#terror attack 2019

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

"Emily..." Randall began, almost tearfully, but it was June and Wilhelm who spoke up over him-not to agree, not to rush her out the door and warn her not to come back, but instead to ask her to stay.

"Please," Wilhelm began, as June reached out to take the young woman's cold hand, stopping her as he continued, "W-Would you stay, just a little longer, lass? Really, we...we'd like it if you stayed. I-I promise, y-you're not intruding; Junie and I weren't able to sleep anyways..."

"You saved our son's life, and you brought him back home to us," June continued gently, as Randall sat up a little, just as surprised as Emily was at this sudden turn of events, this change in reaction in his parents. "We...we can't thank you enough for that. Please, won't you sit down? I...I think we have a lot to talk about...and a lot to apologize for."

At this, Randall's eyes widened further, as he looked between Emily, his mother, and his father, that surprise turning to a sort of tentative relief, as his mother encouraged Emily to make herself comfortable, while June moved to the kitchen to put on a pot of tea, to perhaps soothe their frazzled nerves. She hoped the young woman (not a monster, she thought to herself, but a young woman) would accept, and hear out what the Pace parents had to say.

[etoile-gracieuse]

hm. actually i think that i will not be on social media for the foreseeable future.

[its-avalon-08]

hi !! can you do headcanons max verstappen X senna’s daugther!reader?

thank uuuu

hii !!! if i were to imagine senna's daughter!reader she would be so talented. she isn't a driver because of her built up trauma. (im fully aware that the timelines don't add up, don't add logic into it <3) she is an aerodynamic engineer, mainly responsible for making the car. she is secretly in love with speed and racing.

max and y/n met when they were just kids. max was a menace on track and y/n was terrified of racing. she saw speeding cars as a reminder of her father's passing. being good friends, y/n has a tradition of kissing max's helmet as a feeble attempt to keep him safe.

they started dating in 2019, and have been together ever since. y/n being the absolute genius she is, continues to work in redbull and delivers top of the line car designs leading to the dominance as seen on track.

max leaves a single, perfect red tulip on y/n's desk every race weekend, a silent promise to return safely.

y/n hides little notes in max's helmet before qualifying, each one a technical insight phrased like a love letter.

max, despite his aversion to early mornings, wakes up before y/n on important presentations to make her breakfast, his way of calming her pre-work jitters.

y/n, who finds airplanes stressful, uses a calming app max downloaded for her whenever they travel together.

max, after a particularly grueling race weekend, finds y/n curled up on the couch with a book about aerodynamics. he joins her, listening intently as she explains a new concept she's been working on, his full attention the sweetest victory lap.

max knows how deeply the lack of a father figure affected her, causing under-confidence and a constant need of validation. max knows this and never stops giving her words of affirmations.

everyone of the grid adores y/n. they see her spirit and her beautiful face reflect senna's in so many ways. max is fiercely protective of y/n, often defending her from questions about her father and his death.

y/n hates jos verstappen from the bottom of her heart. she is not scared of yelling at him when he berates max. she whispers affirmations into max's ears after a bad race (which was rare but not impossible)

when max crashes, y/n is the first to suffer from the highest intensity of a panic attack. she shivers and trembles until max gets out safely. after the crash in 2021 with hamilton which caused max to fall over in the medical center, y/n angirly stormed towards the cheerful hamilton, shouting angrily.

here's what happened ↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓

the smile evaporated as y/n marched towards him. it wasn't a walk, it was a storm surge. "congratulations? you call pushing max off the track at 200 mph congratulations?" her voice, usually calm and collected, was a tightly leashed fury. lewis blinked, his smile morphing into something defensive. "it was a racing incident, y/n. we both went for the corner." her voice cracked. "racing incident? you call leaving him stranded on the gravel, risking his life, a racing incident? do you have any idea what it's like to watch someone you love walk away from a fireball?" the room held its breath. lewis's face paled. "y/n, i…" "no, you don't," she cut him off, her voice thick with emotion. "you don't get to pretend you know what it's like to see your dreams vanish in a cloud of smoke. you don't get to understand the terror of every single corner, every single race because you haven't lost anyone on this damn track!" tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the accusing stare she fixed on him. "max is more than a rival, lewis. he's a friend, a teammate, a human being. and today, you gambled with his life for a trophy." the silence stretched, suffocating. finally, lewis spoke, his voice devoid of its usual bravado. "y/n, i… i didn't…" "you didn't think," she finished the sentence for him, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "just like some people never think about the consequences of their actions." turning on her heel, she stormed out of the room, leaving behind a stunned silence and a champion stripped of his celebratory air. as y/n reached the red bull garage, she found max emerging from the medical center, a sheepish grin on his face. relief washed over her, so strong it brought her to her knees. max rushed to her side, his concern a warm balm on her raw emotions. he held her close, whispering reassurances into her hair.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

well i hope you liked it! thank you for sending in your request and do send more <3 happy reading!

leave a like! leave a note!

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

[betweenstorms]

Part Seven of Where We Part (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

The rest of November slipped by in a sombre hush, days folding into one another like pages of an old book left in the rain.

Except for that one day.

A gunfight rang out near Aimsley Street, slicing through the murmur of the city. It left London tense and shaken, paralyzed for days as subways shut down, and those who could, travelled by car, turning the streets into a grid of motionless headlights.

Fortunately, it wasn’t as lethal as the terror attack at Piccadilly in 2019, but still, the unease seeped in, threading through the city’s veins, casting shadows across familiar places. And just like that, November quickly disappeared, pulling its curtain of solitude and waiting, leaving the world stripped bare, exposed to the bites of winter’s approach.

December draped itself over London like a heavy, threadbare blanket, stifling and colourless, the kind of oppressive atmosphere that made everything feel lifeless. The cold settled in, not the crisp, biting chill of clear winter mornings, but a damp, penetrating coldness that seeped into your very bones and made you wonder if you’d ever feel warm again. The streets looked as though they’d been stripped bare, left open and exposed to the heavy, overcast skies above. Most days, a dull mist hung over the pavements, giving the buildings a washed-out, ghostly quality, like a city caught between sleep and waking.

The days bled into one another, each more bleak than the last, with early mornings arriving in murky shades of grey and fading too soon into evenings that swallowed the world whole in their darkness. People moved with that characteristic urgency that winter brings. You joined them begrudgingly, always tugging your coat closer, cursing yourself for always forgetting a scarf, or for the thin boots that always seemed to soak up icy puddles like a bloody sponge.

On especially cold nights, you could almost convince yourself that this was normal, that this was simply the way things were and had always been. But it was quite difficult to ignore the feeling that something was missing, that the hollow silence that lingered in the empty spaces between your days wasn’t just the eerie stillness of winter, but the absence of something, or rather, someone, you had grown painfully fond of.

Simon hadn’t been back since early November.

He had texted once or twice, short, clipped messages that somehow still made your heart flip, each one like a handful of pebbles tossed your way. “Busy these days,” and, later, “Might be back in a month. Can’t promise.” And with each message, you felt the quiet ache of hope and disappointment, an unsettling mixture that left you feeling more and more lonely with each passing week.

You’d taken to clutching your phone a little more often, your heart flickering with every buzz, only to sink again as other, mundane notifications filtered through.

It was a strange kind of torture, missing someone who was never truly yours to miss, whose life was a map marked with destinations and duties far beyond your reach. However, even knowing this, even acknowledging the distance he kept, you felt his absence like a stone lodged deep within you, heavy and unmoving.

You found yourself reaching for the phone countless times, fingers hovering over his name, wondering if a simple call or text would bridge the painful emptiness he’d left in his absence.

But something held you back, understanding that Simon would likely meet your words with a silence that would hurt more than any reply. He’d drawn his line between his work and his personal life, between the world that demanded his professionalism and the connection he somehow allowed to happen with you.

He’d made it clear, he wouldn’t let those worlds collide, wouldn’t risk them merging into something unpredictable, something neither of you could control. And you respected that boundary, even as it tore at you.

However, the days felt endless without him, each hour stretching into another shadowed ache that you couldn’t quiet, no matter how hard you tried. Your heart felt like an open wound, raw and unhealing, each sore beat a reminder of his absence, each moment a slow, silent bleed of longing. You wondered if he felt it too, the quiet fracture of separation that neither of you could mend, a wound that only his return could begin to close.

December pressed on, relentless in its gloom.

Your world shrank, folding in on itself as you huddled in your flat, wrapped in oversized jumpers, your hands perpetually curled around a mug of tea to chase away the chill that lingered in your bones.

You fell into a sort of rhythm, almost like a ritual, as if by carrying out these small and mundane acts, you could keep the loneliness at bay. Mornings were spent buried under blankets, moving only reluctantly to start your day, while evenings were spent wrapped up on the sofa, the dim glow of a lamp casting a pale light across the room as you read, watched, and waited.

Your birthday and Christmas arrived, as dull as the winter sky outside. There was little joy in the chill, in the frozen ground that spread across Wimbledon, turning every cobbled street and brick house into an icy, unyielding facade. But you did find some comfort in being back with your parents, tucked into the warmth of their home, where the smell of spices and evergreen filled the air. Your mother, delighted to have you home, fussed over meals, bustling in and out of the kitchen with a determined cheerfulness that belied the weariness around her eyes. Your father sat by, his once-broad frame softened with age, but his gaze was still as sharp as ever.

You gave them the plane tickets to Thailand over Christmas dinner.

Your mum’s face lit up, eyes sparkling with the kind of excitement that was rare to see in the last few years.

You knew how long she’d wanted to return, how she’d looked at old photos of their honeymoon with a wistful smile, memories of a warmth and beauty worlds away from London’s dull cold. She held the tickets with reverence, tracing the letters with her finger as though they were a magical doorway back to her youth, when her husband’s sickness was just like a bad dream. Your father, whose health, thank God, had held up well in recent months despite some close calls, smiled, a look of contentment softening his face.

“Thailand,” your mother murmured, eyes distant. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s been so long.” She gave your dad a nudge, eyes twinkling. “Been on about it for ages, haven’t I?”

He hummed and squeezed her hand. “You’ve been a right menace about it, that’s true.”

When you took them to the airport a week after Christmas, the terminal was filled with that strange, buzzing excitement that only comes with travel. People hugged each other, voices mixing with the static announcements overhead, foreign families pulling along suitcases, kids clutching stuffed animals and couples leading each other by each other’s hand.

You embraced your parents tightly, your mum’s hair smelling faintly of lavender and your father’s coat thick against you. You watched with a smile as they made their way through security, disappearing into the throng of travellers until they were out of sight.

And then, you were alone again.

New Year’s Eve crept up like a thief in the night, bringing with it a strange melancholy, like watching the embers of a once-bright fire slowly burn to ash. There was a hollowness in the air, a sensation that even the bright lights and the laughter of strangers couldn’t fill.

You’d been roped into joining your colleagues at a bar near the office. It seemed like a dreadful idea, but sitting alone in your flat, watching the hours crawl by, felt worse. You donned your best smile, the one that looked good enough in the mirror to fool even yourself, and you went, desperate for any mindless chatter that would at least keep your mind occupied.

But the bar was thick with heat and noise, the heavy bass of music thumping under the clatter of glass and the rise and fall of laughter. You found yourself swept into a circle of colleagues, all chattering about their plans for the new year, raising toasts, and making idle promises that would likely dissolve by February. They laughed easily, voices drifting over you in waves, and yet it all felt distant, like you were submerged in water, hearing only the echo of sound.

Then a young man from finance cornered you.

You only blinked at him, barely listening, caught in the comedic rhythm of his bouncing curls as he nodded along to his own words.

He launched into a passionate speech about the bloody sanctity of traditional gender roles. His words blurred together, his voice almost muted by the weight of your thoughts. Occasionally, you threw in a polite nod or a mumbled a barely audible “I see,” but your mind was far from this harrowing event. Then he leaned closer, mistaking your silence for interest, his voice picking up with enthusiasm as he rambled about his mother’s perfect domesticity.

He was going on about how his parents’ marriage thrived on ‘proper’ roles, his mum content at home, his father in the workplace, as if time hadn’t moved on. 

Instead of focusing on the man in front of you, whose name you didn't even know, your mind drifted back to Simon, as it always did, caught in the same endless orbit around him.

It was a quiet tragedy, really—how he occupied every corner of your thoughts, each waking hour, and even seeped into your dreams.

Last night, you dreamt of him again. You were back in Manchester, in the schoolyard where your lives had first touched, sitting side by side, sharing a slice of cake with the casual intimacy of old friends. Yet, in the dream, you were adults, marked by the years that had carved distance and longing between you.

You couldn’t help but wonder where he might be.

What distant place held him at this very moment? Did he feel the same biting loneliness that haunted you, or did the distance barely register for him? Did he notice the empty spaces you left behind, the echo of your absence? Did he miss you in that quiet, aching way you missed him, as though without him, the world felt hollow, missing something essential?

The evening dragged on, your drink untouched on the table, its amber hue glinting in the dim light of the bar.

Suddenly, the noise around you became too much so you left without a word. The countdown spilled out of the bar, each passing number a drumbeat reminding you of how misplaced you felt. The voices grew louder, almost drowning out the thoughts you clung to so desperately, but there was no shaking Simon’s image from your mind. You excused yourself to the blur of faces, slipping out into the cold just as the crowd reached “Three… two…” and a cheer erupted inside, muffled by the heavy door that closed behind you.

The cold air bit at your cheeks, sharp and unforgiving, but there was a strange relief in it. The chill worked its way through your coat, wrapping around your limbs, but you barely felt it.

Your mind was still somewhere else—wandering across continents, or maybe just a few miles away, lingering wherever Simon might be, wherever he was spending this strange moment of resumption. You tried to imagine him in his world, far from the lights and laughter, caught in some clandestine mission, navigating the edges of danger.

It felt wrong to picture him anywhere else but beside you.

You walked down the street slowly, trembling hands shoved deep in your pockets, blurry eyes trained on the pavement.

A fine layer of frost glistened under the dim streetlights, turning the world silver. It felt surreal, almost like you were moving through a dream. The faint sound of fireworks echoed in the distance, colours bursting against the night sky, their light reflecting in fragmented patterns on the layer of ice below your feet.

You looked up absentmindedly, the fireworks dying behind your eyes, feeling more alone in that moment than you had in years.

Perhaps loving him in silence was no longer possible.

The feelings had slipped beyond your control, as if they had a life of their own—spilling over like water from a crack in glass, flooding every part of you, soaking into your bones. The walls you’d so carefully built around your bleeding heart felt like little more than tissue now, flimsy barriers against the torrent that pressed and surged within. There was no holding back, no silencing the quiet ache that had become a steady, insistent pulse beneath your skin, a longing that refused to remain hidden, that sought him out even in the hollow silence.

No, you needed to love Simon Riley openly—

—without shadows or restraint.

You needed to bring this love into the light, where it could finally catch its first breath, where it could be heard and be seen, where it could thrive unhidden, unafraid. You needed him—not in fragments or stolen moments, not as a quiet ache buried in your chest, but wholly, fiercely, as something alive and unshackled.

You had wasted so much time.

So many precious years that now felt like mere flickers in the dark, small glimpses of life that slipped through your grasp before you’d even had a chance to hold them, like a newborn. The weight of it settled heavily upon you, like the slow realisation of a loss so deep it seemed to stretch back through all the years you’d been alive.

You could feel it in the pit of your chest, that dull ache of regret, as you thought of all the things you had left unobserved, the fleeting moments you had let drift by without truly seeing them for what they were.

You should have taken the time to appreciate your mum’s rose bush in full bloom. You should have sat with her in the garden, asking her all kinds of questions about those roses and why she loved them, about her own dreams and what she longed for.

You should have lingered a little bit longer in conversation with Mrs. Riley when she waved at you from her porch after school. She had been there every day, asking after your mum or commenting on the weather, hoping for a second of connection. But you had always been too absorbed in your own world, too eager to rush home, and now, those lost conversations seemed like small, precious jewels you’d tossed aside without even realising their worth.

There was that joyful summer in Sicily, too, when you’d stood on the shore with friends, the Mediterranean sun turning the sea into shimmering glass. You’d laughed, feeling invincible, the salt breeze tangling your hair and the waves lapping at your feet. But you were always thinking ahead, already planning the next thrill, and you never truly let yourself savour the gentle kiss of the sea or the warmth of those friendships, believing, foolishly, that there would always be more summers like that one.

Now, those days felt like faded photographs, captured and stowed away, a version of you that felt impossibly distant, almost unreal.

And all those dreams you’d held so tightly in your youth—they felt almost absurd and foolish now. Those grand plans, the visions of who you’d become, had seemed so important once, so urgent. However, life had drifted by, filled with pathetic attempts, with moments you passed over for the promise of a future that never quite materialised. All the dreams you’d clung to now seemed like toys left in a forgotten corner, things that once shimmered brightly but now only reminded you of all you hadn’t achieved, all you hadn’t dared to reach for.

And Simon.

God, you should have kept in touch.

All those years stretched between you like an untraveled road, a distance marked by silence and missed chances. You’d shared so much as children and somehow, as life tugged you in different directions, you’d let him slip away, thinking perhaps that time would wait, that there would always be a someday to reconnect.

But that day never came.

How could you have let all those years pass without him in your life?

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

And so, your resolve sharpened as the final traces of colourful fireworks flickered in the sky, fading like smiles, leaving you alone on that empty street. Heart pounding, you reached into your bag, fingers trembling as they closed around your phone. The reality of what you were about to do seized you, filling you with a giddy sense of reckless abandon. You needed to tell him—to reach across this vast, impossible distance and let him know what he meant to you.

You couldn’t wait for another moment to slip by, couldn’t let another chance vanish into the empty air of this cold evening.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, heart hammering as you stared at his name, the contact you’d saved so long ago but had so rarely dared to use. It felt monumental, like all the words you’d swallowed down like bitter pills, all the years of quiet yearning and repressed emotions were resting in a single message.

Happy New Year, Si.

You paused, staring at those three words.

It felt too simple, too unremarkable, yet somehow too much at the same time. However, you weren’t done. No, you couldn’t just wish him a happy New Year and leave it at that, not with everything you felt pressing on your chest, a weight so heavy it felt as though it might crush you. The words were there, bubbling up, desperate to spill out. Your thumbs lingered on the keyboard, hesitating, heart thundering as you finally, almost timidly, typed:

I love you.

Three more words.

They settled perfectly beneath the first message, as if they had always belonged there, tucked away beneath the safety of the New Year’s greeting. Somehow, the two messages fit together, one nestled beneath the other like layers of meaning, entwined, as though love was just a natural extension of your wish to start another year with him.

And, in a way, it was.

Two minutes passed. Then another two. And another two. But those words flew into the void, a confession to the ether, carrying with them every unspoken feeling you’d harboured, every quiet longing and desperate hope you had clung to through those long, empty days. However, it was fitting because love was never too loud between you and Simon. It was quiet, patient, a silent constant that filled the spaces between words. And yet, in this moment, as you stared at the screen, it felt too small. Because God, how you wished he were here beside you.

You wished, with a quiet ache, that he was here, that you could say these words to him aloud, that he might look at you with that steady, unreadable gaze of his and hear them for what they were—an offering, small but true, from your heart to his.

You checked your phone obsessively, but there was no reply, only the empty screen reflecting your own hesitance back at you. Each second felt like an eternity, stretching on, thick and heavy with doubt. Had he seen it? Was he even awake? Or worse, had he simply chosen to ignore it, to leave your confession to languish in the unknown, unacknowledged?

You tucked your phone back into your pocket, hoping to put some distance between yourself and the gnawing anxiety blooming in your chest.

The street was easeful, your only company the faint sound of revellers in the distance, their laughter drifting away like smoke on the wind. And there you stood, small and solitary, your message carried away into the silence of the night. You’d given a piece of yourself away, a part you could never take back, and the ache of that realisation settled within you, but there was no regret. You couldn’t live in the shadow of regret anymore. You could feel your pitiful heart thud painfully, a rhythm of yearning, wondering if you’d gone too far, if you’d crossed a line that could never be mended.

For a moment, you let yourself imagine his reaction—his gaze lowering to his phone, those unreadable hazel eyes flickering with some emotion he’d keep hidden behind his stoic mask. Would he read it? Would he feel the weight of those words? Or would he look away, placing your soft confession with all the other things he couldn’t face? A thousand questions swirled within you, each one carrying the potential of hope or heartbreak, yet none held an answer.

New Year’s slipped by, leaving you alone in your small, silent flat.

The cheers, the drinks, the fireworks, your coworkers—they all felt like shards of a broken life happening elsewhere, a distant world removed from your solitude. You made some mint tea and curled up on your sofa, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders, letting the muted glow of a mindless romcom you’d seen a hundred times fill the room. Every now and then, your eyes flicked toward your phone, longing for a reply that never came. Even though the screen remained dark, indifferent, you held onto the hope that it might light up with his name, with a message that would close the distance, however briefly, between your heart and his.

But days turned into weeks.

London slipped back into its own rhythm, its pulse steady and unchanging, as if the new year had come and gone without so much as a murmur. You, too, fell into the cadence of it all, returning to the apologetic rituals that had once felt like anchors but now seemed more like weights, pulling you through the days with a muted inevitability. There was work, with its familiar faces and deadlines, the cold commute, where breath rose like ghosts in the air, and the small tasks you clung to—brewing your morning tea, buttoning your coat, watching the frost glisten on your windowsill. Each small motion, each quiet routine, tethered you to the present, even as part of you remained lost somewhere else.

The ache in your chest persisted, a constant, unyielding reminder of your confession hanging in the silence. You busied yourself with distractions, trying to smother the gnawing ache of unreciprocated love, but it lingered, like a wound you couldn’t heal, as early January passed in a blur of frozen mornings and grey afternoons.

Another week began, still with no sign of Simon.

It was strange, feeling his absence so acutely, even after so many years of silence. You found yourself slipping into daydreams, remembering those late nights in his flat, the smoke curling between you as he listened quietly to your ramblings, his presence steady and grounding. You missed the glint in his eyes when he teased you, the rare moments when his hard exterior softened, revealing the person beneath. You missed the comfort of his company, the sense of being truly seen and being heard, of sharing space with someone who, despite his walls, had let you glimpse parts of him no one else had.

But the silence stretched on, longer than you ever thought you could bear, each empty day settling like dust over your heart. Slowly, painfully, you began to accept the truth that lay beneath that silence—that this time, he might not return.

It was a dull ache, this acceptance, not a sharp, searing pain but a slow, sinking sorrow that settled into your bones, filling the spaces where hope had once lingered. It wasn’t defeat; it was a kind of surrender, yielding to a reality you had tried to keep at bay. You felt it weigh on you with a familiar heaviness, pressing down in a way that made everything seem just a little bit dimmer, a little more distant, as if the world itself had taken on his absence and softened to match the ache in your chest. You carried on, each day a quiet testament to the resilience of the heart, even as it broke under the strain of loss.

Then one evening, weeks after you’d given up on a reply, your phone vibrated.

The screen glowed softly, casting a dim, ethereal light over the shadows of your bedroom. It was a quiet, almost fragile glow, as though the device itself knew the weight of what it held, the significance of that single name illuminating the dark. You blinked, your eyes adjusting to the light, your mind reeling in disbelief. Oh, his name was there, clear and unmistakable, like something conjured from a dream, a figment you’d imagined in those long, empty hours.

And yet, it was real.

For a heartbeat, you couldn’t move, your hands hovering just above the screen, frozen by a mixture of hope and fear. It felt surreal, the kind of moment you’d only dared to imagine. But there it was, right in front of you. So you reached for the phone, fingers trembling, the screen warm under your touch, grounding you in this unexpected, almost magical reality. You felt it thrum in your ears, in your fingertips, in your whole body, as though every cell in your body was attuned to this moment, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting.

Took me far too long to catch on.

Fucking clueless sod I am.

Even with half a world between us, you were always there. Never met anyone like you, not once. Guess I was just being a fucking coward. Probably should’ve said all this sooner, but fuck it. I’ll be in London in a few days. Got hell more to say than I know what to do with.

Right. And sorry about all the swearing.

Just a little filler chapter before the big finale! hope everyone’s still excited, because I know I am!

[directactionforhope]

Pictured: President Donald Trump and Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu in the Oval Office on March 25, 2019, the day Trump signed a U.S. declaration recognizing Israel’s sovereignty over the Golan Heights, reversing more than a half-century of U.S. policy.

Article

"Former president Donald Trump promised to crush pro-Palestinian protests on college campuses, telling a roomful of donors — a group that he joked included “98 percent of my Jewish friends” — that he would expel student demonstrators from the United States, according to participants in the roundtable event with him in New York.

“One thing I do is, any student that protests, I throw them out of the country. You know, there are a lot of foreign students. As soon as they hear that, they’re going to behave,” Trump said on May 14, according to donors at the event.

When one of the donors complained that many of the students and professors protesting on campuses could one day hold positions of power in the United States, Trump called the demonstrators part of a “radical revolution” that he vowed to defeat. He praised the New York Police Department for clearing the campus at Columbia University and said other cities needed to follow suit, saying “it has to be stopped now.”

“Well, if you get me elected, and you should really be doing this, if you get me reelected, we’re going to set that movement back 25 or 30 years,” he said, according to the donors, who spoke on the condition of anonymity to detail a private event.

Trump has waffled publicly about whether Israel should continue its war in Gaza, saying “get it over with … get back to peace and stop killing people.” Major Republican donors have lobbied him in recent months to take a stronger stance backing Israel and its prime minister, Benjamin Netanyahu.

The private New York meeting offers new insight into his current thinking. Speaking to wealthy donors behind closed doors, Trump said that he supports Israel’s right to continue “its war on terror” and boasted of his White House policies toward Israel...

Trump has offered few policy specifics about how he would treat Israel in a second term. He cast doubt on the viability of an independent Palestinian state in a recent Time magazine interview, saying he was “not sure a two-state solution anymore is gonna work,” adding: “there may not be another idea.” A two-state solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict has been the end goal of U.S. policy under Democratic and Republican presidents for decades...

Trump took a different tone [than his public comments] in the meeting with donors. Instead of saying it was time to wrap up the war, he said he supported Israel’s right to continue its attack on Gaza.

“But I’m one of the only people that says that now. And a lot of people don’t even know what October 7th is,” Trump said.

Trump repeatedly listed for the donors everything he believed he had done for Israel in the White House. He moved the U.S. Embassy to Jerusalem, bucking decades of U.S. policy. He recognized the Golan Heights, which Israel seized from Syria in 1967, as an integral part of Israel after what he said was a five-minute conversation with David Friedman, his ambassador there.

He also polled the room if they liked Friedman.

“So I did Golan Heights. You know that’s worth $2 trillion, they said, that piece, if you put it in real estate terms. But it’s worth more than that. It is,” Trump said, according to donors present.

Israel, Trump argued, needs his help. Street demonstrations for Israel get smaller crowds than his rallies, he said. In Washington, and particularly in Congress, “Israel is losing its power,” he added. “It’s incredible.” ...

Trump and Netanyahu’s relationship will “continue to prosper and flourish” if they’re both in office at the same time again, Matthew Brooks, chief executive of the Republican Jewish Coalition, said in an interview.

“He’s giving the Israelis a blank check to go in and do what they need to do to destroy Hamas and eliminate the threat in Gaza from Hamas. And what he’s also saying, which is actually true, he said ‘but do it quickly’ because time is not Israel’s ally right now,” Brooks said."

-via The Washington Post, May 27, 2024

--

Reminder that just because the status quo is fucking bad, that doesn't change the fact that under Trump, it would be fucking worse.

[girlactionfigure]

The Settler Violence You Don’t Hear About

We all know about the Turkish occupation of Cyprus and the hundreds of thousands of Turkish settlers living there since the Turkish invasion and occupation of part of the island in 1974. Actually no, most people have never heard about the illegal Turkish settlement of Cyprus, but that’s a subject for a different story. I want to talk about a more recent Turkish illegal settlement, one that is both ongoing and far more severe.

In June 2024, while Turkey was frothing at the mouth about the treatment of Arabs in "Occupied Palestine" – that is, Israel – Syrian refugees, also Arabs, were being lynched in Turkey for allegedly harassing a Turkish child. This was nothing new. According to EuroMed Rights, this was "yet another example in a series of anti-refugee discontent and violence. Turkey has previously experienced waves of lynching and attacks against refugees in 2014, 2017, and 2019, alongside individual offences that often go unpunished due to a pervasive culture of impunity."

However, this time the Arabs didn’t take this lying down.

Syrian militias allied with Turkey launched several attacks against Turks in Turkish-occupied northern Syria, resulting in Turkish fatalities. This is where it gets interesting, so let’s talk about this occupation for a little bit.

The Turkish-occupied region of Syria is around one-third larger than the West Bank and is rife with human rights abuses that are simply ignored by the Western media. In fact, in 2021 the NYT was accused by Kurdish and international activists of whitewashing Turkey’s occupation…which I bet you didn’t hear about either.

In 2018, Turkey invaded the majority-Kurdish Afrin District of northwest Syria ostensibly to prevent Kurdish attacks against Turkey in what was ironically called “Operation Olive Branch.” To quote Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, "What can that terror army target but Turkey? Our mission is to strangle it before it's even born." So, very proactive self-defense.

Kurdish refugees leaving Afrin in Northern Syria

As many as 510 civilians were killed in the operation. Other atrocities included the mutilation of a female corpse by Turkey's Syrian National Army proxies, indiscriminate bombardment of civilians by Turkish forces, and shooting of refugees fleeing into Turkey.

However, the worst was yet to come. After Turkish-led forces had captured the Afrin District in 2018, they engaged in a wide resettlement program that included moving Arab settlers from southern Syria into homes that belonged to the displaced Kurdish and Yazidi locals. The previous owners were then prevented from returning to Afrin to reclaim their stolen homes. This wasn’t a chaotic process but a conscious ethnic replacement by the Turkish government and its SNA proxies.

Al Amal 2, one of the Arab settlements build in Afrin.

Paragraph 47 of the report of the Independent International Commission of Inquiry on the Syrian Arab Republic submitted to the UN Human Rights Council noted that "multiple accounts indicate that the property of Kurdish owners was looted and appropriated by Syrian National Army members in a coordinated manner. For example, in September 2019, civilians in the Shaykh al-Hadid subdistrict (of the Afrin region) described how members of Division 14, Brigade 142 (the Suleiman Shah Brigade) of the Syrian National Army had gone from door to door instructing Kurdish families with fewer than three members to vacate their houses to accommodate individuals arriving from outside of Afrin." It was also reported by Al-Monitor and Arab News that Yazidi and Kurdish women and girls have been kidnapped by the SNA for ransom, rape, or forced marriage. It stands to reason this was also done to “encourage” Kurds to leave the region.

Following the Turkish invasion, as many as 200,000 indigenous Kurds and Yazidis fled from the Afrin District while an estimated 458,000 settlers moved into their homes. According to a GenocideWatch article from 2020, the size of the indigenous population of Kurds in the Afrin region dropped from 97 percent before the occupation to 34.8 percent.

This is an ongoing process. According to a report by the Hawar News Agency from 2024, “Within the aim of separating Afrin from Syria and annexing it, the Turkish occupation continues to commit crimes, intimidate the people, and trade in their property by Turkey's settlers and mercenaries. Local sources said that a settler from the southern Aleppo countryside sold a house belonging to the citizen Issam Hussein, a resident of the village of Andariyah, in the city of Janders to another settler for $1,500.”

But wait, this gets even crazier!

Many of these settlers are Palestinians.

That’s right. Even as you read these lines, illegal Palestinian settlers are moving from the West Bank into stolen Kurdish homes in an occupied region, displacing and replacing the indigenous population… and they’re proud of it!

According to a 2022 article from the Afrin Post, “the first part of a residential community constructed in Jindires district was opened, with direct funding from the residents of Al-Zaeem village in the occupied city of Jerusalem. The project plan consists of 75 housing units, each of which consists of 4 houses, to accommodate about 220 families. Today, 32 housing units (about 128 families) have been settled in, while work is underway and preparations are being completed to start the second part of the project.”

"Funded by Al Zaim donations, in Quds Town.”

According to exiled Kurdish politician Abdulrahman Apo, all the villages of Afrin have been “turned into settlements. In addition to Syrian Arabs, 10,000 Palestinians are stationed in Afrin.”

A spokesman for one of the Palestinian settlements said, "Today, we arrived from Palestine to the airport, and from there to northern Syria, to deliver the housing units… [We] know the meaning of occupation, displacement, asylum and home displacement."

He sure does! He’s actively engaged in it! He’s doing exactly what the Palestinians falsely accuse Israel of doing, only on steroids.

In just a few years, more than 100 settlements have been built by Turkey and funded by Gulf countries and Palestinian associations in areas under Turkey’s control. In fact, one of the settlements is even called “Palestine Ajnadine.”

What can I say? The man is a master of irony, almost as much as the genius who called the whole thing "Operation Olive Branch."

Western liberals make so much noise about Israel, they silence the screams and pleas of tens of millions of victims of severe and ongoing human right abuses all over the planet. This obsessive tunnel vision creates the ultimate smokescreen for a plethora of atrocities that dwarf anything Israel may be involved in. Be honest, I’m sure you’ve never heard about Palestinian settlements on Kurdish land before you read this article. Why would you? Western media never talks about it. Western intellectuals never talk about it. It seems no one cares about it except the Kurds themselves.

This obfuscation by fake moral outrage is a big reason for Turkey’s ostensible obsession with Gaza. It’s less their concern for the Palestinians or objection to settlements, and more their desire to distract from their own ongoing crimes. I’m sure the Kurds, as well as the Greeks, Cypriots, Syrians, and other nations colonized by Turkey, would appreciate it, if Western liberals could spare some of their moral outrage for the occupation and colonization of these nations.

URI KURLIANCHIK

DEC 3

[opencommunion]

"Positioning Palestinians as racially and ontologically inferior and as ones held captive in ever-evolving zones of nonexistence and in geopolitically (in)visible spaces of annihilation where the world bears witness yet turns a blind eye are made possible by the definition of Palestinian children as 'born terrorists.' ... This phenomenon ... is not only produced and reproduced in state cabinet meetings and global politics, but also staged and repeated in media outlets. What I am speaking of is state-sponsored terror on the 'terrorist' Other, the 'terrorist' child. The so-called War on Terror and its corresponding values allow the phenomenon of what I call unchilding to flourish despite the viciousness of violence and unending genocidal attacks, such as in Gaza in April 2018 as I write this conclusion. The targeted shooting of children, women, men, and journalists and the mutilation and injury of thousands of Palestinians protesting in the Return March in Gaza were defended in the words of military officer Zvika Pogel who stated that 'anyone that threatens the border of Israel will be killed.' When the reporter questioned the shooting of a fourteen-year-old child, he responded, 'Anybody that threatens the borders of Israel is sentenced to death.' Producing the state’s mandate to sentence children to death is an incremental genocidal unchilding. Settler-colonial ideology hopes that Palestinian children can be kept in spaces of incarceration ... and thus forever evicted. The universal logic of colonization requires the colonizers to continually produce newer and more refined technologies for further articulating and justifying the use of force, violence, and the wounding of children."

Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian, Incarcerated Childhood and the Politics of Unchilding (2019)

[writingfromasgard]

In-game Bio: Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish Masterlist

The Scottish born, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, is a fearless, self assured and instinctive hard-charger. He remains the youngest candidate to pass SAS selection in the Royal Army history. He earned the nickname "Soap" for cleaning house with remarkable speed and accuracy in room clearance techniques and urban warfare tactics. He is competitive, daring and always looking for a win.

Soap is a trained sniper and demolitions expert, often operating in isolation and under pressure, performing critically timed activities in support of clandestine missions. He is a risk taker, a fierce competitor and a fight in every sense of the word.

Soap has spent the last several years carrying out both covert and overt operations around the world. In 2019, he was chosen to be part of Captain Price's newly formed elite special operations unit known as Task Force 141.

In 2023, Soap was KIA responding to a terror attack in the London Chunnel led by Vladimir Makarov and his Konni group soldiers.

[morbidology]

A statue of Jesus Christ spattered with blood following the 2019 Sri Lanka bombing.

On April 21, 2019, Sri Lanka was rocked by a series of devastating terrorist attacks targeting three churches and three luxury hotels. This tragic event, known as the 2019 Sri Lanka Easter bombings, marked one of the deadliest days in the country’s history, resulting in the loss of over 250 lives and leaving more than 500 injured.

The attacks were carried out by a local Islamist extremist group called National Thowheeth Jama'ath (NTJ), with alleged support from international terrorist networks. This marked a significant shift in the landscape of terrorism in Sri Lanka, a country that had endured decades of civil war primarily driven by ethnic tensions. The bombings were reportedly in retaliation for the Christchurch mosque shootings in New Zealand, which had occurred a month earlier.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Any analysis of the Israeli state’s terror campaign against the people of Gaza cannot begin with the events of October 7. An honest examination of the current situation must view October 7 in the context of Israel’s 75-year war against the Palestinians and the past two decades of transforming Gaza first into an open-air prison and now into a killing cage. Under threat of being labeled antisemitic, Israel and its defenders demand acceptance of Israel’s official rationale for its irrational actions as legitimate, even if they are demonstrably false or they seek to justify war crimes. “You look at Israel today. It’s a state that has reached such a degree of irrational, rabid lunacy that its government routinely accuses its closest allies of supporting terrorism,” the Palestinian analyst Mouin Rabbani recently told Intercepted. “It is a state that has become thoroughly incapable of any form of inhibition.” Israel has imposed, by lethal force, a rule that Palestinians have no legitimate rights of any form of resistance. When they have organized nonviolent demonstrations, they have been attacked and killed. That was the case in 2018-2019 when Israeli forces opened fire on unarmed protesters during the Great March of Return, killing 223 and wounding more than 8,000 others. Israeli snipers later boasted about shooting dozens of protesters in the knee during the weekly Friday demonstrations. When Palestinians fight back against apartheid soldiers, they are killed or sent into military tribunals. Children who throw rocks at tanks or soldiers are labeled terrorists and subjected to abuse and violations of basic rights — that is, if they are not summarily shot dead. Palestinians live their lives stripped of any context or any recourse to address the grave injustices imposed on them. You cannot discuss the crimes of Hamas or Islamic jihad or any other armed resistance factions without first addressing the question of why these groups exist and have support. One aspect of this should certainly probe Netanyahu’s own role — extending back to at least 2012 — in propping up Hamas and facilitating the flow of money to the group. “Anyone who wants to thwart the establishment of a Palestinian state has to support bolstering Hamas and transferring money to Hamas,” Netanyahu told his Likud comrades in 2019. But in the broader sense, a sincere examination of why a group such as Hamas gained popularity among Palestinians or why people in Gaza turn to armed struggle must focus on how the oppressed, when stripped of all forms of legitimate resistance, respond to the oppressor. It should be focused on the rights of people living under occupation to assert and defend their self-determination. It should allow Palestinians to have their struggle placed in the context of other historical battles for liberation and independence and not relegated to racist polemics about how all Palestinian acts of resistance constitute terrorism and there are not really any innocents in Gaza.

[raayllum]

The Mage Wars

How could I not know that? What really happened? History has a way of burying the ugly truths of those who write it.

So it was supremely satisfying to finally have a textual answer to something fans have been curious about since S2 aired in 2019, and definitely after S3. There was speculation at the time that the West being so different from the East was likely due to two options:

Xadian forces took magic out of the west as a preventative measure when the elves / everyone was leaving, and then sent the humans in. This would mean a more difficult path for humanity in terms of stripping away Xadia's natural abundance, but better protect all the unique creatures/beings who lived on the western half of the continent by shepherding them somewhere safer

Xadian forces left the West untouched, and sent humans into that same natural abundance. Humanity consumed and destroyed it over long term dark magic use and infighting (calling back to Viren's line in 2x05 of "After centuries of fighting amongst ourselves...") because dark magic is a personal, subjective morality free-for-all of terror and consequences

We now definitively know it's the second one... but why? Why tell us this at all?

Well there's a few potential reasons:

Now that we're fully opening up the border between the Pentarchy and the Xadia, with the caveat that the Pentarchy can defend themselves from future dragon attacks, we could see encroaching war of more powerful humans who wish to plunder magic from the remaining magical side of the continent. All the previous guardians of Xadia's land and seas (the Archdragons) have also been taken out by Aaravos.

Side note: I forget where, but I saw people speculate that the coral-horned creature could be the Empress of the Deep mentioned in Deep Below, who was a dear friend of Domina Profundis, and who was hunted by a collection of elves and humans.

The history of the Mage Wars is also likely relevant to the Staff of Ziard. We see it featured prominently in the flashback and that it seemed to denote powerful mages in particular. This makes sense as it's something Aaravos crafted and then gave to humanity, along with dark magic itself earlier on. We also know that (particularly human) mages were his preferred prey and that the Mage Wars are exactly the kind of conflict he'd be more than ready to nudge along. His imprisonment being 300 years ago (depending on when the fighting came to an end) could also line up.

Going back to the Staff, we know that the staff metal itself came from the Starscraper (alongside 8 others that remain there), the quasar diamond was stolen from the Corona of the Heavens and placed in the staff, and that it eventually became attributed to the High Mage position in Katolis, passing from generation to generation. We know that traditionally it would've passed from Kpp'Ar to Viren, and has now gone to Callum, who seems to no longer be High Mage, but retains ownership over the staff anyway. We don't know why Kpp'Ar believed that the staff should never be used again, so it seems that's an arc 3 question.

I'm also curious if the end of the mage wars, given the volcanic setting is reminiscent of the arc 1 intro with Avizandum, might be something we see some day / in further detail. If the timeline matches up where it was coming to a close around 300 years ago, that could be part of the reason why the Orphan Queen journeyed into Xadia and why she had reason to be suspicious of Aaravos.

[matan4il]

Daily update post:

Two Arab men loyal to ISIS were arrested for intending to carry out a terrorist attack in the Old City of Jerusalem. They were going to use explosives, and were considering buying a drone to drop the explosives from. I just wanna remind everyone, that every new terrorism tactic developed against Israelis, eventually makes its way to other countries.

On Israel's northern border, Hezbollah fired a barrage of rockets into the city of Kiryat Shmona, causing widespread blackouts. Among the buildings his is a school. On our southern border, a TV reporter shared that over the first 9 days of 2024, 17 rocket barrages were fired into Israel from Gaza. It's a lot less than it used to be, but it's still not zero. I want people to understand that until we can guarantee no rockets are going to be fired at Israeli civilians living along the country's borders, those communities can't go back to their homes. They'll remain evacuated, homeless, without any possible change on the horizon. It's an abnormal and impossible situation for any country, if its citizens can't live on their own land. No country would take it, and frankly, it is only the strength of spirit of Israel's northern and southern communities, that allowed Israel to overlook the tens of thousands of rockets being fired into this land for 22 years. NO COUNTRY would take this. And after Oct 7, Israeli civilians are done taking it, too. Which means Israel as a country can no longer accept this abnormal reality either.

This is a map of how Hamas' rockets cover Israel (and how this progressed through the years). It doesn't show Hezbollah's rockets. If Hamas has tens of thousands of rockets, Hezbollah is said to have hundreds of thousands. It also doesn't show how far drones from Gaza can reach, or how Israel has had rockets fired at it from Iraq, Syria and Yemen, too. And that Iran's rockets can also reach us.

After undergoing surgery, and still waiting to learn the extent to which his serious injuries will affect him, singer and actor Idan Amedi sent out a message through a friend (an Israeli politician) who was visiting him. Idan said, according to his friend, to forget about him, he's not important and he will deal with what he has to, what matters is that the People of Israel will stay strong together. One journalist IMO nailed it, when he said about Idan, that it's not that Amedi as an individual matters more than the other soldiers in Gaza, it's that he's a symbol of how much Israelis are putting aside and sacrificing in order to protect our country and our people.

The less interesting part of the lawsuit by South Africa (organized behind the scenes by the Palestinian Authority) against Israel was concluded today, the part where we already knew what lies and distortions will be employed. Tomorrow, Israel will get to respond, and that should prove more interesting. For now, many have condemned the biased stance that SA took, especially as in 2015 it enabled the return to Sudan of Omar al-Bashir, who has been guilty of mass rapes and murders in Darfur. SA was asked to arrest him for his crimes against humanity during a visit, but they enabled his safe return to his country and to his crimes. He was only stopped in 2019. That's on top of SA siding with Iran, a country that finances terrorism globally, kills its own civilians, and is implicated in the Oct 7 massacre carried out by Hamas, the antisemitic genocidal terrorist organization. SA omitted the massacre from the lawsuit it filed against Israel.

Before the trial in the Hague started, the head of Israel's criminal forensics institute, Dr. Chen Kugel, has published more evidence from the horrifying crimes of Hamas, committed on Oct 7, and which were motivated by genocidal intent. A part of the current antisemitic farce is, of course, that while Israel is wrongfully being charged with genocide, the actual crimes perpetrated due to genocidal intent can't be prosecuted in the International Court of Justice, because Hamas is not a state, and did not sign the convention for the prevention of genocide, as Israel did. There's an irony here that only antisemitism can turn into a reality, that the first heinous crimes in this war were committed against Israel, yet the first trial over any crimes in this war is also targeting the Jewish state.

They're saying it will take years for the lawsuit to be concluded. But the accusation, the libel against Israel (and possibly an intermediary junction against Israel, for which the bar is very low, and which SA is asking the court to give), that's happening RIGHT NOW. It's why some people are calling this the modern Dreyfus trial. For those who don't know, Dreyfus was a loyal French officer. He was also Jewish. That was enough to convict him in the court of public opinion as a traitor, and it was enough to bias the actual court in which the trial was held. Dreyfus was found guilty of treason, dishonorably discharged, and exiled. The injustice was evident in real time, as Emile Zola's famous op ed "J'accuse!" shows. Decades later, Dreyfus was exonerated of all charges against him, and a non-Jewish French officer was exposed as the real traitor. But it was too late for Dreyfus, and for all Jews at the time, who had witnessed the modern, supposedly liberal west fail them.

The same Iran that finances Hamas, including the Oct 7 massacre, and has invested in SA, has also been confirmed to have attacked a ship in the Oman bay. It's the second time (at least) that Iran has attacked a ship directly rather than use proxies, like the Houthi terrorists in Yemen, to target international shipping.

Today, Egypt refused an American request, to allow a UN delegation entry into the northern part of the Gaza strip, so it coud evaluate the needs of Palestinians. This is a reminder that if anyone tells you Hamas' reports on the number of fatalities has been independently verified... no, they weren't. No one impartial is found in Gaza right now. Also, that if people blame everything that's happening to Gazans right now on Israel, they're intentionally leaving out both Hamas, other Gazan terrorist organzations, and the Egyptians.

The other day, Hamas claimed that two journalists were killed in Gaza. Yesterday, the IDF released records showing they were both memberes of Palestinian terrorist organizations.

Across Israel, people are getting ready to hold many events and strikes as we're getting close to the 100th day since Hamas and other Gazans kidnapped Israeli civilians from their homes. 136 Israelis, alive or dead, are still held hostage in Gaza. The youngest of the hostages is Kfir Bibas, was just 9 months old when he was taken from his home at gunpoint, together with his 4 years old brother Ariel, and his mom Shiri. Next week, Kfir will "celebrate" his first birthday on this earth in captivity. Yarden, the father, was also kidnapped, but he was taken into Gaza separately. A Hamas released vid shows Yarden being told that his wife and sons are dead. We don't know if this is true or not, as in the past, these terrorists have lied about hostages being dead, when they turned out to be alive. Hamas' vid also showed Yarden Bibas in great emotional distress, and one hostage, who was held with him in a terror tunnel, but was later released, said he was in a terrible mental state, and she feared for his life. Here are images of the Bibas family before they were kidnapped:

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[aahanna]

PULWAMA ATTACK 5TH ANNIVERSARY -

The Pulwama attack, which occurred on February 14, 2019, remains a somber reminder of the challenges faced in the fight against terrorism. On that fateful day, a suicide bomber targeted a CRPF convoy in Pulwama, resulting in the tragic loss of 40 brave personnel. The convoy, carrying over 2,500 jawans, was returning from leave or heading to deployment areas when the attack took place.

[whenweallvote]

On August 3, 2019, an armed white supremacist drove for nearly 10 hours to a Walmart in El Paso, Texas, where he killed 23 people and injured dozens more. The FBI classified this attack on the Latino community as a hate crime and an act of domestic terrorism.

Five years later, communities across the country continue to experience these tragedies. In 2024, there have been more mass shootings than days of the year so far. Our hearts are with the entire community and everyone impacted by gun violence.

Gun violence prevention is on the ballot this November, and our vote is our voice. Register to vote today at weall.vote/register. 🙏🏽

[hero-israel]

I’ve started following Tablet again this past year, even though they piss me off half the time and are really starting to flog that gross line of WE’RE THE REAL JEWS NOT LIKE THOSE BABY WHINING LIBERAL ONES WHO WANT TO DIVIDE US under the banner of, um, “””” unifying “”””” and protecting Jews. But every time I get mad, I think of you calling them “hydroxycurious” and laugh. That really helps. Thanks 😊

I still skim Tablet regularly, but I'm often reluctant to cite it in mixed company. You really have to be careful when linking to them, being absolutely sure there's no awkward snarling about wokeness or matter-of-fact assertion that the climate has always been changing so just get used to it you pussy.

But they do have some really top-notch thoughtful - usually disturbing - articles in their portfolio. The ones I come back to the most are below:

Matti Friedman reveals how the AP and other mainstream outlets hide Palestinian terrorism and cast Israel as the only real actor in the conflict.

When advertising for college "voluntourists," Palestinians admit they live normal and safe lives, and that so does everyone who doesn't physically attack a soldier.

The weakness and decline of American Jewish communal life will make it easier for mainstream politics to abandon us (written in 2019 and heartbreakingly prophetic).

The mass purge of Jews from the artistic, educational, and creative sectors.

[tua-five]

Season 2 Episode 7

I actually love this episode. It is so eventful and is a rollercoaster of emotions. It is my favorite s2 episode. That being said, I am writing this before watching the episode.

Starting off strong with Five saying luck is dying at the right time. Now, this might be a terrible thing to say, and possibly frightening to the woman. However, I believe that is Five trying his very hardest to be kind/a good human being. It's like the nicest thing he can say.

And then of course he loses his marbles over a "fuckin' fudge nutter" and goes on a rampage killing the board of directors.

I saw something a couple of days ago, and the person made a really good point. They asked what Five planned to do when he got to the location and time to kill the board. Because he picked up that axe while there. Did he plan on using his fists? Did he assume there would be a weapon? Was he just gonna "wing it"? Because if he was, that's probably the stupidest thing he's done. He's got to do this right, his family's lives are on the line and getting back to their timeline.

Speaking of family. I do feel bad for Allison. Even after season 3... she's a character. It doesn't excuse anything. But she just told Ray that she's love him and he kind of smiled and then left. Didn't even say it back.

I very much do hate the handler, though. Making five do her dirty work and then only giving him 90 minutes to gather everyone.

I fully believe that if this had actually worked, they'd still be stuck in the wrong 2019. Because she only specified 2019. Not "your timeline where you lived, so everything is back to normal" 2019.

And poor Olga Foroga. Diego and Luther just terrorized a poor old woman. Probably have her a heart attack.

Okay, but Ben and Jill were so cute. Even if Jill thought it was Klaus. The dirt moment 😢

And Ben and Diego 🥺

And Five and [Viktor]. When they were staring at each other, threatening them each other with their powers. I don't know if I've said it before, but what did Five plan to do? Grab [him] and jump someplace else? To the alley? [Viktor's] powers can actually hurt Five. So that made sense. But I don't get what Five was trying to do.

And Diego saying he has something he needs to get done first and then going to bury elliot?? That was the sweetest thing.

And of course, Lila has to ruin it and drug him just so he can join the commission and stay with her forever. I mean, I've grown to like her, but what the heck.

And everyone messed their part up of getting to the Alley. Well, except for the most responsible (for the most part) people.

Today's gifs!

This was such a cute and funny moment, I don't care what anyone says.