#made it halfway through ramadan

[potato-awesome]

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[sabrgirl]

ramadan 30 day challenge

introducing the ramadan 30 day challenge!

I made this challenge in the hopes of catering to as many people as I can - so, regardless of anyone's home situation, health, money, whether or not you live near a mosque or a community etc, I think it is somewhat do-able or adaptable for all! you can access anything you need for this (verses/surahs from the Qur'an for eg) online. I also know that for some people (depending on countries etc), ramadan is either 29 or 30 days, so it's fine to finish on the 29th day if necessary.

if you miss a couple days as well (or end up seeing this post halfway through ramadan), just pick up from whatever day of ramadan it is!

it starts off easy and gets harder as you go along! i'm also going to be doing this ramadan challenge and posting my own updates on here, Insha’Allah! if you do this too, please do tag me because I would love to see how people are getting on! ♡ here it is:

recite surah ikhlas 3 times

recite durood sharif 3 times

read Qur'an after asr

recite the 3 Quls (last 3 surahs of the Qur'an) in the evening/before sleeping today

listen to an islamic podcast

write down 5 things you are grateful to Allah for on paper or phone notes app

istighfar 100 times

read all of surah mulk before bed

wake up for tahajjud and pray (at least) 2 rakaats

learn 5 names/attributes of Allah سُبْحَٰنَهُۥ وَتَعَٰلَىٰ

do something nice for somebody else - can even be very small and will still be rewarded for it

wear your favourite abaya/thobe/modest clothing for every salah today. look your best for Allah سُبْحَٰنَهُۥ وَتَعَٰلَىٰ in your prayer like you would to go to a special event

give some (charity) sadaqah (create a sadaqah jar/box!)

read the last 2 verses of surah baqarah before sleeping

make a du'a for your friends and family - name them and pray for something specific for each of them

read all of surah Ya Sin after fajr

pray 2 nafl rakaats (voluntary prayer) today after the 2 sunnah rakaats of zuhr

no backbiting/gossiping about anyone at all and 2 nafl rakaats (voluntary prayer) if you do

pick a surah from the Qur'an and read the commentary for each verse

memorise the dua to recite on laylatul qadr اللَّهُمَّ إِنَّكَ عَفُوٌّ تُحِبُّ الْعَفْوَ فَاعْفُ عَنِّي Allahumma innaka 'Afuwwun, tuhibbul 'afwa, fa'fu 'anni "O Allah, You are indeed Forgiving and love to forgive, so forgive me."

donate to a charity (for palestine!!). even the smallest amount will be beneficial + rewarded by Allah

recite ayatul kursi after each 5 fard (obligatory) salah

pray all the 12 sunnah today: 2 rakaats before Fajr; 4 rakaats before zuhr and two rakaats after; 2 rakaats after Maghrib; and 2 rakaats after Ishaa

pray (at least) 2 rakaats of taraweeh (either at the mosque or at home by yourself/with family!)

pray 2 rakaats of duha (optional) prayer - it is between 15 minutes after sunrise until zuhr time. (not after zuhr!!)

recite subhanallahi wabihamdi, subhanallahil adheem 100 times - (Glory be to Allah and all praise is due to Him, glory be to Allah, the Great)

be extra modest today (tailored to you. wear hijab outside if you don't, or wear your loosest outfit or lower your gaze completely (including lowering it on social media) today etc. whatever being extra modest is for you, do that today).

pray on time, no procrastination or delays. check what local time each prayer is for you and pray then (unless you're praying at the mosque!)

istighfar x1000 times

pray some of the nawafil ON TOP OF all the sunnah prayers that accompany the 5 obligatory prayers: - 2 rakaats of duha prayer - 2 rakaats after the 2 sunnah rakaats of zuhr - 4 rakaats before asr - 2 rakaats after the 2 sunnah rakaats of maghrib - 2 rakaats after the 2 sunnah rakaats of ishaa (extra challenge: wake up for tahajjud too)

level extreme: if you want an extra extra challenge, you can continue doing each one every day as you go along. so day 1 would be recite surah ikhlas 3 times and day 2 would be recite surah ikhlas and durood sharif 3 times, day 3 would be recite surah ikhlas and durood sharif 3 times and read Qur'an after asr... and you get the gist. if you do this, good luck on day 30 when you have 30 things to do lol

note: giving sadaqah (charity) can be adapted if donating money is a struggle - for eg, doing dhikr on behalf of somebody else can count as sadaqah. click here for more info on this.

may Allah make this challenge easy for whoever intends to participate and let the deeds indeed be multiplied by 100 this ramadan and forgive us for our shortcomings, Ameen ♡

[samueldays]

in the spirit of xkcd's "did you know you can just buy labcoats?" , did you know you can just buy newspapers? some days it feels like any old shitposter can get a journalism job and spew high-velocity misinformation, like Aziah Siid at the Seattle Medium.

You're the ones doing the starving here, fuckwits.

Thanks to food deserts — or as some folks call it, “food apartheid”

Thanks to bad reporting - or as some folks call it, "Nazi-style propaganda"

that's halfway through the first sentence and Siid has very effectively set the tone for an article of race-baiting, blame-shifting, inflammatory, connotation-smuggling, condescendingly ignorant, hyperbolic, partisan hackery.

there are cities across the United States where Black families have to drive several miles to access fresh food at a supermarket.

link does not support claim, link is just tangentially related article using the word "food desert". link says this:

This gives me the impression that someone yelled "CITE SOURCES" at the journalist until the journalist did the malicious minimum of work to give the superficial appearance of a citation. The source "more than a quarter of a mile" does not support the article "drive several miles", and other problems.

Journalism delenda est.

That isn't even the topic yet, just a shitty lead-in. The topic:

But the lack of resources that disproportionately impacts Black communities isn’t limited to food or health care. Access to literature is also often limited in Black neighborhoods.

Interest in literature is also often limited in black neighborhoods. They have less desire for and less interest in books relative to whites.

Nearly half of American children live in a book desert — places that American Federation of Teachers President Randi Weingarten defines as “neighborhoods that lack public libraries and stores that sell books, or in homes where books are an unaffordable or unfamiliar luxury.”

The linked article is by Randi Weingarten, but does not define "book desert" that way, as it does not use the word "desert" anywhere at all. Superficial appearance of citation again, journalism delenda est.

I'd call for Aziah Siid to be "fired" but there is nothing to fire her from. You can just buy newspapers. You can just write shitposts and have them published with fancy headings.

So I'm left reiterating: journalists lie, journalists spread disinformation, newspapers are full of shit, the profession attracts liars and incentivizes lying partly because it's loudly claimed to be fact-checkers, journalists can get away with contradicting someone and calling it a "fact check". It happens up and down the scale across the industry, from relative rando Aziah Siid, to upscale Keith Olbermann who has multiple awards for excellent journalism and he won't stop lying after repeated corrections.

If students don’t have books at home or in their neighborhood, they rely on what’s available in schools — in the classroom and campus library. But good luck finding banned and challenged books like “The Gift of Ramadan” by Rabiah York Lumbard and Laura K. Horton and “Sulwe” by Lupita Nyong’o and Vashti Harrison if students live in a place impacted by censorship.

"impacted" is such a wonderful weasel word that encourages the reader to imagine something maximally inflammatory with minimal commitment on the part of the journalist. There is no rebuttal that can be made here without Siid dodging that that's not what she meant by "impacted" - so I retort instead that it's content-free incitement and demagoguery. Journalism delenda est.

Similarly with "banned and challenged", where all the weighty connotation is being carried by the "banned" part, but all the truth of the sentence resides in the "challenged" part. I tried to find the specifics of the matter and as best I can tell, in one of the three thousand counties in the United States, The Gift of Ramadan was challenged for school review by partisan hacks and then got stuck in bureaucratic limbo in a poorly designed review process to determine whether it should be in schools in that county. Somewhere has to be the most fuckup county of 3000, and Duval County was it that year.

From the viewpoint of people who thought their book should be read by every student as a default, this cherry-picked one-county school-holdup felt like a "ban" despite the fact that the book remained available in bookstores.

What extraordinary entitlement.

The epicenter of these efforts? Florida and the attempts led by Republican Gov. Ron DeSantis to eliminate the teaching of accurate U.S. history and kill off access to diverse books.

Stripped of the bombast: Florida rejected one specific Advanced Placement course on African American Studies. DeSantis claimed this was because the course was a bunch of thrown-together left-wing talking points including queer theory and climate action along with the black blackety blackness.

The College Board released an edited version of the course, and claimed this was nothing to do with Florida because they get feedback from lots of people.

That’s why as part of a larger effort to make books more accessible, and directly combat these anti-history book bans, the national nonprofit Little Free Library and creative marketing agency Venables Bell + Partners have teamed up on the Unbanned Book Club.

Again with the use of "ban" for not using government resources to promote. Journalism delenda est, wordcels delenda est. The books are not banned, as shown by the fact that this project is legal. The vast majority of books in the world are not in any school, let alone every school; curricula change regularly; to call it "banned" that a book was removed from a school is a sort of linguistic robbery that steals the substance of word and leaves us with a confusion of tongues as of Babel.

[tamamita]

Ramadan is coming up, so I’ve got an ask that’s been a year in the making:

I recall that you made a post last year about how muscle memory allows the body to regain the muscle lost during fasting. So, if it isn’t overstepping my boundaries, could you do a little experiment?

Take a selfie just before Ramadan to track your physique and make a note of your weight. Then, when you’re halfway through Ramadan, do this again. When Ramadan has finished, take another selfie and again, make a note of your weight. Once two or so weeks pass, take a final selfie and check your weight again.

I’m interested in seeing just how quickly your body loses weight and the ease at which your body regains said weight after Ramadan has concluded. I don’t know if this is asking too much of you, but I would certainly appreciate being able to see just how fascinating the body’s ability to lose and restore weight really is. Nevertheless, I hope that you’ll enjoy this year’s Ramadan!

This is an interesting project, I might actually try it out, haha!

[navramanan]

i loooove ramadan because it's a dedicated period of time for me to get my life together. but it always bothers me that i'm not motivated throughout the whole 30 days, y'know?

halfway through i find myself resenting it because i'm so over the fasting & want to get back to "normal" life. and i know that's such a horrible mindset to have because the last ten days are the most important of the 30 😕 and it also doesn't help that periods are there to ruin the momentum lol

anyway, how do you feel about this? (the motivation, not the periods LMAO) i'd love to know your thoughts as a practicising muslim 💗

ps. your rant about muslims doing basic things like fasting in ramadan & praying 5 times a day made me laugh for days. i still laugh whenever i think about it

ramadan kareem to you & ur family!

Ramaden kareem to you lot as well 🫂

I totally get the losing momentum part it's so annoying 😭😭 getting my period kinda ruins part of it for me too, especially when i get it at the start or in the middle. For me it's also been hard to get into the ramadan spirit these past few years, i guess it's a combination of living in the west, going to uni away from my family and not yet having found my place in a muslim community. It actually feels so surreal to me that ramadan starts tomorrow. But it's coming at a perfect time for me because for the past week i've been in a reeeeaally weird spot iman wise and it scares me, i want to find my way back. Inshallah ramadan helps to guide me 🥺🥺🥺 i think tho it's normal to not be fully motivated for the whole of it? Because 30 days is a long time to maintain motivation so i dont think we should beat ourselves up for it too much. But right, it's unfortunate because the last 10 days are especially important. I think if you sit down and make a rough plan for yourself considering the drop in motivation, your ramadan may be more fruitful for you. Thank you for this ask, i always love connecting with muslims, may Allah bless you and guide us all❣️❣️❣️

[cveenso]

My First Journal Entry

It's never too late to begin keeping a journal. Even though it is three months into 2024, I am starting today. I am aware that the majority of you probably believed I ought to have begun in January. I understand, but things have changed since then. I have dreams and goals I want to fulfill. This is the first step I'm taking. My very first journal entry.

I post my progress on my Telegram channel, although obviously not everyone can see it. It serves as a kind of record to show how far I've come. However, I share primarily on my deen. What I experienced, particularly this Ramadan.

Today is the eighth day of Ramadan. I committed to using this holy month to my greatest potential by learning everything I could about Islam. Perform as many of the things I was unable to complete during Ramadan last year as possible. Consequently, I made the decision to set clear objectives.

Reading 📚

Journaling 📝

Develop a night time routine 🌌

Start saving more 💰

Manifesting 💭

Pray 📿

Love myself more ❤️

Despite having just begun, I am halfway through my voyage. I can't wait to embark on my next journey. I allow things to unfold naturally because Dunya is a lovely deception. If it is intended to be my رزق, it will be. With His blessings.

Yours Truly,

cveenso

[hanafubukki]

Ramadan: Pomefiore Ver.

Summary: An MC who fasts during Ramadan, and how the Pomefiore students support them.

Characters: MC, Vil, Rook, and Epel.

Notes:  Glad to see everyone continuing to enjoy this series ☺️☺️💕💕 We are about a little over halfway finished 👏👏 I hope everyone has fun reading.

Ramadan Series: Heartslabyul Ver.  Savanaclaw Ver. Octavinelle Ver. Scarabia Ver.  Ignihyde Ver.  Diasomnia Ver.  Grim & NRC Staff Ver.

Eid Al-Fitr:  Eid Al-Fitr in Twisted Wonderland

Eid Al-Ahda: Eid Al-Adha in Twisted Wonderland

·      MC might not be at home, but it doesn’t mean they can’t follow their traditions from home.

·      After talking to Kalim and Jamil, MC was able to figure out roughly when the time of Ramadan would be.

·      So, they chose that time to inform others of their decision, such as the teachers and their friends.

·      Mainly Ace, Deuce, and Grim, so they did not cause too much trouble, or they will have to deal with MC. Which after a particular glare from them, the trio was left quaking in their boots.

Vil Shoenheit:

·      When MC had told Vil, he wasn’t surprised.

·      After all, he was a famous celebrity who probably knew people all over the world from his line of work.

·      What MC didn’t account for was the calculative stare he was giving them.

·      “Potato.”

·      “Yes!”

·      “You don’t need me to tell you how bad staying up late, and not getting enough rest is bad for your health and skin right?”  

·      “Yes, Vil, I know.”

·      For sure MC knew, Epel would whine about it every single time he would get lectured on it.

·      MC would have thought that Epel would have at least memorized the speech by now from the number of times he had to hear it.

·      “Good.”

·      MC watched as Vil got up and went to his vanity, motioning for them to come over as well.

·      “We mustn’t allow your skin and health to suffer while you are fasting. I know this is important to you, but there are simple ways to take care of yourself during this time.”

·      He then proceeded to hand MC various products that would help them in their routine throughout the day.

·      “It is important that you make sure you have the proper nutrients daily, Prefect. I will share with you some recipes that will be sure to give you the boosts you need.”

·      Those recipes came in handy, especially on days that MC did not feel like getting up and making food.

·      On those days, MC would grab the smoothies they had made beforehand from the fridge and chug them down along with a few glasses of water before knocking out again.

·      It was always harder to wake up and gather energy near the end of Ramadan, so MC made sure to keep a stock of smoothies and other nutrient bars in the fridge.

·      Eventually, Vil would hear about this, most likely from Epel, and would drag MC (via Rook) to eat dinner with him.

·      On those days, Vil and MC would have a spa day.

·      Most of the time, MC would fall asleep by the end of it.

·      Vil playing with their hair was too lulling not to warrant a nap.

·      The extra warmth from Vil’s words adds even more reason as well.

·      “You are trying your best, Potato. I’m proud of you.”

Rook Hunt:

·      MC knew telling Rook would be a fiasco, and they were right.

·      After informing Rook about their practices, MC braced themselves for the eventual praise.

·      He did not disappoint.

·      “Trickster, to go through this strife so you can know the feelings of those less unfortunate? Magnifique! I admire your determination.”

·      He proceeded to add praise upon praise towards the Prefect.

·      MC could always expect Rook when they least expected it.

·      It’s just the way he was.

·      NRC students bothering them on the rare moments one of the first-year students wasn’t with them?

·      Grim would be growling, while the Prefect just stared at the bullies with a look of irritation.

·      They really didn’t want to fight anyone during this month.

·      Not only were these students not worth it, but they didn’t want to waste the energy they needed to preserve.

·      The tormentors were in for a surprise when there would be a very accurate arrow flying through the air and barely missing them by a hair’s width.

·      A note would be attached, with a very clearly worded threat.

·      The bullies ran away.

·      MC would laugh to themselves before writing their gratitude on the note and then proceeding to meet up with Ace and Deuce.

·       On the days MC was tired, they would take breaks by the nearby trees on the way to Ramshackle Dorm.

·      They would take a nap and wake up with Rook sitting next to them.

·      His hat covered their head to shade them from the sun, and his outerwear covered them from the light winds.

·      Rook would then proceed to escort them to their dorm.

·      It would be a surprise for MC to find random notes of praise throughout the days.

·      It brought a smile to their face and provided them a boost in energy.

Epel Felmier:

·      Epel was surprised to learn about MC’s traditions and practices.

·      MC could tell how much his respect for them grew.

·      “Prefect, you are so strong! This is awesome!”

·      MC would laugh at his enthusiasm.

·      Epel was another student who would protect MC from other students.

·      It was honestly cute seeing him go feral with Deuce at the opposing students.

·      Not that MC would ever tell him.

·      Epel would teach MC how to carve apples into beautiful designs as a way to distract themselves until the end of the fast came.

·      Epel had ended up telling his family back home about your practices, and the next day he showed up at Ramshackle Dorm with boxes of apples and apple juice.

·      “My family sent some fruits and juice for you. They said it will keep you hydrated.”

·      MC smiled and thanked him, making a note to share some apples with the others later.

·      MC knew how much Epel loved eating meat.

·      They would invite him over whenever they made beef stew.

·      They would secretly invite him over.

·      Rook probably knew but let them be.

·      Probably.

·      If MC was tired, Epel would offer to help them with their skincare routine.

·      “I might not like doing it on myself, but it can be relaxing for others. I guess.”

·      On other days, Epel would tell Vil about MC’s tiredness, hoping he could have the Prefect over to the Pomefiore Dorm to watch over them.

·      Sleepovers with Epel were always fun, and the bed was one of the softest MC had ever felt.

·     MC was touched by the help that their friends gave them during this time. It made the time pass much quicker, and it was fun spending time with them.

See you in the next part! Ignihyde, here we come! Idia, you better be ready 👏👏👏😂😂☺️☺️

[lovelylusts]

Hellooooo💘💘 can I ask for prompts if you're okay with it please? Taehyung 33, 50, 87 (if you think they don't mix well, you can arrange it like you want!) Thank you 💛❤💚💙🧡💜🤎🤍🖤

33. “Show me how much you missed me.”

50. “I want it. I want to taste you.”

87. “It’s hot when you talk back.”

not safe for Ramadan under the cut! also i’m sorry this took so long 🙏🙏 i’ve had a rough couple of weeks but i’m gonna try to write to help with my exam anxiety

The months where Taehyung, your boyfriend of many years, was touring were always the most painful. You would visit him when you could; but, of course, you could only have so many days off of work at a time. But today he’d finally be home, sometime in the evening, and you were ecstatic - your baby was finally come back to you.

The hours passed by slower than you had hoped, and cleaning up the house only took up so many of them. Anticipation coursed through your veins as you tried to busy yourself with watching something on Netflix, or placing an order from his favorite takeout place, but you could only focus on the fact that you’d be reunited with Taehyung after a few months.

You were halfway through a show when you heard the front door being unlocked, and you found yourself jumping up from your seat as the door was opening. Taehyung couldn’t even say anything before you were tightly embracing him, pressing kisses all over his face.

“I missed you so much,” you said against his neck.

“Show me how much you missed me,” he said, his deep whisper sending a chill down your spine as he pulled you closer to him, kicking the door shut behind him. Without a word, you were pulling him to the couch, deciding that you were both too impatient to make it to the bedroom.

Taehyung pushed you down against the cool leather, gripping at the waistbands of your leggings and underwear in one go. “Look at that pretty pussy,” he drawled, swiping his thumb over your clit and smirking as your hips bucked beneath him. “I want it. I want to taste you. I’ve missed your pussy so fucking much.”

Every skilled movement of his tongue and hot touch of his fingers made you cry out, your body not used to his ministrations anymore. You were so sensitive, you were surprised you were able to last this long at all. His hands were leaving a bruising grip on your hips, his tongue swirling around your engorged clit.

“T-Taehyung, I’m gonna cum,” you said, barely above a whisper, as you couldn’t entirely focus on your words due to the heat between your legs.

So naturally, he pulled away from you, unable to hide the mischief on his face as started undressing.

“What the fuck?” you whined. “Why did you stop? I was so close!”

“Because I need to be in your pussy,” he said flatly.

“Finish what you started,” you tried to say firmly, though the moments in which you tried to be domineering with him tended to end with intense punishment.

“It’s hot when you talk back,” he started before roughly grabbing your hips to turn you into your stomach, pulling your ass up to arch your back before firmly spanking you, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent living room. “It just gives me a reason to wreck you.”

“Then do your worst,” you teased.

“Do you have work tomorrow?” he asked. He pressed his tip against your slit, teasing you as he rubbed it through your arousal.

“N-no sir.”

“Good.” He pushed in harshly. “Because you’re not gonna be getting much sleep tonight.”

[pac-wo-man]

Miracles of Ramadan

Since I made this tumblr nearing the start of the fasting month, I would like to dedicate my second post to the miracles I have experienced during the holy month of Ramadan. Disclaimer, this may sound rather like a personal spiritual reflection…

And this brings me back to the Ramadan I had in 2019, one that I thought would be the hardest, but Allah made it one of the easiest. --- It was on May, close to the summer solstice, when the day in the northern hemisphere was notably long. I was still living in the Netherlands, and so the fasting hour was long: it would begin at 3:00am CET before sunrise, and ends at Maghrib (sunset hour, the time when we broke our fast) which would call at around 9:30pm CET. Yet, in that month, I had to travel even far north to Tromsø, Norway; for a course study trip that worth 15 credits of my masters. A place where the sun does not even set. Of course it was trip I highly anticipated on, coming from Indonesia, trekking the vast snowy mountain range of the arctic is indeed listed somewhere on my bucket list. On the other hand, I was worried that the trip would ruin my rituals in Ramadan. It crossed my mind to skip a few days of fasting, especially that my family convinced me I was actually eligible to have the exception of not fasting, considering I was a ‘musafir’ (meaning traveler--in which in Islam they may be excused for not fasting). Although, referring to the old tales, its not like I resembled the musafir that spent days on a camel travelling through the dry desert of Sahara in a mission to deliver an important message to….. ok lets not go into that. But anyways, I had my doubts. And as far as I remembered, no one on the trip was fasting too, so I was reluctant.

But somehow my heart whispers: no. don't compromise. keep your fast, because-- I don't actually know because of what. But I felt I really wanted to challenge my faith at that time. And subhanallah, as I set the intention firm, it felt like the world rotated to my favor (at least in my perspective):

1. It was with Ingrid, Judit, Malavika, and Nicole that I shared the cabin with during the extended road trip days. I actually hesitated to let them know as I did not want my routine to disturb them, such as having to wake up early for sahoor or seeking my iftar food in the rural north. But after I let them know, they had my sahoor and iftar food prepared, asking what is halal for me to eat, and say things like 'we won't let you eat bad food after having to starve all day'. Tears! I did not expect such help and tolerance.

2. As I mentioned, the sun only set halfway before it rises back up again in Tromso, Norway. And that’d be around 1 am. So I decided to break my fast at 8pm, following the time of the nearest Muslim country. I don't know how, but I managed to fast that lengthy hour, even on the day where we planned to go trekking up the mountain. Not a recommended activity during the fasting month, but how can I miss an opportunity I may not get another time? Indeed, there is no way a strength like that came from any other but the Creator. I never trained myself to hike, let alone in the fasting month? The exhaustion from the long walk also disappeared instantly as we found a picturesque waterfall of 100 meters tall that is so beautiful I instantly fell to my knees and cried (hehe). MashaaAllah. The moment itself was the most remarkable gift I ever had.

3. We spent most of the time on the road roaming around the site of our fieldwork. Ingrid and Judit were the two taking turns driving the wheels. They always offered to stop every time its my praying time. And the place where I stopped? It's always in the middle of nowhere -- a truly scenic, mesmerizing, *insert more bewildered adjectives here* Norwegian landscape which overwhelmed me as I begun thinking how would ‘a better place than the earth’ look like.

Please allow me to share the view that kept sending me shivers back then (I swear they are better in real life!):

In the end what really what got me was: I don't think it was my even my will anymore to have the determination to keep fasting.

But it was Allah who did not want me to skip it, and he made every situation easy, possible, and beautiful for me to enjoy doing the worship. Alhamdulillah. And so that remained as a precious memory.

The Ramadan in 2019 changed my perspective on how I view obstacles and how to have taqwa (full trust) on Allah when you have already set your intention straight. This helped me to go through the Ramadan in 2020, which was at the start of the worldwide lockdown, as He blessed me with a tiny circle (Hi Wida, Yasmin, Widya, etc!) to quarantine together and venture on a journey inwards. But that’s another story. I pray that you too shall experience the miracles of Ramadan, or get you flying to the Arctic Norway (again if you already have!), and for those of you who are fasting in this pandemic Ramadan--may Allah make it easy for you and grant you barakah in all your efforts.

Ramadan Mubarak,

PAC

[simba-bonfamille-lyons]

I’m Not as Brave as I Once Was /./ [Simber]

In which a secret Simba has been keeping is revealed...[takes place: mid-May]

@ber-bonfamille-lyons

[tw -- alcoholism]

SIMBA: Someone should make it illegal to have classes on Friday evenings.

Simba hated that he had a class on Friday at 4:00pm. It was stupid. No one paid attention to anything on Fridays at 3:00pm. Not to mention, it was one of his least favorite classes. One that was all about procedures and all the boring stuff that came with being a teacher. How to write student reports. How to talk to parents. How to make lesson plans. It always made Simba itchy and he was so annoyed that it wasn’t even his fault this time he’d gotten stuck with the dumb time frame! The class was only offered at this time.

Last week’s class had been impossibly hard. He’d barely made it out alive, just a few days into Ramadan. Classes were harder to pay attention to when he was fasting, which he knew was kind of the point, and it was normally fine. He just extra hated this class and it ended a few hours before sundown and iftar, which just made it worse. 

This week, when the teacher had finally let them go, just after 6:00pm, Simba’s brain said one thing, an immediate, knee jerk reaction:

I need a drink.

So, his steps didn’t carry him home. They took him, actually, to [Name Redacted], which helpfully appeared along the alley on Ever After Boulevard. Simba didn’t even think about it as he ducked in and ordered an Irish cream. He took a seat on the bar stools along the wall, his only view the brick wall in front of him. Halfway through his first drink, his brain had gone blissfully quiet. His annoyance had trickled out of him by the time he’d finished. 

He was halfway through his second when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Simba ignored it, forgetting about it as soon as the vibration for an incoming text dissipated. 

When the leftover ice was clinking at the bottom of his glass, his phone vibrated again. This time, it didn’t stop after one. Someone was calling him. His husband was calling him. Simba glimpsed the time and date: 7:30pm, Friday 4/23. 

Without thinking, Simba hit the end button and threw his phone onto the slim, unfinished wooden countertop. It clattered, lay silent for a moment, and then began to buzz again. 

Simba didn’t touch it. He just watched it skitter disjointedly across the wood until it went still again. His heart was pounding in his ears and he suddenly felt like he was going to be sick. 

What was he doing? 

He was supposed to meet Ber for dinner. It was Ramadan and he was supposed to be cooking dinner with his husband. 

Well, he’d already fucked up this much, hadn’t he? 

Simba ordered another drink. Though, this one, he downed without even savoring the feeling of it. He left a generous tip for zakat and then made his way out of the cafe. A misting, spring rain was falling. It made him shiver, his skin hot, as he started towards home. 

It was almost dark by the time he made it in the front door. The dogs greeted him, tripping over themselves and wagging their tails as they jumped at him. Simba toed off his shoes and shrugged off his soaking jacket, running a hand through his hair and spraying rain water everywhere. He tossed his keys into the bowl near the door. 

When he finally looked up from rubbing Turtle’s head, he saw Ber standing in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at him. Simba didn’t move towards him, knowing that it would immediately give him away. He didn’t know what to do actually. He looked back down and moved on to scratching behind Simone’s ears. 

BERLIOZ:  When his first texts were ignored, Berlioz didn’t take it personally.

He knew his husband. That was the thing, wasn’t it? He knew his husband-- knew that Friday class could be stressful, knew that Simba could have easily gotten wrapped up in a conversation after class because of that. He was friendly with everyone, had gone to study groups before, but more often than not just stood outside in the hallway shooting the shit until something finally dragged him away-- normally other people leaving first but occasionally Simba woke up to the rest of his schedule and managed to race off to the next thing. So that’s what Ber figured. He’d gotten wrapped up. Or met someone on the way home. Maybe he even stopped in to his teacher’s office hours, who knows. Ber was used to a Simba who was late (Ber normally built in an hour around important appointments just cuz of this fact) and so Ber was fine waiting. If it got too bad, they’d just order food in. 

That was what his second set of texts was about. He glanced at the time and knew that when Simba got home, it’d take another thirty minutes, probably more, to make food, and Simba would be too hungry and so would Ber. You want me to order something? He texted. Chippamunkas?  

Nothing. 

That was okay too. For now. 

But then another fifteen minutes passed, and it slowly, but surely, was becoming very not okay.

Cuz he knew his husband. And now they were past Simba’s usual window of distractions. He always checked his phone by now. His phone was as distracting as the rest of the world. Ber texted again. Where are you? That would get his attention, remind Simba that Ber was waiting. It would hint that now Berlioz was getting worried. Simba wouldn’t let him worry.

But he didn’t text back.

So Ber got worried.

He called, something he only did when his brain was starting to melt ‘round the edges like a soft stick of butter. He listened to it ring once-- then shut off. Ber jerked the phone away from his ear like it was a hot frying pan. “Did you just send me to voicemail?” he asked his phone out loud, bewildered. At his feet, Bowie lifted his head, whined briefly, sensing the disturbance in the universe. Ber just sat perfectly still. He stared at the phone. It had to ring again. Simba had to realize what he’d done. It was a mistake. A mistake, a clumsy finger swipe. 

The phone was as silent as the rest of the house. 

And okay-- okay. Don’t jump to the wrong conclusions. Ber drafted up plenty of potential explanations. A long fucking meeting with his professor about his grade (this didn’t make sense-- they were hours past class now). Maybe something with the Board came up, something important, emergency-level (Simba would have at least texted him first. He wouldn’t be that stupid). Simba was abducted by aliens, and they dropped his call. 

So far the alien-thing was the most logical. Berlioz laughed alone in his big, empty house, and let himself get pissed and even more worried. 

He gave Simba exactly one more hour, and if he didn’t come home, then Ber would explode. He’d go crazy, the way only Ber could do. Call Lou and start crying, probably call Sarabi too, call Arthur, cuz maybe this was magic, maybe Simba was in danger-- he had a whole list and he conducted it while walking all around his house in aimless circles. Bowie kept following him, Turtle joined in. He sat down on the kitchen floor at one point to pet their ears and try not to jump ahead of that one-hour deadline he’d set from himself, but fuck, it was hard, when each minute was like a hammer smashing into his skull. 

When the door finally budged, Berlioz shot up and rounded just enough to watch an unharmed Simba enter. He moved too calm and slow and said nothing, didn’t even call for him. Berlioz’s whole body shook.

“Where the fuck have you been?” the words burst from his chest before he could even think them all the way through. They were loud and shaky-- Ber’s eyes were already wet. He didn’t move though, cuz he could tell Simba wasn’t hurt at least, so he didn’t get a fucking hug. “I’ve been texting you for hours, you -- you sent me to voicemail. What the fuck, Simba?” 

SIMBA: Yeah, Ber was pissed. Probably rightfully so. No, definitely rightfully so. Simba knew he’d fucked up. He’d fucked up being a good husband and a good Muslim, all in one go. He’d ignored his husband’s phone call and he’d mindlessly broke his fast with alcohol. It wasn’t even for a good reason. If someone had died or something terrible had happened, maybe he could’ve forgiven himself. His drinking was usually triggered by intense emotion and the feeling of being out of control. And while he’d felt the low buzz of that for months, nothing particularly stressful had happened that could have tempted him into breaking his fast. 

He was just stressed and tired and it was habit. 

Not even Simba could rationalize his way out of that.  

In the face of that and Ber’s anger, Simba didn’t know what to do. He was supposed to be angry too. Simba always got angry when he was defensive. Got loud. Made himself big. Like an animal trying to ward off a predator. But, he didn’t have a single argument to defend his actions. 

He also didn’t want to say sorry. His pride felt fractured, which meant the rest of him was fractured too. 

Simba took the moments after Ber’s demand (what the fuck?) to kneel down to the dogs’ height. They eagerly licked at his chin, Simone growling at Turtle and nipping at his ear as he tried to wiggle his way into Simba’s lap. She moved to plant herself by his hip, her head under his arm, while Turtle continued to prance around him and Bowie sat right in front of him, with warm, patient eyes.

The dogs didn’t care if Simba drank, if he was a bad husband, if he was a bad Muslim. They didn’t turn away at the smell of alcohol on his breath. 

Simba shrugged, and when he spoke, he was looking at Bowie. “I dunno,” he said, unhelpfully. 

The problem (or the benefits, depending on how you looked at it) with alcohol was that it numbed you up. Logically, Simba knew Ber was pissed at him. That he was ruining his life. But, the alcohol meant that those realities couldn’t touch him. It felt far away. 

“I was at [name redacted].” 

BERLIOZ:  Simba didn’t rush toward him, with apologies and kisses and his typical irresistible Simba sweetness. Berlioz half-expected it, but at the same time-- he wasn’t disappointed when it didn’t happen. How could he be, when Simba hadn’t burst in in the first place? When it was very obvious where he’d been? Ber hadn’t needed to ask, he just did cuz that’s what you were supposed to do-- to ask for an explanation like giving the benefit of the doubt-- or just one more chance for Simba to make up for his mistakes. 

But Simba wasn’t trying. Because Simba was drunk. 

This is at least part your fault, came the inner voice, and Ber for once wasn’t sure if it was anxiety or just-- the truth. Because he had known… he had wanted it to be no big deal, he had hoped that Simba would talk to him first.

And so he blinked and he took a breath, not sure whether that breath was meant to cool or fan his own fire. Berlioz didn’t like being mad. He didn’t deal with anger the way Simba or Lou did. He wasn’t one to shout, even though maybe that’s what Simba needed. If anything, he wanted to turn to ice. Scoff at Simba, go upstairs, lock him out of his own room till Simba finally confessed everything. But that was just doing the same thing he’d always done-- leaving it up to Simba.  The same mistake he kept making. He needed to stop waiting for Simba to come to him, even though that was what they had promised to do for each other when they got married. 

“Okay.” The word fell hard and flat. “You were at [name redacted] doing what? Drinking, right?” His arms crossed his chest, mostly to protect himself. “You’re drunk right now. You stood me up -- and ignored my texts-- and sent me to voicemail-- generally treated me like shit-- because you’re drunk.” 

SIMBA: Simba winced.

Berlioz’s voice didn’t raise, but Simba still felt like it had. The guilt flashed hot and fast through him. So much for the alcohol’s padding. No armor was strong enough to evade the lance that Ber had tossed so expertly, hitting Simba right in the weakest parts. He should’ve known. Simba could handle a lot: Allah being disappointed...but his husband being disappointed—

No. His husband being hurt by his actions?

That was the one thing that Simba couldn’t stand. More than anything else. So, why, do you ask, did he keep doing it? Because Simba wasn’t perfect. Simba was, actually, the opposite of perfect. He was deeply flawed and deeply traumatized. And none of that was an excuse. He had no excuse for his shitty behavior.

For once, the words stuck in Simba’s throat. He didn’t have anything to say. Berlioz didn’t want an apology because it wouldn’t mean anything. And there was no undoing it, though Simba would give anything to take it back. He didn’t know how far back he would go. For months, he had been lying to himself, hiding from Ber, and he hadn’t even realized it.

There were several moments after Ber’s final word (drunk) faded into the air that the room was almost entirely silent. Simba could hear his own breath, his saliva as he swallowed, the panting of their dogs, and their nails clicking against the floor. Eventually he dragged his eyes upwards.

“Yeah,” he said. There was no point in denying it.

He couldn’t hold Ber’s gaze for long. It dropped back to the floor. Usually, the warm wooden colour would remind him of Ber’s eyes, but all he could see was the golden brown of an Irish cream.

“I didn’t realize—” he stared to attempt to explain, but even to his own ears, it sounded like a lie. It wasn’t a lie. Simba hadn’t realized, but—

“It just happened so fast. I—panicked.” 

BERLIOZ:  Ber wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

Simba wasn’t shattered into pieces on the floor, surrounded by wine and broken glass, but was this version of him better? He was like a phantom-version of himself, distant and slow-speaking, looking like Simba, but he wasn’t Simba. Maybe Berlioz preferred the radical, horrifying, heart-breaking mess from years ago. That had been in many ways straightforward. Berlioz didn’t have to think about what he had to do, he just did it-- picked Simba up, dragged him upstairs, cleaned his face and helped him through the night. 

But Simba wasn’t even asking to be rescued. He was standing on his own two feet. The mess was still heart-breaking, hidden like this, but Ber wasn’t sure if cleaning up Simba’s mess was the right thing to do or the wrong thing to do. 

What was a husband supposed to do? Was it different from a boyfriend or a friend? No, right? Well, maybe, right? Ber could feel the nervous thud of his own chest. He felt like a kid again, like it really was five years ago. He wanted to phone someone, like Lou-- tell me what to do. Or Sarabi-- please, come help. Yell at him for me, so I can go cry. 

A husband shouldn’t… he had to protect Simba...or maybe not-- 

Berlioz shook his head, then dragged a hand over his face, through his fringe. He blinked like his eyes were stinging with tears. They weren’t, not yet, but his throat was tight, and he knew it would only be a matter of fucking time before all his anger burned itself into something weak and flimsy like that. Y’know what, he didn’t want Lou or Sarabi-- he wanted Simba now, more than ever, to help him out here.

Fuck, he felt so alone. 

No, he couldn’t do this without Simba. Obviously. And so he was still angry, but yelling at Simba and then stamping off would just make him feel worse. “Yeah, obviously,” he said, then sighed. “Look, sit down, okay? I’m not-- trying to make you feel worse here, I-- I just want you to fucking talk to me like you haven’t been. Can we do that, please? Can you finally fucking talk to me?” 

SIMBA: Simba didn’t want to talk. He hadn’t wanted to talk this entire time. That was what the alcohol was for. It kept him from opening his big, stupid mouth—all his big, stupid emotions pouring out of him because they had no place else to go. The alcohol made it so he didn’t break down. So that he could keep marching forward, for Ber, for Ashlee, for Arthur and the Knights, for the whole damn town. That had been the thought process, anyway. Except it hadn’t even been a thought. It had been instinct. Simba had felt his armor cracking and instead of turning to Ber—or, hell, even going back to AA—he had immediately picked up a bottle. 

The shame had burned before, but now it burned all the brighter. 

Ber’s eyes might not be wet with tears, but Simba’s were. They tangled in his long lashes instead of falling as Simba nodded his head once. He didn’t want to talk, but he knew that they needed to. That Ber deserved that. 

He felt heavy as he stood from where he was crouching with the dogs. His knee popped, but there wasn't any pain. He must be drunker than he thought. As he stood, he blinked, taking a moment before crossing to the couch and sinking down on it. 

Berlioz met him there and sank down onto the cushion next to him. 

The silence stretched as the dogs tried to jump up on the couch too, tails wagging even though they could sense something was wrong. Well, Simone and Bowie could. Turtle was just happy to be included. 

“I—dunno what you want me to—“

His phone went off. Sunset. Time for iftar. Except, he’d already broken his fast. He reached into his pocket and shut his alarm off, tossing it onto the table, where it slapped down harshly. His jaw ticked as he leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. 

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, genuinely wanting to know, because from where he sat—

What was there to say? He’d fucked up. They both knew it. Any apologies he made were superficial, any promises he made were empty. 

BERLIOZ:  They sat like they always did most evenings. Their bodies remembered, and so did their sofa, the cushions giving way and their bodies turning toward each other. 

Despite all things familiar though, nothing about this felt as comfortable as it should. The stench of alcohol lingered around Simba as thick as a fog. And his body was different too, even if it didn’t look like it. Ber knew if he reached forward to touch all his favourite places on Simba, show those easy, mundane moments of affection that gave their relationship its texture and its colour, Simba probably would feel it through that fog. And Berlioz didn’t think he could mean those touches the same way he normally did. 

So Berlioz did not listen to those habits. The ones that said to put his hand on the back of Simba’s neck, or to pull Simba’s long body on top of his. He just sat, close but very far away. His hands laid loose in his lap. With his right hand he reached for his left wrist, pushing his thumb under one of the worn threaded bracelets he wore every day, in the shower, to sleep. 

He fiddled with it, glancing at Simba and down again, not able to keep any prolonged eye contact, while he waited for Simba to say anything.

And he did say something. 

Barely. 

Not good enough. Berlioz’s gaze locked on the bracelet again as his jaw hardened. He bit his own tongue. It shouldn’t be up to him to tell Simba what the fuck he should be saying right now. The anger was there in his chest, festering, growing colder.  Only Simba had the ability to melt it, didn’t he realize that? Didn’t he see Ber was giving him every chance-- he’d been giving him every fucking chance for months now--

That was your mistake, said that inner voice of his. He could imagine it was what Lou would certainly say. 

“The truth, obviously,” Ber said, voice small because if he spoke too loudly, he was certain he’d sound more frustrated than he wanted to. “I want you to tell me what the hell is going on with you, why you needed this--” he gestured toward Simba, all of Simba, unable to put it into concrete words. Because it was more complicated than just needing alcohol. It was also Simba lying and hiding and all that. “And why the hell you wouldn’t just-- talk to me in the first place. I talk to you. I trust you.” 

Suddenly he was sniffing. Ber reached up quickly, wiping away at those frustrated, angry tears before they could cascade down his cheeks. 

SIMBA: “It’s not about you,” Simba bit out at once, his shoulders tensing. His jaw ticked--even though he knew that wasn’t what he meant. 

He didn’t want Ber to think this had anything to do with him. It didn’t. Not in the way that Simba didn’t trust Ber. It wasn’t about trust. It was about--shame. Guilt. And the pure stupidity of being able to trick himself into thinking that he had all of this under control and it wasn’t that bad. Simba hadn’t said anything because there hadn’t been anything to say. He wasn’t backsliding, the alcohol he had hidden in an empty cereal box in the cabinet was just in case. Sneaking drinks before he came home or before going to board meetings was not really sneaking drinks, because he didn’t need to tell Ber about everything he did. He was an adult. 

Simba rubbed at the muscle of his palm with his thumb. 

“It’s just--it didn’t start...I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to--admit it to anyone. Not even myself and especially not you. I couldn’t stand the thought of you knowing.” The words came out awkward, stilted. Not at all sounding like his own voice. He felt detached. The alcohol, a pool that he was swimming in, weightless. 

“Looking at me like you are now.” He didn’t even glance at Ber when he said it. He knew the expression he would find there and just the idea of it made his skin crawl, as if there was some monster living beneath the surface.

“I just--thought I could handle it. I’m sorry.” The apology slipped out without him meaning for it to, because he knew how pointless it was. That didn’t change how he felt, though, which was so, so sorry. Among the shame and the guilt and the regret, the sorry was what he kept coming back to.

BERLIOZ:  It felt like it had something to do with him.

Maybe not the drinking itself-- Berlioz knew that was coming from a thousand other places. Simba had reasons to drink; he had more stressors than Berlioz could ever understand, and that was where his own anxiety dovetailed, made him worry that Simba might not open up cuz Ber wasn’t capable enough. Simba saw him as too fragile, or maybe he just didn’t think Ber would get it, since it wasn’t like they hadn’t had hundreds of misunderstandings before. 

For most of their relationship, Ber knew he stood outside, looking in: looking in at the Lyons legacy, looking in at Simba’s relationships with his family, looking in at the responsibility that came from being in this town and carrying that name. Ber did what he could, had figured out that his part, most of the time, was to be the one place where Simba didn’t have to deal with that.

But did that mean Simba would drink instead? Couldn’t Berlioz help carry some of it, even if he didn’t fully understand? 

Ber couldn’t focus on these worries. Too quickly, this conversation would mutate into something else, drifting away from Simba’s alcoholism and into their issues. Ber tried to push his anxiety away then, and repeat Simba’s words back to himself: It’s not about you. That wasn’t meant to be an insult, even if it felt like it could be. 

It wasn’t about Ber. But it did affect him. 

He finally did reach over to Simba, his hand falling on Simba’s thigh and squeezing. His brow had furrowed; he knew that he wore all the worry that Simba would be sick to see. But this part, at least, really was his job. He was allowed to be worried, even if Simba didn’t feel like he could explain everything to him. 

“Mon amour,” he started very softly. “It’s not the drinking that I...I’m not mad that you needed to drink. But the lying and the hiding, that stuff is what could really hurt us, y’know? I get that you didn’t want to talk to me about the drinking, but isn’t your sponsor supposed to help? If it’s getting that bad…” he trailed off. Like always, he wasn’t certain what he was supposed to say and wished there was a script here. But there wasn’t; no two cases of this kinda thing were the same. 

“You don’t have to handle this kind of thing alone.” 

SIMBA: Simba didn't want Berlioz speaking to him so gently, calling him affectionate names. He didn’t know what he wanted—or needed, but it wasn’t that. Part of him wished that Berlioz would yell at him, shout at him, tell him he hated him. That felt more true. Simba couldn’t imagine Ber’s kindness was real. His patience genuine.

He didn’t know why. He should be grateful that he’d married the kindest, gentlest person in the entire world. And he was. Every time but now. Now, it just dug the shame deeper. Because Ber didn’t deserve this. He wouldn’t deserve it even if he got furious at Simba and threatened divorce. But, it may make it easier to shoulder if that was the case. If Ber was angry, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. 

The shame was so heavy in his chest he suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. He sucked in a deep, ragged breath as Ber squeezed his leg, though—in all honesty—he barely felt his touch through the layer of alcohol that buzzed in his veins, just beneath the surface. His head was especially dizzy with it now, hungry and having forgotten to breathe. 

He scoffed. “They don’t know me,” Simba said. 

Honestly, the whole AA thing had only sort of ever helped. He never spoke, only listened. And he’d never once called his sponsor because what was some asshole who didn’t know him going to say that was gonna make him feel better? Also, it had been almost funny when they’d asked him his sexuality and he’d said bisexual and then they hadn’t known what to do with him—since your sponsor is supposed to be someone you wouldn’t be attracted to. Also, it was heavily Christian, which wouldn’t be a problem except, once again, they hadn’t known what to do with him. It had helped, in so far that he’d stopped drinking. That had more to do with the coins he got after every milestone, which was always satisfying. 

“What are they supposed to say to me that would even matter? Drinking is bad? No, is it?” he intoned sarcastically. “You’re gonna ruin all your relationships, your marriage? Huh, I didn’t think about that.” He shook his head and then ran his hand over it so that he was gripping his neck. The leg that Ber’s hand rested on started bouncing and Simba felt like he was about to jump out of his skin. Or, at least, off the couch. 

“I know all those things and I still did it anyway.” The confusion colored his voice. “I am alone because no one understands it. I don’t even understand it. It just—happens. I blink and suddenly I’ve fallen back down again. Breaking my fast, my promises. I hate it.” He looked at Ber then, his eyes hard. “I swear, I hate it.”

BERLIOZ:  Ber knew that he and Simba couldn’t be more different when it came to handling their issues. They both handled them shit, by the way-- it was just drastically opposite brands of shit. Ber, for example, did...nothing. He didn’t look his issues in the eye. He just sat there (or laid there, more likely, sleeping longer or putting himself into marijuana stupors on purpose) and shrugged and let the problem get bigger and bigger until it was so big that Ber regretted ever letting it get so big. Why didn’t I fucking do something about that? He’d think to himself, even more paralyzed than before. Look at Pere. That was all the evidence he needed. He had done nothing, done nothing, done nothing, then when he did something, it was too late. 

Simba avoided his problems too, but he did stuff like this. He didn’t just sit there and rot; he self-destructed.

And then when faced with his own self-destruction, he just double-downed into it. So half of this, all Berlioz heard were the excuses. And look, he had no fucking idea what it was like to be Muslim and bisexual and an alcoholic, plopped in a room with a bunch of white strangers who didn’t know you, didn’t get you. He could imagine it did suck, but-- therapy sucked too. Ber hated therapy. He got better at it, but he still hated it, when every instinct screamed at him to go hide rather than confront his issues head on. 

Simba had to do something too. Confront his issues, but not with excuses, or anger, or drinking. Something else. 

“Then do something about it,” he blurted this, not having any better way to say it.

His ears coloured, cheeks pinking too. It was too harsh, but at the same time-- Ber was frustrated. Simba still wasn’t really talking to him, and Ber could say that was alright, but it wasn’t. He meant what he said: Simba had to talk to someone. And right now, Ber wasn’t sure he was going to. What did the end of this look like? Would Simba just bounce right back around and end up in Pixie’s or [name redacted] or even the Deer’s? Would he drop more of Ber’s calls? Say one thing, do another? 

“Cuz you can’t keep doing this,” he continued then. “You know that. And look, I-- I’ll do whatever I can to help. I can quit drinking too, I don’t care. I can go with you to therapy, you can come with me. We can find-- a program. Something. We’ll get a plan together cuz I don’t want our marriage to get ruined, okay?” 

SIMBA: Simba flinched at Ber’s words like he’d reached out and struck him. He hadn’t, obviously, hadn’t even moved much, but Simba could feel the frustration in his husband’s voice and just that crack was enough for Simba to recoil. It helped to hear it. He shouldn’t want Ber to be mad at him, but it helped him solidify his resolve. He was still dealing with all of his other emotions. He felt like he was rocking in extremely turmoiled sea.

The shame rose up and crashed down, making him nauseous. Or maybe that was the alcohol. Or the fact he hadn’t eaten since before the sun came up that morning. The guilt swarmed around him. As if constricting him like a serpent. His confusion made it hard to think, because he kept trying to swim backwards and find where this had all gone wrong, because he didn’t know. He couldn’t remember when he’d first drank to forget, drank to numb. He couldn’t remember the first time he’d bought a bottle of whiskey and hid it, for when he needed it. First, for just an emergency and then he cracked the lid and finished it and needed another. Needed to always be fully stocked. To have it, just in case. At first, it was only every now and then, when those just-in-cases rose up. Then, it became all the time. Not—every day and not all day. Usually just in the evenings, when Ber was in his studio and Ashlee was doing homework and Simba’s day had gone from running to this obligation to that one to nothing. His thoughts would crowd in and—Simba had always needed help battling his demons.

That was what scared him the most: being afraid of what facing those demons would look like. And what gave him the most shame was being afraid in the first place. He should be stronger than this. Better than this. When had he become so dependent?

Simba wanted to scream. To go for a run. Though, if he ran, he’d probably pass out. Or he’d go right to the Hunted Deer for another drink.

That was his thought while Ber talked about their marriage being ruined.

Another ragged breath passed through Simba’s lips and he did start crying then. He couldn’t help himself. Simba had tried to keep it in, but he was scared, and he was sorry, and he didn’t want to ruin his marriage and he couldn’t understand how all those things could be true and he still was headed down that path. Still thinking of the alcohol and how it was where he wanted to run. Not towards Ber, but down the neck of another bottle.

He reached up and scrubbed at the few tears that had fallen, pinching at the bridge of his nose. His head was dizzy, and he felt nauseous still, and all he wanted to do was sleep. Or scream, but he didn’t think he had the energy for that.

“I don’t want to ruin our marriage,” he said, as if it were a confession and not something that should be obvious. He sounded pathetic. “But I don’t know what to do. It feels like—like any time something bad happens...it’s the only way to get through it. I-I’m scared.” He turned his body on the couch so that he could look at his husband. Or, really, so his husband could look at him and see that he wasn’t lying. That this was the truth.

“I’m scared of what it does to me. How—easily it turns me into...into someone who would ruin our marriage.” His shoulders sagged and he rubbed another hand over his face. Looking away, though this time towards the kitchen.

“There’s a bottle of Jack in the box of Frosties.” It’s been there for months. That’s not the original one. 

BERLIOZ: Berlioz’s body shouted at him to move closer to Simba or pull Simba toward him. Both, maybe, at once. How often had Simba comforted him that way, and how many times was it the exact thing that Ber needed? Words were flimsy and they evaporated easily, especially in the heat of Ber’s anxiety. But touching was solid. He could draw Simba’s head down, tuck him to his chest, wrap his arms around him. For once, Simba would be the small one, and Berlioz would be the strong one: the shield to protect Simba from the world. Though that wasn’t exactly what Simba needed protecting from, was it?

 The world might bare its teeth at Simba and throw up obstacles that no one--especially Ber-- knew how to deal with. But the world wasn’t shoving the alcohol into his hands. It wasn’t pouring it down his throat, and it wasn’t making Simba hide these things, or lie to Berlioz and to the rest of his friends. Ber had to protect Simba from Simba and that-- that was harder. That might not require Berlioz’s softest touch. It might mean holding back and letting Simba cry. Get it all out, all that shame and regret, so he could start over again. What Ber could give Simba was the forgiveness to do that. And so Berlioz did not try to quiet Simba. He stayed still and relaxed, his face gentle as Simba turned to him and began to properly confess. No more bitter, defensive, half-excuses. Ber reached out despite himself, his hand resting on Simba’s cheek, thumb brushing one of those tears away before Simba sagged and drew his own hands to cover his face. I understand. I’m scared too. But I know you’re better than this, Berlioz thought, though these words caught as they always did. Because did he understand? Was that the right thing to say? Berlioz wanted so badly to know the magic words, just as Simba often did for him. Staying quiet was still, probably, the best thing to do. Because it earned him another confession that dropped through Berlioz like a stone. He blinked, shocked at how heavy that lie felt. Even now, caught in all his lies, hearing them all said out loud… made Berlioz realize what a fool he’d been. How easily he’d let Simba fool him. He bit back that hurt; didn’t wanna shame Simba now that he was talking to him. He just nodded slowly, put his hand back on Simba’s knee, and squeezed. “I’ll take care of it,” he said softly, then swallowed. “What else can I do?” 

SIMBA: Tears filled Simba’s eyes again when Ber rested his hand on Simba’s leg.

He felt the heaviness too. Of all his lies. Of the literal poison in his veins. Simba knew how this ended, he’d seen it, even if it was slightly different now that InterPride wasn’t in the picture. He had just...thought he could control it. That it would just be one drink, two drinks...and then before he could think it had turned into a problem. And by then, he got scared and didn’t want to disappoint Ber. Not just a year into their marriage. When Ber was dealing with his own shit that Simba needed to be there for him. In the moments where he almost confessed before, he’d seen Ber getting pissed at him, or worse, crying—looking at him like he couldn’t trust him anymore.

And, maybe, with this, he couldn’t.

Simba knew that he wasn’t ever gonna be able to touch alcohol again. If he didn’t want to ruin his marriage, his life (those things were the same to him.) He just didn’t know...how to do that. He had already proven that he was willing to lie. To himself. To Ber. To everyone.

The answer to Ber’s question was obvious to Simba, but it also wasn’t easy. However, Simba was done with feeling this way. Maybe he was still afraid to face all the things that he had been running from but right now, that wasn’t what he was worried about. His marriage—Berlioz—was more important than that fear.

Sitting up straighter, Simba turned to Ber and his face was serious; split open with that fear, more genuine that Simba let anyone else see. The tracks of tears were still drying in his eyes.

“I need you to not let me get away with it,” Simba told him. “I know—that you...suspected something. This—it’s not your fault. That’s not what I’m saying. I know it’s mine, for lying, for hiding, for breaking your trust. I know it was the coward’s thing to do, but—that’s what drinking turns me into. A coward. So, I-I’m asking for your help, I suppose. I don’t...think this is going to be easy. And I know it’s scary. I—I’m scared too. I’m going to go through a bit of withdrawal, probably, and it isn’t going to be pretty. I’ll...have to stop fasting for a few days.” Admitting that hurt, made his heart squeeze defensively in his chest saying: stop, stop now, but Simba didn’t want to lie. He didn’t want to be a coward.

Being brave hurt. It wouldn’t be bravery if it didn’t.

“And I’m going to want to run again. I’m going to get other help. I promise. I want to. For me, for you, for us. but...I’m going to be good at lying to them too. To everyone. But—you know me better than everyone. You’re my mume and I trust you to—to hold me accountable. I need you to. I am going to do everything I can, but I need your help to...be the man I want.”

His gaze dropped again, feeling guilty, his heart burning hot in his chest. But, he felt stronger saying it all too. Like if they...did this together, they could do it.

“Is that—is that okay?” He glanced up at Ber from beneath his lashes.

BERLIOZ: Berlioz wanted to say no.

He was terrified of what Simba asked. He didn’t want that kind of responsibility-- responsibility of most kinds scared the hell out of him, but policing Simba’s behavior was probably the most nightmarish scenario of all. He’d rather do that shit for someone like Marie, who was younger than him and his sister, so Ber already had an obligation to her to be like, a role model (lol) or something. 

That wasn’t how Berlioz saw his responsibilities as a husband though. Course he helped. He was there for support, the safe place for Simba to unload all his problems onto, and Ber tried to help with those problems in whatever way he could. He could listen, he could give (bad) advice, he could, at times, gently push back by sharing his own view of the world. But even in those moments when he and Simba disagreed on how to approach stuff--which happened all the time-- Ber didn’t really expect Simba to change his mind exactly. To listen to Ber. 

The only time Ber had ever been a police for Simba’s behavior had been in dire fuckin’ situations. Like, stopping Simba from embarking on a dangerous quest to save the town and martyr himself in the process. Ber stepped in, then.

Stopping Simba from drinking alcohol could be the same thing…

Felt different though. Felt tense and scary and stressful. Well, so was saving Simba all the other times, which is why Berlioz didn’t want their relationship to boil down just to those moments. He didn’t wanna be the fucking leash that kept pulling Simba back from the edges. He needed Simba to take care of himself too. 

But Simba was asking for this specific kind of help and… Ber couldn’t say no. Could he? Should he? Maybe he had his idea of husband all wrong and he needed to do the shit that Simba was saying. 

Didn’t mean it was going to be easy for him though. 

The uncertainty folded Ber’s brows. He squeezed Simba’s hands, looked down at their laps. “I--I mean, I can try,” said Ber after that second of hesitation. He looked up. “You know I’m not good at that stuff though. Not that I can’t, I just uh...I dunno. Might need practice or something.” He scoffed a little at himself. He knew how ridiculous saying that was. 

“But I’ll do it for you.” 

SIMBA: Simba knew it was hard. Simba knew he probably shouldn’t ask this of Ber. That it wasn’t fair. 

But Simba didn’t know what else to do. Even after he had admitted to himself that he was an alcoholic and got himself out of it the first time, he’d never really confronted what being an alcoholic meant. That he didn’t have control over himself. That there was this part of him that was ugly and cruel and out to ruin his life. He had continued to drink after those first few months of sobriety. A few glasses of champagne here, a mixed drink there, a couple of fun shots from Pixie’s. It hadn’t been a problem. He didn’t have a problem. Except there were times he hid flasks in his suit pockets at Board meetings, when things got too stressful. One offs, until they weren’t one offs. 

It was a problem. Simba knew that now. Even if admitting it felt like shoving a hot poker between his ribs. It was a problem and if Simba wanted to be the man he wanted to be—

He would never be able to touch a drop of alcohol again. 

And, right now, that felt impossible. Just thinking it made him want to run right back to the bottom of a bottle. 

Whether it was fair or not, Simba knew that he needed Berlioz to help him. 

Simba squeezed Ber’s hands back, tried for a smile. It was hard won, but he managed. Even if it didn’t really touch his glassy eyes. 

“Thank you, habibah,” Simba told him. “Hopefully you won’t have to practice. I am going to try, I promise. I don’t want to be like this. Not anymore. I wanna be someone people can be proud of. Depend on.” These things weren’t secrets, but it felt like he was confessing to them anyway. 

He leaned against Ber’s side, putting his head on his husband’s shoulder.

[homomedia]

hope you don't mind me asking, but I wasn't in the Skam Fandom when OG season 4 aired, so I just wanted to know what the general issue with Sanas season was?

Holy shit this warrants an entire fucking book, but just for quickness sake:

Sana’s conflict is liking a guy that isn’t Muslim, the explanation for him leaving his faith (Islam) behind is Even reading the Quran and trying to kill himself for it, which is so...??? Muslims discuss the Quran, its interpretation and teaching is not like set in stone and this really was a superficial explanation to create the drama since Sana is observant and of course would want to be with a muslim boy, it’s important because it shapes their entire lives, but the way Julie Andem did it was so superficial you don’t actually see that much of an actual conflict and its complexity so it is just drama.

Sana doesn’t really talk about her religion or the way it shapes her life, it isn’t shown either, THE SEASON made a point of showing us misery porn, and racism porn, like they showed us everything bad that comes with being muslim and brown, but not once the show made real attempts at showing us how it is her comfort and a deeply ingrained and lovely part of her life as religion is supposed to be.

Halfway through the season, Noora conflict took over, Sana was isolated, an unspoken shitstorm happened between the boys squad and the balloon squad with the implication that the brown boys were homophobic towards Even and Isak, absolute bullshit for transparent fucking drama.

Yousef, the ex Muslim guy Sana likes kissed Noora for no fucking reason and it is never given, Sana is made to be jealous of Noora, one of the oldest tropes for women of color in media in which they are shown to be envious a white character's traits, really fucking shitty because it implies people of color want whiteness...

Sana was isolated, completely, it is understandable, but the reasons for it? Wholly pathetic, racist and degrading, Sana decides to punish some of the bullies at her school because she got fucking tired and were taking over the Russebuss that Sana was supposed to be chief of, she heard them saying racist shit about her and her brother and friends and decided to leak the racist, misogynist shit of one of the girls, the one taking over as boss incidentally, and the show actually made a point of saying that that Sana retaliating against the racism she experiences day to fucking day is as bad as exposing a fucking racist, WHICH IS NOT.

Because of this Sana got isolated and her friends didn’t even say shit about the racism she was facing, they didn’t come to her, they didn’t check on her, the tension was resolved with a cutesy scene of “we never were gonna leave you behind”, while they made Sana apologise and in no moment there was the barest hint that maybe the white racist girl should apologise too for all the shit she’s been saying about Sana, like wtf Julie Andem?

Sana retaliates by using Isak’s fb messages with Sara, because they used to talk, and Sara was always telling all the mean shit to Isak, Isak finds out and they talk about it, he decides to take the fall but BEFORE THAT, he fucking decides to tell her that it’s her DAMN JOB TO FUCKING EDUCATE RACISTS, they make a parallel between being gay and being muslim and brown, and ffs it is not the same fucking experience, it really is not, and they had ISAK WHITESPLAIN RACISM TO A MUSLIM BROWN GIRL, THE FUCKING TONE DEAFNESS IS SHOUTING NOW!

Noora (Manon)’s problems with William took over Sana’s narrative, to the point Sana was the one fixing them, the conflict live I’ve said was resolved superficially and not once does Sana get to call out her own friends from abandoning her, not protecting her from racist and islamophobic remaks as well as Vilde (Daphné)’s usual racist remarks.

The show presentation of Ramadan was so goddamn shallow, completely superficial and even had a shitty line of the virgins in paradise that most shows with the most pathetic muslim rep always put for some goddamn obsessed reason.

The last episode of her season was devoted to other people. She got kicked out of her own damn narrative.

This is entirely fandom related: every single one of these instances was used to silence and harass muslim fans, because white fans just couldn’t deal with Julie Andem not being their perfect lilly white girl that gave them their mlm season, because of that a lot of muslim fans deleted, or left the fandom, I haven’t seen harassment and islamophobic shit this concentrated ever in a fandom, like it really took me by surprise that fans were behaving like this when they were preaching that the show was about having discussions and yet they were silencing muslim voices at every damn turn!

The aforementioned islamophobia was accompanied with the white fans clearly fetishizing Even and Isak by just caring about their scenes during the Sana season, most refused to reblog or engage with muslim fans discussing the show’s issues and how it could be better, like what really gets me is that muslim fans were so open to discuss it all, and they were so fucking gentle and yet white fans stereotyped them as aggresive and too demanding, and bad rep is really just worse than no rep and this season showed that.

For now is what I can remember. I’ve made previous posts about it but the thing is, Sana’s season was racist and the white fandom stood by it and that will never not irk me, because it really showed how little people actually care about learning to be better when it comes to race and religion.

Edit: That being said...

I ask of you, SKAMFR FANS, for this season to listen and to boost voices of Muslim and black fans because this is their experience and we don't get to fucking talk over it.

EDIT 2: they did not SKAM France fandom actually showed their white supremacist asses and belittled and chased away almost all fans of color of the fandom once again and added antiblackness to the mixture along with everything I just stated and they did the exact same thing as SKAM og fandoms and masturbated and demanded more backwater french trash Isak and Even while Imane remained abused and forgotten and serving a white narrative.

I sincerely hope white people die off the earth.

[salmankhanholics]

★ Salman Khan: We have Dabangg part 4 written too !

Salman Khan on plans to take the Dabangg franchise forward even after a prequel; bringing Chulbul, Radhe and Devil in a crossover film and being approached by Farhan Akhtar with a script...

Roshmila Bhattacharya | December 12th 2019

He arrives like the star he is. And instantly, the slumbering parking lot of Mehboob Studio comes alive. Flashbulbs pop as Bhai strikes a pose. There are journalists waiting to meet Salman Khan and a Bangladeshi cricketer too. He obliges some of those waiting, before beckoning you to take two chairs, one stacked on top of the other so you are at his eye level. Excerpts: This time, we believe you have been credited with the story, screenplay and dialogue. What makes Dabangg 3 diff erent from the earlier two films? When I heard the story of the first Dabangg, which Dilip Shukla had written, I liked the plot but thought the character wasn’t noble. There were no songs, he was grey, corrupt and ruthless. I changed him into the Chulbul Pandey you see, and it worked. There was a lot of angst. The mother passes away, after which he accepts his father and brother as family. That script was not mine; we retained the mota mota plot and made the scenes more massy and today, with a different kind of swagger. If you were to meet Chulbul on the road, toh aap usey maroge because he’ll appear arrogant and badtameez. But on screen, you like him. He does tedha things but for the right reasons. Like the zehreela sharab scene in Dabangg was negative but uska fayda was positive. In Dabangg 2, they wanted just Chulbul, without the family. I argued that Chulbul worked because of his mother, father, Makkhan Chand Pandey, Bobby ji, Tiwari ji, Pichkari ji, Rajjo, everyone. How could I take them out? So, we retained them. The third part is about how Chulbul became the man he is. We’ve dug up his past, there’s pain. It’s an emotional vendetta story. At a time when filmmakers are struggling with sequels, you’re coming with a prequel… We have Dabangg 4 written too. Yeah you are going up to Dabangg 743 as you mentioned in our last interview. Seriously, how do these ideas happen? (Laughs) They just come about. Sometimes, one film gives you an idea for the next. In Dabangg 3, we explore why Rajjo’s father was an alcoholic and how Chulbul met her. Aap jab picture dekhoge toh aapko samajh mein aayega kahan kahan se nikle hain hum. After two films, today, the minute I walk into the Dabangg set, I stop being Salman Khan, the actor, and become Chulbul Pandey. Ditto, Sonakshi who transforms instantly into Rajjo. That’s how it is with the whole cast; we’ve become a real family. Do you have a personal connection with Chulbul? Well, I’m writing it, playing the character, so there has to be some thought behind it. The director this time is Prabhudheva and he knows the pulse of the audience… Yeah, that’s why he’s in the film. Arbaaz (Khan, brother and the director of Dabangg 2) would take time to understand, his BP would shoot up and down. So, this time, the first thing he said was that he wouldn’t direct the film and we should get someone else. I suggested Prabhu, and his reaction was, “Fantastic!” Prabhu is very receptive, he gets what I want to say in a second. Language is a problem with him, so I have to explain things to him, but once he gets it, he executes it beautifully... Largerthan-life, with humour and emotion. Bang on! With a film like Dabangg, we go from high point to high point. We’re not pakaoing anyone. The message comes through the scenes. Even before Dabangg 3 was complete, you announced Radhe with Prabhu. Obviously, you have a lot of confi dence in him and he reiterates you share a great equation, which is rare... Yes, we have a good working relationship and I believe one shouldn’t spoil that. We were looking for a director for Radhe. My friend Prashant suggested Prabhu. I recalled he had told me that after Dabangg 3, he was going on a twomonth holiday, but Prashant urged me to speak to him and Prabhu agreed. The script was halfway through. I was working on a film at the time... I don’t remember the name... and it was to come out on Eid, which didn’t happen… Inshallah with Sanjay Leela Bhansali? Wasn’t that the film? Inshallah… Inshallah… Radhe is happening Inshallah on Eid. We are working day in and day out to put it out on Eid. You were saying Radhe’s script was ready… With us, plots are always ready, then, they evolve. You write at home, in a hotel or an office. But then, when you come on the sets, the story changes with the setting. Radhe is also your story? No, but we have made a lot of changes. Eid is your date… No, it’s not, it’s nobody’s date, anyone is welcome to release a film on the day. It’s just that my films happen to come on Eid. Actually, my last film, Bharat, released during Ramadan, three days before Eid. And now, Dabangg 3 is arriving on Christmas. I’ve had releases during Diwali and Republic Day too. Any festive day is a good day. Next Eid, Akshay Kumar’s Laxmmi Bomb is releasing with Radhe... Yes, and there is scope for another two-three films to come on that day. Then, the audience decides which film to spend on. Agar picture achhi lagi, they will watch it. If they don’t, toh nahin dekhenge, festive date ho ya koi bhi date ho. Bharat has made a lot of money at the box-office. But do you think the scale of the film magnified the expectations? Not really. I just thought towards the end, the father should have come back. That was my problem with the film. But aaj kal ke yeh new people think that a reunion with the father is a cliché. Father ki age kya hogi? Uski story kya hogi? I don’t give a damn, he should have come back. Yes, the film did phenomenal business, my sister (Alvira) is happy, we’re happy with the product. But if we had shown a 70-yearold man and a 90-year-old man having a conversation, it would have been a more emotionally satisfying film. Bharat’s whole journey was about him waiting for his father to come back to him. So, for me, the film looked incomplete. Talking about fathers, Salim Khan saab recently said that Farhan Akhar has come to you with a script and you have liked it. Is the film happening? I don’t know. Farhan has come to me with a script and I like him. He is like a kid brother; he has grown up with us. That bond will always be there with Zoya (Akhtar) and him. They are like my younger siblings. Rohit Shetty and you have been talking too. Will Chulbul Pandey join Rohit’s cop universe, with Singham and Simmba? Chulbul is a universe within himself. So is Singham. This is a separate film, then? Nothing’s finalised. We’ve been talking about other things too. But Kick 2 is definitely happening and we are told it could arrive in December 2021? It could. How does it feel to bring Devil back? He has his own fans... Yeah, one thing I want to do later is bring Kick’s Devil, Dabangg’s Chulbul Pandey and Radhe together. That’s a wonderful idea. If The Avengers can do it, why not Salman Khan. Are you joking or is it a possibility? No, I have something in mind. Kick is Sajid’s film. He is not just a producer but a good friend... Yes, he’s like a brother to us. And what is it like bringing him back as a director? (Laughs) He didn’t even know he was directing Kick, he got to know on Twitter. You have introduced several newcomers to Hindi cinema, not just technicians but actors, too. From Sonakshi Sinha to Saiee Manjrekar now... Saiee is a sigh of relief for the industry. Watch out for her. ' We have heard that she is playing a mute in the film, no dialogue, speechless… True? Nooo, you guys will be speechless when you see her. I’d introduced Sonakshi at an award show and this time too, I took Saiee along. As soon as we faced the paparazzi, they started saying, we want solo pictures of her. So, I thought, ho gaya Saiee ka. Rocket Singh, straight out! Then, I heard this comment, “Saiee, tu sahi aahes.” We thought you were introducing Saiee’s sister, Ashwami? Are you? We don’t have anything right now, but she is very talented. How does Bigg Boss feel after all these years? It’s become a part of you? Yeah, a part of mine wants to cut that part and throw it out and the other part wants to keep it. And the latter is haavi on the part that wants to throw it out. You don’t like the show? I like it. It gets stressful, but I learn a lot. And I get to know where the country is going, what is happening to values, morals, scruples and principles. We see it right there, with celebrities. The beauty is once they are out of the house, they are not like that at all. It’s not as if they are giving performances, the house makes them like that. Has being in a particular place changed your personality? No. What’s happening with Sohail Khan’s film Sher Khan? That film requires a lot of visual effects. After it is shot, it will take six-eight months, almost a year, for it to be ready. After the next two-three films, Sher Khan goes on the floors. It’s beautiful. I’m not going to ask you about marriage this time… Okay. …But whenever I see you with kids, I feel a child is missing out on a really good father. Even I feel that way. Are there plans of having a child through adoption, surrogacy, though that’s outlawed... No, not yet. So, no plans? No, when it happens, it happens. How will it happen? (With a straight face) I can’t describe the whole process to you. What I mean is that you don’t want to get married or adopt… There are enough kids in the house. Another child will be born now, in December. Would you like to raise your sister Arpita’s child? No, Arpita does a fantastic job of raising her child, in fact, she is raising all of us correctly right now. Your dad, even at 84, is all there… Yeah, because there were five of us, and now many more, so he has to be all there. It’s wonderful how he knows everything that is happening with all your projects. I share things with him when he is sitting across the table, tell him the basic plot. He will say, “Yeh galat hai, isey nikalo.” When he sees the film, too, there are times he says, “Yahaan mazaa nahin aa raha hai, isey nikalo.” Some bits we do listen to. Did he have any suggestions for Dabangg 3? No.

Mumbai Mirror

[thewritingpanda]

A Different Perspective

"in everything you do, always be kind"

It was the 14th of the holy month, Ramadan came in hot days that year. I had a package to deliver across the city from my dad to my uncle, perks of having a son I guess. A cup of coffee sat on the table in front of the TV, I was putting my shoes on and listening to the news. It was a terrible time to be alive, terrorists were spreading like a plague, people were not thinking straight, if they are different then they are not worthy, that is what they said. It didn't matter what religion you followed as long as you didn't follow and heed their radical ideology. I turned off the TV and took the last sip of my coffee, it was cold and bitter, a lovely start to a long commute I thought. I always choose public transportation over the car when it is a long distance, I don't like traffic, the sound of the car horns and people fighting to break fast is nerve wrecking, so I choose to put my headphones in my ears and forget everything around me, hoping I would reach my destination fast before I suffocate in the zombie like crowd. It is a 2 kilometers walk to the bus that would take me to the subway station, from there it would be a 45 mins ride to my destination. The sun was blistering, I looked at the distance and I could see heat waves dancing from the asphalt, it was only but 5 minutes until I started feeling sweaty. Halfway to the bus, I realized that I had forgotten my headphones, however, there was no way I would go back for them so I kept moving. There isn't really much to do when you walk in an empty street so I had my gaze down, following the road, and to my surprise I found 100 pounds lying there on the ground. I looked around me, thought of calling out if someone lost this, but decided that it would be to no avail so I put it in my front pocket away from my wallet; it wasn't mine after all. The bus ride to the station was sticky to say the least, the concept of personal space flies out the window when everyone is in a hurry, no one waits for the next bus, they just pile up over each other like a basket of apples, sweaty angry apples that is. Despite being very crowded, the bus was completely silent, no one was talking, there was an old man fiddling a sebha with his fingers and murmuring prayers. His hands were wrinkled, but not out of age only, I could tell that he was a craftsman of some sorts. My observations were soon interrupted by the bus coming to a sudden stop, we were there already. I wasn't in a hurry to get out and squeeze myself through the crowd like the rest of the people, neither was the old man it seemed. I headed for the stairs when I heard a voice "come on dad, let's get you home", I hadn't noticed the woman who said this before, maybe because she was sitting. "yes dear, by all means let's go". The woman was carrying a large bag over her head, it was mesmerizing how she moved naturally with such grace. She took the old man's right hand and brought him down the stairs, I thought it was touching how she kissed his forehead afterwards. It wasn't just a regular kiss, it was a kiss that showed her gratitude and appreciation to all the things he had done for her, and now it was her time to take care of him; it was a kiss of pure kindness and selflessnness. I looked at them as they walked away not noticing that it had been 5 mins already since I left the bus and started watching them.

The metro station was a mess to say the least, I couldn't take a breath without someone else sharing the air with me. After a long 10 mins I managed to get my ticket, deep down I knew this was not gonna be fun. On the platform, people had no respect for rules, once the door opened it was war. Those coming out of the train would try to shove those going in on the sides so they could get out, and those going in would do the opposite to get in. Me, I stood there watching, knowing that there is a split second at the end that would be my opportunity to get in, sure enough it came and I was in. A few stations later, the train was now semi empty. I rested my head on the pole behind me taking a deep breath as a sigh of relief. "hey mister, do you know what time it is?" I let the breath out, it was the sound of a little boy. I looked at him with a smile and extended my arm for him to see the clock clearly "how about you tell me", the kid paused as he looked at my cheap watch, he kept shifting his eyes between me and the watch. "you can't tell what time it is?" the kid looked down on the ground, I made him feel bad unintentionally. "I still have 6 stations to go, I can teach you if you want" "really?" the kid looked at me, his face lit up, I nooded. The next five to ten minutes I taught the kid everything there is to learn how to read a clock, I have never seen such an enthusiastic kid eager to learn something this simple, I remembered mogli and was thinking of telling the kid, but I shook the idea off, I didn't want to talk about something else he may not know. "and that is how you tell what time it is" I said with a smile "that is so cool, can you please ask me what time it is in a bit mister" I nodded. The train stopped at the station I have been waiting for "well, that's my stop kiddo" I patted the kid on the shoulder gently "me too!", what are the odds.

It had been a long while since I last came to shoubra, the place hasn't really changed that much, the same old buildings, the crowded streets, well they were more crowded now but it looked the same to me. "so which way are you going mister?" I really didn't know so I decided to ask the kid, he looked like he knew his way around here "I have no idea, I am looking for the big square" I looked around looking lost, I really wanted the kid to feel good about helping "oh I know where that is, this way!". I started following the kid as he started small conversation "you know mister, I really love shoubra, it is full of good people" I agreed, I spent alot of my childhood here so I know a thing or two about shoubra. The kid continued "the only problem is that they are mostly Christians" well that was unexpected. I didn't reply and I waited for him to continue "father told me they are bad" I had to ask "why is that?" the kid looked at me with all the innocence in the world "because they are different". Look at what the world has come to, we teach our kids that different means bad. I could 't bear to think what this kid would grow up into, would he bully others? Would he live his life hating those who are "different"? "we are here mister!". He did know his way around, it was a large square with towering buildings that stood tall like a concrete jungle. Each building had tons of air Conditioners and office signs; finding the right building was like finding a needle in a haystack." so, which one is it mister?" I looked down at the kid with a smile then up at the buildings again "I honestly have no idea kiddo". "well I can't read, call someone if you can". I pulled my phone out and called my uncle, he told me to look for a big red sign. "we are looking for a big red sign on the fifth floor kiddo" the kid looked around then pointed behind me "right there mister!". I was impressed by the kids wit and how fast he scanned the area "thank you kiddo, well I guess I have to go". "yeah me too, I need to pray to break my fast, I am probably going to eat koshary, it is all I can afford". That last sentence made me frown, he has a pure soul yet he is being raised in harsh conditions. The kid waved at me goodbye and started to walk away, I was looking for a way to make him happy so I called out "hey kiddo! You forgot to tell me what time it is". The kid turned back and ran towards me, he looked at my hand watch "according to this it is 6:15". "clever boy" I put my phone in my pocket to shake his hand properly, then I felt a piece of paper.... The 100 pounds! There was no better timing than this!. I got down on my knees so I can see the kid eye to eye, put one hand on his shoulder. "listen kiddo, I know that life can be harsh sometimes. I know you have hopes and dreams that you want to achieve. You want to read, you want to live healthy and happy. I know" the kid's eyes started tearing, he wiped them off "I want to be a pilot so I can fly and see the world" I frowned sadly "I can tell you'd make a great pilot with your fast paced wits. I want you to know that you are different, and that doesn't mean you are bad. It just means you are unique, the same goes to everyone." I pulled the 100 pounds out of my pocket "here I want you to have this" the kid looked at me with gleamy eyes "really?" I nodded "go home and buy something to eat for your family and don't you ever give up on your dreams" the kid hugged me crying "thank you mister" I looked at him "Andrew, my name is Andrew" the kid looked at me "that is a different name, a unique one" he laughed. "remember this kid, whatever God you believe in, we all come from the same one". I looked at my watch, breaking fast was 20 mins away "oh hey, look at the time, you better get going" the kid looked at me with a smile and said "thank you". I stood up as I watched the kid run, he would 't get lost, he' s a clever kid.

One hour later, I came down the stairs of the building. My mission was complete, it was time to head home. The streets looked nothing like they were on my way there. They were now empty, no cars, just kids playing everywhere. The metro station had no one but me. I bought my ticket with no hassle at all and waited on the empty platform. Soon enough the metro arrived and I was glad to be on my way home. It had been ages since I last sat in the metro train, there was only 3 people around; an old man, his son, and his wife. I sat down tired, exhausted from the heat, and I had forgotten to buy water. I heard a familiar crackle of plastic, it was the sound of a water bottle. "I know you want to drink son, but remember what we said about kindness?" I opened my eye and so the little boy walk up to me "do you want some water sir?" I looked at the boy smiling, I was not ready to drink a fasting boy's water "no thank you, I'll be fine, you go on and drink" the boy stood there looking at his father. "come on, don't be shy have a sip you look exhausted" the man said to me. "I didn't fast sir, I am Christian I am sure your son is thirsty" the old man gave out a tumbling laugh "so Christians don't get thirsty? You are human, you are thirsty, just have a drink" I admit, I didn't expect such kindness from a stranger, kiddo must have thought the same about me. I took the bottle from the son and took a sip of water, I felt refreshed as if this sip brought me back to life. I gave the bottle back to the little boy, he ran towards his parents. "how did it feel son? Are you happy you helped this man?" the boy nodded with a smile "now you can drink, and remember always be kind to everyone". The next station the family left after saying goodbye. I sat there in an empty Train thinking how my act of kindness was repaid. Perhaps everything happens for a reason, the old man's lesson to his son was a lesson for me too. As the metro came to a stop, I told myself to remember that regardless of our differences and beliefs, our way of life, and our hopes and dreams, we are all human who come from the same place. My final thought leaving the train was that in everything I do, I will always be kind.

[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 5 paragraph xii

Before Boris, I had borne my solitude stoically enough, without realizing quite how alone I was. And I suppose if either of us had lived in an even halfway normal household, with curfews and chores and adult supervision, we wouldn’t have become quite so inseparable, so fast, but almost from that day we were together all the time, scrounging our meals and sharing what money we had. In New York, I had grown up around a lot of worldly kids—kids who’d lived abroad and spoke three or four languages, who did summer programs at Heidelberg and spent their holidays in places like Rio or Innsbruck or Cap d’Antibes. But Boris—like an old sea captain—put them all to shame. He had ridden a camel; he had eaten witchetty grubs, played cricket, caught malaria, lived on the street in Ukraine (“but for two weeks only”), set off a stick of dynamite by himself, swum in Australian rivers infested with crocodiles. He had read Chekhov in Russian, and authors I’d never heard of in Ukrainian and Polish. He had endured midwinter darkness in Russia where the temperature dropped to forty below: endless blizzards, snow and black ice, the only cheer the green neon palm tree that burned twenty-four hours a day outside the provincial bar where his father liked to drink. Though he was only a year older than me—fifteen—he’d had actual sex with a girl, in Alaska, someone he’d bummed a cigarette off in the parking lot of a convenience store. She’d asked him if he wanted to sit in her car with her, and that was that. (“But you know what?” he said, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think she liked it very much.” “Did you?” “God, yes. Although, I’m telling you, I know I wasn’t doing it right. I think was too cramped in the car.”) Every day, we rode home on the bus together. At the half-finished Community Center on the edge of Desatoya Estates, where the doors were padlocked and the palm trees stood dead and brown in the planters, there was an abandoned playground where we bought sodas and melted candy bars from the dwindling stock in the vending machines, sat around outside on the swings, smoking and talking. His bad tempers and black moods, which were frequent, alternated with unsound bursts of hilarity; he was wild and gloomy, he could make me laugh sometimes until my sides ached, and we always had so much to say that we often lost track of time and stayed outside talking until well past dark. In Ukraine, he had seen an elected official shot in the stomach walking to his car—just happened to witness it, not the shooter, just the broad-shouldered man in a too-small overcoat falling to his knees in darkness and snow. He told me about his tiny tin-roof school near the Chippewa reservation in Alberta, sang nursery songs in Polish for me (“For homework, in Poland, we are usually learning a poem or song by heart, a prayer maybe, something like that”) and taught me to swear in Russian (“This is the true mat —from the gulags”). He told me too how, in Indonesia, he had been converted to Islam by his friend Bami the cook: giving up pork, fasting during Ramadan, praying to Mecca five times a day. “But I’m not Muslim any more,” he explained, dragging his toe in the dust. We were lying on our backs on the merry-go-round, dizzy from spinning. “I gave it up a while back.” “Why?” “Because I drink.” (This was the understatement of the year; Boris drank beer the way other kids drank Pepsi, starting pretty much the instant we came home from school.) “But who cares?” I said. “Why does anybody have to know?” He made an impatient noise. “Because is wrong to profess faith if I don’t observe properly. Disrespectful to Islam.” “Still. ‘Boris of Arabia.’ It has a ring.” “Fuck you.”

“No, seriously,” I said, laughing, raising up on my elbows. “Did you really believe in all that?” “All what?” “You know. Allah and Muhammad. ‘There is no God but God’—?” “No,” he said, a bit angrily, “my Islam was a political thing.” “What, you mean like the shoe bomber?” He snorted with laughter. “Fuck, no. Besides, Islam doesn’t teach violence.” “Then what?” He came up off the merry-go-round, alert gaze: “What do you mean, what? What are you trying to say?” “Back off! I’m asking a question.” “Which is—?” “If you converted to it and all, then what did you believe?” He fell back and chortled as if I’d let him off the hook. “Believe? Ha! I don’t believe in anything.” “What? You mean now?” “I mean never. Well—the Virgin Mary, a little. But Allah and God…? not so much.” “Then why the hell did you want to be Muslim?” “Because—” he held out his hands, as he did sometimes when he was at a loss—“such wonderful people, they were all so friendly to me!” “That’s a start.” “Well, it was, really. They gave me an Arabic name—Badr al-Dine. Badr is moon, it means something like moon of faithfulness, but they said, ‘Boris, you are badr because you light everywhere, being Muslim now, lighting the world with your religion, you shine wherever you go.’ I loved it, being Badr. Also, the mosque was brilliant. Falling-down palace—stars shining through at night—birds in the roof. An old Javanese man taught us the Koran. And they fed me too, and were kind, and made sure I was clean and had clean clothes. Sometimes I fell asleep on my prayer rug. And at salah, near dawn, when the birds woke up, always the sound of wings beating!” Though his Australo-Ukrainian accent was certainly very odd, he was almost as fluent in English as I was; and considering what a short time he’d lived in America he was reasonably conversant in amerikanskii ways. He was always poring through his torn-up pocket dictionary (his name scrawled in Cyrillic on the front, with the English carefully lettered beneath: BORYS VOLODYMYROVYCH PAVLIKOVSKY) and I was always finding old 7-Eleven napkins and bits of scratch paper with lists of words and terms he’d made: bridle and domesticate celerity trattoria wise guy = кpymoŭ пaцaн propinquity Dereliction of duty. When his dictionary failed him, he consulted me. “What is Sophomore?” he asked me, scanning the bulletin board in the halls at school. “Home Ec? Poly Sci?” (pronounced, by him, as “politzei”). He had never heard of most of the food in the cafeteria lunch: fajitas, falafel, turkey tetrazzini. Though he knew a lot about movies and music, he was decades behind the times; he didn’t have a clue about sports or games or television, and—apart from a few big European brands like Mercedes and BMW—couldn’t tell one car from another. American money confused him, and sometimes too American geography: in what province was California located? Could I tell him which city was the capital of New England?

But he was used to being on his own. Cheerfully he got himself up for school, hitched his own rides, signed his own report cards, shoplifted his own food and school supplies. Once every week or so we walked miles out of our way in the suffocating heat, shaded beneath umbrellas like Indonesian tribesmen, to catch the poky local bus called the CAT, which as far as I could tell no one rode out our way except drunks, people too poor to have a car, and kids. It ran infrequently, and if we missed it we had to stand around for a while waiting for the next bus, but among its stops was a shopping plaza with a chilly, gleaming, understaffed supermarket where Boris stole steaks for us, butter, boxes of tea, cucumbers (a great delicacy for him), packages of bacon —even cough syrup once, when I had a cold—slipping them in the cutaway lining of his ugly gray raincoat (a man’s coat, much too big for him, with drooping shoulders and a grim Eastern Bloc look about it, a suggestion of food rationing and Soviet-era factories, industrial complexes in Lviv or Odessa). As he wandered around I stood lookout at the head of the aisle, so shaky with nerves I sometimes worried I would black out—but soon I was filling my own pockets with apples and chocolate (other favored food items of Boris’s) before walking up brazenly to the counter to buy bread and milk and other items too big to steal.

Back in New York, when I was eleven or so, my mother had signed me up for a Kids in the Kitchen class at my day camp, where I’d learned to cook a few simple meals: hamburgers, grilled cheese (which I’d sometimes made for my mother on nights she worked late), and what Boris called “egg and toasts.” Boris, who sat on the countertop kicking the cabinets with his heels and talking to me while I cooked, did the washing-up. In the Ukraine, he told me, he’d sometimes picked pockets for money to eat. “Got chased, once or twice,” he said. “Never caught, though.” “Maybe we should go down to the Strip sometime,” I said. We were standing at the kitchen counter at my house with knives and forks, eating our steaks straight from the frying pan. “If we were going to do it, that’d be the place. I never saw so many drunk people and they’re all from out of town.” He stopped chewing; he looked shocked. “And why should we? When so easy to steal here, from so big stores!” “Just saying.” My money from the doormen—which Boris and I spent a few dollars at a time, in vending machines and at the 7-Eleven near school that Boris called “the magazine”—would hold out a while, but not forever. “Ha! And what will I do if you are arrested, Potter?” he said, dropping a fat piece of steak down to the dog, whom he had taught to dance on his hind legs. “Who will cook the dinner? And who will look after Snaps here?” Xandra’s dog Popper he’d taken to calling ‘Amyl’ and ‘Nitrate’ and ‘Popchik’ and ‘Snaps’—anything but his real name. I’d started bringing him in even though I wasn’t supposed to because I was so tired of him always straining at the end of his chain trying to look in at the glass door and yapping his head off. But inside he was surprisingly quiet; starved for attention, he stuck close to us wherever we went, trotting anxiously at our heels, upstairs and down, curling up to sleep on the rug while Boris and I read and quarrelled and listened to music up in my room. “Seriously, Boris,” I said, pushing the hair from my eyes (I was badly in need of a haircut, but didn’t want to spend the money), “I don’t see much difference in stealing wallets and stealing steaks.” “Big difference, Potter.” He held his hands apart to show me just how big. “Stealing from working person? And stealing from big rich company that robs the people?” “Costco doesn’t rob the people. It’s a discount supermarket.” “Fine then. Steal essentials of life from private citizen. This is your so-smart plan. Hush,” he said to the dog, who’d barked sharply for more steak. “I wouldn’t steal from some poor working person,” I said, tossing Popper a piece of steak myself. “There are plenty of sleazy people walking around Vegas with wads of cash.” “Sleazy?” “Dodgy. Dishonest.” “Ah.” The pointed dark eyebrow went up. “Fair enough. But if you steal money from sleazy person, like gangster, they are likely to hurt you, nie?” “You weren’t scared of getting hurt in Ukraine?” He shrugged. “Beaten up, maybe. Not shot.” “Shot?” “Yes, shot. Don’t look surprised. This cowboy country, who knows? Everyone has guns.” “I’m not saying a cop. I’m saying drunk tourists. The place is crawling with them Saturday night.” “Ha!” He put the pan down on the floor for the dog to finish off. “Likely you will end up in jail, Potter. Loose morals, slave to the economy. Very bad citizen, you.”

[qwerty97]

8.47PM 08.04.21

I am in the big room with my laptop on my lap, the room is a mess. Earlier mum told me to open the exits in the house so we could air out and it has left cold, it’s not so bad, just the cold that attacks the tips of your fingers and toes, the heating has come on anyway. The TV is showing a slideshow of Netflix shows because I left it on for too long. 

I have started to clear out my phone gallery and I have found some awesome memes that I have had to get rid of - the laugh was fun. I hope to find more memes like them in future.

Anyway, I found a cool knock knock joke - 

Knock Knock.

Who’s there?

Baby Yoda.

Baby Yoda who?

Baby Yoda one for me.

Lol

Mum made kebabs to freeze today but I ate some and now I continuously feel thirsty. Mum has said I must deep clean the house on the weekend, I guess it’s for Ramadan. I am halfway through my painting but if I am honest I am getting bored - best to leave it for when I feel like it. The other day Maymuna left a bora on it which was oily but I checked today and there is no sign of it Alhamdullillah.

I also found some really cool Ramadan memes that I will email to everyone once Ramadan starts. 

Omg! Have I mentioned how extremely annoying our telephone ring is? It makes me panic, could be because it is so much like an alarm.

I’m going to pray some Quran now, then pray Esha and probably watch something and go to bed.

My clothes are in the dryer and my room is a mess so I will have to sort that out before I decide to sleep.

X

[xtruss]

Suez Canal Re-Opens After Stuck Cargo Ship Is Freed

— BY Isabel DeBre And Samy Magdy

SUEZ, Egypt (AP) — Salvage teams on Monday finally freed the colossal container ship stuck for nearly a week in the Suez Canal, ending a crisis that had clogged one of the world’s most vital waterways and halted billions of dollars a day in maritime commerce.

A flotilla of tugboats, helped by the tides, wrenched the bulbous bow of the skyscraper-sized Ever Given from the canal’s sandy bank, where it had been firmly lodged since March 23.

The tugs blared their horns in jubilation as they guided the Ever Given through the water after days of futility that had captivated the world, drawing scrutiny and social media ridicule.

“We pulled it off!” said Peter Berdowski, CEO of Boskalis, the salvage firm hired to extract the Ever Given. “I am excited to announce that our team of experts, working in close collaboration with the Suez Canal Authority, successfully refloated the Ever Given … thereby making free passage through the Suez Canal possible again.”

Navigation in the canal resumed at 6 p.m. local time (1600 GMT, noon EDT) said Lt. Gen. Osama Rabei, head of the Suez Canal Authority, adding that the first ships that were moving carried livestock. From the city of Suez, ships stacked with containers could be seen exiting the canal into the Red Sea.

At least 113 of over 420 vessels that had waited for Ever Given to be freed are expected to cross the canal by Tuesday morning, Rabei added at a news conference.

Analysts expect it could take at least another 10 days to clear the backlog on either end.

The Ever Given sailed to the Great Bitter Lake, a wide stretch of water halfway between the north and south ends of the canal, for inspection, said Evergreen Marine Corp., a Taiwan-based shipping company that operates the ship.

Buffeted by a sandstorm, the Ever Given had crashed into a bank of a single-lane stretch of the canal about 6 kilometers (3.7 miles) north of the southern entrance, near the city of Suez. That created a massive traffic jam that held up $9 billion a day in global trade and strained supply chains already burdened by the coronavirus pandemic.

Rabei said an investigation would determine why the Ever Given got stuck, and he estimated daily losses to the canal of between $12 million to $15 million.

“The Suez Canal is not guilty of what happened. We are the ones who suffered damage.” he said.

At least 367 vessels, carrying everything from crude oil to cattle, had backed up to wait to traverse the canal. Dozens of others have taken the long, alternate route around the Cape of Good Hope at Africa’s southern tip — a 5,000-kilometer (3,100-mile) detour that costs ships hundreds of thousands of dollars in fuel and other costs.

The canal is a source of national pride and crucial revenue for Egypt, and President Abdel Fattah el-Sissi praised Monday’s events after days of silence about the blockage.

“Egyptians have succeeded in ending the crisis,” he wrote on Facebook, “despite the massive technical complexity.”

In the village of Amer, which overlooks the canal, residents cheered as the vessel moved along. Many scrambled to get a closer look while others mockingly waved goodbye to the departing ship from their fields of clover

“Mission accomplished,” villager Abdalla Ramadan said. “The whole world is relieved.”

The U.S. Embassy in Cairo tweeted its congratulations to Egypt.

The breakthrough followed days of immense effort with an elite salvage team from the Netherlands. Tugboats pushed and pulled to budge the behemoth from the shore, their work buoyed by high tide at dawn Monday that led to the vessel’s partial refloating. Specialized dredgers dug out the stern and vacuumed sand and mud from beneath the bow.

The operation was extremely delicate. While the Ever Given was stuck, the rising and falling tides put stress on the vessel, which is 400 meters (a quarter mile) long, raising concerns it could crack.

Rabei praised the team, saying they “achieved a very difficult mission in record time,” without damaging the vessel or its cargo.

Berdowski told Dutch radio station NPO 1 the company had always believed it would be the two powerful tugboats it sent that would free the ship. Monday’s strong tide “helped push the ship at the top while we pulled at the bottom and luckily it shot free,” he said.

“We were helped enormously by the strong falling tide we had this afternoon. In effect, you have the forces of nature pushing hard with you and they pushed harder than the two sea tugs could pull,” Berdowski added.

The crew on the tugs was “euphoric,“ but there also was a tense moment when the huge ship was floating free ”so then you have to get it under control very quickly with the tugs around it so that it doesn’t push itself back into the other side” of the canal, he said.

Jubilant workers on a tugboat sailing with the Ever Given chanted, “Mashhour, No. 1,” referring to the dredger that worked around the vessel. The dredger is named for Mashhour Ahmed Mashhour, assigned to run the canal with others when it was nationalized in 1956 by President Gamal Abdel-Nasser.

Once the Ever Given is inspected in Great Bitter Lake, officials will decide whether the Panama-flagged, Japanese-owned ship hauling goods from Asia to Europe would continue to its original destination of Rotterdam or head to another port for repairs.

The crisis cast a spotlight on the vital trade route that carries over 10% of global trade, including 7% of the world’s oil. Over 19,000 ships ferrying Chinese-made consumer goods and millions of barrels of oil and liquified natural gas flow through the artery from the Middle East and Asia to Europe and North America.

The unprecedented shutdown, which raised fears of extended delays, goods shortages and rising costs for consumers, has prompted new questions about the shipping industry, an on-demand supplier for a world under pressure from the pandemic.

“We’ve gone to this fragile, just-in-time shipping that we saw absolutely break down in the beginning of COVID,” said Capt. John Konrad, the founder and CEO of the shipping news website gcaptain.com. “We used to have big, fat warehouses in all the countries where the factories pulled supplies. … Now these floating ships are the warehouse.”

International trade expert Jeffrey Bergstrand predicted “only a minor and transitory effect” on prices of U.S. imports.

“Since most of the imports blocked over the last week are heading to Europe, U.S. consumers will likely see little effect on prices of U.S. imports, except to the extent that intermediate products of U.S. final goods are made in Europe,” said Bergstrand, professor of finance at the University of Notre Dame’s Mendoza College of Business.

— DeBre reported from Dubai, United Arab Emirates. Associated Press writers Mike Corder in The Hague, Netherlands, and Jon Gambrell in Dubai contributed.