Anonymous asked:

you've seen Omar right? I'm kind of confused about the ending. did amjad lie about getting Nadia pregnant? cos when Nadia said the baby's age Omar got a bit weird. also the letter nadia was reading at the end? was that from Omar

Hey I’m probably really late in replying this (sorry haven’t been doing much Tumblr)

SPOILERS FOR OMAR


No, I think that Amjad was being manipulated by the Israeli officer all along, he was forced to say those things knowing that they would break Omar’s spirit, and they did because Omar never communicated with Nadia about it either. Omar only figures it out when he sees Nadia’s and Amjad’s kids and realizes how he got played by those bastards. I don’t remember the letter right now but I’m guessing he wrote one to her describing why they didn’t marry each other and his decision to kill the Israeli officer

Today was my last school day. Ever. I have IB exams next month but those are hardly school days. Let that sink in, Momina.

Per tradition, we organized the last flag. There were speeches and songs but there was also a selfie prank on the whole school. (Yes, the head girl ildoctora did say “but first, let me take a selfie” during her speech, the song played for 20 seconds and all 48 of us on stage took selfies). We later blew up dry ice. We did other stuff. But what really got to me were the teachers and their beautiful words recognizing and celebrating all the perks and wonderful awkwardness that makes up the Class of 2014. We were really a special bunch, they all said.

It was only my second year at this school but I can’t even begin to decribe the memories I’ve made and the people I’ve come to know as friends. Today was extremely bittersweet. I didn’t want to write this cliché text post, but I did. I needed the catharsis.

restlessdissident
He says: I’m Muslim.
As he brings the double shot of rum to his lips.
I imagine the way it burns as it slides down his throat.
He winces, then smashes the glass against table.
Everyone turns and cheers,
then they go back to their conversations.
He says it again — I swear.
I say: I know.
He looks at me with sad eyes.
Wallahi - he says,
still trying to convince me.
I say: I know.
I watch his eyes turn to glass as he downs another.
I swear I am Muslim - he slurs
I say: I know.
No— he says— you’re judging me, look
and he holds his hands over his ears and he begins to recite.
And I put my hand over his as people begin to stare.
And I say: I know.
And he begins to cry, and his tears look ancient, and his face contorts, and his mouth is open but there is no sound, and his body shudders.
And he tries again and again, never getting past Bismillah.
He keeps on saying “No you don’t understand I am Muslim, I am Muslim, I am Muslim, I am Muslim”
I know, I say.
And he holds the bottle to his mouth and he almost swallows it whole, and he says “marry me Aasiyah, I am a good man, my father is a hafiz of Quran,
it is just this Dunya, it is this world that has killed me”
I know, I say
I know.
Key Ballah, an encounter. (via keywrites)
ildoctora
laliberty:

Giant Portrait Shows Drone Operators That People Aren’t “Bug Splats”

From where a drone operator’s sitting, one blurry blob of pixels looks almost exactly like the next blurry blob of pixels, which is how the term “bug splat” worked its way into modern military slang as a way of referring to a kill. Now, though, a giant art installation in Pakistan wants to show drone operators that its people are anything but anonymous white blobs—and that that “bug splat” belongs to an actual human being.

laliberty:

Giant Portrait Shows Drone Operators That People Aren’t “Bug Splats”

From where a drone operator’s sitting, one blurry blob of pixels looks almost exactly like the next blurry blob of pixels, which is how the term “bug splat” worked its way into modern military slang as a way of referring to a kill. Now, though, a giant art installation in Pakistan wants to show drone operators that its people are anything but anonymous white blobs—and that that “bug splat” belongs to an actual human being.

akaili

This is the rape joke:
My best friend was four years old the first time his father came into his room at midnight and tore out his throat. He still has days when I cannot hold him because the memory of a bleeding trachea haunts his doorway. He has not been home for the holidays in many years, but – even now – hands are seen as weapons.

This is the rape joke:
I have been told by more than twenty people that they have been raped. To all of them, I asked where the rapist was. From none of them, I heard ‘jail.’

This is the rape joke:
Once my brother told me that I was so ugly, I would be a virgin forever. Unless someone raped me. But even they wouldn’t come back for seconds.

This is the rape joke:
I believed him.

This is the rape joke:
I now look at every woman on the street and wonder if the space between her legs is a crime scene, surrounded by ripped caution tape. The statistics tell me that this is so common that I will never be in a room that does not contain a survivor. Not even if I am in that room alone.

This is the rape joke:
I was thirteen years old, and he was supposed to be just a friend.

This is the rape joke:
When his older brother came home, the boy pulled away. He wiped the tears from my face and said ‘we should do this again some time.’

This is the rape joke:
When I finally told my parents, they asked what I had been wearing.

This is the rape joke:
I had been wearing my innocence. My trust. I had worn the love I held for humanity and expected to be treated well. I had never been taught that I would be that girl, the one who keeps a mine of secrets between her legs – that girl was the slut. I wasn’t supposed to be breakable.
What had I been wearing? I wore the rape joke, then I became it.

This is the Rape Joke | d.a.s  (via akaili)