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visit-new-york · 2 years

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The Edge at Hudson Yards

THE EDGE NYC OVERVIEW The Edge NYC is “the highest outdoor skydeck in the western hemisphere” , and there is no better vista than the one the Edge has to offer because it grants visitors a full 360-degree view of Manhattan and its surrounding landscape.

From its perch on 10th Avenue bordered by 31st and 33rd streets, this Hudson Yards attraction offers a sprawling view of downtown Manhattan and the New York Harbor, where one can easily identify some of New York City's most iconic landmarks, including the views of the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Freedom Tower, Battery Park City, the Verrazano Bridge, and Staten Island, and more, including parts of New Jersey to the west.

To the east, the sightline from the Edge at Hudson Yards runs almost parallel to the Empire State Building, the New Yorker Hotel, Madison Square Garden, and Brooklyn in the distance, and to the north, one can see the sheer magnitude of the greenery in Central Park, the skyscrapers of midtown Manhattan including the Chrysler Building, the George Washington Bridge, and the Bronx in the distance.

Because of these incredible views and the unique way to see them from high above, this has quickly become one of the best things to do in New York City.

WHERE IS THE EDGE? The Edge NYC is at the Hudson Yards Mall, bordered by 31st Street to the south, 33rd Street to the north, 10th Avenue to the east, and 11th Avenue to the west.

The closest subway stop to the mall and adjoining building that hosts the Edge NYC is the last stop on the 7 (purple-colored) train, 34th St. Hudson Yards.

It is also easily accessible from Penn Station, so if you are coming from out of town on the Amtrak, Long Island Rail Road, or New Jersey Transit, Hudson Yards is only a two avenue walk west. The A, C, E, 1, 2, and 3 trains all stop at Penn Station as well, making this Hudson Yards attraction an easily accessible location for train commuters from within the city and from outside of it.

The Edge NYC skydeck is highly visible if you are coming from the south or the east, so just keep an eye out for it as you leave Penn station and follow your gaze. If you take the 7 train to Hudson Yards, you’ll be deposited right at the base of the mall near the Vessel, closest to the entrance to the Edge at Hudson Yards.

Hudson Yards is also accessible by Citi Bike, with two stations bordering the mall at 30th street between 10th and 11th Avenues, and the corner of 34th Street and 11th Avenue.

The NYC ferry and the New York Waterway ferry also have stops at 39th street, just a short walk from the northern end of the Hudson Yards plaza at 33rd street and 11th avenue.

Upon arriving at Hudson Yards, enter the Shops at the street level and take the elevator, escalator, or stairs up to level 4, where the entrance to the Edge NYC is located. Look out for the “Beyond the Edge” shop, Shake Shack, or The Body Shop, and you’ll know you’re in the right spot.

THE EDGE & HUDSON YARDS TICKETS There are varying prices for The Edge at Hudson Yards tickets for visitors of all types, with additional add-ons available, like a glass of champagne or a small photo book. It’s suggested you purchase Skip the Line Edge tickets in advance so you don’t have to wait in any queues on the day of.

Listed below are the options: (Open 8 am-midnight during summer hours)

GENERAL ADMISSION EDGE AT HUDSON YARDS TICKETS Adult (13-61): $36 per person Child (6-12): $31 per person Child (5 and under): Free Senior (62+): $34 per person

CHAMPAGNE ADMISSION EDGE AT HUDSON YARDS TICKETS (comes with a glass of champagne) Adult (21-61): $53 per person Senior (62+): $51 per person

PREMIUM ADMISSION EDGE AT HUDSON YARDS TICKETS (comes with a glass of champagne and a personalized photo book) Adult (21-61): $71 Senior (62+): $69

EDGE EQUINOX YOGA AT HUDSON YARDS TICKETS (mornings 6:30 am-7:30 am) (very limited availability) $50 per person

All purchased tickets come with a free digital souvenir photo

New York City residents get $2 off general admission ticket prices

Visiting at sunset will cost an additional $10 per ticket

Visiting during peak days (often summer and weekends) will increase the price of the ticket $2

All ticket purchases require selection of an hour-long specific entry time, available every ten minutes from 8 am-11 pm. The last entry time slot begins at 11 pm and ends at 11:30 pm, but the last elevator ride up is 50 minutes before closing at midnight. Visitors can stay as long as they like until closing upon arriving at the skydeck.

Before visiting The Edge, it’s best to buy your tickets online. The easiest way to secure your spot at The Edge NYC is to purchase tickets online, recommend booking the Skip the Line Edge tickets so you don’t have to wait in any queues on the day of as this is one of the most popular NYC experiences.

The skip the line tickets are general admission, to see all the other tours and ticket options available visit The Edge website as the tickets vary depending on the add ons you can choose from.

Alternatively, you can purchase a discount voucher that gets you into multiple NYC attractions for a fraction of the price if you plan on doing multiple activities on your trip to save money and hundreds of dollars! All you have to do is pick which attraction pass is best for your visit, make a one time purchase, and then the attractions are free or included in your pass!

CityPASS offers a 3 attraction pass or a 6 attraction pass with over 12 city attractions to choose from including the Edge. Using this pass instead of buying individual tickets can save up to 35% equaling hundreds of dollars in savings.

Another great option is the New York Pass which you can purchase anywhere from a 1 Day Pass to a 10 Day Pass that gets you into over 100 attractions. Once you purchase your New York Pass you download the Go City app and use that to get into the popular NYC attractions as well as some hidden gems.

Using New York Pass instead of buying individual attraction tickets can save you hundreds of dollars and up to 45% savings on popular attractions including free admission to The Edge!

TIPS, TRICKS, AND FUN FACTS FOR VISITING THE EDGE NYC To avoid crowds, it is best to visit the Edge at Hudson Yards during off-peak days and hours as this is one of the most popular observation decks in NYC. These are oftentimes during weekdays at non-sunset hours and during shoulder seasons when tourists are less likely to visit New York City, like after the Christmas rush and in the spring.

For those who do not buy a ticket package that includes a glass of champagne, the Edge NYC has a bar where the skydeck is located on the 100th floor that offers an assortment of refreshments including champagne, wine, beer, soft drinks, and light snacks.

There are also souvenirs available on the 100th floor, as well as on the fourth level of the Shops at Hudson Yards near the entrance to the elevators.

The Edge at Hudson Yards is located more than 1,100 feet above street level, and contains more than 7,500 square feet of space extending 80 feet from the main building. It includes glass walls angled outward towards the skyline, a glass floor section allowing visitors to look straight down to street level, elevated skyline steps to rest and look out over the horizon, and an eastern lookout point at the most extended corner for one person to stand and see the entire New York skyline.

The Edge NYC elevators are also a point of interest, offering interactive animation and drone footage of the surrounding areas as you ascend in just about 50 seconds.

#the edge #hudson yards #New York City #new york #newyork #New-York #nyc #ny #manhattan #urban #city #usa #buildings

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tieflingkisser · 7 months

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We Are Millions, We Are Billions, We are all Palestinians: Stand with Palestine in DC on November 4th

There is an emergent mass movement in the United States unwavering in its struggle for the liberation of Palestine. Join us in Washington, DC on November 4 for the largest march for Palestine in U.S. history: the Palestinian cause is your cause.

We are witnessing an emergent movement in the United States, one that upholds Black Lives from Ferguson to Minneapolis, champions Native sovereignty from the Hawaiian mountains to the Plains of the Dakotas, knows no borders from the Texas deserts to the California valley and reclaims our stolen labor from the classrooms of Oklahoma to the factories of Michigan and the hotels of Los Angeles. It is a mass base, cross-coalition movement unwavering in its struggle for the liberation of Palestine. Although it may appear disparate at times, its compass is the world-historical refusal of the downtrodden, and as the Palestinian revolutionary intellectual Ghassan Kanafani makes clear, Palestine unites us, for “the Palestinian cause is not a cause for Palestinians only, but a cause for every revolutionary wherever he is, as a cause of the exploited and oppressed.”

This movement did not begin two weeks ago but builds on decades of grassroots and youth-led struggle wherever Palestinians, Arabs, and those who stand with them against Zionist colonialism find themselves. On November 4th, this movement will make its way to Washington, DC’s Freedom Plaza, to march for an end to the siege on Gaza, a ceasefire, and an end to the U.S. aid to Israel. Organized by the Palestinian Youth Movement (PYM), National Students for Justice in Palestine, ANSWER Coalition, The People’s Forum, Al-Awda, US Palestinian Community Network, American Muslim Alliance, US Campaign for Palestinian Rights, Maryland2Palestine and the Palestinian Feminist Collective, this march represents a critical moment in the Palestine struggle, signaling the consolidation of a mass movement in the United States committed to challenging the decades-long role of the American government in the genocide of the Palestinian people.

As of this morning, the Ministry of Health in Gaza reported approximately over 8,000 Palestinians have been martyred, including no less than 3,342 children, with one child killed every 10 minutes by the Israeli bombardment. All of this death in just three weeks’ time. Still, there are hundreds more buried in the rubble, scattered across the besieged and leveled neighborhoods. Palestinians cannot count their dead, and Israel—in its never-ending bombardment—has robbed them of their mourning. The occupying colonial power has destroyed over half of all homes in its bombing campaign, displacing 1.4 million Palestinians within the 140 square miles of what is called the Gaza Strip. There is no place to hide from this unceasing assault. Even the places of refuge and medical care—hospitals, schools, mosques, and churches—are brazenly blown to pieces. More US-funded bombs have been dropped on Gaza over the past two weeks than the United States dropped on Afghanistan over ten years.

A campaign of relentless destruction and massacre is not cheap. Israel needs more bombs, more white phosphorus, more soldiers, and ever more weapons to raze Gaza and fill its mass graves. On October 20, the White House requested $10.6 billion in additional military aid to Israel. According to U.S. President Joe Biden, this material support for the Israeli state’s escalating colonial depravity is “a smart investment that’s going to pay dividends for American security for generations.” Concurrently, Israeli think tanks—operationalizing this investment—have openly laid out their blueprints for the complete ethnic cleansing of 2.4 million Palestinians in Gaza. Israeli officials have openly called for genocide, the wiping of Gaza from the Earth, and referring to Palestinians as human animals and children of darkness. This extermination, as both U.S. and Israeli governments assert, is essential for national security. Such revolting claims to national security are not new but predicate U.S. imperialism and the 17-year siege on Gaza: a land, air, and sea blockade that has transformed Gaza into a concentration camp, where new U.S. and Israeli weapons and surveillance technologies are field-tested on a captive population, and Israeli officials proudly exclaim that they are keeping Palestinians in Gaza on a strict diet.

The movement for Palestine is not confined only to the crowds of big liberal cities but courageously proclaims its imperative in the streets of Green Bay, Wisconsin, and Jackson, Mississippi. This movement advances alongside the global people’s struggle to uplift the Palestinian cause from the streets of Dublin and Sanaa, Jakarta and Tehran, Toronto and Cairo, and London to Amman, calling for the end of the U.S.-backed Zionist siege on Gaza. Students walked out of their classrooms on October 25th on over one-hundred campuses across North America; Jewish organizers chained themselves to politicians’ doors and occupied their offices, along with New York City’s Grand Central Station; activists are taking direct action against Elbit Systems, Israel’s largest weapons manufacturer, in Cambridge Massachusetts; Palestinian youth and grassroots organizations from Houston to Detroit organize rally after rally, culminating in some of the largest marches for Palestine the country has ever seen.

As we march, speak, and sing out our commands for Palestinian freedom and an end to the genocidal siege, we know that we are not alone or small. We hear the mighty chorus tremble through our city streets. We see the feeble Zionist response. It is clear the people are with Palestine. Yet, the corporate media attempts to portray the movement as an isolated radical fringe. The numbers in the streets are outright ignored or under-reported, revising the thousands into hundreds or fewer. When reported on, the movement is depicted as violent “terror” rallies, reinforcing the Biden administration’s Islamophobic incitement of hatred and the dehumanization of the Palestinian people. With these mass mobilizations have also come state repression and violence. The FBI has visited homes of Palestinians, workers and students have been fired from their jobs, and universities have threatened action against the student movement. Lamentably, these are not empty threats. Lives have been destroyed. Our precious martyr, Wadea Al-Fayoume, a 6-year old living with his family in the suburbs of Chicago, was brutally murdered in his home. And as Zionists attack peaceful rallies with their cars and fire guns into crowds in another Chicago suburb, we continue to mobilize in the face of reactionary violence, resolute in the conviction of the Palestinian cause.

In spite of these attempts to silence and violently suppress the movement, we know that Palestinians in Gaza and throughout the lands of Palestine hear us and see us. We know, just as they have remained steadfast throughout 75 years of occupation and ethnic cleansing, throughout 17 years of blockade, and in the face of the current bombardment of Gaza and reinvigorated effort at eliminating Palestine, our struggle is not in vain, and we too must remain steadfast in mobilizing day in and day out to end the siege on Gaza and stop the genocide of the Palestinian people.

The national march on November 4th in Washington, DC, is a call to all progressive forces steadfastly fighting against exploitation and oppression: the Palestinian cause is your cause. Transportation is being organized all over the country, from cities including Chicago, New York, Atlanta, Boston, Pittsburgh, Raleigh, Indianapolis, Albuquerque, Providence, Philadelphia, and more. Over 200 organizations have endorsed the march and are joining together on Joe Biden’s doorstep—with the combined energy and strength the movement has brought to cities, towns, workplaces, and schools across the country— demanding, loud and clear: CEASEFIRE NOW! END THE SIEGE ON GAZA! END ALL U.S. AID TO ISRAEL!

#free palestine #palestine #israel

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lostsunlight · 11 months

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CHAPTER 3 - THOSE WHO SIN AND THOSE WHO PRAY

childe x reader, wc: 4.4k, masterlist, Ao3

cw: blood and gore, nsfw

He helps you down the ruin, making your way through the canyon. You took one last moment to look across the scenery, if you were lucky this might be the last time you would ever return here. You felt a small pang of loss before it was overridden by the determination to be free that had long been rooted in you.

It was all falling into place. This is what you had fought for since the fateful day you had received your Vision. Adrenaline ran through your veins, you could almost taste the freedom.

You ran to the waypoint, now panting. Looking back you gave Childe a final nod and put your hand to the waypoint, you pictured the square. Feeling your body become formless for a moment you breathed out. The next thing you knew you were in the square.

Still slightly panting you began to run in a beeline towards the nearest set of knights. Just a few metres away from the way point. The cool night winds whipping harshly against your skin.

“Help, I need help!” you stuttered out

One of the Knights grabbed your shoulders “Sister, what are you doing out here so late?” his stern voice echoed throughout the square.

“Please, I just need to get to the cathedral” You look back at the waypoint, your breathing growing heavier with every passing second.

The Knights nodded, just as they began to lead you up the stairs the waypoint flashed again, Childe nonchalantly walked past into the depths of the night, pretending not to notice you and the Knights. You hid behind one of them. The Knights gave each other a nod, they spit up one following Childe and the other leading you back to the cathedral.

“Sister, what's your name? Can you tell me what happend?” You look up at him, eyes watering with crocodile tears.

“My name is Y/N. I-I don't know what happened. I was serving my penance and the next thing I knew someone grabbed me and pulled me out the window. I can't remember what happened next” You mumbled “All I know is that I somehow managed to break free and get to a waypoint”

The knight lead you through the plaza to the doors of the church. He rapped upon the guilded doors. A few moments later another Knight unlocked the heavy door. It was the same one that was guarding Barbara’s office.

He takes the state of you in, arms tightly crossed across your body, shaking. Standing next to a mildly concerned looking Knight.

“Sir Micheal, Sister Y/N came to us for help, she teleported into the square and ran to us for help. She said she was kidnapped while serving penance but she can’t remember what happened. The Fatui Harbinger teleported in a few seconds later”

Micheal gathers you in and pulls you into the cathedral.

“Thank you Sir Otto, I will go report to The Deaconess” He places a hand across your shoulder, the iron gauntlets digging too far in causing you to wince.

“This will be over quickly, with any luck The Deaconess won’t punish you” His voice had the same tone as it did when he locked you in the tower. The words were at the edge of your tongue. You wanted to ask him if he wanted to fight for The Order, if like you, he believed your God had abandoned you.

He leads you through the rows of pews towards the Sanctuary, hidden behind the base of the altar. You're still shaking, putting all your effort into replicating the knights you've seen after battle. You had become familiar with the sight, side by side with the other healers doing the best you could to stop the endless rivers of blood pouring from their bodies. The fights against the Abyss had been tough, they would only become worse with time. Perhaps one day without the protection of its God, Mondstadt would fall to its knees.

He leaves you in her office sitting you down in the hard chair opposite from her desk. There was no light in the room aside from a small candle Otto had lit. The decorum of the office still annoyed you. For a woman who was meant to live her life in pious modesty, she truly did have a taste for the extravagant.

“I'm going to go wake The Deaconess, I’ll be back in a minute”

You tried to turn the fear you had for The Deaconess into the fear you were supposedly having after being kidnapped. You wondered if The Deaconess would be kind this time like Micheal had said. Your gut instinct was to doubt him, the only people you had seen The Deaconess were those at or above her station.

You heard footsteps approaching the door before it opened. The Deaconess stood in a long night robe despite having just woken up she looked surprisingly alert. She sat down opposite from you, lighting a few more candles casting more light into the room.

“Sister Y/N, can you tell me what happened?” She folded her small hands under her chin. Her soft voice still had a sharpness weaved into it. Her expression showed no sympathy.

You took a second preparing to explain yourself but before you could get the first word out the door once again burst open. The Cavalry Captain stood for a moment at the door frame, if you looked closely you could see a slight sway to his gait. He walked in and leaned on the desk next to Barbara.

“Captain Kaeya, I'm glad you could make it considering the circumstances” The Deaconess looked up at him looking mildly agitated at his drunken stupor. The Captain was well known for his habit of haunting The Angels Share most Friday nights.

‘Of course, hearing a Sister come in running from a waypoint begging for help is rather alarming” He replied calmly, gesturing to you. “Continue, please”

You took a deep breath “I’m not sure, I was in the South Tower serving my penance and the next thing I knew I was at Stormbearer Mountains, I heard them talking about Port Dornman. I saw the waypoint and took my chance to get out.”

The captain looked at you before asking “Do you know who took you?’

“I heard no names or faces, I couldn’t pick up the accent either. I-I don’t know why me”

You saw Barbara look at Kaeya mouthing one word “Fatui?” He shrugged

You put the pieces together, Perfect.

“Are you sure there's nothing you can remember?”

You shook your head “N-No”

Kaeya sighed pulling a hand down his face “I shall inform The Grandmaster and find that knight who was tailing Tartaglia, expect to hear word in the morning Deaconess”

He leaves the office just as abruptly as he entered. You looked back at Barbara, she was drumming her fingers on her desk deep in thought.

“Sister Y/N, You shall finish the remainder of your penance and return to your normal duties. We currently suspect it was the Fatui who attempted this, for what reason I cannot fathom”

“F-Forgive me Deaconess if this is out of line but if it was the Fatui what would happen” You worded your question carefully trying to edge out what their plan was, with any luck they would play right into your waiting hands.

She gave you a hard glare “Likely nothing Sister”

Although she wouldn’t explicitly state it, you were right, dart in the bullseye. The Order was still too weak to risk a war with the Fatui. They already suspected the Fatui were up to no good, this wasn’t even the farthest they've gone if the rumours about them trying to ruin Dawn Winery’s harvest this year were true.

With any luck there would be a follow up with The Grandmaster and then nothing. When the time came for you to fake your death, they would hopefully suspect the Fatui again and investigate no further. Maybe they might even be glad to be rid of you, too much trouble for your worth.

You abruptly snapped out of your thoughts at Barbara clearing her throat “Thank you Deaconess I shall return to my penance”

You exited the office, finding another knight ready to escort you back to the South Tower to serve the last day of your penance.

✧

The morning after next you felt the sunlight on your face for the first time in far too long. Marianne had practically flown out of bed after she had woken up to see you standing on the balcony, clearly she didn't know about what had happened that night.

“Y/N, I’m glad you're alright, I missed you” She embraced you in a tight hug, one that you had to force yourself to return.

“Mari” You said trailing off “Something happened”

She frowned and tilted her head a little “What?”

“I'm not exactly sure of the details but I was kidnapped, by whom or why I cannot answer. All I know is that I made it out” The lie you wove slipping out easily

“Archons” she mumbles under her breath.

You pulled away from her and she rested her forehead against yours “I-I don’t know what to say” she huffed out

“I’ll be OK, I was knocked out for most of it. I don't think I really had time to fear. But now I’m home, I’m safe” The last part was the hardest to bite out. You weren’t home, you weren't safe, not in Mondstadt anyways. With every passing day the city rotted, You had no more time to swallow the false promises that The Order so willing gave you.

“Come, morning prayer starts soon and The Deaconess will have your head if you’re not there to pray” You said

The two of you moved out of your room, making your way down the stairs. Like always she separated off towards the large golden harp and yor to kneel at the hard wooden pews that had your knees crying in agony every day. You quickly fell back into routine. Every day here was the same. After all, it was easy to move with the flow.

After you had mouthed your prayers you moved away with the flock of healers. There were about 20 of you in total and some in training.

Sister Grace, the oldest of you, lead the way to the infirmary, as the rest of the healers begin their work you walk Grace for report, much like Sister Olga, Sister Grace stood ridgid. Red hair with greying roots peaked out from her habit.

“Sister Y/N, I understand you have been in penance for a week, your normal bays have been covered by the other Sisters as we expect you to do of them” You merely nodded in response.

“Bay 24 came in last night and had a large laceration on his upper right leg says he got it in a fight with an Abyss Herald on patrol. Bay 25 came in this morning with a nasty fever and Bay 26 is another knight with a broken leg…” She continued her spiel for the next few bays.

“Finally, Sister Ida will be working under you for today” You glanced at the familiar blonde girl. She was only 15, two years into her training but as pious as the oldest nuns. You liked her company, she was talented, like you she had a knack you healing and an Electro vision that had come in handy more than once.

You thanked her, annoyed at her brief descriptions. You delved into work, leading Ida with you. Cleaning the large laceration on the knight's leg was familiar. You tried to not let your thoughts wander to the Harbinger too much, you wondered when you would next see him. You had been too impulsive to tell him when to show up next the last time you were with him.

Moving to the next bay you fully immersed yourself in your work letting the hours fly by as you always did. Leading Ida in her duties as a healer. By the age of 16 she’ll be ready to work on her own. Gently guiding her hands to help with the endless tasks, even letting her crush her own herbs after double checking with you.

Her eyes followed your every move as you activated your vision, controlling the stream of water with practised ease you irrigate a wound, Ida was holding the knight's hands. Even after giving him Milk of the Poppy he could still feel the pain.

Stepping out of the infirmary at the end of the day, the sun setting over the horizon the sky stained the sky with vibrant yellows, pinks and oranges. You went to find Marianne for dinner walking to the altar to find her scolding a younger sister, likely for messing up an old hymn again. The stark reminder that Marianne was no longer the person you knew hit you like a sack of bricks, time doing nothing to ease the blow.

“Marianne, let's go it's time for dinner” You said in the calmest voice you could muster, you led her away after she dismissed her student. You looked back at the dejected girl making eye contact with her. You gave her the most sympathetic look you could and mouthed the words “Im Sorry”

“How are you holding up Y/N” Marianne asks lacing her arm in yours

“I think I’m OK, I’m just distracting myself with my duties at the moment” Wanting to change the topic quickly you asked

“Why were you scolding that student again?”

Marianne rolled her eyes “She just can't get the last bit of ‘Ventum Aquilarum’ right”

You bit your tongue “Ah, Isn’t that a pretty hard one”

She nods “It is but it's one of The Deaconesses favourites, so she has to play it perfectly”

You laughed a little, you’ve heard ‘Ventum Aquilarum’ so many times that you could play it on the harp if you tried hard enough.

Walking into the stone dining hall you take your assigned seats and chew on the same bread and soup you've eaten for the last 19 years. Some of the other sisters were discussing the upcoming Ludi Harpastum. A few of them were hoping to be chosen by whatever champion would win this year, likely one of the nobility like it had been for the last century or so. After Venessa’s rebellion the common folk had been allowed to touch the harpastrum but those days were lost to history.

“I'm excited to see Venti play again this year” Marianne sighed, you had caught her on more than once occasion staring at the Holy Lyre der Himmel, wishing she could play it for herself.

“I hear he’s always getting drunk on dandelion wine at whatever tavern will serve him, I hope hes not too drunk to play this year”

Marianne laughed, purple eyes gleaming “The Harpastum starts in two weeks can you believe? Maybe we'll get a day off to explore the city again”

“You might but I don't think I can leave the cathedral walls until The Deaconess deems me worthy enough, which could take years”

“The Deaconess isn’t that bad you know”

“You’re in her good graces Mari, you’ve been working with her closely as of late anyways, she needs you for prayer. Of course shes nice to you”

Marianne said nothing in response to that, merely dipping her bread in the radish soup. The two of you finished up, walking out of the dining hall. You and Marianne parted ways. She to The Sanctuary to meet with Deaconess Barbara to discuss tomorrow morning’s prayer and you to the Sisters Quarters.

You ascended the stairs deep in thought, ever since Marianne had become the primary harpist under Barbara she had become more and more forgiving of her actions. She was right under The Deaconesses wing. An uncomfortable thought occurred to you, what if she became the next Deaconess? Barbara was forbidden from having children as a Sister of the Church and Grandmaster Jean was married to Lisa of the Hexenzirkel. Sure she wasn’t a Gunnhildr but she was of minor noble descent. It was tradition within the noble families of Mondstadt to give their second child to either The Church or The Knights. It wasn’t unheard of for a minor noble to become a Deaconess either. Archons, the Deaconess normally married the Grandmaster in order to create a stronger alliance and keep the Gunnhildr lines clean.

Climbing higher and higher you reached the room in the roof and banished the racing thoughts from your head, you were catastrophizing again. You needed a distraction. Clambering out the small window you prowled along the cathedral rooftops, eventually perching where you could view the whole city.

A few moments later you hear footsteps behind you, whipping around you see the Harbinger. He sits down next to you, leaning back on his arms to view the stars

“Miss me” he teases

“Hardly, It’s only been two days” You reply. Why was it so easy to talk to him?

He laughs a little “Tell me, how did our little plan play out”

“The Order suspects you, I doubt they’ll come after you though, diplomatic immunity and all”

“Now the next part of this plan, how do you plan to do that”

“The Ludi Harpastum starts in two weeks, I’m assuming you know what it is?”

He shrugged “Vaguely”

“Its a 15 day festival, all you need to know is that it's the perfect distraction to make our getaway”

He stands up all of a sudden extending a hand to you “We can talk about this later, fancy another trip?”

You smirk “How could I say no”

✧

Childe’s thoughts kept on coming back to you, for some reason he had agreed to go along with your hair-brained plan. He had decided it was because he was bored and wanted some excitement. Being sent to Mondstadt in search of an absent Archon in preparation for Signoria’s plan was already a sluggish mission, he would rather be fighting the ancient terrors locked away underneath the earth. The only light at the end of the tunnel was the Rite of Decension, he would have to leave Mondstadt at one point or another soon.

Coming to the cathedral roof was an impulsive decision, in truth he had missed you and the excitement you brang but mostly he was bored. You were determined, impulsive and it reminded him of himself. There was something else about you that drew him to you, maybe it was your capacity for kindness, kindness that he craved. Maybe it was the way you treated him as an equal, wanting to know more about him, he rarely had a conversation with someone like the way he did with you.

The opportunity you had provided him was almost perfect, If he was going to take down the Geo Archon he would do it himself. He could finally prove himself to the other Harbingers, being the youngest and the weakest was infuriating him. Sure the others had years some hundreds to perfect their skills but if he wanted to complete his goal of taking down the heavens and bringing it to The Tsaritsa’s feet he needed to be stronger. He needed to be the best.

When he extended his hand to you he had one idea in mind, to fight. If you were going to be working for him he might as well make sure you could fend for yourself. Bringing you with him to Liyue was already a potential weakness, especially if other people found out about you. You had the ability to fight, under your soft exterior lurked something cunning.

He gathered you in his arms once again, leaping off the roof and heading towards the deep woods of Wolvendom. The jagged cliffs and old gnarled oak trees came into view. He landed in a small clearing and glanced around.

“You’ll train with a polearm this time” he said, manifesting one out of subspace, he threw it at you, half expecting you to drop it.

“Why did I expect anything else when we left” you huffed a little and you twired the polearm trying to get used to it weight compared to a sword

“Polearm?” you question raising a brow at him

“I think you’ll fight better with a spear compared to a sword”

Without another second he launched his attack, this time you knew his style a little better, trying to follow his advice you keep the polearm loose in your grip and let it lead you. As expected he bests you in a matter of seconds by knocking you down to the ground before helping you up.

“Let's make this a little more fun, for everyone round the winner gets to ask a question” He suggests

“That's no fair and you know it”

He shrugged “Hows this, I don't use any weapons”

You sighed there was no getting around this “Fine, Deal.”

This time you attack first, sharply jabbing your polearm at his with all the force you could muster. He jumps back and sprints around you as you move to swing your polearm. He grabs the handle and pulls it out of your grip with your ease.

‘Too easy, next time keep the polearm closer to you person and go for the knees” He hands the polearm back to you

“What do you know about the Anemo Archon” he asks you, you look at him curiously, he can tell you know he has an ulterior motive.

“You know how to get the ladies” you tease before continuing “Not much, he's been gone for millenia, at this point I doubt his existence”

He hums “Is there anyone that might know more?”

“Win the next round and I'll tell you”

As expected you lose horribly, this time he jumps the swing aimed at his legs and tackles you to the ground. He's above you, hands on either side of your head. He sees you looking up at him, your eyes unlike his have a shine to them, you still had your soul, you were still unbound. A pang of unexpected sadness rung through him

Trying to shift his thoughts he “See something you like, Y/N” You give him a firm shove to the chest to push him off you. It was easy to flirt, to distract himself from the horrors he inflicted, the lies he had told his younger siblings and the disdain his elder siblings held for him.

Anticipating his question you answer before he can ask “I don't know anyone that would know where Barbatos is. Considering the state of the city he might as well be dead”

“I doubt he’s dead Y/N” you snort a little at that

“Alright Sister Tartaglia”

The third round he decides to let you win, you knock him back against a tree with the base of your polearm, surprise crosses your face before you smile.

“You let me win this time”

“Hardly, now your question”

“How did you become a Harbinger” A dangerous question he thinks, he leans back against the tree considering how to answer.

“I wanted to become the best, I was forced into the Fatui by my father at fourteen and found my love for battle there” he dances around the truth “I devoted myself to mastering the art of battle fighting every superior I could. Eventually one of the other Harbingers recognised my talent and the rest is history”

You give him a look, he could tell that you knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth but not pressing further. You hand the polearm back to him

“We better get back Marianne will be wondering where I am”

“Marianne?”

“Another Sister, my roommate” He could hear the notes of sadness in your voice, the way your eyebrows twitch.

“Before we leave we should discuss the plan”

“Let's do it on the walk back then”

The two of you began the short trek back to the walled city. The woods thinning out the closer the two of you got. He was on his guard for any Knights that might be patrolling the area.

“Meet me on the roof on 7th day of the Ludi Harpastum at sunset, That's the halfway point by then people will be too far into it to investigate properly, the Knights will have their hands full and that's the one night The Deaconess lets The Sisters join the festivities”

The tone in your voice, the finality of it.

“What makes you think I’ll be finished with my mission in 3 weeks?”

“If I’m correct about who you're looking for, and considering you probably wouldn’t be so careless as to let it slip unless you wanted me to know, then I would say its a fruitless mission”

“I’ve searched every corner of this damned country and not a single trace of that Archon”

“Why do you want to find him anyways?”

He smirks deciding how much to tell you “After you break free I’ll tell you”

“Always a card up your sleeve Harbinger”

“Can’t let you know everything can I now?”

The city came into view, two knights guarding the city's gates. You glanced at Childe wondering if he had a plan, naturally he did.

“Ready to see what Hydro vision can do?” He sees you laugh catching on to what he was suggesting, the two of you walk around the edge of Cider lake. Activating your vision you stepped into the water as if it was earth, skimming across the surface with practised ease.

During the summers you and some of the other sisters were permitted to swim in the lake, the summer you had been recognised by The Archons you had spent almost every day down by the lake learning how to manipulate water to your will under the guidance of the other Hydro-blessed sisters.

Reaching the ancient stone wall of the city you climbed, hands finding crooks in the worn cobblestone, soon the two of you reached the top. Overseeing the graveyard at the back of the church, he grabbed you and glided down, landing softly on the ground.

“Until we meet again Harbinger” you said, turning around and disappearing into the shadows of the church, entering through the small side door you had used before.

He ran a hand through his hair, signing up to the stars hanging above him. What was he doing?

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bastillia · 1 year

Text

iv. Better Be Quick

Part 4 of Loyalties Lie (1, 2, 3)

Read on AO3

Summary: What was supposed to be a regular day becomes more than you bargained for, thanks to Boba Fett.

Rating: M (fic is Explicit)

Words: 4.9k

Warnings: None.

A/N: Thank you to @kylorengarbagedump for constantly cheering me on every time I think I’ve lost my ability to write forever. Literally couldn’t have finished this without your support. Sorry I’ve been gone forever y’all but please enjoy! 💛

***

Dawn melts across the walls of Capital City, as quiet and calm as your steps on the pavement below. The season is hovering on the verge of change—you can feel it in the chill of the air as you emerge from a shadowed street and into the light of the central market square.

You draw a breath and release a cloud of glittering fog. A smile touches your lips. The air is cold, but laden with scents of spiced root tea and fresh baked tuber pies that warm you right down to your toes.

A steady stream of people have already gathered, flowing and eddying between market stalls, stirring the quiet with a hum of chatter. Morning fog still hovers, steeped in sunlight and shedding a pale golden glow over the plaza just bright enough to soothe the bite of frost in your cheeks.

Your feet begin to carry you across the square while you enjoy the emerging sun and run through your mental checklist of items to gather. You’re in no hurry. Market day is bliss–your own little slice of freedom at the end of each week. Here, there’s no scrutiny: no bar to tend, no eggshells to walk on. Just existence out here at the very end of your tether, where you can feign something like independence for a few precious hours.

A fountain arcs in the center of the square, now host to a small gathering of children. They giggle and lean over the edge, then erupt into shrieks when water sprays their faces. The herd scatters, weaving around your knees, and you lift your basket to avoid bonking any little heads in the fray.

But one overzealous tot smacks straight into your knees and stumbles backwards, plopping down on the tiled duracrete. The tiny Rodian’s face falls as she looks up at you, devastation pooling in her big, starry eyes. You’re quicker, though, swooping down to her level and pulling her to her feet.

“Whoa! You okay?” You straighten her fluffy hat back over her antennae and look her over. It’s clear she’s unhurt, but you let concern linger for just a moment, before cracking a grin and spinning her by the shoulders. “Everything still attached?”

She breaks into giggles as you spin her back around to face you, and gives a shy nod. You wink.

“Better go catch up, then.”

Glee beams across her little face, and she races off once more to rejoin the pack. A person you can only assume to be her guardian gives you a grateful wave from several paces away. You smile back as another spout of laughter bursts from the group of kids. Something tugs at your heart.

At their age, laughter was foreign to you. By then, you were already learning to sneak and steal, finding the best furnace vents to sleep under for warmth on these very same streets. You’re glad they’ll never have to know that life. Glad that they each have someone who will care when they’re hurt, keep them warm and fed, with no cruel-faced officers in pressed uniforms to come and rip that away from them.

You swallow a pang of sadness, and shake it away. It doesn’t matter. The Empire is gone, now. Anyway, you shouldn’t be so ungrateful–your circumstances could have been far worse. At least Dakk eventually found you, scrappy little criminal that you were, and took you in before you could get into any serious trouble. He put a roof over your head; taught you how to work for your keep, rather than beg and thieve. You at least owe him thanks for that.

A beeping noise in your earpiece tugs you back to the present. Speak of the void.

Why the hell is Dakk even calling? It’s too early for him to be up, let alone nagging you about your errands already. Your brows knit. Maybe he forgot to add jogan fruit to the list. He should know that you always pick it up anyway–it’s his favorite, after all.

Shifting your basket to the other arm, you reach up and tap your ear.

“Don’t worry, Dakk, I’m not going to forget–”

“Your manners, this time.”

Your insides lurch at the sound of Boba Fett‘s voice. Only when a few puzzled glances shoot your way do you realize that you just whirled around faster than a spooked fathier in the middle of the square. And now you’re panting, eyes shifting as if he might appear behind the nearest corner. You clear your throat and smooth your cowl. Cheeks on fire, you duck your head and resume your course, hoping your voice sounds more composed than you feel.

“Is it always going to be like this with you?”

You set your intent on a cluster of market stalls on the far side of the square.

“I need you to do something.”

The words roll easily through soft static, but you can hear his smirk. Bastard. You manage a slightly pained looking smile-and-nod as you pass a merchant, waving at you from behind a display lined with carved stone figurines. You force your pace down to a stroll. Approaching the next colorful canopy, you lower your voice.

“You know I don’t work for you, right?”

You stop in front of the stall, meeting the vendor’s eyes and offering a smile in greeting. He returns it, before glancing down bashfully.

“There’s a package arriving at the harbor spaceport. 0800, hangar nine. Pick it up for me.”

Your hand floats over a barrel brimming with purple fruit, letting his words bounce off a wall of indifference. It would seem Fett has lost his ability to hear you now, anyways. Why he thinks you should agree to run his errands is beyond you.

Adrenaline has eased its way out of your chest now, allowing bravery to inhabit the vacant space. Waking up that tiny proclivity for gambling on dangerous odds, especially when your opponent is a notorious-killer-turned-crime-lord. You pick up a ripe jogan and turn the fruit in your fingers.

“Mm. I’m busy.”

A thrill tickles your belly. He’s making this far too easy for you.

“I’ve wired fifty thousand credits to your account.”

The jogan drops into the barrel with a thud.

“What?”

Multiple heads turn. Your face contorts into a pained smile, palms turning out in an apologetic gesture. You point to your comm, as if that explains anything, before giving up and darting down an empty alleyway.

“What the fuck, Fett? You can’t just–how–how did you even–” Your mind is racing far too quickly for your words to catch up. Only one clear thought stabs right through the chaos. “Dakk will notice.”

“Then you’d better be quick.”

There’s that smirk in his voice again. The karking son of a gundark—

“I’ll see to it that you’re rewarded for your effort.”

“No!” You screw your eyes shut and shake your spinning head. “I mean, you—you can’t send me money.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” His voice dips into that graveled register, and heat erupts through your face. “You already know the code phrase. You’ll hear from me when you’ve secured the package.”

Static whispers, and the comm goes dead. Blinking, you turn and press your back to the duracrete wall.

You’re so fucked.

And stupid. Yes, you are incredibly stupid for playing this game with Fett, and now you’ve gone and earned yourself an equally stupid prize, and one on a time limit to boot. You need to get rid of those credits before Dakk wakes up.

A curse flies out from under your breath. What the fuck is Fett buying on Lothal with fifty thousand credits?

You hold a button on your cuff and a tiny holoprojection blinks to life. 0743. Barely enough time to walk to the spaceport. A deep breath hisses through your teeth.

Fuck it.

***

By the time you arrive, the harbor port is thrumming with life. Huge docking bay doors line the center row, the main runway opening to the glittering sea beyond. Freighters sit nestled in their hangars, pregnant with goods from every corner of the galaxy, while boats bearing trade from Kothal and Jalath glide lazily into the harbor. Pilots, sailors, and couriers mingle, chatting idly over their exchanges while repulsorlift chains link together and join the flow of crates in and out of the port, snaking in neat lanes like Coruscant traffic.

Smaller hangars jut away in two rows from either side of the center hub. They host far less activity; you can only see a few jumpsuit-clad pilots strolling towards the bustling harbor center.

Just as your eyes scan down to one end, a small black ship curves into view and hovers, like a carrion bird, drifting down into the farthest bay at the end. You check the time. 0758.

Glancing around, you find a simple directory that outlines the three rows of hangar bays, each marked with its corresponding number. You search it briefly, only to confirm what your flayed nerves already suspect—your courier awaits you at the deserted hangar, in the carrion ship.

Pulse in your eardrums, your feet suddenly go leaden, as if trying to fuse you to the dock. Some last-ditch effort by your subconscious to keep you from doing something catastrophically stupid.

Somewhere in the deafening rush of blood, you manage to hear that your commlink is chirping again. Your finger finds the receiver under your sleeve.

“Okay, I’m here.”

“Lose the attitude,” Dakk’s groggy grumble responds. “And don’t forget the jogans.”

Shit.

“I…” Say something, you idiot. “I won’t forget.”

“Gonna be doin’ the books today.” A rustling sound comes over the line. “I’d better not find any more discrepancies in your account.”

Panic laces your throat, draws it closed in a snare. You try to swallow. It won’t budge.

“I’m sorry, Dakk. It won’t happen again.”

He grunts. The comm goes dead.

The lead evaporates from your feet.

You launch into a half-sprint toward the hangar, periphery a blur. In your haste, you manage to shoulder-check a mustached pilot strolling the opposite direction, jumpsuit rolled down to his waist.

“Sorry!” you sputter.

The man wheels to you in surprise. His hair has grayed, and his eyes are kind, and you’re out of time.

“No worries, can I help you find somethi—“

“I know where I’m going!” Void above, at least try to act natural. “Sorry, uh, th-thank you very much.”

It’ll have to suffice. You resume your course, trying not to break into a full run. The last thing you need is to draw attention while you do… whatever this is.

Finally, you reach the end of the row and approach the last hangar door, taking a moment to peer behind you.

The dockway is empty, your commlink mercifully inert. The only sounds that you can hear are the pounding in your own skull, the waves lapping against metal farther down at the boat docks, and…

Footsteps.

A faint rhythm approaching from within the hangar. Your gaze shifts up to the large, rust-eaten number “9” bolted above the heavy door to the control room.

Here goes.

You already know the code phrase.

Fett was fucking mistaken about that. There’s no way you won’t royally fuck this up. But at this point, you’re probably fucked either way. It doesn’t matter. You take a deep breath.

Metal grinds, and the door swings open.

Before you stands a tall, sharp-eyed woman in a uniform. It’s not the typical jumpsuit of the cargo pilots you’ve grown used to seeing. In fact, the top looks like a salvaged Imperial tunic, its collar slackened, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. An insignia you don’t recognize is stitched where the rank badge should be.

Her eyes narrow, pierce right through you and strip you bare as they fall down your figure and back up. Heat pools in your cheeks.

Who talks first?

Do you talk first?

“Never did like this port.” The woman finally says, her eyes locking to yours and not leaving. “Full of vermin.”

Somewhere, deep in the stalled gears of your brain, a neuron fires.

Of fucking course he would.

“It’s not so bad,” you manage to return. “Hard to be scared of a little mouse.”

The woman gives a slow nod, gaze unbreaking. Then she turns to the side, receiving a handoff from someone you can’t see. Sweat pricks your spine despite the cold.

She turns back to you and presents a small, sleek box. You stare back dumbly, your brain taking an excruciatingly long moment to produce a reaction. When you finally extend a hand for the item, she snaps it back again.

“Uh. Right.”

What kind of idiots does Boba Fett send to do his business? That surely is what this woman must be thinking as she reaches back and produces a data pad, passing it to you across the threshold. The screen is open to a credit transfer. Hands trembling and cheeks ablaze, you authorize the 50,000 credits and hand it back like it’s about to electrocute you.

For a breathless moment, she scours the screen. And then she whisks the data pad behind her, exchanging it for the box again. Before you can reach for it, she tosses it to you. And by some Force-willed fucking miracle, you don’t completely fumble the catch.

Hands still trembling, you slip the package into your basket, under a piece of the canvas lining and out of sight.

“Tha–”

The door slams in your face.

Alright.

Alone on the dockway once more, air fills your lungs for what feels like the first time since you set foot in the market this morning. It’s shaky on the exhale, but some of the vibration in your brain quiets with it. You take a moment to turn back to your surroundings, the basket feeling ten pounds heavier on your arm.

This side of the port is still sparsely populated. A repulsorlift driver pauses to exchange words with two pilots casually chatting a few hangars up from you, then steers back toward the main hub. Your fingers find your cowl, drum the edge of your basket.

Boba said you’d hear from him. So… what now? Stay here and wait? Leave before someone realizes how painfully out of place you look and questions you? Your eyes scan up and down the row, as if a clue might be hidden amongst the buildings on the far side.

And then you see it.

It’s so quick, you could almost mistake it for a trick of the morning light—a reflection on the gutters high above the street leaving an imprint in your retinas. But no, what you saw was distinct: a flash of orange and black retreating beyond the edge of the roofline.

Your eyes narrow, scanning for further movement. Static whispers in your ear.

“Well done, little mouse.”

You blink. Then scoff.

“Yeah, very clever.”

Are you being watched? Fuck, are you actually going crazy? There’s still no sign of movement on the rooftops.

Maybe it was nothing.

Fett chuckles. “That you were.”

Your eyes roll, finally breaking away from the skyline. An anxious pang spears you again—Dakk will be looking at the accounts any second.

“You need to make that transaction disappear.”

“It’s taken care of.”

You ignore a ripple of heat in your lower belly. Stay focused.

“Mind at least telling me what I have? And what the hell I need to do with it?”

“I’m sending you coordinates. My associate will meet you there.”

Your heart drops, a stone to cool your insides.

“So your ‘associate’ couldn’t have just… picked this up themselves?” More ice slips into your voice than you intend, but you can’t help it. With everything that’s already happened, the walls of your emotional fortitude are starting to chip.

“There is much you still do not understand. I’m relying on your discretion.”

You swallow against the withering feeling that drapes you. Some things never change. Maybe this is all you’ll ever be–a piece in someone else’s dejarik game, only fit to serve your small purpose and nothing more.

“Fine,” you clip back. “Send the coordinates.”

There’s a pause on the line, and it cuts off again. Maybe he didn’t expect you to concede so easily. Or maybe he’s finally regretting his decision to assign you this task. With a sharp shake of your head, you refocus on the message blinking to life on your wrist.

You study the coordinates for a moment, and then set off, back up the hangar row and out onto the street outside the port. The location he sent is familiar to you–in the industrial district, a former Imperial production facility that now sits abandoned.

As you walk, your mind begins to roil, building up to a seething tide. Crashing, deafening waves of spite and curiosity force your focus back to the weight on your arm.

You should do what Fett asks. It could be dangerous for you to know what the item is. Deadly, even. You’re swept up in forces now that you can hardly begin to understand, and you know it. But that riptide has already wrenched you from your comfortable shelter, cast you into new depths, and now you have to figure out how to swim.

And if you’re going to do that, you also have to know what’s lurking in the water.

The moment you make it to a quiet street, you dart behind a corner and meld with shadow. If Fett is bringing you in, then he’s bringing you in. Before you can overthink your decision, you snatch the tiny box from its hidden spot in the lining of your basket and unclasp the fastenings.

Something small and cylindrical lies within, obscured in a swaddle of delicate cloth. Gripping one edge, you roll it out until a tiny cylinder drops into your palm. Your brows draw together.

All of that, for a little piece of metal? No, a 50,000-credit piece of metal that nearly caused you at least three heart attacks already?

You huff, roll up the device and shove it back into its box. Fett was right, there is much you don’t understand.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t do anything about that.

New determination fueling your steps, you set off again, this time veering from your course. It’s not like you were given a time limit, or very much information at all, for that matter. Fuck it. Boba Fett isn’t the only one with contacts.

After a short walk, you approach a small droid repair shop just outside the main city center. The sign still hangs a little crooked, but the stoop is meticulously swept. You step up to the door and push it open.

The same little chime announces your entrance. An Ithorian faces away from you behind the counter, hunched over a workbench. She turns as you step in, and then her tall face lights up.

She squeals your name and darts around the counter, closing the distance and throwing her arms around you. All at once, the swarm of nerves that has been migrating around your insides all day melts to stillness. A laugh bubbles up and you wrap your arms around her in return.

“Hey, Tau.” You squeeze her tighter. “It’s been way too long.”

“You don’t say!” Her translator collar morphs delighted, guttural grunts into Basic. She pulls back after a few moments, grasps your hands and begins to drag you toward her workbench. “I have so much to show you. K-C2R is almost done, I just need to get a hold of a positronic transisto–hey, is everything okay?”

She snaps back around to face you, gripping you by the shoulders and searching your face. You feel your cheekbone tingle, even though the bruise there has mostly faded.

“It’s been, like, forever since I’ve seen you. With everything going on, I was getting worried something happened.”

An inexplicable lump suddenly rises in your throat. Maker above, you wish you could just tell her everything right now. But you can’t endanger her like that. You clear your throat.

“Tau, I was actually hoping you could help me with something.” You set your basket down on the counter and pull out the box. “I can’t stay long, but I promise I’ll explain everything later.”

You roll the metal cylinder out of its cloth wrapping and hold it out to her. Her inquisitive stare flicks to your open palm, and you could swear she almost short-circuits.

“No kriffing way.” She plucks it from you and inspects it closely, rotating it and checking every tiny crevice with each eye.

You lean forward.

“What is it?”

Her gaze snaps back to you, and she scampers to the front door to slot the lock into place.

“Follow me.”

Tau snatches your hand and whisks you behind her workbench, past the slumped KX-series security droid and through a door to the back room. She shuts it behind you and punches two switches on the wall. The lights flicker on, an entire wall of screens and panels humming to life.

“This…” She waggles the cylinder in front of your nose, “is a data spike.” She scurries over to a computer station and hops into the chair. “Do you know what’s on it?”

“No idea.” You follow her, taking in the impressive array. “Can you find out?”

“Pfft.” She twirls the spike between her fingers and sticks it into a terminal. “Who do you think I am!”

Grinning, you yank up a chair to sit behind her. Long rows of symbols scroll across the screen. Tau taps a few keys, and the computer responds with a new stream of information.

You blink. This stuff makes your head spin.

“So where have you been lately, anyway?” Tau scans the rows of jumbled code as she speaks. “You know I go Loth-bat crazy in here with no one to talk to.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” You sigh, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes. “Dakk’s had me so busy. You know how he gets.”

She puffs out a throaty sigh.

“Tell me about it. Gavic pretty much has me running this place on my own lately. He’s been offworld ever since that big shipment got hit. Apparently the bosses went, like, totally ballistic over it. HQ was blowing up our comms for days.”

Something flashes across the screen. It fritzes into static. Tau pauses with a frown, presses a few buttons, then gives the screen a solid whack. The display stabilizes.

“How is Brondakk taking it?” Her fingers start to fly, clicking staccato rhythms across the keyboard. “He was overseeing that job, right?”

“Yeah, he was.” Your pulse thumps in your cheekbone. “He… didn’t take it well.”

She sighs, shooting you a quick, sympathetic look before resuming.

“You know, if he’s being an asshole, you can always come and crash…” She trails off, hands growing still.

You lean forward and search the jumbled symbols, but as always, none of it makes any sense to you. Tau’s eyes go huge.

“Hey where did you say you got this thing again?”

“Oh, um. Dakk gave it to me, I’m supposed to be delivering it to someone. I just really wanted to know what it was.”

She starts to vibrate.

“This is so insane. I’m pretty sure this thing could hack, like, any communications array in the galaxy and it would be totally untraceable.” She searches the stream of gibberish now flowing across the screen. “I wonder what they’re planning.”

“Me, too.” Your heart picks up rhythm in your chest, nerves retaking flight in a flutter of razored wings. Tau lets out a devious giggle. Her fingers zip across the keys. The computer emits a few trills.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a copy.” She shoots you a wink.

Your jaw drops.

“You can do that?”

“Duh!” She rolls her eyes playfully. “I mean, it won’t be perfect, this encryption is ridiculously complex. But I should be able to preserve most of the functionality in the duplicate.”

Your mind starts to oscillate, excitement and apprehension setting off on a neck-and-neck race.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“No,” she gives a rueful laugh. “But I might never get my hands on this kind of tech again. Who knows when it could become handy.”

“Who knows when it could become trouble.”

She swivels her chair around to you then, her face growing solemn. Duplicate lines of code continue to split and organize themselves across the screen behind her.

“Look, I know the risks. But… ” She sighs, an internal battle playing across her long, kind face. “It’s like, if we never risk anything, where will we end up, you know? I can’t accept that I’ll be here forever.” She takes your hand, a plea forming in her eyes. “Haven’t you ever thought about getting out?”

That look eats a hole through your chest, opens it up and nestles itself there. The edges of your careful ward start to crumble, that lump rising back into your throat.

All this day has done so far is make you feel more alone than ever. And now you’re faced with your only friend, perhaps the one person in the whole galaxy who could ever come close to understanding how you feel.

And you’re lying to her.

“Tau…” You squeeze her hand in your own, drawing a sharp breath. “I didn’t get this from Dakk. I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself wrapped up in, but it’s big.” Her eyes widen. “I can’t say much–”

“Then don’t.” She plucks the spike from the terminal and presses it back into your palm, her eyes brimming with hope. It nearly shatters your heart. “I get it. Look, whatever it is, just know I’m on your side. I want to help.”

Warmth blooms through you, a sensation that almost bursts you from within. You pull her into a hug.

“Thank you.”

She squeezes you, giving your back a few quick rubs. As hard as you’ve been trying to fight them, tears finally spill. You wipe your eyes, recomposing yourself.

“I really need to get going.”

“Go!” Tau jumps up and pulls you back into the main shop. “Just be safe, and promise you’ll keep me updated.”

You nod, and just as you’re about to exit, realization hits you like a speeder.

“Oh! That reminds me.” You pull your sleeve up to reveal your commlink. “Got the one you told me about.”

Tau makes a delighted noise.

“Fuck yeah, finally!” She raises her wrist to yours, and both commlinks beep. She puts her hands on your shoulders, beaming at you one final time.

“Okay, get out of here. Don’t meet any handsome strangers without me.” She ushers you out the door. “And call me later, you bitch.”

“I promise!” You both erupt into giggles, and she shuts the door.

Satisfied and re-energized, you set off.

The rest of the walk to the industrial district goes without incident. You know these streets well enough to shave a few minutes off the walk–and you do, hoping to cover for your detour.

When you reach Fett’s coordinates, you’re unsurprised to find yourself alone. Sighing, you find an old crate against the wall of the building and hop up to sit on it. You scan up and down the alley, thumping your heels against the weather-worn metal.

Nothing.

Until a feminine voice emanates from the walls themselves, wrapping you in a noose of dark silk.

“You’re late.”

A chill settles on the back of your neck. You shrug it away.

“Yeah, well, no one exactly bothered to provide me a time frame,” you say to the empty street, standing back up.

Two feet hit the ground behind you. You whirl.

A small woman stands before you, clad in an angular black tunic with orange detailing. Dark eyes pin you from behind the slitted visor of a helmet, and you have to swallow a pang of realization. The top half of her helmet is painted vivid orange, and from beneath it, a long black braid drapes over one shoulder.

That was no trick of the light earlier. Your heart picks up pace again.

She extends one petite, gloved hand toward you, palm up. You hand over the box and she wrests it open, unspooling the data spike from its silken swaddle.

Seriously? What’s the point of assigning you this stupid errand if they can’t even trust you to follow through?

Your stare is stony when the woman’s eyes find yours again. Her own expression is unreadable under the helmet, but she rolls the spike back up and straps it to a holster on her belt. Without another word, she leaps, catches a pipe on the wall and swings up onto the roof, out of sight.

“Talkative bunch,” you mutter to yourself, swathed once again in the solitude of peeling duracrete walls.

Kicking a stone down the street, you start to head back the way you came. There’s no use dwelling on whatever the fuck this day has become. You suppose that if Boba Fett decides to find another use for you, you’ll know about it.

All he has to do is attach another set of strings and make you dance.

You kick another stone, harder this time. It clatters and echoes along the deserted alleyway.

Whatever. You already mourned your agency a long time ago. This shit is nothing new.

In the meantime, you still have groceries to gather.

And a promise to keep.

#boba fett #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #boba fett smut #star wars fanfiction #loyalties lie #my works

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officialyourdailyinspiration · 2 years

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No doubt many of you wonder where and when society began bowing down to the LGBT Community. When did Big Business begin falling all over itself to elevate these people, when did professional sports begin honoring them as a special class, where are the roots of the movement that now dominates American society, playing the victim card while simultaneously being the single most powerful political block in the western world. I present you with something I first read as a High School kid.

THE HOMOSEXUAL MANIFESTO (1987)

“We shall sodomize your sons, emblems of your feeble masculinity, of your shallow dreams and vulgar lies. We shall seduce them in your schools, in your dormitories, in your gymnasiums, in your locker rooms, in your sports arenas, in your seminaries, in your youth groups, in your movie theater bathrooms, in your army bunkhouses, in your truck stops, in your all male clubs, in your houses of Congress, wherever men are with men together. Your sons shall become our minions and do our bidding. They will be recast in our image. They will come to crave and adore us. “Women, you cry for freedom. You say you are no longer satisfied with men; they make you unhappy. We, connoisseurs of the masculine face, the masculine physique, shall take your men from you then. We will amuse them; we will instruct them; we will embrace them when they weep. Women, you say you wish to live with each other instead of with men. Then go and be with each other. We shall give your men pleasures they have never known because we are foremost men too, and only one man knows how to truly please another man; only one man can understand the depth and feeling, the mind and body of another man. “All laws banning homosexual activity will be revoked. Instead, legislation shall be passed which engenders love between men. All homosexuals must stand together as brothers; we must be united artistically, philosophically, socially, politically and financially. We will triumph only when we present a common face to the vicious heterosexual enemy. “If you dare to cry faggot, fairy, queer, at us, we will stab you in your cowardly hearts and defile your dead, puny bodies. “We shall write poems of the love between men; we shall stage plays in which man openly caresses man; we shall make films about the love between heroic men which will replace the cheap, superficial, entimental, insipid, juvenile, heterosexual infatuations presently dominating your cinema screens. We shall sculpt statues of beautiful young men, of bold athletes which will be placed in your parks, your squares, your plazas. The museums of the world will be filled only with paintings of graceful, naked lads. “Our writers and artists will make love between men fashionable and de rigueur, and we will succeed because we are adept at setting styles. We will eliminate heterosexual liaisons through usage of the Redeeming the Rainbow 203 devices of wit and ridicule, devices which we are skilled in employing.

“We will unmask the powerful homosexuals who masquerade as heterosexuals. You will be shocked and frightened when you find that your presidents and their sons, your industrialists, your senators, your mayors, your generals, your athletes, your film stars, your television personalities, your civic leaders, your priests are not the safe, familiar, bourgeois, heterosexual figures you assumed them to be. We are everywhere; we have infiltrated your ranks. Be careful when you speak of homosexuals because we are always among you; we may be sitting across the desk from you; we may be sleeping in the same bed with you. “There will be no ompromises. We are not middle-class weaklings. Highly intelligent, we are the natural aristocrats of the human race, and steely-minded aristocrats never settle for less. Those who oppose us will be exiled. We shall raise vast private armies, as Mishima did, to defeat you. We shall conquer the world because warriors inspired by and banded together by homosexual love and honor are invincible as were the ancient Greek soldiers. “The family unit-spawning ground of lies, betrayals, mediocrity, hypocrisy and violence--will be abolished. The family unit, which only dampens imagination and curbs free will, must be eliminated. Perfect boys will be conceived and grown in the genetic laboratory. They will be bonded together in communal setting, under the control and instruction of homosexual savants. “All churches who condemn us will be closed. Our only gods are handsome young men. We adhere to a cult of beauty, moral and esthetic. All that is ugly and vulgar and banal will be annihilated. Since we are alienated from middle-class heterosexual conventions, we are free to live our lives according to the dictates of the pure imagination. For us too much is not enough. “The exquisite society to emerge will be governed by an elite comprised of gay poets. One of the major requirements for a position of power in the new society of homoeroticism will be indulgence in the Greek passion. Any man contaminated with heterosexual lust will be automatically barred from a position of influence. All males who insist on remaining stupidly heterosexual will be tried in homosexual courts of justice and will become invisible men. “We shall rewrite history, history filled and debased with your heterosexual lies and distortions. We shall portray the homosexuality of the great leaders and thinkers who have shaped the world. We will demonstrate that homosexuality and intelligence and imagination are inextricably linked, and that homosexuality is a requirement for true nobility, true beauty in a man. “We shall be victorious because we are fueled with the ferocious bitterness of the oppressed who have been forced to play seemingly bit parts in your dumb, heterosexual shows throughout the ages. We too are capable of firing guns and manning the barricades of the ultimate revolution. “Tremble, hetero swine, when we appear before you without our masks.”

I think most can agree the gay community has gone a long way in implementing quite a lot of their stated objectives in this “manifesto”. They’re tearing apart the traditional family. They’re attacking what it is to be women. Trying to erase the female gender completely. They’re going after our “sons” at school. They’ve got professors singing their praises in seminaries. They have powerful political friends, even in the GOP. They have powerful friends behind the pulpit. The corporate world already bows to them. Every day they grow more powerful.

The question is, do Christians allow them to complete their end game? Or do we continue to lower our eyes and stare at out feet while they ransack our society because we’re too afraid of being called names or of losing our popularity with non-Christians?

Make no mistake. If they win it’s entirely because weak, timid Christians allowed it to happen.

Just read this filth. It’s satanic.

We shall sodomize your sons

We shall seduce them in your schools *already happening

we are the natural aristocrats of the human race

Those who oppose us will be exiled (cancelled) *already happening

The family unit... will be abolished *already happening

Perfect boys will be conceived and grown in the genetic laboratory (i.e., women will be eliminated)

All churches who condemn us will be closed. *they’re certainly trying

Our only gods are handsome young men (i.e. themselves)

Heterosexual men will be punished for not embracing queerdom *already happening in the Entertainment industry

history will be re-written and distorted to portray gays as the only great contributors to art, science, law etc *Historical revisionism is already happening

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anamedblog · 1 year

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‘A dead man will lie’: a poetic resistance walk through Nâzım Hikmet’s Istanbul

Lennart Kruijer, ANAMED Post-doctoral Fellow (2022–2023)

The painting shown above, titled Death of the Poet, was painted in 1967 by Cihat Burak (1915–1994) and can be admired at Istanbul Modern, which hopefully will open again soon. On a rainy afternoon in November 2021, I spent a long time observing this colorful triptych.

It depicts the life and death of the famous Turkish poet, playwright, and novelist Nâzım Hikmet (1902–1963). In a semi-biographical fashion, Burak painted several key episodes and aspects of Hikmet’s eventful life: his early upbringing in a wealthy Ottoman family in Istanbul (top right); the almost fifteen years he spent in prisons across Turkey, a result of his communist sympathies (left); his innovative free-verse poetry, scribbled on the prison walls and bursting from his mind (top left); and, his enduring impact on new generations of protesters (right center). Instead of reiterating Hikmet’s biographical facts here—excellent biographies and introductions are available in English[1]—I want to use this blog post as an opportunity to follow some of the poet’s steps in Istanbul, the city he loved so much and missed so dearly while he was in prison, and later, during his exile in Russia and Bulgaria.[2] I hope that, by tracing Nâzım Hikmet’s Istanbul through poetry and photographs, some well-trodden places in the city may acquire new poetic layers.[3]

Our Nâzım-walk begins on Beyazit Square, the spacious stepped plaza with grey cobblestones in front of the elaborate gate to Istanbul University. Standing on the square, we see people moving in all directions, on their way to attend lectures, to go shopping in the Grand Bazaar, or to be on time for prayer at the nearby Beyazit Camii. Flocks of pigeons also cross the open space, frightened by the constant stream of traffic on the adjacent Ordu Caddesi or attracted by generous tourists sharing their simit. Nowadays, nothing on Beyazit Square reminds one of the tragedy that happened here approximately sixty years ago. A poem by Nâzım Hikmet, titled In Beyazit Square, however, vividly remembers what occurred:

In Beyazit Square

A dead man lies,

a youth of nineteen years,

in the sun by day,

under the stars by night,

in Istanbul, in Beyazit Square.

A dead man lies,

in one hand a notebook,

in one hand his dream gone

before it began, in April 1960,

in Istanbul, in Beyazit Square.

A dead man lies

shot

a bullet-wound

like a red carnation open on his forehead,

in Istanbul, in Beyazit Square.

A dead man will lie,

his blood seeping into the earth

until my country comes with arms and freedom songs

and takes

the great square

by force.

(Original title: Beyazıt Meydanı'ndaki Ölü , transl. by Ruth Christie, from Beyond the Walls, p. 218)[4]

Nâzım wrote this poem in May 1960 as a reaction to the student protests of the so-called “28–29 April Events” (28–29 Nisan Olayları) that took place in Istanbul and Ankara in April of that year. While socio-political unrest had already been building in Turkey for some time—not least because of a strong devaluation of the Turkish Lira and the related rise in commodity prices—these protests were particularly targeted at the authoritarian and repressive rule of the center-right Democrat Party (DP) which ruled in Turkey between 1950 and 1960. The Republican People's Party (CHP), forming the political opposition, was increasingly curtailed by bans on political gatherings, and İsmet İnönü, the party’s leader, was obstructed and even attacked while campaigning. The immediate cause of the protests was the installation of the so-called Committee of Inquest (Tahkikat Komisyonu), which effectively acted as a political court that imprisoned political opponents. During the Istanbul protests on Beyazit Square, the police used excessive violence against the protesting crowd. Besides hundreds of injured students and staff members, a 19-year-old student in Forestry Studies, Turan Emeksiz, was shot in the head and killed.

On the central panel of Burak’s painting, the death of Nâzım Hikmet is situated on Beyazit Square, purposefully conflating the poet’s death with that of his poem’s subject, Turan Emeksiz. This poetic license—Hikmet was not actually killed on the streets but died from a heart attack in Moscow—makes sense: it is likely that Nâzım wrote his poem because he felt a strong affinity with the much younger Turan. The painted metamorphosis and the triptych composition both add to the poem’s theme of resurrection, further evoking its suggestion that each generation produces new heroes, new voices against oppression and social injustice. Years before the horrible events of April 1960, Nâzım had already written about this theme in the magnificent epic poem about Sheikh Bedreddin, a fifteenth-century ‘socialist’ peasant in western Anatolia, whose short-lived revolt was ultimately violently suppressed by the Sultan—staged by Hikmet as a preview of the twentieth-century social revolts he so much supported (“When we say Bedreddin will come again we are saying that his words, his eyes, his breath, will come again through our midst”).

While contemplating these prophetic words, we take Ordu Caddesi and walk to Sultanahmet Square. On the southern side of that square, you can see an imposing building that is strikingly yellow. Between 1938 and 1939, and again in 1950, Nâzım was imprisoned here. The Sultanahmet Jail, also known as the Dersaadet Cinayet Tevkifhanesi (Dersaadet Murder Jail), was one of the most notorious prisons of the city, particularly used to imprison writers, journalists, intellectuals, and artists that were considered political dissidents. Orhan Kemal, a good friend of Nâzım and another influential Turkish author, also spent time behind bars here.[5] Nowadays, the building has been repurposed to accommodate the wealthy, serving as the luxurious environs of the Four Seasons Hotel. The hotel proudly advertises its former use as a prison, exclaiming on their website that “It's not every day you get to stay in a century-old Turkish prison, refurbished for luxury living.” Nâzım Hikmet wrote several poems during his imprisonment here; the following one was written in 1939. I fantasized about reciting it out loud to hotel guests entering and leaving the building or writing it as graffiti on those tempting yellow walls:

In Istanbul, in Tevkifane Prison Yard

In Istanbul, in Tevkifane prison yard,

A sunny winter’s day after the rain,

Clouds, red roof tiles, walls and my face

Trembling in the puddles on the ground.

I am so brave in my spirit, so cowardly,

Whatever there is, strong or weak,

I carry it all,

I thought of the world, my country, and you…

(Original title: İstanbul'da, Tevkifane avlusunda, transl. by Richard McKane, from Beyond the Walls, p. 97)

From the Sultanahmet Prison, we continue our tour, walking across Sultanahmet Square, passing the Hagia Sofia, and then turning right to Gülhane Park, behind Topkapı Sarayı. For once, you are allowed to ignore all these well-known touristic attractions! Instead, go into the park and try to find a walnut tree like the one on the picture. Then read the following poem:

The Walnut Tree

My head is a foaming cloud, inside and outside I’m the sea.

I am a walnut tree in Gülhane Park,

an old walnut tree with knots and scars.

You don’t know this and the police don’t either.

I am a walnut tree in Gülhane Park.

My leaves sparkle like fish in water,

my leaves flutter like silk handkerchiefs.

Break one off, my darling, and wipe your tears.

My leaves are my hands—I have a hundred thousand hands.

Istanbul I touch you with a hundred thousand hands.

My leaves are my eyes, and I am shocked at what I see.

I look at you, Istanbul, with a hundred thousand eyes,

And my leaves beat, beat with a hundred thousand hearts.

I am a walnut tree in Gülhane Park.

You don’t know this and the police don’t either.

(original title: Ceviz Ağacı, transl. by Richard McKane, from Beyond the Walls, p. 197)

This popular poem was written while Nâzım traveled to Bal��ık (Bulgaria), where he stayed in exile. In some sense, it evokes a feeling of absence, the fate of a fugitive in hiding; the author seems to yearn for his Istanbul roots—a recurrent theme in his later work, especially. A romantic but unverified story goes that Nâzım based the poem on a memory of Gülhane Park from several years before, when he was already sought after by the police. While waiting in the park to meet secretly with his former lover Piraye, he witnessed two cops approaching in the distance, who had been tipped off by an untrustworthy ‘friend.’ Not knowing where to run, Nâzım allegedly decided to climb the nearest walnut tree and hid among its foliage. From there, he saw how the cops, but also Piraye, were looking for him—in vain. Many Turkish people know The Walnut Tree by heart, not in the least through rock musician Cem Karaca’s famous interpretation. Like Nâzım himself, it has become a symbol of resistance. The poem acquired further prominence during the 2013 Istanbul Gezi Park protests, when it featured on the banners and in speeches of the defenders of the park and its trees.[6] As is well known, this peaceful sit-in ended in an extremely violent eviction by the police, killing 22 people and injuring thousands. Returning from Fatih back to ANAMED, you might want to take a little detour and consider Gezi Park the last stop of this poetic resistance walk.

My leaves are my eyes, and I am shocked at what I see. From Bedreddin to Turan Emeksiz to Gezi. Looking at Istanbul through his poems and through the canvas of Burak’s painting, Hikmet would probably still be shocked at what he saw today.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[1] Edward Timms and Saime Göksü, Romantic Communist: the life and Work of Nâzım Hikmet (London: Hurst, 1999).

[2] Some caveats are in place here: I am not a literary scholar, let alone a specialist on the work of Hikmet. I merely write about this subject as a passionate reader of his poetry. Furthermore, I realize many more places and poems could have been included here. Among these, I should definitely mention the Nâzım Hikmet Kültür Merkezi in Kadıköy, which has a great bookstore and a lovely tea garden.

[3] Poetry schmoetry, what about the white cat in the painting?! It seems that Burak painted a so-called Van cat (Van kedisi), which are known for their fluffy white fur and heterochromic eyes; the cute specimen in the painting has a blue and a yellow eye. Hikmet wrote about the presence of cats in the prisons where he stayed (see, for example, the poem Lodos,which was written in Bursa prison), but most likely the painted cat is a reference to the third poem Hikmet ever wrote, Samiye’nin Kedisi, an ode to the old and scruffy cat of his sister Samiye.

[4] I will provide several citations from Hikmet’s work, in English translation. Although I believe in Robert Frost’s dictum that poetry is what gets lost in translation, I think Hikmet’s poetry deserves to be read by non-Turkish readers also. Fortunately, excellent translations are available; I quote primarily from the 2002 volume Nâzım Hikmet. Beyond the Walls. Selected Poems, with translations by Ruth Christie, Richard McKane, and Talât Sait Halman, the latter of whose insightful introduction I also used.

[5] Orhan Kemal and Nâzım Hikmet did not spend time together in this prison. They had become friends in the Bursa Prison, where they stayed between 1940 and 1943. Kemal’s moving memoir In Jail with Nâzım Hikmet (2012, translated by Bengisu Rona) gives a detailed account of these early years. The small but charming Orhan Kemal Museum in Cihangir, not far from ANAMED, also contains some pictures and letters attesting to their friendship.

[6] See Kim Fortuny’s excellent article “Nâzım Hikmet’s ecopoetics and the Gezi Park protests;” Fortuny 2016, Middle Eastern Literatures 19, no. 2: 162–84.

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jialeysa · 2 years

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Taste of Past

While I’m walking on the side of the Mother Church of Palawan which is the Immaculate Conception Cathedral Parish. I was walking towards the park where I always hang out and where i can think properly without any distractions.

When I was nearing my destination, I saw a couple. I feel their love for each other, I saw a lot of kids playing happily. I remembered when i was a young I went throught that too i became dirty, injured. And being happy, have a freedom to play and everything, remembering that past making me think what happen to me why I came in this situation did I do something wrong that's why I'm facing this kind of problem.

As I go to the seat where I can see the sea and I can breathe fresh air, I thought about taking a picture first to post on my instagram, after taking a picture. An old lady came into my place and ask me if I'm with someone I said no one and she ask me again if she can sit beside me, I letd her, after a minutes she suddenly spoke and ask me Do you know the story behind this place? I said no she speak again and said Let me tell you a story, a story behind this beautiful place named “PLAZA QUARTEL”. She gently start talking and I listen carefully. She’s start talking about the previous war that happened during

their time. “I nodded”.

Old lady: In my time, I witnessed the war that happened right here in this park.

While I was listening I was amazed at what her was saying. I can see in his two eyes how chaotic this park used to be.

(She’s continuing talking.)

Old lady: I saw how the Japanese People burn and kill the 150 American Prisoners alive.

Plaza Cuartel looks like your ordinary city park with concrete pavements, towering trees and benches. The ruins of an old garrison and tunnels are proof of its grim past. Plaza Cuartel is the site of Palawan Massacre. The tunnels were where 150 American prisoners of war were kept during World War II. But on December 14, 1944, the Japanese decided to kill them all by burning them alive. Many perished but eleven prisoners were able to survive and escape the mass execution.

I was confuse why they need to get on that point that they can kill people easily.

Old lady: Some of American Prisoners survive, they swam to the river going to Iwahig to escape. One of the survivors is Dr. Higinio Mendoza. The remains of the Death were brought and buried at St.Louis Country at A general Grave in JEFFERSON

BARPACKS NATIONAL CFMETERY, MISSOURI,ESTADOS UNIDOS, 1952.

*she’s continuing the Background of The Plaza Quartel.

Old lady: Do you want to know about Dr. Higinio Mendoza

Me: “Yes”, i nodded

Old lady: Great! “So let me introduce to you Dr. Higinio Mendoza one of the survivor of the World War II. Dr. Higinio Mendoza died for this country. He chose to face death rather than betray his country and his people. Before he died, he left these words to his family and fellowmen: “Do not be afraid, don’t be sad. Not many are given the privilege to die for his country.” In the Mendoza Park, the city's central square, where his remains were interred, his memory has been preserved. He worked as the governor of Palawan from 1931 to 1938. He is a doctor by training. He completed his higher education in Manila as well as in the USA, where he studied medicine and afterwards worked. Higinio was allowed to speak in public despite being held captive by the Japanese. In one of them, he said “ It’s good that they chanced upon me in the house with my family. Had I been in the camp with my soldiers, there would be much bloodshed and I would never surrender,”. In 1947 they found the group of civilians but not in the grave. They’re now buried at Mendoza Park. Higinio would have escaped death had he accepted allegiance to the Japanese flag. But he refused not to serve in the Japanese government. Because for him, loyalty to his country and to his people is more upright, and should be his paramount consideration. He willingly offered his life for the people of Palawan and for his country.”

She gave me a sweet smile after she finished her story.

Old lady: Oh! I’ll go ahead, Thank You for listening Hija, I hope you learned a lot from it. /*she start to fix her dress and she stand up to prepare to leave.

Me: Thank you so much Lady, I learned a Lot from you. /* i smile back at her.

Before she leave, I picked up my phone and we took a picture, so we can have memories.

She left and after that I stayed there a few minutes and thinking what the old lady said to me after rewinding my mind I left and go home.

#palawan #21st century

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mariacallous · 2 years

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It is 3.30pm and Suna Hamanawa, 25, is doing what she and dozens of other Afghan mothers do most days: whiling her time away on a park bench in Viktoria Square, a scruffy plaza in central Athens, as her children play around her. Like almost every other asylum seeker, she is relieved to be in Greece.

“We’re better here, we’re safer here even though me and my husband and our first little one [initially] spent 10 months in Moria,” she says, screwing up her face at the memory of the notoriously overcrowded and fire-ravaged refugee camp on Lesbos.

“But every day, in its own way, is a fresh hell. The Greek government does nothing. It just keeps saying ‘wait, wait, wait’. And that’s what we do all day, every day. Wait for our papers, wait for our travel documents. Wait for freedom.”

A year after Afghanistan’s fall to the Taliban, Greece continues to be the first port of call for thousands of people fleeing the country’s worsening humanitarian crisis. After Ukrainians, Afghans account for the second-largest group of asylum applicants in the EU and by far the biggest in Greece, where more than 37,000 – more than a third of the total number registered nationwide – have filed asylum claims.

Hamanawa, who arrived in Lesbos with her husband, Mohammed, in a dinghy from Turkey in 2018, waited four years to become one of the estimated 28,500 Afghans to secure refugee status – a protracted period of legal limbo that is vastly at odds with other refugees, not least those from Ukraine.

In a recent report, the International Rescue Committee (IRC) chronicled Afghan refugees’ difficulties in Greece and the serious impact on their physical and mental health.

Of the 192 Afghans monitored by the organisation’s mental health teams between April 2021 and March 2022, about 97% had reported symptoms of depression, while 50% had considered suicide, the IRC report said.

“Many Afghans fleeing conflict and persecution in their own country think their troubles will be over once they reach Europe … This is simply not the case,” says Dimitra Kalogeropoulou, the IRC’s Greece director.

“Instead, people face the stark reality of violent pushbacks from Greek borders, months or years living in fear of being sent back to Turkey or Afghanistan, where they could face untold horrors, extended periods trapped in prison-like reception conditions, far from towns and cities and an alarming lack of support to begin rebuilding their lives,” she says.

For the estimated 70,000 Ukrainians who have sought refuge in Greece, it has been a different story. After Russia’s invasion on 24 February, the EU moved quickly to issue a temporary protection directive to safeguard the rights of people desperate to leave the war-torn country.

Although relatively few Ukrainians have headed to Greece, the reception they have received there has been unusually warm, with senior officials often referring to the newcomers as “real refugees”.

It was vital, said the IRC report, that Afghans were also guaranteed access to full and fair asylum procedures and given “dignified” support with accommodation and integration.

“While the Greek government has welcomed refugees from Ukraine, by efficiently registering them, issuing legal documents and allowing immediate access to employment, Afghans in Greece, alongside other asylum seekers and refugees, continue to be isolated from the Greek society in which they seek to rebuild their lives,” the report’s authors wrote. “Even after receiving status, refugees have limited integration support.”

The biggest barrier for Afghans claiming asylum is the Greek government’s controversial decision to label Turkey a “safe third country” for people not only from Afghanistan but also from Bangladesh, Pakistan, Somalia and Syria. The decision has prevented thousands of people from being able to explain why they need international protection.

“We’ve been here for four years,” says Khorshid Ahmadi, 26, as she plays with her children in Viktoria Square. “My family’s request for asylum has been rejected three times. They keep saying we should return to Turkey, even if Turkey doesn’t take anyone back from Greece.”

As a result, she says, neither she, her husband nor their five children have legal status or any right to housing or cash assistance.

Greece’s centre-right government insists it pursues a “tough but fair” migration and asylum policy. Accusations of pushbacks – despite overwhelming evidence – have been strongly denied. But keeping asylum seekers at bay remains a priority. In September, the migration minister, Notis Mitarachi, noted that the country had blocked about 50,000 migrants from entering Greece in August alone.

Amid renewed tensions with Turkey, the public order minister in Athens claimed last month that every night about 1,500 people gathered at the land border with Turkey were attempting to cross as a result of Ankara’s policy to “weaponise” migration and push asylum seekers into Greek territory.

As one of Europe’s most southerly states, Greece was the main entry point for more than 800,000 Syrians when the refugee crisis first engulfed the continent in 2015. After the adoption of a controversial pact aimed at stemming flows between the EU and Turkey in March 2016, the influx dropped steeply.

As patrols have been reinforced, with the help of the EU’s border agency Frontex, the number has fallen further in recent years, particularly arrivals on the north Aegean islands facing the Turkish coast, where most asylum seekers at the height of the crisis were located. The decline prompted the Greek prime minister, Kyriakos Mitsotakis, to boast last week that smuggling networks had been largely cracked.

International bodies have echoed the IRC in rebuking Athens for resorting to tactics of brute force to keep asylum seekers out.

Concluding a 10-day fact-finding tour of Greece in June, Mary Lawlor, the UN special rapporteur for human rights defenders, accused the Mitsotakis government of creating a “climate of fear”, not only for refugees and asylum seekers fleeing poverty and persecution but also for groups defending migrants’ rights on the ground. Illegal evictions of asylum seekers at land and sea borders had become a general policy in Greece, she said.

Last week, Mitarachi insisted the government would continue to replace open-air camps on frontline islands, such as Lesbos, with barbed-wire encircled “closed controlled” access centres, and would push ahead with plans to extend a border fence along the Evros land frontier with Turkey.

Mohamad Mirzay, Greece’s Afghan community spokesperson, who arrived in the country in 2006 at the age of 14, says: “Every day, we hear from families back home of Afghans being lost at the border.

“One of our biggest problems is that a lot of young Afghans whose asylum claims are rejected get into drugs, a problem we are now trying to address as a community. It’s all so very hard. Very few want to stay here, they don’t want to endanger their future. For sure, you could say, Ukrainians get very different treatment.”

Sofia Kouvelaki, who heads the Home project, an NGO that supports unaccompanied minors, said: “Ukrainian refugees have proved a point. In Greece, and in the EU, they have shown that if we want to integrate we can, and if we want to welcome people with a human face we can do that too.”

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szczutek · 10 days

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Activism

Judith Butler: Bodies in Alliance and Politics of the Street in Sensible Politics

Butler explores the relation of the body its representation in relation to order – otherwise called „theatre of legitimacy”. The way actions, status and context of the two in relation to place can have revolutionary effects or the opposite, and how in more modern context the media is placed into this equation. Butler also disputes the idea that the eye of the media is not a viable form of „body”/that media presence does not demonstrate in the same way physical occupation demonstrates (establishes itself in a public space). This is, however, disputable since 2012 when Butler made this argument as more commonly brief media show of solidarity has largely replaced physical occupation of space. In this way despite its larger numbers it more easily governable than a breathing crowd, through censhorship, algorithms (as Butler has made evident the fact that „the dominant media are corporately owned” and thus benefit from their role in the theatre of legitimacy.)

•Theatre of Legitimacy: theatre/appearance of a regime „is no longer unproblematically housed in public space, since public space now occurs in the midst of another action, one that displaces the power that claims legitimacy precisely by taking over the field of its effects.”

•„just as they sometimes fill or take over a public space, the material history of those structures also works on them, becoming part of their very action” à actions placed in context, targeting sites of political wounding or of social significance in order to wound.

•„Such a struggle intervenes the spatial organisation of power, which includes the allocation and restriction of spatial locations in which and by which any population may appear, which implies a spatial regulation of when and how the ‚popular will’ may appear.”

•„Tahrir Square” à 25 January Revolution in Egypt in response to police brutality, state-of-emergency laws, lack of political freedom, corruption, unemployment, inflation etc of the Hosni Mubarak regime. Butler specifically references the occupations of plazas.

•Mubarak regime’s „entrenched hierarchies [...] differentials of wealth between the military and corporate sponsors of the regime and the working people.” à In the resistance „how people cared for their various quaters within the square, the beds on the pavement” etc. The theatre of legitimacy is not only in the politics of the regime but in the values it enforces. Occupying the public space, there is no division like in the home or the workplace, women and men, abled and disabled, people of all backgrounds exist in a new temporary social structure that destabilises the previously enforced, even if just from observing and not partaking. „they were breaking fown a conventional distinction between public and private in order to establish new relations of equality; in this sense they were incorporating into the very social form of resistance the principles they were struggling to realise in broader political forms.”

•Chants of silmiyya „a gentle exhortation: peaceful, peaceful” – „the collective chant was a way of encouraging people to resist the mimetic pull of military aggression.” à a space previously governed by regime, thus incentivised for violence, being reestablished and furthermore pushed towards nonviolence in order to sever theatre of legitimacy. „language worked not to incite inaction, but to restrain one”

•On media revolution Butler poses two initial questions: How does media revolution make actual bodies less central to the political action? How important was the locatedness of bodies in the events that took place?

•„Will the Palestinians have their Tahrir Square?” -> Butler did not mention this without reason: the Palestinian question being a timeless territorial battle with annexation, theft of land and colonisation narrowing the field of resistance. I would write that the relevance has increased but it has always been relevant since the Nakba, the land has been thieved along with places of cultural and political significance (‚Tahrir Squares’ of Palestine). 2021 saw expulsion of whole neighborhoods in Sheikh Jarrah to make room for Israeli settlers. Where is the Tahrir Square in a colonial/settler conflict as opposed to the civil conflict? The rules of the game change when you step into territory that is not ‚yours’ on paper.

•„The street scenes become politically potent only when and if we have a visual and audible version of the scene communicated in live or proximate time, so that the media does not merely report the scene, but is part of the scene and action” – If a tree falls in a forest allegory. -> Aaron Bushnell

•„the freedom of the media to broadcast from these sites is itself an exercise of freedom and so a mode of exercising [...] This is doubtless why both Hosni Mubarak and David Cameron, eight months apart, both argued for the censorship of social media networks. At least in some instances, the media not only report on social and political movements that are laying claim to freedom and justice in various ways; the media also are exxercising one of those freedoms” „[...] that Twitter and other virtual technologies have led to disembodiment of the public sphere, I disagree. [...] But under conditions when those with cameras or Internet capacities are imprisoned or tortured or deported, the use of the technology effectively implicates the body.”

•Rob Nixon’s ‚slow violence’: a measure of violence that is not summarised by a casualty count or immediate damage but by the chemical and structural violence committed à e.g. long term effects of white phosphorous bombs on Gaza poisoning the sea, environmental effects of war. Slow violence also focuses on „narrative ways in which to make this slow violence visible and accountable.”

• „what lies beyond the first-hand sensory, or even the time-span of human perception” à Effects of nuclear warfare on Hiroshima/Nagasaki, Vietnam

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