I don’t usually talk about politics on here, if ever. But it’s been almost six months since the conflict in the Middle East flared up again, and I’m finally ready to start. Here are some of my thoughts.
I say ‘flared up’ because this has happened before and it’ll happen again. Because, even though what's currently going on is absolutely unprecedented, those of us who live in this part of the world are used to it. Let that sink in: we are used to this. And we shouldn’t have to be.
But I use that term for another reason: I don't want to accidentally call it the wrong thing lest I come under fire for being a genocidal maniac or a terrorist or a propaganda machine, etc., etc.—so let’s just call it ‘the war’ or ‘the conflict.’ Because that’s what it is. Doesn’t matter which side you’re on, who you love, or who you hate.
This post will, in all likelihood, sit in my drafts forever. If it does get posted, it certainly won’t be on my main, because I'm scared of being harassed (spoiler: she posted it on her main). I hate admitting that, but honestly? I’m fucking terrified.
I also feel like in order for anything I say on here (i.e. the hellscape of the internet) to be taken seriously, I have to somehow prove that a) I’m “educated” enough to talk about the conflict, and b) that my opinion lines up with what has been deemed the correct one. So, tedious and unnecessary though it is, I will tell you about my experience, because I have a feeling most of the people reading this post are not nearly as close to what’s happening as I am.
How do I explain where I live without actually explaining where I live? How do I say “I live in the Red Zone of international conflicts” without saying what I actually think? How do I convey the fear that grips me when I try to decide between saying “I live in Palestine” and “I live in Israel”? I don't really know. But I do know that names are important. I also know that, due to the various clickbaity monikers ascribed to the conflict, it would probably just be easier to point to a map.
I haven't always lived in the Middle East. I've lived in various places along America’s east coast, and traveled all over the world. But in short, I now live somewhere inside the crudely-drawn purple circle.
If you know anything about these borders you probably blanched a bit in sympathy, or maybe condolence. But in truth, it’s a shockingly normal existence. I don't feel like I've lived through the shifting of international relations or a war or anything. I just kind of feel like I did when COVID hit, that dull sameness as I wondered if this would be the only world-altering event to shape my life, or if there would be more.
I've been told that, in order for my brain to process all the horrific details of the past six months, there needs to be some element of cognitive dissonance—that falling into a sort of dissociative mindset is the only way to not go insane under the weight of it all. I think in some ways that’s true. I have been terrifyingly close to bus stop shootings when my commute wasn’t over; I have felt my apartment building shake with the reverberations of a missile strike; I have spent hours in underground shelters waiting for air raid sirens to stop.
But. I have also gone grocery shopping, and skipped class, and stayed up too late watching TV, and fed the cats on the street corner, and cried over a boy, and got myself AirPods just because, and taken out the trash, and done laundry on a delicate cycle, and bought overpriced lattes one too many days a week. I have looked at pretty things and taken out my phone because, despite it all, I still think that life is too short not to freeze the small moments.
So I'd say, all things considered, I live an incredibly privileged life—compared, of course, to those suffering in Gaza—one filled with sunsets and over-sweetened knafeh and every different color of sand. One that allows me to throw myself into a fandom-induced hyperfixation (or, alternatively, escape method) as I sit on the couch and crack open my laptop to write the next chapter of the fic I'm working on.
But there are bits of not-normalness that wheedle their way through the cracks. I pretend these moments are avoidable, even if they’re not.
They look like this: reading the news and seeing another idiotic, careless choice on Netanyahu’s part and groaning into my morning coffee. Watching Palestinian and Jewish children’s needless suffering posted on Instagram reels and feeling helpless. Opening my Tumblr DMs to find a message telling me to exterminate myself for reblogging a post that only seems like it’s about the war if you squint and tilt your head sideways.
These moments look like all the tiny ways I am reminded that I'm living in a post-October seventh world, where hearing a car backfire makes me jump out of my skin and the sound of a suitcase on pavement makes me look up at the sky and search for the war planes. They look like the heavy grief that is, and also isn’t, mine.
Here's the thing, though. I know you’re wondering when the ball will drop and my true opinion will be revealed. I know you’re waiting for me to reveal what demographic I'm a part of so that you, dear reader, can neatly slap a label on my head and sort me into some oversimplified category that lets you continue to think you understand this war.
No one wants to sit and ruminate on the difficult questions, the ones that make you wonder if maybe you’ve been tinkered with by the propaganda machine, if you might need to go back on what you’ve said or change your mind. We all strive for our perception of complicated issues to be a comfortable one.
But I know that no matter what I do, there will always be assumptions. So, while I shudder to reveal this information online, I think that maybe my most significant contribution to this meta-discussion spanning every facet of the internet is this:
I am a Jew.
Or, alternatively, I am: Jewish, יהודית, يَهُودِيٌّ, etc. Point is, I come from Jews. And, like any given person, I am a product of generation after generation of love.
I'm not going to take time to explain my heritage to you, or to prove that before all the expulsions and pogroms, there was an origin point. If you don’t believe that, perhaps it’s less of a factual problem and more of an ‘I don’t give weight to the beliefs of indigenous people’ problem. But, in case you want to spend time uselessly refuting this tiny point in a larger argument, you can inspect the photos below (it’s just a small chunk of my DNA test results). Alternatively, you can remember that interrogating someone in an attempt to make their indigeneity match your arbitrary criteria is generally not seen as good manners.
Now, let’s go back to thathateful message (read: poorly disguised death threat) I received in my Tumblr DMs. I think it was like two or three weeks ago. I had recently gained a new follower whose blog’s primary focus was the fandom I contribute to, so I followed them back. I saw in my notes that they were going through my posts and liking them—as one does when gaining a new mutual. Yippee!
Then they sent me this:
I tried to explain that hate speech is not a way to go about participating in political discourse, but the person had already blocked me immediately after sending that message. Then, assured by the fact that I surely would never see them complaining about me on their blog (because, as I said, they blocked me), they posted a shouting rant accusing me of sympathizing with colonizing settlers and declaring me a “racist Zionist fuck.” Oh, the wonders of incognito tabs.
Where this person drew these conclusions after reading my (reblogged) post about antisemitism…. I'm not actually sure. But I greatly sympathize with them, and hope that they weren’t too personally offended by my desire to not die.
For a while I contemplated this experience in my righteous anger, and tried to figure out a way to message this person. I wanted to explain that a) seeing a post about being Jewish and choosing to harass the creator about Israel is literally the definition of antisemitism and b) that sending a hateful DM and refusing to be held accountable is just childish and immature. But I gave up soon after—because, honestly, I knew it wasn’t worth my effort or energy. And I knew that I wouldn't be able to change their mind.
But I still remember staring at that rather unfortunate meme, accompanied by an all-caps message demanding for me to Free Palestine, and thinking: the post didn’t even have any buzzwords. I remember the swoop of dread and guilt and fear. I remember wondering why this kind of antisemitism felt worse, in that moment, than the kind that leaves bodies in its wake.
I remember thinking, I don’t have the power to free anyone.
I remember thinking, I’m so fucking tired.
And before you tell me that this conflict isn’t about religion—let me ask you some questions. Why is it that Israel is even called Israel? (Here’s why.) Why do Jews even want it? (Here’s why.) But also, if you actually read the charters of Islamist terrorist organizations like ISIS, Hamas, and Hezbollah (among others), they equate the modern state of Israel with the Jewish people, and they use the two entities interchangeably. So of course this conflict is religious. It’s never been anything but that.
But I do wonder, when faced with those who deny this fact: how do I prove, through an endless slew of what-about-isms and victim blaming, that I too am hurting? How do I show that empathy is dialectical, that I can care deeply for Palestinians and Gazans while also grieving my own people?
There's this thing that humans do, when we’re frustrated about politics and need to howl our opinions about it into the void until we feel better. We find like-minded souls, usually our friends and neighbors, and fret about the state of the world to each other until we’ve gone around in a satisfactory amount of circles. But these conversations never truly accomplish anything. They’re just a substitute, a stand-in catharsis, for what we really wish we could do: find someone who embodies the spirit of every Jew-hating internet troll, every ignorant justifier of terrorism, and scream ourselves hoarse at them until we change their mind.
But, of course, minds cannot be changed when they are determined to live in a state of irrational dislike. In Judaism, this way of thinking has a name: שנאת חינם (sinat hinam), or baseless hatred. It's a parasite with no definite cure, and it makes people bend over backwards to justify things like the massacre on October seventh, simply because the blame always needs to be placed on the Jews.
So when a Jew is faced with this unsolvable problem, there is only one response to be had, only one feeling to be felt: anger. And we are angry. Carrying around rage with nowhere to put it is exhausting. It's like a weight at the base of our neck that pushes down on our spine, bending it until we will inevitably snap under the pressure. I’m still waiting to break, even now.
I wish I could explain to someone who needs to hear it that terrorism against Israelis happens every single day here, and that we are never more than one degree of separation away from the brutal slaughter of a friend, lover, parent, sibling. I wish it would be enough to say that the majority of Israelis (which includes Arab-Israeli citizens who have the exact same rights as Jewish-Israelis) wish for peace every day without ever having seen what it looks like.
I wish I could show the world that Israel was founded as a socialist state, that it was built on communal values and born from a cluster of kibbutzim (small farming communities based on collective responsibility), and that what it is now isn’t what its people stand for.
I wish the world could open their eyes to what we Israelis have seen since the beginning: that Hamas is the enemy, Hamas is the one starving Palestinians and denying them aid, Hamas is the one who keeps rejecting ceasefire terms and denying their citizens basic human rights. Hamas is the governing body of Gaza, not Israel. Hamas is responsible for the wellbeing of the Palestinian people. And Hamas are the ones who are more determined to murder Jews—over and over and over again, in the most animalistic ways possible—than to look inwards and see the suffering they’ve inflicted on their own people. I wish it was easier to see that.
But the wishing, the asking how can people be so blind, is never enough. I can never just say, I promise I don't want war.
When I bear witness to this baseless hatred, I think of the victims of October seventh. I think of the women and girls who were raped and then murdered, forever unable to tell their stories. I think of the hostages, trapped underneath Gaza in dark tunnels, wondering if anyone will come for them. I think of Ori Ansbacher, of Ezra Schwartz, of Eyal, Gilad, and Naftali, of Lucy, Rina, and Maia Dee, of the Paley boys, of Ari Fuld and of Nachshon Wachsman. I think of all the innocent blood spilled because of terror-fueled hatred and the virus of antisemitism. I think of all the thousands of people who were brutally murdered in Israel, Jews and Muslims and Christians and humans, who will never see peace.
My ties to this land are knotted a thousand times over. Even when I leave, a part of me is left behind, waiting for me to claim it when I return. But when I see the grit it takes to live through this pain, when I see the suffering that paints the world the color of blood, I look to the heavens and I wonder why.
I ask God: is it worth all this? He doesn't answer. So I am the one, in the end, to answer my own question. I say, it has to be.
Feel free to send any genuine, respectful, and clarifying questions you may have to my inbox!
EDIT: just coming on here to say that I'm really touched & grateful for the love on this post. When I wrote it, I felt hopeless; I logged off of Tumblr for Shabbat, dreading the moment I would turn off my phone to find more hate in my inbox. Granted, I did find some, and responding to it was exhausting, but it wasn’t all hate. I read every kind reblog and comment, and the love was so much louder. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 🤍
Source Reading
The Whispered in Gaza Project by The Center for Peace Communications
Why Jews Cannot Stop Shaking Right Now by Dara Horn
Hamas Kidnapped My Father for Refusing to Be Their Puppet by Ala Mohammed Mushtaha
I Hope Someone Somewhere Is Being Kind to My Boy by Rachel Goldberg
The Struggle for Black Freedom Has Nothing to Do with Israel by Coleman Hughes
Israel Can Defend Itself and Uphold Its Values by The New York Times Editorial Board
There Is a Jewish Hope for Palestinian Liberation. It Must Survive by Peter Beinart
The Long Wait of the Hostages’ Families by Ruth Margalit
“By Any Means Necessary”: Hamas, Iran, and the Left by Armin Navabi
When People Tell You Who They Are, Believe Them by Bari Weiss
Hunger in Gaza: Blame Hamas, Not Israel by Yvette Miller
Benjamin Netanyahu Is Israel’s Worst Prime Minister Ever by Anshel Pfeffer
What Palestinians Really Think of Hamas by Amaney A. Jamal and Michael Robbins
The Decolonization Narrative Is Dangerous and False by Simon Sebag Montefiore
Understanding Hamas’s Genocidal Ideology by Bruce Hoffman
The Wisdom of Hamas by Matti Friedman
How the UN Discriminates Against Israel by Dina Rovner
This Muslim Israeli Woman Is the Future of the Middle East by The Free Press
Why Are Feminists Silent on Rape and Murder? by Bari Weiss
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24.02.2022.
The day that changed my life forever.
24th of February 2022 should have been my usual day. No, not usual. A wonderful day. I should have been checked with a doctor, gave notice to teachers in high school of my absence, and then fly away on vacation, my parents wanted it so much.
On 23rd of February 2022 I felt happy. I had a secure, happy life, preparing to finals, hanging out with my friends, already having an offer from university.
Until 5AM 24.02.2022.
I had not a single class in my school since then.
I haven’t seen my friend group in 2 years.
I didn’t have my finals.
We did not have that vacation.
“Daughter, wake up. This old psychotic man attacked us. We are leaving.”
That was my first photo of the day, trying sarcastically keep myself normal. I remember that actual emptiness, reading my classmates texts about how their windows were shaking because of explosions, the sky was orange. They sent that video.
He called it “a special military operation”.
I collected random clothes, some hobby stuff just to keep my sanity, grabbed my pet, emptied my safety locker. I was scared that russians would intrude into our home and steal all my savings, so I throw away key to that lock. This key became my symbol of war, I have never found it even after return.
When I with my parents and pet got out of flat to car we heard for the very first time air raid siren. We would hear so many more of them, we would learn to differentiate them, but then we were confused.
It was my second photo. People were going away. Foot, cars, bicycles. I remember such a surreal picture. Some moms were carrying their toddlers, one woman was carrying a bucket of water with turtles, other people were carrying cages with parrots, with dogs, with cats, with exotic pets despite air raid siren, temperature, rain. Everyone was so confused and scared.
Few days later the road we were riding was occupied. Bridges destroyed. Factories burnt. Supermarkets demolished. Houses in ruins. Road in holes. On the side of the road burnt cars with “DO NOT TOUCH, POSSIBLY EXPLOSIVE”. That gut wrenching feeling seeing photos of dead bodies and recognising the place.
But back then it was still lively, not a road of death. I remember reading news then. First victims, first shelling. Invasion from East. Invasion from Kharkiv region. Invasion from Crimea. Invasion from Chernihiv. Invasion from Zhytomyr. And we were in Zhytomyr region at that moment. Explosions in Kyiv. The border was destroyed.
I felt nothing. Just emptiness.
This precious girl was keeping my head cool all the road. She was also scared and irritated, but she was so strong, such an amazing girl. I am so proud of her.
We were heading to my grandparents who lived closer to West Ukraine, so we would be safer. The road that takes usually just 4 hours but that time it took 13 hours. 13 hours of driving exhausted and nerved. We saw soldiers, trucks, jets, how barricades were built, signs were removed.
But we made it. We were lucky. Lucky to be alive, to have family alive and mostly close to West, further from russia. Even though, part of my extended family still was under occupation in Chernihiv region, suffering from such close border with belarus.
When we arrived, we were just silent. Then collected mattresses for shelter, asked grandpa to grab some patrol (we knew that they would definitely destroy reservoirs and literally next day the started doing that), and just fell asleep in something that we arrived in, being so scared.
That day I also cut ties with russian friend who I am shamed to admit having. He was proving me that this is just a military operation, no one would be harmed.
Then, arrived spring that I will never forget but at the same time never remember. I remember 10 people in one floor house. I remember the whistle of rocket that woke us up. I remember sirens. I remember news. I remember losing hope. I remember first photos after deoccupation of Kyiv region. I remember how forgotten friend of my dad suddenly called him saying that his city is fully destroyed, his neighbour right on his eyes was exploded attempting to get into the car and evacuate.
I remember my first mental breakdown. How I was crying in the darkness, but quietly so no one would notice.
We were able to return home three months later. But we are just lucky. Someone would never return. Someone is not even alive to see their home again. Someone’s home is forever destroyed.
I was lucky that I have secured my place at foreign university before war, but my whole family is still in Ukraine.
War is not over at all. 20% of Ukraine is occupied. So many displaced civilians, so many deaths. No one could even count, we do not have any access to bodies. Only way to identify is to deoccupy and find mass graves. No other means. Children are suffering from PTSD even in such a young age. Almost in every city, big or small, you would find graveyards covered in Ukrainian flag, grave of the soldier.
Maybe media does not talk that much of us, but it doesn’t mean that everything is alright. Avdiivka is destroyed, right now operation searching for people under debris of the civilian house after attack is undergoing.
And this is happening all the time.
Who was punished for Olenivka? Who was punished for destruction of Kakhovka Dam? Who was punished for all fully destroyed cities? Who was responsible for all that absolutely atrocious videos torturing Ukrainian soldiers?
Please, remember, Ukraine is still on fire. People are still dying. Soldiers cannot even counterattack because they do not have enough ammo, just for protection. Information war is also waging, sharing all that misinformation, Nazi narratives, russian propaganda.
Remember.
Help.
Share.
russia is a terrorist state.
Glory to Ukraine.
Glory to the Heroes.
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meet me at the bar: epilogue
pairing: kim seokjin x reader
type: drabble — meet me at the bar’s epilogue
au: law school/bar exam, est. relationship
word count: 1.2k
rating: pg13
genre: fluff
summary: as it turns out, there is life after the bar exam.
a/n: i suppose this does make sense outside the context of the one-shot, but i def recommend reading that first ✨ like the OG, this epilogue is dedicated to mj (@yoongiphoria), who army (get it? 👀) crawled through the ringer and lived to tell the tale! so excited to eventually welcome you to the profession, bb 💕
🔞 MINORS WHO INTERACT WITH ME AND/OR MY CONTENT WILL BE BLOCKED, WHETHER OR NOT THE CONTENT IS NSFW. I’M AN ADULT WRITING EXCLUSIVELY FOR OTHER ADULTS.
Seokjin sits at a small cafe table. In front of him sit two things: one he’s sure of and one he’s not.
“This is barbaric,” you mutter under your breath.
You hit the refresh button on your browser again, the same way you have — on a second-by-second basis — since you both sat down. Crazed, your eyes flick up to Seokjin. You repeat yourself emphatically, “Barbarism, Seokjin. Do you hear me?”
He tries his best to keep a straight face, so he pulls his coffee mug to his lips and hides his smile behind the rim. You look back down again before you can even see him nod in agreement. Of course, you go right back to assaulting the touchpad of your laptop.
You’re not wrong, not in the slightest. The Office of Bar Admissions just put you through the most treacherous experience of your academic and professional lives, and it wasn’t done fucking with you. Now that you’d survived the exam itself, you had to sit and wait — not just for your results, but for potential public humiliation.
Everyone who has a stake in this exam — test takers and prospective employers — and anyone who doesn’t — friends, relatives, professors, underclassmen, sundry assholes, etc. — can log onto this extremely public, government website at eight o’clock this morning. If they do, they’ll see a list of names: every single person that passed this exam and would be admitted to the practice of law.
Likewise, anyone can easily find out whose names are missing. Broadcasted at lightning speed, your business becomes everyone else’s. Whether you want to or not, you have to share your greatest success — or biggest disappointment — with whoever the fuck might want to look for it.
Scrubbing your anxious hands over your face, you sigh, “I think I’d rather stand naked in the middle of Lotte World. I mean it; that would be infinitely less horrifying than this.”
“For you, maybe.”
Seokjin grins, sets his mug down, and nudges your untouched plate closer to you. On any other morning, you would’ve inhaled that breakfast sandwich by now. Today, however, you’re on a self-imposed hunger strike until you have answers.
“For the unsuspecting onlookers, I think that would be a criminal offense.”
You roll your eyes, but when you reset them, you’re looking straight at him.
It’s the way anyone would dream of being looked at, he thinks. Like every annoying thing about him is still somehow endearing, worth loving — and that little smile of yours is all for him. Just like that, he’s blushing in the middle of a café, not giving a shit who sees.
Crashing through his thoughts, the alarm you set goes off with a wail, like you’re being summoned to an air-raid shelter rather than notified of the time. You scurry to grab it. Fumbling to turn that siren off, you cast panicked glances around the room to find anyone you might owe an apology for startling. As usual, it’s just the two of you.
You spit it all out so fast that Seokjin can hardly keep up.
“Will you still love me if I shit myself in the café? Because I fucking might, and I need to know if a break-up is going to be added to my list of rejections this morning.”
There are nervous talkers, and then there’s you. You worry in X-Games mode like it’s nobody’s business — and honestly, it’s kind of impressive.
“My whole family is going to know before I can even disclose failure myself and I —”
Seokjin doesn’t know if anything he might say would comfort you, but he’s at least slightly worried that you’ll anxiety-barf onto your laptop. To minimize the collateral damage, he reaches across the table, picks it up, and pulls it over to his side.
As if he just pulled the plug on your life-support machines, you slump down into your chair. There, your head droops against the metal back with a small thud. You then stare up at the ceiling like you’re actively watching your soul leave your body.
“No matter what happens, we’ll be okay.” He assures you while refreshing the browser. “I promise.”
Funnily enough, trying to keep you calm has made him feel the most stable he ever has. One of you has to keep your collective shit together; and it’s clearly not going to be you, so he’s committed to remaining zipped on your behalf. His fingers don’t even shake as he scrolls down that godforsaken list, scanning with narrowed eyes.
“Well?” You urge.
After a few seconds of listening to your knee bouncing underneath the table, Seokjin closes your laptop and sets it down slowly. He takes a deep, measured breath before he finally looks back up at you. With how unabashedly freaked out you are, it’s a miracle that he can’t feel your pulse from the other side of the table.
“So, I have bad news —” He starts with a sigh.
You freeze.
“— We can’t add esquire to our email signatures until after we’re sworn in, which will apparently be two weeks from now.”
The last thought Seokjin has before being tackled to the ground is that he’s thankful nobody else came in for coffee this morning.
The first thought he has when he reopens his eyes, now flat on his back, and sees that insane look on your face — a mix of terror, annoyance, disbelief, and excitement — is that he was right when he decided never to doubt you. More importantly, he was right that you truly are capable of anything.
Up to and including public displays of aggression.
Damn does he love you.
You sit back on your heels but you don’t make any moves to get off of him. With a shaky laugh, you say, “I think I have to kill you for that.”
“Understandable,” he demurs, shrugging. Then, he reaches up to swipe a tear off your cheek with the pad of his thumb, smiling sweetly. “Just don’t represent yourself at trial over it, okay?”
Playfully, you swat at his chest before clambering off of him. Once you make it steadily to your feet, the same hand that smacked him is held out to help him up. He takes it without hesitation.
Back at his full height, he accepts the arms you lace around his neck, swoons just a little when you push up on tiptoe. You kiss him softly, but it hits hard. That gentle brush of your lips makes his knees so weak that he fears he’ll end up on the ground again.
You pull away breathy. Though your eyes are a little bit misty, you grin like you can’t help it. For the record, he can’t, either. You sigh, “I genuinely cannot believe that I survived this bullshit.”
“Really?” Seokjin asks, eyebrows raised.
His arms wrap around your waist to hold you closer, allowing you to nestle your face into his sweatshirt. He means it, so he says it with his whole chest and hopes you hear it: “I was sure you would.”
“Don’t think I would’ve been able to do it without you,” you mumble into the fabric.
“You could have,” he murmurs. Leaning down, he kisses the top of your head before continuing, “But you didn’t have to.”
The two of you stand like that for a while — wholly entangled in the middle of a café, in broad ass daylight — without speaking. It helps him try to wrap his brain around it all. After all, the landscape is different now than it was an hour ago; and unless he’s fully lost it, Seokjin swears that the grass really is greener.
For the first time ever, he doesn’t feel the weight of the dreaded unknown pushing down on his shoulders. He just feels you leaning against him and an unfamiliar sense of peace. All of that gratification he’s delayed his whole life, too, as it falls right into his hands.
But Seokjin’s not great with that whole thoughtful silence thing, so he smirks, “Gonna call me counselor in bed now, jagi?”
Your head snaps back so quickly, you could’ve decapitated yourself. Incredulous, your eyes narrow as your mouth pops open. Instantly, the look on your face pulls that windshield wiper laugh out of him; so, he slaps his hand over his mouth to keep quiet.
You challenge him with eyebrows raised sky-high. “Gonna make me file a cease and desist letter?”
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Enclosed
When he's far away at sea, Tom finds himself infinitely grateful that you found work at a photography studio.
Author's Note: This fic, two days late? Noooooo.... Also! I've inadvertently made all the Tommy B smuff fics connected, so this can either be read alone or as a sequel to "After the War"
Pairing: Tom Bennett x Reader (2nd person)
Warnings: masturbation (m), lingerie, references to oral sex (f receiving) and p in v sex
This work is a part of my 12 Days of Smuff event! Read the rest here.
My Masterlist
Enclosed
Prompt: Letters & Lingerie
Tom lay in his bunk with a cocky smile on his lips. He cast his eyes around the rest of the room, finding only one or two other sailors, both asleep and far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to hear him.
This ritual was well worth skipping his mid-day meal.
He weighed the envelopes in his hands for a moment. It felt heavier than it usually did – that boded well for him. After taking a moment to inhale the perfume you had lovingly sprayed on the envelope, Tom dug into your letter.
Tom, my strapping husband,
You said in your last letter that your life in His Majesty’s Nave was ‘fucking boring.’ Shall I tell you how exciting my life back home is?
My uncle has changed the studio’s opening to eleven in the morning so he can get some sleep after staying up all night as an air raid warden. Which means I must find a way to fill that time, assuming I am not also sleeping as I often do after spending a night crammed into a shelter with every screaming and crying child in the whole goddamn neighborhood.
But when I am not sleeping, I often find myself doing the chores that Mum no longer has the energy to do. I swear, if I didn’t do the shopping and cooking, we’d all be eating nothing but bread. Since dad left, she just hasn’t been the same. I think him leaving again reminds her of the last war. He went missing for seven months, seven! I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for her.
Don’t you ever put me through that, Tom Bennett. Not even for a week. I swear I’d come to France myself to drag you back here by your ear.
Now that’s out of the way, I do have something somewhat exciting to tell you. My uncle’s been letting me use the camera a lot more than before he signed up to be a warden. I even got to do a family’s christening portrait all on my own! He wants me to be able to handle the studio on my own, should he ever get called up (not that we’re even slightly concerned about that, considering his age). Or – oh no. That’s not really why he’s doing it, is it? He wants me to be able to run it in case one day he doesn’t come back after the sirens go off, doesn’t he? I’m going to try not to think about that.
I brought it up because he’s allowed me to start using the portable camera rather than the big one in the studio. This way, I won’t always have to be nervous that he will walk in on me when I take pictures for you.
Speaking of, I think you’ll like what I enclosed today. I borrowed Mum’s, just as you asked.
Your adoring wife,
Tom stared at those two wonderful words. Husband. Wife.
He wished he’d been able to give you the ceremony you deserved. Not simply standing in the register office with all your parents looking on with half-hearted smiles before being rushed out almost immediately so the next couple could come in. You deserved so much more than that, roses and a band and a grand hall and all that shit. Once he was home, for good, he’d give it to you. All of it. Most of all, a big honeymoon. Not the one night in a shabby local hotel your parents, your uncle, and even his sister Lois had helped pitch in to get you. Only for him to have to leave again the next day.
The fact that he was leaving you as his wife instead of just as his best girl made it somehow so much harder.
But this helped.
He started by writing his reply to the actual content of your letter. If he started with the pictures, he knew he wouldn’t give a shit about whatever you’d written by the end.
My sweet darling wife,
I am so very sorry that you have things to do all day. Whenever I feel bad about sitting at the prow and staring at the endless ocean, I will remind myself that you are enduring such tortures as shopping and taking undoubtedly lovely family portraits. It will remind me that I should be eternally grateful that the king himself has sent me on the world’s most boring cruise.
Joking aside, I am very sorry you’re stressed. Give your mum my love and tell your uncle that I’m counting on him to look after you while I’m gone, and thank him for his good work (with the warden thing, not the photography). Please take care of yourself. I know you’re willing to stretch yourself thin for the people you love, but I love you too, and I’ll be pissed if I come home to a wife too exhausted to even fuck me.
I actually might not be bored for a few days. They’re sending us to do a job, even if I will be stuck in a rowboat for a day, maybe more. Ah well, at least I won’t be the one rowing, at least.
I’m very happy about you getting more responsibility at the studio. Of course, most of that is for selfish reasons, but I’m still proud of you, love. Can’t wait to see what you’ve enclosed. Oh and before I forget, I’d like to request something… red in your next letter.
Your proud husband,
Tom Bennett
He never wrote as much as you did, but he knew you didn’t mind. You didn’t want any details about the horrible, upsetting things he’d seen, it would only worry you too much. Besides, you knew what he really loved about your letters.
After taking another deep breath, Tom set the paper aside and finally allowed himself to look at your pictures.
“Oh, you gorgeous, gorgeous girl…”
The pearl necklace you wore was a little off-center, but Tom hardly noticed it. He was solely focused on what you were wearing—a full corset, in some kind of shiny, light-colored fabric. The top of it only held half of your perfect tits inside, allowing him to admire their smooth curves. What he wouldn’t give to hold them in his hands. Once he got home, he’d do just that for an hour at least.
Over your delightfully cinched waist, you’d worn a sheer petticoat with ruffles at the bottom – exactly like one you might have worn under your wedding dress, if you’d been able to wear one. He’d get you that, too. Even if only to go to your uncle’s studio to take pictures. Tom wouldn’t need to rent a morning coat, as he’d just wear his uniform, so he could spend extra getting you the perfect dress.
Maybe you could even redo the wedding night.
Tom surveyed the room again before lying back and sliding his hand below his waistband. He’d done this so many times that now, he got hard the instant he picked up the envelope, so he was still relatively proud of his restraint, and was sure you would be, too.
He started slowly, imagining slipping the petticoat off you. Imagine how you’d shiver as his finger ever so slightly brushed your skin. The sounds you’d make – sighs and little whimpers. He loved those little whimpers so much.
He let out his own soft sigh as he began to move his hand faster. Once the petticoat was down, he’d kneel in front of you and make quick work of your shoes, then take his sweet time unbuckling and lowering your stocking.
God, how he missed those legs, shapely and soft. He loved touching them, kissing them, laying between them. His hips kicked up as he imagined himself kissing his way up them when he got home, all the way up to that delightful place where your knickers dug into the little dip between your leg and your hips.
It was hard to hold back his moan at the thought.
He’d lower your knickers first, he decided. So he could bury himself in you until he was satisfied. Yours was a taste he craved as badly as he did for decent cigarettes. He sometimes woke from dreams of devouring you, thinking he could still taste you on his tongue.
Only when your legs were shaking would he stand, prowling behind you with his hands on your waist. He’d kiss your neck as he untied your corset. Or unhooked? He didn’t know, but he hoped it was untie – it was sexier.
The pearls would stay on the whole time as he kissed you, touched you, fucked you. He’d put them between your teeth to help you soften your cries and moans, then watch them fall back on your chest when you came. You always came with your mouth wide open as you screamed his name.
That memory of your voice and the way your nails would dig into his skin is what drove him over the edge, spilling himself into his hand.
Tom lay there, reliving his imaginings, until a bell rang, signaling it was time to get in the rowboats. He made sure to wipe his hand on the mattress of one of the rich cunts who mocked him and the other working-class boys before leaving, his own letter in hand.
He stopped by the room where they kept their post on his way to the rowboats, quickly folding his paper to stuff it into an envelope. A smile crept over his features as he addressed it to ‘Mrs. Tom Bennett,’ before filling out the rest. He was glad that you were living in your parent’s house, but he couldn’t wait until he could get a place just for the two of you.
Lastly, he wrote the date in the corner of the envelope, as you always liked to know when he received yours, so you could be sure to include all the relevant gossip he’d missed.
26 May, 1940
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Maybe There’s a God Above: Priest!Bo Sinclair x nun!reader
Warnings: Manipulation, PinV, fingering, eating out, Catholicism, sex between a priest and nun, whatever all of those blasphemy words are and stuff.
A/N: ooooo I liked doing this one!!!
Day 5 of Haunted Hoedown
Hoedown Masterlist
Previous: Malfunction: Captain Denninger x afab!gn!android!reader
Next: Moonlight Madness: Bo x Gn!werewolf!afab!reader x Vincent
“Are you almost done?”
You look up from the blanket you are knitting and stare at Sister Jane.
“For today yes, I should be done tomorrow though.” You explain. You had been working on this blanket for weeks to give to a homeless shelter a few miles into the city. Everyone else had already finished theirs but yours took you a bit longer as you were new at this. Normally you’d never be put on duty for this but after Sister Anne had retired you were bumped up a spot.
“Okay, just reminding you that Father Bo needs to speak with you. Then you need to wash up for dinner.” Sister Jane says before leaving the room. You nod your head and set down all of your stuff before making your way down the corridors and across the church to Father Bo’s office. Honestly you wonder what he could want from you. You’d wondered it all morning when he came in during breakfast asking.
Father Bo made you nervous, you didn’t really know why. Well, you acted like you didn’t know why. You knew and God knew why and it was because you fantasized about being with him, about him kissing you and treating you so well and it really wasn’t your fault. He was handsome. More than handsome!
Honestly you felt like God was testing you.
Father Bo sits at his desk writing when you come in meekly. The door was already open so you give the frame a small knock making him look up from his paper. He smiles and your knees almost buckle. Father Bo stands up and walks around his desk, leaning on the edge of it. His arms cross.
“Evenin’, I just wanted to check in on you Sister. You seem to have avoided confession for the last few weeks. I’m hoping you’re doin’ alright. Was also wonderin’ why that is.”
You frown and look down so full of shame. You avoided it because you wanted to avoid him. He couldn’t tell or judge a soul when it came to confessions. But telling the source about your feelings towards him made you feel even dirtier than having the feelings.
“Hey, there’s no shame. I’m just concerned is all.”
Father Bo’s voice is gentle, it lures you in like a siren lures in a sailor.
“Just haven’t been feelin’ myself Father. I thought I could just tell God about it this time.”
What level of Hell does someone get sent to for lying to a priest?
“Ah, okay. Well you’ve been dealin’ with it for a long time. So, why don’t you come confess tonight. I’m sure it’ll take some weight off your shoulders.”
You let out a breath and close your eyes. “..Okay. I will Father. Before bed.”
“Sounds good. Now why don’t we head to dinner.”
You turn around and Father Bo follows after you. You feel his hand on your shoulder as the two of you walk towards the dinning hall. Your chest hurts and you keep looking at his large hands. Then you watch as it disappears and goes to your backside when you enter the hall.
It’s almost silent, just small whispers and talking about the next Mass and charity events that are coming up.
You sit in your seat seeing as a plate was already set for you and watch as Father Bo goes into the kitchen to get his food. You look down and begin eating quickly, your chest hurting from how fast you’re swallowing you food. You sip on your water and feel as those all of your Sisters are staring at you. But when you look up, they aren’t.
Sister Jane nudges you lightly. “What did he need to talk to you about?” She whispers, you turn towards her and frown.
“I hadn’t been going to confession the last few weeks. He’s askin’ me to go tonight. Said it’ll help lift a weight off my shoulder.” You explain, she nods her head.
“He’s right, you should. I’m not gonna ask why you haven’t been goin’ but k think you should. You seem to be too lost in thought recently and I know it ain’t cause of God.”
You nod your head in agreement and she rubs your shoulder before getting up and grabbing her plate along with the other sisters’ plates in her row. You eat in absolute silence after that.
-
The halls are silent as you walk down them. Your mind is racing on how you’d even confront the situation.
You could confess everything but your crush on Father Bo. But what if he catches on? No he wouldn’t, he can’t pressure you to confess, can he?
The chapel is dark other than a few candles lit up near the alter and the confessional booth. Father Bo comes out from the door, he looks at you and smiles genuinely.
“Come in.”
Father Bo opens the door for you, you go in and sit in one of the chairs. The priest goes behind the curtain and sits, your hands come together in prayer. He holds a rosary.
“In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit.”
You mimic the silhouette of Bo and do the sign of the cross.
“Whenever you’re ready.” He says, you nod your head, not knowing whether he can see you in the lamp’s light or not.
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned. My last confession was uh…” You think for a second, how long had it been? “6 weeks ago.” You whisper. Oh this was bad, how did you even become a nun in the first place. You’re horrible. Horrible. Horrible.
“Sister?”
You look up. “Sorry, I’d like to ask for forgiveness for not going to confession, for-for staying up late, unable to sleep and for developing feelings for someone when I know I cannot marry.” You let out a shaky breath and lean into your folded hands. “This is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all of my sins.” A small sob escapes your throat.
“I ask you do three Hail Mary’s and that you come to my office tomorrow to help me with some things.” Bo says. You nod your head.
You whisper The Act of Contrition and afterwards Bo says the prayer of Absolution to you. You two make the sign of the cross and head out of the booth.
“12 pm tomorrow.”
You nod and sniffle. He gives you a half smile.
“It’s okay, you’ve been forgiven.”
-
Just like the day before, you knock lightly on the frame of the door to alert Bo.
“Afternoon, go ahead and shut the door.”
You nod and do as you’re told, stepping into the room and shutting the door quietly behind you.
“Bring that bench over here.” He points. You furrow your eyebrows but again, you listen. You drag the bench to the middle of the room wondering why he wants you to do this.
You stand up straight and Father Bo is directly behind you making you yelp when he speaks. “I’d like to ask you who these feelin’s you developed are for.”
His voice is raspy, your breath hitches and you close your eyes.
“I cannot say Father.”
“Oh but I think you can.”
You turn and look at him, your eyes reading fear and his eyes clearly eating that fear up. Being obedient you answer. “Y-you.”
He hums. “Good, for your penance I need you to go ahead and take off your panties for me.”
You open your mouth, trying to muster up the words to ask him if this is what God told him to do. But none come to mind.
You reach up your dress and pull them down, they’re slightly soaked and you frown. Father Bo takes them from you and pockets them.
“Lift your dress up and sit.”
You get on the bench and do just that. Father and takes his foot and kicks your legs apart, your hairy mound comes into view, he smirks and kneels. His tongue goes directly to your clit and you arch your back grabbing his hair.
“Father! We-we can’t!” You whine.
“It’s okay, nothing is going in you so it doesn’t count.”
Was that the rule?
Your thoughts scramble as he licks and sucks your clit. His hands keeping your thighs apart. Your thighs still shake and spasm as he finds your favorite spot.
You let out a small moan and listen to the wet noises coming from Father Bo making out with your cunt.
He groans and stops for a second, the bottom of his face is wet with you. “You taste divine.” He says, your face heats up and you look away. “No.” He sticks a thick digit in you and you gasp. “Look at me.”You look down and he’s smirking. “It’s okay because I haven’t stuck my cock in you. We just have to make sure you’re repenting correctly.”
Father Bo curls his fingers, you let out a high pitched moan and goes down again on you, sucking and kissing your clit aggressively.
You feel a cramp in you that you’ve never felt before and let out something between a gargle and whine making Bo work faster. Your thighs sweat and shake, then you fall over the edge. White flashes behind your eyes as you cum. High pitched squeals come from your throat and Bo works you through your orgasm. He pulls out his fingers and licks then clean.
“I need one more thing from you.”
You look at Father Bo hazily, he’s unbuckling his belt and unzipping his black pants.
His large hand gently pushes you back onto the bench. Every holy part of you wants to resist. Unfortunately the lust seems to take over and you allow him to slowly slide into you.
“It’s okay, cause we’re practically saints, at least.. you are.”
You nod and feel how he stretches your pussy out. He leans down and kisses your lips, they taste just like you.
“Father-“
He shushes you. You whine.
“Feel good.” You whisper, he kisses your cheek and slowly pulls out before thrusting back into you.
“That’s good, it’s supposed to. It’s how you know it’s working. This is your penance after all.”
His cock moves in and out of you making both of you groan and moan about how good it feels.
You grab his hand and move it to your breast, he takes no time and gropes it. You lean up and kiss Father Bo’s soft lips. He thrusts harder. “Have you said your-“ he groans “three Hail Mary’s yet?” He asks, grunting and licking your neck. You shake your head.
“Go ahead. Say it and you’ll be forgiven.”
“Hail Mary- Full of… Grace!” You buck up into him feeling the same knot forming in your stomach again. “The Lord is with thee- ah~. Blessed art thou among women and blessed it the fruit of thy Womb, JESUS!” Tears fall down your cheeks as he hits a special spot inside of you.
“Come on, not even done with the first one. Can’t cum until you say all of them.”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
You whine and buck into him as he slows down, you know he’s about to cum himself.
“Hail Mary Full of Grace the Lord is with thee blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary Mother of God pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” You slur, your tongue feels like nothing in your mouth. Still you try and say it again one more time, feeling as Father Bo moves his hand between your legs and rubs for clit as he fucks into you.
“Hail Mary Full of Grace.. oh please.. the Lord is with thee blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Gonna cum, please gather let me cum!” You beg looking right into his beautiful blue eyes. He smiles.
“Just finish it for me.”
“Holy Mary Mother of God, mmgh… pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen!”
He thrusts into you a few more times and you cum around his cock. Quickly he pulls out and cums on your mound. The cum laying on your hair.
He kisses you one more time before getting up and adjusting himself. You lay there looking at him. “My-“
“Keepin’ these.” He pats his pocket.
You nod and sit up, your dress falls over your cum soaked cunt and you look at Father Bo.
“I’ll tell you when you come back. Don’t think this is a one time thing.”
“Yes Father.”
You get up and he kisses your head, then makes sure you’re adjusted before you head out the door to do your daily duties.
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Today was a messed up day for me, as well as for many people in Kyiv, as it began with an air raid at 3 A.M., and the loud sound of explosions followed by the sound of the air raid sirens. Those were 10 ballistic missiles russia sent to our city, ruining apartment blocks and causing fire. Everything happened so fast, it was impossible for anyone to run and hide in any kind of a shelter. Now I'm afraid to sleep in my bed at night.
Yesterday I enrolled in a blood donation event at my university, all by my own initiative. I always wanted to be a donor and I finally got a chance to try this out. But I was unprepared for the food restrictions and mostly stayed half-hungry for the whole day, as well as the following morning. It also took me a lot of energy to get to the university on my own, because of the sleepless night and the lack of nutrition.
Mostly the people who were donating blood were the kids from the military department of our university, I guess it was compulsory for them to take part in this event, while I came on my own choice. I did the needed tests, got my blood type and pressure checked, drank some sweet tea and went to the classroom to have my blood drawn.
I'm not the type to be afraid of blood, nor was I forced to come here. I even argued with my grandma over me choosing to donate blood when some of my other relatives had problems with this before. Everything was fine until the very end, like 2 minutes before the needed level was reached. My body decided that hunger, tiredness and all the stress I've been under these days was enough and tried to make me unconscious. And when the doctors tried to help me, my stomach turned against my breakfast and ruined my sweater in the most embarrassing way possible. After that the pressure was normalized and I finished the donation without any complications, so I'm glad they didn't have to throw the whole portion of my blood out. The doctors made some jokes about hungry students (a funny stereotype in our culture) and made sure I had regained my strength before I went home.
The mobile service is yet to come back, so back then I only told my parents that everything was over successfully and went home, where I had a good amount of rest and washed my clothes. I still feel a bit lightheaded but mostly I'm very embarrassed. It's scary how it feels to succumb to your own body and I feel like I should have commanded it to obey and not to embarrass me in front of everyone. But I know that back then I barely understood what was going on around me, I had no power over myself at all. Still, next time I'll just make sure to eat well and to sleep well before donating blood. It just feels like I was a big child, helpless and dirty, and that I made a trouble for everyone. It ruined my happiness over finally trying to help my community.
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Prayer & Psalms for Israel🇮🇱
Hamas kidnapping Israeli citizens: 'Babies being taken by terrorists'
Israelis react to 'shocking' surprise attack
Published October 7, 2023 at 3:27pm
Hamas kidnapping Israeli citizens
Jennie Taer
Daily Caller News Foundation
Israelis were taken off guard and are sheltering at home in fear of Hamas terrorists that have infiltrated the country’s borders Saturday.
Hamas terrorists engaged in a surprise attack against Israel, firing thousands of rockets, killing at least a hundred people and taking hostage an unknown number of civilians and soldiers, according to The Associated Press.
“I see moms with babies being taken by terrorists and as a mother myself I can’t even comprehend that it’s actually real,” Noga Kamenetsky, a dual citizen of the U.S. and Israel, told the Daily Caller News Foundation.
Israelis reacted with shock and “horror” in response to Hamas’ surprise Saturday attack that has resulted in numerous deaths and missing persons.
Hamas breached the border separating Gaza from southern Israel Saturday, firing thousands of rockets, killing at least 100 people so far, injuring hundreds more and taking an unknown number of Israeli soldiers and civilians hostage, according to the Associated Press. The war has put the country at a standstill, four Israelis living in Israel told the Daily Caller News Foundation.
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Noga Kamenetsky, who is both a U.S. citizen and an Israeli citizen living in Israel, is upset with the lack of response from so many Americans, she told the DCNF as rocket sirens sounded in her neighborhood.
“It’s so incredibly shocking how silent it is in America, my friends don’t even know what’s going on here, and when (hopefully) Israel attacks back and attacks hard, I hope we don’t take into consideration global media because it doesn’t matter what the world thinks at this point. I see moms with babies being taken by terrorists and as a mother myself I can’t even comprehend that it’s actually real,” Kamenetsky said.
The Biden administration’s U.S. Office of Palestinian Affairs deleted a post Saturday telling Israel to “refrain from violence” after Hamas attacked.
Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu responded with a declaration of war. The Israel Defense Forces (IDF) have begun striking Hamas terrorist strongholds in Gaza, in an operation dubbed “Swords of Iron.”
Rotem Ben Eli, who’s sheltering in place with her friend in Tel Aviv, told the DCNF that Israelis are posting all over social media images of their loved ones that they haven’t been able to locate.
“Since 6:30 a.m. we are facing horror scenes. Innocent Israelis are murdered, babies, children and elders were kidnapped. People are still hiding in bushes and in their shelters in their houses while terrorists are broadcasting live on social media from their phones and even answering the captives’ phones to their relatives,” Ben Eli said.
“There is no excuse for this evil slaughter. Please condemn that and let us defend ourselves as we know well,” she added.
An Israeli who only wished to use her first name, Shoval, described being called to return to the Israeli military.
“Today at 6:30 a.m. my mother called me and said there were alarms (we didn’t hear anything). Then there were more and we went to the shelter,” Shoval said.
“My fiance went to the army and I was called to the service. We’re not doing anything yet because there’s a lot of mess. I’m really terrified,” she added.
Since the surprise attack began, graphic images and videos of innocent civilians of all ages and Israeli soldiers being kidnapped and attacked by Hamas have been circulating on social media.
“Hamas started a war against Israel and the residents of Israel,” Israeli Orel Museri told the DCNF of the situation on the ground.
“Hamas is an anti-Semitic terrorist organization that infiltrated Israel to murder every Israeli man, woman,” Museri said. “Children or adults, they didn’t care, they shoot even on paramedics, there is so much unbelievable things they did only today.”
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ok so im gonna put this one under a read more since its just my thoughts and not actually like. safety information that everyone should know (again nobody is obligated to read especially this because its fucking long and just a heads up im gonna get kinda gruesome so :\ but if u read all the way thru then u are a real one and i wanna kiss u sloppy style
meyah okay so. follower, come here im gonna tell u something. im not a professional. im not a meteorologist. all of my research and information is found online and by myself. but i have seen the damage that the earth inflicts on us. it is not an act of god, and i really dont care for when people say 'mother nature is pissed'. this is real. this is real life. the damage done to people is real. lives are torn apart. entire families are wiped away with the debris of their poorly constructed homes. if you survive, theres a million different ways you could be injured, and not just physically. the trauma, the grief, the emotional pain of losing not only lives but your home, your business, your car, your pets, your livestock, your city's infrastructure, your community... to lose it all is something that makes me choke up just thinking about..
ive seen videos of people huddled in shelters above ground screaming and crying and praying and the sound of wind and glass crashing and debris flying and sirens going off is pure horror.
something even more terrifying is videos of people STANDING NEAR WINDOWS AND GLASS DOORS AND EVEN OUTSIDE during tornadoes. glass nails 2x4s bricks furniture cars. they become bullets in those winds. wood can get embedded in telephone poles. do you know how incredible that is? its hard for even me to believe!!! and here in the united states IT HAPPENS PRETTY OFTEN!!
cw im about to show u destroyed houses!! click away now if u dont wanna see but i really wanna show anyone who DOES wanna know abt the damage these fuckers cause!!!
so i want you to imagine here. this is your neighborhood. let's say we have an EF5, the most intense a tornado can get. now, a tornado can be rated an EF5, but that doesn't mean it does EF5 level damage THE WHOLE WAY. shall we take a look at how your neighbors houses fared?
mmkay so here we have EF0 level damage. about 35-40% of the tornadoes in the united states are rated this level.
not too bad! shingles are replaceable!
as we go on we pass by a house with EF1 level damage.
whoa! 35% of tornadoes in the US are this level!! but it's JUST the framing of the roof, right? thank goodness the house stayed mainly intact! hopefully everyone followed their safety plan and got to shelter right away!
looks like the house a couple miles down got hit with EF2 level damage.. their entire roof was blown right off, exposing the whole house and everything in it to rain, hail, wind and debris from the tornado... but its just the roof, right? i mean, only between 15-19% of tornadoes get this strong...
EF3 level damage. 6% of tornadoes are this level. everything but some walls and the roof were destroyed. where will that family live now? who's going to help them clean up?
EF4 level damage. almost all above-ground structures are vulnerable to a tornado of this strength. this was a well-built, permanent home. look at how the tree snapped. these winds can uproot the entire thing. thats a 4ft+ tall projectile. thank god only about 1.1% of tornadoes in the US are this strong... but what could be stronger than that?
EF5 level damage. 0.1% tornadoes are this strength. the last one on record was in 2013, moore oklahoma. it destroys virtually everything in its path, and can rip people out of their basements if their door isnt reinforced. the memories from that home are gone. completely gone. there are appliances and vehicles that were never found from tornadoes this intense.
and these are well anchored, permanent houses. mobile homes were destroyed and twisted back in the EF2 level. anything above that turns them into smithereens. lost to the mercy of the winds.
"so james," you say my lovely follower, "what's the whole takeaway from this? what's the point?"
and i grab your hand very gently. and i look you in the eyes. autism be damned, we are locking eyes. and i ask you this:
what if it was you? would you know what to do? are you weather aware? do you have a plan on where to go when your towns tornado sirens go off? does your own even HAVE tornado sirens? what about your pets? the people you love? do they know?
for a while i felt bad for.. trying to spread this around. i felt like i was being a downer. i dont know why but it felt taboo to talk about... i dont know if it makes people uncomfortable or scared but.. it needs to be talked about. we cannot stop the weather from doing this but we can make sure we're safe. we can keep ourselves safe.
i don't want you to be afraid of these storms. i know plenty of people who have a fear of severe weather. fuck, for the first 23 years of my life i was one of them! when the tornado sirens would go off, even for a routine test, my stomach would turn and i would panic. after the 2022 december tornado outbreak, i was watching the news and i heard about the damage caused. i thought 'what in the world could do something so devastating?' and i think it changed my life forever. i went from fearing them to ACTIVELY WANTING TO SEEK THEM OUT. and not only is everything about weather fucking awesome, i know how to keep myself and everyone i care about safe. i can tell my dad when to get ready to go to the shelter before the sirens go off. i can check the radar and tell my friends in other states how big the hail is gonna be before it even gets there.
and it.. really wasn't hard. even a basic sense of weather safety can help. knowing myths from facts helps EVEN MORE!
the earth is so beautiful, my friend. a tornado swirling around in a desolated field in kansas is something that even in video takes my breath away. when it rains, i run outside to see the rainbow that usually forms afterward.
but with this beauty comes a price.
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"I still have fibro," I whisper to myself on good days more than on the bad ones. The limitations are mine to own, because on the good days I need to have the clarity to be responsible enough not to overplan.
And I'm scared of the vacation.
I haven't traveled anywhere since 2018 for a reason. Maybe I haven't realized it, but fibro was with me then, as it was the previous 20 years. I had pain on Iceland, but with limited time there, and a gorgeous country to be seen, and a driver buddy, I couldn't afford to rest. Then the Narcissist 2018 happened and after the trauma was over, I was happy if I could walk on most days.
2019 was half alright, girlfriend was all good and supportive for half a year, even with all my GERD and insomnia. I expanded my family with 2 cats, which made it easier not to FOMO about vacations. We did small trips around the country. A.T. was still in the country, doing road trips, before the pandemic changed everything.
20, 21 and 22 were a blur. Busy, tired, lonely, solitary, sometimes in combination, sometimes in sequence, but always in a circle. Never a "normal" period. I don't have DID/MPD, and I don't want to sound terrifying to people who don't know me, but I don't have a personality. I don't mean it in an American Psycho way, but like. It's a ridiculous concept, you know? What does "personality" even mean if on one day you have a brain fog and four painkillers do absolutely nothing to help, and on other day you wake up at 7, start working, hang with friends, come up with jokes, do dishes, pet cats, go for a walk, run errands, and 11pm you're still marveling about how much more you could do with your life. Even "I contain multitudes" still doesn't do it justice.
I have about 60 hours to plan, pack up and leave. I won't mind the air sirens and running to a shelter and being overwhelmed with sorrow as the 1 year "anniversary" of the war happens just as I arrive in town. I need to see it for myself. I need to remember not to be complacent. I must do this.
If I have one fear, it's being numb. Having a red day while I'm there, laying on a hotel bed, staring at a ceiling, and feeling tempted to open my laptop and look at memes and cat pictures and play videogames. In a foreign country. That's bombarded every day. And then go and look in the mirror and go, yeah, this is something I'm capable of. I'm terrified of that.
I'll be fine, friends.
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Saintober 5 - Innocence
“What have you done?!”
What was that accusatory tone? He was innocent. He was not the one to blame here!
“Kanon had been-”
“You help them destroy the North Atlantic Pillar!” Charybdis was yelling, ignoring his place. He was below him, how he dared! Still, Sorento remained calm. “This is not what-”
“Atlantis is about to be destroyed, Siren! And you helped them achieve it!” The increasing cosmos in the distance interrupted any thoughts, silencing both. Their god was attacking the Saints. Why? He didn’t want that, didn’t he? Julian, no, Poseidon wouldn’t-
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The Austrian raised his eyes to the black-haired man. He was not thinking straight. Baian and Io had been the first to die; obviously, Jasha was blinded by the pain of losing his pupils. He couldn’t see through Kanon’s deceiving acts, through how he had manipulated everything and everyone.
Calmly, Sorento shook some dust from his Scales, now wrecked. “I don’t have to explain myself to a Cetus. You don’t understand. Move, we need to-”
“No.” That damn Russian. Jasha was not only accusing him, but he was also blocking his way to the main temple.
“Go back to your post or move, Charybdis,” he repeated. “Our god-”
“I don’t take orders from you, Siren. No one has named you our new commander”.
“You stubborn idiot. Kanon has been manipulating us from the very beginning, don’t you see? Poseidon didn’t want this war! Kanon is the one to blame for your disciples’ deaths!” Sorento regretted his words immediately. He had never used that tone or words with anyone before. Was he trembling?
“So now you’re blaming Kanon for our weakness?” replied Jasha. “Can’t you feel our god’s cosmos trying to kill the Saints, keeping in place what’s left of Atlantis at the same time? Why don’t you go to Poseidon and tell him He doesn’t want to fight Athena?”
Rage ran through his body, along with another feeling. Was that guilt? No. No, Jasha was wrong! Julian didn’t want this war, He would never attack Earth like this! It was all Kanon’s fault! Charybdis was projecting into Sorento his feelings for Kanon. He was innocent!
Another burst of cosmos coming from the Throne Room shook the ground. Atlantis was about to fall. Sorento stared in the distance. “Charybdis, come help-”
“No. We need to evacuate everyone.”
“You don’t understand, Jasha, Poseidon-”
“You’re right. I don’t understand.” Jasha burned his cosmos, furious. “If you’re so right, then why didn’t you go talk directly to Poseidon instead of helping the enemy to destroy our home? Why don’t you go straight to his temple, ask him to stop, and prevent Atlantis from falling? Why aren’t you protecting your people, Siren? Is your trust in our god so small?” Without waiting for an answer, the Cetus turned away, heading to the shelters prepared for the civilians.
Deaf by his maddened heartbeat, Siren tightened the grip on his instrument. He had to help the Saints; this madness had to stop. Poseidon would listen, of course. He would cease all attacks, but the Mainstay had to fall.
What if Atlantis was destroyed, anyway? It was a terrible reminder of what Kanon had done. Julian, no, Poseidon didn’t need that. When everything had finished, and every proof of Kanon’s presence and Poseidon’s damage to Earth had disappeared, Juli-no, his god’s cosmos would be much warmer than the one desperately singing from the Mainstay. And then Julian would be free of any guilt, and Jasha and his comrades would realize Sorento was innocent.
Because he was innocent. He really was. No matter what they said, what they thought. He was innocent. He did not kill anyone. He did not cause the war, but he would stop it instead.
The blood was on Kanon’s hands, not his.
Sorento headed to the temple, not daring to look back and face the destruction lying there. He didn’t dare to witness what he had caused. He wouldn’t acknowledge the screams of people in the background nor the burning feeling of guilt consuming his heart, his mind, his whole body.
Because he was innocent.
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here is my story, and more on why i am the way i am. <3 TW: SH, HOSPITALS, OD, ABUSE.
it started with me as a wee child, i had been born starved, addicted to drugs due to my mom not taking care of herself while pregnant with me. immediately as i was born, she said she didnt want me. i was going to be put into a foster home, or an adoption center because i wasn’t wanted anywhere. before i was sent there, my grandparents stepped in and offered to adopt me straight away. later on i grew up raised legally by my grandparents. they’re of age, so obviously they cannot do everything a young mother and father could do, but i still loved them very much for even wanting me in the first place. years go on and i grow, but i start to realize my life isnt how i thought it was. i was extremely sheltered and lonely. i would spend hours when i was 7+ crying in front of my mom while she ignored me. i grew up to realize that my mom and dad were very very tired. they are getting older, and taking care of me was getting harder. i remember the flashing lights outside of our house when my mom had an emergency. and again, when she fell, and again when she had a heart attack, and so on. it began to feel like normal to see ambulances, fire trucks, police cars etc. at our door and in our house. especially when my birth mom would try to steal me from my home and we’d have to lock up. a couple years later it didnt seem to bother me that the usual was now mom and dad in and out of the hospital, me taking care of the house completely and feeding my family because no one else could or would, and countless nights of staying up to monitor them. it got to a point where i felt i couldnt hold on much longer. (trigger warning <3) i started to cut myself, to feel better. i would spend countless nights listening to music, going to sleep at 4am just to wake up for school at 7am. it got harder and harder to hide the cuts when all i did was keep making them. when people would ask, I’d say it was the cat, and they believed me. it got to a point where i had enough. the ambulance sirens, the screaming voices, the constant abuse i endured and watched, it was too much for me. so i did it. with no warning, and no hesitation and i took them. i was getting angry that i couldnt feel anything happening, so i took some more. i started to panic and cry so i told my aunt. she immediately rushed me to the hospital at 11:27 on November 1, 2021. six days before i turned 14. that point in my life, was extremely miserable. 5 days and 4 nights in the hospital alone, cold, no company, no phone.. just IV’s stuck in my veins and constant beeping monitors. to this day, everytime i see, think, or hear a hospital mentioned i can smell the dirty smell of the hospital clothes i threw up on. the sound of the grippy socks sticking to the floor during all of my bathroom trips, and the crying voices of family members.
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February 1st, and I am feeling great. I don't want to give this feeling up ever; I want it by my side forever, if you know what I mean.
Can you hear my sirens calling?
Can you see the frustration in my eyes?
The nauseous feeling that is building up from the underground
I took a taxi one December evening! I wanted to stay by my friend's side and ask her to shelter me. I wanted to tell the driver to go home instead of turning left at one point. "Take me home to my mother." I wanted to cry out loud. But then, I couldn't bring myself to stop, so I went towards the green door, where he'd wait for me for himself.
This womanhood, this guilt—how do I get over this? It scares me, and I am happy in my bubble.
Do you ever wonder who the real "love of your life" is? Because I do think about it often and dream about it in my sleep more than I am supposed to. I regret some things I've said to my father when we argue about the smallest things. What's a life lived with guilt?
I still have miles to go, so many people to meet, so many chances to take, and so many people scared to let down—those who have high hopes for me.
Can I go on like this forever? Help me, Dear Lord!
You heard my cries; please help me!
1/02/2024
MZU,Tanhril
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‘I cannot write a poem about Gaza’: a poem by Tusiata Avia
I cannot write a poem about Gaza because I cannot eat a whole desert.
I cannot write a poem about Gaza because I cannot go to bed with the stiff little babies and the bodies of children, there is no room for the little lost limbs, the disembodied arms yanked off like parts in a doll hospital.
I cannot write a poem about Gaza because if I speak up for the bodies of babies, for the pieces of children, for the women pulling out their own eyes, you will call me anti-Semitic and I must allow the blood of thousands to absolve me.
I cannot write a poem about Gaza because my fury and my grief will rise up out of my chest like a missile plotted on a computer in Tel Aviv, it will track me, pinpoint me and in a perfect arc, it will whine down out of the surgical sky, enter the top of my head and implode me.
I cannot write a poem about Gaza because Israel has a right to protect itself Israel has a right to protect itself Israel has a right to protect itself Israel has a right to protect itself Israel has a right to protect itself Israel has a right to protect itself Israel has a right to protect itself.
And Gaza does not.
I cannot write a poem about Gaza because behind every human shield is another human shield and another human shield and another human shield and another human shield and another human shield. And behind that human shield – is a human.
I cannot write a poem because it’s complicated, so complicated, very, very complicated. So, I cannot write a poem about Gaza until I finish a PhD in Middle Eastern Politics and the Holocaust, until I am reborn a Jew and live under the iron dome myself.
I cannot write a poem about Gaza because Tamar in Tel Aviv has got to get to the supermarket and the garden centre before the next siren. She’s putting plants in their bomb shelter and the kids’ favourite toys and treats, to make it less depressing.
I cannot write a poem about Gaza because Fatima in Gaza City has 58 seconds to evacuate her house with her babies before the missile strikes and the only way out is the sea. She has seen pictures on TV of babies thrown into pools and swimming instinctively.
I cannot write a poem about Gaza because there is an impenetrable iron dome that covers the entire state. It covers each mind and each heart, except for the few that line up and demand to be imprisoned.
I cannot write a poem about Gaza because of my friends: Tamar, Shira, Yael, Michal, Noya, David, Yair in Tel Aviv and Nazareth and Beersheva. Because every time I point to the blood-soaked I upset them, offend them, anger them, betray them. Let them go.
I cannot write a poem about Gaza because of my friend Izzeldin and his three exploded daughters and one exploded niece filleted across his living room.
I cannot write a poem about Gaza because I can do the maths. If two thousand one hundred and sixty-eight dead Palestinians divided by sixty-nine dead Israelis equals. Find the true value of one Palestinian.
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3rd and 4th day 10.10.2023
I can't believe that Friday night I was having supper with friends at the American colony after a particularly violent demonstration at Sheikh and saying to them I am just exhausted mentally. I want to get out of here for a while. They told me that they were going to do a trip down the Rhine and even though I swore that I would not go to Germany....I had gone for Ayal and Uta but thought that was that and I found myself sitting there and thinking ....what the hell and thinking what the hell. What are we doing here .....I told them to send me the particulars and even though they said that it was a very expensive trip I thought I have to get out. I have to clear my head. Little did I know.
1973 Six days. Yom Kippur started terribly but after a few days the
feeling was that things were under control. But this time we thought it would be over in a day and here we are on the third day and fighting on many fronts. And for the first time I have a very bad feeling. For the first time tonight I will go to bed dressed and I have packed my rucksack with water, a snack and warm clothing. Up to now I have not gone into the small shelter we have or sat in the corridors but I prefer to be prepared. The two sirens today....we heard the rockets landing but the second one was definitely closer though it is really only on the outskirts. I am terrified that Netanyahu, whom I truly believe is not normal and held up by people who are even more so, does not care if Israel is reduced to small areas of opposition. I remembered that years ago I sat with a Moslem friend.....when Hamas was just starting out and the government was supporting them...... and said that I thought that they would be a dangerous enemy and he said that they were only interested in
religion. I thought often that the villages in the occupied areas
would rise up against us but thought it could not happen. Now too the army has closed up all the exits to the villages. But if they really want to get out and don't care how many get killed? But I never thought it would come from Gaza.
I am so sick of empty bombastic threats. It reminds me of the song
" My Fair lady. Don’t talk of love. Show me. Now we are told that two areas in the south are still under attack. The spokesman can’t even get his lies straight. Have I told you that the main door of Nofim is
kept closed and we have been told to lock our doors. The one sad and
funny story was a rocket near Jerusalem. The lady was wounded but her
dog was also treated by a veterinarian. My friend, Sarah Sherman,
asked me to come to her retirement home to speak to two of her people.
I did not feel like going but felt worse to refuse so I spoke to a Palestinian lady of 100 in my broken Arabic and to a Russian lady who was an English teacher. Now the good news for the families of those kidnapped. The government evidently does not intend to enter into any bargaining. Does this mean that we will eventually return bodies for bodies? I wonder about the pilots who said they would not serve. If
now they are amongst those bombing Gaza. I don’t envy them the
decision. We are now told on the news to start hoarding enough food and water for a few days. They should teach their grandmothers to
suck eggs. I already started doing that yesterday. I have two
emergency lights. There is already a lack of bottled water in the stores. In the meantime I have enough beer, vodka and tonic water. I am sick of hearing that we are at war. What all of a sudden are they telling us to hoard food, etc. What are they hiding from us?
And now the incredible story of a restaurant which sent 2000 portions of food for soldiers and were not allowed to give it to them because there was no diploma of kashrut. I hope that in the yeshivot those parasites will enjoy their food. Already people are hysterically going
to the supermarket. And I added a little bottle of vodka (not too
little) to my escape bag. A friend phoned when the siren went off
and asked where I was. I said on the toilet but all the shit was in the Knesset. I believe Netanyahu has managed to stop holding the hand of his blond bitch and is going to address us so before I go into ecstasies of admiration I will send this off
Now I sit and try to get my head around this. Everyone is talking about the brutality of Hamas. We do not take old people captive. We do not take children. We do not rape. In so far as that goes we are humane. But we do bomb Gaza and kill hundreds of people who probably hate us but are not necessarily terrorists. I will not speak again if the occupied territories and what is happening there. But the thought is there. But there is no leadership. Netanyahu’s speech was empty of leadership and only full of bluster and threats. I find myself thinking of the royal family in the second World War. How their daughters served and he is not even ashamed that his sons cower in
foreign countries. And where is his wife? Drinking pink champagne?
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i need to word vomit. tw: animal death, grieving
i love it when you're hanging out with kittens and they decide to use you as a jungle gym. i have long hair so it usually ends up with them scaling my hoodie to bite at it, but honestly its comforting and really cute.
i went to the humane society today to try to get back into the swing of volunteering. things are different post ian since the entire cat porch had to be taken out. the cats are definitely calmer when they have the option to be outside, and it didn't help that most of the current cats are new males.
i spent some time in the kitten room. there's only two kittens right now, one 9 week old that's been there for a week and a 21 week old that's been there for 2 days. the 21 week old was high up and kept shaking. they were a fluffy gray-black tabby and would watch as the 9 week old played. i think seeing the kittens helped a bit in the grieving process of losing siren. seeing that there's a safe place for these cats and that they're actively being saved and cared for helped. as much as ive been repressing it, intentionally or unintentionally, there's still a gap where siren once lay. i miss them so much. i wish i could have given them more. all i want is to hold them, safe dry and warm. to have a freshly dried fluffy blanket and a heater on so they can experience true warmth. to give them the best of wet food, the crinkliest of tissue paper, the most comfortable hidy holes, and the chance to experience the truest love there is. i know rationally I shouldn't blame myself, there's no way i could have known just how sick they would have gotten overnight. there's no way i could have known that the vet denied my appointment ahead of when i called, or checked on them without putting my other cats in danger. but god it still hurts so much. to have something so vulnerable choose you as it's mother and to let it down. i wish i could have been better for them. they deserved so much better than what they had gotten.
dob has been much kinder to be after siren passed. i took a closer look at his markings, and im nearly certain that he is the father. i just hope that i can give all my other cats the life they deserve. sweetie has been doing great, she's been very personal and has been caring for herself well. dob has been a bit of a pain, the cold night of christmas he wandered off and i was really worried because i wanted to give him more food so he could keep warm. we made 3 cat shelters for the cold snap, and none of the cats used them. except for the one i made, but i literally had to pick dob up and put him in there for him to realise that the shelter was, infact for him and it was, infact warm and shielded from the wind. he can be a bit of a stubborn fool at times, a lovable stubborn fool. i do worry about him a lot though, he's very thin and his back legs are very unstable. we suspect he may have been hit by a car when he was younger, but we're unsure. i just hope one day i can get him neutered and figure out if there's a way we can help his legs.
i didn't really expect to write all of this and im not re-reading this. it was a bit cathartic (if that's the word??) to write as ive honestly just been repressing everything to deal with at a later date, and i guess right now is that later date. i would say that i hope that 2023 is my year but ive given up on any year being "my year" after the events of the last *checks calendar* like, 5? 6? so honestly im just hoping i can keep on going. things have been pretty shit lately, my mental space is kind of going down the shitter, but hey i got a lobster beanie baby so i think it will be alright. his name is luigi btw.
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Ukraine restaurant is now home to people for refuge and turned Manish Dave into a ‘war hero’
Manish Dave, an Indian hotelier, had to leave all that he cared about behind in Ukraine. His restaurant, a popular hangout for Indians and Ukrainians alike in Kyiv, and his apartment on the 12th floor, which offered stunning views of the once-peaceful metropolis. Along with his aspirations of making it on foreign territory, as well as the companionship of friendly Indians and Ukrainians. Manish is facing massive casualties as Russian forces deploy their full power in Ukraine.
Nonetheless, for his unselfish work, he earned respect, a lot of love, and blessings from people all over the world. From his soup kitchen, also known as a dal kitchen, which fed starving people, to his subterranean restaurant, which also served as a haven from the shelling.
A dal kitchen for safety
In the midst of lethal air raids, intense gun battles and blaring air raid sirens, Manish became a lifeline for those fleeing the war-torn city of Kyiv. His restaurant, tucked away in the basement of a complex on Chokolivs'Kyi Blvd, 33, acted as a bomb-shelter-cum communal kitchen, where the 52-year-old provided free food and shelter to a group of 150 people. Dave was honored as a military hero around the world for his noble act.
"As Russian armies invaded Ukraine, there was widespread panic, and everyone was afraid." I told myself that no matter what, I had to help people. Manish Dave, speaking exclusively to Global Indian, hours before boarding an Indigo flight from Romania to New Delhi, smiles, "I opened my restaurant for those needing food and shelter."
A friend in need
Manish even handed over the keys to his business to Ukrainian neighbors before leaving Kyiv, to be utilised in the event of an emergency. Manish was every bit the friend in need, as his restaurant's name suggested.
Manish, like many other NRI, feared anxiety as the clouds of war descended on Ukraine. Everything changed after the first strike on Kyiv. On February 24, the day the invasion began, he initially gave customers sanctuary.
Soon after, a group of Indian students arrived at his restaurant, which was adjacent to the Bogomolets National Medical University hostel. There were 70 the next day. A few Ukrainian families, including pregnant women, toddlers, and the elderly, also showed up at his door, where they were welcomed and made comfortable. From the second day till the second of March, Saathiya served as a haven for approximately 150 people.
"The basement was the ideal bomb bunker," says Manish, a Vadodara resident (Gujarat). The restaurateur and his 12-member staff, all of whom had relocated to the restaurant from their homes as a result of the war, served traditional dal (lentil) and rice — scorching hot, welcome in the bitter cold, almost like a soup kitchen, but also keeping them safe from the bombardment outside.
A refuge and a respite
Manish and his team got up at the crack of dawn to go shopping for meals — a dangerous undertaking was given that the nearest grocery store was 6 to 8 kilometers distant. "We were jittery because of deserted streets, air raid sirens, and distant sounds of occasional firing and bombing." "However, feeding people was my first priority," Manish recalls.
"On the first day, we served rotis, pasta, and other European meals. It took a lot of flour and time to make rotis for so many people. Then we moved on to dal and rice. "Indians and Ukrainians both loved it," says the man who designed this "dal" kitchen. He also fed a group of 40 locals who had taken refuge in a bunker near his eatery. People were fed for free, and some donated freely to purchase rations.
When nationalities don’t matter, humanity does
A tense atmosphere pervaded the eatery-turned-bunker as stories of death and destruction trickled in, and many made plans to flee. "The kitchen was a whirlwind of activity. "We did everything we could to make everyone comfortable," the restaurateur claims, adding that most people, especially youngsters, slept very little.
In the interim, Manish would squeak with his daughter, Mahima, a senior crew member with Air Asia in Bengaluru. "She was messaging and video calling, anxious." "I assured her I'd be home soon," he says, "but I had no precise departure plan at the moment."
How Saathiya opened and helped the war-stricken
Manish planned to open his restaurant in Ukraine in October 2021 because there are hundreds of Indian students studying there. On January 9, 2022, he opened Saathiya after pooling all of his riches. His café quickly became a popular hangout, especially for Indians looking for comfort cuisine. He had no idea that his life, and the world at large, would come crumbling down in less than two months. "I rented the basement for three years on a three-year lease." "I put in close to Rs 50 lakh," a dejected Manish explains.
Dave, unsure of what to expect next, wish for peace and the opportunity to return to Kyiv. Manish, who lost his wife in 2004, said, "I fear to contemplate what type of harm awaits Kyiv, my restaurant, and the people of Ukraine."
His determination reflects that of the entire world since everyone supports Ukraine.
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