#decolonization begins

[gold-rhine]

you know that post thats like you need to understand the rules of something before you can meaningfully break them? you need to understand the rules of classic tragedy to understand how genshin is purposefully breaking them with furina.

i've seen ppl complaining that furina doesn't have agency and should've stayed an archon when like. first of all, thats the point, tragic heroes don't. doomed by the narrative, all that shit. this is why a lot of tragedies use prophecies, which genshin references as well. like not even getting into how furina is playing off little mermaid narrative, its hard to miss that she's opera themed.

but where it starts subverting the genre, is that furina KNOWS she is a tragic hero. she is given the choice at the very start, focalors told her that she will need to suffer and PERFORM in order to finally save fontaine from the prophecy. Furina is a tragic hero who is given knowledge that she IS IN TRAGEDY PLAY and also given AGENCY TO CHOOSE TO PERFORM. bc it's not a single choice at the start, she has to keep choosing it again and again every day, the game focuses heavily on her distress and she could break the role at any moment, but she doesn't. there are so many moments of game showing her conflict! her confrontation with neuvillette, her grief in Poisson, her wavering at the traveller's offer bc it can be a loophole, then the trial, where she went all the way, where she put her hand into primordial water, thinking it will dissolve her. like! she had so many moments where it would be understandable for her to break, but she didn't, she stayed true, and it was not easy for her at all. that was a choice, a dedication that she had to make again and again, and it only became harder and harder

but where genshin really gets into breaking tragedy rules, is that it lets its tragic hero cheat death using the rules of tragedy itself. this is why i referenced an essay on classic greek tragedy here, because in tragedy, gods have absolute power, but they are also immutable, unable to change, while humans are weak and fickle, but they CAN grow and change. as an essay says, tragic hero achieves something like divinity in a moment his face solidifies into an unchangeable mask, and that moment is death.

fontaine arc is breaking the tragedy rules without disrespecting them, because it does not diminishes the sacrifice and heavy price of death, but instead allows furina to escape bc in the moment when she should have died, focalors put herself into spotlight instead, and she already had an unchangeable death mask of divinity. and her death, her sacrifice allowed furina to achieve greater agency to choose to live how she wants. she escaped the tragedy! she was saved from the narrative! she's a little mermaid who didn't have to die to receive a human soul.

and tbh saying that furina should have stayed an archon is first, conflating power with agency, and second, disrespecting her own choice, because the game goes to excruciating length to show that she hates ruling and being a movie director makes her happy. furina wanting to self-actualize through art is not somehow lesser than her being a ruler.

[scamallach-1]

When fellow “US” settlers tell each other that they wanna learn about indigenous decolonial land back here on this land but then spend time making an issue about their time, saying they don’t really have time to educate themselves, my autistic ass is at a loss. Cus I’m stumped. You say you want to learn and then when provided with resources your regular response is that you don’t have time? I see it constantly, this excuse. In comment sections when people ask questions and then claim they don’t have time to read the answer; in my own circle when my fellows blab about things they don’t know and then when presented with correct answers and sources, they get quiet and say they just haven’t had time to look into it (yet that doesn’t quiet their mouths on shit they don’t know). We settlers need to ask ourselves right now what we are willing to change for the greater good. If you make a bed from selfishness then expect to sleep in it, I think.

I can’t make other people work decolonial edu into their schedules, I can only send them the resources directly from where I myself am learning about decolonization: the First Nations educators and historians and scholars and Black New Afrikan educators, historians and scholars. If you want to learn about this stuff - and you must - I think it does require making the sacrifices in your daily life necessary for you to be able to do that. Settler-colonialism has us in a chokehold so we need to be more than what it ‘allows’ in order to unlearn it!

I don’t know what other settlers want me to say? Do they want me to be wishy-washy with them about it? Say that whole “if you have time, please consider, sometime…” No, i am not gonna say that because I believe that is bullshit and nothing will get done with that passive attitude.

I do think we working class/poverty class/disabled settlers need to help each other be able to prioritize this education NOW. The indigenous and Black educators we learn from also have jobs, also have children they need to care for, have personal responsibilities and important things to do - and have active genocides against their people. They believe full-heartedly in working toward decolonial land back because of course they do. This is their lives, and not just individual by individual. They’re working for their people’s liberation in the face of settler-colonial genocides!

And so when we look at our work and school and family schedules - as settlers, no different in status than the “Israeli” settler occupying Palestine - and we prioritize our own overwhelm when we are asked to make the fucking space and take the fucking time for this imperative education, so we can be ready accomplices to decolonial action in the coming years, you gotta know how fucked up that is. We should no longer snap into this typical self-serving behavior!

No, I’m not going to say anything less than what I believe is factual, based on the edu ive so far learned from the indigenous and Black liberationists who are telling us, with their radical perspective and wisdom, what we need to do and how we should go about it, even as potential settler accomplices. Prioritize decolonial edu. Make fucking room.

We settlers should all help each other to accomplish this. Plenty of settlers like me with learning disabilities are out there trying to encourage others and make it easier for people to read the histories and theories. People break this information down for you so you can learn it in different ways (audiobook recordings, forum discussions, infographics that take a couple min to read, key histories in “less than 6 minutes”, YouTube interviews and discussions, podcast discussions, free book banks with PDFs, free articles). We have different ways of learning and in different stretches of time available - I really think what matters is that you work to get it done regardless of daily constraint. Show some solidarity. Working class settlers are not the center of the oppressed under settler-colonialism. We are the settler-colonialism. We must actually work to dismantle it by following FN leadership.

The idea that anything liberating and meaningful just falls into someone’s hands is a white supremacist lie.

What I wish is that in my circle at least, fellow settlers would say “I want to learn this but it’s hard and I need help, will you help me?” — to which I would do all I can in order to ensure they can learn. I have more time than others do because I work only part time due to my disability - but that is time I have to give to discuss, share, read-to others (I have dyslexia but I will fucking READ TO YOU because I know how hard it can be!) The point here is, if you begin your edu, you won’t be alone. Reach for support to make it happen and there will be people who will take the endeavor seriously with you.

But you have to be committed to learning this going forward. You have to actually want to begin learning about decolonial land back.

[circumpolarvampire]

I hope western leftists know that standing for a free Palestine is not the end of decolonization. I've seen far too many white leftists who proudly stand for freeing Palestine which is good but then get nervous and apprehensive at the idea of decolonizing the very land they are on. Norway will recognize Palestine but actively tear down Sámi liberation. Liberation for one people means it for us all. If you support Palestinian liberation but deny it for the Indigenous people of the land you're on then you didn't stand for Palestinians or any of us to begin with.

[elbiotipo]

When South Africa dismantled apartheid, it did not end with the expulsion of all white South Africans. They became part of the new South Africa, just without the criminal discriminatory oligarchic powers the apartheid goverment had. When Bolivia recognized its indigenous heritage and became a plurinational state, it did not mean that people of European descent were expelled in masse. It meant the recognition of the previously discriminated indigenous and mestizo people of Bolivia and the beginning of a path of integration and revalidation.

What I mean is that it's ridiculous to think that decolonization inherently means mass suffering and relocation, that's what colonization does. Decolonization is recognizing the crimes of colonization, but more importantly, material, political and social steps to give power and self-determination to the exploited native people who were victims of colonialism and imperialism.

In multicultural societies, you don't go like in that Peter Griffin meme with a skin tone chart and saying 'well, you go back to Europe, you go back to Africa, you stay here'. You build a new society on the paradigm of dignity for exploited people and equality under the law. People are acting like this is some sort of fantastic utopia instead of real initiatives that were done in living memory, with successes and failures, as all such initiatives have. One must ask why are some so insistent that multicultural societies can't thrive, especially when for most of history, societies were indeed like that. Consider why you think like that.

[notyonatto]

Thinking about the tags I left under the post on the Carlisle boarding school that stole Native youths. Both my grandmother and grandfather are mixed Native and Irish but have no language (Irish or their respective Native languages), no Native culture. My grandmother has some Native stories and some medicines, but that’s all. My grandfather has nothing. My grandmother’s mother was Eastern Band Cherokee, and and she was stolen as a child by the US government then sold off to a terrible drunkard Irish man three times her age. I remember her. I spent much time with her as a child. My grandfather believes his mother was from Blackfoot Nation, that’s what she always told him, but we have been struggling to figure out exactly which band and where she was originally from before she was stolen. I do not know as much much about her and am still trying to learn more.

Anyway, this post is mostly directed at white people with Native ancestors. My whole life, I have come across other white folks who proudly proclaim they’re partially Native. That’s fine, I am too. But that’s typically where it ends. It’s simply a fun fact. It’s simply something you cash in when trying to show off your unique ancestry to a group of people. But never is it a reflection on colonization. Never is it a reflection on why you have that ancestry. Do you not wonder? How come only a handful of your ancestors are Native? Have you truly investigated your ancestry, or are their lives and experiences simply fun party facts? If you loved your ancestors, you would learn about them. Honor them. Respect them. And part of that for me has always been to fight for the modern justice of Native peoples. I cannot change the past colonization in my ancestral line. I cannot go back in time and protect my great grandmothers. I cannot change the evil things that happened to them, but I can honor them and their legacies of loving their children, loving their grandchildren, of teaching me tenderness and joy when I was a little toddler forming my first memories. And I can honor the strength they must have had to find the space in their hearts to still be capable of tender love despite the suffering and loss and grief they endured. How does one honor that? For me, it is transforming that love into activism. Having those uncomfortable conversations with your family, with other white people. Standing up for injustice, educating yourself, donating to organizations that work to aid modern Native poverty, revitalize Native languages, celebrate and encourage Native art, and uplift Native youth. Uplifting Native voices while making sure not to speak over them.

I do not consider myself to be Native for a myriad of reasons. Phenotypically, I am white. I’m pale and overall look quite Irish American, down to a certain pudginess I’m sure my Irish ancestors are proud of-good for surviving those awful winters. Culturally, I was raised homeschooled in strict conservative Christianity (i do not associate with that religion). And in many ways, I honor my European ancestry- I celebrate Samhain and am pretty connected to Irish-Appalachian culture (fiddles and moonshine and “fuck corporations” type shit), I have many European family recipes from my mom’s side (entirely European American). But I would be utterly and sourly remiss to omit my Native ancestry. And while I struggle to ever consider myself partially Native (maybe if my grandparents were given the chance to learn their languages and cultures, I’d feel differently), I refuse to forget my great grandmothers and their siblings. After all, my first memory was in my mawmaw’s back yard in the mountains. She is my first memory. It was spring, and she had prepared a little Easter party. I found a painted egg, and she clapped and cheered for me, hugged me. My first memory on Earth is of her, and it is light, joy, and love. And I will honor her by transforming that love into activism. For everything she endured and everything her people continue to endure.

So I ask again to all my followers who are white but have some Native ancestry. Do you honor your ancestors, or are they just party facts?

[amalashuor]

In the beginning 💢💢 I apologize to all of you for not responding to the messages you sent to check on my family, but my family and I are evacuating from east of Deir al-Balah to the seashore because all places have now become dangerous. Please pray for us. I may never be online again

Dear friends 🤍 Tears of joy mixed with feelings of gratitude to everyone who stood by me, who gave their time and effort in order to reach the campaign’s financial goal of 30k euros, but due to the circumstances that Gaza is going through and the closure of all land crossings, I was not able to achieve the main goal of the campaign, which is to leave Gaza to Safe country Thanks and gratitude are due to: 1. The friends who pinned my story at the top of their page are amazing people.🌺🤍 2. The Ansar, each by name and title, are people of goodness and giving.🌺🤍 3.For those who put forward new ideas, the idea of ​​artistic paintings, marches, and bread sales are the unknown soldiers🌺🤍 4. These amazing activists who share daily updates are like a dynamo who never stops serving those in need.🌺🤍 5. Friends who sent the campaign link to their friends and families outside this application, those who carry humanity in their hearts.🌺🤍 @littlegermanboy @appsa @floofysmallbob @feluka @90-ghost @queerstudiesnatural @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @irhabiya @intersectionalpraxis @obscenity @sayruq @decolonize-solidarity @fancysmudges @heba-20 @jezior0 @commissions4aid-international @vivisection-gf I inform you that thanks to you, I was able to support my family from your donations and campaign revenues. Before we left Rafah, I didn't have enough money to leave Thanks to your donations, I was able to leave Rafah to Khan Yunis. What it cost me is as follows: Transportation: $400/600 Buy a tent for $500/$800 Land rent: $500/600 Building a very modest bathroom costs $200/300 Some incidental expenses are $300/500 Which means that I spent approximately $3,000 of the money of the group whose goal is to get out of Gaza to a safe country on transportation from Rafah to Khan Yunis. Then, on 27may2024 💔, the occupation army threw a bomb near our tent in Khan Yunis, which led to the burning of the tent, the mattress, and everything else. We fled without taking anything with us. I told my friend @littlegermanboy 🤍about this incident and we fled to Deir al-Balah because there was no empty place. We sat in the east of Deir al-Balah.

This escape cost us more than before because of the outrageous prices we are experiencing here. This is just an example to tell you that a liter of diesel costs 100 dollars. Which means that the cost of transportation to Deir al-Balah cost me as follows: 500$ transportation 500/700$ to buy a tent to replace the one that burned in Khanios 200/300$ to buy mattresses, blankets, pillows, and clothes for me and my daughter, Maryam But in Deir al-Balah, we did not rent land. We sat on government land for free 300/200$ to build a bathroom All these expenses detract from the funds of the campaign, whose goal is to escape from Gaza to a safe country Of course, there are basic expenses, which are buying food, drinks, milk, and Cerelac for my daughter Maryam. Certainly, these are from the campaign’s money because we do not have any other income other than this campaign.

Now the Israeli occupation army has told us to leave Deir al-Balah to the west, towards the sea The place I am in now is very dangerous, and if I decide to leave, it will cost me more than before, and this is not satisfactory. I spent the campaign’s money just to escape from one place to another.If the Rafah land crossing returns to work again, this means that the money we have is not enough to exit Gaza. For this reason, we will raise the campaign goal to 50k euros

I ask you, my friends, for increased financial and psychological support, because because of you, I am able to continue despite everything that is happening to me I thank you and everyone who contributed and helped to continue my life. If it were not for you, I would not have been able to save my family from health, psychological and nutritional deterioration. I thank everyone who gave me anything because everything here helps My friends who stood by my side, I shower you with hugs and love you so much.❤️😭 Moving towards the second goal to sustain my life and the life of my little family: 50k euros

These are my friends' articles. I thank you 🤍🤍

[ahmedpalestine]

Jabalia… the camp of martyrs. This is what remains of our homes. This image shows the destruction of Jabalia Camp after the occupation forces withdrew. With every shattered stone, thousands of stories and dreams were buried. My family was displaced to the south, but even with the ceasefire beginning, the pain continues.

Returning to the camp offers nothing but scenes of devastation—no shelter, no water, no electricity, no schools, and no hospitals.

My family is living in indescribably harsh conditions. With the war ending and the truce beginning, we desperately need a helping hand to rebuild our lives. Your support can make a real difference—it can provide my family with a place to stay, clean water, and a path to live with dignity.

Every donation, no matter how small, plants hope and restores a part of the life we’ve lost.

Vetted by gaza-evacuation-funds

& by association by bilal-salah0

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[opencommunion]

The Lebanese resistance has forced over 230,000 settlers to leave occupied southern Lebanon and northern Palestine (x). The zionist entity has extended the mandatory evacuation period by three more months, and many settlers have already decided not to return in the foreseeable future (x). This is how decolonization begins—the occupation relies on “civilian” settler presence as much as military presence to maintain its hold on stolen land

[goldfades]

crazy cat people───joe burrow⁹

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.4k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had always been cat people—dogs were just too high maintenance, too needy. but you were never in a hurry to get cats until one night, joe finds a cat on a roadie and decides to bring her home.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | literally nothing but cat dad joe, and dog slander (JK!! not really, but we all know joe likes cats better). inspired by this clip.

The thing about Joe is that he’s always been a cat person.

You figured it out on your second date when the conversation somehow derailed into a passionate debate about why people automatically assume dogs are superior. It started off as a joke—some exaggerated takes for the sake of banter—but then Joe hit you with a well-structured argument about the independent nature of cats, their low-maintenance lifestyle, and the way they choose their people rather than blindly loving everyone.

“You ever seen a cat follow some random stranger home just ‘cause they waved at it? No. That’s some dog behavior.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “No self-respect.”

That was the moment you knew he was the one.

Well, not actually, but it definitely solidified your interest. Three years later, the two of you were still going strong, bound together by an undeniable connection, a deep understanding of each other’s quirks, and a shared stance that dogs—while undeniably adorable—were just a little too much. Too excitable. Too dependent. Too… needy.

“We’d be cat people,” you had declared one night while curled up on the couch together, his arm draped lazily around you. “Like, if we were to get a pet.”

Joe hummed in agreement, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah, but I feel like we’d be picky about it. Can’t just have any cat. Gotta be one with personality.”

“A little bit of an asshole,” you added.

He chuckled. “Exactly.”

Despite countless conversations about what you’d name your hypothetical future cat (the list had ranged from elegant, sophisticated names like Theodora to complete chaos like Little Shit), you never actually got one. Between Joe’s insane schedule and your own busy life, it never felt like the right time. You weren’t the type to impulsively adopt an animal just because it seemed like a cute idea—you took responsibility seriously. Joe was the same way.

But that didn’t stop you from sending him TikToks of cats daily. And it definitely didn’t stop him from pausing the TV anytime a cat appeared in a commercial, just to point and go, “That one’s kinda cool.”

It was just one of those things. A little inside joke, a shared fantasy, a part of your relationship that existed in theory but had yet to materialize.

Until Joe came back from a road trip with something unexpected.

Something small. And furry. And wrapped in the hoodie he had worn on the plane.

A cat.

He met your wide-eyed stare with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, funny story…”

--

It was one of those quiet, in-between days where everything felt a little dull without Joe around. You were used to it by now—his road trips, the stretches of time where you had to keep yourself entertained—but no matter how well you adjusted, the house always felt bigger when he wasn’t in it.

You filled the day the best way you knew how. Running errands, grabbing coffee from the spot down the street, making small talk with the barista who always remembered your order. You spent an unreasonable amount of time in Target, browsing the aisles aimlessly, tossing things into your cart that you definitely didn’t need but convinced yourself were essentials.

A candle? Necessary. A new throw blanket even though you already had five? An investment. A little ceramic dish shaped like a cat’s face? Joe would think it was funny.

By the time you got home, the sun was beginning to set, casting the living room in soft golden light. You went through your usual routine—changing into something comfier, throwing your hair up, and scrolling through your phone while curled up on the couch.

Joe had texted you earlier to say his flight landed on time, but you weren’t sure when he’d actually walk through the door. Traveling always took it out of him, and sometimes he lingered at the facility longer than necessary, just to settle back into the routine of being home.

So when you heard the familiar sound of the front door unlocking, you perked up, setting your phone down.

Joe was home.

You stood, stretching a little before padding over to greet him—only to immediately freeze in place.

Because Joe Burrow, your extremely predictable, routine-driven boyfriend, was standing in the doorway holding a cat.

Not a cat carrier. Not a box from the pet store with a new cat inside. No, he was physically holding a cat in his arms, cradling it like some kind of newborn wrapped in the oversized hoodie he had worn on the plane.

“Uh…” You blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. “Joe?”

Joe, looking far too casual for someone who had just walked into your shared home with a whole animal, shot you a sheepish grin.

“So, funny story…” He shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on the tiny creature, who—shockingly—seemed completely unbothered.

You didn’t say anything. You just stared. Because what the hell were you supposed to say?

Joe cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels. “I found him at a gas station. In, like… the middle of nowhere.”

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“Yeah. Just… chilling. No collar, no tags, nothing.” He looked down at the cat, then back at you, as if that explanation was supposed to justify the fact that he had apparently just kidnapped an animal. “He walked right up to me. Super chill. Thought, you know, maybe he needed a home.”

“You—” You ran a hand down your face, processing. “So you just… took him?”

Joe shrugged, completely unbothered. “No one stopped me.”

You stared at him, then at the cat, then back at him.

The cat—a small, scrappy-looking thing with fluffy black fur and bright green eyes—gave the smallest little stretch before curling back up into the fabric of Joe’s hoodie, as if this was the most natural situation in the world.

A sigh left your lips, half-exasperated, half-amused. “You stole a cat.”

Joe scoffed. “I didn’t steal him. I rescued him.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Did you check to see if he belonged to anyone?”

Joe paused. “I mean… he was alone.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Well, no one else was around,” Joe defended. “It was late. Freezing cold. I couldn’t just leave him there.”

You crossed your arms, arching a brow. “So your solution was to bring him home?”

Joe, completely unrepentant, grinned. “Yeah. He’s cool, right?”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers against your temples before shaking your head.

This man.

This six-foot-four NFL quarterback who spent three years claiming you guys would be extremely selective about what kind of cat you got, had apparently abandoned all standards the second a gas station stray blinked at him.

And worse? You were already kind of attached.

Because the damn cat was still curled up in his hoodie, looking completely at peace, like he had already decided he belonged here.

You sighed, waving them both inside. “I can’t believe you.”

Joe grinned, stepping past you and into the house, clearly taking that as a win.

“Should we name him?” he asked, already making himself comfortable on the couch, cat still in tow.

You groaned.

“Oh my God.”

The first night with Miss Honey felt strangely natural, like she had always belonged here. Apparently, you guys had been misgendering her the whole time.

After the initial shock of Joe casually waltzing into your home with a stray cat, the two of you got to work making sure she was okay. A quick check revealed she was mostly healthy—just a little underweight and carrying a few ticks, which you carefully removed while Joe held her still, murmuring soft reassurances. Despite being a random cat from a gas station, she was surprisingly chill about it, blinking up at you with those big green eyes like she already trusted you.

“This is insane,” you had muttered, brushing your fingers through her soft fur.

Joe, stretched out on the couch beside you, smirked. “Yeah, but you love it.”

You rolled your eyes because, of course, he was right.

That night, the three of you curled up on the couch and put on Matilda, your mutual comfort movie. Joe made popcorn, you pulled out the throw blanket you had impulse-bought earlier that day, and Miss Honey—named after the warm, soft-spoken teacher you both adored—made herself right at home between you, paws tucked neatly beneath her little body.

“She’s purring,” Joe whispered at one point, as if he was afraid saying it too loud would make her stop.

You had just smiled, gently scratching behind her ears. “Yeah. I think she likes us.”

It took less than twenty-four hours for Miss Honey to fully take over the house.

By the next morning, she had already established herself as a permanent fixture, weaving between your legs as you made coffee, hopping onto the couch like she owned the place, and—much to Joe’s delight—curling up on his chest while he lounged around watching film.

“She’s got good taste,” he mused, running a slow hand down her back.

You, sitting cross-legged on the floor sorting through your Target bags from yesterday, shot him a look. “You mean ‘cause she likes you?”

Joe grinned, glancing down at the cat who was currently making biscuits against his hoodie. “I mean, can you blame her?”

You snorted. “Unreal.”

Still, you had to admit—Miss Honey really did love Joe.

At first, you thought it was just convenience. He ran warm, he was still for long periods of time, and his heartbeat was steady enough to lull anyone to sleep. But over the next few days, it became clear that her attachment went deeper than that.

She followed him from room to room, her tiny paws padding against the hardwood whenever he moved. If Joe was at the kitchen counter making breakfast, Miss Honey was right there beside him, tail flicking lazily. If he was tying his shoes by the door, she sat next to him, watching intently like she had somewhere to be, too.

It was ridiculous.

“She’s obsessed with you,” you pointed out one night, arms crossed as you watched her bat playfully at the drawstrings of his hoodie.

Joe grinned, scratching under her chin. “Yeah, but don’t be jealous.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the warmth blooming in your chest.

Because, truthfully, you loved it.

You loved that she trusted him. Loved that this cat—who had spent who-knows-how-long fending for herself—had chosen you both, nestled herself into the space between you like she had been there forever.

It didn’t take long for Miss Honey to establish a routine.

Every morning, without fail, she woke Joe up first. Not you—Joe.

You learned this the hard way when you woke up one morning to a quiet, disgruntled “Jesus,” followed by the sound of Joe shifting beside you. Blinking blearily, you turned over, only to find Miss Honey perched delicately on his chest, staring down at him like she was assessing whether or not it was time for him to get up.

“Babe,” Joe whispered, voice still thick with sleep. “Your cat is harassing me.”

You stifled a laugh, rubbing your eyes. “She’s your cat too.”

“Yeah, well, tell her to chill.”

Miss Honey, completely ignoring his complaints, took that exact moment to lean down and press her tiny nose against his, like a little wake-up kiss.

You melted on the spot.

Joe groaned, but even half-asleep, he couldn’t hide his smile.

From then on, it became a thing. Every morning, she woke Joe up first, then trotted to the kitchen like a little queen expecting breakfast. She had a schedule, and she stuck to it.

By the end of the second week, she had also taken over bedtime.

One night, you were finishing up in the bathroom when Joe called out from the bedroom, amusement lacing his voice.

“You’re getting replaced.”

You stepped into the room, brows furrowed. “What?”

Joe tilted his head toward the bed, where Miss Honey was curled up on his pillow, perfectly nestled into the space where your head usually went.

You crossed your arms. “Unreal.”

Joe smirked, patting the mattress beside him. “Sorry, babe. She called dibs.”

You shook your head, sliding into bed anyway, and—because Miss Honey was the most spoiled creature on the planet—you let her stay.

She purred contently between you, tucked snugly between your bodies, and Joe reached out, running a slow hand down her back before catching your gaze.

“I think she was meant to be ours,” he murmured, voice soft in the dark.

Your heart swelled.

Because he was right.

At first, Miss Honey had been a little more drawn to Joe. It wasn’t anything personal—she liked you just fine—but there was something about him that had her stuck to him like glue. Maybe it was his warmth, or the steady way he carried himself, or the fact that he had been the one to scoop her up from the cold and bring her home.

But after a couple of weeks, things started shifting.

It wasn’t sudden. There was no grand moment of realization where she decided, Actually, I love you too. It was slower than that—small moments that gradually built into something solid, something certain.

It was the way she started lingering in the kitchen while you made breakfast, winding around your ankles, soft fur brushing against your bare legs as she meowed up at you like she was part of the conversation.

It was how she started climbing onto your lap while you were reading, kneading her tiny paws into your stomach before curling up and purring herself to sleep, like you were something safe.

It was how she started following you into the bathroom whenever you did your skincare at night, sitting neatly by the sink and watching you with lazy, half-lidded eyes, as if she was deeply invested in your routine.

She was still Joe’s shadow, but you had become hers.

And it didn’t go unnoticed.

“She likes you now,” Joe teased one night, watching as Miss Honey happily stretched out on your chest, perfectly content.

You smirked, scratching under her chin. “She always liked me.”

“Nah,” he mused, tossing an arm around your shoulders. “She tolerated you. Big difference.”

You gasped dramatically. “How dare you?”

Joe chuckled, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Hey, it’s a compliment. You won her over.”

And you had.

Miss Honey wasn’t just a cat anymore. She was your cat. An irreplaceable little presence in the house.

Joe, naturally, leaned into it full force.

It started with the essentials.

A bed. A few toys. Some high-quality cat food that Joe meticulously researched before purchasing. He wasn’t about to give her just anything—he wanted the best, reading reviews like he was about to draft a new teammate.

You had laughed the first time you caught him looking up “best cat food brands for digestion” on his phone.

“Joe, she was literally eating bugs two weeks ago.”

“Yeah, and now she’s got standards,” he shot back, tapping on a link. “This one’s got good ingredients.”

And that was just the beginning.

Before long, Joe was going all out—buying her the best litter (something natural and odor-free, because only the best for our girl), a selection of premium treats (“That Temptations crap is all filler,” he had said, with so much conviction you almost cried laughing), and multiple collars in different colors and patterns.

One morning, you caught him kneeling by the front door, carefully adjusting the tiny blue velvet collar around Miss Honey’s neck.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, leaning against the doorway, watching as he straightened the little golden name tag.

Joe glanced up, grinning. “She looks good though, right?”

You had to admit—she did.

But the real turning point? The sweaters.

That was unexpected.

It had started as a joke—one lazy evening, the two of you scrolling through Etsy, looking at cat accessories for fun.

“Wouldn’t she look cute in this?” you had said, showing Joe a tiny, knitted sweater in a soft cream color.

Joe snorted. “No way she’d wear that.”

Turns out, she would. And she’d like it.

The first time you slipped a tiny sweater over her head, Miss Honey barely reacted—just gave a big stretch, turned in a circle, and promptly plopped down on Joe’s lap like nothing was different.

Joe, stunned, just blinked.

“You’re telling me she’s okay with this?”

“She’s thriving,” you corrected, grinning.

And from that moment on, Joe took it as a personal mission to build her wardrobe.

Over the next week, more sweaters arrived in the mail—different colors, different materials, even a tiny hoodie with ears.

“This is getting out of hand,” you commented as Joe unboxed yet another package.

He held up a tiny lavender sweater, inspecting the material. “It’s for layering.”

You stared at him. “Joe, she’s a cat.”

Joe just smirked. “A stylish one.”

Miss Honey, stretched out on the couch, gave a slow blink, completely unbothered by the chaos she had brought into your lives.

And, honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Three months in, and neither of you could remember what life was like before Miss Honey.

It wasn’t just that she had settled into your home—she had settled into you, woven herself into the rhythm of your days so seamlessly that the idea of waking up without her little body curled between you or coming home to a silent house felt… wrong.

Mornings were different now.

Gone were the days of lazy, drawn-out wake-ups—Miss Honey made sure of that. If Joe’s alarm didn’t get him up, her tiny little paws kneading into his chest certainly did. And if he dared try to roll over and ignore her? She’d take matters into her own hands.

Or, more accurately, her own whiskers.

One morning, you caught her using her best tactic yet—pressing her nose right against Joe’s, whiskers tickling his face until he groaned and finally peeled one eye open.

“You are the most spoiled creature on the planet,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

Miss Honey responded by immediately rubbing her face against his chin, purring like a little engine.

Joe exhaled a laugh, eyes still heavy as he let his fingers trail through her fur. “Unreal.”

Meanwhile, your mornings had changed in a different way.

You used to make coffee alone, sipping it in peaceful solitude before starting your day. Now? You had company.

Miss Honey had claimed her spot on the counter—perched delicately by the coffee machine, watching your every move like an executive overseeing production.

“Supervising?” you’d ask her, sprinkling cinnamon into your cup.

She’d blink, tail flicking lazily.

Joe, walking into the kitchen at just the right moment, would snort. “She’s your little manager.”

And it was true—Miss Honey was involved in everything.

She had a routine. A life. A set of unspoken rules that ran the house.

If one of you was on the couch? She was there too, curled up in the crook of your leg or sprawled across Joe’s chest. If you were cooking? She was on the floor, watching you with silent judgment, like a tiny food critic.

If Joe was watching game film, she’d climb onto his lap and stare at the screen, like she had some real thoughts about the Bengals' offense.

She had her little preferences, too. She didn’t care for loud noises but loved when Joe played music on his speakers. She always sat with you while you read, always meowed when she wanted attention, and—for some reason—seemed particularly obsessed with Joe’s socks.

“She’s weird,” Joe said one night, watching as she enthusiastically dragged one of his socks across the living room like it was her prized possession.

“You brought home a gas station cat,” you reminded him. “What did you expect?”

Joe exhaled a laugh, shaking his head as he reached down to scratch behind her ears. “She’s perfect.”

And she was.

She had changed things in the smallest, most meaningful ways.

The house didn’t feel empty when Joe was away anymore—not when you had her little paws padding around, her soft purrs filling the silence. Even on the loneliest days, she made it better, curling into you like she just knew.

And Joe—he had changed, too.

If he had been a cat person before, he was fully in his Cat Dad era now.

It had started subtly. The good food, the high-quality litter, the little sweaters he kept ordering. But at some point, it escalated.

Joe started carrying her around the house, tucking her into his hoodie when he was watching film, talking to her like she was an actual human being.

“Alright, Miss Honey,” he said one afternoon, kneeling in front of her as she lounged lazily on her little cat bed. “We got options. You wanna wear the blue sweater or the gray one today?”

You, standing in the doorway with your arms crossed, stared at him. “Joe.”

He looked up, completely unashamed. “She likes choices.”

“She’s a cat.”

Joe just smirked, holding up the tiny sweaters. “A stylish one.”

And then there was the Ja’Marr conversation.

One night, after practice, Ja’Marr had made a casual joke—something about how “one cat turns into five real quick,” laughing at the idea of Joe slowly becoming that guy.

You had laughed too, shaking your head. “No way. We’re a one-cat household.”

Joe had nodded in agreement, completely confident. “Yeah, no shot.”

But then… a week later, he changed his tune.

You were curled up together on the couch, Miss Honey stretched between you, when Joe sighed, absentmindedly running his fingers down her back.

“She’s kinda lonely,” he mused.

You blinked. “What?”

Joe glanced over, tilting his head toward Miss Honey, who was currently kneading her little paws into his thigh. “I mean, she’s got us, but, like… I bet she’d like a friend.”

You stared at him, narrowing your eyes. “Joe.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, tone easy, like he wasn’t suggesting something huge. “She’s got so much energy. I think she’d like a buddy.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

Joe grinned. “Just think about it.”

And just like that, the conversation had started. And you had been so firm about it. Absolutely not. No second cat.

Miss Honey was thriving—happy, healthy, and fully attached to both of you. The idea of bringing another cat into the house felt risky. What if she didn’t like it? What if she got territorial? What if she felt betrayed?

Joe, of course, had started planting the idea like a damn politician.

“I just think she gets bored sometimes,” he would say casually while Miss Honey chased her own tail in the living room.

“She’s got a lot of love to give,” he mused one night, watching her rub up against every single one of your ankles like she was making the rounds.

“She needs a little sidekick,” he argued as she sprawled out dramatically on the kitchen floor, meowing at nothing in particular.

You shot him down every time.

Until, of course, fate decided to step in.

It was a random Saturday, and you and Joe were out running errands—nothing special, just a casual grocery run. You had been debating what kind of bread to get (Joe insisted the multigrain one tasted just as good as white bread, which was a blatant lie), when something caught his eye.

“Babe,” Joe said, suddenly abandoning the cart and heading toward the entrance. “Look.”

You turned, frowning as you followed his gaze.

Right outside the store, under a big white tent, was a cat rescue group—volunteers standing beside crates filled with tiny, curious faces.

A pet adoption event.

Joe immediately turned to you, eyes lighting up. “This is a sign.”

“No, it’s not,” you argued, grabbing the cart. “It’s just Saturday.”

“It’s a sign.”

You groaned as he practically dragged you toward the tent, already grinning like he had just won the lottery.

And then you saw them.

The kittens.

Tiny, wiggly little things with big eyes and oversized paws, rolling around in their blankets or climbing the sides of their enclosures with impressive determination.

You told yourself you were just looking.

Joe was crouched down almost immediately, eyes scanning the different crates as the volunteers smiled at him.

“You guys looking to adopt?” one of them asked.

Joe grinned. “Maybe.”

You shot him a glare. “We are not looking to—”

And then you saw her.

A tiny gray tabby, tucked in the corner of her crate, nibbling sleepily at her own paw. Big round eyes, the softest little face, and an expression that screamed, Yeah, I know I’m cute.

You inhaled sharply.

“Oh no,” Joe murmured, catching the look on your face.

You glanced at him, then back at the kitten.

“… I wanna hold her.”

Joe grinned. “Knew it.”

The second the volunteer placed the kitten in your hands, you were done for. She was so small, her little body barely bigger than your palm. She meowed—tiny and sweet—before immediately nuzzling into the crook of your neck, purring like she had just found home.

Joe, watching intently, exhaled a laugh. “Oh yeah. We’re done for.”

That night, you walked into your house as a two-cat household.

Miss Honey was not immediately sold.

The introduction process was slow—gentle, cautious. You followed all the steps, kept them separated at first, let them get used to each other’s scent. But, much to your surprise, Miss Honey didn’t react with any real aggression.

Mostly? She just seemed deeply confused.

The first time she saw the kitten, she just stared, tail flicking, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Joe, crouched beside her, grinned. “You got a little sister, Honey.”

Miss Honey turned her head, fixing him with a look.

You laughed. “I don’t think she asked for one.”

Still, within a few days, things started shifting.

The kitten—who you decided to name Fig—was relentless in her pursuit of Miss Honey’s love.

She followed her everywhere, mimicked her every move, and—on more than one occasion—attempted to curl up against her, only to be met with a single, unimpressed flick of the tail.

But then, one morning, you woke up to find them curled up together on the couch—Miss Honey’s paw resting protectively over Fig’s tiny little body.

Joe, standing beside you, smirked. “Told you she needed a buddy.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt full.

And that’s how you and Joe became crazy cat people.

[malcriada]

Please help a pregnant woman and her family survive!

new and expecting mothers face some of the worst circumstances in Gaza ever since the begin of the genocide in October

not only are there no proper functioning hospitals left, there is also no anesthesia. even after giving birth, new parents face food, formula and diaper shortages, to name a few.

recently, my friend Alaa @alaajshaat found out that she is expecting a child! what normally would be a cause for celebration and a blessing for this young family, is a nightmare under these circumstances.

Alaa told me she is absolutely exhausted every day, not just physically but also mentally. she cannot take any more. they are verified on the list of vetted fundraisers by @/nabulsi and @/el-shab-hussein here (#95, line 99) so PLEASE DON'T HESITATE TO HELP THEM, THEY NEED MORE SUPPORT NOW THAN EVER BEFORE. $ 25,576 / $ 45,000

apologies for the tag, but i don't have many followers and i need people to urgently see this. if you want to be removed from this list, please let me know.

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[phobic-human]

Today 11/1/2024 is the seventieth anniversary of the publication of the Declaration of 1 November 1954 and beginning of the Algerian War of Independence.

The Algerian war was a landmark decolonization war. Algeria had been colonized in the mid 19th century by the French, between 500,000 and 1,000,000 Algerians were killed out of 3 million. The following decades continued with brutal oppression, Algeria was unique because it was legally classified as an integral part of France

The aftermath of the Second World War provided a unique situation. The imperial powers had fought themselves to exhaustion, suddenly formely colonized nation's were able to rise up and begin to cast off the imperial yoke.

The conflict between The National Liberation Front (FLN) and France was incredibly violent. France responded to the revolt with extreme brutality and repression, utilizing mass killings, torture, and concentration camps, 8,000 villages were destroyed and between 500,000 and 1.5 million Algerians were killed. Ultimately the Algerian people prevailed and won independence in 1962. The Algerian War is an important reminder of the horrors of colonialism and the valiant struggle for freedom.

I highly recommend A Dying Colonialism by Frantz Fanon as an excellent look into the Algerian struggle. Fanon once said "having a gun is the only chance you still have of giving a meaning to your death." These words ring especially true today for all people's engaged in a decolonization struggle.

May the independence struggle of the heroic Algerian people never be forgotten.

Long live Algeria

[amjad-danaf99]

In the heart of war-torn Gaza, where devastation and loss have become daily realities, lies the poignant story of Amjad Danaf and his family. Amid relentless airstrikes,And it wasn’t just my home that was destroyed. Years of effort and dedication were wasted in moments, and here I am standing in the ruins of my home, as I stand in the ruins of my life, trying to collect the remains of my dreams and memories. This house was a source of safety for me and my family, but the war left us nothing, and we face an ambiguous and difficult future.

Now, after all this destruction, my family and I live as displaced people, homeless and unemployed, with no clear future for us. Every day is a struggle to find food for my family, who have been deprived of every chance at a normal life by this war. Once upon a time, we lived in Gaza, in northern Gaza, where we had a home, a life,But now, after being displaced more than nine times, we find ourselves in the refugee camps in Deir al-Balah, and the war has stripped us of everything: our homeland, our security, and our future. Our daily lives have become a constant search for basic necessities, a far cry from the life we ​​knew before.

The dreams I had for my family now seem like distant memories, overshadowed by the relentless challenges of survival. Each day brings new doubts, as we navigate this harsh new reality, clinging to the hope that one day we may be able to rebuild what we have lost.We urgently call on everyone who stands in solidarity with us, and every supporter, to help save what remains of our lives. Your help, even in small ways, can make a big difference in helping us rebuild and restore our broken world. Rebuilding seems like an insurmountable task, but with your help, we can begin to piece together what we have lost. Your contributions, no matter how small, can provide the foundation we need to start over, and provide hope and a chance for a better future for our family. Your solidarity means the world to us as we face these difficult times.

Thank you for your compassion, your time, and your commitment to freedom and justice.

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[khanger]

URGENT

A call for your humanity

@mohdiwais is someone who I'm proud to call a friend, and a brother of mine is in dire need for you help ❤️ 🙏

@mohdiwais has been displaced several times since the beginning of genocide in Gaza and the last was three days ago he needs the money to gets his family to safety to start a new to get away from certain death and to help with his sister medical treatments Mohamad is the sole responsible for all 27 member of his family and he needs us to get him to his goal and with everyone help we already half way through and I pray that he well reach it sooner please donate and reblog and share the campaign link 🙏

here is a tiktok by mimi @mimimylinh about Mohamad situation

UPDATE kr244,267\kr500,000 (23 August)

$23,989 out of $49,103

Conversion Rate

1 SEK = 0.0975734 USD

1 USD = 10.2487 SEK

VETTED BY @90-ghost

TAGGING FOR REACH

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[adropofhumanity]

"make no mistake: the ICJ case is primarily symbolic. decolonization doesn't happen in a courtroom. justice is not won through bodies of international law. "i*****i" settlements were declared illegal years ago. That didn't stop their construction. palestinian armed resistance has long been affirmed as a legal right. they're still called "terrorists." while those who filed the suit against the colonial entity deserve full praise, remember that this is but one of many strategies. don't lose sight of the tens of thousands from all over the region who have given their lives for palestinian liberation. the palestinian struggle does not begin or end at the hague, the united nations, or any bourgeois institution. it will always be, above all else, in the land of palestine" — via savesheikhjarrah92 on instagram

[breelandwalker]

Why is Wicca not a preferred way of practice? I’ve read a couple of posts, and Wicca isn’t favored.

Moral puritanism and performative outrage, plain and simple. There's nothing inherently wrong with Wicca or Wiccans. Some people in the community just aren't doing the work and seem to think that decolonizing our thinking begins and ends with screaming BOYCOTT at anything they deem even remotely reprehensible.

Let's do some of the work and dig a little deeper, shall we?

The main complaint is that Wicca started with people who had problematic worldviews and has had some growing pains and issues with racism, sexism, cultural appropriation, and bad actors in the community as it has evolved, reaching into the present day.

But here's the thing - SHOW ME A RELIGION THAT DOESN'T HAVE THESE PROBLEMS SOMEWHERE IN ITS' HISTORY OR CURRENT CULTURE. GO AHEAD, I'LL WAIT.

It's neither fair nor reasonable to judge a religion based on its' beginnings, or to dismiss the ability of a community to grow and evolve over time, or to pretend that the modern witchcraft movement doesn't owe a large part of its' existence to Wicca. Like it or not, if it weren't for Wiccans, we wouldn't have the kind of organization or recognition that we do, nor would we have had certain landmark legal cases that led to pagans being able to claim the protection of law against religious discrimination in the States.

(And because someone somewhere is going to demand the encyclopedia answer - This is not to discount the contributions of other groups, but the historical fact remains that the people responsible for the foundations of Wicca kickstarted the movement in the UK and subsequent practitioners brought it into public view in a positive light during the counterculture movements of the 1950s and 1960s. And it was Wicca that was first pagan religion in the US to be recognized and therefore included under the constitutional guarantee of religious freedom. This does not change the CULTURAL AND SOCIETAL response to witchcraft or paganism, or the problems that witches and pagans still face in other places, only the presence of civil rights that were not there before. And that has, in fact, contributed to an increase in wider normalization and acceptance. We may not owe EVERYTHING to Wicca and Wiccans, but we would not be where we are as a movement or a community without them.)

Not to mention, Wicca hasn't even been around for a whole century yet and already it's being judged like it has the same kind of cultural and political clout that, oh say, Christianity does in much of the Western world. And it's no coincidence that a good number of the criticisms leveled at Wiccans are the same ones flung at Christians.

Wicca DOES have a strong influence on modern witchcraft, because Wicca and Wiccans were such a big part of the foundation of the movement. Furthermore, many of the published works viewed as standard beginner texts were written by Wiccans or heavily influenced by Wiccan ideas and concepts. Admittedly, there was a tendency for quite some time to think of Wicca and Wiccan tenets as the default for modern witchcraft, and now that we're moving away from that and discovering just how much of our thinking relies on that framework and the ideas present within it, there's backlash happening.

It's important to try and decolonize your thinking as much as possible when it comes to witchcraft. But that involves more work and more effort than just pointing fingers and broadly condemning anything remotely problematic or anything that's ever been touched or influenced by people whose moral and ethical codes don't pass muster under a modern lens. We cannot and should not expect people from 50+ years ago to toe the line when people living today can't even do so reliably.

So to wrap it all up - there's nothing wrong with Wicca and there's nothing wrong with being Wiccan. We are none of us completely unproblematic and until we address the fact that issues with racism, sexism, manipulation, cultural appropriation, and so forth exist in MANY parts of the modern witchcraft and pagan community, we don't get to tar and feather any one group. A bit of critical thinking and self-reflection, and a great deal of Knowing Our Own History, is the key to moving forward here.

Because until the people voicing these complaints most loudly can realize the head-splitting irony of condemning Wicca in one breath and celebrating the Wheel of the Year or venerating a Maiden-Mother-Crone-model goddess in the next, we're not actually getting anywhere.

Anyway, I hope this helps to answer some of your questions. For more information, I highly recommend reading Margot Adler's "Drawing Down The Moon" and Ronald Hutton's "Triumph of the Moon" for a more comprehensive overview of the history of the modern witchcraft movement. Both are written from an outside scholar's perspective and are presented as research rather than rhetoric. Part of knowing where we are and deciding where to go next is knowing where we started and where we've been, after all.

[zorciarkrildrush]

I think the essence of what drives me crazy about current Enlightened Online Leftist Discourse Regarding My Life Personally And Whether This Time Killing Me Is Morally Correct (as in, commentary about the latest episode in i/p violence) is this:

I want a free Palestine.

I don't personally know a lot of people that don't! They might bristle at the tagline, because it's co-opted by people who do in fact want them dead, but as soon as I lay out why it's in literally everyone's best interest, how a non-free Palestine is horrific both to the people of Israel and to the people of Palestine, how pragmatically ridiculous the occupation of the west bank and the siege upon Gaza are (and I am a very pragmatic person), they get it. And I don't mean I debate people online about it - this, too, is a ridiculous concept - I mean having, time and time again, the deradicalization conversation with my friends, and colleagues, and my family. Obviously not only now - I've always been a very principled and argumentative Jew, ever since I became an adult - and I've been alive for, I don't know, a dozen flashpoints and operations and wars at this point, and I don't stop being argumentative and loud in peacetime either, but especially now.

But that's not what "from the river to the sea" means.

When you, gentle soul from across the sea, echo this slogan, you are either:

By apathy or will, ignoring that the sentiment cheers for the mass expulsion and killing of Jews. Indeed, any non-Muslim present from the river to the sea. This doesn't even begin to cover how even Muslim arabs still will not be safe under Hamas rule - and trust me, I don't care if a Hamas apologist told you different. A victory for Hamas (And we're ignoring the fact they do not have the military capacity for it - I hope you are aware of the privilege inherent to not understanding military conflicts) means exactly that. No "rule by the people". No socialistic, Palestinian utopia to be had, which is a fantasy I'm seeing alluded to a lot recently. Just an extension of the horrific power structure in Lebanon and Syria, where Hezbollah - friends and allies to Hamas - have been playing a tango for decades of both refusing to participate in actual government and betterment of civilian lives, while still draining their resources and controlling them with no real contest. "From the river to the sea" is not a sentiment for freedom fighting - it's a sentiment for a final solution to the people living here who are either Jewish, or for some Very Strange And Weird Reason would rather not submit to Hamas rule. You know - Israeli Arabs, secular and Muslim and Christian, Druze, Circassians, Bahai, take your pick. Their suffering, and my suffering - you know, a person who made the strategic error of being born in Israel while Jewish, which is inherently problematic and not okay of me - don't matter to you. Just the fantasy of an easy, morally correct cleanse of the land.

Are well aware of all of the above! You just don't care. You either smugly chuckle that I, and anybody else who will die, deserve it - or that it's an acceptable loss for the aforementioned fantasy. "Decolonization is an inherently violent process", you'll say to me, chillingly, before implying I have a summer home in Brooklyn I can just retreat to when things get tough. Israel is basically Rhodesia, a very popular blog here mentioned flippantly, so what's the issue with all of those lily-white Jews fucking off back home before the righteous freedom fighters strike them down? Well. This might be the part I urge you to open a book, or even Wikipedia or any god damn thing that will explain to you these upsetting, dense things you clearly struggle with.

It's easy for me to discount islamophobes. Like, very easy. It's very easy for me to discount insane evangelistics who "advocate for me" simply because I'm a pawn in their religious rapture. It's easy for me to fight against Israeli and Jewish fascists - I have been long before this news item came across your feed, as did the insinuations that some civilian deaths are okay, actually.

It's easy for me for me to see promotions for donations to non-political aid in Gaza. It's easy for me to see the sentiment that hey! Palestinians deserve safe, healthy lives. That they have deserved an independent state, and were unfairly denied one, for decades. It's easy for me to see people saying "You know, the Israeli government is shit, actually, and their actions endanger and promote to the misery of innocents". Because that's right! I wouldn't be voting and protesting and donating for all of these sentiments otherwise!

It's not easy for me to see people, who I honestly held in high regard and saw having well thought out opinions on important matters, inadvertently echo the sentiment that my death is acceptable. That a terrorist organization, who rule over their own territory with fear and violence, are righteous freedom fighters, vox populi, only out to establish a free state. Like hey, their manifesto said otherwise, so it must be all there is - right? That Jews are just hysterical, they can easily live elsewhere - ever since that nasty holocaust business everything's fine abroad. Besides, it was just so long ago who even cares stop talking about it. Hamas, Hezbollah, ISIS, the Ayatollahs in Iran, the fucking Islamic Jihad - are not interested in freedom. They aren't, and echoing their slogan tells me you are either ignoring that, or support them anyway. If antisemitic rhetoric, half truths and lies by omission work on you today, they would have in any period of time. I'm sorry this makes you uncomfortable. I'm not, not really.

So finally:

Know what your fucking words mean. Have a cursory glance at the history of the MENA and why it's so fucked, one that doesn't boil down to "The Jews, with American help, rolled into where they don't belong". This isn't even a joke. I've seen this braindead, history-revising sentiment repeated so many times, both online and in actual textbooks, that I feel I'm going insane. So many well-meaning people handwringing and assuring each other that repeating genocidal slogans is fine, that calling the i/p conflict "a simple problem" (which means it has a simple solution, right? Just kill the Jews.) is a well-adjusted and intellectual take. That "only the Zionists should die! The rest will be fine :)" I dare you to say that and also give me a correct definition of what Zionism is. Why I, a Jew that advocates for Palestinian statehood and rights and safety and always have, won't also face the wall in your little fantasy.

Freedom to Palestine. Peace in the middle east, fucking yesterday.

A curse and a plague on those who don't want either of those, and just want to cheer on the death of "the other side".

A curse and a plague upon you, when you tell me, smugly, from somewhere safe and far away, "from the river to the sea".