#dutch colonisation

[southeastasianhistories]

Over the week that we spend in Bali, Pak Arwen, the minivan driver, becomes friendly with my father. This happens because they are both Indonesian-Chinese – which is to say that they share a shiver down the spine regarding certain historical dates, political figures and tribalist slurs.

At some point, when it became too difficult to be Chinese in Sumatra, each man's family gambled the present for its future. My father's fled for Singapore and Pak Arwen's for Bali. Decades later, the two men occupy different stations in life: my father plays a tuan to Pak Arwen's supir. But their shared memory of this gamble – and the conditions that forced it – levels the playing field a little.

Both men, being Christian-Chinese, have lived the parable about the pillar of salt. They understand the importance of moving forward, eyes fixed to the line on the horizon.

Is Pak Arwen looking forward or backward when he tells us: This is too much? He says this as we drive past a large banner, stirring in the breeze by the side of the road. The banner is bright red, with a slogan in block capitals: TOLAK REKLAMASI TELUK BENOA. Resist the reclamation of Benoa Bay.

This is one of the first non-English signs that we've seen all day, which makes me think that it's not for tourists. Or perhaps it's for a specific kind of tourist – the kind that's stayed here long enough to perceive that something isn't on offer to them, and want a part in it anyway.

My father asks: What do you mean?

And Pak Arwen responds, one hand circling the steering wheel for eloquence: Nothing is good enough here. Roads, land, water…

The road in front of us is marked by potholes; the banner speaks of land problems. What about water? I sprint through some figures: say there are 5,000 hotels here plus hundreds of unregistered villas, and each one has a pool…

I think about the news stories that I have read, on The Jakarta Post and Al Jazeera. Impossible to describe how much of this island's water goes into making, and maintaining, glamour. Each week, scores of foreign developers reach into Bali's south coast, summoning up yoga studios and restaurants by the dozen. Trump shakes hands with Harry Tanoe and a golfer's empire materialises, sun-bleached and thirsty by the gallon.

But all this diverts water from the poorer North, where most locals live. In this land of glassy infinity pools, more than half the rivers have already run dry. Streams still criss-cross the terraced rice fields of Ubud. But deeper underground, the freshwater banks are pulling back from parched earth. Bali's farmers live the reality that its tourists cannot see – at night, they sleep in their fields with one eye open for irrigation thieves.

Later, I root around online for more stories about Benoa Bay. I learn that Tommy Winata, the Indonesian billionaire, is trying to reclaim land there. He wants to coax hectares of malls, theme parks and an F1 track out of swampland. But this floating world will crush the coral reefs that protect Bali's coastline and keep the sea at bay. Eventually it will flood the island, dragging whole villages into the sea.

In a place like Bali – I tell myself – the supply of pleasure must always meet the demand for it. Even if it costs the future for some people; even if it means death.

After all this is paradise, where nothing ever runs out.

.

Let me tell you another story about Bali that I know. This one is a creation story, concerning the beginnings of paradise.

Imagine that the year is 1906. Bali is an island divided. Dutch forces have occupied the northern territories, leaving three Hindu kingdoms where once there were six. Today, they begin the march south to complete their reign, winding downwards from Tabanan to Badung to the offshore court of Klungkung.

This story is an old one, whose basic tenets are familiar to many people around the world. At heart, it is a story about mismatched means and ends: guns versus kris, ambition versus ancestral claims.

The Dutch troops begin their journey. Quickly, they pass through the city of Kesiman to reach their first stop, Denpasar. At first, the city streets seem too quiet: where is the resistance that they come ready to meet? But as the soldiers advance, they hear something stirring in the distance, from the direction of Denpasar palace: the faint but unmistakable pulse of drums.

And so they go on. As they near the palace, a procession of silent figures files out from its gates. From a distance, they spy the Raja on his palanquin surrounded by courtiers and priests, wives and guards, and children and servants. There are hundreds of people now, robed in white with dusty feet. Flowers laced into their hair.

Both parties, the Dutch and the Balinese, advance. Now there are 200 paces between them; now, 100. The gap between two worlds is narrowing. Then it closes for the century to come, and possibly forever: a puputan commences. The Raja steps down from his palanquin and gives a signal. Instantly someone lunges forward and knifes him in the chest. Motion erupts across the landscape as men force weapons into their children, then stab themselves. Women fling jewels into the air and then topple, wailing, onto their knives.

Dark liquid starts to fill the ground. A metallic scent rises. But Balinese people keep emerging from the palace in a slow, unstoppable stream. When they're within sight of the Dutch troops, they plunge forward onto their daggers, then collapse into the growing snarl of limbs.

Their bodies cover the ground, both protest and decree.

By this point the Dutch soldiers have opened fire, then ceased fire, then opened fire again. They don't know what to do. Several centuries of colonial rule have left them untrained for situations involving consent – and this seems like more than consent, seems close to an invitation. Eventually, they resort to doing what they know best – which is to seize what isn't on offer, looting the corpses for anything that gleams through the sticky mess of fluids.

There will be two more puputans before Bali falls completely, both of them photographed. Eventually, these pictures will cause a kind of moral backlash in Europe, with the thumping of Bibles and pontifical braying. Desperate to hold on to their empire, the Dutch will announce a new resolution: from now on, they will protect Balinese culture and not gun it down. In fact, they resolve to protect Balinese culture so soundly that it never changes from its present state or experiences the advancements of modern life.

Let the world move slowly here, their edicts declare. Progress is not for the pure of heart. Which is what the Balinese people are, presumably – puputans notwithstanding.

For decades to come, Dutch laws will force the Balinese people to wear Baju Endek and not linen pants – to converse in local dialects and not Malay, the regional code of rebellion. All over the island, atap roofs will sprout over modern innovations in galvanised iron. Whole dances will be invented for the Balinese people to perfect, then unleash upon large groups of tourists.

Soon, these tourists will be everywhere, scouring the island with their notepads at the ready – fresh from the war in Europe, and hungry for visions of innocence. Look at this place, they'll say, pointing at random to rice fields and bare-chested women. What authentic culture; what happy natives! So simple and contented with their lot.

They'll forget about the puputans, the cold carpet of bodies.

Bali becomes a paradise on earth.

Island Paradise, Tjoa Shze Hui

#bali #indonesia #tourism #dutch colonisation

[jovianwishes]

Malaysia that was occupied by Ned for 180 years 🤝 Indonesia that was occupied by Ned for 350 years

#hetalia #hws netherlands #hws malaysia #hws indonesia #technically Indonesia wasnt fully colonised and neither was Malaysia but the Dutch had monopolised the entire trade there #and also acted if they owned the place (with everything included) #also threw portugal out #so you can basically consider it colonised

[robotpussy]

I cannot trust Charlize Theron, more than I already don't trust white women because she is a white south african

#like thats a double whammy white south africans are some of the worst you are not African you are dutch you are British you are a coloniser

[catsniffer420]

i kinda hope hell is real so that all colonisers and perpetrators/supporters of genocide are burning eternally ☺️

sadly i am not religious so i don’t believe this is the case, but a girl from a southeast asian country with a history of brutal european occupation and genocide can dream

#i’m reading a book about the history of indonesia for the first time ever and it is making me emotional [bad] #i grew up privileged in australia but my ethnicity has roots in a colonised people #my family are the ones who survived 350+ years of ongoing warfare genocide slavery and violence #like wtf. reading about this is fucked up. what was Wrong with those dutch colonisers holy shit #greed is so horrible…… i wish humans were peaceful…… #diary #negativity )/):&/&: i just feel upset i needed to vent

[tragedykery]

severely underestimated the time it would take to read through (and, more importantly, understand) 17th century legal documents

#shaking the first charter of virginia what does it mean what does it all mean #I understand most of the document now but there’s this one fucking paragraph that’s just. ugh #I have no clue what the fuck it says #elli rambles #why did I choose this subject 😭😭 why couldn’t I have chosen the colonisation of indonesia and/or suriname instead #at least those documents would be in dutch #the thing is idk who to ask for help. I don’t really know any native english speakers well enough to ask 😭😭 #local guy tries to work on their essay. complete and utter failure (and pending mental breakdown) #vent

[writtenonbone]

Me, confusing dane w dutch: yea thors right fuck em

#cbs ghosts #for context my country was colonised by the dutch for a veeeery long time

[breaking-news-portal]

Independence Day 2022: Imperial Countries Who Ruled Parts Of India Other Than Britishers

Independence Day 2022: Imperial Countries Who Ruled Parts Of India Other Than Britishers

Medieval India drew a lot of attention from invaders and western imperial nations because of the natural riches, high-quality cotton and silk it produced. Indian spices like cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, and pepper found a large market in Europe. With the development of the Portuguese commerce hub at Quilon (Kollam), it is believed that the colonial era in India began.  India has a history of being…

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#August 15 #azadi ka amrit mahotsav #british raj #Colonisation #Dutch India #European countries #French India #Har Ghar Tiranga #imperialism #Independence Day #Independence Day 2022 #India at 75 #Portuguese India

[probablyasocialecologist]

Like the French in Algeria, the Dutch in Indonesia and South Africa, the Belgians in the Congo, the Spaniards in South America and the Europeans in North America, the Zionists have also dehumanised the natives of the land as a precursor to or justification for guilt-free repression and violence. But colonialism must not be conflated with Judaism. If anything, the Jews have historically been the victims of racism for centuries, rendering many of them anti-colonialists.

[...]

Although Israel claims it has “no choice”, its occupation is in fact driven by strategy, not by necessity. Throughout the past six decades, Israel has controlled the Palestinian territories in part to colonise them through hundreds of illegal settlements on stolen Palestinian lands, in part to hold their population hostage until their leaders accept its political dictates, which is by definition a form of state terrorism, which means using violence against civilians for political ends.

#israel #palestine #zionism #settler colonialism

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

do you ever imagine what it would be like if instead of just dubbing and losing all the britishness in translation, what had happened with doctor who was national adaptations like they do with game shows like masterchef or whatever or uh skam thats a better comparison, and every country had their own series of doctors, all at different numbers like if the dutch show spinned off when the english was at 4 or smth but we just started with our own dutch doctor number 1

and maybe they'd like start off just sort of copying stories and localising them but then as time goes on these national spin offs would you know start building on their own lore and seasonal arcs that would get removed further and further from the british original until it's like 2024 and you've got 15 national doctor whos running somewhat simultaneously all in different seasons and all preoccupied with INCREDIBLY different stories

it'd be like 'whos your favourite doctor' and you'd be like uh the polish 3rd or the brazilian 12th it's a toss up. what if some countries go through doctors way faster and theyre like on doctor 44 and youre like WHAT are they DOING to them

and can you imagne the fucking CNAONS can yuo IMAGINE can you IMAGINE the FANDOM when SOMEone decided to make looms canon and all the losers come out of the woodwork to say well thats not REALLY canon bc it's not the british version. imagine the localisations, the reinforcements of every countrys national history. what would countries who have more history being colonised than colonising do with gallifrey. how would every Important PartTM of the show be transformed by the perspective of another team. what even are identified as the Important PartsTM of the show. maybe one country decides the tardis should change appearance every week. maybe one country is like we're just gonna put all the edas on television. the amount of OPINIONS can you imagine

#anyway im gonna think about who i'd want to play dutch doctor who now #i dont think i know enough dutch actors i dont watch a lot of dutch tv fhkjghjkh #it's fun to imagine tho #if only bc we'd get 10 times the doctor who #i think it's just interesting to think about bc doctor who is so british #like to think about okay what would WE do with this #what would dutch doctor who look like #what are the national values that would be revealed #also just to see so many more actors get a chance at the role would be really fun #to compare stories #like parallel timelines

[intersectionalpraxis]

Shailja Patel on X, formerly known as Twitter writes: This is why colonised people have the RIGHT to armed resistance under international law. Hamas is an anti-colonial resistance movement. Like the Kenya Land and Freedom Army. Like the ANC. Like Frelimo. Like the French, Polish, and Dutch resistance to Nazi occupation. [source: @ shailjapatel] Context: They are reacting to a post made by Middle East Eye on X- "Freed Palestinian children say fellow prisoners were 'tortured to death'" [11/27/23]

#feminist #feminism #social justice #freepalastine🇵🇸 #palestine #free palestine #free gaza #israel is a terrorist state #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #current events

[toskarin]

You joke, but ‘ in a world where the gestalt misery of colonisation's victims has manifested into a sort of misery elemental’ is basically the plot of an actual game. Though its by a dutch dev team not french

it is also the plot of an actual french game, E.Y.E Divine Cybermancy

#to be fair E.Y.E is dense and even people who've played it often forget this is the premise because it dives away from it

[inkareds]

Colonisers || MCU Namor

nav // marvel m.list // ko-fi ✧.*word count: 6k ✧.* warnings: violence, blood, murder, white ppl being demonised, a lot and I mean a lot of murder, kinda ooc Namor, focused more on the reader's journey instead of the romance aspect, kinda soulmate au (oh black panther 2 spoilers FYI) ✧.* genre: NSFW, fluff, no smut, but violence

Transitioning from a soldier, fighting for your nation's independence, to a supposed beacon of diplomacy after your nation finally was free was difficult. Especially when the man in your dreams on the days that you were more violent beckons you to the ocean.

A bit of an author's note before we start, the reader here is heavily referenced to be Indonesian, or at the very least of South East Asian heritage and the time period around 1945-1949. But both of these are kind of irrelevant if you ignore the food and geography. This is important because there are some details like the colonisers here being blonde and blue eyes (Dutch) and them colonising the 'nation' for 350 years is true to Indonesia's history.

I wanted to write more about other cultures but because I am not really the best person for that I wrote what was most personal to me. And just a bit of a warning ik I said soulmate au but Namor plays a small part here. It's mostly about the reader's struggles! Other than that please enjoy (p.s most of the references here about the war, genocide, etc etc is actually true to Indo's history)

How was it that even after 350 years of pain and suffering, you and your people had to suffer more and more? You had thought that by becoming a sovereign nation, you and your people could be free from the colonisers who plagued the fertile soils of your homeland. But they have yet to leave, and they have yet to apologize. 

Even here, as you now sat, a diplomat to your country in front of the leaders of the nation who oppressed your own, they judge you. Their eyes analyse you as they try and rip you to shreds with their gaze. Was it not enough? Was three hundred and fifty years of oppression not enough for them? Would it be so terrible for them to free you all now? 

All those thoughts come to a halt when your leader called you to speak. You stood when the council allowed you to, “As my President has spoken to all of you before. We are not here to ask for reprimands, we do not demand aid nor do we demand money for all the suffering your people have caused us. We simply ask that you leave. There are still many of your people on our lands, spiting our men and women. For the sake of peace, we ask that you urge them back to their home country. If this continues on, our people will act accordingly.” You warned the leaders in front of you. 

Just as you and your president had predicted, they went on the defensive, one of them stood up once you sat. “Are you implying that we should take people who only share our blood but never even touch our soil back here? Those people were born and raised in your now sovereign country. They are your people now. They are no longer our issue anymore. It is not our fault that you are too blind to see you are not able to lead a country without us.” 

Now it was your president’s turn to speak, you could already tell he was enraged by the insults thrown your way. “With all due respect, General, I beg to differ. The people of living within your  country still think of ‘these people’ as their own. As even if they have never gone to your country, your country’s people still view them as family and vice versa. These people in our land still mock our natives. They still adopt the mentality that they are greater. If this were to continue our nation’s people will be pushed to violence.” 

As the meeting droned on, you realise slowly what was happening. There will be no resolution nor an end to this. They will never take their people back because it would be too much work, not to mention the fact that they still have their people in your home means that they still have some control over your people. They can always go back once they’re ready and take back your nation. 

Anxiety overtook you on your flight back home. Your only companion, your president, held your hand tightly against his own. A vain attempt to ease you. It was your idea to go to them, to ask and to plead with them. You did not want more blood to spill on your lands. Your people had seen too much war and had seen too much violence. Brutality would be etched into your history books, though you did not wish it to be so. 

You wish for a better life for your people. A life where they could live just as they want to. A life farming the lands for what is in season, not what they are told to harvest. A life sailing the seas, diving the oceans, not bombing the sea beds as they were forced to. 

But even as you were a beacon of peace and prosperity to your people. They can only take so much. 

That much was clear when you landed on the runway and left the plane, reporters hounded both you and the president. 

“Was the discussion successful?” “Do you have anything to comment about the recent meetings?” “What did they have to say about their brutal history here?” “Have they apologized yet?” “Are there any plans for future collaboration or communication?”

You stayed quiet, knowing anything that leaves your mouth would only stroke the fires of anger within your people’s hearts. You only wish for peace. An end to this war. But your president, a beacon of the brutal fight for independence, a stark contrast to yours of peace within diplomacy, had different ideas. “I will not entertain the idea of collaboration with such a nation ever again. Not after the insults thrown at my companion’s way.” he gestured towards you. 

Your eyes only grew wide at his statement. This will surely anger your people. Quickly trying to control crowd damage you spoke to another reporter. “We were lucky enough to be met with respect and dignity, although it is true the meeting did not end well. I have high hopes for diplomacy between our two countries.” Before you could say anything more you were already dragged away by your bodyguards. 

Packed into a small Chrysler Imperial, chosen by none other than your president himself, you were quick to criticize him. “Why did you have to say that?! No one needed to know that those foreigners insulted me. You know the effect it would bring to the people!” He looked towards you with familiar anger in his eyes. 

The same anger you saw when you first worked together with him in the field against the very same foreigners you now try to have civil conversations with. “Maybe that’s what I’m hoping for. Enough with this bullshit. Enough with the tension. I absolutely hate how they treat you, how they treat me, how they treat our people.” He spoke with certainty. “Let our nation deal with them. After years of torment, we should at least let them have that.” 

“You don’t understand, there are already reports of violent uprisings against the foreigners. Soon enough there’ll be murders-” “And would that be so bad?!” He looked towards you in a way a friend would, not a leader and his subordinate, not a superior and his worker. But a tired friend to another tired friend. A veteran of the war to another veteran of the war. 

At that moment, the driver pretends he could not hear the private conversation his two leaders were having. “My mother was killed by those people in front of me.” he spoke your name so softly and held your hands in his. “They killed our friends, tortured our people. Would some of their deaths be so bad?” 

For a second, you almost caved. You had almost forgotten how he was able to become president in the first place. After all, his charisma allowed him to lead the rebellion, lead the decades-strong fight for freedom, and now here he sat with you. A president, a leader of a broken nation. He was militant, you were supposed to be his other side, the peace, the diplomacy. You could not support this. 

“It will only lead to more violence. What happens when angry people realise it isn’t enough to just kill those that are pure-blooded foreigners? What happens to the people who are mixed? Half of their being belongs to this nation. What about those who supported our oppressors so that they may continue to live? It was not their choice to fight against their own. We must protect them.” You tried to reason. 

But with the way, he threw his face away from your gaze you knew he was far beyond reasoning. Despite the fact that you were the one who was insulted, he took that insult to heart. After all, he was the one leading the country, and any judgement made towards your decisions or your position in his council is judgement to his own abilities to lead this great nation. You knew that if you stayed here in the car, arguing with him, you will lose your composure and say things you did not mean. 

“Driver, stop here, I can find my way back on foot.” The driver seem to hesitate, but with no further qualms from the president, he stopped and let you off the car. 

When you got off, you recognized the place immediately, it was simply by chance that you got out here, of all places. Looking around, you smiled to yourself. This was your hometown, where you were raised. Sure a lot has changed ever since you left to join the fight for independence. But a lot of it was still the same. 

One of those things was the kindness of the people. As you were taking in the view of your home and the smell of the salty air, no doubt thanks to the ocean not so far from where you were. An old woman walked by you, when she called your name your head quickly turned around to meet her. “You are the diplomat who’s always by the president’s side aren’t you?” she spoke excitedly. 

You felt your heart soar when you heard her. “It seems my reputation precedes me.” The old woman laughed at your little joke. All before pulling out a couple of small circular red fruits, alike lychees but quite different in taste and texture. “My garden’s rambutan trees just went into harvest, take some!” she didn’t even let you protest as she pushes the fruits into your hands.

You laughed whilst thanking her. But because you left your bag in the car,  you were left carrying the handful of fruits in one of your hands. “OH! I also just finished baking some pineapple treats! Have some!” 

“Ma’am I really shouldn’t.” “Hush now, I have too many anyways. My grandchildren don’t like them very much. I make them for me you see, but I have to watch my blood pressure now. So you’d be doing me a favour!” A sense of joy and easiness flowed into you as you accepted her jar of baked goodies in your hands. Smiling to yourself at her excuses. 

This was something you’ll never get over about your hometown. This was what you so desperately want to protect. The kindness and graciousness the people around you raised you with, you only hope to be able to inspire such emotions towards your nation’s people. You know they were raised surrounded by violence, hatred, war, and oppression. But maybe, just maybe, with your help and guidance, they can be so much more. 

So you thank the old woman and went on your way to the beach. A place you’ve spent so much of your childhood and adolescence in. The water brings peace. And as now it was getting dark, there were very few people on the beach. You went to sit down on the part of the sand which was still dry and placed down the container of baked goods. Choosing to indulge yourself in the sweet fruit. 

Watching the waters etch the sand, leaving behind sea foam in its wake, brought a calmness that you could only guess the fishermen you were raised around could feel. How you grew up seeing brave men and women go out to the oceans with their sails high, letting the winds take them where they need to go, only to grow up defending the very ocean that foreigners claimed to be their own. 

In another lifetime, perhaps you could live from the ocean, just as your ancestors had. Instead of dealing with paperwork day in and day out inside an office. Hoping to whatever gods were listening to you that your hard work will pay off. 

As you pop one of the fruits in your mouth you hum in enjoyment at the sweet taste that filled your tastebuds. “What fruit is that?” in your fun you did not sense the presence of another person on the beach with you. Your head snapped towards his direction and realised he must’ve been here a while before he spoke, as he was already sitting on the sand beside you, the heels and half of his feet buried in the warm sand. 

By the look of him, decorated with piercings and beautiful necklaces, you assumed he wasn’t from here. A guess that was solidified by the answer to your question. “They’re rambutan. Have you never seen them?” he only shook his head. “You’re not from here. But you don’t really look like one of the foreigners.” You analysed. “Have one.” Trying to ease the tension of your obvious suspicion you offered one of the fruits to him. Which he gladly took. 

He shrugged as he peeled back the skin of the fruit. “I am from around, but,” he paused, “Just not from here.” You wanted to giggle when you saw his eyes ever so slightly lit up when the fruit hit his tongue. “Careful with the seed.” you warned before continuing. 

“Not from here but from around?” you thought to yourself before getting an idea. “Ah, you must be one of the tribe members I’m supposed to meet next week! I didn’t know they were coming so early.” 

Having been a combination of different tribes and kingdoms before the foreigners came and combined everyone. You were aware of the separate needs each tribe needed once your nation was formed into one sovereign nation. So, you had invited their leaders to a meeting in the capital. You weren’t expecting one of them to meet you on the beach of your hometown though. 

The man didn’t answer, you thought perhaps he just wanted to not talk about politics right now. Gods knew you needed a break. 

“Anyways, would you like to try some baked goods too? The people here make the best things with pineapple.” You offered the container to him. At first, he seemed very apprehensive, but after you took one of the goods into your mouth he went to grab one. “Those are truly delicious.” he spoke absentmindedly. 

You continued watching him as he ate the food. Now that you got a good look at him, he was quite an attractive man. Dark skin alike your people, contrary to his curlier hair. He was incredibly handsome actually. 

“What do you think of the ocean?” he suddenly asked. You were obviously caught off guard but after sputtering a few nonsense you finally got a hold of yourself. “Uh- I think it’s- well it’s beautiful first and foremost. But I think other than that, it’s just great.” you shrugged. “In every way possible.” 

Turning towards the slowly descending sun and the ripples of water that reflect its gorgeous glow, you could only sigh in contentment. “If I could, I wouldn’t mind just being in it forever. It’s probably more peaceful than whatever is happening here. Much calmer.” you whispered to yourself. 

A faraway dream, you thought. When you were a child, you would dream of joining your people on their voyages out to the ocean. But because you were too young to join a ship, you imagined yourself swimming under them, meeting them as they dive into the ocean to catch fish. A few years after joining the fight with your people, when you were a young adult, you dreamed almost every night about swimming in the ocean with someone. He’d take you from the terrifying life of death and violence and bring you to the calm of the cold waters. You laughed at your own childish thoughts. 

How would the younger version of you see you now? They would be proud of you a few years ago. Making plan after plan on how to outsmart the soldiers, how to defeat your colonisers. But now? Stuck in formal attire, in dingy offices, always getting disrespected by the people you were once fighting in the field against? What a disgrace you are. 

“I don’t know.” After the long silence, you spoke. “I think the water just reminds me of all I could’ve done. Had I stayed here in my fishing town, perhaps I wouldn’t be as stressed as I am now.”

The man sat silent for a moment, before answering, “What is stopping you from leaving it all behind and staying here, at home?” You don’t know what it was about this stranger you just met. But it was as if you had known him your whole life. 

He was electrifying to be around and you just had to get a good look at him one last time before you have to leave. Turning towards him, it would appear he had been looking at you this entire time. Flushing slightly you almost wanted to turn away. But you didn’t. You dejectedly smiled. 

“I want to make a difference. Maybe it’s partly due to the way I was raised too, always wanting to make sure everyone was kind to everyone. But I’ve been on both sides of this war. The violent and the diplomatic. The diplomatic is more boring sure, but it kills fewer people. Fewer people die and I’d have to bury fewer people. If I leave now, these people won’t have that beacon of hope. I’m fighting so that my people may always see peace. After all,” you turned around to look at the town behind you. 

“If those people, the ones I was raised with, can live this long with kindness in their hearts. Who's to say this nation can’t?” With that, you realised it was getting very late. 

High tide will come soon enough and no matter how far you are from the shore, the waters will become dangerous. So you stood up and offered your hand to the man sitting on the sand. He had an empty look in his eyes as if he was lamenting about what you said. It then popped into your mind once more that this man might just be a tribe leader, cursing to yourself inwardly, you only hoped that you gave a good impression to him. 

When he noticed your outreached hand to help him up he declined. “I want to stay here a bit longer, the ocean calms me, just as it calms you.” You nodded, completely understanding what he meant. “Well, let these fruits be your company then, cause I’m taking these delicious pastries with me.” You chuckled as you gave to him the rest of your fruits and took the container from the sand. 

He then gave you the most electrifying smile you have ever seen in a person. It was a smile you felt as though you have seen before. Perhaps in your dreams, but how would you know? Those days of dreaming were far behind you. 

Violence was in your days when dreams were in your nights. And you were steering clear of violence. 

That night you went to your childhood home and slept there. You’d be able to find your way to the capitol tomorrow morning, but tonight, with your stomach full of fruits and baked goods, and your mind filled with the amazing memory of that mystery man on the beach, you fell into a deep slumber. 

Well, it would’ve been a deep slumber, had you not awoken to screams. 

Your eyes jolted awake as your body jumped itself from adrenaline. The first thing you noticed was the smoke, there was smoke, everywhere. Trying to think quickly, you let the instinct from your fighting days override your senses, you immediately took a rag and spilt some water on it. Bringing it to your nose you made your way out of your home. 

There was fire everywhere. Your home was set ablaze, and it seems as though your home was not the only one. The moment you stepped out of your house, the sounds of the screams, ones which you had ignored at first filled your ears. 

You had never thought you’d ever see such a sight greet you ever again since your nation gained its independence. 

The world seemed to move in slow motion. All around you, buildings, homes, shops, all of them were set ablaze. Black smoke and smog filled the air as the streets were covered with blood. People were being dragged out of their homes, beaten, bruised, and slashed. You stared in horror as the foreigners flooded your hometown, dragging your people with them. They screamed obscenities as your people thrashed against their hold. 

Their laughter haunted you. 

Looking to your side, your eyes landed on an old woman. Immediately, just like that, everything went back to normal pacing. The fires spread as water flowed, people were running, screaming, and begging for help. And the old woman? She was on the ground pleading for someone to rescue her. A man twice her size and half her age towered above her, his hair a golden yellow and his eyes a bright blue. 

He held a large wooden stick in his hands, raising it to strike at the old woman. Without thinking twice you ran straight towards the individual. Barrelling your body against his own to throw him off the old woman. She screamed in horror once she realised it was you. But you had no time to think. 

The man you threw off struggled against your hold as he slammed the wooden stick onto your back you quickly reeled back. The impact from such a hard object along with the smoke slowly filling up your lungs was too much. You collapsed to the ground as you coughed and wheezed. From the corner of your eye, you saw another foreigner slam the head of the old woman into a brick wall. 

At that point, you were sure she was dead. 

Your screams fell on deaf ears as your struggling figure laying on the ground was kicked in the stomach by the man you originally pushed off the old lady. Pain spread through your entire body as you cried out for help. 

Not here. Please not here. Anywhere but here. 

Why out of all places, must they ruin the one untouched home you have left? 

Tears flowed down your face as the heat of the fire filled you with pain. You heard their laughter. They laughed as they killed your people. Your friends. 

“Let this be a warning.” One of them grabbed your hair and pulled it back to look you in the eyes. “A warning to your stupid president who thought our government would even listen to you monkeys. This land will be ours once more. So, give up, or die.” Your vision slowly clouded away, but in one last act of deviance, you spat at their shoes. “Merdeka atau mati (Freedom or death).”

“Mati it is. (Death it is).” You closed your eyes waiting for impact, but it did not come. 

What did come was the release of your hair, and when nothing else came you opened your eyes with worry. 

What you saw was unlike anything you would ever expect. There, standing in front of you, was that man on the beach. He held the foreigner’s neck in his hands with ease as he choked the man to death. You didn’t have enough oxygen left to really comprehend what you were seeing but now you were sure where you had met this man. 

He was the man who brought you to the ocean in your dreams. It was him. But as the oxygen was slowly depleting from your system, your eyes started to blur. Just in time to see him rush to your side. “I’m sorry I was late.”

Was all you had heard left before you dropped to unconsciousness. 

Swimming in the darkness that was the unconsciousness left you with many uncertainties. There was no telling how much time has passed or what was happening during the time that your mind was not present in your body. It was terrifying. But, in a way, it was almost comforting. Away from the duties of having to be the ‘calm’ one in the leadership position. 

A part of you almost missed the days when you fought alongside your best friend. But those days were far behind you now. You had to bring balance to his anger and determination to the fight. You had to be that person. You were raised to be that person, and you will honour your people by being that person. 

In the meantime, you swam and swam in the cold darkness. Where were you swimming to? You didn’t know. It was as if you were being called somewhere. Somewhere further from your understanding. Somewhere away. 

“Mr President, there are already reports of murders towards the foreigners.” 

“Let them be.” “But sir-” “I said let them be! Can’t you see what they’ve done to them?? They’ve burned their hometown! If anything, they’re lucky I’m not the one directly persecuting them. The people shall be the judge and the jury.” 

Their conversation was simply muffled to your slowly conscious mind. But as your eyes slowly opened, your best friend was on you immediately. Seeing your eyes squint he immediately jumped to be by your side. 

Groggily you looked around, parts of your body were bandaged and there were machines connected to you. “What happened?” You whispered. 

He hesitantly answered. “You were found on the outskirts of the town, near the beach.” “And my town?” 

He was silent. 

Why was he silent? 

Oh. no.

So that’s why.

The realisation hit you like a bullet. Every part of you wanted to scream out and if you could, you would’ve. But with how dry your throat was from the fire you could barely make out a few words. The only thing you could do was cry. Tears after tears fell down your face. 

“What am I doing?” you hoarsely spoke, “All those years ago, when we were fighting. I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to kill as many bastard oppressors in our lands. Even when you asked me to be by your side as you ruled. I knew where I was going. I wanted to protect my home. What am I doing now? I have no home to protect, no people to inspire peace. Nothing else. I have,” he felt his heart break at your proclamation. “Nothing.”

“Tell me, please, Mr. President. Tell me what I need to do. I’m- I’m so fucking tired.” This was it. 

You couldn’t do it anymore. 

Your childhood was seared with war and blood and pain. The only reprieve was your home, the beaches of your home, the ocean of your home, the shores, the water, the fish, and the people. What did you have now? If you ever come back, the only memories would be of the slaughter. 

You had nothing else to fight for. No reason anymore to be merciful. “Just- tell me what I need to do.” Your voice cracked from your desperation. 

The president simply held your hand. Exactly as he had thousands of times before to ease your worries. “Nothing. Do nothing, say nothing. Let our people show you how much they care about you. Let them avenge you.” 

And avenge they did. 

Two years. 

It was two whole years of slaughter, violence, and dreams of the ocean and that mysterious man. Two years followed after the threat and attack of your hometown, your nation could not take the colonisers any longer. They broke. Anyone pro-colonialism or of colonial blood was slaughtered. When all of it ended, when the foreigner’s nation finally relented and pulled back any and all efforts. Signing a very official document of peace between the two of you, everything seems to end. 

The murders stopped, and the violence stopped. But the dreams did not. 

Perhaps it was because the violence was now etched into your mind. 

Then one day, the president walked into your office. You stood and saluted him as part of your formalities. “Mr President, to what do I owe the pleasure of meeting you today?” 

He walked towards you and spoke your name softly. “You’ve served this country a great deal. You fought alongside me and you’ve lost almost everything.” You nodded. “I wish to relieve you of such burdens. You have given everything to this nation, and I wish to give everything to you back.” 

Your face paled at his insinuation. “Are you firing me? You can’t, Mr President please. This is all I have left now. What will I do if not this?” 

“Nothing! You will do absolutely nothing!” he sighed, dragging his palm down his face. “Listen, okay? I’m talking to you now as your childhood friend and not as your superior. I’ve seen how you’ve changed. I see the way you’re not taking any time to mourn. I see the way you submerge yourself in apathy. The only time I ever see you calm or even happy is when I catch you asleep in your office! The military pension plan I’m giving you should be enough to live a lavish life. Find something else to live for. Find someone to love. Find, anything!” 

He was practically begging you. “Don’t let guilt consume you. Please.” You furrowed your brows as silence overtook the two of you. 

All before you looked away from him. How dare he? You’ve stood by his side throughout all this time and he thinks he can just throw you away now? Does he not see how much you needed this? You need a distraction. You can’t just be left to your own devices. But he won’t listen. He never does. He’s a stubborn man and perhaps that’s what makes him the leader your nation needs. A man who’s unafraid to make the decisions necessary, not someone like you, someone who tried so hard to be kind only to have it amount to nothing. 

After all, your hands know pain and suffering, it was a fool’s errand to be something you weren’t. 

“I’ll have my things packed by tomorrow,” you whispered. “But promise me.” turning quickly towards him you looked at him with fire in your eyes. “Promise me you’ll do what is best for the nation. You remember that diplomacy is as needed as violence. As much as I want to see coloniser blood flood our streets, it is not what’s best for our people.” 

He nodded. “I swear to you.”

That night, you dreamt of the beach. Your hometown’s beach. And of the mysterious stranger. He had winged feet and he was staring at you, beckoning you to come closer. With hesitancy, you approached him. When you were close enough, he reached out his hand towards you and every part of you compelled yourself to take his hand. 

Slowly bringing you towards him he held your cheek in his other hand as he slowly angled your face towards his own. How had you not noticed his pointed ears before? Every part of him was absolutely beautiful. 

Slowly pulling you in closer and closer, his lips were mere centimetres away from your own when he whispered. “Come to me.” 

Then your body jolted you awake. As if working on autopilot, you jumped off of the bed and quickly dressed. All before jumping on a motorbike and speeding towards your hometown. Despite your body willing you to go immediately to the beach. You took your time. 

You hadn’t had the heart to visit your home ever since it was burned from the ground. And as you looked around, everything was different. The buildings were crumbling, the stores were gone, and the people were dead. But the salty air still stayed. 

The salty air. 

The ocean. 

That’ll never change no matter how much destruction the colonisers curse your lands with. 

Making your way towards the beach, there he was. Standing in all his glory. The man who has plagued your dreams ever since you went to fight alongside the other freedom fighters. His back was turned towards you, he faced the high tides of the ocean at night time. 

You were taught better than to approach the harsh waters at night, but you felt as though you were protected with him around. As if with him around you could do anything you wanted. 

As soon as your bare feet touched the cold sand, he turned around. He stood so regally that it made you quite self-conscious. He smiled at you with both his hands behind his back. “It is really you.” You whispered as you approached him. 

Once you were face to face, you continued. “The man in my dreams.” his smile brightened at your statement. “Who are you?” With bravery, you didn’t know you have your hand raised to his face. The man practically preened at your touch, leaning into your warm hand. 

“My people call me K’uk’ulkan.” You tried repeating his name. The word was very foreign to your tongue and you wondered if you pronounced it properly, but with the way, he chuckled your face flushed realising you probably didn’t. “Others call me Namor.” That sounds more feasible for your tongue. 

Though you inwardly swore to learn how to properly say his name. 

“I am a king, a god, a leader to a nation not unlike yours,” he spoke in such a soft tone that it made your heart melt. “A nation built on violence and bloodshed. A nation whose people have war etched onto their veins. But we have long since fled from it, the threat of war is ever looming over our heads, sure. Yet my people know peace and easiness in their daily lives.” he explained to you softly. 

If any other man would tell you he was a god, you’d scoff at their face and assume they had the ego of a coloniser. But this was a man with wings on his heels, he could say he was from outer space and you’d believe him. “Must be nice,” you spoke with sadness, “If only I could live in such a way.” 

“You could.” Namor’s eyes bore deep into you, he took your breath away. “Come with me. I have searched nation after nation for you. The person of my dreams. You haunt me day and night and now here you stand before me. I first came to you that day to kill you. I do not wish to have my life plagued by a human, but I could not bare myself to do such a thing. And your surface world fruit tastes incredible.” He chuckled. 

You didn’t even bother asking what he meant by the surface world. His offer was incredibly attractive. But you still had your apprehension. “What of my life here? What of my people here? I swore an oath to always protect them, to be by their side.” 

It was then Namor held both your hands in his. “When they need you, I shall let you be with them. But I promise you now, they are content with how they are now. Be selfish, my love, and have the peace you’ve always wanted. Leave this violent land.”

Perhaps you would’ve declined his invitation weeks ago. But now, without a job, without a title, and without a hometown. Especially with the man you’ve been dreaming of standing in front of you, his face mere centimetres away from your own. It’s very hard to decline. 

“Take me with you.” With those four words, his lips moulded into your own. With that kiss, he gave to you everything. And you gave him your everything. 

All your pain, all your suffering, all your hopes and dreams, all of it you poured into the love you have for him. When did you fall in love with the man in your dreams? Perhaps it had happened so long ago that you didn’t even realise it. But you would’ve never thought he was real. Yet here he was. As real as daylight. And here you were, the one he thought he could only ever dream about. With all your bravery, compassion, and violence. 

You were perfect, and you were finally his. 

tagging people who seemed interested hehe: @omgsuperstarg @queenotaku23 @gamorxa @girlymusiclover09 @honestlyka @internetmultifandomfangirl @tzurue @marvelupsetsme @superpartyclamthing @ben-solo0 @bontensbabygirl (I fucking love ur username) @tacorei @starkgaryan @sera-wonderland (I'm sorry if it's not as soulmate au ish as you'd wish lmao I'm working on sumth else that's more soulmate-y but w/ the same concept as this) @n3v43hj @fictional-darlings

I'm sorry if this wasn't what you guys were expecting hehe. Watching Namor defend his people and watching the colonisers was just a very personal moment to me (and I'm sure a lot of people), so I made this story as a personal self-indulgent story.

#namor x reader #namor the submariner #mcu namor x reader #mcu namor #namor the submariner x reader #k'uk'ulkan #black panther 2 spoilers #black panther 2 #mcu #black panther wakanda forever spoilers

[psychotrenny]

While it's certainly not unique to them, USamericans seem to have an especially strong habit of rewriting their persecution of others, and especially any attempts to stop such persecution, as persecution of themselves. This goes back to their very founding myths; the English Separatists who arrived in the Americas aboard the Mayflower were not in fact fleeing religious persecution as the classical story goes. They had already found religious freedom in the Dutch city of Leiden; their motivations were a mix of desire for economic advancement and to avoid being assimilated into broader Dutch society. These colonisers certainly cared little for the Freedoms, religious or otherwise, of the indigenous peoples they displaced, murdered and enslaved in the course of achieving said economic advancement. Of course it's no surprise later generations would focus so much on their ancestors supposed persecution; it became a great US tradition to claim that "freedom" was under attack in response to any attempt to limit the degree of control and exploitation that the privileged classes exercised over their lessers. Banning slavery was an assault on USamerican freedom (both when the Mexican and US federal governments did so), as was desegregation, as are unions and minimum wage laws. As widely variable as these issues are what they all have in common is that they represent some kind of progressive threat to the White Supremacist Bourgeoisie order, a threat towards the freedom that those on top have to hurt and use those below them. And as fair as the Bourgeoisie consensus goes, that's the only sort of freedom that matters

#stella speaks

[sazeracs]

I’m sure someone else has beaten me to it, but here’s a translation of the ledger Andreas can find in the abbey library, with my translation notes – long post below the cut:

Mother Katharine, Prioress AD 1459[1]

Sister Hildegard, 16 years old Named Anna Gölderich, of Ravensburg. Proficient in Latin. Studious and obedient, with a soft, pious voice. 150 florins donated by her father. Additional 15 florins annually.

Mother Hildegard[2] AD March 1481

Sister Cecilia Daughter of the Welser family of Augsburg[3]. Named Adelheit. She is wise and learned in Latin and French. 200 florins given by the family before her arrival. Additional promise of 20 florins annually. AD August 1505

Sister Gertrude Named Metze[4] Huberyn, born in the Variscan Court[5]. Minimal proficiency in Latin. Kind and knowledgeable about herbal medicine. Most knowledge passed down by her father, an apothecary, who donated six florins to the monastery.

Sister[6] Matilda, 17 years old From Kempten[7], named Matilda. Moderately proficient in Latin. Calm, disciplined. Daughter of a Frisian merchant who donated ten florins and a large quantity of ultramarine pigment for the Scriptorium’s use. Mittenwald Ascetarium, May 1515 to September 1515[8]

Sister Illuminata Named Angelina, from the noble Capocci[9] family of Perugia, who were close to Abbot Rudolf[10]. Extremely learned in Latin as well as French and Germanic languages[11]. Restrained[12], sensible, and perceptive. The Capocci family donated 50 florins before her arrival, with an additional promise of 20 florins annually. 1507

Mother Cecilia, Prioress February AD 1510

Sister Sophia Born to the Hafner family in Birgitz. No knowledge of Latin but gentle and reverent. Parents are humble paupers. Three sacks of flour donated. AD 1512

Sister Lijsbet, 34 years old Born in Dutch Trecht[13], from the Hack Woutersen marriage[14]. Moderately proficient in Latin but proficient in Saxon. Hardworking and pious. Merchant parents. She has long been connected to Kiersau through her mother’s family, the Kaufmanns of Rothenburg ob der Tauer. They gave 12 florins, with an additional promise of two florins annually. AD 1514

Sister Margarete From the Auer family in Krimml. Mostly blind due to glaucoma. Can see colours. Moderately proficient in Latin. The daughter of wealthy peasants who each donated bags of wool and pastureland in Krimml. AD 1515

Sister Zdena The third daughter of the Rožmberk family of Tábor[15]. Very learned and proficient in Latin. The Rožmberks paid 100 florins before her arrival, with an additional promise of 30 florins annually.

---

[1] In the original text, the year is written as MCCCCLVIIII. Typically this would be written as MCDLIX, in accordance with subtractive notation (i.e. how we normally write Roman numerals), but there are historical examples of additive notation sometimes being used, for some reason – sometimes both would be used interchangeably in the same document, or even the same number.

[2] This entry likely documents Hildegard’s promotion as opposed to there being two Hildegards in the abbey, as there’s no other information included and the same is done for Sister, later Mother Cecilia below.

[3] The Latin here is originally pretty clunky and obscure (“Welser daughter of the Augsburg Vindelici”); Andreas explicitly mentions Cecilia’s family as well (and telegraphs other important information for the player this way). The Welsers were a German merchant family that rose to prominence in the 16th century as financiers for the Habsburgs along with another family, the Fuggers. They accumulated their wealth mainly through trade and the German colonisation of the Americas, including enslaved labour, so. Yikes!  The Vindelici were a Gallic people based in present-day Augsburg; I don’t actually know if the Welsers themselves were descended from them, but I’d assume so, given that the region is correct.

[4] Diminutive form of Mechthild.

[5] The contemporary name for Hof, believed at the time to be the seat of the Varisci/Narisci people.

[6] Sister Matilda is an oblate, as are Lijsbet and Magarete. Oblates aren’t professed monks or nuns, and so are technically part of the laity, but have associated themselves with a monastic community. They make formal promises – either annually or for life, depending on their affiliated monastery – to follow the Rule of the Order; as a result, they’re considered an extended part of the monastic community.

[7] I initially was stumped by this word and thought it referred to Matilda’s occupation in the abbey as cellarer, but then remembered Andreas reads she’s from Kempten, the old Latin name for which is, indeed, Cambodunum.

[8] Matilda’s age is either current in 1518, which would’ve meant she was 14 when Lorenz Rothvogel attacked her, or her record was retroactively updated to reflect her leave in 1515, making her 20+. Unfortunately, I think both are equally plausible, though being in her 20s would mean her relationship with Brother Wojslav, who imo appears to be older, has (slightly) less of an age gap.

[9] A quick search reveals the real-life Capocci were mostly associated with Viterbo, which is not Perugia lol.

[10] Another clunker originally.

[11] Theodiscus was the contemporary term referring to West Germanic languages; it comes from a Germanic adjective meaning ‘of the people.’ Since Latin was the language of science and religion, theodiscus was its opposite, i.e. the language spoken by the people.

[12] Retinēre very broadly means ‘to keep or hold back’ and so usually gets translated as either ‘to restrain’ or ‘to uphold.’ In describing a person, it can suggest any number of things: literally, physically restrained, or emotionally restrained, as in temperate or even repressed; someone who is steadfast and firm, or simply just is intelligent – as in, literally retains information well. Illuminata is all of these things, but I think ‘restrained’ suits her most compared to, say, tenacious.

[13] Utrecht. The city takes its name from the Roman fort Traiectum on the Rhine.

[14] Imma be real with you chief, other than Hack and Woutersen both being Dutch names, I have no fucking clue what this references – if anything – and I’ve found nothing that would help shed some light on it, either.

[15] The Rožmberk (Rosenberg) family was one of, if not the most powerful noble family in Bohemia from the 13th century until the early 17th century. Zdena is RICH rich, but her story is also pretty sad; it’s little wonder she’s Like That.

#pentiment #pentiment spoilers #.txt #long post #here's how my main can still win

[ego-meliorem-esse]

ELABORATE

If you insisttttt <3<3<3<3<3<3

i assume you are asking about the clinical breakdown by the Admiral Lord

Alfred is born in 1631, the settling of the colonies is still uncertain. Having said that, it's def more stable than in the late 1500. It took a long time for his son to be born. Lots of tries and failures. I do hc that Alfred and other countries are BORN. In the human way, to humans, to countries, it does not matter. They are spawned in a very human bloody and painful way. Alfred was born when Boston was established. He does have a mother ( i like to mix the old 2014 hcs that there was a country in that region specifically before the english but having done any kind of research will show that so many different cultures and languages and frankly ways of life existed in the now united states and then "13 colonies" that its straight up and down right unethical to have a single "Native America" representing those vast cultures. Now forgive my balkan-ness for keeping this part short but getting into his part of my hcs is not in my interest or my forte. I just like to humanise these beings, especially Alfred as much as possible) and that mother gave birth to him. Colonisation and settlement in the 1500s and 1600s is cruel, abhorrent and unspeakable to those living on these lands prior to the arrival of the english and for a while dutch. As many nations opposing the empires do, she dies in silence and solitude. Alfred is left in his father's care.

Boston is stable when Alfred first dies. The babe has weak lungs and Arthur doesn't understand. Alfred dies again a year later from the same illness. This time Arthur is aware of an outbreak of illness near the bay. The boy will strengthen and come back to him. He does but only for 2 months before he is ill again. There were difficulties in finding potable water in that part of the colony. Arthur is perplexed, this isn't the sort of thing nations fall ill for and die over. He starts to worry severely, keeping the boy physically close by and under care at all times. Just to make sure the boy, the personification, is in perfect health at all times. Maybe this way, Arthur thinks, his baby will stay with him. It seems that he was right because Alfred lives healthily for more than 2 years. He is fed, he is warm, he is happy. Alfred doesn't wake up one morning. He is still in his crib. He doesn't cry for attention. This time Arthur cries audibly yet carefully, alone in his study. Exiles, brutality and deaths of settlers seem to be the cause. His baby is in London and the order is set for the child not to set a small and wobbly foot in the colonies. His flame is extinguished not even a week later. Arthur is numb at this point. He cannot take it anymore. His guts and throat are in a state of constant clenching. He is vomiting and in pain. England is thriving, Arthur is in a state of misery.

The final straw, final death comes 4 months later with no warning and no apparent causes. Arthur is hosting his brother Rhys in the drawing room. Arthur has had enough. The nurse brings in his boy, Arthur takes his baby into his shaking arms, without a sound. His brother is aware of his nephews struggles with keeping alive. He tries to talk to Arthur, he tries to get him to say anything. Arthur does eventually speak, his voice getting more and more hoarse. Rhys takes his nephew slowly. Arthurs last straw breaks. He is on the floor, he is mourning, sobbing, sorrowing, yelling. Rhys and no one has ever seen Arthur Kirkland like this. He is weeping. Arthur finally broke down.

Part 2 maybe when I pick myself back up from the floor?

#i need to stop im gonna make myself sick #hetalia #hws england #hws america #meli speaks #ask meli #historical hetalia #my headcanons #jesus fuck i need a nap

[bfpnola]

image description by @swosheep

ID 1: All images are screenshots of a post made by walidalwawi on Instagram. They are all of black text on a plain white background. The first image is titled "Indigeneity in Palestine and Israel's Co-Opting of Indigenous Struggles" in large font. The body text, much smaller, reads: "Any discussion of Indigeneity regarding a group of people must delve into colonialism, particularly settler colonialism." Below the body text there is text reading: "1/10", with an arrow pointing left.

ID 2: The second image is titled: "1. What Is Indigeneity?" in underlined text. The body text reads: "In a broader scientific context, the term 'Indigeneity' or 'Indigenous' refers to the origin of a species or organism from a specific location. However, when referring to a people in the context of human rights and international law, 'Indigenous' refers to the original inhabitants of a particular region who have lived there for generations before the arrival of colonial settlers from another country. The immigrants view the natives as detrimental to the colony; therefore, they dispossess them of their lands, resources, and cultural heritage and marginalise or suppress their rights and identities."

ID 3: The third image reads: "In 2007, The UN formally recognised the rights of indigenous peoples by adopting the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP). The working definition of 'Indigenous Peoples': '…those communities, peoples and nations who, having a 1. historical continuity with pre-colonial and/or pre-settler societies that developed on their territories, consider themselves 2. distinct from other sectors of the societies now prevailing in those territories, or parts of them. They 3. form at present non-dominant sectors of society and are 4. determined to preserve, develop and transmit to future generations their ancestral territories, and their ethnic identity, as the basis of their continued existence as peoples…'"

ID 4: The fourth image reads: "Example of indigenous people: - First Nations, Inuit and Métis in Canada - Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people in Australia A group is not referred to as indigenous if they are not within or experienced a colonial power structure, even if they practically originate from their current locality, for example: - Frankish People in France - Anglo-Saxon Englishmen in the British Isles - Dutch, Italians, Germans. In face, Indigenous groups may cease to be referred to as indigenous if their colonial relation is dismantled. Thus, to Identify the Indigenous we must identify the coloniser as the two are often closely intertwined."

ID 5: The fifth image is titled: "2. Israel, A Proud Colonial State." In underlined text. The body text reads: "Historically, colonial expansion was a source of European pride, with no understanding of Indigeneity as a right to land but as a negative status indicating savagery and backwardness. Political Zionism, a movement that emerged in late 19th century Europe, was heavily influenced by colonial ideologies of the time, a fact that is well- documented in the writings of Zionist thinkers and politicians, including Theodor Herzl, regarded as the 'Father of Modern Zionism.' In his quest for support and recognition, Herzl sought alliances with colonial powers such as France and the United Kingdom and other settler colonial states like the United States and Canada."

ID 6: The sixth image reads: "In 1902, Herzl famously wrote to Cecil Rhodes, one of the most significant British colonial figures in Africa, seeking support for his Zionist endeavour:". A block quote, all in underlined text, reads: "You are being invited to help make history. That cannot frighten you, nor will you laugh at it. It is not in your accustomed line; it doesn't involve Africa, but a piece of Asia Minor, not Englishmen but Jews. But had this been on your path, you would have done it by now. How, then, do I happen to turn to you, since this is an out-of-the-way matter for you? How indeed? Because it is something colonial.!" Body text continues: "In his address to the first Zionist Congress, Herzl rationalises his colonial mission in Palestine:". Another block quote with underlined text reads: "It is more and more to the interest of the civilised nations and of civilisation in general that a cultural station be established on the shortest road to Asia. Palestine is this station and we Jews are the bearers of culture who are ready to give our property and our lives to bring about its creation."

ID 7: the seventh image reads: "Jabotinsky, a Russian Jewish Zionist leader and founder of the Zionist terrorist organisation Irgun which helped establish israel. Wrote in his book The Iron Wall:". A block quote, all in underlined text, reads: "'Zionist colonisation must either be terminated or carried out against the wishes of the native population. This colonisation can, therefore, be continued and make progress only under the protection of a power independent of the native population an iron wall, which will be in a position to resist the pressure to the native population. This is, in toto, our policy towards the Arabs…' "'If you wish to colonise a land in which people are already living, you must find a garrison for the land, or find a benefactor who will provide a garrison on your behalf…. Zionism is a colonising venture and, therefore, it stands or falls on the question of armed forces.'" Body text continues: "This colonial history is not limited to the past, as we can see it vividly today in israel's colonial practice of daily oppression against the Palestinian natives."

ID 8: The eighth image reads: "Examples of standard methods used by settler colonies to oppress indigenous peoples: a. Land Theft and Dispossession: 1948, upon the establishment of israel, around 700,000 Palestinians were forced to flee or were expelled from their homes by israeli forces 1950, israel established the "Absentee Property Law", which allows the israeli government to seize control of land belonging to Palestinians who fled or were forced to leave during the 1948 war. b. Forced Assimilation: The "Judaization" of Palestinian neighbourhoods by promoting Jewish settlement and adopting Hebrew as the official language in education and public life while restricting Palestinian cultural expression, including banning books, films, and other media that are critical of israeli policies. E.g. The ban of the Palestinian flag in the occupied Gaza Strip and West Bank in 1967 and the prohibition of artworks containing the flag's four colours in 1980. c. Economical Exploitation: israel controls the majority of the water resources in the region as well as exploits Palestinian natural resources, including minerals, quarries, and agricultural land. Palestinian farmers have reported that israeli settlers have uprooted their olive trees, destroyed their crops, and polluted their farmland."

ID 9: The ninth image is titled: "Israeli Exploitation Of Indigeneity." in underlined text. The body text reads: "The international community's significant shift towards acknowledging indigenous people's struggles against colonisation, and the broad negative sentiment towards colonialism, forced israel to rethink its history and create a new narrative to legitimise its presence in the region and strip Palestinians from their indigenous status. By reframing its colonial mission as one of indigenous people's decolonisation of their rightful territory, israel appropriates the rhetoric of indigenous empowerment while in contradiction continuing to seek funding and legitimisation from other settler colonial states, who continue to suppress other indigenous groups, as well as openly and publicly practices settler colonial oppression against the Palestinians."

ID 10: The tenth image reads: "israel bases its argument on a supremacist ethno-nationalist and misleading definition of Indigeneity, claiming it to be an innate Jewish characteristic and not one imposed by colonialism. Such a claim severely harms indigenous groups on their mission to decolonisation by providing a legitimising framework for colonial tactics like ethnic cleansing, land theft and genocide to any group that claims ancestral ties to the land. Yet, even if one was to entertain the Zionist claim of Indigeneity through lineage, multiple genetic studies have already shown that many Jews and Palestinians share ancestry, rendering such claim unjustifiable, as the ethnically cleansed Palestinian are population shares the same ancestral history."

#reaux speaks #israel #free palestine #palestine #zionism #anti zionism #indigenous #indigeneity #language