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We’re tired of war. I, for one, have had enough of bloodshed, death and destruction. But I also can no longer tolerate the return to a deeply unjust status quo. I can no longer agree to live in this open-air prison. We can no longer tolerate to be treated as sub-humans, deprived of our most basic human rights. We are trapped here, trapped between two deaths: death by Israeli bombs and missiles, and death by Israel’s blockade of Gaza.
Mohammed Suliman, Palestinian human rights worker in Gaza, "From Gaza: I would rather die in dignity than agree to living in an open-air prison" (via fotojournalismus)

(Source: thepeoplesrecord)

My parents have been married for over 30 years and I have been raised in their love. My mother told me my father used to send her a handwritten love letter every day when they were young in Somalia and sometimes twice a day when he missed her something bad. Love is having babies and fleeing a country in war together. It is being scared and being brave anyway. It is missing each other and always being friends. My parent’s love taught me that you need more than beautiful words for love to survive. Love is hard work, it is a commitment every day, it is doing what is necessary to make sure the other person is ok. My father somehow took care of a family of 12+ on a taxi cab driver’s salary and studied by a lamp’s light every night. My mother raised 10 children in a country hostile to their very existence with nothing but pure wit and strength. So I learned early on that love must manifest in actions. My favorite memory of them is how my mother would wait to eat until my father came home every day and them sitting together just laughing, talking, and loving. One time, my father took my mother’s hand and looked at us sitting around the table and told us, ‘you know, I love this woman. She is my best friend.’ And the way my mother still looks at my father, I know he’s not the only one who feels that way.
Yasmin Mohamed Yonis, in an interview for the Black Love Project (via ethiopienne)

Pure.

(via amaalsdrifting)
The child wandered through
a dilapidated neighborhood
with strength in her smile and
youth in her eyes. A shawl kept
her warm, vibrant hues refusing
to fade away despite the smears
of ashen grey here and there.
She cradled a rusty music box in
tiny hands. It played an out-of-tune
melody, reminiscent of days long
gone and comfort out of reach.

A conversation with her, however,
would tell you that all hope has not
gone up in smoke; that there is still
a liveliness found within children from
shattered shelters, an innocence
that cannot be torn away as
easily as child from mother.

Yes, there is hope in a
generation that still lives on.
Noor ShirazieThe Spirit of Kabul (via aestheticintrovert)
What makes the non-South Asian person’s use of the bindi problematic is the fact that a pop star like Selena Gomez wearing one is guaranteed to be better received than I would if I were to step out of the house rocking a dot on my forehead. On her, it’s a bold new look; on me, it’s a symbol of my failure to assimilate. On her, it’s unquestionably cool; on me, it’s yet another marker of my Otherness, another thing that makes me different from other American girls. If the use of the bindi by mainstream pop stars made it easier for South Asian women to wear it, I’d be all for its proliferation — but it doesn’t. They lend the bindi an aura of cool that a desi woman simply can’t compete with, often with the privilege of automatic acceptance in a society when many non-white women must fight for it.
Beyond Bindis: Why Cultural Appropriation Matters (via galifreyy)

On point, thank you!

(via faithunitydiscipline)
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