#welcome to algeria

[sabrinetnh]

📍Pont de Sidi M'Cid, Constantine - Algérie 🇩🇿 ❤️

🎥: hydromoon_hi

[fag4arabs]

Look at you, pathetic fag! On your knees just like a dog. Waiting for Arab Cock. You are such a loser! The lowest in the hierarchy. My wife is not here. So I need a hole. Bow your head for me fag. For your Alpha. Behold your King! Crawl to me on your knees. Come between my legs and sniff my balls. They are full of superior Arab Cum. You want it? Suck my cut Arab Cock. Deep in your throat, filthy whore!

[liunndatiti]

From our heritage, if a single tear falls, it means she's single, And if three it means she's married.

[halawas]

can't believe i have to say this but if you're fucking stupid enough to believe atrocity propaganda that was debunked multiple times and whine about "b-b-but both sides!" or is@ael's "right to defend itself" block me. fucking braindead.

[bogbilou]

[magne-t-tar]

[mahdi19]

[iwamimimimi]

HEY!!!!

I JUST REALLY WANTED TO SAY THAT CHUUYA AND DAZAI ARE VERY MUCH WELCOME IN ALGERIA!!

If wouldn't be too much to ask... Could you draw them in our cultural karakou??? 😊o(*￣▽￣*)ブ

PLEASE AND TYYY

I ALSO LOVE UR ART BABES, KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK💖💓

[clockwayswrites]

A Broken Sort of Normal, Part 16

WC: 756 , Masterpost CW: We loop to the start and that entails The attacks start in northern Africa. It jumps from Algeria to Egypt, across the sea to Saudi Arabia to Turkey and into Europe. By the time it hits Metropolis, resources are already stretched thin. Danny is calling in every contact, every possible help, while he follows the worst of it himself, constantly organizing the next area of triage.

As he’s attempting to wrap the tourniquet around Barry’s leg, blood slicked hands failing him, it hits Danny like one of Superman’s punches.

They are going to lose.

Barry reaches out and grips a weak hand around Danny’s wrist. “Kid?”

It’s still a stupid nickname, but through all these years Barry still used it. Through the years of dinners and disasters and Danny being welcomed into Barry’s family at Wally’s side.

And now all these wonderful, heroic, brave people that Danny had come to be friends with are going to die. The monologue happening in the middle of the street made that much clear. No hero would be spared; any chance of a future uprising would be snuffed out this very day.

Because they are going to lose.

Danny smiles softly at Barry and pries his hand away.

“Kid, whatever you’re thinking—” Barry could have no idea what Danny is thinking. No one can.

No one can, because no one knows what Danny can do.

He leaves his bag by Barry. Most of the supplies have been used up, but maybe there is still something in it that will help people.

He just wants to help people.

The monologue cuts off as Danny approaches, feet sliding on the loose concrete around the edge of the crater that the imposing figure stands in. He manages not to fall, though, and strides past Superman with his head held high. He will not cower in front of death. He faced death once before and even though this time means becoming nothing, he will not cower as he faces it again.

He has to look up to meet the being’s eyes. There’s only cruelty there. The mouth twists in a cold smirk. “Has it come to this? That they send their healer to face me?”

“No.” Danny could hear Barry shouting his name. “They didn’t send me, I came by myself.”

The laugh raises the hair on the back of Danny’s neck, but he doesn't move away.

“Pathetic! You presume yourself to be the last line of defense? You, a mere medic? You are no hero and yet you dare to stand before me? Do you not think that I could break you with a single fist?”

Danny smiles softly, and raises his hand. The man doesn’t even move, so utterly sure that Danny poses him no threat. Danny rests his hand on the man’s chest. He has to reach up to do so.

The smirk turns into a sneer. “Or do you intend to appeal to some ideal of compassion? To try and change my heart? To ask me to spare your heroes?”

Superman is screaming at him now as he struggles to stand. Danny hears him fall again.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the man who would try to rule them all with nothing but death in his wake.

“No,” Danny says, tilting his head just slightly. His eyes scan over the hardened face again. “No, I don’t think I can do that. You’ve made a mockery of death for so long that your heart is hardened. It’s a good thing I don’t need it soft.”

Intangibility is as comfortingly familiar as it is horrifying to feel again. Danny shudders as it washes over him. His hand sinks, sickeningly, through armor and skin and bone to wrap around that hardened, beating heart.

It thuds once in his grip.

Danny yanks his hand back.

Danny pulls that heart from its chest.

The man gasps— the sound a pale imitation of a breath— and then he falls.

Like he was nothing.

Less than nothing.

A man that will only be remembered with hatred.

The massive heart slips from Danny’s limp fingers. It hits the ground with a wet squelch.

Danny wavers, eyes turning up to the sky where hundreds of clones are falling like horrifying intimidations of shooting stars. A soft smile spreads over his face.

He had done it.

Will people remember him?

It isn’t why he did it.

He just wants to help people.

Wanted to.

Was someone calling his name?

There had only been one chance. It was all he needed.

They would be safe now.

Everyone would be safe.

Humanity, Barry, Iris, the Titans…

Wally…

“Danny!”

---

AN: And here we are, back in present tense (thank you @mokulule for correcting all my slips back to past tense my migrained brain didn't catch.

I would say Danny used his one moment well, wouldn't you?

But this isn't quite the end. Now that we're back in the present... I think it's about time we saw somethings from Wally's POV, don't you?

I no longer tag, you can subscribe to the masterpost instead!

[rangerelizabeth]

🆓: ... Free space - add your own what if...? scenario about episode 3

What if Gale made it to Algeria but wounded?

I got inspired to write a little drabble for this one! This is the first thing I've written in months (is my writer's block finally over?🤞) so I hope you enjoy it! Kind of an abrupt ending, but I promised myself I'd keep it relatively short lol. Drabble under the cut!

Word count: 1153

When the wheels of his fort touch down on Algerian soil, the first thing Gale feels is a flood of relief, despite being several yards from the runway, in a beat up fort made of what seems like more bullet holes than metal, all engines feathered, one of his crew killed, and far too many others lost on the way. At the very least, they made it. 

The second thing he registers is the dull ache in his right side, just below his ribcage. He’d felt the initial impact, certain and painful, when they were flying through heavy enemy fire some hours ago. 

Yet in the chaos of the moment, it seemed his copilot hadn’t noticed his wince of pain accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. So, he’d elected to keep it that way, allowing the initial excruciating pain to fade to a low thrum in the background as they continued with the mission. His crew was already shaken enough as it was. No reason to add insult to injury by informing them their pilot had been hit.

Now, safely on the ground in Algeria, he knows he should probably tell someone. But time seems to swim confusingly in the haze of a post-mission adrenaline crash, and before he knows it, Bucky and Jack are there and his crew is pulling the remains of Norman Smith, their trusted radio operator, out of the wrecked fort, so Gale shoves the injury out of his mind once more to take care of his crew.

Besides, he figures, it can’t be that bad if he’s made it this far.

~~~

As they get the men settled with bedrolls and water and whatever food they can scrounge up, considering their less than warm welcome in Algeria, Bucky basks in the relief that Gale is really there, on the ground, alive. He thought he knew nerves, but nothing could compare to the feeling of watching Gale’s beat up fort from his faux position as ‘reserve command pilot’, unable to do anything except hope against all odds that they would both make it to their destination.

Bucky can’t help but notice that the other man looks paler than normal, can’t help but notice the way his hands shake as he helps set up their makeshift camp. It’s understandable, Bucky supposes, after using every ounce of his willpower to keep his fort in the sky, then finally, finally touching down safely by nothing but the skin of his teeth. The comedown from something like that isn’t easy.

So, he chalks it up to that. Until moments later, that is, when sudden, frantic shouting comes while his back is turned. He whips his head up from where he was neatly unfurling a bedroll, his senses shocked when he finds Gale collapsed on his knees in the sand a few feet away from him.

Bucky abandons the bedroll, rushing forward. He drops to his own knees in front of Gale, hands latching onto Gale’s forearms while his eyes frantically search his face. Somehow, he looks even paler now. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Gale’s eyes are slow to find his. When they do, they’re pinched with a deep pain that Bucky can’t believe he didn’t notice before. Still, Gale shakes his head weakly. “’M fine.”

They have an audience, which Bucky knows isn’t helping Gale to tell him anything, stubborn and unflappable as he is. Or rather, as he would like to appear. Reluctantly, Bucky tears his eyes from the other man’s to glance around at the rest of the men. “Make yourselves busy, will you?”

Mercifully, they get the hint, dispersing in all directions away from the pair of them, busying themselves with getting settled in once more. Bucky’s gaze returns to Gale’s face with even greater urgency. “C’mon, Buck. What’s going on?”

It’s then that Gale presses a gentle hand to his right side, wincing even at the slightest pressure. There’s a tear there in his flight suit, accompanied by a spot of blood, which Bucky had naively assumed was someone else’s or just a minor scrape like the littering of small cuts now marring the other man’s face. 

“Think I’m hit,” Gale finally admits reluctantly, low and under his breath. 

Bucky clenches his jaw, inhales sharply through his nose, and forces himself not to panic. “You stubborn bastard. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

Gale shrugs. His eyes appear cloudy with fatigue or dizziness, Bucky can’t quite tell. When he speaks, his voice comes out sounding weak. “Had things to do. A mission to complete.”

John stares at him in a mixture of concern and disbelief for a moment before spurring himself into action. Pushing Gale’s jacket off his shoulders and beginning to undo the straps of his flight suit in hopes of getting a good look at his wound, Bucky admonishes in frustration, “The mission was complete the second you landed that fort against all odds, and you know it. You should’ve told me right then.”

“Didn’t want to cause a fuss. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine,” Bucky disagrees sharply, but then softens. He could have lost Gale today. Still could, really, depending on how badly he’s hurt. If they both make it back to Thorpe Abbotts safely after this, then he’ll give the other man an earful about taking better care of himself. But for now, harsh words aren’t going to make Gale feel any better. “It’s my job to fuss over you. So just let me do my job, okay?”

Gale sighs, accepting, then nods. He glances around to see if anyone else is keeping an eye on them. Then, apparently satisfied when they’re not, allows himself to slump forward against the broad warmth of Bucky’s chest with a quiet grunt of pain.

It’s not helping Bucky get him out of his flight gear any faster, but it feels so good to have Gale close after the day's events that he allows it, just for a moment. He strokes a hand down Gale’s back, ducking his head to murmur into his ear, for the two of them only, “I’ve got you, doll. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Once Gale hums in acknowledgement, Bucky reluctantly pushes him back to continue his efforts. He’s afraid of the injury he might find underneath the layers of clothing, but forces himself to keep his attitude light and optimistic on Gale’s behalf.

“Never thought I’d be taking your clothes off surrounded by all of our men,” Bucky teases quietly as he pushes the top Gale’s flight suit down to bunch around his waist, hoping to brighten the mood.

It seems to work briefly, with Gale letting out a surprised, albeit weak chuckle. But then the movement seems to pain him, and he winces. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Alright, alright,” Bucky quickly sobers, worry flooding his veins. “Let me take a look. We’ll have you all patched up in no time, promise.”

[sabrinetnh]

My Algeria 🇩🇿🤍

[fag4arabs]

Look at this perfect body, fag! This shows your place in the hierarchy. This King is at the top and you are way down, below any other men. You are not even a man. Worship this King! Bow your head and crawl over. Make sure you don’t make eye contact, you filthy whore! Begin to smell his bulge, his balls. Take his Mighty Arab Cock out and drain His balls. Do it you stupid cumslut!

[mariacallous]

Winter is citrus season. The sweetest and juiciest oranges, lemons and grapefruits appear in stores just when we seem to need them the most. What could be more welcome on a gray January day than a sunny burst of vitamin C from your favorite citrus fruit?

Not only are citrus fruits delicious and healthy, but they also have a long association with the Jewish people. Humans have cultivated citrus fruits, which originally came from south and east Asia, for thousands of years. Indeed, we Jews are aware, if perhaps unconsciously, of the ancient connection between humans and citrus fruits because of how we celebrate the festival of Sukkot. An etrog— which in botanical terms is an ancient citrus variety known as a citron — is an essential part of that holiday observance. While the Bible does not mention the etrog by name, the citron was identified as the required “fruit of the goodly tree” as early as the second century B.C.E.

As Jews began to spread out into the Diaspora during the late Roman Empire, they had to ensure that, come autumn, they could still find a perfect etrog to use for this important religious observance. Thus, one of the many agricultural activities these settlers engaged in was cultivating citrons. (Interestingly, these early centers of Jewish population coincide with continued areas of citrus production in the Mediterranean today: southern Spain, Sicily and Calabria in Italy, the Nile Delta, the Levant and Algeria.) Many scholars attribute the continued cultivation of citrus fruits in Europe following the collapse of the Roman empire, and the ensuing chaos, to Jewish horticulturists whose need for the fruit was undiminished.

The cultivation of other citrus species was a byproduct of these early Jewish settlers’ need for citron. Almost all citrus varieties are sexually compatible with one another, and they are highly prone to mutation. Such traits allowed their genes to mix naturally for thousands of years and made it feasible for humans to cross-breed the different varieties. Indeed, just about every citrus fruit you have ever seen comes from just three ancestors: the citron, the pomelo and the mandarin.

From the 10th century onward, citron trees served as grafting stock for other kinds of citrus. By the end of the 13th century, fruits that we would recognize as oranges and lemons were widely grown in the land of Israel and by the next century Jewish merchants, through their contacts in the Levant began importing them to Italy.

Thus began the long association between Jews and the citrus trade in the eyes of Europeans. Starting in the Middle Ages, Jewish merchants traveled from the Mediterranean to northern and eastern Europe with citrons to sell to their brothers and sisters living in colder climes. This led to a thriving trade in all kinds of citrus, not merely etrogs, and not only to Jewish customers. Italian Jewish traders who settled in Germany used their contacts to import citrus from the Mediterranean to sell to any customers who could afford the high price. In 18th-century England, Jewish peddlers were known to specialize in citrus fruits.

Beginning in the 19th century, Zionist rabbis and other Jewish leaders began encouraging their followers to seek out citrons grown in Palestine instead of those grown around the Mediterranean. This was due in part to anti-Jewish riots on the Greek island of Corfu where many of the citrons destined for northern Europe were grown. Today, of course, Israeli farmers continue to grow and export citrus — more to Europe than to the United States, which has its own robust citrus industry — especially the famous Jaffa orange, which in the 1950s and ’60s was a symbol of pride for the young nation.

So, when you peel a perfect round orange or squeeze some lemon into your tea this winter, know that it is in large part due to the efforts of Jewish farmers and merchants from centuries ago that today we enjoy such a wide variety of citrus fruits.

In that spirit, at this bountiful time of year, do not limit yourselves to the familiar lemons, limes and navel oranges. Explore the whole range of citrus fruits from blood oranges and Key limes to Meyer lemons, pomelos and kumquats. Your local grocery store should have a wide variety of these novel citrus fruits available through March. Here is a guide to some of the best of winter citrus for your enjoyment.

Blood Orange: There are three types — Moro, Tarocco and Sanguinello — with a flavor that ranges from tart to semi-sweet depending on the type and season. Named for the deep, beet red color of their flesh, blood oranges are usually smaller than navel oranges and have a dimpled peel. Because of its unique color, the blood orange is often incorporated into recipes, from cocktails to preserves.

Cara Cara: Chefs love this pink-fleshed navel orange. It’s slightly sweeter and less acidic than a regular orange and has a very delicate berry flavor. Use this variety in place of oranges in any recipe or add them to a citrus salad for extra color and brightness.

Seville Sour Orange: This variety is sometimes called the bitter orange and commonly used in the production of marmalade. The Seville is tart and grown throughout the Mediterranean, but can be hard to find in the U.S. It’s also the a key ingredient in the orange-flavored liqueur Triple Sec.

Meyer Lemons: This lemon-orange hybrid is the darling of the citrus world. Its rind is a vibrant, deep yellow and has a strongly perfumed, almost herbal aroma. Its flesh is darker in color than a regular lemon and more sweet than tart, which means you can use the raw segments in a salad, much like an orange or grapefruit. Delicious in baked goods, marmalade or lemon curd.

Key Limes: Smaller than its cousin, the Persian lime, the Key lime is particularly juicy and acidic. It has a smooth rind, a greenish-yellow color when ripe and lots of seeds. Key limes have a distinctive aroma and taste which make them a favorite of bakers everywhere. Of course, pie is what Key limes are best known for, but you can substitute Key lime juice in any lime recipe for a fresh twist.

Pomelos: Often the size of bowling balls, pomelos can look intimidating. The rind can range in color from yellow to green, and the pulp can be white, pink, or somewhere in between. The pith is very thick, so it’s best to cut away as much of the rind and pith as you can first before peeling away at its segments. Think of the taste of a pomelo as akin to a mild grapefruit—sweet and without bitterness. Pomelos are common in southeast Asian cuisine.

Kumquats: You can actually eat the skin of these tiny citrus fruits. About the size of a large olive, kumquats tend to be sweet on the outside and quite tart on the inside. You can slice them into salads, muddle them in a cocktail, candy them or even cook them down into a sweet and spicy chutney.

Buddha’s Hand: This citrus easily wins the prize for most bizarre looking. The fingerlike fruit has a complex lemon aroma and actually contains no pulp or juice—it’s made up of a yellow rind and white pith. The rind can be used in any place lemon zest is called for, or try candying the peel.

Craving some citrus? Try one of these:

Moroccan Orange and Black Olive Salad

Orange and Pomegranate Salad

Lemon Chicken Soup with Swiss Chard and Rice

Blood Orange Martini

Lemon Sponge Cake with Candied Citrus

[letheology]

Shortly before Yvette Solal was born, the Crémieux Decree granted French citizenship to Jews in French Algeria, including Yvette's family. As an effort at assimilation, it was a massive success. Within a generation, most Algerian Jews spoke French over Judeo-Arabic and Judeo-Spanish. Of course, antisemitism was still rampant. French colonists were not so eager to accept Algerian Jews as fellow citizens. But Yvette's family still believed that becoming French was the key to their future, and so that was the way they were raised.

Growing up, Yvette didn't speak French. They didn't speak any language. But they came to understand it, slowly, and found other ways to communicate - gestures, pictures, and eventually writing. For all their struggle with words, they were good with numbers and patterns. They were quick to point out errors in their family's ledgers, and even quicker to make recommendations for the business. More importantly, they had tremendously good luck. Their market predictions were uncannily accurate. They could always guess if a new customer was a good omen or a bad one. As they got older, their family relied on them more and more to run the business. But they never truly stopped seeing Yvette as a child. She was their baby, their good luck charm, to be protected above all else.

And the time would come for them to be protected. In early 1903, when it seemed like France was on the verge of completing their conquest, the powers suddenly shifted. Revolutions sprung up all over North Africa. Yvette and their family found that many of their Jewish neighbors joined in alongside their Muslim ones. The Solal family did not do so. When France withdrew from Algeria, Yvette's family fled, too. But they did not flee to France.

Fearing that the fighting would follow them to Europe, and following the promise of aid from a certain wealthy Moroccan Jew in London, Yvette's family went down to the Neath, and dragged Yvette down with them.

Yvette had protested. They wrote out their reasoning in hurried script, with their most proper French. They did not want to flee and abandon all they'd worked for. They did not trust the word of this stranger from a world away. Snake eyes. Bad luck. But this time, they were ignored.

And though all the freedoms of Fallen London were a welcome surprise, this was not their choice. Years of built-up resentment spilled over in an instant. They would not be leaving, no. Here, they will come into their power.

[sissa-arrows]

Algiers the revolutionaries’ Mecca. A documentary in French made in 2017 about the role of Algeria helping other countries gain their independence after gaining its own independence in 1962.

“Muslims go to Mecca, Christians go to the Vatican and the revolutionary movement go to Algiers” Amilcar Cabral (the leader of the movement of liberation for Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde)

“A few months only after its independence Algeria open its doors to all the wretched of the earth. […] The first movement of liberation welcomed in Algeria is Nelson Mandela’s ANC. They are joined by representatives of Namibia and Rhodesia (Zimbabwe). They all fight against a power held by white people that exclude the Black majority. […] The next year other African movement of liberation join the Algerian capital, Mozambique, Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde, Angola. An activist solidarity move those groups of liberation all supported financially by Algeria who also give them military and diplomatic support. […] For the Algerian Ben Bella newly Independent African countries must give more support to those still fighting.”

“We fought for 7 and a half year against the most obstinate imperialism that ever existed. We have no right to just think about ourselves when people are dying in Angola, Mozambique and South Africa. But there is a price to pay. If we want our solidarity to be effective then we have to accept to all make sacrifices for African unity to not be a vain word.” Ahmed Ben Bella (first Algerian president)

The documentary also mentions Palestine, Vietnam and the Black Panthers (how they were welcomed and how it eventually ended bitterly (I personally understand both sides I understand why the Black Panthers hijacked a plane but I also understand why Algeria reacted badly because they were not told about it first so they were unable to prepare themselves to the potential violent reaction of the US). Algeria is not perfect we have a lot of issues but when it comes to the support against oppression against imperialism and colonialism I will forever be proud of where Algeria stands.