#battle of mosul

[captain-price-unofficially]

An Iraqi Police Artillery Battalion bombard IS positions in Mosul before the final assault.

[tylerstevenson]

The Battle for Mosul: The Rise and Fall of ISIS

The Battle for Mosul: Unmasking the Rise & Crushing Fall of ISIS. In 2014, ISIS seized control of Mosul, Iraq's second-largest city. Their brutal rule forced thousands of innocent civilians to flee for their lives. ISIS used sophisticated propaganda to recruit fighters from around the world. But in 2016, a coalition of Iraqi and international forces set out to liberate Mosul. They launched relentless airstrikes, targeting ISIS positions. And ground troops marched forward, as the battle for Mosul intensified. Meanwhile, trapped civilians endured unimaginable hardships under ISIS rule. Those who managed to escape sought refuge in overcrowded camps. Medical teams worked tirelessly, treating the injured and saving lives. The battle to regain Mosul turned into a grueling urban war, street by street, house by house. As coalition forces closed in, they flushed out ISIS fighters from their hiding places. ISIS leaders started surrendering, their once-powerful empire crumbling. And finally, on July 9, 2017, the Iraqi Prime Minister declared victory in Mosul. But the battle for Mosul left the city in ruins, with countless lives forever changed. Still, the people of Mosul remain resilient, rebuilding their lives and their city. Their indomitable spirit serves as a beacon of hope for a brighter future.

[ricisidro]

A long war is expected in the #Israel vs. #Hamas conflict

What #UrbanWarfare is like. Underground tunnels makes it more difficult for soldiers to accomplish their mission.

The Iraqi PM declared Mosul completely liberated on July 9, 2017, although small groups of insurgents continued to fight or attempt breakouts for several weeks afterward. The Battle of Mosul had taken 9 months, or 252 days.

-https://mwi.westpoint.edu/urban-warfare-project-case-study-2-battle-of-mosul/#:~:text=Prime%20Minister%20al%2DAbadi%20declared,nine%20months%2C%20or%20252%20days.

Watch: MOSUL documentary. The harrowing, vivid story of 4 Iraqi soldiers' fight against ISIS. A stunning look at the high cost of the Iraqi Army’s victory in the city, large parts of which have been destroyed, with hundreds of thousands of civilians still displaced.

-https://youtu.be/fiZ85FOoDm8?si=Stdy1zwh8x8Iebdn

📸 #Mosul (2019), a #war #action #movie poster on #Netflix, is based on the 2016 #BattleOfMosul, #Iraq, which saw the Iraqi Gov't. forces and coalition allies defeat #ISIS who had controlled the city since June 2014.

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[tropes-and-tales]

Of Every Kinnë Tre

(Pero Tovar x F!Reader)

CW:  Angst (death); smut (dubious consent, maybe, but I don't know if medieval times cared much for intoxicated sex acts; loss of virginity; oblique talk of sex; fingering, PiV, unprotected), 18+ only.

Word Count: 8370

AN:  This was originally requested by @justreblogginfics!

AN2: The title of this is taken from an anonymous medieval love poem called, in modern English, "Of Every Kind of Tree."

AN3: Tropes is playing fast and loose with historical fact here (and geography, and linguistics, etc. etc).

Pero Tovar never counted marriage as something written into his fate.

Starvation?  Possibly.  Plague?  There was a chance.  Death in war or battle or in a misunderstanding on the road to China and back?

All too certain.

But marriage?  Never.

Until it was foisted on him, quite unexpectedly, as he made his way back to Europa from his trials at the Great Wall.

-----

Tales from Pero Tovar’s time were largely passed down through the oral tradition:  great speakers and orators stood in front of captive audiences, or ordinary men and women sat around fires and told stories to while away the dark hours, the cold hours.  To brighten their lives.

These stories usually began like this:

Lo!  We have heard of the glory of the Spear-Danes’ achievements!

Or

Harken, my brethren, while I tell you the tale of Igor, son of Svyatoslav.

Or

Pwyll Prince of Dyved was lord of the seven Cantrevs of Dyved; and once upon a time he was at Narberth his chief palace…

So we will begin our tale the same way, as the people of Pero’s time would have told it:  around the fire, in the deep of winter’s cold—for it is a love story, and love is most appreciated when the days are short and the nights are long.

-----

Gather, friends, as I tell the tale of Pero Tovar, an orphan in want of a heel of bread, who became a sell-sword in want of coin, who became a lord who possessed the greatest treasure of all.

Pero was born in Galicia, and his entry into our world was what harried his dear mother into the next.  Motherless, the babe Pero was given to a cousin to care for him, though she had her own children and gave Pero only the remainder of anything she had.  Pero’s father, a brute of a blacksmith, was dispatched by a horse’s kick to the head when Pero was just a boy, and so he found himself an orphan.

The cousin’s house was meanly built, and the cousin’s husband was a miser who counted every peseta thrice before tucking it away in the pouch he always kept on his person.  Pero was often cold, more often hungry, and when he reached the age of ten, he heard of a boy’s army that was forming to retake the Holy Land for the Christians.

Pero ran away from the cousin’s house, and while he never made it to Levant, he found that he had a talent for survival in the rough company of sell-swords, and it became his life for the next decades.

Unlike his fellow sell-swords, though, Pero had a talent for saving his coin.  His compatriots caroused, whored, drank themselves stupid the moment a coin crossed their palm. 

Pero?  Perhaps he had learned a lesson from the cousin’s miserly husband.  He held his coin, he spent little beyond the care of himself and his horse, and he saved.  He had an idea to leave his life as a sell-sword before he lost it, to retire to some quiet green place and toil in the earth for whatever years remained to him. 

To this end, he kept his coin safe with a certain prior in a certain priory.  For a portion of what Pero earned, the prior tucked away the rest and guarded it, kept it protected in an iron box secured with a cunning lock that only he had the key to.

Pero saw much of God’s earth and beyond:  into the Emirate of Mosul, the Buyid Emirate, where leagues of golden sand stretched beyond one’s vision, and where a lush green paradise could be found over the next rise.  Then Sena, Bagan, the Kingdom of Bali—where he could not fathom the tongues in which they spoke, but where work could be found, as it seemed men across all lands always needed swords for coin.  Then further east where the Song Dynasty ruled, and here Pero faced monsters from Revelation and survived.

With the coin he earned from fighting beasts, Pero calculated that he had enough now to retire from this life.  He could find a patch of land and till it.  He could hitch his warhorse to a plow and plant seeds that would sustain him, and when it was time for him to die, he could lay down in the furrows and pass with the blue firmament over his head.

-----

When Pero returned to the priory to collect his accumulated wealth, however, he found that disaster had struck.

The old prior, a gentle and pious man, had died, and his successor was the son of a bishop, a wastrel and spendthrift whose first order of business had been to set an inventory of the prior’s wealth. This inventory included the iron box where Pero's savings where stored.

The new prior's second order of business was to take that wealth and spend it on sinful pursuits.

Which meant Pero found himself with little beyond the payment from the Song people, a handful of treasures from his journeys, and a stretch of long years in front of him where he’d have to continue selling his sword to survive.

-----

Which was how Pero found himself outside of the Holy Roman Empire, to the east where the people spoke Latin but with a thick tongue, where many kept with the old gods and customs, and where the borders changed every fortnight as men grappled for land, consolidated their holding of scattered tribes and strongholds into what would pass for a kingdom or duchy further west.

Pero took work that winter, guarding the storehouse of a league of merchants who strove to protect their wares from both marauders and quarreling nobles alike.  In this way, Pero came to understand the local tongue and customs, and he learned of the Princeling named Radomil, whose eldest half-brother had just died.

“They say Radomil murdered his kin as he slept,” spat one man in a tavern.  “Just as he slayed his own father, years before.”

Another man lifted his hand, two fingers forked to ward off the Devil.  “There will be hard times ahead, should he gain control.”

In this way, by keeping his head down and his ears open, Pero came to learn of the cowardly murderous Prince Radomil, now King. He came to learn that the people feared what this murderous king may do to his half-sister.

In some way that Pero would never learn, though, King Radomil came to learn of him in turn, and within a score of days, Pero found himself summoned to the squat stone fortress for an audience with the new King.

-----

The proposal was simple, once it was put to Pero in a tongue he could grasp better.

King Radomil wanted to see his half-sister wed.  A kindness, it was said, in light of her recent loss.   She was a widow with a small babe, and King Radomil in his infinite love and benevolence, saw fit to arrange such a match. Pero had been measured and found just such a match.

Pero, always blunt, asked, “why me?”

The King’s advisor talked at length, and though Pero was not especially versed in court intrigue, he knew enough of flattery and lies when he heard it. 

“You are a noble man,” the advisor said, bowing his head at Pero.  “We have it on good authority that you are descended from the family of Alfonso el Monje, King of León.  Ancient blood proves out, despite your meager circumstances now.”

When Pero tried to argue and claim that he was from Galicia, son of a drunkard blacksmith, the advisor waved him away.

“We have priests who have studied your lineage and found it to not be so,” he said.

It was only later that evening that another advisor, an older man with a bald pate but a long beard set Pero straight in hushed tones and darting glances.

“The King cannot kill his sister,” he told Pero.  “She is beloved by the people, and the killing of a woman would unravel his already tenuous hold on the region.”

“Why kill her at all?”  Pero remembered that the sister was a widow, and he imagined an old woman, hunched back, white hair tucked under a veil.  He could not fathom the risk she posed, but then again, he was in unfamiliar lands.

“She is a tool that others would use.  Her father the King was beloved as well, and her mother had an ancient claim to royalty in her own right.  The Princess could be snatched up by a rival for the throne, and her blood could bolster any claim.  But if her brother the King could marry her off to a nobody, no one else could claim her.”

Pero remembered a certain game from his journey to the east, a way for the idle to while away the hours.  It was war in miniature, a board with pieces, and while he watched it played many times, Pero never quite grasped how to win at shatranj.  But he knew enough to recognize it now.

“Marrying her to me would remove her from the field,” Pero replied, understanding at last. 

The old advisor nodded.  “And it would keep her alive.  Consider it seriously, Tovar.  You would save not just her life but the life of her babe, and you would come out of it a wealthy man.  You could claim her inheritance that her mother the Queen left her.”

“What inheritance?”

The old advisor glanced into the shadows, then said, “on her mother’s side, she is nobility.  There is a handsome manor far from here, further north, that belongs to the Princess.  It would be yours, should you marry her.”

In this way, Pero Tovar came to be married.

-----

The marriage took place on a rainy evening, and the ceremonies were doubled:  one performed in the Latin rite by a priest in a grease-stained cassock, the other performed by a wise-man of the local custom.  The latter, it must be said, was more boisterous—it involved winding a cord around the hand of the Princess and Pero’s, linking the two together in the eyes of the local gods.  Then, to seal it, a feast where Pero and the Princess fed each other and gave each other drink.  The drink was a local concoction, dark plum spirits that went down easier with each subsequent sip.

The Princess only took a mouthful when Pero held the cup to her mouth.

Pero took deep swallows and drained the cup when she held it to his.

Then there was dancing, and the dancing led to the great hall spinning, and from the spinning Pero found himself being carried away, up and floating away from the music, borne by the king’s men.  When he turned his head, he saw the Princess - his wife - being borne away beside him, the newlyweds floating, and he did not realize—as she did—that this was the bedding ceremony.

How could Pero know?  He had never laid with a woman before.

*****

You understood your circumstances.

You have always understood your circumstances.

Your mother died when you were young.  Too young to make any memories of her beyond a general impression of loveliness, of gentleness before the fever took her and your unborn sister to the underworld.  Your father remarried soon after, and he had a son with your stepmother, but she was a scheming woman, grasping, and your circumstances were clear forever after.

Your father, at least, lived long enough to marry you off to an ally.  Your first husband had been much older, silver in his beard, but kind.  Extraordinarily kind, in fact, and you wondered sometimes if your father knew he had given you to a man who made you a woman gently, who made you a mother to his daughter just as gently, and who died from an ague only last summer.

It was the only time he hurt you, dying as he did. 

Your second husband?  Well, you understood your circumstances.  You knew it was a farce, a noble lineage hung on the shoulders of a sell-sword.  You knew your brother’s motives when he and his advisors found you and informed you of your impending marriage.  You knew it would keep you safe, being tucked away with some rough peasant, but as you observed this Tovar—his rough looks, his rougher manner—you wondered if death would perhaps be a kinder fate.

-----

Like your first marriage, you did not properly meet your intended until the ceremonies themselves.

Unlike your first marriage, this Tovar did not seem to understand the potency of the rakija.  Unless he was a drunkard as well as a sell-sword.

Like your first marriage, you did not properly exchange a word beyond the ceremonies until you were locked in the chamber for the bedding ceremony.

Unlike your first marriage, this Tovar did not say, as your first husband had, “please trust in me, little princess.  I will do you no harm.”

Instead, this Tovar stared at you, swayed on his feet, and mumbled, “fuck, how did this happen?”

Your first marriage, you left your bedding ceremony with far more pleasure than pain—the former a revelation that your body could produce such sensations, and the latter just a faint ache between your legs.

Your second marriage, you left your bedding ceremony with neither pleasure nor pain.  You left it with confusion, at first, then understanding, then a bemusement that would one day cede to love.

This Tovar understood enough to undress himself.  He shed the embroidered surcoat, the fine-woven shirt, the doe-skin trousers.  The linen smallclothes.  He stood before you unabashed, naked, swaying still on his feet.  His manhood stood to proud attention, and you studied him.  He was not unappealing, you thought, so long as he didn’t spew from the drink.

But he made no further move, and you lifted your hands to undress yourself too.  You lifted away the headdress sewn with seed pearls and small gems.  The outer robe, heavy with brocade.  The inner dress, the woolen slippers, then the shift, and you stood as proudly as you could but felt a shyness overtake you, so you wrapped your arm around yourself and hid what you could.

Perhaps you misunderstood the sell-sword, though.  A man, you thought, would take what was his, but this Tovar only stared at you—his cock twitching—and he made no further move. 

“Perhaps,” you said, tentative.  “We could lie down on the bed?”

He nodded and gestured for you to lead.  You stretched out on the coverlet, but when he joined you, he only laid beside you, like two corpses in the tomb.  The moment grew long, and there was no noise other than each of you breathing and the distant merriment of the wedding feast in the great hall.

“Tovar, we must…you must bed me for it to be legal,” you finally told him.  Quietly, though.  He was drunk, and you knew enough of men to know that drunkenness made them violent.  And at your words, he shook his head and turned to face you, and his expression was dark.

“Pero,” he whispered harshly.  “My given name is Pero.”

“P-Pero.”  You didn’t mean to stammer, but his face was like a thundercloud, like the storm god that men worshiped here—

Saying his name made his expression soften in an instant, though.  The thunderhead passed, and his face was like dawn’s light. 

“My mother named me Pero,” he explained.  “Tovar is what my father gave me.”

“Your mother…is she kind?”

“She is dead.”

“Oh.”  You bit your lip and studied him; the darkness was edging back into his expression, so you added, “mine is dead too.”

“Mine died in my birthing.”

“Mine died when I was young, as she birthed my sister.”  You paused, added, “she died too.”

Pero’s eyes had a glassy quality to them, whether it be the drink or the sorrow of his mother, so you reminded him, just as gently, that the bedding ceremony needed to be complete before your brother the Usurper would let you both leave.  Before he returned your young daughter to you and let the three of you leave for your mother’s homeland.

To aid Pero, you reached out a hand to him, thinking you could lead him to you, but he misunderstood.  He took your hand in his, much like at the wedding ceremony, and he raised it to his mouth.  His mustache tickled against your skin as he pressed wet kisses to the back of it, to your wrist, to the inside of your forearm.

His kisses were sloppy, like a child playing at love.  You thought it was the drink.

Little by little, you led him, or tried to.  An hour passed, you judged from where the tall tapers burned in their pewter holders.  Each moment saw the man get nowhere closer to consummating the thing; he only pressed his mouth to your hands and arms, and when he got breathless, which was often, he gazed over at you.  Sometimes he touched your face with his calloused fingertips, and once he leaned forward and nuzzled his face in your unbound hair, but the time passed, and you felt your daughter—your freedom, your life—slipping away bit by bit.

“For the love of the gods, man,” you finally snapped.  “Finish the thing!”

It made Pero rear back his head from where he nuzzled against you, and his expression was not thunderous so much as baleful.

“It is uncharted waters,” he muttered.

“The terrain from one woman to another is much the same, I imagine,” you retorted, then you reached for him in earnest, took him by his shoulder and urged him to climb onto you, which he did, clumsily.  It felt so much the same, though, the warm touch of another’s body against yours, and the first real flower of desire bloomed in you.

“Perhaps,” you thought, “this may be a successful marriage.”

But Pero seemed confused still, still too addled by the strong plum brandy, and he moved awkwardly, muttered near your ear that he could map the hillocks and dales of this territory, but was unsure of the way home—

“Here,” you breathed into his ear, and your hand found where he strained, hot and heavy and ready to join to you.  You took him by the root and tried to lead him to you, but your touch alone made him groan against your neck, made him mutter some word you didn’t know, and then you felt him go rigid above you.

Your second bedding ceremony, then:  your new husband’s slack weight against you, his spend, hastily given from the mere touch of your palm, cooling against your hip.

Still, it was enough for your brother the Usurper and his flock of advisors in their dusty, moth-eaten robes.  The usual inspection of the bedchamber come morning, the usual sly smiles and off-hand jokes…and then you were away, your daughter restored to your arms and your new husband—and his aching head—off to the lands of your mother.

-----

“What is her name?” Pero asked, startling you out of your thoughts.  When you glanced at him, he nodded at your daughter dozing against your side.

“Vesna,” you replied.  “It means ‘dawn.’”

He stared at you both for a long moment, this woman and her daughter that he got at a bargain. 

“Her father…was he a good man?”

You nodded.  “He was.”

“How did he die?”

You turned away and looked at the landscape from the narrow window of the carriage.  “A fever took him. 

“You cared for him?”

You nodded again.  “I did.”

Pero made a noise at that, a grumble at the back of his throat that you couldn’t discern the meaning of.  “Why did you care for him?”

“Why would you ask?”  It was an impossible question to answer anyway, how you cared for your first husband and why.  Because he was strong and wise, but gentle in equal measure.  That he sat in council with your father, then your elder brother, his face stern and grave, then returned home and played with your daughter, pulled faces and allowed her to ride him as a pony, her small chubby fists tugging at his hair.

Pero must have heard the edge in your voice, because he answered softly, “I only hope to model my behavior on his own.”  He paused.  “I’ve never had a wife.  I should like to do well by you.”

Vesna grumbled in her sleep and turned deeper in your side before she settled.  “Will you do well by her too, Tovar?”

“Pero,” he corrected you gently.  “And I would.  I would be a father to her, and I would have her call me father as I would call her daughter.”

You laughed, the bitterness heavy in your mouth.  “Sweet words, until you have a child of your own.  Once you have your own blood, you’ll seek to cast her away.”

The man scowled but shook his head.  “You have the wrong of it, wife.”

“I’ve yet to meet a person in a second marriage to do otherwise.”

“But you’ve met me,” he snapped.  “And I am not your father’s second wife, nor her treacherous son.”  His face softened, that ebb and flow of darkness that you recognized now from your wedding night.  “I am just a blacksmith’s son, an orphan in my own right.  I would not make an orphan of her, no matter what you think.”

He sounded so injured, stung from your accusation that you nodded at his words, then reached across the carriage and laid a soft hand on his arm. 

“Peace, Pero,” you replied.  “I meant no harm.”

“No one would blame you if you did.  But I will prove you wrong, with both her—” Here, he jerked his chin in the direction of your sleeping daughter.  “And with our own children.  My hands may have slain many men, but I would cradle any child of yours, or any child of ours, as softly as a bird’s egg.”

You could not help the smile.  “You have a gift of language, husband.”

He smiled back, though it looked uncertain, like he was unfamiliar with the motion of lifting his lips into the expression.

“Perhaps you already carry my child,” he said, a bit shyly.  His gaze drifted to your belly under its thick woolen cloak.  “Perhaps I bred you on our wedding night.”

You could not help the laugh this time.  “I think not.”

At that, his smile fled.  “Why not?”

“Because…”  You watched him, uncertain.  Perhaps he had been so drunk he didn’t realize.  “Because you did not…complete the act.”

“I did!”

You shook your head.  “Pero, you drank so much, I trust you must not remember, but you did not.”

“I…”  He hesitated, glanced at Vesna to see that she was still fast asleep.  He dropped his voice to a rough whisper.  “Wife, I spilled my seed.  I remember as much.  The King’s advisors confirmed as much.”

“You did, but outside of me.  Not inside.”

You realized it far too late, but you would be forgiven for never considering it.  How many men had you ever known to enter their marriages as virgins?  Especially a sell-sword who had traveled the world, who had likely been tempted by women of all shades and hues, of all sizes and temperaments.

You realized it when Pero, your husband, looked at you.  Bewildered, he asked, “does not that count, wife?”

-----

“I do not understand how you could not know,” you told him that evening.  You were lodged in a lord’s house, a friend of your late father, and Vesna had been tucked into her cot in an adjoining room.

“I did not.”  Pero sat on the edge of the bed, his arms crossed.  He looked much like a petulant child, not unlike Vesna when she was in a sulk. 

“But you are a grown man, and you’ve kept rough company.”

“I have fought with rough company and traveled with rough company, but I’ve never fucked with rough company.”

You winced at the crude word for it.  “You have never laid with even a woman for coin?  Not once?  Or some sweetheart, back in León?”

“Galicia,” he muttered.  “And no.  I fled home before I could grow hair on my balls, and I held my coin too dear to waste it on pretend love.”

“And you never traveled with a woman, perhaps?  You were never tempted in the rough travel to curl up with a woman—”

“The only women that ever traveled with us were whores and wives.  I would not waste my coin on the first and I would not waste my life on the second.”

You were unsure how to proceed.  True, your marriage was not consummated, but that hardly registered with you.  You did not know this Pero Tovar, in truth, beyond the handful of days you had spent together on the road.  You knew little—just the few conversations, but it was more of his actions that spoke to who he was.

There was a moment early in the journey, just a half day’s ride out, that he had caught Vesna when her little boot caught in the carriage step.  How Pero had swept her up, some fatherly instinct that made it a game for the little girl, a moment to pretend she was flying instead of stumbling.

When you fell asleep and woke to find his cloak tucked around you.

When you entered an unproven tavern for a late meal, how Pero had stood between you and Vesna and the rest of the room, like a loyal cur protecting its flock.

He was rough in his ways, but there was a gentleness to him, and it was as much what he didn’t do—he got drunk on your wedding night and had been as gentle as a lamb.  And now, this line of questioning that frustrated him—he only sat and sulked with his arms crossed, when many men would strike you for being so blunt with his discomfort.

Pero Tovar, you wondered, could perhaps simply be a gentle man who fell into a rough life, and shouldn’t you foster that gentleness, now that he was yours?

“Husband, will you let me show you?” you asked quietly, and when his eyes found yours, you smiled at him.  You held out your hands, and after a moment of hesitation, he took them in his own.  His calloused hands, only recently washed of all the blood they had spilled.

“Please, wife,” he replied.  “Please do.”

-----

The first time that night, it was much like the bedding ceremony:  the moment your hand found Pero’s cock, he groaned, then erupted in your palm.

This time, though, he was sober enough to know what had happened.

“Shit!” he hissed, and he rolled away from you.  You sensed that this was a defining moment in your marriage, the entire enterprise teetering on a knife’s edge.  Fall one way, a life of stilted exchanges, closed-off conversations, miscommunications.  Fall the other way?

“Pero, please.”  You took a cloth from near the bed and wiped your hand, then reached for his deflated manhood.  You wiped him off gently, and you smiled to feel the answering twitch to it, even so soon afterwards.

“The gods did not make us like dogs, rutting in the street, with only one chance in a while,” you whispered to him.  “We can rest and try again, as many times as we like.”

“Did your other husband spill like a boy?” he asked, his voice an angry growl.  You sensed better the way this may fall, how Pero seemed to compare himself to your first husband and found himself wanting.

“My other husband had been married before,” you replied.  You set the soiled cloth aside, and you laid your hand on the side of Pero’s face so you could look him in the eyes.  He avoided your gaze, so you sighed and stroked his hair back from his face, ran your thumb over his bristly cheek.  And Pero, cur that he was, turned into your touch despite his low mood.

“I was not my husband’s first wife,” you explained.  “He and his first wife had many years together, until she died from a wasting disease.  But he was patient with me, and he taught me, just as I will be patient with you.  Just as I will teach you.”

“It is a poor husband who must be taught by his wife.”

You hummed thoughtful at that, then leaned forward to press your lips to his.  You let your breasts brush over his bare arm, and you took in the sharp inhale he made at the touch.

“Such a poor husband,” you chanced to tease.  “Yet such fun in the teaching, hmm?”

“Did I marry a princess or a temptress?” he grumbled back, but there was a teasing tone to his voice. 

“Perhaps you should take her counsel and decide for yourself.”

Pero turned onto his side and faced you, and his eyes finally sought yours.  “I would be a good husband to you,” he said.  “I would be a man who could give you pleasure.”

“Would you be humble enough for your wife to teach you then?”

He nodded, and his eyes grew darker with desire.

“Consider me humble.  Consider me your pupil.”  His voice fell to a lower register, and it sent a frisson of heat through you.

-----

Your lessons, as you came to call them, were strenuously applied and practiced until the pupil became a master in his own right.

You taught him the pleasure of simple touch:  of feather-light strokes and firm grasping, of where to caress and where to lightly pinch, where to soothe and where to worry. 

You taught him how to use his mouth—such a sulking, pouting mouth with such full lips, and with such a wicked tongue.  You taught him how to suckle and lick, how to lap against which parts of you, and you taught him how to kiss with more skill and finesse than that first night together.

You taught him too how to receive the pleasure you could give him beyond the mating.  You used your own hands and mouth in turn, and by the time he strained against you again, his cock ruddy and leaking from its broad tip, Pero was a panting, pleading mess.

“Please, wife,” he cried against your shoulder as you stroked him, then stopped, then stroked him again.  “Please, show me—”

“Here.”  You took his hand and led him to the place between your thighs, let him feel where he should seat himself.  “Just here, husband.”

“It is slippery, your cunt,” he whispered, his voice wracked with awe.  His blunt finger prodded at you, slipped inside, and his groan was a twin to your own.

“It m-makes the joining easier.” 

Pero slid more of his finger inside you, then pulled it out, then sunk it back in.  A preview, you supposed, from your eager pupil.  You moaned again when he added a second finger, and you felt his eyes on you, peering down at you.

“Does that give you pleasure?” he asked without a bit of guile.

You nodded.  It did.

He furrowed his brow.  “I would mount you now, but I may spill too soon.”

“I would not care a whit, Pero.  We have the time to master it together.”

He nodded, then pulled his fingers from you.  He made to climb between your legs, and you parted them for him, spread yourself wide to fit him in the cradle of your hips.  When he lowered himself, you felt his cock brush against you, and he reached down to grasp himself.

It only took him two tries.  Just as you opened your mouth to guide him, he found your entrance, and then he pushed into you, the searing heat of him finally inside you.  Pero groaned to feel you, but he did not spill—he stilled once he was buried in your depths, and he lifted his head to gaze down at you.  The look on his face was somewhere between stupefaction and bliss, and you imagined you looked much the same.

“There,” you told him, brushing your fingertips over the planes of his handsome face.  “Now we are wed, husband.”

*****

In this way, Pero Tovar became a man in love, who was loved in turn by his wife.  Their journey to her mother’s homeland lost much of its earlier speed, and it took them far longer to arrive.  Their servants—the carriage driver, the footman, the guards and lady’s maid, and child’s nurse—could guess the reason for their delay.  After all, Pero and his wife were newlyweds, and they often stayed abed until late in the morning, though no one supposed they slept.

In this way, Pero Tovar came to be a father, the seed planted on that journey quickening in his wife’s belly months later.  The daughter that followed thereafter, and the sons that came after that, and then a final daughter who looked so much like her father that despite the name her parents chose for her, she was forever known as Peročka.

True to his word, Pero never treated little Vesna as anything other than his own child. It had to be said that when the girl was grown and married off to a boy in a nearby city, Pero was the one who openly wept at the loss of her.

In the tales of this time, once the dragon is slain or the kingdom regained or the treasure earned, the tale ends.  And so should ours, except to remind that Pero Tovar had traveled the known world only to end up with a treasure beyond compare in his wife and the family they created together.  He never found the life he sought for himself—that spot of green land, dirt to furrow, plants to coax into life.  Instead, he found a better life with a wife and children, with a community of people who came to value his wisdom…though he did end up with a garden where he tended to a grove of small plum trees and distilled their sweet fruits into a brandy that young men often toasted with on their wedding days.

If there is a lesson to Pero Tovar’s story, then, it’s this:  sometimes the life we desire is not the life we need.

And to add that when his wife died from a wasting disease when only a bit of silver threaded through her hair, Pero spared no expense in building her the finest stone crypt to hold her bones.  He had her dressed in the gown she wore to marry him so long ago.  In her hair, he tucked the small jade and enamel comb that had somehow survived his journey from the Far East when he fought monsters in another life entirely.  As was the custom in his adopted home, his children and grandchildren took hawthorn branches—in full bloom, as his beloved wife died in spring—and laid them in the crypt with her.

And to add too, when Pero himself died from a fever years later, his children and grandchildren dressed him in his finest tunic and opened the crypt so he could be laid beside his beloved.  As was the custom, they took hawthorn branches —laden with red berries, as he died in the autumn—and laid them in the crypt with him.

And to add finally, Vesna, by then a mother in her own right, reached into the crypt and adjusted the two bodies so that their hands were clasped in their eternal rest.  How could she do otherwise?  They had loved each other fiercely in this life, and she prayed to the gods that they would do so in the next life too.  Her mother and her father both, and she did not hide the tears that fell as her brothers and husband slid the heavy stone lid in place, sealing both Pero and his beloved in their shared tomb.

*****

He only has a single evening, and the surfeit of options in D.C. paralyzes him with choice.  The Phillips Collection?  The Renwick Gallery?  Or the National Gallery of Art?

He mentions it to Ruiz, who laughs and says, “c’mon, man.  The National Gallery, obviously.”

“I’d like something a little more off the beaten path,” Marcus replies.

Ruiz studies him, thinks on it.  Finally says, “you know, I know a woman over there.  She’s curating this huge exhibit that’s coming out next year.  You want something unique, why don’t I set you up?”

“The exhibit isn’t even up yet?”

Ruiz waves him off.  “Nah, but it might be fun to see how the sausage is made, right?”

-----

Which is how FBI Agent Marcus Pike comes to meet you.  Ruiz is on your bar trivia team (he’s your ace in the hole on sports trivia), and when he calls with a favor, the call on speaker between Ruiz and Marcus, you happily agree to show him around your budding exhibit.

“It’s called ‘Stronger than Death,’” you tell him after you hold your hand out to shake.  “After the Thomas Mann quote.  ‘It is love, not reason, that is stronger than death.’  Which is cheesy, admittedly, but it’s my first big solo exhibit I’m pulling together, and it’s the culmination of years of research and work.”

Marcus smiles.  “I don’t think it’s cheesy at all.”

“Tell Tony that.”

“Eh, Ruiz is just jaded.”  Marcus follows you into the storage area where some crates have already been unloaded and unpacked.  “Tell me about this exhibit.  Ruiz said it already has a lot of buzz.”

If Marcus thought your smile was lovely when you introduced yourself, he finds it utterly beautiful now, because you are passionate about your exhibit.  An intersection of art and architecture and history, across time and distance, focused on the two most human emotions, you explain:  love and grief.

“No matter when or where, it’s the two constants, you know?”  You gesture widely, taking in the breadth of the crates, but even further too:  the breadth of human history across the globe.  “If you’re talking about humans in fourteenth century Iran or Berber tribes in the twelfth century or a Lutheran and Catholic couple during the heart of reformation, the story is the same.  The details change, but the love is the same, and the grief when death comes is the same.”

“So the exhibit is…”  Marcus trails off, and you take a deep breath. You’ve gone breathless in your explanation, a fact that charms him. Then you continue.  Your exhibit is everything that encompasses that central idea of grief when love is ended by death, and how grief is an outpouring of that endless love.  You have everything from big pieces to ephemera.  There’s Victorian memorial photography.  There’s a gravestone from a Catholic cemetery that edged against a Protestant one, the stone bridging the two graves because neither church allowed the couple to be buried together.  There’s a letter found in a grave from the 1500’s in Korea, where the woman pours out her grief and love for her husband who is buried there. 

You show him the artifacts already unpacked and catalogued.  You hand him a pair of cotton gloves and allow him to touch some of the sturdier pieces, and you’ve pulled him into your wavelength because as he touches each piece, he feels weak in the knees, heavy with kinship he feels with strangers separated from him by centuries and thousands of miles.

“Here’s an interesting piece,” you tell him, and you lead him to a smaller crate that’s been opened, its packing material piled in a small snowdrift around the box.  On the table beside it, there’s a smaller box.  You open it and pull out a delicate-looking piece, and Marcus holds out his palm, flat.  You lay it there, and he studies it in the light.

“Jade?”

You hum in agreement.  “And enamel.  It’s consistent with craftsmanship from the Song Dynasty.”

Marcus reaches back through his memory to his eastern histories and civilizations course.  “Is that…. eleven hundred A.D.?”

“In part.  It lasted over three hundred years.”

Marcus peers at it closer.  “It’s amazingly preserved.”

“It was found in a grave in Latvia last year.”

He looks at you in surprise.  “Seriously?  How?”

“Trade wasn’t unheard of then, east from west.  It was far more popular in the Holy Roman Empire, though.  This part of Latvia was rural in that period.  A collection of city-states and loosely-stitched tribes.”

“The comb must have been buried later then.”

You shake your head and take the comb from him, lie it gently back in its box.  “That’s the story.  It was buried around the year one thousand A.D.  Archeologists found the grave five years ago.  A bunch of kids were riding dirt bikes around the countryside in Latvia.  One kid hits something, goes flying.  It turns out it was a stone, but when they look at it, it’s carved.  Too square, right?  Has markings on it.  It turns out, it’s this perfectly preserved medieval town.  The archeologists did all their digging and carbon testing.  They are still digging, honestly.  But it looks like through soil samples, the best theory is that a tributary to the Daugava flooded at some point in twelve-hundred A.D and buried the entire place.”

“I never heard about it.”

You snort.  “Yeah, a rare well-preserved medieval village will never hit the front page when there’s war and political scandals.”

You reach for a large envelope on the table and open it.  You pull out a sheaf of photos, high resolution, and Marcus sees the link between the delicate jade comb and the overall theme of your exhibit.

The photos show the grave, a carved stone tomb that the river mud preserved for nearly a thousand years.  It is simple by today’s standards, but Marcus can guess the care and expense of it.  There are flowers and trees carved into the lid of it, a flat-faced woman who was probably a saint or local goddess to the time.

Then the photos cede to shots inside the opened grave.  Again, the river buried the village and preserved it for Marcus and you to stare at it now:  the pair of skeletons, on their sides and facing each other, their empty eye sockets seeming to stare at each other, the tiny bones of their hands a jumble as they were clearly buried together.

“They died together,” Marcus muses.  “Plague, maybe?”

You shrug.  “Who can say?  But if it’s plague, it was several years apart.  That’s why I’m putting them in the eastern corner of my exhibit.  The archeologists spent a lot of time on this tomb, since it’s such a rare find.  The skeleton on the left was a woman, roughly forty years old when she died.  She was buried with the comb, and the archeologists found hawthorn branches with her.”

You tap the other side of the photo.  “This one was a man, died around his sixties.  Also buried with hawthorn branches.”

“So, how do we know they were buried at different times?”

“That’s the punchline.  Archeologists found flower petals on her branches, but berries on his.  They were buried at different times of the year, at least.  Which means that the tomb was reopened to put the latter one in, and they were turned to face each other.  Their hands were clasped together.  It’s significant, especially when records seem to indicate that many burials of that time and place were cremations.”

Marcus turns to the next photo, a closeup of the hands.  Sure enough, he can see the dusty, dried remnants of blossoms, the wizened berries.  His eyes drift to their hands, the delicate bones a jumble to where he could not tell who’s belonged to which skeleton.

“Can you imagine the love they must have had for each other?  First to build such an elaborate tomb for such a rural area that likely lacked craftsmen of this caliber.  To choose to bury instead of cremating.  And then to reopen the tomb and place the second body in, to turn them towards each other instead of facing up to face heaven or down to face the underworld.  The jade comb is only a device to open the story, but the real story is the most common one across time.  It’s love, and grief when the love is ended by death.”

“It’s beautiful,” he says, his voice low.  “Sad, but beautiful.”

“We’ll never know their names, you know?  We’ll never know what they looked like, or even really what language they spoke.  If they had children or what they did.  But we know…”  You pause, take a breath.  “We know they loved each other, and they died but the proof of that love can be witnessed by us a millennium later.  And here we are with smart phones and airplanes and dating apps, but if you boil us down, we are just the same as them.  Exactly the same.”

What can Marcus say to that?  He agrees with you completely.  When your voice cracks on the word exactly, his own throat grows a lump in it.  He’s always been a romantic anyway, but the scope and scale of this project makes him feel like he could easily be pushed into tearing up too. 

“This exhibit is going to be amazing,” he finally tells you.  “Honestly.  People are going to love it.”

You grin at him, and your eyes are a little glazed with tears, but Marcus wonders what would push you to take such an interest in this topic.  Many curators home in on a much narrower niche, but yours is universal, so broad it could be sloppy or unfocused.  But you seem to be taking a broad cross-section of artifacts, an attentive lens at different times and places and cultures.

“Thanks, Marcus.  I appreciate it.”  You turn and slide the photographs back into their envelope.  “Ruiz didn’t say much about why you wanted to check this out.”

Marcus follows you out of the storeroom.  “I didn’t, really.  I’m only in town for the evening.  I fly out in the morning.”

“Where to?”

“Texas.  I live there.  I’m just in town for an interview.”

You lead him back to your office where his coat is stashed, and you hand it to him.  You grab your own, grab your purse, and lock up.  Together, you walk out of the building and into the evening.  D.C. glitters: it must have rained while you were inside, and the lights sparkle on the wet pavement and buildings.  You walk together for a few blocks, chatting amiably.

“Ruiz said you were FBI too?”

“Yeah, I’m in the Art Squad.”

You laugh.  “Art Squad.  I love it.  You armed with an FBI-issued oil pastel?”

When Marcus starts to explain that he investigates stolen art and artifacts, you elbow him gently and cut him off.  “I was teasing.  I know what you do.”

He chuckles, shakes his head.  He can feel his face flush a bit.  “Anyway, there’s an open position here, and I thought it might be a good move, career-wise.”  He pauses.  “We’ll see how it goes.”

“Texas to D.C.  It could be a fun move.”

He agrees, but before he can stop himself, he’s talking about Teresa, how he has fallen in love, how he has a ring picked out and an idea of proposing—and you listen to it, nodding sympathetically, cooing when he sings Teresa’s virtues.  Agreeing when he says his life is finally shaping out the way he always wanted:  career and love, both moving forward in wonderful ways.

“That’s really great,” you reply.  “I’m happy for you.”

He feels slightly asshole-ish, rambling about his life.  He asks, more charitably, “what about you?  Married?”

You laugh, a dry single ‘ha.’  “No.”

“Boyfriend?  Girlfriend?”

“No.”  You glance at him.  “Let’s just say I’m married to my work and leave it at that.”

He lifts his palms in surrender and in apology.  “Fair.  I’m sorry.”

“No need to be.”  You pause.  “But Teresa sounds great, and you’re lovely, so when the two of you come to D.C., look me up and you’ll give you both a private tour, okay?”

Marcus smiles at the thought of him and Teresa together in the capitol, hand in hand at your wonderful exhibit.  “Deal.”

You stop in your tracks and point at the intersection.  “I’m this way.  It was really nice to meet you, Marcus.”

He holds out his hand and you take it.  “Thank you so much.  You have no idea how much I enjoyed it.”

“For one of Ruiz’s buddies?  Anytime.  And for real—you and your girl.  Private tour, on me.”

The private tour, obviously, will never happen with Marcus and Teresa.  Marcus will move to D.C. and Teresa will never follow.  He’ll go through a dark period that he assumes will last the rest of his life, but it hardly lasts at all because by then, the city is plastered with advertisements for your exhibit, which is as big as Marcus predicted.

The private tour will happen with just Marcus, and it will hit different to see it laid out with the lighting, the flow, the signage.

It will hit different considering his recent breakup and recent heartache.

It will hit different when he shakes your hand again, when he takes in your soft, steady voice as you explain every artifact, as you offer him that lovely smile that turns beautiful as you talk about your work.

And it will hit different as you lead him through the history of love and grief, the history of what makes him no different from, say, a man who lived and loved and died a thousand years earlier.  A man, perhaps, who thought his life would venture into one direction but instead went in another:  how the life he desired was not the life he needed, but how it ended in love all the same.

In that way, Marcus and Pero, separated by a millennium are the same.

[satellitebroadcast]

French journalist Régis Le Sommier:

"I have covered many conflicts in the Middle East. I covered the battle of Mosul and I am used to scenes of horrific destruction. I have never seen such a scene of devastation in my life as Gaza. It is as if it were Hiroshima, or Le Havre in 1945. Nothing is left. Nothing is left!"

[fromchaostocosmos]

Claims that Israel has been committing a genocide of Palestinians date to long before October 7. Yet the population of Gaza was estimated to be less than 400,000 when Israel captured the territory from Egypt in a war against multiple Arab countries in 1967. It’s now estimated at just over 2 million. Population growth of almost 600% would make it the most inept genocide in the history of the world.

Those repeating the word genocide over and over, turning it into a mantra that penetrates the public consciousness, smearing Israel and anyone who supports it, ignore the facts of this war. This is not an unprovoked war, like Russia’s against Ukraine. It’s not a civil war between rival militias, like the one raging in Sudan — which, by the way, is being ignored by almost everyone, even though the UN describes it as one of the “worst humanitarian crises in recent memory,” where a famine could kill 500,000 people. No, Israel was attacked. On October 7, Hamas launched a gruesome assault on Israeli civilians, killing some 1,200 — including many women and children — and dragging hundreds of them as hostages into Gaza. Today dozens — including many women and children — remain in captivity. Those who keep saying that Israel’s response is an act of revenge rather than the strategic, defensive war that most Israelis view as a fight for national survival against a determined enemy backed by a powerful country are deliberately distorting reality. In doing so, they are perversely evoking the same false blood lust and grotesqueness embedded in the blood libel archetype.

Indeed, Hamas’ actions, which precipitated this war, don’t seem to exist in the minds of ostensibly humanitarian-minded protesters. Nor even the fate of the hostages, still captive in Hamas tunnels. Although the campus protests vary in their message and actions from school to school, we never hear protesters chant that Hamas should release the hostages or accept a ceasefire. Quite the contrary. Accusations against Israel at times include praise for Hamas, one of whose aims — the end of the Jewish state — is shared by some key organizers of the student protests. As Secretary of State Antony Blinken recently said, “It remains astounding to me that the world is almost deafeningly silent when it comes to Hamas.” Accusing Israel of genocide and putting the entire onus for stopping the war, putting all the blame for the deaths, on the Jewish state is even more astounding because Hamas — designated a terrorist organization by the US, the European Union and many other countries — is a group whose explicit goal, according to its founding charter, is not just to destroy Israel, but to kill Jews. That is the definition of genocide.

Still, the death toll, even by the Hamas count, does not in any way suggest a genocidal campaign. The terror organization puts the total at about 35,000. The figure, disputed by The Washington Institute for Near East Policy among other think tanks and researchers, includes Hamas fighters. That means the number of civilians killed, whatever the total, is actually lower. Compare that to the death toll in Mosul, Iraq, where coalition forces uprooted ISIS from a city that had some 600,000 people at the time. Estimates of the exact number of deaths vary, ranging from 9,000 to 40,000 (the latter is the estimate of Kurdish intelligence). The lowest figure is on par with the rate of total deaths reported by Hamas authorities in Gaza that does not distinguish civilians from Hamas fighters, while the highest is four times greater. I don’t recall hearing the term genocide used there, or in any of the battles that led to more than half a million people being killed in Afghanistan and Iraq during America’s wars there. And yet, Israel has been repeatedly smeared with this damning accusation.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

—

In Byron Smith’s new photography book, Ukrainians are pictured fleeing by any means possible — crammed into cars with pet dogs, waiting to board trains to Poland, or simply taking to suburban streets with infants and backpacks in hand.

As a photojournalist whose work often focuses on the plight of migrants (a mission that has taken him from Greek refugee camps to the battle for ISIS-controlled Mosul, Iraq, in 2016 and 2017), his instinct was quite the opposite: to run toward the danger.

“I feel like if you see these masses of people fleeing, it would be fake for me to really sympathize with them if I didn't go and see what they were fleeing from,” Smith told CNN in a video interview from Istanbul, Turkey.

Documenting Smith’s travels through Ukraine in the year following Russia’s unprovoked invasion in February 2022, “Testament ‘22 – A Visual Road Diary Through a War Zone” is a contemplative portrait of a nation at war.

The 192-page tome juxtaposes color with monochrome, defiance with despair, hope with fear.

—

The title references “My Testament,” an 1845 poem by Taras Shevchenko in which the author asks to be buried among the fields, rivers and steppes of his “beloved Ukraine.”

The photographer recalled reading it as he first ventured to Kyiv.

“It's pretty much (Shevchenko’s) last will and testament... And I'm riding into this war zone, the Russians are invading and I’m like, ‘Wow, I actually don't have a will and testament for myself, for my parents or family, or even anything to really leave behind for anybody.’

That played on me a bit, and it became the backbone for the story.”

The book serves, too, as a testament to the people of Ukraine, whose stories Smith felt compelled to share with the world.

Its publisher, Verlag Kettler, believes the photographer’s body of work can contribute to the “overwhelming evidence” of Russian crimes.

xxx

[eretzyisrael]

by Hilary Krieger

CNN: You said you wanted to talk about Hamas using hospitals and schools?

Spencer: Yes. It is a great example of good intentions leading to bad outcomes. It is of course the right thing to do to tell warring parties that hospitals should not be used in war, that they need to be protected. But that has driven combatants who do not follow the laws of war into every protected facility. Hamas took every law of war and reverse-engineered it to build an environment in which Hamas has occupied facilities because of their legal protections. So fighting an enemy that’s an avowed terror organization puts a conventional military at a big disadvantage, especially if the world is watching.

Hamas is the first combatant I’ve seen do this at an industrial level. The US military bombed complete hospitals to the ground because of battles against ISIS in hospitals. But what Hamas has done is engineered every protected site as a military facility because they knew not only would Israel have to restrict its use of force against those sites, but the world would condemn Israel for even thinking about going to those places. Of course, Israel doesn’t want to be considered on a par with Hamas by the international community, so predictably Hamas is trying to take advantage of that.

I used to say that Hamas built their tunnels underneath every school, UN facility and hospital, but what we’re finding out is that no, they also built their tunnels and then built the schools on top of them. It is literally a byproduct of our pursuit to protect that has put more people at risk. 

CNN: How do you know that about Hamas’ construction under hospitals and the schools? There have been a lot of questions about the information the IDF has put out there and the numbers they use. So how can you be confidant about this information?

Spencer: I go into this trusting the IDF’s information more than I do Hamas’, but I have also been on the ground in Gaza during this war near mosques and schools with tunnels. I was with the IDF as they uncovered a tunnel running out of a mosque, for instance, and it’s been documented that Hamas uses mosques for storing weapons and other military purposes. So I’m relying on personal research as well as a belief in a law-abiding and very moral society and military.

CNN: You mentioned your participation in the Iraq war. How would you compare Israel’s conduct — whether it’s been upholding international law or committing war crimes — to the US fighting, say, al-Qaida in Afghanistan or ISIS in Mosul, Iraq?

Spencer: If you want to talk about the tactics to prevent civilian harm in war, the US military uses speed, force and overwhelming power. That’s what we did in Panama, Afghanistan, Iraq, you name the war where we want to take out the power and destroy its military; we do it quickly so it doesn’t prolong the war. The problem is that the international community pushed Israel into this framework of going slower, going methodically, evacuating every area beforehand.

I can say with very strong confidence that Israel has done everything the US military has ever done in the history of urban combat and things that we’ve never done, implementing every civilian harm mitigation technique that has been developed in the last 30 years despite Hamas’ tactics.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Jake Wallis Simons

The Gray Lady even contrasted the two incidents in a way that painted the American atrocity favourably while casting Israeli intentions in doubt. The Kabul attack, it said, ‘came after a suicide bombing killed at least 182 people, including 13 American troops, during the frantic American withdrawal from the country. Under acute pressure to avert another attack, the US military believed it was tracking a terrorist who might imminently detonate another bomb. Instead, it killed an Afghan aid worker and nine members of his family.’

The Gaza strike, however, ‘adds fuel to accusations that Israel has bombed indiscriminately’, the New York Times said, pre-empting the results of the independent investigation with breathless speculation and a healthy dose of ‘confirmation bias’ of its own. The assumption could not be clearer: whereas the Americans were acting out of panic and confusion, the Israelis were either acting out of disregard for human life or straightforward bloodlust.

Civilian deaths, including those of aid workers, are a tragic reality of modern warfare. Sixty-two humanitarian workers lost their lives in combat zones last year. Although they were mostly killed at the hands of autocratic regimes and militias, during wartime they are also the casualties of democracies, including Britain.

During the Libyan civil war in 2011, when David Cameron had his hands on the joystick, 13 people were killed by a NATO airstrike, including an ambulance driver, three nurses and some friendly troops. (He did not, surprisingly, subject his own government to the type of rhetoric that he has recently been levelling at the Israelis over the mistaken Gaza strike.) That same week, NATO wiped out a family near Ajdabiya in the north of the country. This year, even the Danish military was forced to admit that its aerial assault had claimed the lives of 14 Libyan civilians.

The difference between attitudes towards most Western armed forces and the Israelis could not be sharper. According to the UN, the average combatant-to-civilian death ratio in war around the world is one to nine. When Britain, America and our allies battled Islamic State in Mosul in 2016-17, we achieved a much more respectable rate of about one to 2.5. In Gaza, Israel has done better still, reaching about one to 1.5, and possibly even less.

[captain-price-unofficially]

Iraqi ERD member targets an IS drone with a jamming device during the Battle of Mosul, 2016.

[tentacion3099]

During the battle of Mosul

[mariacallous]

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu warned of a “long war” in a recorded address on Tuesday as the country’s warplanes continued to pound the densely populated Gaza Strip. In the three weeks since Hamas’s rampage left more than 1,400 Israelis dead, the country’s top officials have maintained their intent to wipe Hamas “off the face of the earth.”

After 16 years in power, Hamas is deeply entrenched in the Gaza Strip. Regional experts have questioned Israel’s ability to dislodge the militant group in its entirety. Even if Israel were to succeed in toppling Hamas, it would leave a governance and political vacuum in its wake and a humanitarian crisis of unthinkable proportions. Already, more than 9,000 people have been killed in Gaza, according to the local health ministry, which is run by Hamas, but whose numbers have been historically reliable. Among the dead are more than 3,500 children, according to the United Nations.

But what comes after the war? Israeli officials have said little about their plans for the enclave and its 2.1 million residents. In this regard, they have evoked comparisons to the way that the United States went into Iraq and Afghanistan.

Foreign Policy spoke to almost a dozen current and former U.S. and Israeli diplomats and intelligence officials, Palestinian scholars, and regional experts about the future of Gaza. All expressed deep uncertainty, but through political, security, and diplomatic roadblocks, a set of grim scenarios begins to emerge, almost by a process of elimination.

“There’s no fantastic options here. You’re in the zone of what I would call, to put it gently, suboptimal options,” said David Makovsky, who was a senior advisor to the special envoy for Israeli-Palestinian negotiations at the U.S. State Department.

Can Israel Actually Destroy Hamas?

Projections for what is to come in Gaza start bleakly and get worse from there. A ground invasion of the enclave, a thicket of densely packed high-rise buildings, has been compared to the battle against the Islamic State in Mosul, Iraq, in 2016, which saw some of the world’s most punishing urban warfare since World War II.

Except in Gaza, it could be worse. Hamas has had years to entrench its positions in hundreds of miles of tunnels buried underground. The militant group has been known to stake out positions next to schools, hospitals, and mosques, further complicating matters for Israeli targeting. Already, the ferocity of Israel’s bombing campaign has exceeded the most intense rounds of airstrikes used in the U.S.-led coalition battle for Mosul.

“Almost by definition, the Israeli military objective can only be achieved by leveling significant parts of Gaza,” said Frank Lowenstein, a former special envoy for Israeli-Palestinian negotiations for the U.S. State Department.

The Israel Defense Forces (IDF) have repeatedly called on 1 million people to evacuate from Northern Gaza, warning that any who stay will be regarded as an “accomplice” of Hamas. Some 350,000 civilians remain, according to Israeli estimates. Some are too old or sick to be moved; others fear that they will never be allowed to return. Those who have fled to the south have still come under bombardment as Israeli airstrikes have struck throughout the Gaza Strip.

Israeli officials have set a goal of stamping out every last trace of Hamas, “not just decapitating Hamas tactically, but also crushing its ability to have any military or jurisdictional ruling capabilities in Gaza” irrespective of whether they are part of the group’s military wing, said a senior Israeli diplomat who spoke on the condition of anonymity but was not authorized to speak on the record due to Ministry of Foreign Affairs protocol. “There is no differentiation. If they are Hamas, they are Hamas,” the diplomat said.

Beyond the challenging military terrain, experts have questioned whether Israel can even eradicate Hamas in its entirety. In addition to the group’s military wing, tens of thousands of Hamas and some Palestinian Authority bureaucrats run schools, hospitals, and an ad hoc judicial system.

“We’re now talking about some 60,000 people,” said Khalil Shikaki, the director of the Palestinian Center for Policy and Survey Research. “They are running classes and schools, [and they are] doctors and nurses and people working in social services, people providing water and electricity. Why would Israel go after these people?” Shikaki said.

And then there is the challenge of Hamas as an idea. Founded in the late 1980s with a commitment to armed resistance and the annihilation of Israel, Hamas is the second-largest entity in Palestinian politics. “It’s an organizational embodiment of an idea,” said Aaron David Miller, a former senior U.S. State Department official who worked on Middle East peace negotiations.

As the death toll rises and humanitarian suffering in Gaza compounds, there is a significant chance that Israel’s pursuit of security now could sow the seeds of future insecurity. “I can’t even begin to wrap my brain around the long-term humanitarian and even security implications,” said Khaled Elgindy, the director the Middle East Institute’s program on Palestine and Palestinian-Israeli affairs.

“In the same way that Israelis have this desire for revenge, we can assume that that same human impulse is going to be present on a much more massive scale among Palestinians,” he said.

The Challenge of Reconstruction

While right-wing Israeli lawmakers have floated the idea of annexing parts of the strip, where Israel dismantled its settlements in 2005, senior officials have repeatedly indicated that they have no desire to reoccupy Gaza in the wake of the war.

It’s difficult to envision a day-after scenario in which the IDF doesn’t maintain at least a short-term presence on the ground to prevent any last vestiges of Hamas from reconstituting, as well as to stabilize the immediate situation. Israeli military leaders are already laying the groundwork for an interim scenario in which they oversee security and civilian life in the strip and are already looking at transferring personnel from the Coordinator of Government Activities in the Territories, a military unit that deals with civilian issues in the West Bank, to temporary roles in Gaza, according to a report in the Israeli newspaper Haaretz.

In the immediate aftermath of an Israeli military operation, humanitarian and reconstruction needs will be gargantuan. Hospitals and mortuaries are already overwhelmed. Supplies of fuel, needed to run hospital generators and water sanitation plants, are already dwindling after three weeks of Israel’s siege.

In the slightly longer term, experts point to a possible coalition of Arab states—potentially signatories of the Abraham Accords, which Israel feels it can work with—that could serve as an interim force to fill the security and governance vacuum in Gaza with support from the United States, the European Union, and the United Nations.

“I can see Egyptian, Jordanian, and Saudi soldiers with the international community controlling the region during an interim stage, and a huge amount of money that will come from the [United Arab] Emirates and the Saudis in order to reconstruct,” said Ami Ayalon, the former chief of Israeli domestic intelligence agency Shin Bet. But the longer and bloodier that Israel’s campaign in Gaza is, the more challenging it will become to secure the cooperation of Arab states.

Then there is the monumental challenge of reconstruction, the cost of which will likely run into the billions of dollars. Amid periodic outbreaks of hostilities between Israel and Hamas over the past decade, Gaza has been in a near constant state of reconstruction. Efforts to rebuild homes and infrastructure destroyed by war have been hamstrung by unfulfilled donor pledges and complicated screening mechanisms put in place to prevent construction materials from falling into the hands of Hamas.

“Reconstruction is crucial,” said Makovsky, the former U.S. State Department advisor. “You need to produce at least the potential of progress quickly.”

Politics After Hamas

The further out that one looks, the murkier Gaza’s future becomes. If Hamas is removed after running the Gaza Strip since 2007, the most obvious candidate to fill the void would be the Palestinian Authority (PA), which runs the West Bank. The Palestinian Authority was created in the wake of the Oslo peace process in the mid-1990s, with the hopes of laying the groundwork for a future Palestinian state.

But this is not a great best-case scenario.

First, there are the optics. The PA was ousted from Gaza by Hamas in 2007 and is unlikely to embrace the idea of returning in the wake of a punishing Israeli military campaign to unseat its rival. “They don’t want to be viewed as coming in on an Israeli tank and taking over the Gaza Strip,” said Zaha Hassan, a fellow at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, whose research focuses on Palestine-Israel peace.

And then there is the question of legitimacy. The PA hasn’t held a presidential election since 2005, when the now 87-year-old Mahmoud Abbas was first elected. An overwhelming majority of Palestinians see the PA as corrupt and inefficient, while its security cooperation with Israel in the West Bank is regarded with deep suspicion as Israeli settlers have continued to chip away at Palestinian lands.

Next comes the capacity issue. The PA has struggled to protect civilians from attacks by Israeli settlers in the West Bank, and its budgets have been stretched to breaking point as Israel has withheld millions of dollars in tax revenues gathered from Palestinians.

The very survival of the PA has come into question in recent years, let alone its ability to take 2 million Gazans under its wing in the wake of a war. For the Palestinian government to have any authority, it would take new elections, significant resources, and “a very different attitude from the Israelis,” said Lowenstein, the former U.S. special envoy. “But we’re at the other end of the spectrum on all of those issues right now,” he noted.

The last Palestinian parliamentary elections in 2006 yielded a shock victory in Gaza for Hamas, which has long sought the destruction of Israel, as a protest vote against perceived corruption in Fatah, the main party in the West Bank. New elections for the Palestinian Authority could include commitments to nonviolence as a means to prevent the election of extremist groups, Lowenstein said. But democratic elections are inherently unpredictable and could require Israel and its partners to respect results that they do not necessarily like.

“Politics is not something that you can engineer from the outside,” said Elgindy of the Middle East Institute.

While an Israeli ground invasion is likely to deal a devastating blow to Hamas’s commanders, its foot soldiers, and its arms caches, many analysts noted that the only long-term solution to address Israel’s need for security and Palestinian’s hopes for self-determination is to work toward a political solution to the conflict.

Speaking to reporters last week, U.S. President Joe Biden reiterated his support for a peace deal and the creation of a Palestinian state. Before the Hamas attacks of Oct. 7, hopes for such a deal had long since slid into the rearview mirror. Support for a two-state solution among Israelis and Palestinians has also declined precipitously in recent years, but many still see it as the only viable way to resolve the conflict.

“If we want to see the state of Israel safe and without losing our identity as a Jewish democracy, this is the only concept. Because otherwise we shall create an apartheid state, and we shall never be secure,” said Ayalon, the former Shin Bet director.

[ricisidro]

#Mosul (2019), a #war #action #movie on #Netflix, is based on the 2016 #BattleOfMosul, #Iraq, which saw the Iraqi Gov't. forces and coalition allies defeat #ISIS who had controlled the city since June 2014. The #US supported 277 days of #UrbanWarfare in Mosul. It's also based on true events chronicled in The New Yorker article: The Desperate Battle to Destroy ISIS

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[natequarter]

if i had the time to make the perfect Vaguely Orientalist Documentary parody, it would look something like this: we open on lush views of the australian outback. playing in the background is some bollywood music. some educated white man is narrating about how the arabs, who worship but one god - zeus - are disorganised and backwards, and conclude with the valiant duel between the handsome and charming bohemond of taranto and the less handsome and less charming kerbogha of mosul. lots of half-naked shots of oily men wrestling. then we will move on to the second crusade. this time, we will open on the american prairie land. the narrator informs the viewer that much has changed from the first crusade (whilst egyptian music plays in the background): the arabs now worship odin and richard the lionheart has come to invade. this continues on for each crusade, and after the third crusade every muslim is simply called saladin, regardless of their actual name, with the music, visuals, and general historical accuracy getting further and further away from any kind of sense. by the seventh crusade elizabeth i will be leading the crusade against saladin against a backdrop of norway in winter whilst greensleeves plays. thomas asbridge will be weeping in a corner. white documentary makers will look on in horror. and somewhere in the middle east or possibly not, saladin will awaken for the final battle...

[open-hangar]

New Akkadian Lore Yushamin Ep. 8

SABBI SPECIALTY RECORDS

باسم الحياة العظيمة، عندما نجتمع معًا

Yushamin Aleph, Be, Gim, Xelq

Size: [REDACTED BY SABBI]

Power Output: [REDACTED BY SABBI]

Pilots: 1 active pilot, [REDACTED BY SABBI]

Weaponry and abilities: Highly mobile ground movement, modular weaponry and armor. Strength heavily dictated by [REDACTED BY SABBI]

Etc.: The system by which the Yushamin can be assigned to pilots may be confusing to some, please study and refer to appendix [REDACTED BY SABBI] for the ideal methodology. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE THE YUSHAMIN TO BE ALLOWED MORE THAN NECESSARY EXPOSURE TO UTHRA BODIES. EXTREME MEASURES MUST BE TAKEN TO PREVENT PROLONGED EXPOSURE.

Emergency claxons blare loudly as Waheeda and Syreeta climb into Yushamin Units Aleph and Beh. Waheeda, clad in her skintight, bladed pilot suit, slices her way through the thin membrane on top of Aleph’s head and slides into the warm fluid inside the machine’s cockpit. She closes her eyes, and does her best to begin her meditation and enter into a state where she can see through the statue’s eyes as her own. It takes a few seconds, but she gets there. With every mission, it gets slightly easier.

“Unit Aleph, are you ready?”

“Roger, command.”

“Unit Beh, are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“The mission will begin as planned. Step into the launch zones.”

The two Yushamin stand with their backs to the wall of the hangar, when a series of clamps reach out and grab on the statues’ arms, legs, and wings. With explosive force, they are sent upwards to the surface, and further up into the sky and into the waiting grasp of a SABBI airship’s hanging cables.

“SABBI Command Airship Miriai, report.”

“Miriai here, we have the packages. On route to the battle zone.”

“Alepha and Beh, Miriai is in charge of this mission, treat their orders like our own. Over and out.”

The Miriai flies underneath Al’Ahdath Mosul, and swings into a north-eastern trajectory, sending the Yushamin through the tops of some pine-like trees. Obviously, there is no damage, but Aleph (with Waheeda’s mind) is still a bit annoyed. Hey, watch the merchandise.

After a short flight, they come upon the target, a massive feline-like beast. “We’ve identified this as an Uthra, as you’ve been briefed. The weakness appears to be on the back of the skull, so we’re dropping both of you directly on it. We’re dropping on the count of 3, Hayyi Rabbi guide you. 1, 2, 3!”

The clamps holding the Yushamin split open, and the two are within freefall. Beh calls out to Aleph as it pulls out its knife, “I’ll land on the back and go for the neck. You land in front and distract it.” Aleph calls back out in the affirmative, and twists its massive body to change its trajectory.

With a massive crash, the trees that Aleph lands on in front of the Uthra crumple into splinters. The beast reels back in shock, before letting out a splitting roar and raising its cockles. It is at this point that Aleph deeply regrets their choice of being the bait.

Yushamin are large, but this monstrosity was on a different level. Aleph stares down the beast, throwing its melee weapon from hand to hand, before the creature raises its cackles and unleashes a horrifying, disgusting roar. Aleph can only instinctively flinch, and collapse under the creature’s massive weight as it leaps forward and holds the living statue under its forelegs, mauling it with its forearms.

“Beh! Having a bit of a problem here!” Aleph exclaims as it struggles to protect its body from the claws. “I wasn’t expecting it to jump!”

“I understand,” Beh says in a monotone as it leaps onto the creature’s back and crawls along its spine. It bares its knife, and jams it into the back of the creature’s neck, doing little to slow its massive claws digging into Aleph’s armor.

“Hurry up and dig it out, already!” “I understand.”

Beh carves at the neck until it finds its core, a smooth, spherical stone connected to the beast’s body by a number of tendrils. Beh methodically cuts each tendril one by one as per usual, until it stops for some reason. “Yo, Beh, you good? Syreeta?”

The Beh’s claws dig into the stone, and begin scratching at it, as if trying to split it open. Scratch, tear, rip, until the core somehow split cleanly in half, revealing its inside, a geode crystal display of bright amethyst and emerald-like crystals. For a split second, Beh says, “It’s beau-” before the crystals erupt out of the core in a single massive spike, and puncture deep into the Yushamin’s chest.

Aleph and Waheeda watched, first with confusion and then with fear, as Beh’s mouth opened up. Not that mouth, not the humanoid one. The bottom of its chin separates and splits the Yushamin’s skull like a crocodile’s, revealing two long lines of sharp teeth. Two gems on the side of Beh’s head spin around to reveal their pupils, which focus on the core in front of them. Its jaw opens wide, and it bites into the core.

Aleph screams over the comms. “SYREETA! WHAT THE-”

The Miriai interrupts. “THE HELL?!”

Beh rips the core off of the crystal, and swallows it in one bite. Its true eyes manic, green and purple drool dripping out of its skill, the Yushamin digs into the monster’s dead body with a voracious hunger unseen by living creatures. “SYREETA, STOP! I’M STILL STUCK UNDER THIS THING! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

But it still tears chunks of the Uthra and shoves them into its mouth, until in its hunger it bites on one of its hands before it leaves its mouth. It pauses momentarily as it pulls away its severed wrist, but with a renewed vigor, it eats the rest of that arm, and then the other one, too. The Miriai chimes in over comms.

“Aleph! We’re coming to get you, grab onto the clamp!”

“But what about Syreeta?!”

“Leave it! The Yushamin’s chargon levels are off the hook, Syreeta’s almost certainly died of old age!”

Waheeda can hardly believe what she’s hearing, so badly that she momentarily disconnects from the consciousness of Aleph. Knowing, however, that that’s a death sentence, she tries her damndest to reconnect fast enough to grab onto the Miriai’s clamp before losing control again. From inside the Yushamin’s skull, she can feel the entire statue jostle and rise, and she takes the opportunity to crawl out the top.

As the airship flies away, she looks down at the Beh bleeding out on the monster’s corpse. She didn’t even know that Yushamin had blood.

—

1 WEEK LATER

Rami and Syreeta walked into the briefing room, him taking his usual spot at the lectern, while Syreeta sat down next to Waheeda. Tears filled Waheeda’s eyes as her arms began to tremble.

Art by @nebularobo