 elections in Gaza. Headed by Ismail Haniyeh, Hamas' designated charman, who was also associated with Qatari authorities, Hamas has been listed as a terrorist group by the USA since 1997. Fewer than 22% of Palestinian populace backs the aforementioned group, and 73% oppose them, on the grounds that they are widely corrupting Gaza.

When Hamas struck Israel on October 7, 2023, at the Supernova Sukkot Gathering, an outdoor music festival held in honor of the Jewish holiday of Shemini Atzeret, the war broke out once more. The attack resulted in numerous Israeli deaths, including numerous civilian deaths. Israel declared war on Hamas on that same day.According to the Gaza Health Ministry, Israel has been attacking Gaza with airstrikes and artillery since then, resulting in hundreds of deaths and over 26,400 injuries—many of which are of minor age. Following the incident, Israel launched a catastrophic bombardment of Gaza, which has been under an Israeli siege for 17 years. According to Palestinian authorities in the region, this shelling killed around 25,000 people, the majority of whom were women and children.

In order to ensure the release of the other hostages, Israeli commanders have stated that they will keep applying military pressure to Hamas. In response to requests for evacuation from the north, Israeli authorities have advised citizens in the south to relocate to undefined "safe zones." When the battle finally ends, there will be questions about who will rule Gaza, which has sparked speculation. Benjamin Netanyahu, Israel's prime minister, claims that his country does not "seek to occupy Gaza." Secretary of State Antony Blinken reported that "Gaza cannot continue to be run by Hamas," and that "it is also clear that Israel cannot occupy Gaza." Only as part of a "comprehensive solution," according to Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas's advisors, would his administration return to Gaza; detractors, however, derided the notion, branding his leadership as antiquated and dishonest.

References:

“Israel-Hamas War: Timeline and Key developments | ABC News” https://abcnews.go.com/International/timeline-surprise-rocket-attack-hamas-israel/story?id=103816006

“Hamas says October 7 attack was a ‘necessary step’, admits to ‘some faults.’ | Al Jazeera”  https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2024/1/21/hamas-says-october-7-attack-was-a-necessary-step-admits-to-some-faults

“Israeli-Palestinian Conflict | Global Conflict Tracker”

“Hamas’s October 7 Attack: Visualizing the Data | CSIS”  https://www.csis.org/analysis/hamass-october-7-attack-visualizing-data

“Israel-Palestine: A short history of the two-state solution | Le Monde”  https://www.lemonde.fr/en/international/article/2023/11/19/israel-palestine-a-short-history-of-the-two-state-solution_6269446_4.html#

“Why are Israel and Hamas at war? A basic explainer | Washington Post” https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/2023/10/17/israel-hamas-war-reason-explained-gaza/