#manumited

[dykesynthezoid]

If you were someone enslaved in Ancient Rome it must have been fucking crazy every time a populist started going on about how “plebeians are basically treated like slaves.” Like ohhhh! Interesting!

[nakeddeparture]

By/For/Of The People - Barbados, a Homogeneous Society - Why don’t the BLP and the DLP support each other post elections?

https://youtu.be/rFEe-XSlOaQ

There’s a bitchiness present that looks unbecoming on The People given elected offices (past/present/potential). As a manumit people, you should compliment each other for the good of the/your country.

Where is Chris Sinckler? Have your say. Naked!!

Like/share/comment/subscribe on YouTube (it costs you nothing). Press the notification bell 🔔. NEW WhatsApp #2527225512

[aysufs]

Allāh's Messenger ﷺ said,

"If one says one-hundred times in one day:

لاَ إِلَهَ إِلاَّ اللَّهُ وَحْدَهُ لاَ شَرِيكَ لَهُ، لَهُ الْمُلْكُ، وَلَهُ الْحَمْدُ، وَهُوَ عَلَى كُلِّ شَىْءٍ قَدِيرٌ

One will get the reward of manumitting ten slaves,

and one-hundred good deeds will be written in his account,

and one-hundred bad deeds will be wiped off or erased from his account,

and on that day he will be protected from the morning till evening from Satan,

and nobody will be superior to him except one who has done more than that which he has done.”

[S‌ah‌i‌h‌ al-Bukha‌ri‌ 3293]

Transliteration: Lā ilāha illAllāhu, waḥdahu lā sharīka lahu, lahul-mulku wa lahul-ḥamdu, wa huwa ʿalā kulli shaiʾin qadīr

Translation: There is no god but Allah alone, without any partner. The Kingdom and praise belongs to Him and He has power over everything.

[arkipelagic]

Asian slaves, indigenous Americans, and identity in colonial era Mexico

The Spanish Philippines had a diverse slave population for local labor and export, including Filipino Indians [i.e. natives; indios], Muslim war captives (moros), and foreign slaves from as far away as Portuguese India.

… Upon their arrival, chino slaves [i.e. any Asian slave, not just Chinese] were absorbed by the urban economy of Mexico City, where they mainly worked as domestic servants or in textile mills (obrajes) … For their part, working in the city provided chinos with some possibilities for manumission. Chinos in domestic service were especially apt to embrace the limited opportunities available to them and to experience some social mobility. In the obrajes, chinos had few of the freedoms given to domestic servants, but they did benefit from government oversight of the industry. During official visits, chino slaves appealed for protection from overt exploitation by claiming that they were Indians (even if they were from Portuguese India). Remarkably, visiting inspectors listened to their complaints, and they often responded by liberating individual chinos under the assumption that they were indeed native vassals and could thus not be held in bondage. The overall experience of chinos in the viceroyal capital confirms the benefits of living close to the center of colonial power.

The presence of free indigenous immigrants from the Spanish Philippines in Mexico reinforced the idea that all chinos were Indians. The complex governing structure of colonial Mexico involved two republics or political communities (the república de indios and the república de españoles); this organization separated the indigenous majority from everyone else to facilitate the collection of tribute and the ministry of the Catholic Church … [N]ative immigrants from the Philippines purposely sought to confirm their membership in the Republic because corporate status provided personal advantages. They asked to be tallied in tribute rolls in Mexico to benefit from concomitant privileges, such as trading rights and legal representation through the General Indian Court. At the same time, free Filipinos were frequently confused with chino slaves - a situation that had serious consequences for Filipinos' relations with colonial institutions and enslaved individuals. Some immigrants resented having their indigenous identity questioned and sought to maintain a sense of their Indian-ness by keeping their distance from chino slaves. The majority, however, expressed solidarity with chino slaves. Filipino artisans, for example, took on chino slaves as apprentices and taught them marketable skills. Similarly, Filipino traders incorporated chinos into their own credit networks to facilitate self-purchase.

Individual chinos who were manumitted also embraced an Indian identity, regardless of whether they were from Goa, Macau, or other places in South and Southeast Asia. In this way, chinos challenged official attempts to define them solely as former slaves. Instead, they sought to join the free republic. The possibility for this kind of social integration caused widespread concern among slave owners. To defend their property rights, masters started to brand chino slaves on the face, rather than on the chest or arm as they did with Africans, in order to dissuade them from fleeing and "passing" as free Indians. This horrifying development shows that Indian communities welcomed runaway chino slaves and, by extension, that slave owners sought visible markers of their slaves' status.

Excerpt from the Introduction to “Asian Slaves in Colonial Mexico: From Chinos to Indians” (2014) by Tatiana Seijas

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN || SEASON 4 EPISODE 02 || DO NO HARM ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

He was silent while we made our way out onto the river. It was a dark, moonless night, but the reflections of starlight from the surface of the river gave enough light to see, once my eyes had adapted to the shifting glimmer of water and tree-shadow. “Ye dinna mean to say anything?” he asked abruptly, at last. “It’s not my choice to make,” I said, feeling a tightness in my chest that had nothing to do with stays. “No?” “She’s your aunt. It’s your life. It has to be your choice.” “And you’ll be a spectator, will you?” He grunted as he spoke, digging with the oars as he pulled upstream. “Is it not your life? Or do ye not mean to stay with me, after all?” “What do you mean, not stay?” I sat up, startled. “Perhaps it will be too much for you.” His head was bent over the oars; I couldn’t see his face. “If you mean what happened at the sawmill—” “No, not that.” He heaved back on the oars, shoulders broadening under his linen, and gave me a crooked smile. “Death and disaster wouldna trouble ye ower-much, Sassenach. But the small things, day by day … I see ye flinch, when the black maid combs your hair, or when the boy takes your shoes away to clean. And the slaves who work in the turpentine camp. That troubles ye, no?” “Yes. It does. I’m—I can’t own slaves. I’ve told you—”

“Aye, ye have.” He rested on the oars for a moment, brushing a lock of hair out of his face. His eyes met mine squarely. “And if I chose to do this, Sassenach … could ye stay by me, and watch, and do nothing—for there is nothing that could be done, until my aunt should die. Perhaps not even then.” “What do you mean?” “She will not free her slaves—how should she? I could not, while she lived.” “But once you had inherited the place …” I hesitated. Beyond the ghoulish aspects of discussing Jocasta’s death, there was the more concrete consideration that that event was unlikely to occur for some time; Jocasta was little more than sixty, and aside from her blindness, in vigorous health. I suddenly saw what he meant; could I bring myself to live, day after day, month after month, year after year, as an owner of slaves? I could not pretend otherwise, could take no refuge in the notion that I was only a guest, an outsider. I bit my lip, in order not to cry out instant denial. “Even then,” he said, answering my partial argument. “Did ye not know that a slave owner cannot free his slaves without the written permission of the Assembly?” “He what?” I stared blankly at him. “Whyever not?” “The plantation owners go in fear of an armed insurrection of Negroes,” he said. “And d’ye blame them?” he added sardonically. “Slaves are forbidden to carry weapons, save tools such as tree knives, and there are the bloodshed laws to prevent their use.” He shook his head. “Nay, the last thing the Assembly would allow is a large group of free blacks let loose upon the countryside. Even if a man wishes to manumit one of his slaves, and is given permission to do so, the freed slave is required to leave the colony within a short time—or he may be captured and enslaved by anyone who chooses to take him.” “You’ve thought about it,” I said slowly. “Haven’t you?” I didn’t answer. I trailed my hand in the water, a little wave purling up my wrist. No, I hadn’t thought about the prospect. Not consciously, because I hadn’t wanted to face the choice that was now being laid before me. “I suppose it would be a great chance,” I said, my voice sounding strained and unnatural to my ears. “You’d be in charge of everything …” “My aunt is not a fool,” he interrupted, with a slight edge to his voice. “She would make me heir, but not owner in her place. She would use me to do those things she cannot—but I would be no more than her cat’s-paw. True, she would ask my opinion, listen to my advice; but nothing would be done, and she didna wish it so.” He shook his head. “Her husband is dead. Whether she was fond of him or no, she is mistress here now, with none to answer to. And she enjoys the taste of power too well to spit it out.”

He was plainly correct in this assessment of Jocasta Cameron’s character, and therein lay the key to her plan. She needed a man; someone to go into those places she could not go, to deal with the Navy, to handle the chores of a large estate that she could not manage because of her blindness. At the same time, she patently did not want a husband; someone who would usurp her power and dictate to her. Had he not been a slave, Ulysses could have acted for her—but while he could be her eyes and ears, he could not be her hands. No, Jamie was the perfect choice; a strong, competent man, able to command respect among peers, compel obedience in subordinates. One knowledgeable in the management of land and men. Furthermore, a man bound to her by kinship and obligation, there to do her bidding—but essentially powerless. He would be held in thrall by dependence upon her bounty, and by the rich bribe of River Run itself; a debt that need not be paid until the matter was no longer of any earthly concern to Jocasta Cameron. There was an increasing lump in my throat as I sought for words. I couldn’t, I thought. I couldn’t manage it. But I couldn’t face the alternative, either; I couldn’t urge him to reject Jocasta’s offer, knowing it would send him to Scotland, to meet an unknown death. “I can’t say what you should do,” I finally said, my voice barely audible above the regular lap of the oars. There was an eddy pool, where a large tree had fallen into the water, its branches forming a trap for all the debris that drifted downstream. Jamie made for this, backing the rowboat neatly into quiet water. He let down the oars, and wiped a sleeve across his forehead, breathing heavily from exertion.

The night was quiet around us, with little sound but the lapping of water, and the occasional scrape of submerged tree branches against the hull. At last he reached out and touched my chin.

“Your face is my heart, Sassenach,” he said softly, “and love of you is my soul. But you’re right; ye canna be my conscience.”

In spite of everything, I felt a lightening of spirit, as though some indefinable burden had dropped away.

13 AN EXAMINATION OF CONSCIENCE ~ Drums of Autumn

[deenemaan]

Narrated Abu Huraira:

Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) said, "If one says one-hundred times in one day: "None has the right to be worshipped but Allah, the Alone Who has no partners, to Him belongs Dominion and to Him belong all the Praises, and He has power over all things (i.e. Omnipotent)", one will get the reward of manumitting ten slaves, and one-hundred good deeds will be written in his account, and one-hundred bad deeds will be wiped off or erased from his account, and on that day he will be protected from the morning till evening from Satan, and nobody will be superior to him except one who has done more than that which he has done."

Sahih al-Bukhari 3293

[petervintonjr]

"I was working for Mr. T. L. Kearny on the morning of the day of the election, and did not think of voting until he came out to the stable where I was attending to the horses and advised me to go to the polls and exercise a citizen's privilege."

Good god, people. I sure misjudged a hell of a lot of you; it is obvious more studying is called for. Way more. As in, "lessons-that-may-soon-be-illegal" way more.

Since we're already fresh on the subject of elections, let's get right into it with a look at the life of Thomas Mundy Peterson. Born enslaved in 1826 New Jersey, Peterson and his family were later manumitted upon their owner's passing, and moved to Perth Amboy. Peterson married and worked as a custodian and general handyman at Perth Amboy's very first public school. Active in local politics, at the age of 46 Peterson had been a participant in a local ballot initiative to revise the town's existing charter; in this instance, whether or not to abandon their 1798 charter entirely and reincorporate as a township. (Spoiler alert: they did neither and became a city in 1844.)

On March 30, 1871, less than two months after the ratification of the Fifteenth Amendment, Peterson voted in favor of retaining the town's existing charter --thereby making him the very first Black American to cast a ballot in any kind of post-Civil War election.

But for one unsurprising anecdote about a white voter at the polling place crumpling up their own ballot in disgust at the sight, Peterson's civic action went largely unremarked-upon (in fact Peterson even went on to be elected to the local city council). It was as true then, as it is now, that local elections are where the most immediate consequences happen. But gradually over time, the symbolism and the larger historical impact of Peterson's quiet moment took on much greater national significance. In 1884 the community raised the equivalent of $1800.00 to present Peterson with a medal featuring Abraham Lincoln's profile in recognition of his milestone --this medal is now part of the collection of Xavier University. In 1989 the public school at which Peterson once worked (P.S. No. 1), was renamed after him.

====

And further to the above subject: Fascism is a hell of a drug, people. One really doesn't see it for what it is when it finally arrives --no concept of just what it is that you've invited into your lives, just because eggs are inconveniently pricey or because you'd rather your kids not be exposed to history lessons like this one. Fascism never merely visits; it takes up permanent residence. Our Black brothers and sisters (especially the sisters) understood that deep in their bones prior to the Civil War, during Reconstruction, during Jim Crow, and during the Civil Rights movement. The rest of us need to internalize that, too. The past 400 years aren't "just" Black history, as if it all only belonged to a specific segment of the population. It is our history. All of us; inextricably connected to it. If we don't study it and learn about it; if we pivot to the deliberate ignorance that fascism so gleefully celebrates, then we all lose.

Racism (and all its cousins: anti-Semitism, xenophobia, homophobia, etc.) has been emboldened, running unchecked --to say nothing of truly terrifying old-school misogyny. (And yeah, go look up the word misogynoir if you haven't already). Of more immediate concern we've got... what, 70 days or so? 70 days to recalibrate, retool, get at least some guardrails up. In that time interval, please reach out to one another --check on your communities and keep a close eye on local issues, not unlike Thomas Mundy Peterson. Offer what help you can spare. Lotta desperation and panic floating about; folks are afraid of losing a lot of things in 2025 and beyond --you know, minor trifles like health care, insurance, income, savings, civil rights, autonomy. They're going to be looking for a connection. If studying these Black biographies these past 4+ years has taught me one thing, it is that authoritarianism flourishes when people isolate --whether forced upon them or on one's own. The moment folks break that pattern and start connecting with one another, the bullies proveably take a cautious step back. (Notice I didn't naïvely use the word retreat.) So look out for one another and keep each other afloat; the bullies hate that.

In the meantime for my part I'm going to keep doing the two things I know I am legitimately good at: teaching and drawing. Therefore I'll keep providing this resource until I am forcibly stopped from doing so.

If you're new to this series, start here.

[hadeth]

عن أبي هريرة رضى الله عنه، أن رسول الله صلى الله عليه وسلم قال: ‏“‏ من قال لا إله إلا الله، وحده لا شريك له، له الملك وله الحمد، وهو على كل شىء قدير‏.‏ في يوم مائة مرة، كانت له عدل عشر رقاب، وكتب له مائة حسنة، ومحيت عنه مائة سيئة، وكانت له حرزا من الشيطان يومه ذلك، حتى يمسي، ولم يأت أحد بأفضل مما جاء به إلا رجل عمل أكثر منه ‏"‌‏.‏ صحيح البخاري حديث ٦٤٠٣ - صحيح مسلم حديث ٢٦٩١

Narrated Abu Huraira: Allah’s Messenger (peace be upon him) said,” Whoever says: “La ilaha illal-lah wahdahu la sharika lahu, lahu-l-mulk wa lahul- hamd wa huwa ‘ala kulli shai'in qadir,” one hundred times will get the same reward as given for manumitting ten slaves; and one hundred good deeds will be written in his accounts, and one hundred sins will be deducted from his accounts, and it (his saying) will be a shield for him from Satan on that day till night, and nobody will be able to do a better deed except the one who does more than he.“ Sahih al-Bukhari 6403 In-book reference : Book 80, Hadith 98 USC-MSA web (English) reference : Vol. 8, Book 75, Hadith 412 Sahih Muslim 2691 In-book reference : Book 48, Hadith 38 USC-MSA web (English) reference : Book 35, Hadith 6508

قال النووي رحمه الله : "وَظَاهِرُ إِطْلَاقِ الْحَدِيثِ أَنَّهُ يُحَصِّلُ هَذَا الْأَجْرَ الْمَذْكُورَ فِي هَذَا الْحَدِيثِ مَنْ قَالَ هَذَا التَّهْلِيلَ مِائَةَ مَرَّةٍ فِي يَوْمِهِ سَوَاءٌ قَالَهُ مُتَوَالِيَةً ، أَوْ مُتَفَرِّقَةً فِي مَجَالِسَ ، أَوْ بَعْضَهَا أَوَّلَ النَّهَارِ وَبَعْضَهَا آخِرَهُ . لَكِنَّ الْأَفْضَلَ : أَنْ يَأْتِيَ بِهَا مُتَوَالِيَةً ، فِي أَوَّلِ النَّهَارِ ؛ لِيَكُونَ حِرْزًا لَهُ فِي جَمِيعِ نَهَارِهِ" انتهى من "شرح النووي على مسلم" (17/17) .

وقال ابن رجب رحمه الله : " تحقيق كلمة التوحيد يوجب عتق الرقاب ، وعتق الرقاب يوجب العتق من النار ، كما ثبت في الصحيح: أن من قالها مائة مرة كان له عدل عشر رقاب . وثبت أيضا: أن من قالها عشر مرات كان كمن اعتق أربعة من ولد إسماعيل . الاسلام سؤال وجواب ()

فتَحَ اللهُ سُبحانَه لعِبادِه كَثيرًا مِن أبوابِ الخيرِ؛ مِن الذِّكرِ والدُّعاءِ والتَّهليلِ والتَّسبيحِ، وأعْطاهُم على ذلك الفضلَ العظيمَ والثَّوابَ الكبيرَ. وفي هذا الحديثِ يُخبِرُ النَّبيُّ صلَّى اللهُ عليه وسلَّمَ عن فَضْلِ الذِّكرِ بكَلمةِ التَّوحيدِ، وأنَّ مَن قال: «لا إلهَ إلَّا اللهُ وحْدَه لا شَريكَ لَه، لَه المُلكُ» فهو سُبحانَه المُختَصُّ بالسُّلطانِ التَّامِّ الَّذي لا يُنازِعُه فيه مُنازِعٌ، «ولَهُ الحَمدُ» فهو المُستحِقُّ له دونَ مَن سِواهُ سُبحانَه، «وهو على كُلِّ شَيءٍ قَديرٌ» فلا يُعجِزُه شَيءٌ في الأرضِ ولا في السَّماءِ؛ فمَن قال ذلك في يومٍ مِئةَ مرَّةٍ، كانت له مِثلُ ثَوابِ عِتْقِ عَشَرةٍ مِنَ العَبيدِ المَملوكين، وكُتِبتْ له مِئةُ حَسنةٍ، وم��حِيَت عنه مِئةُ سَيِّئةٍ، وكان هذا الذِّكرُ تَحصينًا له مِنَ الشَّيطانِ طَوالَ يَومِه إلى المَساءِ، ولا يَكونُ أحدٌ أفْضَلَ عمَلًا مِنَ الَّذي قال هذا الذِّكْرَ، إلَّا مَن قال هذا الذِّكرَ أزيدَ مِن مِئةِ مرَّةٍ، ويَحتمِلُ أنْ تُرادَ الزِّيادةُ مِن غيرِ هذا الجنسِ مِن الذِّكرِ وغيرِه، أي: إلَّا أنْ يَزيدَ أحدٌ عمَلًا آخَرَ مِن الأعمالِ الصَّالحةِ. الدرر السنية ()

An-Nawawi (may Allah have mercy on him) said: The general meaning of the hadith indicates that the reward mentioned may be attained by the one who repeats this dhikr one hundred times in a day, whether he repeats it consecutively or at different times in several sessions, or he recites some of it at the beginning of the day and some at the end of the day. But the best is to recite it consecutively at the beginning of the day, so that it will be a protection for him throughout his day." (Sharh an-Nawawi ‘ala Muslim 17/17). Islam Q&A: these languages are available also: Indonesian Uyghur French Turkish اردو Portuguese German

[umtxqwa]

Allāh's Messenger (ﷺ) said," Whoever says:

لاَ إِلَهَ إِلاَّ اللَّهُ، وَحْدَهُ لاَ شَرِيكَ لَهُ، لَهُ الْمُلْكُ وَلَهُ الْحَمْدُ،

وَهْوَ عَلَى كُلِّ شَىْءٍ قَدِيرٌ‏

(None has the right to be worshipped but Allāh, Alone, without partner, to Him belongs all that exists, and to Him belongs the Praise, and He is powerful over all things.)

one hundred times will get the same reward as given for

1: manumitting ten slaves; and

2: one hundred good deeds will be written in his accounts, and

3: one hundred sins will be deducted from his accounts, and

4: it (his saying) will be a shield for him from Satan on that day till night,

and nobody will be able to do a better deed except the one who does more than he."

[Sahih al-Bukhari 6403]

[deadpanwalking]

I’m sure you’ve heard this but there’s going to be a 3 season prequel to Gomorra about Pietro and Imma that takes place in the ‘70s. It feels kind of gimmicky and cynical (like Many Saints of Newark) but I will be seated.

See, I think the writers aren't cynical and gimmicky enough, they need to lean in and prequel harder.  Picture this: in 79 AD, Vesuvius blows and one of Pliny’s quadriremes crosses the Bay of Neapolis from Stabiae with the last handful of survivors, among whom is an infant found in the arms of his dead mother. The baby, having survived Vulcan's wrath, is left on the steps of the Temple of Mars Ultor. 25 years later, in Neapolis, Cyrus is a manumitted slave who maintains a working relationship with his old master via clientela—his master being the magistrate of a corrupt merchant collegium, Petrus Savastanus—as well as a funusual situationship with Petrus’ son, Januarius, a young profligate more interested in spectacles and debauchery than leadership.

[along-the-silkroad]

This honorary statue was dedicated by the freedman Marcus Mettius Germanus to the grammarian Marcus Mettius Epaphroditus. Epaphroditus was born around 22 or 23 CE in the Greek city of Chaeronea. He later became a slave in the retinue of the grammarian Archias in Alexandria. While in the Egyptian capital, he caught the attention of the prefect Marcus Mettius Modestus, who sought someone to introduce his son, Petelinus, to the artes liberales (e.g., grammar, philosophy, rhetoric, and more). The Mettii subsequently brought their new Greek grammarian to Rome.

Epaphroditus was eventually manumitted, as revealed by his full name on the statue: Marcus Mettius Epaphroditus. His original Greek name became his cognomen, and he adopted the name and gentilicium (clan name) of his former master. In Rome, Epaphroditus established a school and a vast library containing approximately 30,000 scrolls. He also authored commentaries on Callimachus and Homer.

Interestingly, the dedication of this statue was made not by Epaphroditus' former master, but by another freedman of the Mettii, Marcus Mettius Germanus. This is notable, as dedications were typically made by former masters to honor their ex-slave teachers. In ancient Rome, there often developed a close bond between noblemen and their slave-teachers, who were usually manumitted before their master's death as a gesture of goodwill.

[theworstfoundingfathers]

THE GRAND FINALE WHO IS THE TRULY THE WORST FOUNDING FATHER?

THOMAS JEFFERSON VS HENRY LAURENS

Thomas Jefferson (April 13, 1743 – July 4, 1826) was an American statesman, diplomat, lawyer, architect, and philosopher who served as the third president of the United States from 1801 to 1809. Following the American Revolutionary War and prior to becoming the nation’s third president in 1801, Jefferson was the first United States secretary of state under George Washington and the nation’s second vice president under John Adams.

Starting in 1803, he promoted a western expansionist policy with the Louisiana Purchase and began the process of Indian tribal removal from the newly acquired territory.

Jefferson lived in a planter economy largely dependent upon slavery, and used slave labor for his household, plantation, and workshops. Over his lifetime he owned about 600 slaves.

During his presidency, Jefferson allowed the diffusion of slavery into the Louisiana Territory hoping to prevent slave uprisings in Virginia and to prevent South Carolina secession. In 1804, in a compromise on the slavery issue, Jefferson and Congress banned domestic slave trafficking for one year into the Louisiana Territory.

In 1819, Jefferson strongly opposed a Missouri statehood application amendment that banned domestic slave importation and freed slaves at the age of 25 on grounds it would destroy the union.

Jefferson never freed most of his slaves, and he remained silent on the issue while he was president.

Since the 1790s, Jefferson was rumored to have had children by his sister-in-law and slave Sally Hemings, known as the Jefferson-Hemings controversy. According to scholarly consensus…as well as oral history, Jefferson probably fathered at least six children with Hemings.

---

Henry Laurens (March 6, 1724 [O.S. February 24, 1723] – December 8, 1792) was an American Founding Father, merchant, slave trader, and rice planter from South Carolina who became a political leader during the Revolutionary War. A delegate to the Second Continental Congress, Laurens succeeded John Hancock as its president. He was a signatory to the Articles of Confederation and, as president, presided over its passage.

Laurens had earned great wealth as a partner in the largest slave-trading house in North America, Austin and Laurens. In the 1750s alone, this Charleston firm oversaw the sale of more than 8,000 enslaved Africans.

Laurens’ oldest son, Colonel John Laurens, was killed in 1782 in the Battle of the Combahee River, as one of the last casualties of the Revolutionary War. He had supported enlisting and freeing slaves for the war effort and suggested to his father that he begin with the 40 he stood to inherit. He had urged his father to free the family’s slaves, but although conflicted, Henry Laurens never manumitted his 260 slaves.

---

By popular vote, this final round will run for one full week

Please reblog so we can get the biggest sample size possible and figure who is TRULY the worst

[veillover19]

The Trophy's

When their boss/husband was arrested for debt his secretary and trophy wife found themselves in deep trouble when he decided to sell them into slavery to recoup the money and escape the kingdom. At first they expected hell but their new owner is not an unkind Master and the Maid work to which they are assigned is not completely horrible and even their new modest uniforms could be much worse.

Even better while he certainly isn't going to manumit two useful workers he was disgusted to learn how they ended up in the collar, and their former "employer" has found himself kidnapped and shipped off as a slave laborer in the mines.

So yeah things could be much worse for them...

(AI art made with Stable Diffusion)

[magnificentcenturyfics]

Unremarkable People

Merry Christmas, lads and lassies! I've been writing fanfiction sporadically for the entire time this blog was in a state of hiatus, but the problem is, I never managed to FINISH any of it untill now, and even then, this one is pretty short. It's a plotless little thing meant to simply flesh out two background characters, basically just a pile of headcanons shaped like a fic. Very many thanks to Alex (@hurremsultanns) for inspiration! Trigger warning include, uh... I guess mentions of suicide, Hürrem hate and Hürrem fangirling. Enjoy!

Edit: God, this is so embarasing. I messed up the name of one of the characters and now some of y'all are probably thinking this fic is about Nazli and an OC - yeah, no, I just misremembered Esma's name as Selma, God knows how and God knows why I didn't realize my mistake untill I posted this thing. I am so, so sorry!

***

Over the years, Nazli had attended quite a few weddings, and on none of them the bride took her sweet time like on this one. True, knowing Esma, she probably just had an attack of stage fright in the baths; in fact, after a while, Nazli started to feel guilty for her initial annoyance. In fact, as the minutes dragged, she had to fight the feeling that she should, perhaps, go check in on dear colleague – despite knowing that doing so would go against Hürrem sultan’s explicit orders to go to the common room with the children and wait for their mistress there. And if nothing else, Esma’s designated helpers for the day were certainly in a better position to calm her down.

After all, it’s not like calming Esma down was that difficult of job.

Nazli did not consider herself a sentimental type, but it was hard not to get attached to Esma. Sultana’s children certainly had, which made it all the more impressive that Hürrem had graced her with manumition and a good husband, despite the protests of especially her daughter (whom Nazli hated an entirely disproportional amount considering she was only thirteen – then again, so did most of the other servants). Nazli was quite convinced that had His Majesty been present at the time, this wedding would not take place, but the girl’s mother was much more immune to the girl’s incessant whining. After all, though her sons were certainly sad to see Selma go, they had other servants to be fond of, and Selim and Bayezit relied on Mehmet’s judgement enough to in the end make peace with Selma’s departure. As of now, Nazli heard something about Mihrimah locking herself in her room in protest – then again, it’s not as if princess would’ve been missed on a wedding between servant and sipahi.

Where was Mehmet she did not know; her and Aysima’s charges were the younger boys, a task on which Firuze just somehow came to participate because of her attachement to the youngest. All around not the most unpleasant company to be in – Nazli harbored an instinctual antipathy towards Firuze, just because of how easily she was able to endear herself to everyone for seemingly no reason (she most certainly did not consider some potentially fraudulent sorcery an adequate reason, hence her coldness towards Firuze’s „successes“ in aleviating Cihangir’s pain). But she at least was mostly ignorable; Hürrem sultan didn’t have much use for her besides caring for her youngest anyhow, even if she still seemed infuriatingly fond of her.

Nazli’s thoughts were interrupted by a familiar call. „Attention! Her Majesty Hürrem sultan is coming!“ And indeed she came, gorgeous and impeccably dressed as usual, with her famous crown sitting proudly on her head and a few choice servants accompanying her. Right after her, the lucky bride entered the room, and Nazli had to compliment her helpers on a job well done. Esma looked quite fetching in a small red cap rimmed with a braid of fabric, dress of the same colour with open, semitransparent sleeves and kaftan with a tasteful little white embroidery. On her neck, Nazli noticed one of several wedding gifts Hürrem sultan gave her the night prior; then again, extreme generosity towards her servants was par for the course for the sultana. She was evidently nervous and not as happy as the occassion would warrant, though at least she didn’t seem to have cried, which was a good sign. She kissed the hem of sultana’s dress, and sultana spoke out, somewhat melancholically. „Go, hatun. Go, and be happy.“

Esma threw a last, quick glance to the side, to Nazli, Aysima, Firuze, Fatmanur, Muhsine and the others. There were no more words to exchange between them, no tears to shed. All the goodbyes were spoken as the music on her kina gecesi faded and dawn was breaking. „What will sultana’s children do without me?“ she told Nazli once she was no longer sobbing, but her eyes were still wet with tears. „You must promise me you’ll take special care of them and those that are supposed to replace me. I simply cannot trust anyone else.“

This shocked Nazli a bit. „Not even Firuze?“

„Certainly not as much as you! I mean... I don’t want to say anything, she is a very nice girl, very helpful... But she has only been here for a short while, and I’ve known you since forever...“

All Nazli could muster was an „Oh dear.“ and a tight hug. „Allah, I am going to miss you so badly. I am happy for you, but also mad that you are leaving me here with these idiots.“ she whispered in her ear.

Esma chuckled. „Oh, stop it. You like them and you know it.“

„Depends on who’s „them“, I guess.“ With these words, she let Esma go.

Esma sighed. „If you hate them so much... Well, sultana offered you a way out too.“

Nazli smirked. „She didn’t really mean it. Haven’t you seen how quickly she conceded to my begging? Besides, a way out of what? I’d only go from serving the greatest sultana the world has ever known – and, by proxy, His Majesty the sultan – to serving some fat merchant and perhaps a brood of his children, whether mine or his previous wife’s.“

Esma shrugged with one shoulder. „Well, my husband is not a fat merchant.“

„No, but Melek’s was. And Gülnihal’s... Well, he wasn’t fat, but he was damn old. I can’t imagine living with him was very pleasant.“

„At least he wasn’t long for this world.“ Esma said with a melancholic expression – and then she covered her mouth, shocked by her own words. „Oh, I am sorry, I...“

Nazli gave her a generous, but sardonic smile. „We’ve all been thinking it since we heard of his passing. And at least she has a new husband now – a much younger and prettier one, I’ve heard.“

Esma sighed. „I hope I can meet her again.“

„You think your husband will let you travel to Bursa?!“

She looked at Nazli with one of her patented sad gazes – why oh why must’ve Almighty given the girl such big, innocent eyes? Was it purely for dramatic appropriateness? „No, but... A girl can dream.“ She sighed. „I never got to thank her.“ Gülnihal was the one who recommended Esma to Hürrem sultan, and without her, the great sultana would certainly never take Esma into service, since before that, they didn’t get along much. Having been there at Gülnihal’s wedding, Nazli knew the only reason Esma never got to say her thank you, farewell or really much of anything was because of her own crippling shyness. But she managed to bite her tongue; this really was the time for teasing and bickering, however well-intentioned.

She never really understood what were women supposed to get from marriage, anyway. Perhaps if she could choose a husband, as she would back in Rohatyn, when she was just a daughter of a petty merchant... But as much as Nazli adored Hürrem sultan, after hearing what husband she picked Gülnihal, she did not trust her matchmaking skills. Well, she suspected that waiting a few years untill his young, beautiful wife tires the man’s poor old heart so much it gives out, then letting her enjoy the life of a rich widow had been the plan all along. And if Gülnihal was willing to stick it out for those couple of years, then good for her, but there was nothing Nazli hated more than the image of some ugly, sweaty man in her, on top of her, everywhere around her...

She could not stand such a thing even for a short period, was what she meant.

Of course, that was not a problem Esma would ever have to deal with. Hürrem sultan selected a husband for her favourite servant with special care, landing on one Hakan agha, a young sipahi with especially good looks and excellent reputation among the ladies of the city. Of course, Esma would not see that beautiful face very often, as even now he was discharged only for a short honeymoon, and was supposed to return to the Persian front right after that. In Nazli’s opinion, that didn’t sound so bad, being left to run one’s household as she pleases, but she had to admit, love – and unlike Nazli, Esma was a sentimental type, so it was likely that with such a husband, infatuation could set in very fast – changed the equation somewhat.

Either way, she could only pray for Esma’s happiness; after all, if there was anyone who deserved it, it was Esma.

---

If there was an occassion that Esma feared more than anything, it was dying for something not worth it. She felt quite fearless in face of chilbirth, as brining a child into the world was indeed a matter worth giving your life for. So far, she had born two boys, though the younger one left this world as quickly as he came to it. Dying of an illness, that too wasn’t that bad of a death, as Esma thought of such matters as simply God’s will, just as her late father did on his deathbed. No, a truly unbearable thought in Esma’s mind had always been dying just because one got tangled up in the powerplays of the harem. Then again, she supposed Nazli would’ve seen it differently.

Today, she did nothing but pray for her soul, because she suspected noone else will. News of her demise reached Esma via her regular correspondence with Gülnihal, who in turn stayed in touch the same way with none other than Hürrem sultan. Details of the incident that cost Esma’s old comrade her life were quite murky. According to Gülnihal’s telling of Hürrem’s words, sultana uncovered some letters, the content of which could’ve been used to drive a wedge between two sisters of sultan Süleyman now living in Istanbul. What this conflict was even about wasn’t entirely clear, but whatever the case, their response was entirely disproportionate – they chose Nazli as a scapegoat, tortured her into confessing that she forged the letters, and after she broke under torture, guilt of „betraying“ her mistress soon drove her to suicide. Well, at least that was Gülnihal’s telling; the implications were worse still, because Nazli was a woman of steel nerves and unwavering loyalty to Hürrem. Whenever Hürrem needed assistance in some sort of shady enterprise, she called on Nazli before anyone else. If they actually broke her, Esma could not even imagine the things she must’ve been put trough to achieve that. Even still, Hürrem herself wasn’t entirely certain her friend’s death was a suicide, as the only evidence she had was the testimony of Hatice sultan, who would’ve been a prime suspect had Nazli simply been silenced. And all that for the monumental sin of... Trying to drive a wedge between two sisters, which as child Esma and her three little sisters could attest was something that would under normal circumstances scarcely need more than a gentle push. Now, in Esma’s experience, it was entirely possible that Hürrem simply covered up details that made her look bad; perhaps she accused one of the sisters of some terrible crime? Well, maybe, though she also knew Hatice was becoming more and more vicious in her hatred of Hürrem, and according to Gülnihal, she only got worse since the passing of Ibrahim pasha. In sum, as much as Esma wanted to blame Hürrem for the tragedy, she simply did not have enough information.

Well, not that she came out of the whole affair completely innocent either way. Whatever the measure of their fault in Nazli’s death, Hürrem, Hatice and that other woman (what was her name, anyway?) all held some amount of culpability. And unfortunately, no matter what the truth of the matter was, the incident seemed tailor-made to only confirm Esma’s deepest prejudices about faithful servants and their foolishness. Because, though Esma wasn’t a traitor by nature, she had to admit to being somewhat cowardly, and if she ever found herself under the same pressure as Nazli, she was under no delusion about her ability to resist it.

Then again, such a thing was always quite unlikely – Esma’s main asset for surviving the harem had always been the façade of a pleasant, weak-willed girl, which like all the best façades held a kernel of truth, made to look like the whole of the ear. Indeed, when she first came to the harem, she was nothing more than a scared young girl, broken by the loss of her loving (though poor) family. After she adjusted to the conditions in the harem, she did try to stand up for herself a couple of times, but unless one was of some rank and status, such efforts generally weren’t appreciated. And for Esma, achieving rank and status seemed night-impossible. She certainly wouldn’t cut it as a concubine, both because of her comely dark features (to think she for a moment hoped that in the harem, where women were supposed to shed their tribe and homeland, she’d at least be able to stop being a Gypsy) and her fear of intimacy (which was quite ironic, since as of now sex and children were the only pleasures she was able to get from this marriage – what with her husband being, unfortunately, a quite unpleasant character). She had hoped to at least reach for the title of a kalfa trough her service to Hürrem sultan, which is why she first expressed interest in it to Gülnihal. Esma could still remember how her heart skipped a beat when Gülnihal said. „As of now, what Hürrem sultan needs the most is someone to take care of her child.“

Esma dropped her gaze in a gesture of half-sincere modesty. „Well, as it happens, I had seven younger siblings – three of them much younger than me, and our father died when I was only ten, so my mother needed all the help she could get. So I’d say I do have some experience with raising children. Also, I just... Love kids.“ She blurted out the last sentence quickly, only realizing how stupid it sounds as it was leaving her mouth.

At the moment, Gülnihal only shot her a confused look and changed the topic, but soon thereafter, Nigar gathered her and a few other girls to tell them they had been chosen for Hürrem sultan’s household. Esma was surprised to find out that said household consisted mostly of girls that spoke Rusyn, especially those that have been taken in the same raid on Rohatyn and the surrounding area as Esma, Hürrem and Gülnihal. Why it was so Esma wasn’t sure; as the years went by, Hürrem spoke Rusyn with them less and less, though she always seemed to have more trust in girls from her homeland than those from other parts of the world she hired as her household expanded. When it came to Esma herself, she always found said trust somewhat misplaced, as from the start she thought Hürrem moody, petulant and in general not a very admirable person. This was in contrast to Nazli, who seemed genuinely fascinated by Hürrem ever since she won the Thursday night from Mahidevran. „I am just saying – she must be doing something right, no?“

At that, Esma furrowed her brow in doubt. „And you want to copy her method or something?“

Nazli defiantly stuck out her lower lip. „Just so you know, I’d never dream of being a favourite! I mean, what are the chances sultan himself would even look at me, anyway?! Impossible! I’d be extraordinarily lucky to even have him send for me...“

„With your face? Certainly!“ laughed one of the girls they sat at the table with – she was named something long begining with Fer-, Esma didn’t remember her exactly, since she didn’t exactly seek out her company (Fersomething was always like that).

Years later, when the work has long since brought them together, Esma asked Nazli to elaborate on her feelings towards their mistress. Nazli only smiled dreamily. „Can’t you see it? She has such a... Fiery spirit. It is as if there was a star in her soul, shining brightly...“

Esma rolled her eyes. „She’s just a bit of a bitch, that’s all.“

„Oh, if only she could hear you! She’s proud, that’s what she is. Proud and defiant...“

„The kind of personality that you’d think would get her killed, and it very nearly did a couple of times...“

„And yet it didn’t! Not only that, but sultan loves her more and more each day. Of course, some of it must be because of how extraordinarily beautiful she is...“

Esma only shrugged. „Well, I guess that’s true. I mean, if you want to know my opinion, Mahidevran is even more beautiful, but I am not a man, let alone sultan, so...“

Despite that qualifier, Nazli looked at her as if she was about to punch Esma good and hard. However, she continued talking instead. „Hürrem sultan is also very clever.“

„Not clever enough to not get in trouble constantly!“

Nazli seemed unfazed by this comment. „As I’ve said, she’s proud and free-spirited. Cannot suffer mockery or some other kind of degradation from anyone.“

Esma only rolled her eyes once again. „Sure.“

This really seemed to send Nazli over the edge. „Listen, if you’ve served Hürrem sultan for so long and cannot see her virtues...“

„I can! I just don’t like her that much, you know? I mean, I spend most of the time with her children anyway...“

„And she’s a kind, caring mother too!“

„I mean, she’s not that bad of a mum, I’ll give her that, but I don’t think she’s especially caring or something considering how much time we have to spend with them.“

„At least she is smart enough to entrust them to you! You’re great with kids!“

Esma suddenly felt blood rushing to her face, unused as she was to compliments – especially from Nazli. This one completely silenced her, ending their conversation, and Esma never really asked about Hürrem’s appeal ever again.

Around the time of Bayezit’s birth, Nazli confessed to Esma to having an unspecified „daliance“ with a girl named Hanzade, and Esma later did see them sneaking off to the laundry room at an ungodly hour, though considering how diligent Nazli was in her duties, Esma couldn’t imagine this daliance must’ve been very intense. There were also rumors going around that Nazli might’ve recommended one of their colleagues, Aysima, to Hürrem solely because she was smitten by Aysima’s beauty – though this time, Nazli herself didn’t tell Esma anything, so who knows. Either way, over the years, Esma became convinced that Nazli has caught the occupational dissease, caused in many harem girls by living so far from the laws of man or God, steered solely by the wills of their masters and superiors: tribadism. Not that Esma judged her too much – she never understood the temptation, but then, before her early thirties, she was completely unfamiliar with sexual desire as a whole, and romance unfortunately evaded her to this day. In fact, she misliked even thinking of such matters, prefering to ignore them whenever possible, and since Nazli never expressed any interest towards her, Nazli’s little misdemeanors were very ignorable. That said, it was probably the best explanation Esma ever found for Nazli’s strangely intense admiration towards Hürrem sultan, though she held her friend in high enough esteem to take her explanations as also constituting part of the truth. Nazli did indeed find Hürrem worthy of genuine awe, it’s just that the character of this awe might’ve been tangled up with other feelings also.

It must be said that Esma knew plenty of other ladies, many of whom had a significantly less intimate knowledge of Hürrem as a person, whose adulation of Hürrem was just as unquestioning, especially once she achieved the impossible by marrying the sultan himself. Perhaps, she told herself at the end of her ruminations, Esma herself is the odd one for being unable to ignore Hürrem’s flaws, quirks and foibles. Perhaps acknowledging her extraordinary feats and nature is simply the done thing for most normal people.

At the same time... Why should this exceptional existence matter to average people like her and Nazli?

And was Nazli even all that unremarkable to begin with?

Or just unlucky to be born how she was born and placed where she was placed by the whims of fate?

 Esma wasn’t quite sure. All she knew was that she herself actually was unremarkable, and that was the way she wanted to be. The only traits she consciously developed were her ability to stay silent unless she truly needs to speak, as oposed to simply wanting to, and her love and understanding of children. Esma’s ambition to become a kalfa had always been somewhat limp, and as the years went by, it faded away completely as she became more and more thoroughly consumed by her love and devotion to Hürrem’s children. She still missed them terribly – Mehmet’s kind nature, Mihrimah’s keen mind and strong will, Selim’s diligence and hard work and Bayezit’s sweet, but shy demeanor. Nothing bothered her more than the thought of never knowing anything about what Cihangir will grow up to be like, perhaps besides the thought of Selim allegedly becoming more disobedient since her departure. She was only able to admit it after she left them behind, but despite her best efforts, she did find a favourite among them, specifically in little Selim.

Of course, Esma had another Selim she dedicated her life to now.

The boy had her eyes and face shape, though otherwise he inherited his father’s features and much lighter colouring. He was lively and sometimes mischievious, but she still loved him with the kind of intense, boundless love her otherwise somewhat cynical heart was able to only give to children. Though thinking of Nazli and the rest of her former colleagues, she had to admit to sometimes finding surprisingly strong bonds with adults also.

One day, when her Selim is old enough to understand it, he is doubtless going to be curious about the time his mother spent in service to the most famous sultana of all time. And when that time comes, she will take great care that the stories of her comrades will be told.

The world is a dark, cruel place, after all. A man, and a woman especially, need to take their humanity where they can get it. And while Nazli found it in servitude, Esma did so in a place that she herself found altogether more dignified.

Well, at least that was her humble opinion.

[lboogie1906]

Yarrow Mamout (c. 1736 – January 19, 1823) was a formerly enslaved African entrepreneur and property owner in Georgetown, DC. An educated Fulani Muslim, he gained his freedom in 1796 after 44 years as an enslaved person. His portrait is being held in the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

He was born in West Africa. He was kidnapped, enslaved, and taken to Annapolis, Maryland, from Guinea in 1752 on the slave ship Elijah. A member of the Fulani people, he spoke the Fula language and could read and write Arabic and rudimentary English.

He was sold to Samuel Beall, who owned a plantation in Takoma Park. He became Beall’s manservant and served his son, Brooke. By 1790, he moved with Beall to Georgetown and began hiring himself out for wages. He became a jack of all trades, working as a brickmaker, charcoal burner, basket weaver, cart driver, and stevedore, working long hours to earn enough money to buy his freedom.

He gained freedom at the age of 60 when Brooke Beall died, manumitted by enslavers who believed him too old to work anymore. He spent £20 to buy and free his seven-year-old son, Aquilla, who had been born into slavery on a neighboring farm. Little is known of the boy’s mother.

He amassed savings of $200 and became one of the first investors in the successful Columbia Bank of Georgetown. He purchased a lot located at 3324 Dent Place NW in Georgetown, valued in a tax assessment at $30. He constructed a log house on the land. He remained a devout, lifelong Muslim, praying regularly and avoiding the consumption of pork and liquor.

He loaned $170.85 to a white merchant named William Hayman to help purchase a warehouse. Hayman defaulted on the loan after his death, but Nancy Hillman, the daughter of his sister, sued to recoup the loss. She received $300 from the foreclosure and sale of the warehouse.

Aquilla purchased a farm in Washington County, Maryland, and moved there with his wife, Mary “Polly” Turner, a midwife and formerly enslaved person. The community of Yarrowsburg, Maryland, was named in her honor. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[fluffy-appa]

Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) said," Whoever says:

لاَ إِلَهَ إِلاَّ اللَّهُ، وَحْدَهُ لاَ شَرِيكَ لَهُ، لَهُ الْمُلْكُ وَلَهُ الْحَمْدُ، وَهْوَ عَلَى كُلِّ شَىْءٍ قَدِيرٌ‏

(None has the right to be worshipped but Allah, Alone, without partner, to Him belongs all that exists, and to Him belongs the Praise, and He is powerful over all things.)

one hundred times will get the same reward as given for

1: manumitting ten slaves; and

2: one hundred good deeds will be written in his accounts, and

3: one hundred sins will be deducted from his accounts, and

4: it (his saying) will be a shield for him from Satan on that day till night,

and nobody will be able to do a better deed except the one who does more than he."

[Sahih al-Bukhari 6403]