#strong they took over and I just had to improvise and organise it AS i was typing it

[smol-grey-tea]

Yuri

My head is full of thoughts of him but none of the thoughts are cohesive cuz in all my years I still don't fully understand him

He's a guy who comes off as lighthearted and carefree but when you really look at him I think he's such a hardworking person. He only eats food that's healthy for him, never eating anything just because he wants to; god knows being a teacher is such a difficult job, grading papers, teaching a classroom of teenagers who didn't choose to be there, so much paperwork; in his diary, he says that he always takes notes on how every lesson goes and he plans each lesson 3 days in advance.

After finishing work at school, he works another job, one that's actually very strenuous and physically demanding and loud and surrounded by so many people. When does he practice?

Also, when does he eat? He'll have Tei's breakfast in the morning, then have what, canteen food at school?? Then what'll he have after that? Some days he comes home so late he probably doesn't even get dinner. Does he have the time??

Then ik he likes to watch anime at night so how much does he sleep? He has bath in morning and probably has lengthy skincare routine. Bet you any money he shaves.. Even waxes.

Look, I'm basically saying, how much damn time to himself does he even have? Ik Eri said he comes home holding shopping bags everyday but he also often splashes out on Eri too, spending a lot on her and the dolls. I think it's cute.

But he has a reputation for being lighthearted and carefree, as if he has no responsibilities or worries. He acts like that and purposely doesn't talk about the work he does, probably cuz he just doesn't like talking about that stuff anyway? I always wonder about why he never tells anyone about him being a drummer - you'd think it'd be something he'd boast about? All the cheering fans? But he keeps it a secret..

Either way. I rly don't remember the url even tho I rly rly wish I did but someone said that Tei's treatment of Yuri is purposeful so that he gets a reputation of not just being carefree but also an incompetent joke. Because they share a room, Yuri somehow found out about Tei's secret desires, so Tei purposefully makes people want to not take Yuri seriously so that of he ever tells anyone about Tei, they won't believe him

Yuri is so confusing and fascinating and amazing and sweet and cute and complicated..

He explains, on the date he takes Eri on, that he isn't just a flirt for fun: he simply mirrors the love that other people are already giving him. He says that he does this because it's both in his concept and because he believes it to be the polite thing to do

However, he also displays that he has difficulty understanding what other people are feeling, often misunderstanding that Eri isn't angry when she very much is and constantly finds her actions and emotions confusing. I think possibly the funniest instance of this is when the Korean teacher is so obviously flirting with him, giving him home baked muffins and asking him to eat with her but he doesn't even realise that she's flirting and he speaks to her sincerely and calmly, actually declining to eat lunch with her.

He only ever responds to people's love, never initiating it himself, but he says that Eri is the first/only person he's ever wanted to initiate love with. I think tho that his love for her is his way of thanking her for buying and loving him in the first place, which is very sweet.

He's so fascinating to me because I don't- I still don't understand him. I love him.

Wait! I just thought of something. Yuri's issue always reminds me of a quote from Bojack Horseman: "Everybody loves you. But nobody likes you." He is surrounded by people who love him but don't like him. They only really like him for his looks, for who he is on the surface. Their love for him is insincere so therefore, the love he mirrors to them is insincere too.

He's only really used to experiencing and mirroring that insincere kind of love. So is that why he didn't understand that the Korean teacher was flirting? Because she knows him better than most the other people who flirt with him, and potentially does love him sincerely since she made homemade muffins for him. Because her love for him is sincere, is that why he didn't understand what she was feeling? He thought she was just being nice and took the muffins out of politeness

A particular quote that interests me about Yuri is one in which he implies he knows people's love for him is not sincere. After Eri leaves the club, he chases after her, and she asks him why he left since people will surely miss him if he's gone. But he responds with something to the effect of "they won't even notice I'm gone" which I think speaks such volumes about him, his character, his beliefs, and his attitude towards those people

He comes off as such a player but he knows they don't really care about him and by his choice to follow Eri, he doesn't damn care about them either. He understands that their love is superficial but superficial love is the only thing he does understand.. When he realises that the reason he wants to give things to Eri is because his love for her isn't superficial, he doesn't know what to do. It's too unfamiliar to him, on top of the fact that it's against his concept

No wonder he got identity crises n shit, man. Who the hell is he? Is he all the superficial surface level shit he mirrors from everyone else? Is he someone capable of sincere love? Who is he?? God damn.

Yuri

Wait, do you think those lines aren't actually blushes, but he drew those on his face himself? Why's he even got a spoon in his mouth anyway??

[rpd-rookie]

Under Her Extra-Large Umbrella - Chris Redfield x Reader (PART 1)

Summary: Chris Redfield has always been an honourable man but the things he's seen at Spencer Mansion leave him no choice. He must infiltrate Umbrella's French laboratory, whatever it takes, even if it means manipulating you. But how far he is ready to go?

Author’s Note: This fanfic involves a Post RE1 / Pre-Code Veronica version of Chris Redfield since it focuses on his trip to Europe that is mentioned in RE2. You will probably notice that I used the letter Chris wrote to his S.T.A.R.S. friends. It is actually what inspired this fan fiction in the first place. Gotta be honest with you, this fanfic made me shed blood, sweat and tears. I guess I rewrote it twice before coming to a rather satisfying version and I must have tear my hair out quite a few times when I was struggling with grammar. (BTW, tell me if you see some terrible grammatical mistakes so that I can correct them) Anyway, as usual, I hope you will like it. Please don’t forget to like/reblog and tell me what you think of it in the comment section.

Tags: Romance, Fluff, SMUT, Explicit Language, Manipulation and Treachery. Angst is come ;-)  

Also available on AO3

“Better failing with honour than winning by cheating, son”.           Chris could perfectly remember his father telling him those words. It was in 1990. Chris was a seventeen years old teenager finishing his Junior year, and they were driving back home from driving school right after learning he had failed his theory test contrary to that asshole Colin Monroe who had aced it thanks to a crib cheat hidden in his sock.       He could also remember that his father’s wisdom had barely consoled him on that day - despite what he had let him believe - and that it had taken him quite some time to swallow the bitter pill and even more time to admit that his father was indeed right and that he should live by this motto. Months actually. Plus a tombstone with his parents’ names on it.       Chris never regretted listening to his father. He never regretted promising him that he would do his best to become the man he would have wished him to be. That promise had made him the man he was today. A man who would never stray from the right path however tempting treachery could be. Someone loyal, upright and honourable. Someone his parents would be proud of.

And yet here he was, eight years later, a twenty-five years old cop, breaking the promise he had made his father and doing something so deceitful and selfish it would certainly make him roll over in his grave or wish he were still here to give his son a earful.     But today, it was not something as silly as his driving licence that was at stake. It was the justice he owned to his fellow S.T.A.R.S. members, those he had lost at Spencer Mansion and those waiting for him in Raccoon City. It was the security of god knows how many people. This time, Chris had a burden on his shoulders that was way too heavy for him to accept a possible failure. And as terrible as it sounded, he was ready to do something bad for the greater good, whatever the cost, whatever his dead father may think of him from beyond the grave.

                      “To my bestest S.T.A.R.S. buds,

           How are you all doing in that drab, old station? Hanging in there against old Irons? Me? I just got back from a date with a hot chick. Bet you can guess what we got up to under her extra-large umbrella.            Europe is amazing. One month is in no way enough to even scratch the surface. Maybe I’ll extend my vacation for another six months.                Barry, don’t even think of coming join me. Wouldn’t want to make all the cute girls cry, yeah? So you just leave the babes to me.              Jill, if Claire tries to contact you, please let her know I’m OK.”

Chris put down the pen on his nightstand and took a look at his letter one more time with a proud amused smile. He knew that his friends, contrary to Irons, would get the hidden message behind that lame womanizer persona that was so unlike him. And hopefully, maybe the police chief would tell his friends at Umbrella his S.T.A.R.S. poster boy was nothing to worry about and just currently cruising for pussies in Europe.  

“Writing to your friends again?” Chris looked up to see you standing in the doorway to his bedroom. You looked very tired, exhausted even, judging by the dark circles under your beautiful eyes, your loosened bun and the way you were leaning against the framework. “Yeah, to give them a small update on my vacation.” Chris folded the letter and put it in the drawer of his nightstand; not very keen on letting you read it. “Tough day?” “You have no idea.” You dropped your bag at the entrance of Chris’ room and went to fall down on his bed, your head on his crossed legs. “Wanna talk about it?” Chris asked as he tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. “You know I can’t say much. Professional confidentiality and all. ”         “I didn’t know working for Umbrella was like working for the CIA.” Chris joked, trying to tone down the disgust he was feeling each time he had to pronounce the word Umbrella. You smiled, too tired to laugh and glanced at Chris who was staring at you.            

God, why did you have to be so beautiful and so sweet and yet so not good for him? Why did you have to work for Umbrella? And how did he allow things to be that way between the two of you?

Chris could remember the day he had first seen you, the day he had chosen not be moral and honourable for once in his life.       It was almost a month ago. He had been in Paris for a couple days, trying to find a way to infiltrate Umbrella’s French laboratory, which was even more impenetrable than Zone 51, the lab being a real fortress (with automatic secured doors, CCTVs, guards and a severe ‘no visitor allowed’ policy) only accessible if you were the lucky owner of a white and red badge. And you had happened to be one.       Leaving the lab for lunch break, happy to finally feel the warm sun on your face, it hadn’t been your beautiful [h/c] hair loosely tied back in a high ponytail or your twinkly [e/c] eyes that had caught Chris’ attention (even though yeah he had noticed). No it had been that badge, that stupid badge carelessly hanging from the front pocket of your lab coat. And it had also been that badge that, unfortunately for you, had made him organise a plan to trick you and get his hands on it, that badge that had made you the victim of his very first treachery.  

Your meeting was – unbeknownst to you – the most unnatural meeting ever. Chris had calculated everything. When? Lunch break. Where? The nearby boulangerie where you used to be eating. What to say? “Désolé. Bonjour. Puis-je m’assoir avec vous?” which meant “Sorry. Hi. May I sit with you?” in French of course, because Chris had figured that playing the part of the poor American tourist with a terrible French accent trying to adapt in the city of love would be much more appropriate for the situation.       And it had worked. He had sit at your table, had exchanged a few words with you and had found you surprisingly friendly and adorable for an Umbrella employee.             But of course, as the majority of Chris’ plans, the meeting hadn’t ended up the way he had imagined (meaning him discreetly stealing your badge) simply because of a tiny detail he hadn’t thought of; you had forgotten your badge at the lab, leaving him no choice but to improvise and organise a second meeting that he had dared called a rendez-vous.

And here he was, weeks later, sharing your apartment and occasionally your bed and definitely bogged in a way bigger deceit that the one he had originally planned, one he knew he would not be able to get out easily.     And to answer the question, did Chris manage to get his hands on your badge? Well, yes and it was now safely hidden in his room to be used at the proper moment. If only he could shut his guilt away as well. Things would be much easier.

“What did you do today? Sebastien told me he barely saw you.” Sebastien was your other roommate. A nice redhead guy as well as a curious unstoppable chatterbox. “Oh, nothing interesting. I woke up early to jog at the Bois de Boulogne then I spent the rest of day wandering in the city.” That was half a lie. Yes, he had gone for a run at the Bois de Boulogne but he hadn’t spent the afternoon visiting Paris. No, he had spent his afternoon trying to reach the FBI from a phone booth in order to know if they had some news concerning Irons or the Mansion Incident. Unsuccessfully.           “If you want, we can spend this Saturday together. I’m sure I can show you few places you haven’t seen yet.”           “Aren’t you working this Saturday?” You were always working on Saturdays. “I need a day off to clear my mind a bit.” That didn’t sound like you. You were too much of a workaholic to prefer spending your Saturday playing guide to your American roommate. “Now, consider me worried. What’s up at work?” Chris asked, concerned not only because he knew something terrible could be happening at Umbrella but also because he couldn’t help but caring about you, Umbrella worker or not.         “Those last days have been a bit tough that’s all.” You wouldn’t tell him more. You couldn’t. For so many reasons.     “Well in that case, what do you think about me running you a nice hot bath?” You glanced up at Chris. He had drawn your attention in a very interesting way. “That depends. Will you be with me in that bath?” You asked cheekily.         “Do you want me too?” He smirked and you put your hand on his neck to pull him closer to your face. You pressed your lips softly against his; sighing in this kiss you had been dreaming about all day, as Chris brought you against his broad chest, his strong arms now holding you tight against him. You felt so safe in his embrace and that’s what you needed right now.        

Chris pecked you a couple times before laying one last kiss on your forehead with a tenderness that made you melt in his arms. “I’m gonna go run you that bath, okay?” You nodded. “Join me in ten minutes.”       Needless to say that those ten minutes were the longest you had ever experienced. Probably because they gave you plenty of time to dwell on the things you had experienced today at the lab, the things you had seen, the things you wanted to forget and yet couldn’t.           You got up and grabbed the bag you had left by the door to search for a small notebook that you opened with a desperate sigh. Then, you took the pen on Chris’ nightstand and started scribbling notes and drawings in it. A habit you had taken a few months ago and that somehow helped you from not cracking up.  

You guessed you took more than ten minutes when you heard Chris clear his throat by the door, only wearing a small towel around his wait. Goodness, what a sight.         You quickly closed the notebook as soon as you spotted him and put it back in your bag while he pretended not to notice. “Haven’t you forgotten something, mademoiselle?” He smirked and you giggled. “Have I?”     “Yes. I think there is a naked man waiting for you in the bathroom.” He joked and you approached him with a amused yet cheeky smile. You put your hands on his chest, feeling his muscles against your palm, as you looked up at his face with a mischievous look. “Is he hot?” “Right now, he is very hot.” He confessed, absolutely in the mood to play with you. “Better not keep him waiting, then.” You purred and you put your hand on one of the straps of your summer dress to gently make it slide along your shoulder.     That small sight of your naked skin made Chris hiss and unable to resist the urge to lay a trail of soft warm kisses from your neck down to your shoulder. You could tell the smoothness and the perfume of your skin were driving him crazy as his mouth soon started devouring you and muffled growls began vibrating in his throat.     His calloused hands roamed down your back, making you instinctively move your hips closer to his crotch, and he unzipped your dress. It dropped at your feet revealing your body that Chris gazed at with his brown eyes darkened by desire. They lingered on your breasts and you knew he wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to touch them. He loved them too much for that. And so, his hands cupped them and his thumbs brushed your hard nipples. “Gosh, Y/N.” He breathing in, trying to calm his heart pounding in his chest “I can’t wait any longer.” Chris suddenly grabbed you and hoisted you up with incredible ease, hands under your ass, which made you yelp.     Nevertheless, you instinctively wrapped your legs around him, making his towel fall to the floor. “Oops. That was not voluntary.” You giggled. So did he. “Right.” And he rushed towards the bathroom, with you in his arms, his lips devouring yours in a hasty burning kiss on the way.

He set you up on the double washstand and quickly locked the door behind him, giving you a brief view of his divine firm behind, though you liked the front as much if not more right now. “What are you looking at like that?” He smirked. Well, his chiselled chest, his carved abs and that big hard cock. What a silly question! But you couldn’t say that and so instead you urged Chris to come closer to you, spreading your legs to welcome him between them.   He obeyed but instead of giving you that lustful hug and passionate kiss you were expecting, he crouched in between your legs and remove your panties, kissing your smooth legs, from thighs to feet, as he did. You clearly knew where that would eventually lead but you moaned anyway when you felt Chris put your legs on his shoulders and burry his face in between your thighs. “I told you I’d help you relax.”         “What about the hot bath?” You tilted your head towards the bubble bath he had run for you few minutes ago.     “Oh don’t worry, we’re getting there. But first you know how much I like licking your pussy.” He winked and his tongue lapped your slit up to your clit without waiting another second. A loud moan escaped your mouth as Chris sucked your bud loudly, pulling it between his lips, and he looked up at you with a proud smirk before focusing his attention back on your pussy.     He was good, very good even, way better than any other men you had ever been with. He knew exactly how to please you. He knew where the tip of tongue had to swirl to make you shiver, knew the right spot to suck to make you moan and when to add his fingers to make you cry out his name - which was right now by the way. “Oh my god, Chris!” You mewled loudly as you felt one of his fingers entering you, his mouth still eating your pussy up. Your legs instinctively clenched around your lover’s head while one of your hand found its way in his short hair. Then you heard Chris hum in between your thighs as he kept on licking you and fucking you with his finger, adding one more in the process. You pulled his hair back, forcing him to look at you. “Fuck me, please. Fuck me now.” Chris complied and, after his tongue slid one last time in between your lips, he stood up to catch your lips in a new passionate kiss, making you taste your juices on his expert tongue. You could feel his cock against you, hard and slightly throbbing already, showing how impatient and aroused he was.       “Enter that bath, quick.” He ordered with a deep voice that made you shake against his body.

You obeyed and gladly let your burning body sink in the bubbly water, the lukewarm water cooling you off a bit (which wasn’t a bad thing). You were soon followed by Chris who entered the bath with a brutal eagerness that made the water waved a bit too much around both your bodies. “Don’t flood the apartment.” You giggled as you spread your legs to make him a place in the tub. “I can’t promise you that.” He confessed amused, as he grabbed his length in his hand to jerk it off a bit and guide it towards your begging entrance waiting for him under the water. He tickled your swollen clit with his tip before entire you almost smoothly making you draw a sharp breath.         “Damn, you’re so tight.” Chris growled as he took hold of the edge of the bathtub above your head to push himself deeper inside of you, enjoying your wet walls around his cock. “You’re fucking big, you mean.” You said with a painful hiss that brutally calmed his ardour and made him consider immediately pulling out of you. “Sorry. Am I hurting you?” He worried, aware his girth needed get some getting used to and afraid that he hadn’t given you enough. “No, no. It’s okay. Just give me sec.” You cleared your throat and adjusted yourself underneath Chris, spreading your lips with your fingers to welcome him the way you both desired. Hard, big and rough. “Okay. Good now.”           “You sure?” He asked, definitely not willing to hurt you. You nodded and pressed your lips against him to show him how much you wanted him right now. He got the message and started moving inside of you, slowly yet deeply for now.

You dug your nails in his biceps and started moaning; taking delight in feeling him going in and out of you. It was just the most divine sensation in the world. He filled you so perfectly. “Chris. Please. Faster.” You begged.             He complied and started pounding you more quickly, hands still on the edge of the tub, towering you with his muscular body to assert his dominance over you the way you liked it. But it wasn’t enough for you and so you wrapped your legs around him forcing him to go balls deep inside of you. Chris smirked, loving your initiative. “You like it deep and rough, baby?” You cried out.   “I didn’t hear you”   “Yeeess.” You whimpered with small tears in your eyes. He hammered you harder, spilling water on the bathroom floor, and you clenched your walls around him. “Oh god!” You yelled, out of breath.

He was relentless, so strong, so fast, so deep you could hear his body slam against your skin and echo the splashes of the waves in the tub. “Come here.” He lay on his back and urged you to come and straddle him. And so you climbed on top of him, admiring how handsome he was underneath you. “Guide me into you.” You did as he said and directed his throbbing cock to your wanting pussy, welcoming him again inside your wetness, Hands pressed against his pectorals, you immediately started undulating on top of him, feeling the pleasure coming back in your lower stomach.         “That’s it. Keep going.” He whispered, gazing at you.

Chris’ hands crawled up your body to reach your breasts and play with them a bit, delicately pinching your pointy nipples, as you kept riding him. You knew he loved groping them and you also knew how much he loved them in his mouth as well. Therefore you decided to bent over him a bit, just enough for his face to reach your chest, holding on to the wall in front of you with one hand to keep your balance. Chris smiled, understanding perfectly your little game, and pulled one of your tits to his mouth to catch one nipple between his lips and suck it greedily.       It was apparently very pleasurable for him (even maybe more than it was for you, and it was a lot) since he started humming and growling loudly. You enjoyed hearing and seeing him like this very much, so much you stopped riding him to focus on this spectacle.            

It didn’t last long though as you soon felt you lover’s strong hands gripping your ass to make you bounce on his cock again. “I so want to cum, baby. Please make us both cum.” His words made you shiver of excitement and you locked your lips with his as you started rolling your hips onto him again.       But it was certainly not enough for Chris since after few seconds he suddenly grabbed your hips to slam deep in your pussy and relentlessly pound you from underneath. You screamed his name and hold on tight to him. He was very rough, so rough you could barely breathe, but you didn’t mind at all.     Soon, you felt your face become so red and your bundle of nerves become atrociously sensitive. You knew you were ready to explode. “Chris. I’m gonna cum.” He put his hand on your clit to stimulate it and help you reach your release, his cock hammering you even harder than before.       You clenched your pussy around his throbbing cock, making him groan because of how tighter you suddenly were. “Tell me I can cum in you, baby.” He asked, panting. He was very close too. “Yes, cum in me.” You didn’t need to say it twice as Chris immediately growled in your ear, slowed his pace, and spread his cum in your pussy with a last animalistic grunt as you came undone on top of him, yelling his name, your powerful orgasm almost knocking you out.

You collapsed on him, incapable of remaining straight. “Wow. That was something.” He chuckled, exhausted and out of breath, and so did you.             “You’re okay?” You looked up at him, raising your eyebrows. What a ridiculous question. “No, I’m being serious, Y/N. Wasn’t I a bit too rough?” He asked.       “You were perfect.” You admitted before kissing him tenderly.           “AND SO FUCKING LOUD!!!” You heard shouting from behind the wall. You both looked in the direction of the noise, understanding that your roommate had probably heard everything but despite the embarrassment you couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Poor Sebastien.       “Why don’t we get out of that bath and cuddle a bit in bed? The water is getting cold.” Chris offered.   “I’d like that very much.” You smiled and managed to leave the tub, using the little energy you had left in your sore body.            

As you dried yourself, you saw Chris head towards the door with a towel draped around his waist. “Where are you going?” You asked.   “Taking some briefs in my room. See you in your room in a minute?” He smiled and you nodded, impatient to spend the night in his arms. “Can you bring me back my clothes and my bag while you’re at it?”           “Sure.”

Chris closed the door behind him and headed towards his room where he put on some clean underwear and picked up your stuff as you had asked. But the moment he grabbed your bag and caught a glimpse of the black notebook he had previously seen you inside, he knew he would probably not join you as soon as he had told you.         He watched it first, hesitant, knowing perfectly well that what he had in mind right now was very bad. It was one thing to steal a badge, but spying on you, that was going too far. “No, Chris. No.” He whispered to himself. And yet, he grasped the notebook and opened it.   It was a diary of some sort judging by the numerous dates he noticed as he quickly leafed through it. And if it was a diary then it was indeed very private, intimate even, certainly not his to read. He thought about putting it back in your bag for a second, but what if something valuable to his investigation was inside that notebook?         “Argh, fuck.” He cursed as he went to the first page.

“May, 14th 1998

Today made me regret the time I was just the intern bringing Professor Rochois his morning espresso. Umbrella is asking more and more of me, and the pressure they put on us workers is driving me insane. But what’s worse is that I’ve got the impression they are not telling us everything, especially concerning the experience the seasoned scientists are conducting in the north wing. But I guess I’ll soon have answers to my questions since Professor Rochois said that he was genuinely impressed by my devotion and was thinking of promoting me.”

Chris frowned, apprehension knotting his stomach. That didn’t sound good at all. He needed to learn more about that even if the moment was far from convenient. You could show up anytime and catch him red-handed.         He turned a few more pages, rapidly skimming through some notes he would definitely read another day, until he spotted a weird drawing of some octopus-like creature. What the hell was that thing?

“June, 7th 1998

The NE-a parasite. A parasitic species indented to retain intelligence. It has been developed by Umbrella Europe for years. At first I thought it was just a revolutionary way to cure brain damage. After all, that’s how it had been advertised to me. But the more I study it, the more I believe Umbrella may be up to something else other than treating brain injuries or Alzheimer. I don’t know what and I’m not even sure I want to know.”

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. His body was shaking and he could feel fear eating him up and he started imagining terrible things.   What if you were involved in the Spencer Mansion incident? No, no. You couldn’t be. And yet, Chris decided to have a look had the entries you wrote in July. He needed to reassure himself. One immediately drew his attention.

“July, 28th 1998

My superiors have been quite on edge lately, something to do with an incident that happened with the American branch of Umbrella from what I overheard. I don’t know what it is though, but I’m sure it must be pretty big because they doubled down security in the lab. The team and I have the impression we are living in a 1984 remake. The CCTVs are always recording and I sometimes have the strange sensation I’m being permanently spied on, even in the locker room. Maybe they have doubts about me because of the many questions I often ask about Project Nemesis.”

Project Nemesis? Y/N, what the hell were you working on in that lab?

[banjoknight]

Research and Information Fluency

Research, research is the fuel for innovation, and the cure for ignorance. One question, however, is how doI  go about this? Where do I find sources, where do I even begin to look? Well, if you are asking these questions I sincerely wonder what forgotten deity you had to sacrifice to in order to make it through school, and I might just have a much easier alternative to beseeching the blessing of an elder god, which we all know can be quite tedious. Perhaps if you already know how, you may be able to improve.

So what skills are necessary and how can you improve? Firstly, build your repertoire of sources, or places to find sources, books, people, sites, anything that can point you in the right direction. If its history, Britannica, Smithsonian or even a museum’s website will have you covered, from there you can often get in touch with specialists who can offer you questions or offer further reading. Wikipedia is great for sources about most things, as they often cite them and they can be quite extensive. For things not so academic it gets a bit more complicated, often bias and half-truths hide what is actually going on so cross checking and making sure to question the purpose of an article or report can greatly help. A news station that honestly tries to uphold its honesty despite its strong political preferences is NPR, which, if you don’t know, is an American radio network that tends to focus on local news. They tend to stay neutral and say just the facts, BBC is also good in this regard but make sure to take everything with a grain of salt. Both CNN and FOX are very biased and tend to exaggerate and manipulate, but they are a good source to see the opinions of political groups. Russia Today is propaganda and should rarely be trusted. Now to employ your newfound skills, don’t trust anything I just told you, go look for yourself and make your own conclusion, they may be informed or guided by this but do not take them at face value. So now that you know some skills you might be thinking, “yeah, but how do I actually do it?”

Well, I’ll show you, If I were given a topic that I had to do a project on and knew absolutely nothing about it, how would I research it? First I would ask someone who knows a bit more about the topic the very basics so that I can get an understanding which will allow me to research more effectively. Then I would search up some general information and do some basic reading, nothing too specific. After that I would start searching for key terms that relate to the topic more closely and answer some of the questions I want to write about, with these it is especially important to check the authenticity of the information and check for bias. I would make sure to write all the sources down and if I took anything specific to note what I used from the source. This will be particularly useful when explaining the topic to someone who does not know about it, knowing your initial questions will help you answer theirs. After that all that’s left is to organise your list and you’re done. I have made myself out to be some all knowing research sage, but I am certainly lacking in some areas.

I fail at many things when researching, most of which I am most likely completely oblivious to. However one thing that I am made painfully aware to, particularly in about the middle of my project is the weakness of having a question, and then researching it, instead of just researching everything you need before you start so that it is much easier. Another flaw in my researching habits is that I rely on the internet too much, I would have a much deeper and more personal grasp of the topic if I were to say, read a book, or watch a lecture, as I sometimes only know the information about a subject that specifically concern my topic and often miss the bigger picture.

Ok, it’s that time again, the time for self improvement! Well, this week it has all broken down due to the undeniable fact of my monthly quadrupling of my work load. I still have tried a few things, not wise things, but I guess that makes them even better since I can learn from them. Well I went on a camping trip and caught a very bad cold and got back so late on a weekend that I had no time for the massive amount of homework that had collected for Monday. I also have been practicing scales on my banjo to improve my comprehension and improvisation. I have tried to be nicer to my sister and have been going to the gym with my father quite frequently, although in the last week due to school work that has somewhat gone to the gutter. Now it’s time to wrap this up so lets just go over some things before we end, shall we?

So, researching skills are essential in the 21st century and there are many skills that you can develop to improve them, from learning about news sources to authentication and sorting techniques there is plenty you can do. Make sure to have a good process too and stick with it. I have a certain way of doing things and it can be vastly improved. I also took a few steps forward in my own life, and a whole bunch more in the opposite direction. Anyway, thanks for putting up with my rambling, have a nice day.

[puddygeeks]

𝔅𝔞𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔫𝔶 - 𝔖𝔲𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔞𝔩 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔫/𝔒ℭ - ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 1: ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔈𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰

Masterlist

Rating: Mature

Summary: Following the footsteps of several generations of Creed hunters, Faye’s upbringing revolved around training to continue the family legacy. Since her parents death, she has been content to work alone until a chance encounter with the Winchester’s shatters everything she believed. Despite her complicated past and initial reservations about the boys, she finds herself crossing paths with the troublemakers at regular intervals. Faye discovers more in common with Dean than she could ever have anticipated and leaning on each other becomes a habit they can’t quit.

A/N: I needed a project to give me a creative break from We Come Running, so thought I’d delve into Supernatural. This will not have a posting schedule, as I don’t need another thing to stress over! But I’ll update whenever I need to write outside of The 100 Universe. I don’t have a huge plan for this fic, but I can say that it will not be a full rewrite of the show that includes every episode like my other works. It will dip in and out of the Supernatural storylines whenever I feel she has something to contribute. I hope you enjoy this new style of writing that I’m trying <3

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: OC x Dean Winchester

My writing is entirely fuelled by coffee! If you enjoy my work, feel free to donate toward my caffeine dependency: will work for coffee

Warnings: Mature content. Language, alcohol abuse, violence, character death.

Chapter One

I stared back at my reflection in the cheap motel mirror with a strong feeling of unease. A deep sigh escaped my lips as I adjusted the blonde wig into place so that none of my natural hair was visible and checked that my makeup adequately covered the small holes that remained in my face once my piercings were removed. The black suit jacket slid easily over my shoulders and I stepped into my neat black court shoes with a wobble. I seized the worn holdall containing my ordinary clothes with attitude and stomped out to the car. The blaring sound of my trusty playlist filled the clunky old jeep and I felt myself gradually relaxing over the course of my journey to the local police station. 

This part of hunting had always grated on me. Over the years, I’d learned to embrace the lifestyle of living on the outskirts of society and enjoyed the simple pleasures of expressing myself however I wished. I wasn’t limited by the same restrictions as everyone else, I didn’t have to conform to office dress codes or feel the social pressure to dress my age. It was only when I needed to pass as law enforcement to gather information that I had to force myself into a characterless uniform and stiff appearance. Everytime that this was necessary, I felt like I stripped away all of the benefits of the hunter lifestyle and instead was left feeling like an outsider as I tried to fit into the regular world.

I parked around the corner from the station and made one last check of my appearance to ensure that nothing suspiciously unprofessional was on show. Before stepping out of the vehicle, I took a deep breath and forced myself into the facade that always gained me access to anything that I wanted. I strutted into the station with an unnecessary sway to my hips that I knew were well displayed in the pencil skirt that I wore and felt my stomach churn at the sickening manner in which the officers in the room watched me pass. It was worryingly simple to flirt my way past the first officer at the desk and into the captain's office. I didn’t even show my badge, all it took was a charming smile over the top of my horn rimmed glasses and a lingering sweep of hair behind my ear. 

The Captain was a middle aged man who at least remembered to ask me for ID before he eagerly spilled the details of the strange case. He roughly commented that I seemed very young to be working alone, FBI agent or not and I smiled through my discomfort as I grilled him for the information that I sorely needed. 

I was smoothly exiting the office in a determined march for my car and sorely needed change of clothes, when the Captain called out to announce the arrival of another couple of agents. My stomach flipped with nerves as I rolled my eyes and made an offhand comment about poor organisation at the bureau. It wasn’t the first time that I’d bumped into actual feds on a job. As a matter of fact, I’d learned early on that it was one of the many risks of investigation, but every time that I had to improvise my way out of their scrutiny left me feeling drained. 

I allowed the Captain to lead me outside the front of the station with a forced air of calm whilst I mentally rehearsed the lines that I had prepared for this situation. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to call in another favour; every time that I needed to give a number for real investigators to call to confirm my identity cost me another night of stroking a hunter colleagues ego.

My nerves dissolved into amusement as we neared two obnoxiously tall men in black suits that I recognised immediately. One of them had shoulder length, chestnut brown hair and kind eyes that twinkled as he fixed me with a warm smile. He was clearly younger than me and there was something in his posture that indicated a calm nature that was beyond his years. The other smoothly slid off his sunglasses with a brow cocked in interest as his gaze roamed my figure before landing on my face. He had shorter brunette hair and mischievous eyes that seemed to challenge me as they met mine. He had chiseled, handsome features and broad shoulders that hinted at a muscular physique hidden away beneath the suit jacket. There was no doubting that they were both attractive, but were absolutely not federal agents and everything about them screamed trouble. The Captain asked whether a little lady like me would need help arguing with two such large men over jurisdiction, but I convinced him to leave us with a polite smile and a falsely flattered giggle.

“Good to meet you. I’m Agent Stark, this is Agent Banner. We’re from the Atlanta Bureau. Could you bring us up to speed on any case details that you’ve been given?” The flirtatious man that I had easily recognised to be Dean Winchester spoke first, introducing the two of them as they both briefly held up their fake ID’s and I peeked between them with my brows raised. I’d heard descriptions of these men more times than I could count but they didn’t do justice to the hulking reality that stood before me. It wasn’t unusual for men to tower over me; at 5’4 I wasn’t exactly tall. However, I was surprised to find that the impending attitude they were often characterised as displaying seemed to be absent and I wasn’t remotely intimidated by them. 

“Stark and Banner?” I repeated as I surveyed Dean with amusement and he furrowed his brows together in confusion. I wondered if they’d ever been doubted before from the obvious shock in their body language and couldn’t help sensing an opportunity to seize the upper hand with the infamous hunters. “That’s really what you’re going with?” I drawled as I smiled smugly at them and noticed that they subtly glanced between them with concern. “I thought the Winchester’s would be better at this.” I teased as they visibly stiffened and stared at each other in alarm. I revelled in the knowledge that I’d caught them off guard as I crossed my arms and waited for them to formulate a response.

“You’re a hunter?” Sam breathed in a tone that was more of a statement than a question. He scanned me in an analytical manner and I quickly understood that he was the more logical of the two. I stretched out the silence as I prepared my answer and enjoyed watching Dean squirm nervously as he considered that Sam might have made an error in judgement. 

“Yes I am.” I confirmed firmly and caught sight of a slight sag in Dean’s shoulders. It occurred to me that he was the protector of the two and I stored this information in the back of my mind for future use. “And this is my job. I’ll handle this case from here, so you two can feel free to move on.” I revealed with a disinterested shrug as I held my ground. Confusion flitted across both of their faces at almost the exact same time and I was struck with the impression that they weren’t used to hearing women say no very often. 

“Well, hold on a second. We’re all here, we might as well help you out.” Dean suggested in a manner that tried to be helpful but mostly sounded condescending and I cocked a brow at him. Sam studied me closely as my face grew stern but Dean seemed to be completely unaware of his effect on me. 

“I can handle myself just fine, thank you. Besides, witches tend to fight much harder against men anyway, you’ll only spur them on.” I crooned as I started to wander toward my car in an effort to end the undesirable conversation and rolled my eyes when they followed with a shared look of concern. “Not every girl is a damsel in distress you know. I’m sure there’s plenty of other jobs you could pursue with girls who will be awaiting your rescue. I work better alone.” I clarified with an annoyed expression as I increased my pace to suggest that I wanted to be left alone. Dean caught my wrist to pause me in place and I whipped around on the spot to view him with suspicion.

“Hey, I don’t know what your problem is but we’re offering to make your job easier.” He remarked with a confident attitude and I scoffed. “Look, you don’t want our help, that’s fine but don’t just take off. You seem to know exactly who we are and we don’t even know your name. Give me something here.” He drawled with a keen expression and I chuckled under my breath.

“There’s not a hunter around who doesn’t know Sam and Dean Winchester.” I commented as I removed myself from his grasp and stepped out of his space with a look of disapproval. “And you don’t need to know my name. You can call me Agent Brooke if they ask any questions about who’s taking the case.” I clarified before I turned on my heel and strode to my car without a backwards glance.

I stopped back at the motel to change out of my feminine agent disguise with a tense feeling of stress. I had known that I was likely to run into the Winchester’s at some point or another, but it didn’t make the experience any less jarring. I’d been anticipating it for almost ten years whilst I worked jobs all over the country and although I’d met numerous hunters along the way, I’d somehow managed to avoid them. They were exactly how I’d expected, full of over-confidence in both their ability and charm. Enough years had gone since I ran away from my past that there was only a hint of bitterness remaining for them and I’d found that toying with them was more for my own amusement than as a result of envy. I’d grown accustomed to pushing people away and working alone so sharp, deflective humour was more of habit than anything personal.

I shook out my shoulder length purple hair and ran my fingers through it to relieve the soreness from the wig. I took a shower to clean off the taint of the act that I’d been forced to perform as an agent and changed into an old band t-shirt, black ripped jeans and a pair of black doc martin boots. I returned my black studs into the two piercings under my lips and the silver ring into my left nostril. It took some time to replace all of the ear jewellery but once I had, I started to feel like myself again. I quickly applied some black eyeliner and dark eyeshadow for my own satisfaction as a small act of rebellion against my earlier self presentation. 

I settled on the edge of the bed with my laptop to pour over the new intel that I’d received and set aside time to form a plan of action. I couldn’t concentrate properly on my task as the memory of the boys’ clueless expressions floated through my mind and after a while of battling it, I threw the laptop aside in frustration. There was a common coping mechanism amongst hunters of burying your feelings instead of dealing with them and I had depended on this unhealthy strategy for more years than I cared to acknowledge. The act of finally matching faces to the all too familiar Winchester names had stirred up memories that I’d long been repressing and I struggled to contain the feelings that came with them. 

I felt a pang of guilt as Bobby’s voice rang in my mind, scolding me for not accepting their help. He’d always recommended teaming up where possible; he considered it a good chance to learn from other hunters' experiences and to make contacts that you could utilise in future. Fortunately for me I didn’t have to do anything Bobby’s way any more. I was an adult now, if I wanted to drink myself into a stupor and pass out in my motel room, there was no one here to scold me for doing so. It was a weak justification but as I slipped into a whisky fuelled coma, I felt relieved that I had been able to drown out the criticism.

The next few days were spent in town interviewing people close to the mysterious deaths and was pleased not to hear any mention of the boys. It seemed that they hadn’t processed their investigation any further and I convinced myself that I had successfully managed to scare them from town. This assertion allowed me to focus on preparing for the upcoming confrontation. I discovered that I was dealing with a duo of witches and planned carefully to ensure that I couldn’t be overwhelmed by them. I packed a plentiful supply of weapons and visited the home of one of the previous victims to set traps. I knew that I could lure them to revisit the scene of the crime with a few simple social arrangements to inspire jealousy and used this to ensure that the fight took place somewhere that I could control.

I waited in my car, parked in the dark street for hours for any sign of the witches' arrival and was pleased to find that they were exactly as predictable as I expected. The back door allowed me to creep into the home and I could hear them frantically searching the rooms for the next victim that I’d led them to believe would be here. I carefully approached the living room where I’d planted traps with baited breath and as I neared the door, I was startled by the loud crash of a boobytrap springing into action. My stomach lurched at the unexpected sound of a mape crying out and tiptoed closer to peek inside.

“Sam!” I recognised the panicked voice of Dean from the next room as I reached the door and was able to view Sam tangled in my trap.

Dean burst through the entrance hall in a rage as Sam struggled with one of the witches who was somewhat thrilled by the containment of her new captive. I growled under my breath as they trampled over my carefully laid plans and tried to quickly analyse the best way to take control of the rapidly escalating situation. Dean charged toward his choking brother in a manic attack before the second witch revealed herself and launched him across the room with merely a flick of her wrist. It was evident from their reactions that they had only expected one enemy and I rolled my eyes at their chaotic behaviour.

“Dean! Let him go!” Sam wheezed between pants as Dean was crushed against the wall by magic so forceful that it cracked the plaster around him. I fidgeted nervously on the spot as I realised that Sam was turning blue from oxygen deprivation and I fell into the room in a moment of impulse. The two witches had their backs to the door that I rushed through and were paying little attention to each other as they individually toyed with the boys. I entangled my fingers into the back of the tangled hair of the woman who was choking Sam and yanked her backwards toward the circle that I’d prepared earlier. The moment that Sam stumbled out of my trap, I caught his attention with a wide eyed stare.

“Pull the rug!” I ordered with a firm authority before lapsing into well memorised incantations under my breath to activate the containment. He crouched to rip the rug out from under my captive’s feet without question, revealing a freshly white painted circle on the ground. Now that the shock of my assault had passed, the witch easily fought out of my grasp and whipped around to face me with an expression of absolute outrage. I jumped back to remove myself from her reach and now that the circle was active, she was unable to cast or escape. Sam leapt to the side in a frantic bid to reach a sword on the ground and the moment that he gripped it, he rushed toward Dean with a fiery determination. The witch in the circle released an agonising scream that warned the other of his approach and I flinched as I instinctively covered my ears. Dean slammed to the ground in a wheezing heap as his assailant turned to lift Sam instead and he dropped the sword with a clatter as he scraped against the wall.

I snatched the sword in a desperate movement and dove from the room before either of them could plan to attack me. The boys were manically yelling behind me as I rushed through the house to my bag that I’d stowed at the back door. My shaking hands grabbed a pot of salt and a flare before I sprinted back to the door that I’d entered the room through originally. I dumped a shaky line of salt in the doorway before I sparked the flare and lobbed it into the room to draw attention away from Sam. 

Whilst the fighting descended into chaos, I scrambled to the entrance hall and past Dean’s crumpled form at the other end of the room. The remaining attacker was still distracted by the flare which allowed me to stalk up to her from behind and I swung the sword with as much force as I could muster. The blade neatly removed her head in a clean cut and it flew across the room with a satisfying thud. The witch in the circle howled in anguish and when I brought my attention to her, I realised that her eyes had turned completely black. I didn’t hesitate for a single moment as I grabbed the flare from the ground and tossed it into the circle. It set alight the fuel that I’d doused it in earlier and I rushed through the blessing to dispel the demon.

I leaned forward with my hands on my knees as I panted from the exertion and listened to the sounds of the witch sizzling to nothing. After a few moments of recovery, I heard Sam and Dean struggle to their feet and their heavy footprints alerted me to their approach. I straightened up to fix them with a disapproving look.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” I spat in an accusing tone and they shifted awkwardly as they viewed me. I couldn’t believe that they had ignored my direct request to leave and as I stared at their guilty faces, I felt frustration building in my chest.

“We thought you might need help.” Sam muttered in a poor excuse and I crossed my arms in annoyance as I scoffed.

“Oh yeah, thank god you guys were here to save me. I’d never have managed without you.” I drawled with a heavy sarcasm and I noticed that Dean rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “You two are supposed to be the best hunters around and you just almost got all three of us killed!” I scolded in a raised voice and although Sam squirmed at my words, Dean only seemed to get defensive.

“Look, we messed up, alright. But what the hell kind of a hunter sets up contraptions like that?” Dean argued as he indicated to the trap that Sam had found himself tangled in. It was a method I’d used regularly for years now to ensure that I always had a back up plan if I found myself outnumbered or cornered. It was difficult to hunt without anyone to watch your back and I’d adapted to the challenge.

“The kind of hunter that works alone, not all of us charge in without a plan. I thought you’d be smarter than that with all the training you’ve had.” I confirmed as I surveyed him with dismay and immediately kicked myself for hinting how much I knew about their upbringing. I dropped my gaze to the ground to avoid his expression but from my peripheral vision I could see that he raised his brows at me whilst Sam observed us in silent interest.

“You’ve got a lot of assumptions about us for someone who claims they don’t give a shit...Faye Creed.” Dean drawled as his words tore my eyes back to his face. He smiled smugly at me as he paused to emphasise my name and I felt a lump form in my throat. My back stiffened involuntarily and I rolled my eyes at them both.

“So, you finally thought to consult Bobby. Guess you aren’t as dumb as you seem.” I sneered as I ran a hand through my hair and tried to present as unphased by their research into me. I knew that it had been foolish to hope that they would allow me to walk away without any interest but I didn’t expect to see them again once they had found the information. “Only a matter of time, took you longer than I expected though. How’d you get him to narrow it down? I don’t use his aliases any more.” I enquired with a controlled interest as I wondered what it was that had given me away. I had been careful about my choice of words in our first meeting and I expected my disguise to protect me from them as much as it did the police. The thought crossed my mind that Bobby may still be keeping tabs on me if he was aware of my FBI presentation and I pushed it away to deal with later.

“Not that many hunters with a British accent around.” Sam commented from the side with a charming smile and I shrugged in defeat. There was little I could do to hide that and it was an ongoing identifier that I wished I could remove.

“Took me longer than I want to admit to figure out that alias too, Agent Brooks.” Dean remarked and his voice drew my attention back to his intrigued smile. “Eric Brooks, Blade. That’s a pretty obscure reference, even for a comic nerd. No wonder those ID’s tipped you off.” He detailed with an obvious admiration in his tone and I felt a genuine smile escape my cool expression.

“So, what did your Nick Fury tell you about me to make you so convinced that I needed your help?” I grilled as I raised a brow at Dean with a more flirtatious interest than I intended. I couldn’t contain the playfulness that he encouraged from me despite my determination to keep them at a distance.

“Nothing. Just a name and a warning that you were bad news.” Dean confirmed with a mischievous delight in his eyes and I chuckled under my breath.

“Actually, he was remarkably tight lipped about it all. Maybe you could fill us in on how you know each other?” Sam interrogated, a warm smile attempting to cover his curiosity. I waved my arms in front of me as I stepped back slightly in defence.

“Oh I’m no snitch. That’s the old man's story to share, if he even wants to.” I deflected as I gathered my things to leave and increased the distance between us subconsciously. “Seeing as I saved your asses from your own idiocy tonight, I’ll leave you two clean-up duty.” I declared as I indicated to the remains of the witches that were spread across the room and they glanced at each other regretfully. “It’s been fun, see you around.” I crooned with an exaggerated solute as I wandered from the room.

The disgruntled complaints of them gathering the pieces of our enemies was clear even from the back of the house as I grabbed my duffel bag and I reached out to touch the door handle before I paused in place. A thoughtful sigh escaped my lips and my heartstrings pulled me back to the room they were in. I leaned carefully on the doorframe as I peered inside and cleared my throat to gain their attention.

“Could you...could you boys pass Bobby a message for me?” I asked nervously and they glanced at each other uncertainly before Sam shrugged in response. “Just tell him that I’m sorry. He’ll know what for.” I relayed and quickly turned on my heel to stomp out before they could ask any questions.

[starcgazette]

NOVA Press Release

The attack on their facility had been unfortunate, but hardly as damning to them as some may think. Jihl would make a point to ensure any and all released ‘mistakes’ were dealt with more thoroughly before they left the place proper. She’d just come from a meeting with her superior, and to say they weren’t pleased with the situation would be an understatement. She was one of their finest members and, though a soldier, her variable skillset was why she’d been entrusted with her position.

Jihl had been handed some notes, statistics of casualties, notable names and other facts to take out with her to the gathered press core (a full house), and looked it over once more before moving to the small wardrobe in her office and pulling out an outfit she hadn’t worn in some time. It took a little while but it was perfect. She looked at herself in the mirror, her military uniform pressed, medals upon her breast and her hat placed neatly upon her head. An army-man, or in this case woman, always served as a winning look with a crowd.

Her aide arrived, grabbing several of the documents she’d been looking over, and escorted her to the elevator. The press had gathered in the large foyer of NOVA’s headquarters. Several of her soldiers stood around, armed and ready though not so blunt as to have their weapons on open display. The elevator doors opened and they stepped out.

She was about to move into the main foyer when her aide tried to hand over the papers and she shook her head. “I don’t need those, I’ll improvise.”

She stepped into the room and the inaudible murmuring of the journalists rose in volume while several dozen ‘clicks’ from cameras resounded. She kept her head up, walking with purpose to the small lectern that had been placed there for her to speak. Jihl placed both hands on the edge of the wooden stand and looked down for a moment, as though slightly overcome.

“Citizens of Star City.”

Silence fell.

“It is with a heavy heart that I must speak to you this morning. As you no doubt know, a NOVA facility was brutally attacked, sacked and destroyed by several powered individuals who we believe to have now retreated behind the walls of District X. Their actions were illegal, condemnable, and vicious. You’ve no doubt heard the ill press spread about our organisation. Maybe some of you here helped print those slanderous articles. I can only speak of my sorrow and pain that the work of good people has been tarred by those words.”

She paused, looking carefully around the room, her eyes shining under the strong lights of further camera flashes.

“The facility destroyed by those enemies of the state was a rehabilitation center. One designed to take in and help willing individuals who wanted to learn and control their abilities in a safe environment before returning to civilian life.” She licked her lips, the smallest of trembles falling into her tone, “I can apologize for failing them. For letting that safe space with overrun by violent extremists. We treated those people with kindness and understanding, as civilians first. District X has shown, now more than ever, that they insist upon weaponizing their abilities to suit their own goals at the risk of the government and the general public.  We condemn their actions. We condemn their ideals and we condemn their choice for violence over communication. But this will not stop NOVA from continuing to uphold the choice the people made to ensure such powers are used safely and controlled.”

“Though it may not be professional, I have more to say. Many NOVA agents were lost in this act of destruction. Private Henry Gerald, a husband a father as of last month, now leaves behind a widow and fatherless child. Corporal Masood Wilson leaves behind a six-month grandchild. Ms. Amy Meadows celebrated her twenty fifth birthday on the day of the attack. Ms. Diane Wisse worked with NOVA for over four years helping other powered individuals cope with their abilities, and those same people who call themselves liberated and free cut her down while she tried to save those under her care.”

She swallowed; her lips twitched.

“Regardless of what you may think or may believe, this attack has stolen parents, children, partners, lovers, and friends. Their lives were viciously taken in the name of so-called freedom. I ask you to look at this tragedy and think hard about where you stand. If anyone out there is scared or alone, NOVA will always have a place for you to stand.”

Jihl’s eyes closed tightly, the shine of tears in them undeniable.

“I will not be answering questions.”

With that, she stepped down from the podium and walked swiftly from the room to the elevator. Her soldiers kept any press members from following.

She returned to her office and pulled her hat off, resting it on her desk before grabbing her phone and dialing.“This is Lieutenant Commander Nable. I need you to deal with Ms. Wisse. She’s just become a most tragic martyr to our cause and it wouldn’t do for anyone to find out she was still alive.” A pause. “Yes. Immediately. Mimic the injuries of our agents from the attack, we’ll release a further statement on it and work the angle as best we can.” Another pause. “Good.” She replaced the phone and looked out of her window over the city.

This battle was far from over.    

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

An eerie night inside Blue Mountains sect the Twelve Tribes

                                             Updated June 14, 2018

THEIR beliefs have attracted attention from authorities globally. On this cold night, we went inside the home of the controversial sect.

James Weir              news.com.au               June 8, 2018

A TAMBORINE rattles and feet stomping on timber floorboards echoes down the dark garden path of this strange, old house.

Don’t bring anything, just yourself, were the instructions given by an intense man who stared deeply and refused to blink.

It’s a cold Friday night in the small town of Katoomba in the Blue Mountains. Up the road, about 500m, backpackers and weekenders scurry into bars and restaurants to escape the icy air. But a stroll down Baptist St along the train line, there’s no one else. That’s when the tambourine rattles.

An electric doorbell is stuck to the side of the old home’s thick front door. The hi-tech convenience goes against the simple notions of the group that resides here. It’s just one of many contradictions.

Yellow light floods the darkness as a young man pulls the door open and loud renaissance music pours out with it. The stomping amplifies.

In the living room, a circle of young people spins around fast. It’s a blur of young men with leather headbands, little kids with long hair and young women covered up in floor-length skirts and baggy white blouses with braids down their backs.

They hold hands and thump their feet on the worn-out floorboards. Older members, also clothed in plain, conservative outfits, sit on the edges of the room and watch.

This is Friday night Shabbat at Balmoral House, one of the Sydney bases of controversial international religious group the Twelve Tribes. Its members are fiercely loyal to the conservative and reclusive practices. But those who have left the group tell a different story.

The group has faced global criticism for its views on race, homosexuality and child discipline teachings, which enforce hitting. In 2013, a police raid removed 40 children from a Twelve Tribes property in Germany after undercover footage captured repeated physical punishment of a number of children. This week, an investigation was launched in New York after an upstate property run by the tribe was allegedly found to be enforcing child labour.

As the circle spins inside the old house, a girl approaches with a tall glass of thick, purple liquid. Everyone stares until it’s sipped.

‘ALL MY BRAINWASHING CAME DOWN’

Rosemary Ilich remembers the day she decided to leave the Twelve Tribes after 13 years inside with her husband and three children.

“It’s like all my brainwashing came down. To realise what a crazy thing I’d been part of — a horrible thing — it’s like a bucket of cold ice thrown at your face,” she tells news.com.au about the day she quit in 2010, a short time after her husband and son left.

Matthew Klein had a similar feeling after he was kicked out in 2001. He managed to get his kids out, but his wife insisted on staying.

“I still remember lying in bed thinking, f**k, I was in a cult. It hit me like a tonne of bricks,” he tells news.com.au.

The group that promised unconditional love, acceptance and forgiveness became a horror that, for years, they couldn’t escape.

“It’s like your whole map of reality gets changed. You become your own enemy,” Mrs Ilich says. “So when you have healthy doubts, you think, no, that’s the devil talking to me. That’s what the teachings are there for. It’s for judging yourself, removing your sin and you become obsessed with that.”

On the surface, the fundamentalist organisation, which began 46 years ago in Chattanooga, Tennessee, offers members community and enlightenment and provides them with a simple, sustainable way of life. Its enforced beliefs are a mishmash of Judaism, Christianity and teachings written by founder Eugene Spriggs — a former carnival showman known to followers as “Yoneq”.

Its estimated 3000 members are placed in tribes across the US, Australia, Spain, Germany, France, Argentina, Canada and the Czech Republic. Tribes live together in self-sustaining communities, with many operating cafes — all named The Yellow Deli Cafe — in small nearby towns.

According to Mrs Ilich those who join the group are made to work tirelessly in the cafes or labour on the farms and in the households without payment.

“Bit by bit, you lose all your critical thinking,” Mrs Ilich says. “I did have red flags coming up but you always think it’s Satan. Because it’s all you hear about is Satan, all day. And you’re also supposed to confess things. You’re cut off from information — you can’t read the papers, I wasn’t allowed to drive, I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere. All there is is heavy repetition. Nothing else.”

Raphael Aron, director and counsellor of Cult Consulting Australia, has worked with former Twelve Tribes members after they’ve exited the group. He says communities like it can target a person’s desire to belong.

“There is no relationship between stability or intelligence and the human vulnerability to recruitment,” he says. “Some of the most prominent members … are highly educated individuals often with multiple college degrees.”

When members join the Twelve Tribes, they’re asked to sell any property or possessions and give all their earnings to the tribe. Inside, no one has savings and electronic items like phones, computers and televisions are not allowed.

“They tell you you can leave, but you can’t,” former member Greg Kelly tells news.com.au.

INSIDE THE BIG, OLD HOUSE

Inside the tribe’s dimly lit Yellow Deli Cafe in Katoomba this Friday afternoon, it’s all dark nooks and heavy varnished timbers. The strong smell of stewed meats and spices cloud the space. Tribe teachings and symbolic murals are painted on the wall. A small phrase is painted in cursive writing: “Eternity is a long, long time.”

A tall middle-aged man with greying hair walks up the stairs to the tiny second level. He leans over the railing next to the table, stares intently and introduces himself. All the other customers in the cafe are in groups. But at this small table sits a lone customer.

The man doesn’t blink. He stares deeply and talks slowly. He’s intense but welcoming. And almost insistent that the invitation to the tribe’s house be accepted. The mention of friends gets him excited. “Bring them!” he encourages, before off-loading a loaf of olive bread and a green super bar, specially made by the tribe.

A few days later, Mrs Ilich will explain the tribe’s obsession with bringing in new members.

“If people are not getting added to the community then it’s your fault. The problem is always with you — it’s never the leaders, because they represent God,” she says.

After the sun sets in the mountains and the temperature plunges, that’s when the tambourines and the purple juice and exotic smells ambush the senses.

“I’m so glad you came,” the man from the deli beams, pulling up chairs on the perimeter of the spinning circle.

Staring at the young people dancing, he explains a lot of them have been in the tribe since they were kids — some of them born into it. It’s hard to tell how old anyone is. The girl with the purple juice looks about 16. But the man says she’s in her 20s or 30s.

It’s difficult to identify or remember people. And everyone has a Hebrew name.

“They change Hebrew names all the time,” Mrs Ilich later explains. “I think it helps with confusing everyone. When you try find someone in there there’s five (people named) Emunah, Anav, Daveed, Israil. It’s easy to mask people.”

One of the young men here gave up his farm in Gunnedah to join the tribe. He met his wife here and, after marrying, they had a child. Their little blonde girl is not shy like the others and has cheekiness in her eyes.

You can only marry within the tribe, the man explains. If an attraction forms, the man and woman are required to go to the leaders (there’s three, but one main leader, it’s later said) for approval. Meetings are organised between the pair to talk. They’re not allowed to touch. These meetings can go for months until they decide they want to marry. It’s only after the wedding a couple can kiss.

“They don’t have birth control and they try to get the ladies to have as many (children) as they can,” Mrs Ilich later explains. When she decided to leave in 2010, her oldest daughter had just become engaged to a boy who grew up in the tribe and insisted on staying at the group’s Picton farm. Mrs Ilich hasn’t been allowed to meet her three grandchildren or see her daughter, now 27, since 2013.

Silence falls at the end of each song and the dancing bodies turn lifeless until a strum of the guitar tells them it’s OK to move again. About an hour passes before the circle disbands and everyone finds a place in the living room to sit reverently. One by one, five people stand up to deliver an improvised sermon about what they’re thankful for.

Suddenly the group launches into vigorous song.

“There’s gonna be thousands of these everywhere!” the intense man yells over the music.

LOVE-BOMBED, BRAINWASHED

You can make the “commitment”, he urges later while standing in the front garden of the old house. It’s cold, dark and quiet.

I “put out the message” and you “received it”, you were open, he says. Friends are always going to abandon you, he explains. But not the tribe.

He offers a bed at Balmoral House. Come for a weekend, he suggests. “You can work in the cafe,” he says.

Three weekend stays is all it took before Mrs Ilich and her family moved into the tribe’s farm.

“We unknowingly put ourselves in the process of recruitment,” she recalls. “It’s called love-bombing — they shower you with love and affection and make you feel like family.”

She added: “We didn’t know what hit us. We fell in love with them. They kind of rewrite your past for you and you start thinking about your past in a dark light. They started making me look at my life like my family is trying to control me. They try to separate you from each other.”

While Cult Consulting Australia’s Raphael Aron does not classify specific groups as cults, he says clients are “very quick to point out the cult-like characteristics” of the Twelve Tribes, which include shunning family members who leave the group.

At a long communal dinner table, the intense man from the deli happily tells his story while picking at a plate of stewed beef, vegetables and noodles. He asks about family relationships, living situations and car possession.

Specific questions about how the tribe works draw vague answers from him. When external criticism is brought up, he changes topic.

The circle is spinning and the stomping resumes while a girl blows softly into a recorder. A young woman brings over a mug of warm liquid. She stares blankly when thanked.

“Look around!” the man says. “Does this look like a cult?”

https://www.news.com.au/lifestyle/real-life/true-stories/an-eerie-night-inside-blue-mountains-sect-the-twelve-tribes/news-story/2071df35fee257d4d3a5f4ba2191d73a

Children of the Tribes

In this country we celebrate the First Amendment, which prevents the government from interfering with religious beliefs and practices. But what if those beliefs and practices make children suffer?

By Julia Scheeres

“In 1972, a former high school teacher and guidance counselor named Gene Spriggs and his fourth wife, Marsha, started a gathering of believers in their home. ... Later the tenor of the sect changed. Spriggs began to preach that blacks were destined to be slaves, homosexuals “deserved the death penalty,” and women — who weren’t allowed to use birth control — had to atone for Eve’s original sin by giving birth without painkillers. He drafted rules regulating everything from fingernail length to how married couples should engage in intercourse.”

US Department of Labor in Albany Finds Multiple Child Labor Violations at Common Sense Farm as a Result of June 2018 Twelve Tribes Investigation

Video: This man lost his wife to the Twelve Tribes cult

UC/FFWPU Recruitment – The Boonville Chicken Palace

Boonville – “It was a very complex set of manipulations”

Indemnity is a Moon Trap

The Four Fallen Natures of the Divine Principle are used as a means of controlling members.

Fear is not a good reason to stay in the UC

Scared of leaving?

Moon “split the person apart”

[schmidtclothingcom]

New York Fashion Week kicked off last night. Celebrities, designers and bloggers (and the increasing number of “slashies” that embody all three) have descended on the Big Apple to drink champagne, admire eye-wateringly expensive clothing, and air kiss one another.

Kim Kardashian is set to make her first public post-baby appearance at husband Kayne West’s Yeezy fashion show later today. West will also be debuting his new album The Life of Pablo (formerly known as WAVES), live streaming the concert/show from 8am AEST.

After a short hiatus from the event, Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen’s cult brand, The Row, will make a hotly anticipated return to the American runway on February 15.

Anna Wintour at the 2013 Paris Fashion Week. Charles Platiau/Reuters

And you can bet that Anna Wintour will watch, sphinx-like behind her enormous Chanel glasses, as close friend Marc Jacobs brings the week to a triumphant close with his climactic show.

For a certain kind of person, New York Fashion week is a “must”. For those of a certain age, income and social status, the event is not just a fixture on the social calendar but a high point.

Even for those who aren’t in possession of that enviable trifecta (including me), the slavish devotion the event inspires is familiar through many fictionalised and semi-fictionalised explorations of New York City (think Sex in the City, Gossip Girl, Project Runway, and The Real Housewives of New York City).

But how did it all get started? Why did it begin? Was there even a New York Fashion Week before Anna Wintour?

Fashion Press Week

New York Fashion Week has not always been exalted or esteemed. The event is actually a relatively recent phenomenon: it can be traced back to 1943, when it began as Fashion Press Week. Up until that point, American women overwhelmingly purchased American-made copies of French designs, and thus the American fashion industry was overshadowed by its Parisian counterpart.

Eleanor Lambert, 1963. Council of fashion designers of America

During the second world war, however, access to the Gallic centre was cut off by the German occupation. This presented the American fashion industry with a unique opportunity, and Eleanor Lambert, the canny director of the New York Dress Institute, took advantage of this by clustering the American fashion shows into a single “event” to promote home-grown design.

To be clear, these weren’t the first ever fashion shows. From the turn of the century, many individual fashion labels and stores hosted their own shows in department stores and hotels throughout Paris and New York in a bid to drum up business. But Fashion Press Week was the first coordinated fashion event to showcase numerous designers of the same nationality.

New York Press Week, 1943.

Even more importantly, the event also proved the effectiveness of this new approach. Although the initial response wasn’t encouraging – only 53 of the 150 journalists Lambert invited to the first Fashion Press Week attended – the impact of the event was strong and swift.

In its wake, the American press heaped praise upon local designers such as Claire McCardell, and New York Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia boasted that:

the only reason Paris set styles all these years was because buyers like to go there on holiday.

Paris, London and Florence

Unfortunately, LaGuardia’s smug sentiments were premature. Having watched New York’s Fashion Press Week from afar, other sartorial centres began to replicate the event.

Christian Dior’s 1947 New Look photographed by Willy Maywald. The Coincidental Dandy/Flickr, CC BY-NC

In a bid to reclaim its former dominance, as soon as the war ended the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture organised the first seasonal showings of Parisian couture to the international press. Along with the emergence of Christian Dior and his sensational “New Look”, this bi-annual event - which commenced in 1945 - was pivotal in re-establishing the Gallic capital as the sartorial leader of the Western world.

In the immediate post-war period, showings in London also created ripples (although not the tidal waves that Paris did). In January 1942 the London couture industry established its own official organisation, The Incorporated Society of London Fashion Designers, which began to host fashion shows after the war.

Bettina Ballard attended these events in her role as fashion editor of American Vogue, and recalled in her memoir In My Fashion (1960) that:

the Incorporated Society of London Fashion Designers gave handsome and very social parties.

Unfortunately, at this stage the British weren’t so good at sealing the deal, and Ballard noted “the whole couture performance was carried on […] in a rather grand detached manner” as they “never pressed for publicity or even tried to make the buyers buy”.

From the early 1950s, this trio was joined by a fourth fashion market – Italy – which established the “Big Four” that fashionistas still follow today. Seeking to attract bountiful American money to an impoverished and deprived Italy, Giovanni Battista Giorgini orchestrated Italy’s first fashion shows with considerable aplomb.

The first, held in his sumptuous Florentine villa in February 1951, was not a success (180 pieces by numerous Italian designers were viewed by just eight American buyers and a lone fashion journalist – an even worse turnout than Lambert’s first endeavour in New York).

But its successor in July 1951 was a triumph, with 200 American buyers and journalists in attendance, and the event was thereafter established as essential for the fashion-minded.

Giorgini’s first fashion shows were held in the beautiful Villa Torrigiani. Sailko, via Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA

By the early 1950s, the advent of these rival fashion shows had diluted the sartorial impact of New York’s pioneering event. The annual trips to Paris that LaGuardia had gloated were no longer necessary during the war were back with a vengeance by the late 1940s.

Even worse, they were now the gateway to yet more European options. As Bettina Ballard explained of her own annual migrations:

although Paris was the main objective of each trip, it was also the door to all Europe. I very soon found, along with the postwar travel-starved buyers and the fashion press, how pleasant it was to travel on an expense account with the legitimate excuse of looking over new fashion markets.

American Design for American Women

In the 1970s, the tide began to turn for American fashion. Critical in fostering a renewed respect for American design was the landmark fashion show held in 1973, the so-called Battle of Versailles. Ostensibly a fundraiser for the then-leaky French palace, the event – once again cooked up by the enterprising Eleanor Lambert – pitted five American designers (Oscar de la Renta, Stephen Burrows, Halston, Bill Blass and Anne Klein) against five French designers (Yves Saint Laurent, Pierre Cardin, Emanuel Ungaro, Christian Dior and Hubert de Givenchy).

The Versailles ‘73 show went down in fashion history.

In front of a crowd full of celebrities, socialites and aristocrats, the Americans stole the show, proving that they could not only compete – but actually win – against their old French rival (and on French soil, to boot).

More broadly, the advent of second-wave feminism during the 1970s also repositioned American ready-to-wear as the ideal solution for the new “working woman”. This development boosted its popularity with both American women and the American press, and generated effusive praise of anything all-American.

A round-up of the New York collections in a 1976 issue of American Vogue, for example, now boasted:

American Fashion at the Top of Its Form: Racy, Freewheeling … Casual!

This newfound legitimacy was solidified when the more informal and improvised fashion shows of the postwar period became slick, professional events. The term “Fashion Week” actually wasn’t adopted until remarkably recently: the French Fashion Federation held the first “Paris Fashion Week” in 1973; the British Fashion Council organised its inaugural “London Fashion Week” in 1984; and the Council of Fashion Designers of America waited until the early 1990s to debut “New York Fashion Week.”

A model takes the stage during the 2015 New York Fashion Week. Carlo Allegri/Reuters

It also was during this period that the American shows – which had previously been scattered across town – were centralised in one location (first in “the tents” in Bryant Park, then in Lincoln Centre, and from 2015 shows have been split between the Skylights at Moynihan Station and Clarkson Square. Increasingly, the event is becoming decentralised again, with shows held at a variety of off-site venues throughout the city).

But although last to adopt the term “Fashion Week”, New York remains the first stop during fashion season (every February and September, back-to-back fashion shows are held sequentially in New York, London, Milan and Paris).

Yet New York’s leading role is fitting. Certainly, New York has become one of the great fashion centres of the modern world, a place where trends are forged and significant money is made. But New York is also where the concept of “Fashion Week” was first conceived and executed, a history neatly mirrored in its prestigious opening slot.

by Beth Daley

licensed from theconversation.com

Written by Becky Heldmen for Schmidt Clothing.

[pakistanfocus-blog]

After UNSC, Kashmir conflict moves to ICJ

Pakistan has aptly decided to take the Kashmir dispute to the International Court of Justice (ICJ). The federal cabinet has given the go ahead. Decision has been taken after considering all legal aspects. Pakistan indeed has a strong legal case against India. Case would be focused on ‘human rights and genocide in Indian-occupied Kashmir. The move is part of Pakistan’s efforts to highlight the issue of Kashmir, especially after India unilaterally changed its status. India while abrogating the Article 370 of its constitution, has annexed the territory and has imposed curfew, media gag and other restrictions. This unilateral move of the Indian premier has threatened peace in the region.

                            After UNSC, Kashmir conflict moves to ICJ

US President Donald Trump spoke with Prime Minister Imran Khan and India’s Prime Minister Narendra Modi on august 21, urging a reduction of tensions over the disputed Kashmir region. “The president conveyed the importance of reducing tensions between India and Pakistan and maintaining peace in the region,” White House spokesman Hogan Gidley said in a statement. PM Imran apprised President Trump about the situation arising in the region after Modi’s August 5 step.  “Prime Minister Khan expressed serious concern over a humanitarian crisis triggered in Kashmir and hoped [the] US would play its role in resolving the crisis,” Foreign Minister Shah Mehmood Qureshi told a televised press conference in Islamabad. “Khan asked President Trump to talk to Indian Prime Minister Modi” about ways to lower tensions between the two countries, Qureshi said. “We want a UN observer mission to be dispatched forthwith to Indian-administered Kashmir”, he added.

The premier has told the US President that the unilateral step taken by India was in contravention of the international laws and UN resolution. And that India wanted to change the demography in AJK so that Muslim majority in the held valley could be turned into a minority. PM Imran further said that he was seeing a humanitarian crisis taking place in AJK. The US President was told that 15 days had passed, the occupied valley was in curfew and several residents of the valley were either taken into custody or had gone missing. PM Imran urged President Trump to play his role and asked him call upon India to lift curfew in the valley. The prime minister urged that the international human rights organisations should be sent to AJK so that the gravity of situation there is known to the world. And India should honour its commitment and resolve the crisis according to the resolutions of Security Council on which it is bound to act.

The BJP governments have always ditched India on its vital national interests. Its first Prime Minister AB Vajpayee took the fateful decision of India’s overt nuclearisation. Without such a folly, Pakistan’s nuclear weapon programme could not have seen the light of the day.  And now BJP’s second Prime Minister Narendra Modi has gifted to Pakistan what Islamabad could not achieve through Operations Gibraltar and Kargil. Since August 05, Indian civil society is severely polarized on the issue, all leading newspaper of Western media are carrying articles on Kashmir.

After June 1998, the issue is once again back to United Nations Security Council and the ICJ. And a Chapter VII resolution by the UNSC as well as the ICJ verdict accepting disputed status of Kashmir is just a matter of time.

After UNSC, Kashmir conflict moves to ICJ

Modi has many a fiascos to his (dis)credit: revocation of Article 370, Pulwama false flag operation and Doklan humiliation are just the recent ones. India does not need an external enemy if Indian people

Speaking on the occasion, the Chinese ambassador to the United Nations, Zhang Jun, said the Kashmir issue has become an internationally recognised dispute, which should be resolved according to the UN charter. He said India’s unilateral step has aggravated the situation in the region. The Chinese ambassador said members of the Security Council generally feel India and Pakistan should both refrain from unilateral action over Kashmir. Zhang told reporters that the situation in Kashmir is “already very tense and very dangerous”. China has decided to fully support Pakistan on Kashmir issue amid New Delhi’s attempts to change the demography of the disputed area and ethnic cleansing of Kashmiris. After his trip to China, Pakistan’s Foreign Minister has also reaffirmed China’s ‘complete support’ in motion against India at the UNSC.

Back in India, Kashmiris protested against the Modi government’s highly provocative move after Friday prayers on August 16. Police fired tear gas and pellet-firing shotguns to disperse residents who tried to march down the main road in Srinagar. Protesters hurled stones and used shop hoardings and tin sheets as improvised shields, as police shot dozens of rounds into the crowd.

Warning that the Kashmir crisis could get worse, Pakistan’s Ambassador to the United States Asad Majeed Khan has raised the possibility that Islamabad might redeploy troops from the Afghanistan border to the Kashmir frontier, a shift that could complicate American peace talks with the Taliban, now said to be in the final stages. In an interview with The New York Times editorial board on August 12, Asad emphasised that India’s crackdown on occupied Kashmir as it annexed the disputed territory “could not have come at a worse time for us.”  Pakistan has it platter full on the Afghan border. If the situation escalates on the eastern border, Pakistan will have to undertake redeployments. As of now Pakistan is not thinking about anything but what is happening on its eastern border.

Meanwhile, an Indian Supreme Court justice said that Indian authorities need more time to restore order in Kashmir [IoK]. The court is hearing an activist’s petition seeking to lift curbs on communications and movement that have disrupted normal life and essential services in the IoK. The petition also seeks the release of detained political leaders in Kashmir, among more than 300 people held to prevent widespread protests. Menaka Guruswamy, a lawyer for the petitioner, said the court should move to restore hospital services and open schools. “That is all I ask,” she told the Supreme Court.

In another development, according to India Today Mohammad Akbar Lone and Justice (retd) Hasnain Masoodi of the National Conference – led by former Jammu and Kashmir chief minister Omar Abdullah— have filed a petition in Indian Supreme Court, on August 10, challenging the presidential decree revoking occupied Kashmir’s autonomous status. According to the petition, the orders issued by the Indian president, and the legislation approved by the Indian parliament were “unconstitutional”. Petitioners have prayed for the legislation to be declared as “void and inoperative”.

While India is trying to show a rosy picture to the world as if it has done nothing wrong, calling the Kashmir issue its ‘internal matter’, there are reports of acute shortages of foods and lifesaving medicines due prolonged spells of curfew.

Prime Minister Imran Khan has warned the world that: “The curfew, crackdown and impending genocide of Kashmiris in IOK is unfolding exactly according to RSS ideology inspired by Nazi ideology. Attempt is to change demography of Kashmir through ethnic cleansing. Question is: Will the world watch & appease as they did Hitler at Munich?”

The voice of Kashmiris is once again being heard in the highest diplomatic forums. Their plight, their hardship, their pain, their suffering, occupation of their land and the consequences of that occupation are now a global concern—courtesy Modi & Co.

Pakistan is making a hectic Kashmir focused diplomatic effort. Before the UNSC meeting, Prime Minister Imran Khan reached out to four out of five heads of P-5 states of the Security Council. On August 16, the premier held a telephonic conversation with United States President Donald Trump over India’s illegal Kashmir move. Pakistan’s permanent envoy to the UN Dr Maleeha Lodhi has said the UNSC meeting is testament that Kashmir conflict is not an internal matter of India but an international issue. Briefing the media along with the Chinese envoy to the UN after the UNSC’s closed door meeting, on August 17, she said there was an effort to cancel this meeting and we are grateful to all member states for having it. All the 15 permanent and non-permanent member states attended the consultative session. Meeting was briefed on the latest developments and the dismal human rights situation in Indian Occupied Kashmir (IoK).  

Source: https://pakistanfocus.org/after-unsc-kashmir-conflict-moves-to-icj/

Pakistan Focus

[krishnaprasad-blog]

As a pictorial representation of the perverse inhumanity that the “land of Buddha and Gandhi” has embraced as its key performance indicator since 2014, it is difficult to beat the two images that emerged out of Karnataka’s northern-most city, Bidar, in the week following the 70th year of the founding of the Republic.

In the first picture (above), two boys, barely four feet tall, sit alternately crouching and cowering in fear before two XL policemen, one carrying a questionnaire, the other a clipboard. A third policeman, video camera in hand, languidly records their “interrogation”. Behind, a lady cop is planted to keep child rights’ activists at bay.

In the second picture (above), an authority-figure stands where an affectionate teacher would, in a classroom of boys in skull caps and girls in hijab. Here, too, a chappal-clad cop captures their confessions for posterity, as if Nirav Modi and Lalit Modi, Mehul Choksi and Vijay Mallya have suddenly surrendered and shrunk themselves into school benches.

The lens is the lathi: anything the kids say can be held against them, or their parents, or their school—or their community. 

The cause of such conspicuous savagery in a BJP-ruled state: an “inflammatory” dialogue in a play staged by children aged between 9 and 12, at the Shaheen primary and high school, which pierced through the otherwise impregnable 56-inch armour of the mighty ‘Pradhan Sevak’. Or, at least the fragile ego of one of his jobless defenders. 

A 26-year-old domestic help, no less, the widowed mother of the Class VI girl who, during the course of the play, said that if anyone asks for papers to prove citizenship usko joote maaro, has been arrested—for “tutoring” her daughter. As has the school headmistress, 52, who oversaw the grand production on January 21. 

The girl’s slippers have been seized as “evidence”—the hand that waved them has been spared. Stupidity is clever enough sometimes to realise its limits.

The school society president and an Urdu “journalist” who put up a clip of the play on Facebook have been charged under five sections of the Indian Penal Code: 124A (sedition); 153A (promoting, attempting to promote disharmony); section 504 (intentional insult with intent to provoke breach of peace); 505 (2) (statements creating enmity or promoting enmity, hatred or ill-will between classes); and 34 (common intent).

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Three years ago, Narendra Modi said: “You are free to criticise me. Constructive criticism makes our democracy stronger and is vital.” Two years ago, he reiterated: “I want this Government to be criticised. Criticism makes democracy strong.”

In 2020, Karnataka Police, which acted on a complaint by an ABVP activist, appears to be treating the honourable PM’s words (and democracy) as a joke. 

  The joke plays on in loop: Police have turned up five times at the school to question over 80 students, most of whom had nothing to do with the play. Among the searching questions they have asked:

# Did the school coerce them into making statements against the prime minister?

# What role did teachers play in organising the play?

# Was the script changed to accommodate the “insulting” dialogues?

# Where did they practise?

# Why was a flag used?

Having cracked the puzzle to the satisfaction of their political masters in Bangalore, 700 km away, the Police in Bidar seem to be hunting for the jigsaw pieces that will fit the “national” imagination. And, as they always do till the fat lady (or a bored boy, or hungry girl) sings what they would like to hear, they have now “intensified” the probe. 

The single mother, already a week in jail, has been consigned to another week in it by a judge who returned from weekend leave. A neighbour is taking care of her 11-year-old daughter.

Each day, students take turns to pray for the sedition case against the school to be lifted. 

Each day, they could well be praying for Karnataka to return to its senses.

For, a standout aspect of the abomination in Bidar is the coolness with which the “land of Basava” has absorbed this outrage. Not a single major Kannada newspaper has felt the need to aggressively report the misreading or misuse of the sedition law, or editorially comment on it. Only a couple of them have even deigned to publish the CCTV grabs.

Opposition politicians who adroitly tweet in multiple languages were silent for a week till Rizwan Arshad, a newly elected Congress MLA from Bangalore, took the trouble. Asaduddin Owaisi of the Majlis has jumped in. What should have been a straight forward humanitarian case has been turned into a “Muslim issue” with all its attendant baggage.

WhatsApp, it appears, has deleted empathy from the smartphones of the “majority” of Kannadigas.

***

To understand why Karnataka Police can instantly jump into action in Bidar, look no further than Mangalore in the west.

Here, students of a school belonging to RSS leader Kalladka Prabhakar Bhat, staged a play in December last enacting the 1992 demolition of the Babri masjid. Unlike in Bidar, Mangalore Police are still awaiting “legal opinion” on filing the chargesheet. When the incendiary Bhat was on the verge of arrest earlier in a different case, BJP MP Shobha Karandlaje warned that the state would “burn” if he was touched.  

To understand why Karnataka Police can brazenly strike fear in school kids in Bidar at will, look no further than Mysore in the south.

Here, at a protest in early January against ABVP hooliganism at JNU, Nalini Balakumar, a girl holding a “Free Kashmir” poster was booked for sedition. And this, even after Mumbai Police had dealt with a similar case and dismissed it. The Mysore bar association has barred its member-lawyers from extending legal support to the girl without a squeak.  

To understand why Kannada media can find no story in Bidar, look no further than Mangalore again.

Here, on January 20, the discovery of an improvised explosive device (IED) at the airport led excitable newspapers to suggest that an “international gang” was behind it. “Revenge for CAA,” screamed Vijaya Karnataka, the no.1 Kannada daily edited by a former personal assistant to Pramod Mutalik of the Sri Rama Sena and Bajrang Dal. When it turned out to be a local Hindu from Manipal, no apology, no clarification. 

To understand why the Karnataka government can charge a school with sedition in Bidar, look no further than the capital, Bangalore.

When the identity of the Mangalore airport “bomber” was still unclear, the state’s home minister Basavaraj Bommai could breezily declare that not just the bomber but “terrorist forces” would be firmly rooted out. When the “terrorist” surrendered and said his name was Aditya Rao, he was instantly declared “mental disturbed”, and acting out of frustration.

To understand why the Karnataka Police finds the “usko joote maaro” line in Bidar so seditious, look no further than the mining hub, Bellary.

Here, in early January, when BJP MLA Somashekhar Reddy says on video, “I want to warn people who are protesting. If you do too much nakhra (drama), imagine what will happen to you when we come for you We are 80 per cent and you are 18 per cent. If we hit back what will happen to you? Be careful when you are in this country,” they can only watch.

To understand why Karnataka suddenly finds it easy to stereotype Bidar’s school kids, look no further than Bangalore again.

Here, on January 20, the police in India’s so-called hi-tech capital watched on as civic authorities demolished the shacks of ‘Bangladeshis’, who they found to their dismay were actually Kannadigas from Kolar and Koppal. Without contrition, Bangalore’s police commissioner Bhaskara Rao now claims there are 300,000 illegal Bangladeshis in the city.  

To understand why Karnataka Police are questioning the school management in Bidar to reveal who was behind the “plot”, look no further than the MP from Bangalore South, Tejasvi Surya.

On Christmas eve, the motormouth had labelled those opposing CAA as “puncture” wallahs. On January 16, Bangalore police arrested six Muslims—a ladies tailor, an electrician, a mechanic, a delivery boy, a shop keeper and a civil contractor—allegedly for plotting to kill him. 

***

Amit Shah’s words ‘Aap chronology samajh lijiye’ have become a cliche, but they are prescient. 

The first stint of the BJP in Karnataka 12 years ago was marked by moral policing of pubs and bars, and vigilante attacks on churches, besides of course mind-numbing corruption which sent a serving chief minister and half his cabinet to jail. Then, too, bogus cases were foisted against Muslims for assassination attempts on embedded journalists. Then, too, there was dog whistling against burqas and hijab.  

In the run-up to the assembly elections in 2018, the battle cry of the BJP was that Hindus were in danger in Karnataka.  

As naturally as night follows day, the coming to power of the B.S. Yediyurappa government in 2019 has resulted in a cascade of dark rumours and conspiracies in a state labelled as “Hindutva’s laboratory in the south”. And the Bidar school play is just what the doctors ordered to humiliate and harass a decades-old institution on specious grounds—and in the process to stereotype and showcase a community to the rest of the state and, indeed, the country.

Over the years, a steady drip-feed of resentment in the north (Idgah maidan in Hubli), centre (Bababudangiri in Chikamagalur), west (conversion, love jihad in Mangalore), and south (Tipu Sultan in Mysore), has normalised hatred. The collective inertia to the humiliation of the meek and the poor in Bidar, shows why Karnataka is the only state in the south to open its doors to revanchist forces, and watch tamely while its writers and thinkers are killed at their doorstep.

Teaching lessons is the objective behind every school. For the moment, a state seems intent to teach a lesson—that students of class IV, V and VI can wage war against the mighty Indian nation. Aided by an unlettered domestic help.

(An earlier version of this piece appears on Rediff.com)

A steady drip-feed has normalised hatred against Muslims in BJP-ruled Karnataka. Which is why Kannadigas are so apathetic to the Police claim that a poor, unlettered domestic help tutored a Class VI girl to wage war against the mighty Indian state. As a pictorial representation of the perverse inhumanity that the “land of Buddha and Gandhi…

[whittlebaggett8]

From the Ruins of the Caliphate: Sri Lanka’s Bloody Easter

No sooner had the news of the serial bombings in Sri Lanka on Easter Sunday spread than fevered attempts were made to pin the attacks to the known brands of international terrorist outfits like the Islamic State (IS) and Al-Qaeda in the Indian Subcontinent (AQIS).

While a handful of experts argued that the “DNA of the attacks” matched that of IS and that the scale clearly shows signs of the involvement of a foreign hand, some others disagreed and said this looked to be more up AQIS’ street.

On Tuesday, two full days after the attacks, an account on Telegram claiming to be “official IS” sent out a message taking responsibility for the attacks. This was followed by a longer press release and a video showing the supposed attackers in front of the Islamic State’s black flag, swearing allegiance to the cause of the Caliphate. While that invariably closes the debate over which brand the attacks will be associated with, not everything adds up neatly.

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The Easter Sunday bombings might actually herald a new era of pan-South Asian jihadist violence — one that has learned some hard lessons from the fall of the Caliphate in Mosul.

Is it IS?

Before IS claimed the attack as their own, three main reasons were cited by those who said the group was responsible. First is the choice of Christian churches (over sites specific to Sri Lanka’s Buddhist majority) and the suggested plot that this was a revenge attack for the Christchurch mosque shootings. Second was the “scale of attacks,” which according to some could not have been achieved without foreign assistance. Speaking to the Sri Lankan parliament, Prime Minister Ranil Wickremesinghe said “evidence had been found on foreign links of the attacks.” A third element cited by those arguing for IS culpability was the use of suicide bombers, which is infrequent in South Asia but very common for IS in the Middle East.

It’s important to look carefully at the assumptions that underline these reasons, because on closer examination, none are foolproof identifiers of IS.

Sri Lanka witnessed one of the world’s bloodiest and longest civil wars in modern history from 1983 to 2009 when the Tamil secessionist movement was at its peak. During this time coordinated bombings using improvised explosive devices (IEDs) were a regular phenomenon.

The Liberation Tigers of Tamil Elam (LTTE) extensively used IEDs against an array of targets, including Sinhalese residential areas, high-value targets like lawmakers and heads of state, and financial hubs like the Central Bank of Sri Lanka.

The Tamil separatists were not alone in using such tactics. Maoist offshoots of the erstwhile Ceylon Communist Party regularly used IEDs and hand-assembled mines to carry out ambushes and attacks. In fact, through the now-defunct Revolutionary Internationalist Movement, Sri Lankan guerrillas had well established channels of skill sharing and training with the Maoists of India and Nepal.

While Tamil separatism may now be a spent force, the skills involved in making IEDs, the availability of the raw material needed, and the training and organization required to plan and trigger them in unison are well within the reach of several local outfits.

“The explosives used in these attacks are available all around Sri Lanka,” Sirish Thorat, a private intelligence expert specializing in the Maldives and the Southern Indian peninsula, said in an interview with The Diplomat. “Even fishermen use it to bomb shoals of fish! Wouldn’t IS have something better?”

As for suicide bombings, before IS or even al-Qaeda were even conceived, the LTTE had an entire wing dedicated to this form of warfare.

As early as 1987, the LTTE was using suicide bombing tactics. On July 5 that year, Vallipuram Vasanthan drove an explosive-laden truck into the Sri Lankan military base at Jaffna and killed 40 military men, sending political shockwaves through the establishment. The successful attack led to the formation of the feared and revered Black Tigers unit of suicide bombers.

Just as jihadists do now with their suicide bombers, the Black Tigers were personally vetted by the chief (in the LTTE’s case, Velupillai Prabhakaran himself), and they were made to undergo at least a year of isolated indoctrination before becoming commissioned operatives.

Over the decades the Black Tigers suicide bombers carried out several mass bombings like the Easter Sunday attack and took down super high-value targets like Indian Prime Minster Rajiv Gandhi in 1991 and Sri Lankan President Ranasinghe Premadasa in 1993, as well as several high ranking ministers and parliamentarians.

The LTTE learned suicide bombing and the use of explosive laden trucks from contemporary Middle Eastern insurgencies, but the rigor and discipline they brought to this form of warfare changed it forever. In a way, the post-9/11 jihadist movements learned from the Sri Lankans and not the other way round.

So to see IS influence simply in a man carrying a backpack filled with explosives and blowing himself up is at best myopic, and at worst an agenda-driven conclusion drawn disregarding a whole body of well recorded and recent history.

By far the most non-IS like feature of the Easter bombings was the time taken by IS to make their claim.

Speaking to The Diplomat, Hormis Tharakkan, a former chief of India’s intelligence agency, the Research and Analysis Wing (R&AW) who specialized in the southern Indian sector, took a jibe at the IS claim, saying: “Looks as if ISIS came to know [of the attacks] from the media!”

Often in the past, IS sent out messages declaring their plans to attack a city or a region ahead of the actual strike. No such warning was given out before the Easter bombings.

Furthermore, IS has a demonstrated history of taking credit for the smallest of deeds by Muslim insurgents, no matter how remotely they were connected to the main network based in Syria and Iraq. This habit is an essential part of their propaganda tactics of appearing larger and more global than they actually were.

In the Holey Artisan Bakery attack in Dhaka, Bangladesh, IS imparted no real military training nor provided any funding or matériel to the hostage-takers. Nevertheless, they had their promotional material ready well before the hostage-taking had started. And even before the smoke and dust settled at the bakery, photos of the hostage takers posing with their black flags were shared on the internet, accompanied by declarations of gratitude and extolment to the fallen martyrs.

In the case of the New York Port Authority Bus Terminal bombing, the wannabe Bangladeshi terrorist Akayed Ullah, was “self-radicalized” — meaning all he did was watch videos and consume jihadist promotional material online. Even the bomb he tried to detonate on Christmas Eve was a dud and didn’t do any real damage. Yet IS’ internet channels immediately hailed him as one of their own. This genre even has its own name now: IS “inspired” attacks.

But in the Sri Lankan case, no known IS social media handles came out with claims or prepared propaganda for a good two days. Even the darknet sites and bulletin boards frequented by IS supporters have continued the deathly silence that has descended on them since the onset of the Russo-Syrian-PKK offensive on Mosul.

The first IS claim came on Tuesday, through a Telegram handle claiming to belong to Amaq — IS’ official publicity organ.

An al-Qaeda Connection?

“Al-Qaeda is better at exploiting local strife than the IS ever was,” Sirish Thorat, the private intelligence gatherer, said. “There has been a lot of strife between Muslims and other communities in Sri Lanka and there is obviously a good amount of resentment and anger, which can be directed towards acts like the Easter bombing.”

There is another good reason to name AQIS as a more likely candidate for the Easter Sunday bombings — the fact that the Indians and Bangladeshis knew about it before anyone else.

According to sources close to Indian intelligence who spoke to The Diplomat, R&AW and the Intelligence Bureau (IB) picked up “extremist chatter” through their signals intelligence arm, the National Technical Research Organisation (NTRO). A source in the Bangladeshi Directorate General of Forces Intelligence (DGFI) also confirmed picking something up in their locality and passing it onto the Indians.

This information was passed to the Sri Lankan security authorities through a diplomatic channel via a report that The Diplomat has viewed.

The report is as detailed as intelligence briefings go and lists target sites and accurately names the operatives. But other than naming a local group, the National Towheed Jamaat, the agencies remained noncommittal about naming any international group involved.

Speaking to this reporter, a recent member of the board of advisors to the national security advisor of India said: “I have reason to believe that Indian intelligence did pick up some extremist chatter that led to an initial suspicion that the Indian high commission in Colombo and some hotels may be targets of suicide bombing soon. So the Sri Lankans were perhaps alerted. But they still have to build on the initial Intel and figure who exactly was behind the attack.”

India’s SIGINT and HUMINT capabilities are almost entirely focused on Pakistan. Given that al-Qaeda’s traditional South Asian networks have been very close to the Pakistani military establishment, Indian intelligence could have picked up said “extremist chatter” from the AQIS network alone.

Rana Banerjee, a former R&AW operative responsible for the Af-Pak region, agreed, saying: “India’s main focus and strength have been in that [Af-Pak] region and we get good SIGINT from these listening posts,” he said. “So yes, there is a strong likelihood of the news spreading through the AQIS network.”

Yet in the same breath, he added: “But what we have [from the Sri Lankan attacks] is too little to go on.”

In part, skepticism about AQIS involvement is rooted in the fact that the once smoothly functioning hierarchy of anti-India jihadist groups is now in disarray.

On the one hand Bangladesh, Nepal, Bhutan, and Afghanistan have carried out sustained crackdowns on anti-Indian groups that had bases on their soil. On the other hand, the Pakistani military and its intelligence wing, the Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI), are reported to be severely cash strapped and unable to keep its flock intact. As a result, even long-time operatives of the subcontinent have turned their coats, gone freelance, or hung up their insurgent boots and taken on regular jobs.

The Local Element

While there can be little disagreement about the “foreign hand” in the Easter Sunday bombings, the local political and criminal scene demands close scrutiny. What lies within points to designs of greater enormity than just the April 21 bombings.

“This is no ‘intelligence failure,’” Saikiran Kannan, a Singapore based Tamil-speaking hacker said in an interview with The Diplomat. A financial consultant by day, Saikiran specializes in open source investigations, tracking and analyzing jihadists on social media.

“Forget Indians giving foreign intelligence to the Lankan government, there were inputs from the country’s own Muslim population that said something was up. The Lankan security establishment just didn’t act.”

According to Saikiran, there can only be two explanations for this inaction.

Either the Sri Lankan military and police didn’t know how to act on this input — which in Saikiran’s words is “rather hard to sell” — or elements in the country’s polity, including the defense and security establishments, wanted this to happen as a way of damaging the incumbent government.

Sri Lanka goes to polls in 2020. Given the tradition of acrimonious political infighting in the country, using an event as violent as the Easter bombings for short-term political gains isn’t that far fetched.

Prime Minister Ranil Wickremesinghe and President Maithripala Sirisena have been bitter political rivals since the latter abruptly sacked the former in October 2018 and installed Mahinda Rajapaksa, the country’s former president, as the new premier.

Though Rajpaksa was ousted less than two months later when the Sri Lankan courts overruled Sirisena’s move, the Wickremesinghe-Sirisena rivalry hasn’t died out.

In fact, some of Colombo’s political journalists (who cooperated with the writing of this report) minced no words in saying how the bombings dovetail into election season and the internecine power struggles of the Sri Lankan polity.

What lends credence to this conspiracy theory is also the overt bias shown by the military establishment in favor of the president.

Notably, Sirisena also holds the country’s defense minister portfolio and the military establishments report to him, while the civilian police report to Wickremesinghe.

According to Dr. Rajitha Senaratne, a government spokesperson, there had been multiple warnings issued since April 4. The first memo was issued by Sisira Mendis, chief of national intelligence, to the inspector general of police on April 9.

Deputy Inspector General (DIG) Priyalal Dassanayake then wrote to a slew of agencies — including the Security Division, Judicial Security Division, Retired Presidents Security Division, Acting Directors of Diplomatic Security Division, and Acting Directors of Retired Presidents Security Division — on April 11 requesting tightening of security measures.

Nothing was done.

Sirisena, who left the country on a private trip to Singapore before the Easter bombings, has to date refused to confirm or deny if he was aware of these reports.

Moreover, when Wickremesinghe called an emergency meeting of the security heads immediately after the bombings, several key members failed to show up.

“I can say with 90 percent surety that was some support within the [security] agencies as much as it was IS inspired,” Saikiran said.

Saikiran’s views about deliberate inaction by the Sri Lankan security agencies tie in with The Diplomat’s aforementioned source in the national security advisory board of India.

“We can’t force the Lankans to act,” he said. “But we couldn’t afford an attack on the Indian High Commission. So we independently went into a security overdrive and took a slew of protective measures. We reinforced the inner perimeter, slowed down visa processing, and heavily profiled visitors to the embassy.”

The Usual Suspects

Another glaring aspect of this story that deserves attention is the manner in which the Sri Lanka government apparently turned a blind eye to the hateful preaching of Zahran Hashim, reportedly the lead suicide bomber, and the wealthy Ibrahim family that sponsored him and later participated in the Easter Sunday bombing.

Hashim wasn’t someone who was under the radar; he was quite prominent.

An alumnus of several fundamentalist madrasas in Sri Lanka, India, Pakistan, and the Maldives, Hashim reportedly travelled to Syria. When Hashim returned to his homeland in Kattankundy, he decided to start his own mosque and madrasa. He broke from the famous Sri Lankan Tawhid Jamaat and started a group called the National Tawhid Jamaat. It was this group that Indian intelligence named in its communique warning of an impending attack.

Hashim had been openly preaching hate and calling for violent jihad for several years.

The Islamic State’s official internet video channel, Al-Ghuraba, had featured Hashim’s Tamil language videos, in which he exhorts young Sri Lankan Muslims to dedicate themselves to the cause of the Caliphate by taking up arms, giving money, and joining the jihad.

Hashim had also had several run-ins with the law, including once when several Muslim families in Kattankundy reported him for hate mongering and trying to cause rifts in the community. As per some reports, the Criminal Investigations Department (CID) of the police had a running file on him.

The involvement of the Ibrahim family is another clear indicator that strong local political undercurrents are at play here. The Ibrahims are a family of rich spice traders who have hobnobbed with the Sri Lankan political elite. Three members of the Ibrahim family were part of the suicide squad: brothers Inshaf and Ilham, and Inshaf’s wife Fatima.

Fatima wasn’t named early on, but according to Saikiran Kannan, Fatima can be seen in the IS photo standing behind the men.

On April 24, M. L. A. M. Hizbullah, governor of the Eastern Province, was called in for questioning by the CID for his proximity to the National Tawheed Jamaat. In addition to being close to the Ibrahims, Hizbullah is a well-known Sirisena/Rajapaksa loyalist who chose to go against Ranil Wickremesinghe during the October 2018 turmoil.

The Easter Sunday bombings may have breathed new life into the Islamic State brand in its post-Mosul existence. But this new version of IS won’t just be a copy of what was in Syria and Iraq; it will be South Asia’s own. One that has evolved from the failed mission in Syria and adapted to suit local political and social conditions.

Siddharthya Roy is a New Delhi-based correspondent on South Asian affairs.

Stephanie Rose Justin is a Sri Lankan journalist.

The post From the Ruins of the Caliphate: Sri Lanka’s Bloody Easter appeared first on Defence Online.

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[junker-town]

Remembering the last time England actually won something

Looking back twenty years, to when England were the best team in the world. Well, in France.

Twenty years ago, something remarkable happened: the senior England men's football team won a tournament. Okay, so it was technically a friendly competition. And yes, there were only three other teams involved. But when the years of hurt are piling up, a nation has to take what it can get.

The 1997 Tournoi de France was nothing to do with the Confederations' Cup. That competition was held the same year in Saudi Arabia, but hadn't yet morphed into the World Cup warm-up that we know and vaguely tolerate today. So France had to organise their own dry run for 1998, and to do so they invited England, Italy, and reigning world champions Brazil to join them. And England, though in pretty good company, were also in pretty good shape.

Euro 96 had ended with the host nation losing on penalties to Germany in the semi-finals, which in itself might not sound particularly inspiring. Or surprising. But the performances leading up to that penalty shootout had been promising, and the tournament atmosphere had been genuinely intoxicating. More generally, the country was feeling good: there were lots of exciting guitar bands knocking around, and a new Prime Minister who wore jeans and talked without verbs. People were saying things like "Cool Britannia" without any irony whatsoever. It was an unusually sunny time.

The man who'd overseen England's run to the semi-finals, Terry Venables, had left the job at the end of the tournament. He would have done so regardless of the performances; the FA didn't like his business dealings. But his replacement, Glenn Hoddle, had inherited a strong squad and made a decent start. Le Tournoi arrived halfway through qualification for France 98, and England's campaign had been going almost perfectly. They'd won five out of six, beating Moldova in Chișinău, and Poland and Georgia home and away.

The only misstep? A home loss to Italy. And that had two consequences.

The first was that England, in order to secure automatic qualification, would likely have to go to Rome and get a result in the last game of the campaign. The second was that England's opening match of Le Tournoi, against the Italians in Nantes, became a little more intriguing than just another friendly.

International squads are always slightly improvisational things, determined as much by whoever's fit and in form as by any grand plan. They're hyper-specific to their moment, and as such there is a very specific pleasure that comes when looking down the lists. A potent mixture of nostalgia, regret, curiosity, and straight-up bafflement: ah, they were so young … and they were so promising … and oh, I thought they were going to be incredible ... and, er, who the hell were they?

There's almost certainly a German word for it, and whatever it is, Le Tournoi's squads are drenched in it. So, casting an eye down Italy's list, we see a 22-year-old Alessandro del Piero, who would win 91 caps for his country, alongside journeyman sweeper Stefano Torrisi, who'd pick up just the one.

15 of France's squad would go on to win the World Cup a year later; Pierre Laigle, Patrice Loko, and Nicolas Ouédec were among those that attended the warm-up but missed the main event. And in Brazil's squad, Ronaldo, Romario, and Roberto Carlos jostled for places with lesser-known players such as Célio Silva, the Cannon of the Brasileirão, so-called because he could kick a football very hard indeed.

As for England, there were a couple of curve balls — notably John Scales and Lee Clark, the latter of whom never won a full cap — but for the most part, it's a familiar list. Stuart Pearce, Paul Gascoigne and Ian Wright were nearing the end of their international careers, Alan Shearer and Teddy Sheringham more or less in their pomp, and the vanguard of the 'golden generation' were beginning to establish themselves. The Neville brothers had been kept on from the Euro 96 squad, along with Tottenham's promising central defender Sol Campbell, David Beckham had made his debut against Moldova, and Hoddle had brought an as-yet capless Paul Scholes to France.

It seems fair to suggest that had social media been around during Le Tournoi, England's line-up for their opening game would have led to an explosion of shareable content along the lines of "The England team is out … and Twitter is confused!" There was no Shearer, Ian Wright was on his own up front, and Hoddle picked three left-backs, none of them at left-back. Phil Neville and Graeme Le Saux took up wing-back roles, and Stuart Pearce made up part of a of back three. The Guardian called it "highly experimental".

It was, in the end, highly successful. Hoddle had given Scholes his debut as one of two inside-forwards, just behind Wright, and was repaid with an international debut of astounding assurance. After 25 minutes, he clipped a long pass over the Italian defence: the flight drew Angelo Peruzzi from his goal, the dip sent him scrambling back, and the spin took the ball perfectly onto Wright's left foot. He spanked it home, and 20 minutes later returned the favour, crossing for an unmarked Scholes to hammer the ball into the middle of the net.

England looked good. England looked slick. England, importantly, looked clever, in the stereotypically un-English way that Hoddle, ever the aesthete, was trying to impose on his team. And the goals were even a little spectacular, though they were overshadowed by Roberto Carlos' effort from the preceding day:

That free-kick had come in a 1-1 draw, which meant that England could secure the tournament with a win over France and a draw in the other game. Hoddle changed his team up. Shearer returned to partner Wright up front, Campbell came into the team, and Scholes was rewarded for his brilliance with a place on the bench. Managers failing to find space for him in midfield would become something of a theme; here, Gascoigne came in to replace him.

We can be fairly sure that Hoddle didn't make that switch with an eye on defensive qualities, yet after the game both Gazza and Beckham were praised for their contributions in stifling the French. Sol Campbell's assured performance was also mentioned in reports. And while the hosts had enough chances to seal the game, goal machine Stephane Guivarc'h hadn't made the squad and Christophe Dugarry was having an off day. England, by contrast, had Shearer, and with five minutes left he arrived in the box at just the right moment to profit from a Fabien Barthez Moment.

A 3-3 draw between Italy and Brazil gave England the trophy, and just as well, since Hoddle's men went on to lose their last game 1-0. So ultimately, England left France with a glass trophy, a good feeling, and a healthy dose of realism, which is probably the best way of arranging things. Certainly, the immediate impact was positive. In October they went to Rome needing a point in their final qualifier, and a Paul Ince-led side secured automatic qualification with one of England's most impressive 0-0 draws, a festival of Hoddle-esque ball retention and control.

As such, it was with some optimism — and a young, terrifying Michael Owen — that England went back to France in 1998. But they stumbled in the group stage, finishing second behind Romania, and that set up a knockout game against Argentina. Despite Owen's best efforts, that went to penalties, and England went out. And Hoddle was gone before the next major tournament, undone both by his queasy opinions on reincarnation and karmic retribution, and his inability to realise that perhaps those opinions might be best kept locked inside his face.

Still, if hindsight casts Le Tournoi as a false dawn, it still has its place in English football history. This is a country whose football team is regularly thrust high on waves of hype and nationalist tubthumping, then brought crashing down in a violent mess of disappointment and recrimination. But for a couple of years, around 1997, this was replaced by something rarer, healthier, and infinitely more precious: genuine positivity. Something to be savoured, for England fans, even if it never went anywhere.