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vigilskeep · 2 months ago

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It's my birthday & I want all your thoughts/your ultimate dreams for a possible Fereldan chantry secession pls & thank u 💖

the topics at hand are:

orlais’ stranglehold on the sunburst throne. fereldan-orlesian tensions would blow up as soon as any divine attempted to hold authority over the fereldan crown. which with a divine who attempts to restore the circles would happen almost immediately, due to:

ferelden’s support for the mage rebellion. in dragon age origins it has an active, fairly brazen community of apostates across the nation. in dragon age 2 the fereldan crown is sheltering fleeing apostates from kirkwall and, under certain circumstances, attempting to defy the chantry by freeing its circle prior to any rebellion. in dragon age inquisition, the fereldan crown harbours the entire mage rebellion until the alexius debacle. it is the most mage-friendly power in the south and it resisting the restoration of the circles—which would require the orlesian divine to march in new forces to do so—is not hard to believe

broader/more historically, ferelden has a better claim to andraste’s legacy than orlais does. ferelden is the birthplace of andraste and where her ashes returned, whereas orlais is merely the birthplace of the fallible chantry made in her name. you can get a lot of religious mileage out of that and there are probably scholars and clerics who have been thinking about this for ages and would kill to be writing the 1500s style religious pamphlets involved in making it a movement

personally i find a cassandra / leliana split the most logical here. on the one hand, you have a brash, militaristic divine with the title hero of orlais and a more traditional viewpoint, and lacking in the political acumen to make concessions and prevent the secession. on the other, you have an idealistic woman willing to make bold, drastic sacrifices for second chances at history, someone who considers herself fereldan and is sensitive to the mages’ plight, and who is ultimately desperate to believe the maker gave her a grand purpose.

it’s a great loss to sacrifice divine vivienne, who is so interesting, but i just find unconvincing as a rallying point for traditionalists in the event of a schism? because no matter what she does she’ll never not be a mage. idk i could be convinced. however, vivienne would still be absolutely central to the conflict as the grand enchanter of the circle, playing a very dangerous game probably operating as cassandra’s right hand while vying for power with the anti-mage extremists likely flocking to back orlais who naturally see her as an internal threat

eventually an exalted march would be called or some kind of religious war would take place. you can’t declare yourself divine without expecting that kind of backlash. what would really have to happen for ferelden to survive is for somewhere else to also break from the orlesian chantry. your best bet is nevarra and the free marches, who are already often at odds with orlais historically and likely have also long resented getting excommunicated every five seconds whenever they have to defend their borders. one imagines the mortalitasi also prefer leliana’s way of thinking. you wouldn’t get all the free marches at the same time, largely because they’re all cripplingly individual and probably would just pick the other side to the neighbout they most hate. but nevarra is the big deal because orlais’ chronic problem historically is that they can’t afford a war in the north and in the east at the same time, so nevarra always fucks up their fereldan expansions and vice versa

the problem here is that cassandra is a pentaghast. however, she’s a pentaghast who wants nothing to do with nevarra, would absolutely not have given them any rewards or privileges for being family, and whose parents were executed rebels. i think they’d already be mad and could easily cut their losses. (i don’t think nevarra would answer to leliana and the hypothetical chantry of ferelden, to be clear, which i would imagine to be quite localised. i think they’d start doing something independently. idk if they’d declare their own divine or answer to no divine or idk do something nevarran and delightful like say the legitimate divine is whichever one they have buried in the necropolis and she says fuck orlais.)

as a note i think it’s really funny if both cass and leli go by divine victoria, both claiming to stand on the shoulders of the inquisition’s victory. likely nonsense to happen. that or something deeply on the nose like divine victoria and divine liberata or whatever. i’d expect leliana to be labelled the red divine in common terms (against the orlesian white divine and tevinter black divine)

#its like playing with my barbies to me.

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annieqattheperipheral · 1 year ago

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yohe's recap fri-sun. behind $wall so here u go:

HALIFAX, Nova Scotia — It’s a pleasant, autumn afternoon in downtown Halifax. A bartender is shaking his head in the city’s bar district, telling tales of Nova Scotia’s favorite son while NFL games beam on background televisions.

The topic is predictably Sidney Crosby.

“He’s here all the time in the summer with Nate (MacKinnon),” the bartender said. “People never leave him alone. Sits here and signs autographs all night. He’s almost too nice for his own good, you know? But he’s just such a good guy. He just sits here and signs and signs, and just talks with everyone, and poses for pictures. People love it. You have to understand how proud of him we are.”

That much is quite clear.

Preseason games don’t typically receive much in the way of hoopla. Even Erik Karlsson’s exhibition season debut was met with thousands of empty seats at PPG Paints Arena on Thursday.

But this is different. Much, much different. The Pittsburgh Penguins are playing the Ottawa Senators on Monday in downtown Halifax at Scotiabank Centre and it’s a preseason game, only you wouldn’t know it by the buzz in this beautiful, seaside city.

As of Sunday, there were around 300 tickets available on StubHub. The majority of these are selling for more than $1,000. The average price for a ticket on StubHub is around $1,100, and the most famous Taylor in the building will be Crosby’s sister.

“It’s all pretty crazy,” said Ryan Graves, another Nova Scotia native.

Crosby and the Penguins arrived in Halifax late on Friday afternoon. They had a “team bonding” day on Saturday, which included a scavenger hunt and Crosby acting as a personal tour guide for his teammates, most of whom had never been to Halifax.

“I was definitely feeling the pressure,” Crosby said with a smile. “Wanted to make sure guys enjoyed it. It’s a great place. I’m really proud of my home and what it has to offer.”

Rest assured, the feeling from his hometown is mutual.

All across Canada, Crosby is understandably a national hero. He’s one of the greatest players of all time, an incomparable gentleman, scorer of the golden goal and captain of the greatest generation of Canadian hockey.

In Pittsburgh, Crosby is a civic icon. In a city that reveres its sports legends more than most, Crosby’s face will rest on the Mount Rushmore of Western Pennsylvania greats alongside the likes of Mario Lemieux and Roberto Clemente, singular artists whose character somehow exceeded their athletic exploits.

And yet, in Halifax, the affection Crosby receives is even more noteworthy if slightly understated, as is the custom of this province’s people. Like Crosby himself, the people here are polite and kind. Crosby always smiles when Nova Scotia is mentioned. Unfailingly.

When his name is mentioned around the proud people of Halifax, they smile in turn.

“Hard not to,” Graves said.

The Penguins practiced on Sunday morning only minutes from Crosby’s boyhood home at Cole Harbour Place. The small building was filled with hundreds of fans, who overflowed the venue for hours. Hundreds of others stood outside, patiently waiting for a glimpse of Crosby.

Graves grew up in Nova Scotia, albeit three hours away. He is the best-suited member of the Penguins to explain what Crosby’s appearance in the Maritimes means, and what his presence over the years has done for hockey in this region.

Some players from Nova Scotia reached the NHL before Crosby, but his arrival — and subsequent domination of the league — changed everything, according to his new teammate.

“You can just see from the reaction of the people,” Graves said. “You can tell what it means to this area, what he’s done. He’s the first one from out east that really had an impact on everybody. Sid was the first one to pave the way. The impact he’s had on Mac (MacKinnon), myself, (Ottawa’s Drake) Batherson … you know, you always think things are possible. But when you have someone that’s actually done that, it becomes more real. You understand the pathway that they took. It gives you someone to root for. Everyone loves him. Everyone. He’s an idol to a lot of people. Eight, 10-year-old kids love him. People my parents’ age love him. He’s had an impact on so many people. It’s really cool that the Penguins brought us here to do this.”

Some athletes like to cultivate the image of giving back to the community when, in reality, their contributions are far smaller than the accompanying hype. Crosby is quite the opposite. He’s well known to visit Children’s Hospital in Pittsburgh on a regular basis, for instance, but is insistent that the media not chronicle these visits. It’s simply his way.

It was fitting, then, that Crosby’s day on Sunday was particularly full, even if he couldn’t hide from the media on this occasion.

After the Penguins practiced, Crosby returned to the ice. He participated in a hockey clinic for dozens of young Nova Scotian players, and he wasn’t alone. His good friend, Evgeni Malkin, joined him for the clinic. So did Graves. And so did the entire Penguins coaching staff, including Mike Sullivan.

“We all play because we love it,” Crosby said. “Obviously we have dreams of being in the NHL. Sometimes that works out, sometimes it doesn’t. Hopefully it gives them the belief that, just because you’re from a small town, you can make it.”

While Crosby, Malkin, Graves and the coaching staff were on the ice, the rest of the Penguins players were signing autographs and participating in Q&As with children and other members of the Nova Scotian community. Crosby also invited and spoke with families who lost their houses during the horrific wildfires that impacted so much of Canada earlier this year.

“This whole thing has been great,” Jeff Carter said. “Everybody knows what Sid means to the community here. And I think everyone understands how many things he does for people off the ice. It’s been a special weekend for him. He’s very proud of where he grew up. That’s obvious. I think it’s been special for him, yes, but it’s also been a really great experience for all of us.”

Graves said the hockey community in Nova Scotia is an underappreciated one and that he hopes events like this underscore how passionate this province is for hockey.

“It’s all just so cool to see,” he said. “People here love this sport. They’re crazy for it. You see when the world juniors are here, everything is sold out. The Czech and Slovakian game even sold out. People love it. It’s crazy. People love the players who are from around here, too. People around here are blue-collar, hard-nosed people. It makes it fun for them to root for a person like Sidney. When I was a kid, the Islanders came here once for a week of training camp. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.”

And with all due respect to the Islanders, they aren’t Crosby.

“I can’t even imagine what it would be like to have a practice with the Penguins in my hometown rink, the place I grew up in,” Marcus Pettersson said. “Man, would that be awesome. But with Sid, everything is different. And it’s all because of the kind of human being he is.”

The crowd buzzed throughout Penguins practice on Sunday, with the massive contingent of children chanting Crosby’s name throughout.

“So, you see how he’s worshipped here,” Pettersson said. “You see it right away. And honestly, it’s because of the things he does in the community even more than the hockey player that he is. People know he’s a great person, but they don’t even understand all of it, all of the things he does when people aren’t looking, the way he treats people. People are smart, though. They know. He wouldn’t be worshipped the way he is if he weren’t a great person. He sets that standard and that precedent every day. We’ve just been walking around town, and you start to see that people are proud to be from here because Sidney Crosby is from here. I think that tells you a lot.”

As the years have rolled on, Crosby’s bond with his head coach has notably grown stronger. It was only fitting that Sullivan played a big role in the big weekend.

“It’s a great tribute to the legacy Sid has built,” Sullivan said.

Crosby and the Penguins once played a preseason game in Halifax, back in September of 2006. Given that it’s been 17 years since the Penguins have been here, it’s a pretty fair bet that this could be the final time that Crosby skates before his hometown fans.

“It’s been nice,” he said. “I never thought I’d have an opportunity to do this. I had a lot of morning practices in this rink. I had dreams of playing in the NHL. I didn’t think I’d ever be here with our team, doing something like this. You just try to take it all in and enjoy it.”

Crosby is perhaps the most hyped prospect in hockey history. Even before he was drafted, scouts and others who knew him raved about his personality and his character. This, they insisted, was a boy who was different than the rest.

“He’s just the best,” Pettersson said.

Crosby’s last NHL-related event in his hometown was in 2016 when a parade with the Stanley Cup was held in his honor.

Troy Crosby shook his head when pondering the last time the hockey world descended upon Nova Scotia to witness his son.

“Halifax has changed a lot since then,” Crosby’s father noted.

The boy, who became a man, who became a hockey god, has never really changed at all.

His homeland is all the better for it.

“This is a weekend people are going to remember for a really long time,” Graves said. “To the people here, it’s everything.”

#sidney crosby #halifax showdown #pittsburgh penguins #ryan graves #marcus pettersson #mike sullivan #jeff carter

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scotianostra · 2 years ago

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January 11th 1940, John Buchan, diplomat, soldier, barrister, journalist, historian, politician, publisher, poet and novelist passed away.

Born in Perth the eldest son of a Free Church of Scotland minister, he spent time in the Borders as a child before the family moved to the Gorbals in Glasgow, he went on to have a truly extraordinary life from humble beginnings.

Educated at Hutchesons Grammar School Buchan graduated from Glasgow University then gained a scholarship to Brasenose College, Oxford. During his time there – ‘spent peacefully in an enclave like a monastery’ – he wrote two historical novels.

In 1901 he became a barrister of the Middle Temple and a private secretary to the High Commissioner for South Africa. In 1907 he married Susan Charlotte Grosvenor; they had three sons and a daughter. After spells as a war correspondent, Lloyd George’s Director of Information and MP, Buchan – now Sir John Buchan, Baron Tweedsmuir of Elsfield - moved to Canada in 1935 where he had been appointed Governor-General.] Despite poor health throughout his life, Buchan’s literary output was remarkable – thirty novels, over sixty non-fiction books, including biographies of Sir Walter Scott and Oliver Cromwell, and seven collections of short stories. In 1928 he won the prestigious James Tait Black Memorial Prize, Britain’s oldest literary prize for his biography of the Marquis of Montrose. Buchan’s distinctive thrillers – ‘shockers’ as he called them – were characterised by suspenseful atmosphere, conspiracy theories and romantic heroes, notably Richard Hannay (based on the real-life military spy William Ironside) and Sir Edward Leithen.

Buchan was a favourite writer of Alfred Hitchcock, whose screen adaptation of The Thirty-Nine Steps was phenomenally successful, the pair can be seen together in the second photo.

John Buchan served as Governor-General of Canada until his death on this day in 1940, the year his autobiography Memory Hold-the-door was published. His last novel Sick Heart River was published posthumously in 1941.

From The Pentlands Looking North And South is a poem by John Buchan I can relate to, The Pentlands was part of my playground when growing up on the outskirts of Edinburgh.

Around my feet the clouds are drawn In the cold mystery of the dawn; No breezes cheer, no guests intrude My mossy, mist-clad solitude; When sudden down the steeps of sky Flames a long, lightening wind. On high The steel-blue arch shines clear, and far, In the low lands where cattle are, Towns smoke. And swift, a haze, a gleam,-- The Firth lies like a frozen stream, Reddening with morn. Tall spires of ships, Like thorns about the harbour's lips, Now shake faint canvas, now, asleep, Their salt, uneasy slumbers keep; While golden-grey, o'er kirk and wall, Day wakes in the ancient capital. Before me lie the lists of strife, The caravanserai of life, Whence from the gates the merchants go On the world's highways; to and fro Sail laiden ships; and in the street The lone foot-traveller shakes his feet, And in some corner by the fire Tells the old tale of heart's desire. Thither from alien seas and skies Comes the far-questioned merchandise:-- Wrought silks of Broussa, Mocha's ware Brown-tinted, fragrant, and the rare Thin perfumes that the rose's breath Has sought, immortal in her death: Gold, gems, and spice, and haply still The red rough largess of the hill Which takes the sun and bears the vines Among the haunted Apennines. And he who treads the cobbled street To-day in the cold North may meet, Come month, come year, the dusky East, And share the Caliph's secret feast; Or in the toil of wind and sun Bear pilgrim-staff, forlorn, fordone, Till o'er the steppe, athwart the sand Gleam the far gates of Samarkand. The ringing quay, the weathered face Fair skies, dusk hands, the ocean race The palm-girt isle, the frosty shore, Gales and hot suns the wide world o'er Grey North, red South, and burnished West The goals of the old tireless quest, Leap in the smoke, immortal, free, Where shines yon morning fringe of sea I turn, and lo! the moorlands high Lie still and frigid to the sky. The film of morn is silver-grey On the young heather, and away, Dim, distant, set in ribs of hill, Green glens are shining, stream and mill, Clachan and kirk and garden-ground, All silent in the hush profound Which haunts alone the hills' recess, The antique home of quietness. Nor to the folk can piper play The tune of "Hills and Far Away," For they are with them. Morn can fire No peaks of weary heart's desire, Nor the red sunset flame behind Some ancient ridge of longing mind. For Arcady is here, around, In lilt of stream, in the clear sound Of lark and moorbird, in the bold Gay glamour of the evening gold, And so the wheel of seasons moves To kirk and market, to mild loves And modest hates, and still the sight Of brown kind faces, and when night Draws dark around with age and fear Theirs is the simple hope to cheer.-- A land of peace where lost romance And ghostly shine of helm and lance Still dwell by castled scarp and lea, And the last homes of chivalry, And the good fairy folk, my dear, Who speak for cunning souls to hear, In crook of glen and bower of hill Sing of the Happy Ages still. O Thou to whom man's heart is known, Grant me my morning orison. Grant me the rover's path--to see The dawn arise, the daylight flee, In the far wastes of sand and sun! Grant me with venturous heart to run On the old highway, where in pain And ecstasy man strives amain, Conquers his fellows, or, too weak, Finds the great rest that wanderers seek! Grant me the joy of wind and brine, The zest of food, the taste of wine, The fighter's strength, the echoing strife The high tumultuous lists of life-- May I ne'er lag, nor hapless fall, Nor weary at the battle-call!... But when the even brings surcease, Grant me the happy moorland peace; That in my heart's depth ever lie That ancient land of heath and sky, Where the old rhymes and stories fall In kindly, soothing pastoral. There in the hills grave silence lies, And Death himself wears friendly guise There be my lot, my twilight stage, Dear city of my pilgrimage.

#scotland #scottish #writer #poet #diplomat #administrator #politician #history

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kristinhelberg · 10 months ago

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Seven uncomfortable truths

Anyone wanting to fully understand the current Middle East crisis must face up to realities on the ground. For many, however, this is at odds with the schematic picture they have in their heads. Here are seven uncomfortable truths crucial to de-escalating the situation and finding a solution

Analysis Qantara 27.2.2024

Regional tensions will not de-escalate without a ceasefire in Gaza.

The war between Israel and Hamas is directly or indirectly affecting all nations, their governments and 400 million people in the Middle East.

The military clashes on the Israeli-Lebanese border, the missile attacks on cargo ships in the Red Sea, attacks on U.S. troops in Iraq, Syria and Jordan as well as subsequent American retaliatory action, Israeli missile attacks on Syria and the targeted killing of high-ranking militia leaders – these are all sideshows destabilising parts of the region.

Yes, people in Syria, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, Egypt and Iran are suffering first and foremost because of the unscrupulousness and incompetence of their rulers, but in many places, the historical conflict between Israelis and Palestinians over land serves as a projection screen, a pretext or to fan the flames of conflict. It cannot be managed with security measures nor resolved by military means.

The axis of resistance is capable of more than terror.

Its members – Hezbollah in Lebanon, Hamas in the Palestinian territories, the Houthis in Yemen, the Islamic resistance in Iraq and the Iranian-controlled militias in Syria – all share a common ideology with their sponsor Iran: enmity towards Israel and the USA.

But this isn't just used to justify the armed struggle, it's also a way for them to gain political power and social influence in their respective countries. They participate in governments, control regions and benefit from injustice, state failure and local conflicts. The war in Gaza is boosting their popularity – at home and across the region as a whole.

But Hezbollah, Hamas, Houthis and the like aren't simply taking orders from Tehran, they're also hybrid actors with their own sets of interests. To regard them simply as aberrant terrorist gangs in the service of Iran doesn't go far enough. For sure, they would struggle to operate without the financial and military support of the Islamic Republic, but not every rocket launch or drone attack is coordinated with the leadership in Tehran.

It also had no prior knowledge of plans for 7 October. Operational autonomy with simultaneous strategic coordination by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards – this formula enables rulers in Tehran to ramp up pressure on the common enemy Israel and the USA without taking responsibility for it.

No one wants full-scale war, but individual flashpoints can still get out of control.

A direct confrontation between the USA and Israel on the one side and Iran and its allies on the other would come at a huge cost to everyone and is therefore in nobody's interests. The threats and sabre rattling continues, but the military attacks remain limited. They are aimed at deterring the enemy and encouraging a retreat; while at the same time signalling strength and determination to their own clientele.

But proxy wars harbour the risk of escalating unintentionally due to opaque chains of command and the fact that conflict parties aren't communicating directly with one another. To prevent this, those involved must shoot less and talk more.

American and British missile attacks on Houthi positions in Yemen aren't making Red Sea shipping safer – drone defence manages that perfectly well – they're turning the Houthis into heroes in the fight for the Palestinians and against Western imperialism. Equally counterproductive are Israel's attempts to drive Hezbollah from the border with military force, so that tens of thousands of evacuated Israelis can return to their homes and live in safety.

Although from the area north of the Litani River 30 km from the border, Hezbollah can no longer fire precision-guided missiles at border towns, its rockets can still reach targets in Israel. Israeli intimidation is also boosting Hezbollah's standing within the populace. In Lebanon too, tens of thousands of people have fled from the south; Israel is seen as the aggressor.

In view of an imminent Israeli offensive, many see Hezbollah as necessary resistance, even those who have nothing in common with the Shia Party of God and in more peaceful times would be calling for its disarmament. Diplomatic efforts are more promising, but without progress in Gaza these will come to nothing, as Hezbollah is only prepared to negotiate its withdrawal if Israel halts its attacks on Gaza.

Netanyahu needs crisis mode to stay in power.

Israel's prime minister was prepared to abolish the independence of the judiciary to save his political career, engaging with fascists to do so. These utilised elements of the Israeli army to enforce their settlement and annexations plans, which contributed to security force failures on 7 October. The process of reappraising these political and military-strategic errors will begin as soon as the war is over; most Israelis are already calling for Netanyahu to step down.

That's why the prime minister has no interest in bringing the conflict to a swift end, he needs a permanent state of crisis to restore his image as Mr. Security. He promises not to relinquish security control over Gaza, to prevent a sovereign Palestinian state and to end Hezbollah bombardment in the north, even if this may result in an open confrontation with Lebanon.

Instead of making concessions to free more hostages, Netanyahu and his right-wing extremist government are fanning the flames of the conflict to push through their own power fantasies. They are not partners, but an obstacle on the path to peace.

Israel's radical settlers and nationalists mean business and what's happening in Gaza serves their goals.

The Hamas attack has bolstered Israel's right-wing extremists; some of their racist views are reflected within the public. For the settler movement, the war in Gaza represents the one-off opportunity to promote their visions of a Greater Israel: the permanent settlement of the West Bank and Gaza, which goes hand in hand with the institutionalised unequal treatment of Palestinians (apartheid under international law) or their expulsion.

These openly presented plans fly in the face of international law, UN resolutions and what the rest of the world, including close allies of Israel, regard as a solution to the conflict between Israelis and Palestinians.

Nevertheless, there's little resistance. Americans and Europeans repeat what's not allowed to happen in Gaza without admitting that this is exactly what Israeli warfare is amounting to. No territorial changes? To the south of Gaza City, the army is building a military road from East to West that divides the territory and establishes a buffer zone along the border, twice as large as before. Of the 2,850 buildings there, Israeli TV broadcaster Channel 12 says 1,100 have already been destroyed; farmland is also affected.

No permanent displacement of the local population? 1.9 million people are now refugees in Gaza, the destruction of homes and infrastructure – more than half of residential buildings, hospitals, universities, schools, mosques and churches have been damaged or destroyed – is hampering the prospects of return and a future existence.

No Israeli occupation and settlement of Gaza? Netanyahu's 'day after' plan for Gaza may not entail settlement construction, but it does envisage a permanent military presence. Under his plan, the Israeli army should retain "unlimited operational freedom" and control of all land west of Jordan, i.e. all access by land, sea and air. The Palestinians are to be "demilitarised" and "deradicalised" and self-governed "as far as possible". This is a situation they are already familiar with – it's called occupation.

The most specific plans for post-war Gaza are coming from pro-settler organisations and real estate companies: Beach-side villas and the "promotion of voluntary emigration" aimed at scattering the population of Gaza throughout the world and destroying it as a group (genocide under international law).

The International Court of Justice has called on the Israeli government to prevent and punish the direct and public incitement to hatred and expulsion and protect the people in Gaza from it. At a "Victory of Israel" conference in Jerusalem, 11 ministers in the Israeli government celebrated the resettlement of the Gaza Strip. It is high time that any support for this government comes with strings attached.

Using military means alone to fight Hamas is strengthening them politically.

Hamas is already more popular than it was before 7 October – not necessarily in Gaza, but in the West Bank their approval ratings have tripled. Although many people don't share their Islamist ideology, they respect them as a "resistance movement".

Although people in the Middle East reject crimes such as those perpetrated on 7 October – sexual violence, the slaughter of civilians and the abduction of women and children – they fete Hamas as the only actor achieving something for the Palestinian cause – even if that's just steering international attention onto the suffering of the Palestinian people. The 7 October atrocities are either played down or dismissed as fake news.

This reality denial has assumed frightening proportions on both sides: the 7 October massacre is being ignored and denied in the Arab world; people in Israel don't want to see the suffering of civilians in Gaza. Existential fears intermingle with the desire for revenge, the other is dehumanised as a way of doing them maximum harm. But rather than creating any kind of security, this just generates more terror and violence.

After months of war, the aim of obliterating Hamas as a militia is proving to be unrealistic. Even if most of the fighters in Gaza in dead and all the tunnels and rockets have been destroyed, any remaining supporters will reform and find new recruits.

And they don't need many to act as spoilers torpedoing any attempts to establish a post-war order. For this reason alone, it would appear sensible to use existing channels to the Hamas leadership in Doha for the hostage negotiations and indirectly involve pragmatists within Hamas.

Hamas will also continue to exist as a political party, social movement and ideology. That's why the world must find a way to interact with it, just as it once did with Yasser Arafat's Fatah – elevated from terrorists into negotiating partners when there was hope for a political solution to the conflict during the hammering out of the Oslo accords.

Recent documents show that there are politicians within Hamas open to progress along comparable lines. In contrast to the organisation's founding charter of 1988, its 2017 policy document no longer contains any anti-Jewish references; Hamas declared its willingness to accept a Palestinian state within the 1967 borders. The charter states that Hamas is not waging a war against Jews, but against the occupation.

In January, Hamas published a 16-page report which also explains its motivations for the 7 October terror attack. The document is titled "Our Narrative… Operation Al Aqsa Flood" and deserves attention – even as a piece of propaganda.

The "operation" targeted Israeli military sites and was aimed at detaining soldiers for a prisoner exchange, the report read. The Al-Qassam Brigades' fighters were committed to "avoiding harm to civilians, especially children, women and elderly people". Any targeting of civilians happened "accidently" and as "faults" due to the rapid collapse of the Israeli security and military system. What sounds like a mockery of the victims corresponds to the narrative in the Middle East.

In its report, Hamas also refers to investigations and statements from the International Criminal Court and the International Court of Justice, thereby speaking the language of the West. In statements aimed at the anti-colonial left wing and the Global South, it writes that it is not fighting against Jews because they're Jews, but against the Zionists occupying Palestine: "Yet, it is the Zionists who constantly identify Judaism and the Jews with their own colonial project and illegal entity".

The document is evidence of strategic thought processes within the Hamas leadership. Members of this leadership will attempt to convert their current popularity into political influence; any route to a solution to the Palestinian question must lead to them. Negotiations between Fatah and Hamas are already underway; Hamas could join the PLO in the medium term.

The two-state solution is dead, but without Palestinian sovereignty, there can be no future for Gaza and no normalisation of Arab-Israeli relations.

For a solution in Gaza, to give dignity to the Palestinians and security to the Israelis, the withdrawal of the Israeli army and the free but internationally monitored movement of goods and people is fundamental.

After all, no Arab nation will want to get involved in Gaza while it is under permanent Israeli military control. However, the financial, political, economic and possibly military support of neighbouring states is crucial for Gaza's resurrection.

That's why U.S. Secretary of State Anthony Blinken is making regular trips to Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Jordan and Egypt before conducting talks in Tel Aviv and Ramallah. In a bid to wrest a commitment to a sovereign Palestinian state from the Israeli government, he's attempting to lure it in with improved relations with its Arab neighbours. Blinken knows: for a normalisation of relations with Israel and unlike in the past – Saudi Arabia and other states will insist on Palestinian self-determination.

As this isn't on the cards, it must at least be promised by Israel and promoted by the U.S. and Europe. Should the Israeli government continue to deny Palestinians the right to state sovereignty, the Americans and Europeans should follow the example of the more than 100 countries that have already recognised Palestine as a state. Then, the unilateral position wouldn't be global recognition, but Israel's denial of Palestinian statehood.

Ultimately, the two-state solution envisaged in Oslo 1993 won't be realised, because most of what are now 700,000 Israeli settlers in the West Bank and East Jerusalem aren't just going to disappear into thin air – they're not going anywhere. A more realistic prospect might therefore be a confederation of two states – a proposal that experts have been mulling over for years that would solve the two big problems: the continued existence of Israel as a Jewish state and the Palestinian right of return.

This would allow for the existence of an Israeli and a Palestinian state (more or less within the 1967 borders), whose citizens – like those living in the European Union – are permitted to live in the other country without acquiring citizenship there. A settler remains an Israeli citizen and votes in Israel, even if he lives in the West Bank and is subject to the laws there.

A Palestinian from Berlin or Bethlehem becomes a Palestinian citizen and elects parliament in Ramallah, even if he moves to Haifa or Tel Aviv. Laws would control immigration on both sides. Israel would remain Jewish and Palestine Arab – but people could live where they want or stay where they are.

This is difficult to imagine in the current situation, with such levels of mistrust, fear and hatred on both sides. But without vision, there can be no rapprochement. And without rapprochement, there will only be more violence and escalation – across the region as a whole.

#Israel #Gaza #Hamas #palestine #westjordanland #westbank #israeli settlers #netanjahu #two state solution #confederation #apartheid #genocide #print #online #Qantara #analysis

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drakemire · 2 years ago

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Fire the headcannon! #01

About the meanings of names. Ganondorf. That the first component alludes to either "hate" or "curse" feels natural after finishing a particular game. I regard the initial Ganon as spiritual manifestation of the emotion flaring while the execration was voiced. For its more forceful tone and personal connotation, my preference picked "hate". Dorf is actually the word for "village" in my language. I tried to derive use from it, reflecting which qualities I associate with the concept. But "calm", "secluded", "sheltered" ring hardly appropriate for the King of Evil. Or do they? Is there not something that shall be secluded and sheltered within him as the reason for his existence, as concocted by the two who not only gifted him his names? Shall he not keep it calm until it grows potent enough to creep out of its cradle? My contemplation made relieving sense as I captured it in the result "harbour of hate". Agahnim. The sole full-blooded Gerudo with two parents living is given an additional name, and You may recognize this one. I noticed a similarity to "Ghirahim", therefore decided that Gerudo language is rooted in Demon's. All known with these names have the aptitude for magic in common, so the resembling parts - ahnim/ahim - I translated as "sorcerer". In the course of time, one n slipped between the letters, perhaps due to phonotactics. While "Ghir" absorbed the almost identical German "Gier" (greed) to make Ghirahim the "greedy magician", Aga should emphasize the ability. And the first attribute that flew to mind was … well, "first". Combining both "first one" as well as "first-class", no one versed in the language must doubt the "first sorcerer"'s magical competence. Dragmire. To achieve a compromise between this invention from Nintendo of America and my affection for it, I think of it as the name of Ganondorf's sire, the man who gave nearly the entire Gerudo population in Ocarina of Time its life. Out of traditional devotion to their father, strengthening the sister's bond, all descendants of one king wear his name. Even so, mostly the son gets addressed in this manner by representatives from the East. Amongst themselves, the practical women see no reason in doing so. Formerly assumed as "dragon", I must not ignore that Drag is built in NoA's second creation: "Mandrag" (of the enchanted thieves). Considering my vague grammar, "man" means "enchanted" as in "possessed by evil" and "drag" "thief". Mire seems like an ancient word for "might". "Thieves' impact" tells about the potential of the desert community, although ironic for Ganondorf. Koume & Kotake. The syllable their names share is as evident as the difference between these hags. Ko is a Latin allomorph - e.g. in "cooperation" - that means "together", "with". Adopting this, I added the respective element: The smooth sounding ume, the cracking take make them "with fire", "with ice". Two further seconds were spent to translate Twinrova as "twin witches". Nabooru. "No" and "not", "non" et "ne … pas", "nein" und "nicht" - Na sounds just like another word used for denying. Booru reminds me of German "verborgen" (hidden, concealed). I imagine it a naughty choice of Nabooru's mother to name her "uncovered", as one of wise foresight. Both expectations came true, for the daughter is neither covered by much cloth nor covering her mouth instead of complimenting the Hero or expressing her loathing towards Ganondorf. Twinrova pervert this meaning when they not only shroud her in a full-body armor, but also silence her loose tongue. Gerudo. Skyward Sword implies that the term is first bestowed upon a dragonfly, hence would my translation relate to the insect rather than the people. However, since Geldarm and Geldman are two sand-affiliated monsters which in Japanese are actually called Gerudo Āmu/Man, there remains little space for me to get creative. So, Geru became "desert", and do, shared with the designations for other Āmu, means "coming from". Because of the name-giver being a human or a Goron, this term is one of the few used in the arid West not based on Demon language.

#The Legend of Zelda #Ocarina of Time #Ganondorf #Nabooru #Kotake & Koume #Gerudo #Delivery Bag #headcanon #my bad

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dawn-of-worlds · 2 years ago

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The Light in the East

Forever, forever, forever!

Forever humans lived on Lekesh and dreamed of Incarien. To chase that dream, they founded the great capital Palk, and forever they have lived there; forever they have voyaged into the unknown in search of a route home; king after king, year after year, generations stretched out beyond memory who knew the ancestral home of humans only through legends.

But they found it. They lived in Palk forever, and they searched forever, and they found what they sought, and it is done. There are still no navigators or seafarers to rival those of Palk, but the search for new wonders has shifted far to the west, along sea routes already well known, and now in their great maps and sea-charts, Palk is near the edge. The deed is done and though much remains, there is little in it that is holy.

But they have been doing this forever, in Palk, and forever yet remains. What new cause could fill that vastness of time? A thousand ships will be launched, and a thousand stories will be told: here then is the first.

The Order of the Last Hearth, those tomb-builders and funerists of old Incarien, have lived on Lekesh since the beginning. For the services it provided to leaders and heroes, the Order enriched itself in Lekesh as it did in Incarien, and it is particularly respected now in the aftermath of the Blood-Flu, which scythed down so many so rapidly that the Order's talents became essential not just spiritually, but hygeinically. For this reason it has even spread to the Messonir, who have joined the Order and adapted its techniques to their culture.

In the first years of Lekesh, much of the Order joined the Builders to raise great works of stone in honour of the dead and of the gods, but many others went north to take their place among the seafarers; they remember well that their founder Teiri was a whaler. In Palk, where both stone and land is scarce, they have created sprawling tombs of sea-wrecks, monuments that bleach like bones in the sun before eventually sinking, to become tombs of coral and barnacles under the subtle arts of the Order.

This is the path by which the Order came to enter the confidence of the royal line of Palk; the Order, and most particularly Ten Amasti, the royal funerist. Once a captain himself, a rival suitor for the aging queen's affections, he had joined the order after being bested by the exploits of the old king-consort, Vester. In his waning years, Vester mourned the enclosure of the world, the gradual mapping of all hidden places, and in his final days he expressed a wish to be cremated, and to have his ashes and bones interred in a new place, a land unknown to humanity and worthy of the legacy of Palk. This was widely understod to mean a western land, perhaps the newly-discovered Isle of Velarië; but in officiating over the cremation of his friend and former rival, Ten Amasti, himself now an old man, was struck by a vision of a great and sacred light, burning in the utmost northeast, calling out. He understood this as a sign from the gods, and with the queen's blessing he led a small fleet far east and north, skirting the Sea of Spires to travel into the cold northern waters.

This fleet sailed the open ocean for what seemed like forever, sustained only by providence: fortunate winds, fortunate catch, symbols of the gods' blessing. Wherever they lost their way, they spied a strange isle in the distance, and in sailing toward it, regained their course. Many years passed before at last, Ten Amasti saw the light from his vision shining on the horizon: the light of the Tower of Hope, the lighthouse built by the Titans of Laeran, that they might call the world to them. There, bearing king Vester's bones and ashes in an ark, they came ashore in a sheltered harbour, building a bivouac against the harsh environment. This would have come to little were it not for the builders of that lonely tower, ancient Titans eager to learn what fruit their efforts had borne.

Ten Amasti was a sage of the Order, and was wise in the ways of huge and venerable things, and so well suited to diplomacy with the Titans. He and some few of his colleagues stayed with in Huttuqan as guests and curiosities, and it is there that Vester's remains lie today, in a deep hollow carved by Titans' hands and covered over with cooled lava. The bulk of the fleet returned to Palk, sped by the same providential winds, to recount what they had learned of the newfound holy land and the titans that dwelled there, and to prepare a return voyage with royal gifts. Ten Amasti died in Huttuqan before their return -- for he was an old man and his work was done -- and from this the Titans learned much of humans, and of the death which they knew so much more intimately.

#world 02547 diegesis

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europeposts · 1 year ago

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St Michael's Mount

Castle

Island home to a medieval castle, reached by causeway, with Norman church and sub-tropical gardens.

Address: Harbour View, Marazion TR17 0HS, United Kingdom

Aerial st michaels mount england 2017

South east side of the castle, facing offshore

St Michael's Mount (meaning "hoar rock in woodland") is a tidal island in Mount's Bay, Cornwall, England, United Kingdom. The island is a civil parish and is linked to the town of Marazion by a causeway of granite setts, passable (as is the beach) between mid-tide and low water. It is managed by the National Trust, and the castle and chapel have been the home of the St Aubyn family since around 1650.

St Michael's Mount - Wikipedia

Castles of Cornwall – St Michael's Mount (stmichaelsmount.co.uk)

St Michael’s Mount, Cornwall: The monastery that became a castle that became a home

Few spots on the coast of Britain are as romantic and storied as St Michael's Mount in Cornwall.

A castle clings to the top of a granite rock just off the coast of Cornwall: obviously, a good defensive position and the sort of place that would appeal to holy men. A church was first built here in 495AD, and a monastery followed a few hundred years later, both dedicated to St Michael the Archangel, the patron saint of fishermen. It is England’s answer to Mont Saint Michel, just off the Normandy coast of France; it has also been suggested that it was the island of Ictis mentioned by the Greek traveller Posidonius in the 1st century BC.

More prosaically, the Mount, as locals call it, seems to have entered history for straightforwardly commercial reasons, before either Christianity or castles reached Britain: it was a pre-historic trading centre to which skilfully worked tin was brought from Cornish mines to be sold to foreign merchants.

St Michael’s Mount was an important trading post for hundreds of years. (Photo by: Hedelin F/Andia/Universal Images Group via Getty Images)

In the 19th century, Sir John St Aubyn — whose family had owned the island for two centuries — turned a Gothic summer house into a dwelling fit for a Wagnerian hero, amplifying the natural romance of the castle’s situation.

The family gave most of the island to the National Trust last century, but have a 999-year lease to live in the castle and run the visitor business: as well as the castle, there is a harbour, gardens, shops and cafés.

The latest incumbents are James and Mary St Aubyn, aka Lord and Lady St Levan, who live on the island with their children. That 999-year lease must have sounded all-but-endless when it was signed in 1954; yet the 1,500-year history of this island suggests that St Michael’s Mount will see us all out.

The castle and some of the other buildings at St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall.

How to visit St Michael’s Mount The mount is a tidal island — in other words, accessible via land at low tide — just off the coast at Marazion, on the south coast of Cornwall, a ten-minute drive east from Penzance. If you’re driving from there, Marazion and St Michael’s Mount have a long-stay car park at Folly Field, just as you enter the town. You can also catch a bus or walk the coast path from Penzance.

Once on the beach in Marazion, it’s a 15-minute walk across the causeway — but you’ll have to time it with the tides. The website at www.stmichaelsmount.co.uk/getting-here has opening-and-closing times listed for the causeway. From April to October there are also boats across.

There is no charge to visit St Michael’s Mount during the off-season, though you’ll need to pay to visit the castle (National Trust members are free). You will have to pay to visit the island from May to September, however: a charge was introduced during Covid to ease visitor numbers, and it’s been retained. There have been some changes to the charges (particularly for Cornwall residents) so it’s worth checking the latest on the website before you travel.

St Michael’s Mount, Cornwall: The monastery that became a castle that became a home - Country Life

📍Castle of St. Michael, England, United Kingdom

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teddyniffler · 9 months ago

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Mercy in Defeat

Chapter 11

Part 2

Something unexpected was happening in Scandinavia, time and time again across the land, a boat would set off across the sea to England, they were going to East Anglia, it was a decision none of them took lightly, for it meant giving up their way of life, their home, sometimes their family and their gods. They heard the rumours, there were stories from wanderers and storytellers who had told them something amazing that filled their guts with joy and brought shocked disbelief to hearths in halls across Norway, Denmark and Sweden. News that they all wanted to hear, but was it too good to be true? The legendary Viking Ragnar Lothbrok, one of his sons still lived, he was king in England of a small kingdom, one they were welcome to go to. In a time when their world had never looked darker, when they had believed all their heroes had passed, a son of Ragnar still walked among them. If it were true, the gods had answered their prayers, but they also knew if they went to England, they would have to embrace a new god and never be admitted to Valhalla, that was enough to stop most of them, but not all. More sensible people warned them it was a trick from the Christians and their fake god, the Christ God, trying to end Pagan belief, that it was foolish to chance everything on a rumour told by a traveller who had been consuming mushrooms. Just getting into a boat to England was to betray the gods, the doors to Odin would be closed to them forever. Many backed out of going after hearing that, but some, braver people among them, who had the courage of their hero, Ragnar Lothbrok, set out in a boat still, for if they didn’t go see for themselves, how would they ever know, it would haunt them forever.

“Where are you going?” Ingrid shouted, as another boat started rowing from the harbour at Kattegat. The people in the boat wouldn’t look back as their family members called to them to come back “The Christian god is out there, come back!” but they all refused to listen to Ingrid.

She turned and stormed back to the hall, her partner following after her. They had all heard the rumours but Ingrid knew they couldn’t be true, it was just the Christians and their tricks. No way was Hvitserk still alive, out of all the sons of Ragnar, there was no way he would have survived when his stronger brothers had all perished. The small number of men who had returned told her he was as good as dead, badly wounded and unable to even crawl through the mud he lay in, surrounded by Saxons, with King Alfred standing over him with his sword drawn.

That had been ten years ago, the legend of the Lothbrok family had only grown in their absence, they had heard multiple stories of Ivar the Boneless walking the streets at night as a ghostly apparition searching for Bjorn and Lagatha or Ubbe’s boat being sighted out at sea during storms as bad omens to travellers. Half of the wanderers who passed by Kattegat claimed to have seen his ghost out there, still looking for the promised land he wanted to find. It annoyed her to no end, she just wanted to feel powerful, to leave behind her life as a slave, but somehow she still lived in the shadows of the family that once held her in servitude.

Now the Christians were using the memory of that family to lure her people away from her, it wasn’t good enough that some Pagans were converting here in Scandinavia, the Christians were personally attacking her rulership. The Christian god was winning, she was frequently chasing Christians from her kingdom on an almost weekly period now. Kattegat was even quieter than it had ever been, most of the men had been slain in the last war with the Saxons and their numbers had never been replaced, the others had left when things got hard under Ingrid’s rule and finally, others had left when her witchcraft was exposed. They couldn’t raid as they didn’t have the numbers and soon Kattegat would be facing hardships as the traders took their trade elsewhere, she knew her days ruling here were numbered, they had been many attempts on her life before today, she knew it was only a matter of time.

The boat from Kattegat pulled up to the coast of East Anglia early the next morning, as they had been instructed too by the wanderer, they raised a white cloth on a pole to signal their intentions as peaceful, they too had thrown any weapons they had come with into the sea. They had to just hope this wasn’t a trap by the Christians to pick off Vikings.

They waited.

It wasn’t long until a giant boat found them and it came towards them baring the flag of Wessex, they knew it from the cross upon the banner. King Alfred’s boats put the legendary Floki’s boats to shame, they were not only fast, but larger than any of the Viking’s boats. They appeared to have steel around the sides to make them extra strong. They could sink the Viking’s boats with ease just by ramming them. He had spent his people’s taxes well.

The Saxons upon the boat had them surrounded in moments, bow and arrows pointing at them, they were soon joined by another boat that was also patrolling the sea with the Wessex boat, but this one…

This one bore a dark red background with a black cross, the Vikings eyed it up, they knew those colours, it was the same colour they had seen many times before, the colours used by Ragnar Lothbrok and then his sons. They looked at each other, daring to hope.

The Saxons in both boats didn’t appear surprised to see a boat of Pagans in their sea, the Saxons in the boat with the familiar colours called out in Norse to the Pagans, The Wessex boat returned to patrolling while the other boat stayed with them as they made their way to the land. They were taken aside as one of the men jumped from the boat and spoke to a soldier on the land. They spoke in English but both could speak perfect Norse. The man returned to the boat, but the soldier spoke to them. If they wanted to settle in East Anglia, they would have follow certain new ways of life, a new god and never fight against England, but for it against any invasion, even their own countrymen if the Northman arrived here. If they agreed to this, then they were to be taken to the King.

“The king?” They asked, their nerves on fire. It had to be true, they had risked everything on this. “Is that King Alfred?”

“No. King Athelstan of East Anglia, the Godson of King Alfred of Wessex” The man spoke with a slight Danish accent and with a slight amused smile as if he knew something they didn’t. “King Athelstan is our king, a much beloved ruler of the people.”

They were escorted into the town, people watching them as they passed, they were reassured when they noticed some of these people had clearly been Viking once, they had tattoos or braids. Others were clearly Saxons, walking with crosses, nuns and monks walking together, children of both people playing together on the green. They were taken to the court. It was a large and homely place, a large fire burned in the corner, there was a throne at the top end and tables to sit at, a large fluffy dog was curled up next to the throne on a fur rug watching them with big brown eyes. The Pagan’s eyed it warily, but it appeared friendly and paid them no attention. It all looked very familiar, the feel of the room felt like a king’s halls from back home. Around the room were the same colours as on the boat’s flag, the dark red of the Lothbrok family but with a black cross. They were lined up before the throne, even the smallest child with them peered nervously around from his mother who held him close. They were Pagans and they had come willingly to a Christian king, whatever happened here, the gates to Valhalla would be closed for them forever, so much risk they had taken.

The guards stood to attention.

“Presenting my Lord Athelstan, King of East Anglia” A Saxon called out in English. The same message was also repeated to the Vikings in Norse by the Danish man that still accompanied them.

A man stepped out from the corner of the room and walked to the throne, the dog’s tail started wagging furiously.

“Hello” He said in English, his words were translated into Norse for those who had trouble with their similar language. He had shorter hair now, no longer held back in braids, but brushed back from his face and he was wearing unfamiliar Saxon clothing, but there was no mistaken him. They recognized him the second he had walked in, he just looked older and appeared more confident than what they remembered him.

“Where did you come from?” He asked, as the Norse interpreter repeated his words.

The Pagans all looked at each other and then an older man spoke.

“From Norway, King Athelstan. A town named Kattegat.”

They spoke Norse, but the King seemed to understand them before the translator even repeated it in English.

Of course he did.

Something stirred up in Hvitserk at the mention of his old home, but years of training from Alfred had paid off and now Hvitserk was a master of hiding all the little things that used to catch him off guard. He didn’t smile outwardly, but inside, inside his heart soared at hearing his home spoken.

“I have it you have come here for a new life, away from raiding and the worship of false gods? King Alfred of Wessex has always believed Pagans can be saved if you show them a new life, a better life, and that is what I also believe. I can offer you all of that, a new start, a new home. All I ask is you agree to leave behind your old gods and your old life, and agree to be baptised into the Christian faith” Hvitserk said, he knew how they would feel at hearing that. He remembered his dread when Alfred once spoke similar words to him. He knew how scary it felt, so he smiled at them warmly, the way Alfred would.

“You will find many of your own people are here, they all agreed to this, it is a small price to pay to start a family in safety, to see your children grow happy without risk of being killed, or even just to get away from the constant killing Pagans are exposed to. I am sure you will be happy with your choice if you wish to join us here.”

They were reassured in seconds, they had been little doubt in their minds, for they all had come here knowing this would be asked of them.

“We do accept that my King. All of us knew before we came here what we wanted, some of us have left behind our family who wanted to reach Valhalla, we have all come to farm and to have a better life” A woman said, she was looking at the king, she remembered always watching him and his brothers riding on their horses in and out of the town, they were older than her and she hero worshipped them in her teenage years, the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. She had been told they were all dead, but to see him again, standing before her perfectly healthy and alive after they were told he was dead for years made her feel happier than she had in years.

The stories and rumours were true after all.

The man with the good-natured smile and slight head tilt may be calling himself King Athelstan now, but they knew him by another name.

Hvitserk Ragnarsson.

#MIDAHFABL

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sbselectricalservice · 1 year ago

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Electrical Services in Sydney: Lighting Up the Harbour City

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#electrical service in Sydney

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a-really-big-cat · 2 years ago

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Does anyone have more constructive thoughts on the whole Was Tolkien Racist debate (please no "he wasn't the critics are just grasping at straws" or "he was but that's alright" or any other one-note comments)

IMO, (and this is a really disjointed list of points here, not really a proper essay)

a) without a good and agreeable definition of racism the argument is pointless anyway; the word "racist" and its meanings have become muddied with unrelated and morally neutral meanings such as an insular or naive, ethnocentric perspective, which lends these neutral meanings the same heated and morally charged implications of the "racist" term, so it is unhelpful and unfair to call someone living in the past "racist" using a modern, unclear definition;

b) he 100% did not share the social darwinistic and white supremacist views of many of his contemporaries, as evidenced by his stated "hatred of apartheid" and well-known anger towards the Nazis;

c) the "literary agent hypothesis" with which he wrote Silmarillion and LOTR can suggest that xenophobic (in the proper sense of "fear of other peoples") or insular narration, in many points in the the books, is an artifact of the perspective of the viewpoint characters;

d) much of the dated language he used to describe orcs (i.e. "sallow; slant-eyed") would hardly raise an eyebrow at the time, and one cannot find any personal fault in Tolkien for not having any knowledge of what language might offend a hypothetical East Asian reader;

e) aside from the datedness of the language itself, the stereotypical "invader from the east" appearance of the orcs themselves has a number of qualifiers, as described in Tolkien's oft-quoted description of the orcs: "They are (or were) squat, broad, flat-nosed, sallow-skinned, with wide mouths and slant eyes: in fact degraded and repulsive versions of the (to Europeans) least lovely Mongol-type" is found in a letter in which he is complaining to a scriptwriter who has written the orcs as being (get this) bird-like in appearance. Tolkien is also, again, describing them as being ugly in the same way an insular Medieval European would describe the perennial "steppe nomads" who were considered "enemies of Christendom" and "the Scourge of God". I don't think that this necessarily says that Tolkien feared or harboured some sort of prejudice against East Asian people (or "Mongoloid" people as was a common term at the time). It only speaks to what he was attempting to do, by drawing from the Medieval Christian perennial fear of invasion from the pagan steppe peoples, in the same way that he drew on the Medieval Christian idea of "glorification of Rome" by writing in a powerful but declining "Christian" nation in the south. Whether this was in itself a bad idea is distinct from the question of whether Tolkien was just displaying a malicious hatred of "Mongoloids".

f) the orcs themselves are a very complex issue which I don't have the time nor space to get into too much here, but they have a lot to do with Tolkien's own experiences of the War and seem to have been essentially made first as a truly demonized enemy, a species of minions which the heroes could fight and slay without having to have great moral philosophizing and outpourings of guilt over doing so. Tolkien didn't want to write a slow and work where the heroes have to try to redeem every enemy they encounter before resorting to fighting them, he wanted to write a traditional folk epic about the nature of war, and so, once Tolkien became troubled by how he had essentially written an entire species of sapient being, with their own motives and culture, whose entire purpose was to be unsympathetic and evil, he continually tried to find solutions to this problem that would settle his mind (it seems he never found one). I think that the way the orcs are summarily shuffled offscreen at the end of the LOTR, so as to avoid the difficult question of whether they can be redeemed or not, is perhaps the only genuine shortcoming which can be found in the entire work...but any sort of good solution would likely have required a late in life revision of Tolkien's entire body of work.

g) And the whole "moral geography" debate is itself bad scholarship...we know that Tolkien was a devout Christian. He was writing a story about and for a European, Christian perspective, not because Europeans are inherently more virtuous than other peoples, but because (at least at the time he was writing, and especially in the Middle Ages of which Tolkien is often called a surviving relic because of his mindset; ironically now you are perhaps more likely to find more devout Christians in Africa and Asia; the "Global South") Europeans were generally more Christian (and therefore free in the salvific sense) than other peoples. The use of the term "Free Peoples" is not to imply that fair-skinned westerners are the good guys, but rather that they are the lucky guys; i.e. the guys with the most contact with the Valar.

I think I would love to make all this into a proper essay sometime but I have school to deal with...but in general I think that Tolkien drew far, far more from Christian history and attitudes than he did from contemporary racist beliefs, and that it is wholly unfair and incorrect to call him and his work "racist" when fundamentally it does not much adhere to contemporary attitudes of Caucasian superiority. His work places a much greater emphasis on faithfulness to the Valar and friendliness toward the Elves as a measure of determining "freeness". The ending of LOTR implies that all other Mannish peoples become friends with the "Free Peoples" after Sauron is overthrown. It is possible that, had Tolkien been able to find a more satisfactory answer to where Orcs came from and what their role in the "Salvation" of Middle-earth could be, then he might have given them a different, more redemptive ending rather than shuffling them offscreen quietly so as to avoid the thorny question of whether his heroes were being uncharitable in killing them so casually.

#long post #kind of slap dash and i've probably made some mistakes here #this is why I always say that you cannot understand Tolkien without first understanding how important his Faith was to him #The Church took precedence over any physical or worldly characteristic in his understanding of humanity

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laresearchette · 5 months ago

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Saturday, July 27, 2024 Canadian TV Listings (Times Eastern)

NEW TO AMAZON PRIME CANADA/CBC GEM/CRAVE TV/DISNEY + STAR/NETFLIX CANADA:

CRAVE TV MOLANG (Season 2)

2024 SUMMER OLYMPICS (CBC) 3:30am: Men’s Volleyball (SN) 4:50am: Olympic Morning (CBC) 5:00am: Swmming (TSN4) 5:00am: Olympic Games (CBC) 7:15am: Road Cycling, Skateboarding (CBC) 10:15am: Skateboarding, Rugby, Swimming (SN1/TSN) 12:00pm: Olympic Daytime (CBC) 2:30pm: Swimming (CBC) 4:00pm: Men’s Basketball: Greece vs. Canada (CBC/SN/TSN4) 6:30pm: Olympic Primetime (CBC) 11:00pm: Late Primetime (CBC) 2:00am: Beach Volleyball (Sunday)

HORSE RACING (SN360) 10:00am: King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes

MLB BASEBALL (SN) 2:30pm: Rangers vs. Jays (SN Now) 7:00pm: Dodgers vs. Astros (TSN2) 7:00pm: Yankees vs. Red Sox (SN Now) 9:30pm: Astros vs. Mariners

CFL FOOTBALL (TSN) 7:00pm: Blue Bombers vs. Argos

SOCCER (TSN5) 7:30pm: Soccer Friendly: Wrexham AFC vs. Vancouver Whitecaps

CURIOUS CATERER: FOILED PLANS (Global) 8:00pm: Goldy Berry teams up with Detective Schultz to solve a murder at a medieval feast.

OPERATION NUTCRACKER (W Network) 8:00pm: An event planner and the heir to a family dynasty work together to track down a missing antique nutcracker set.

BRIE'S BAKE OFF CHALLENGE (CTV Life) 8:00pm: Brie Hayes is an aspiring baker who wishes to win her school's Spring Bake Off challenge. Trouble ensues when Brie's confidence reaches an ultimate low, and her enemy, Vanessa, does everything she can to slim Brie's chances of winning.

GHOSTBUSTERS: FROZEN EMPIRE (Crave) 9:00pm: The Spengler family returns to the iconic New York City firehouse with the original Ghostbusters. When an ancient artifact unleashes an evil force, Ghostbusters new and old must unite to protect their home and save the world from a second ice age.

SECRETS OF A CELEBRITY NANNY (Super Channel Fuse) 9:00pm: When an aspiring writer becomes a nanny to the daughter of an international superstar, she gets thrust into a seductive and sinister world of celebrity stalkers, affairs, and even murder.

EAST HARBOUR HEROES (CTV) 10:00pm: In the face of harsh weather, an emergency repair threatens vital deliveries and a veteran skipper has one last chance at a big catch.

THE PERFECT MATCH (CTV Life) 10:15pm: As a woman desperately searches for a liver donor for her son, a man who is a perfect match appears, but he is not all that he seems to be.

THE TASTE OF THINGS (Crave) 11:00pm: Cook Eugenie and her boss Dodin grow fond of one another over 20 years, and their romance gives rise to dishes that impress even the world's most illustrious chefs. When Dodin is faced with Eugenie's reluctance to commit, he begins to cook for her.

TAG (CTV) 12:35am: Five highly competitive friends hit the ground running for their yearly, no-holds-barred game of tag -- risking their necks, their jobs and their relationships to take one another down.

#cdntv #cancon #canadian tv #canadian tv listings #east harbour heroes #summer olympics #horse racing #mlb baseball #cfl football #soccer

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smallish-viking · 3 years ago

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Hiccup the Third, King of the Wilderwest - a HTTYD book fanfic

A year after the war, Hiccup struggles with the pressures of kingship.

3000 ish words

Hiccup struggled to focus on the pages in front of him, eyes growing weary of letters, maps. Forcing himself to conjure solutions to problems as old and complicate as the Archipelago itself.

‘Hiccup?’

Camicazi peered around the door of the hut, flooding the room with the golden pink of dusk, her hair illuminated like a halo.

‘You spend so long in here we are beginning to forget what you look like.’

Hiccup looked at her, everything in him was aching to step out those doors and into the light of the evening, but his work tugged at the edges of his mind.

‘The Meathead land claims will be there in the morning. Come on, Hiccup’.

She was right, Hiccup thought. What use was a King who couldn’t think straight? He reached his aching, ink stained hands to his head and carefully lifted the crown and placed it on the table. Despite its weight, the crown fit him better than ever.

Camicazi grinned as he followed her out into the summer evening.

The golden light hit Hiccup like a physical blow. He stretched out his arms like a bird before flight, feeling the sea air flow between his fingers and blow back his hair. He breathed it in, almost desperately, and closed his eyes, relishing this feeling of weightlessness.

On the clifftop sat a small collection of huts, nicknamed ‘King’s Corner’, built flat and squat to survive coastal storms. Some were lined with books for reading or study. Others were used as meeting chambers where the Council of the Wilderwest gathered for discussion and meetings were held with representatives of the tribes. Hiccup had his back to them as he looked out to the sea. The last of the fishing boats were returning now, and their long shadows were etched into the dazzling blue and golden water. It was low tide and a few small figures could be seen setting out nets on the wet sand among the waders and gulls. Some dragons flew overhead with the cormorants, heading home to roost. There were other dragons, too, who scampered through tall grasses which were ablaze with the day’s final effort of sunlight.

Hiccup and Camicazi began to walk along the clifftop together. Wordlessly, Camicazi handed Hiccup his helmet. It was bashed and scratched thing, scarred by a lifetime of adventure. Unlike the Crown it was weightless as it sat upon his red hair. She reached up and adjusted it on Hiccup’s head, moving aside a lock of hair so the Dragon Mark was visible.

‘That’s better.’

‘Thank you, Camicazi,’ said Hiccup, his voice hoarse from hours of silence.

She flashed him a smile. ‘No problem’. Her eyes met his. There was a fierce warmth in her gaze, like a bonfire in winter, but, too soon, it was gone. She ran ahead of him and swiftly performed a few cartwheels on the grass.

‘So’, Hiccup ran up to her, ‘what have I missed?’.

‘Well,’ Camicazi breathed as she sprung upright again. ‘Tuffnut Junior won a friendly axe fight with Dogsbreath the Duhbrain.’

‘Uh huh’.

‘Gobber beat Baggybum in an arm wrestle. So Baggybum stole his trousers and they called it quits’.

‘Right.’

‘And my mother and your father had a bet on who could rustle the most sheep.’

‘And who won?’

‘My mother of course, she’s the undefeated champion! Better luck next time, Hiccup my boy!’

They had reached the tavern. The familiar sounds reached Hiccup from within, the ambient noise of scraping chairs and chinking glass, of dragon shrieks, laughter and fights about to break out. Camicazi went in first, peering around the corner as she did. She held the heavy oak door open for Hiccup and he stepped in. The shutters were open, so the dying light of the day cast golden beams over the Vikings eating and drinking at the tables and illuminated those who talked and swayed at the sides. Hiccup lingered at the back with Camicazi as he watched them.

Even though the tavern was bustling, Stoick looked up when the door opened, face lifting at the sight of his son. With a single motion of his head, he beckoned Hiccup and Camicazi to join them. Stoick the Vast sat among many of the old warriors of the tribes; Valhallarama of the White Arms and Chunky Thighs, Gobber the Belch, Big Boobied Bertha and several others. Hiccup slid down next to Stoick as Camicazi went to join her mother. The impressive stature of his father loomed beside him. Hiccup nestled into his shadow, a wave of comfort coming over him as he slipped into the role of his father’s son, a boy again.

‘How’s it going, Hiccup?’ said Stoick as he clapped Hiccup on the back.

Hiccup let out a heavy sigh. ‘Tiring’.

‘You’re doing a fine job son. A fine job.’

A large tankard of mead slid down the table and came to a stop by Hiccup’s hands, its contents spilling over onto the oak wood table. Gobber flashed a wink in his direction as Hiccup glanced upwards, and he raised the tankard in thanks. The drink was sickly and burned as Hiccup swallowed it but he welcomed the way that it warmed his insides.

Raising a little on the bench, Hiccup peered over the head of his father to scan the faces of those gathered in the tavern. He was looking for someone; a mop of curly chestnut hair, a pair of glasses beside a placid vegetarian dragon. He found him. Fishlegs was sitting in a secluded corner of the tavern, head bowed in conversation with Barbara the Barbarian. Old Wrinkly’s new allergy remedy must be working as Barbara's cat was prowling along his shoulders and, if anything, it looked like Fishlegs was enjoying it as he ran his long musicians fingers through its black fur.

Hiccup smiled to himself and slid back down into his seat. He was there for a while, basking in the conversation of the old warriors. They spoke of old battles won, and lands lost to fire and time. Some were old stories that Hiccup remembered being told when he was a child. They seemed strange to be spoken here, they belonged to a different age, Hiccup thought, the boy he was when he first heard them seemed so far from him now. He felt like an outsider among his company. Marked somehow. Their faces were all brandished with the Dragonmark, scarred and aged by war. They laughed together but there was a shadow of grief in their eyes; everyone had lost something to the dragon flames.

‘Excuse me, King –.’

Hiccup was pulled from his thoughts as a voice from behind him cut through the others. The bench squeaked as he wearily pushed back from the table and stood to face Baggybum.

‘I’ve been talking to Thuggery, fine lad, who says that the Meathead islands to the East that were destroyed last year need to be rebuilt so that they can move back there. I was thinking that we could take some supplies, wood and iron and such, over there on a few ships and help them out. The tricky thing is the lands lie just south of the Winter Wind of Woden -’

A sudden weight dropped in Hiccup’s stomach. A tangled memory arose that was too sharp to touch. He took in a long breath and stared intensely at his uncle, trying to prize himself away from the fogged window to the past. Baggybum had a scar that stretched over his left brow. Hiccup knew it. The Battle of Flashburn’s School of Sword Fighting, the first of many dreadful days.

‘– you see, and Mogadon wanted the village to be positioned on the West side of the island. That way the harbour will -’

The scar was little more than memory, a shallow wound compared to the tear in Baggybum’s heart, the absence where his son had been torn away, first by betrayal, healed, then broken again by flaming arrows and deep water. The hero that never was.

‘- four Hooligan ships should be enough, I think, but we might be able to borrow some Peaceable supplies along the way - ’

The eyes of Baggybum were the same as his son’s. The stormy blues that Hiccup grew up dreading the sight of, and the inevitable onslaught that soon followed. There it was again. The sudden assault of guilt, a raw wound reopened.

‘What do you think, Hiccup?’

He forced his mind to resurface, to the present, to the words of his beloved uncle. What was he saying? Hiccup felt sick.

‘I, um…’

Words clogged in his mouth.

Useless.

His thoughts weighed like rock.

Hiccup the Useless.

Stop it, please.

You aren’t the King that we wanted, but maybe you are the king that we need.

Snotlout appeared in Hiccup’s mind. Not ghostly, through the fog of memory and heartache, but clear, as if he was standing in front of him. Bruised and tear stained, the Black Star glistening on his chest.

‘Don’t you dare lose it. That Star is very important to me.’

There was a hand on his shoulder. Comforting, gentle. Hiccup obeyed its pressure without really thinking about it. Only as he walked blindly through the crowd did he realise that it was his Grandfather who was leading back outside.

The sharp sea wind collided with Hiccup’s body. The tavern doors swung shut. He walked back along the clifftop, followed Old Wrinkly until they came under the shelter of one of the few trees that were scattered among the heath.

‘It’s ok, Hiccup. Breathe. Just breathe.’

Hiccup hadn’t noticed his rugged shallow breaths. His shoulders tense and jaw set. Away from Old Wrinkly, he withdrew, throat and eyes stinging.

‘I – ’

He tried to speak, but the words got caught in his throat. Old Wrinkly reached out, his withered hands held Hiccup’s face, and when Hiccup met his gaze, he saw the pride that glimmered in his tired, bright eyes.

‘Oh Hiccup, my dear boy.’

They drew their arms around each other. It was not a gentle thing, that embrace, Hiccup held onto his grandfather as if he were the only stone structure in a violent storm.

‘This is the hard way,’ said Old Wrinkly after a while, ‘to become a King.’

They broke apart and his hands clasped Hiccup’s arms.

‘You’ve already done what the sagas will sing of. You’ve defeated a great enemy and saved the Barbaric Archipelago.’ Hiccup noticed that in the fading light, Old Wrinkly seemed to blend into the silvery wisps of cloud that blew towards the ocean. ‘Now comes the hard bit. Kings are remembered for the glory of battle, the might of the sword but great leaders, Hiccup, the leaders that are truly revered, are known for the love and devotion that their people show them and the better world that they work together to create.’

‘But that’s exactly it!’ replied Hiccup, ‘everyone is looking at me to be this perfect leader.’ He threw his arms into the air. ‘Not long ago I was Hiccup The Useless, the bottom in every class. Let’s face it I was a rubbish Viking, and now I expected to be this great King. Wherever I turn there are people there expecting me to do the perfect thing. To live up to their hopes.’ His arms came to rest on his head then he dragged them down over his face. ‘We all lost so much in that war, so much, and I’m expected to put it all back the way it was.’

‘The truth is, Hiccup,’ Old Wrinkly took out his pipe and begun to fill it. ‘The world will never be as it was. It grows and evolves like a living thing.’ He lit the pipe and drew in a long breath. ‘It’s your job to be like a father to it, to guide the world, to care for it, and set it off in the right direction.’ And then he smiled. ‘Just like training a dragon. You’ve ventured to the perilous Wild Dragon Cliff and you now have a wriggling and smoking basket under your bed, and the adventure has just begun.’

‘And maybe you can train a dragon better by talking to it then yelling at it,’ followed Hiccup, ‘yes, I remember.’ He laughed wearily. ‘Well, that’s certainly easier said than done. Sometimes yelling does seem to be the only language this lot understand.’

Old Wrinkly let out a smoke filled chuckle. ‘Yes, it has always been the way.’

They stayed there in silence for a while. Old Wrinkly smoked his pipe and Hiccup watched the dragons that scuttled and squabbled along the shoreline.

‘Hiccup!’ There was a shout from behind. Fishlegs and Camicazi were coming towards him, Camicazi struggling to keep up with Fishlegs’ long strides without breaking into a run.

‘That’s where you are!’

Old Wrinkly gave Hiccup a knowing look and patted him on the shoulder before turning and heading back towards the village. He raised his pipe in greeting to the others.

‘I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Fishlegs.’

‘Yeah, see you then.’

‘What’s happening tomorrow?’ asked Camicazi.

‘Old Wrinkly has been teaching me how to be a healer.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I reckon it’s a pretty useful skill to have. It’s been days since I’ve seen you Hiccup

Before Hiccup could reply, Camicazi cut in, ‘that’s because you spend all your time with Barbara the Barbarian.’

Fishlegs blushed a deep crimson.

‘I really think she likes me you know.’

‘I think she does, too,’ said Hiccup. ‘But more importantly I know her father likes you as well, he seemed genuinely impressed with that letter you wrote to her.’

‘Really? How do you know?’

‘I was in a meeting with him last week and he mentioned it. He was saying how he wanted to get rid of the “old fashioned notion” of parents dictating their daughters marriages. He was certainly hairy, but not as scary as I previously thought.’

‘Wow’ Fishlegs swung his arm around Hiccup, then the other around Camicazi as he faced the sea wind. ‘Love. You just can’t beat it.’

Camicazi wriggled out from underneath him. ‘Fishlegs, have you been at Tuffnut Senior’s home brew?’

‘No,’ said Fishlegs indignantly, ‘well, maybe a little, but the point still stands.’

Hiccup laughed and put his arm around Fishlegs. ‘Are you alright, though, Hiccup?’ Fishlegs said as he searched his friend’s face.

‘Yeah, its just this King business.’ He sighed. ‘It really weighs me down sometimes.’ Hiccup was feeling a lot better after his chat with Old Wrinkly. Mad as he is, he is certainly good at giving advice.

‘Hmm... I know what you need.’ Said Camicazi. And then she cupped her hands to her mouth and called out, sharp and piercing. ‘SHADOW!!’

A few moments later, as if Thor himself had chiselled out a part of the sky, the enormous Deadly Shadow dragon burst through the air, turning visible just as they touched onto land. Hiccup and Fishlegs stumbled backwards, but Camicazi, defiant as ever, stood firmly as she stared with glee at the beautiful dragon.

‘Hello there, Shadow,’ said Fishlegs as Innocence went to nuzzle his shoulder. He put his cheek to the side of Innocence’s head and stroked down his neck, now the green of the heathland.

Hiccup’s awe of the Deadly Shadow had never faded, and as he walked around them a swelling of immense gratitude rose within him for this beautiful creature, and for the dragons who flew in flocks overhead, for Stormfly, Wodensfang, The Windwalker and little Toothless. Camicazi reached out her hand for him, he took it and hauled himself onto Shadow’s back.

‘Where to?’ asked Patience.

Hiccup smiled. ‘Upwards.’

Shadow extended their enormous wings, which turned a dusky grey in anticipation for the awaiting sky. Hiccup braced himself and with a jolt, Shadow was off. Up, up, up they soared, wind rushed through his hair and he spread out his arms, tilted up his head, and gazed at the clouds which neared ever closer. Camicazi whooped and punched the air and soon, she too was reaching upwards to catch the clouds above their heads. Fishlegs had his arms around the neck of Patience and was peering round him, looking towards the ground that was disappearing rapidly beneath them.

For how long they remained there, Hiccup could not tell. He forgot all else. His world narrowed to this friends who sat in front of him, the gentle beats of Shadow’s wings, the sea below and the sky above. The air was sweet as he breathed it in. Very sweet. Hang on, is that drinking chocolate? Hiccup spun to look behind him and there, gliding along in the slipstream behind the Deadly Shadow, was the Windwalker!

‘Hello Windwalker!’ Hiccup called, beaming.

The Windwalker loop the looped in excitement and glided to position himself as close as he could to the enormous, sky coloured dragon. With the ease from a childhood on dragon back, Hiccup slid from the Deadly Shadow and onto the back of the Windwalker. And off he flew. Hiccup looked behind him to the others, a shadow of grey was rising in the east as night was beginning to reclaim the earth. Camicazi had positioned herself on Shadow so she was lying on their back, gazing at the sky above and Fishlegs was talking to Arrogance, but Hiccup couldn’t make out the words. He waved to them and they smiled and waved back at him, before the Windwalker climbed further upwards.

There is a moment, when a dragon ascends and soars upwards. When the land falls away and the world stretches wide, nothing but sky and cloud and freedom. It was Hiccup’s favourite time, when anything could happen and nothing yet had. He sat on the back of the Windwalker, and the wild night opened its arms. Tomorrow can wait.

#whoa there we are #this fic has been in my head for four years #now it's out there #!!!!#thanks to my mum and my girlfriend for proofreading #httyd books #httyd book fanfic #hiccup horrendous haddock lll #book hiccup #fishlegs #camicazi

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tiarnanabhfainni · 3 years ago

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i wrote another fic about generational trauma and the winchesters, this time featuring deadbeat mom extraordinaire mary née campbell, displacement, emigration, the american wake and just really missing your mom.

gonna quickly tag a few mutuals who might be interested but also you can find the fic under the cut

@uhuraha @myaimistrue @nonsensegnomes

American Wake

On a mild summer’s day in 1950, a wedding took place in Normal, Illinois. Dressed in a simple white dress that she had inherited from her mother, Millie Walsh looked up at the man who was to be her husband in daze of transcendent happiness. She had good reason to be besotted. His name was Henry Winchester and he was a dashing young academic of the supernatural with a fascinating air of mystery that surrounded him. They had met the previous year when he had come to her home in New York on a fact-finding mission. Millie fell in love after only two minutes of conversation.

With such a buoyant adoration to carry her through, Millie was perfectly happy to relocate to a state far from her family and friends to build a new life with charming debonair Henry. She knew about the supernatural elements of his life. How could she not? But it was a trade she was perfectly willing to make for the opportunity to create a family with him.

And she paid dearly for that decision. Millie lost a husband and was left to raise her four year old son alone.

It was all entirely avoidable of course. The Winchester name was not her inheritance by birth. No Cupid had ever marked her name for Henry. It was by no means a match made in heaven. If not for love, Millie could have lived a life completely divorced from the less-than-natural.

After her husband’s disappearance her heart hardened and she abandoned the Winchester name and any association with the supernatural. Packing her bags for Kansas, she returned instead to the ways of her own people. For Millie’s family had a long history of leaving their pasts behind them.

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Millie’s maternal line can be traced back to a small town in Limerick, Ireland now known by the name of Patrickswell. The farm where her grandmother was reared would likely have been a fair few miles from the town itself but it’s difficult to be precise about these things since many of the records of the era were destroyed in an explosion during the Civil War of the 1920’s.

Bridget Ó Laochdha lived in a hard place surrounded by tough people. There was no work in the surrounding towns and villages and her family was forced to eke out a living on rented land. Most of the local community spoke little to no English and spent most of their day-to-day lives conversing and working through the medium of the Irish language.

The Ó Laochdha family was no exception to this rule. Bridget - as the sole member of the family with more than a rudimentary grasp on the foreign tongue - had been translating for her father at the market for most of her young life.

The rugged countryside that surrounded them was austere and beautiful but there was darkness around every corner. Violence engulfed the region as the Land War raged around them. The threat of eviction was a constant sword of Damocles over their heads and the precarity of the political situation left a permanent mark on Bridget’s development.

Bridget loved her family, of course she did. She loved the language she spoke with them and the easy rhythm of her life. But she knew that there was a brighter future out there somewhere on the other side of an ocean. Somewhere she wouldn’t hear constant news of Whiteboys, Invincibles and their clashes with the police. Somewhere that was safer, where she might get a job and support her family from afar. All she needed was the means to get there.

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

Mary idolises her dad when she’s young as children are prone to do. Her family are heroes who straddle the line between the known and the unknown and keep the world safe from the evil lurking in the shadows.

As a teenager, she joins the family business and she’s a natural. She excels particularly at getting information out of young witnesses. She sits amongst small groups of girls, nodding along to conversations about music, miniskirts and make-up and nudging the topic of discussion slowly around to the subject of her father’s latest hunt. Mary’s good with the guys too, she finds that a well-placed laugh or look can get her most of what she needs.

But intel is not the only area where she excels. Mary’s a sharpshooter and she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. Hand her a shovel and she can dig a grave just as fast as the boys. She even knows the best technique for washing blood off her hands.

She’s on a path to be one of the best in the business. And she hates it.

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Although many people left Ireland to try their luck in the United States in those days, it was still a difficult path to tread. Tickets to get to New York were expensive and hard to come by. Buying a ticket at the harbour was as likely to get you scammed as to get you a place on the boat.

Bridget was fortunate in that her local parish priest was looking to sponsor a few young hopefuls on the trip across the Atlantic and offered her a place. That decision might have been the hardest any in her family had ever had to make. To leave behind everything she knew and understood for the small chance that her life could be better. She made that choice nonetheless.

The tradition of The American Wake was one that dated back to the famine years in Ireland to mourn the departure of a loved one to that far off place across the ocean. There would be no real way to send letters home consistently and economic conditions meant that the emigrants would likely never be able to return home. What do you do when you are setting up to grieve someone who is still alive? You hold a funeral.

On Bridget’s last day in Limerick she cried until her tear ducts ran dry. She sat in the centre of the room and listened to the keening women wail around her. Her father could not speak his sadness but he stood beside her and rested his hand on her shoulder, bowing his head in silent prayer. Her mother held her face in her hands and whispered one last goodbye.

Yet amidst all of the tears and the heartache, a sense of relief made its way into Bridget’s bones and settled in her spine. There was death and loss but a future there too. A brand new life in a brand new land. And while they’d never say it, her family was relieved too, she could see it in their eyes. This was one less mouth to feed, one less person to clothe. The money she will send home in remittances would lighten her father’s load by a considerable degree.

As she boarded the boat in Cobh, she stared at the ticket clutched tightly in her hand and thought not of what it had taken from her but of the life it stood to grant her.

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

When Mary meets John for that second date outside his mother’s house, she knows that this is it. That he is her ticket out.

She clutches his body in her lap and cries and she doesn’t know what to do. With death and destruction all around her, Mary makes the only choice she can.

Deanna’s body still lies abandoned on the kitchen tiles. But isn't it better, in a way, that she never had to face her daughter leaving her behind?

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The first impression America made on Bridget was not a positive one. No sooner than she arrived at Ellis Island, did they take the last vestiges of her home away from her. Bridget Leahy took her first step onto foreign soil without even her name to console her.

Her first job in New York was that of a kitchen worker in a large airy home in the employ of a family belonging to the upper echelons of East Coast society. Her hours were long and her fingers near scrubbed to the bone. Since her food and board were covered, every penny that she earned was sent home to Patrickswell.

While her English had served her well in local markets of Limerick, she found that they were quite inadequate here among native speakers. She sat around the table in the servants’ quarters with the others who worked in the home and listened as conversations happened all around her. They all spoke so fast and the topic of conversation switched so quickly that she couldn't quite keep track. Bridget simply did not have the vocabulary to contribute and so she stopped speaking entirely.

The longing for home was like a physical wound lodged just under her ribs and sometimes she wondered how she continued to breathe through the pain.

The only times that she could recognise herself was on her rare evenings off when she made her way down to the local Irish dance hall. There she could allow young men from Inchicore, Kilrush and Listowel to spin her around a room to the music of home and forget where she was for just a few hours.

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It is impossible to overemphasise how little the role of a housewife suits Mary Winchester. The sundresses feel awkward on her form and the kitchen still feels like a foreign land.

The other mothers in the neighbourhood all seem to speak the same language as they switch tracks fluently between complaining good-naturedly about their husbands and swapping recipe cards. Mary has never felt more out of place.

She doesn’t know where she fits or how to contribute. The loss of her mother is like a crater in her chest and she doesn’t know where to lay down all of the grief she holds in her hands. She thinks she would be better at holding her children without it.

When it all gets too much, she sheds the skin of Mary Winchester and leaves her small family behind to retrace the Campbell path. She might not be able to get her family back but she can pretend to be home for just a small while when on a hunt.

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In a small catholic church on an intersection, Bridget Leahy married Mick Walsh of Tyrone in a small, private ceremony. As a married woman, she left the world of employment behind and started the task of homemaking in their small Manhattan apartment. She did her best to keep the rooms aired out and clean but the grime of the city was ever present.

When she looked out of the window and saw grey dusty streets she couldn't help but compare the view to green fields and the fresh air of the Limerick countryside. Her husband worked in construction, building monuments of steel to the sky that looked towards an American future while she remained stuck in an Irish past.

When Bridget’s pregnancy first became obvious to the couple, they were delighted. This was their chance to build something of their own on American soil. A family.

When her waters broke, the women of the neighbourhood rushed into her room to oversee the birth and refused to let her husband in so he could hold her hand.

In another life maybe Bridget stayed at home and married a local boy in Patrickswell. Maybe she gave birth at home next to her parents’ fireplace with all of the women of her family around her and her mother stroking her hair.

Maybe she was destined to die in childbirth no matter where she was but at least at home the last voice in her ears would have been in a tongue that was her own.

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Just like Millie Winchester née Walsh before her, Mary Winchester let the supernatural into her home in a desperate grab for the life that she wanted to build.

And just like her mother-in-law before her, a demon crashed through the walls and destroyed every semblance of a family that she had found.

#spn #mary winchester #i can make up backstories for all the grandmothers in spn just you watch #ill do something for the milligans next (not really)#anyway seriously to my mutuals no pressure if you don't like it #it posessed me to write it but i couldn't tell you if it was good or not #also i had to pare my writing down for the dean one bc i know next to nothing about coal mining in kansas #and i was trying to mask that #while i know just enough to be annoying here #emmigrationnatural

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southeastasianhistories · 3 years ago

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Southeast Asia’s role in World War I is all but lost to history. There was no major invasion of the region by a hostile power, like Japan in World War II. None of the Central Powers – an alliance of Germany, Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire – had colonial territory in the region, except on the periphery. German New Guinea quickly fell to the Allies after the outbreak of war in July 1914.

Yet the First World War, which ended 100 years ago this month, proved a decisive event for Southeast Asia. For the first time, it severely tested the relationship between the colonial authorities of Britain, France and the Netherlands (neutral in the war) and their colonial subjects in Southeast Asia, for whom sacrifice in the conflict was to be a rallying cry for more civil rights. The burgeoning nationalist movements throughout the region swelled with veterans returning home from democratic and industrial nations, while others, with considerable consequences in later decades, brought home interests in the radical politics at the time, not least communism.

Arguably, the most interesting response to the declaration of war was made by Siam, as Thailand was then known. As the only Southeast Asian nation not colonised by a European power, Siam, under the absolute monarch King Vajiravudh, decided to go to war against the Central Powers in 1917, sending its own troops to fight in Europe. The Siamese Expeditionary Force of more than 1,000 troops arrived in the French port of Marseilles in July 1918. It was led by Major-General Phraya Phya Bhijai Janriddhi, who had received military training in France before the war. At first, the Thai troops were employed by the Allies as rear-guard labour detachments, taking part in the Second Battle of the Marne in August that year. The following month, they saw their first frontline action. They took part in several offences, including the occupation of the German Rhineland. In the end, 19 Thais had lost their lives – none from battle.

King Vajiravudh’s decision to go to war was calculated. Gambling on Allied victory, he believed Siam’s participation would earn it the respect of Britain and France. He was correct. Although it was independent, neighbouring colonisers (the British in Burma and the French in Cambodia) had slowly whittled away Siam’s territory in the preceding decades, with large tracts of land returned to Cambodia in the late 19th century. After WWI, though, Siam’s territory didn’t budge. Equally important, Siam took part in the 1919 Versailles Peace Conference and was a founding member of the League of Nations, a clear indication that Western powers now saw it as a legitimate force on the international stage and in Southeast Asia.

The rulers of independent Siam might have wanted respect and power, but the thoughts of ordinary people from the rest of colonised Southeast Asia are little known. Few first-hand accounts exist for historians. Quite probably, however, many did not want to be thrust unquestionably into the greatest fratricide the world had yet seen, and some no doubt hoped the colonial empires would be destroyed by the whole endeavour. Yet some nationalists, especially those of higher rank who weren’t expected to fight, saw the war effort as a means of gaining more political rights for themselves under the colonial system.

The war, for example, provided the Vietnamese with “an unexpected opportunity to test France’s ability to live up to vaunted self-representations of invincibility”, as Philippe Peycam wrote in 2012’s The Birth of Vietnamese Political Journalism: Saigon, 1916-1930. The prominent Vietnamese nationalist Phan Chu Trinh, who had spent years in jail before the war for his activism and was imprisoned for six months in 1914 on wrongful charges of colluding with the Germans, played a considerable role in recruiting Vietnamese men for the war. Another noted nationalist, Duong Van Giao, published a history of the Vietnamese war effort, 1925’s L’Indochine pendant la guerre de 1914–1918. Because of Vietnam’s sacrifice, he called on the French colonials to adopt a “native policy”: not quite outright independence but radical reform of civil rights for the Vietnamese. It was a similar sentiment as expressed in Claims of the Annamite People, an influential tract cowritten in France in 1919 by a young activist who later became known as Ho Chi Minh, who had spent most of the war working in a London hotel under the famous chef Auguste Escoffier.

As a French colony, Vietnam was expected to provide troops for the war effort, but there were differing views among colonial officers as to what role they should play. Lieutenant-Colonel Théophile Pennequin was a hardliner but also a keen reformer. Before the outbreak of war, Pennequin requested that he be allowed to form a competent military unit that was termed by some as an armée jaune (yellow army), similar to the force noire (black force) popularised by General Charles Mangin in France’s West African colonies. For Pennequin, a national native army would allow Vietnamese to gain “positions of command and provide the French with loyal partners with whom they could build a new and, eventually, independent Indochinese state,” wrote historian Christopher Goscha in 2017’s The Penguin History of Modern Vietnam.

But Pennequin’s designs were rejected by Paris and, instead, most Vietnamese recruits were sent to Europe to work in factories or as supply hands. Yet some did fight. One estimate contends that out of 100,000 Vietnamese conscripts sent to the war in Europe, roughly 12,000 lost their lives. A battalion of Tonkinese Rifles, an elite corps formed in the 1880s, saw action on the Western Front near Verdun. Do Huu Vi, a celebrated pilot from an elite family, became a national hero after his plane was shot down over France.

Despite overt racism by some French nationals and trade unions’ concerns that they were bringing down wages, many of the Vietnamese put to work in munitions factories found it a revelatory experience. Some started relationships with Frenchwomen, unsurprising since other workers in wartime factories were mostly women. Others joined social clubs and reading groups. After the war, wrote Goscha, “a hundred thousand Vietnamese veterans returned to Indochina hoping to start a new life. Some wanted French citizenship; most expected good jobs and upward social mobility. Several hoped to modernise Vietnam along Western lines, despite the barbarity they had just witnessed in Europe.”

It was a similar story for the Philippines, then a United States colony. It declared war on Germany in April 1917, the same time Washington did. At first, the colonial government requested the drafting of 15,000 Filipinos for service, but more than 25,000 enlisted. These troops formed the Philippine National Guard, a militia that was later absorbed into the American military. Most of the recruits, though, would not leave the Philippines during the war. Those who did travelled as part of the American Expeditionary Forces. In June 1918, the first Filipino died in action at the Battle of Château-Thierry, in France: Tomas Mateo Claudio, a former contract labourer on a sugar plantation in Hawaii who had enlisted in the US.

It is not known exactly how many Southeast Asians died during the First World War. Of those active in the European theatre, the number is estimated to be more than 20,000, mostly conscripts from the French colonies. It was a small figure compared to the number of Southeast Asians who perished during the Second World War. And, unlike in that war, there wasn’t a great arena of warfare in Southeast Asia during the First since none of the Central Powers nations had any imperial control in the region.

But Germany did have influence in China and possessed leased territory in Kiautschou Bay, near present-day Jiaozhou. It was invaded by Japanese forces after 1915, and China would later declare war on Germany in August 1917. But in October 1914, the German East Asia Squadron still had its base in the concession – it was from there that a lone light cruiser, the SMS Emden, slipped into Penang Harbour, part of what was then British Malaya. Disguised as a British vessel, the German cruiser launched a surprise attack on a Russian ship and then sank a French destroyer that had given chase. The sole attack on Malaya during the war killed 100 and wounded thousands more.

After the attack, the Emden is thought to have docked in a port in the Dutch East Indies, present-day Indonesia, raising British suspicions that the Dutch weren’t as neutral as they had claimed. Neutrality, moreover, didn’t mean the colony went unscathed. The Dutch East Indies was home to a sizeable German population that worked to “coordinate and finance covert operations designed to undermine British colonial rule and economic interests in Southeast Asia,” as historian Heather Streets-Salter wrote in 2017’s World War One in Southeast Asia: Colonialism and Anticolonialism in an Era of Global Conflict.

The Emden was finally stopped by an Australian cruiser that ran it ashore in Singapore. The surviving crew of the German vessel were interned there, then a part of British Malaya. Also stationed in Singapore was the Indian Army’s Fifth Light Infantry, which unsuccessfully mutinied in January 1915 after they learned they might be sent to fight in Turkey against fellow Muslims (though they were eventually sent to Hong Kong instead). The 309 interned Germans from the Emden joined in the mutiny, which left dead eight British and three Malay soldiers, as well as a dozen Singapore civilians.

A much forgotten history of World War I was a Turco-German plot to promote jihad (holy war) in parts of the Muslim world colonised by the Allies, including Malaya. Using the Dutch East Indies as a base, supporters of the Central Powers produced “pan-Islamic, anti-British propaganda” that was sent to Muslim-majority British Malaya, and also to India. One of the architects of this plan, Max von Oppenheim, wrote in a position paper in 1914: “In the battle against England… Islam will become one of our most important weapons.” The Ottoman Sultan, Mehmed V, issued a fatwa against the Allies in November of that year. In British Malaya, the authorities doubled down on censorship by closing many Malay-language newspapers, some of which were considered supportive of the Ottoman Empire.

Pan-Islamic propaganda agitating for independence of Malaya was just as attractive to the Muslim-majority subjects of the Dutch East Indies where it was produced. In the preceding decades, these subjects had been demanding more freedoms, even independence, for themselves. This was a serious cause of concern for the Dutch colonialists, but ultimately the real impact of the war on the Dutch East Indies was economic. The Allies’ blockade of European waters, as well as control of Asian waters, made it difficult for Dutch ships to reach the colony for trade purposes.

“The Netherlands Indies was effectively cordoned off by the British Navy,” wrote Kees Van Dijk in 2008’s The Netherlands Indies and the Great War, 1914-1918. As a result, the war caused price increases and severe food shortages in the Dutch East Indies. By the end of 1916, the export industry was practically destroyed. Around that time, social unrest had gained momentum. Rural protesters burned reserve crops, eventually leading to famine in some parts of the colony. Nationalists and a small contingent of socialists began advocating for revolution. By 1918, unrest was so dire that the governor general called a meeting of the nationalist leaders where he made the so-called “November promises” of more political representation and freedom, but these were empty promises.

Economic problems were a constant throughout the region. To help pay for the war effort, the French and British were reduced to raising taxes in their Southeast Asian colonies. The burden fell mainly on the poor. Small wonder it resulted in unprecedented protests. A failed uprising took place in Kelantan, British Malaya, in April 1915. In Cambodia, the so-called 1916 Affair saw tens of thousands of peasants march into Phnom Penh demanding the king reduce taxes. None of these were exact appeals of “no taxation without representation”, but rather the germinal expressions of self-independence that were to become more forceful across the region in the 1930s, and decisive after World War II. Brian Farrell, a professor of military history at the National University of Singapore, has described the impact of the First World War on Southeast Asia as significant yet delayed.

By the close of the war, many of the colonies returned to some form of pre-war normalcy. Yet the colonial governments, indebted and weakened from the conflict, knew that reforms had to be made in Southeast Asia. In Laos, the French-run administration thought the county “secure enough” in October 1920 to introduce the first of a series of political reforms aimed at decentralising power through local appointees, wrote Martin Stuart-Fox in A History of Laos. The British authorities in Malaya also experimented with decentralisation in the 1920s, which involved placing more power in the hands of the provincial sultans. In 1916, the Jones Act was passed in Washington to begin the process of granting the Philippines a “more autonomous government”, including a parliament, which was built upon until full independence in 1946.

War also transformed the role of local elites, who took on more autonomy and power. In Vietnam, the years after 1919 saw the creation of reformist newspapers, written in the increasingly popular Vietnamese script instead of the Roman alphabet, which the French had imposed. In Cambodia and Laos, such forceful nationalism did not arise until the 1930s. Other reformists in the region grew interested in ideologies brought back from the West. The South Seas Communist Party, a pan-Southeast Asian party, was formed in Burma in 1925 before splitting along national lines in 1930. Ho Chi Minh, who spent the war in London, helped create the Communist Party of Indochina that year. Tan Malaka, who had actually tried enlisting to fight with the German army – without success – became an integral part of the communist movement in the Dutch East Indies, later becoming known as something of a father of the independent Republic of Indonesia.

World War I laid bare the unequal “social contract” that colonial authorities had forced their colonial subjects in Southeast Asia to sign. The contract would only become more obviously threadbare by the 1920s, yet it took the next global conflict, which had a far greater impact on the region than the first, for these anti-colonial movements to grab real political power.

#world war i #southeast asia: as a region #1910s #20th century

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sailing-elitsha · 4 years ago

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WE DID IT!!!!!!!!

Our first ocean crossing is a fact!!

The last miles were draining. Running with constantly changing winds, crossing waves and without spinnaker is not funny. I was not seasick this time, but caught an ear infection, which I thought will be okay after a while, because I got antibiotic from Doctor Josephine in St Helena for my leg infection. Without consulting a doc in St Helena again, we left. The crossing waves and light wind made me nauseous because my ear was blocked. The night watches drained but the spirit of the crew, Dick and I, maintained unbroken positive and happy. We caught a tuna and a barracuda. The swordfish, when we finally had him close to Elitsha, went back to the sea. The line broke and he is now the coolest fish in the South Atlantic with a hip piercing on his sword nose. The barracuda, I caught on my watch. Dick was sleeping and I got him close, which was not easy, but then I saw his teeth, I knew, this I won’t do on my own. Together we got him in. Even though I was not feeling well, I baked several breads, cooked tuna curry, and did my watches. Dick took the more difficult watches and let me sleep a little bit longer each night. I rest much more then he did. So, you can imagine, we both looked forward to having a good sleep after arriving in Fernando. Bob the aircraft engineer was close to us, but they wanted to continue their way to the Caribbean straight forward. Going ashore in Fernando de Noronha was not allowed, so all Yachties skip the island. We were hoping on getting water and to be allowed to just sleep 3 nights at the anchorage and continue sailing afterwards.

Immensely proud and happy on Friday the 30th of April at 5 am after having sailed 1812 nautical miles we arrived at Fernando de Noronha, a small Island and Nature Reserve at the Brazilian Coast. Dick and I were both a bit emotional: WE DID IT!!!!!! Its always special to arrive after a long sail. First you hear and see birds, then lights, then the shape of land, then you smell something different……… But this time is was special special. We arrived at the other side of a very very big and deep (4000+ m deep) ocean.

40 meters of anchor chain and we lay in front of a beautiful beach in a beautiful bay. This Island is a Nature Reserve and so so beautiful. We were the only yachties. Nobody is allowed to enter the island from sea. we could smell the cocktails, but were nut allowed to grab them.....made our owns though....Due to humanitarian reasons they have to allow us to buy fresh supplies and water, which we needed to continue the rest of our voyage. After we arrived, our yellow Checkers cloth and the Brazilian flag went up the mast. Nothing happened. Dick was swimming with zebrafish and sharks in the meantime. After half a day waiting and asking harbour control again and again on the radio we finally got an answer. At 3 o clock we got picked up and the harbour master welcomed us together with the police. The police would escort us to the shops and the next day we have to leave. Zora pictured out a scenario of Dick and I in handcuffs in de shops grabbing 5 l canisters of water and apples under supervision of the police officers, when we told her. (There is a photo of Alex, the police officer, faking to arrest Dick. That photo was especially taken for Zora.)

But it went differently. We were very fortunate to meet Alex, a Brazilian federal policeman from Brasilia, the only English-speaking person on this island. They all try google translate, but internet is a crime here. So Alex was the solution. He told us that the extra days of sleep could only been allowed if I would get a doctor’s attest and then he drove with us to the hospital, translated, then to the Pharmacia, then to the harbour again to explain that I was even sicker than I thought, and the doctor wants to see me every day till Monday. He and his colleagues wrote reports, spoke to their boss, to make it happen for us to stay longer. This way we not only were allowed to stay 3 nights, but we were also allowed to explore the island. The police brought our 60 l water and fresh supplies to the boat and gave us very valuable tips for sightseeing, bus routes, the best bars and best meals of the islands: platter federale ( a seafood food platter the chef always creates for the federal police men and Caipirinha pinto. They gave us a branche with well 12 coconuts on it. Uii, lekker. We ate a special bean soup with quail eggs…….. Alex was and still is our hero and became a friend. We had a very special time at Fernando de Noronha. Again, everybody knew us, helped and was friendly.

Traveling during Corona is not easy, but at the same time very special. People are happy with every single tourist; it is not full and overcrowded. Covid in Brazil is hectic. In Fernando they have not one case. Its so normal to sanitize and wear masks. Fortunately, we will not get a Brazilian stamp in our passport, which is good. This stamp could close some borders for us. So, we visited a little piece of Brazil, met a lot of Brazilians from Brasilia, Sao Paulo, Recife and other Brazilian Cities, and got information and a little bit of insights in the culture.

We ate delicious Brazilian food, but officially we have never been in Brazil. How is that?Traveling in the Caribbean with a South African flag is a problem we were told, because of the racist history. That was one of the reasons why we choose a German registration. But sailing with a German flag in Brazil was also a thingy: 7:1, the water taxi captain said when he saw the black/red/gold. I apologized and promised, that we (the Germans) would never beat them (soccer WC 2014) again in a semi-final in their own country with 7:1. That was good, then.

Even though it was great and relaxing. It was quite expensive to stay on an Eco Island. For 3 days we paid 200 dollars. When we wanted to go to a beach at the other end of the island today, they wanted us to pay another 100 dollars (a 9 day valid ticket for three beaches). We rather went back to the for-free-harbour-beach with the bus again and saw turtles, lemon sharks and a lot of other beautiful fish. Wrong!!! Dick saw them. I am not allowed to snorkel. Grrrrrr. My ears!!!! So, we didn’t need a 100-dollar beach. From here we could even see Elitsha waving towards us.

From Elitsha we see dolphins around us spinning in the morning, zebra fish all around and the trumpet fish from St. Helena followed us to Fernando.

Our last water taxi was a luxe motor yacht with fancy leather seating. Dick and I felt like Crockett and Tubbs in Miami Vice. So funny.

Last evening at Fernando. Tomorrow we lift our anchor and off we go again. The doldrums are waiting for us and then the north east trades to lift us to Suriname. Can’t wait to explore the rainbow forest that side.

A big thank you to our shore captains, Anneke, Zora and Holger, who make harbour arrangements for us, inform us about the weather and much more; to Wiek, our fishing coach, for telling us afterwards what we caught and have eaten, hahaha and to all our friends and supporters who react and encourage us all the way of our journey. Its fantastic to be in touch with you.

Believe us, we enjoy every single second and moment of our journey with each other and are so so glad and happy that we are doing this with the two of us. Don’t forget to donate for the nautical miles we are sailing.

Lots of loveDick, Sylke and Elitsha

Questions for the Elitsha competition:

1. What is the capital of Brazil?

2. Where is Fernando de Noronha?

3. What is a sea mountain?

4. What kind of shark, did my husband dive with?

5. How does a trumpet fish look like? (and don’t tell me: like a trumpet, hahaha. I want to see a photo.)

All participants will receive a price!!!!!!!

For the ones who want to take part in our sponsor sail: We have sailed 1812 nautical miles. You can donate a cent, a Rand, a Euro or whatever per nautical mile. We are sailing for these amazing schools: every nautical mile and each Rand counts. To UBUNTU for Africa, German NGO. The money will go to the UBUNTU for Africa projects: after care at Hout Bay Primary School and the music project at Silikamva High School. This organisation I started 12 years ago (www.ubuntuforafrica.com) Of course, you will receive a tax certificate.

Ubuntu for Africa-Kinder-, Jugend und Familienhilfe in Südafrika Volksbank Boenen e G IBAN: DE91 4106 2215 0054 5799 01

For South Africans and others, who want to donate directly to South Africa (also with tax certificate): please donate to Kronendal Primary School (www.kronendalprimary.com). I worked for 10 years at Kronendal Primary as a school counsellor. This school struggles financially due to the consequences of the Covid Pandemic and deserves our support. KRONENDAL PRIMARY SCHOOL trading as CUIM (“the account holder”) holds the following account with First National Bank, a division of FirstRand Bank Limited (“FNB”): Account Type BUSINESS ACCOUNT Account Number 53452884035 Branch Code 204009 Branch Name HOUT BAY 345 Swift Code FIRNZAJJ WE DID IT

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