You Ppl Love Villains/morally Grey Characters UNTIL They're A Woman, Then All Of A Sudden They Are Annoying,

The “you don’t have to be Muslim to stand with Palestine” phrase has always made me uncomfortable because for one, even though I am a Palestinian Muslim and I am happy to see so many people in the ummah supporting Palestine, it ultimately reads as supporting one *kind* of Palestinian.

Islamophobia is a huge factor in demonizing Palestinians, yes, and a lot of Palestinians are indeed Muslim and have used Islam as a form of resistance against the occupation, but (and I have said this before) it’s islamophobia rooted in hatred of Palestinians as indigenous people. All Palestinians, Muslim or not, even Arab or not, are considered to be a threat and are treated as such. It’s not *just* islamophobia, addressing it as just islamophobia is neglecting the other factors of Palestinian oppression.

Palestinian Christians in Gaza are under extreme threat as they compose a small population and many were killed in the recent Israeli bombing of Saint Porphyrius church, additionally, Israeli settlers have been trying steal land belonging to the Armenian Palestinian community in the Armenian quarter of the old city of Jerusalem.

Something I will make note of is that I want to see more Muslims not only learning to include Palestinians of other faiths or backgrounds in their language, but also using the same breath they speak about Palestine to also speak about Sudan, Tigray, Syria, Armenia, Western Sahara, West Papua, Congo, etc. many of our struggles are connected and we cannot be free until we are all free.

I understood Icarus the day I fell in love.

honestly if tumblr goes down it goes down, i ain't migrating to shit

A Thief's Only Enemy

(BASED ON OPLA!Nami) cross-posted on ao3 !!

Nami, the trees whisper. Its tangerine drops against the soil like a ripple in the sea. She remembers the wind passing by the orchard, the dots of tangerines in the horizon, the smell of citrus making every air she breathed worthed and sour. 

Her tongue catches the taste. Her words become citrus. 

Once and now, the trees would whisper her name. Nami, Nami, Nami— our daughter, look at the curiosity—She doesn’t know what that means. Quite frankly, Nami doesn’t recall a memory that whispered her name the way the tangerine trees would. She couldn’t remember what it had meant, what it had sounded like. She couldn’t remember the significance of names. Of course, the significance of names other than Mom, and Nojiko. 

Nojiko, who is her sister, (who isn’t her sister), whose skin reaches more than a tree’s roots, underneath the soil, nurturing and caring. Who had held her, who squeezed her tighter, closer, protectively when Belle-Mere had found them. 

Then, there was her mother, oh, sweet mother. Who had said “I just knew” undoubtedly, who had been the first one to answer her questions truthfully, who had left her knowing that she and Nojiko were loved. 

(This is what life first stole: her name. It is buried until Nojiko and Belle-Mere latches themselves in her heart. They make a home there. They pump her blood and provide for her. This is what life first stole: when the home is in flames and the trees rots—when her mother fell with her skull-cracked, blood spilling between the gaps of wood, the soil carries her sacrifice. The village carries her body, they dig beside a wide tree of tangerines, they place her there. She is buried there. With a piece of Nami and Nojiko ever-beating love for each other.)

You are my daughters, I will not deny that. Nami remembers, she remembers many things. She remembers Arlong’s stupid gun, his stupid smile. She remembers Nojiko’s spiteful look when she left with Arlong. She remembers the way her sister’s blue hair reflected the emotions she felt. 

(This is what Nami stole from herself: the tranquillity and war of sisterhood. She thought of the consequences because her mother had told them to be as strong as boys, and that, if they survived, good times will come. Nami knew—you see, she was a thief, then and now, thievery is mixed up with trickery—that her village would not survive Arlong’s grasp. He is a fishmen, no human in their village could deny that they were scarred with his ever-growing laughter the moment he claimed them. This is what Nami stole from herself, and what she would take back: sisterhood.)

Nojiko’s hair never went past its original length, she still looks like her sister: Nami’s sister. 

Arlong’s tattoo says otherwise. She would breathe in, her hands were bruised from labour. She used to love the lines that curve to make the islands, cartography offered newness other than the mundane shackles around her once soil-covered ankles. Nesh tears pickled her citrus-covered face, her hair would be dried. She would hug her chest, carry the weight of the knowledge she possessed. 

(This is what life stole from her: freedom. The ability to breathe the citrus air, or the raw wind against her skin. Of course, Nami would grow out those shackles, she knew, her mother had told her and Nojiko that their bodies were not meant to stay in this shape. She had known that she would not stay in this vessel of a tiny girl. Yet, she could not bring herself to hope. To hope that she would live one. This is what life stole from her: freedom. The freedom to make friends. The freedom to have ridiculous hope). 

Nami grew. She had to. For Coco Village. For Nojiko. For her mother. She had to. She learned how to keep her hair the same shape, she learned to observe the sky while slipping berries out of a stranger’s pockets. She learned the meaning of her name from a stolen book, how reflecting her eyes could be in the ocean. 

(This is what Nami stole from herself: a life surrounded with fishmen that would go after her, wherever she went. And she had all but herself to blame, the moment her foot made contact with the wooden floor, the moment she had blurted out that she wanted to join. This is what Nami stole from herself, and what she thinks she would never get back: a life she calls her own.) 

(my thoughts are always on the tags!!) ♡ PLEASE LIKE AND REBLOG TO SUPPORT ME.

Kaveh Akbar, from Calling A Wolf A Wolf: Poems; “Heritage”

🙌🏼🙌🏼🙌🏼🙌🏼

I think it applies to mostly East Asians, though, I could be wrong.

In the Philippines, the wife takes the husband's surname, as well as her children. In India, in 'patriarchal tradition' the woman is supposed to take the husband's surname in order to be apart of his family. In (South) Korea, the women does not take their husband's surname, although their children will have it at birth (this may also involve the country Malaysia).

If you're a writer, your own research would be appreciated if you strive for realism and accuracy. :)

Hey, I read somewhere that Asian/ some Asian wives don’t take their husbands name, does anyone know if this is true and can anyone point me in an appropriate naming character resource?

i learned a while ago that the whole "most of the stars we see in the sky are actually already dead because they're so far away that we're seeing them as they were thousands of years ago" thing is a myth because stars live so long that it's unlikely many, if any, of them have burned out yet, but i'm still glad that myth exists because there's just something about the thought of the sky as a graveyard of stars that gets to me