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gulfcareerco · 9 months

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Success Stories: Realizing Your Career Ambitions in the Gulf

The Gulf region has emerged as a hub of opportunity, attracting ambitious professionals from all corners of the world. Many individuals have turned their dreams into reality by finding rewarding careers and achieving personal growth in the Gulf countries. In this article, we present inspiring success stories of expatriates who have realized their career ambitions in the Gulf and provide insights into their journeys.

1. From Aspiration to Achievement: The Journey of Ahmed Khan

Ahmed Khan, a software engineer from India, had always dreamt of working in the Gulf's vibrant tech industry. He was determined to explore new horizons and sought opportunities in the Gulf region. After persistent efforts, Ahmed secured a job at a renowned tech company in Dubai. His journey to success wasn't easy, as he faced various challenges while adapting to a new culture and work environment. However, Ahmed's unwavering commitment to continuous learning, agility in embracing new challenges, and his ability to build a strong professional network paved the way for his career growth in the Gulf. Today, Ahmed is thriving in his position, and he encourages aspiring professionals to stay proactive, upskill, and seize every opportunity to grow their careers.

2. Climbing the Corporate Ladder: The Story of Maria Rodriguez

Maria Rodriguez, a marketing specialist from the Philippines, decided to explore the Gulf as a destination for her career advancement. She started as a marketing coordinator in a prominent retail company in Bahrain. Maria's dedication, innovative ideas, and exceptional work ethic quickly caught the attention of her superiors. Within a few years, she had climbed the corporate ladder and became the Marketing Manager of the same company. Her success story highlights the importance of staying committed, being a team player, and maintaining a positive attitude to achieve career growth in the competitive Gulf job market.

3. Navigating Cultural Shifts: The Triumph of Li Wei

Li Wei, an architect from China, faced cultural challenges when he moved to Saudi Arabia to pursue his career. Adapting to the cultural differences and navigating new social norms were not easy, but Li was determined to excel in his field. He embraced the local culture while preserving his own identity, which earned him respect and recognition from colleagues and clients. His talent and professionalism eventually led him to work on several prestigious architectural projects in the region. Li advises newcomers to be open-minded, patient, and culturally sensitive to thrive in the Gulf and make a mark in their respective industries.

4. Entrepreneurial Triumph: The Story of Fatima Al-Mansoori

Fatima Al-Mansoori, an Emirati national, had a vision of empowering women in the UAE through her own business venture. She founded a successful women's empowerment organization that provides skills training and career opportunities to Emirati women. Fatima's inspiring journey demonstrates that entrepreneurial endeavors rooted in passion and purpose can flourish in the Gulf's dynamic business environment. Her organization now serves as a vital force in the promotion of gender equality and empowerment in the region. Fatima's advice to aspiring entrepreneurs is to stay resilient, seek mentorship, and never lose sight of their goals.

5. Breaking Barriers: The Achievement of Dr. Rajesh Sharma

Dr. Rajesh Sharma, a medical professional from India, dreamt of establishing a state-of-the-art healthcare facility in Qatar. Despite facing language barriers and administrative complexities, he remained determined to realize his vision. With perseverance and dedication, Dr. Sharma successfully set up his hospital, which now stands as a testament to his passion and commitment. Today, the hospital plays a crucial role in providing quality healthcare to the people of Qatar. Dr. Sharma advises aspiring entrepreneurs to stay resilient, seek mentorship, and never lose sight of their goals.

6. Global Recognition: The Triumph of Sarah Abdel-Maguid

Sarah Abdel-Maguid, an Egyptian journalist, moved to the UAE to pursue a career in media. She worked hard to hone her skills, cover significant events, and report on various subjects with exceptional proficiency. Her dedication and passion for journalism earned her recognition and respect among her peers and the media community in the Gulf. Sarah's journey led her to represent the Gulf region on a global stage, and she continues to excel in her profession. Her advice to aspiring journalists is to be persistent, curious, and authentic in their storytelling.

These success stories showcase the diverse pathways that professionals have embarked on to achieve their ambitions in the Gulf. Whether it's climbing the corporate ladder, becoming an entrepreneur, or excelling in a specialized field, the Gulf's dynamic and vibrant environment is a fertile ground for turning aspirations into remarkable achievements. With determination, dedication, and a spirit of adaptability, anyone can thrive and build a successful career in the Gulf.

#Gulf career #job #job near me #job vacancy #gulf interview in Delhi #2023 gulf job vacancy #abroad assignment job #abroad assignment news paper #abroad assignment news #abroad assignment newspaper pdf #abroad assignment newspaper today #2023 job vacancies #abroad assignment gulf job #abroad assignment time

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rindouheart · 1 year

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Hello how are you ? I would have liked to ask you if you could write scenarios about Noël Noa and Itoshi Sae (separated) where they fall in love with a journalist please

NOËL NOA and ITOSHI SAE falling in love with a journalist 🎋

content. fluffy boys being cute + gender neutral s/o <3

author’s note. hi cutie! sorry for being this late, i’ve been quite busy with school, sorry! hope you enjoy + my french is a bit rusty, tell me if i’ve misspelled something.

NOËL NOA

“so, how was playing alongside blue lock’s young players?” your colleague asks to translate.

you turn your head towards the football player and translate the sentence. first, you’re a journalist, but in your group, you’re also the only who can fluently speak multiple languages. you’re not specialised in the sport field, however, knowing four languages brought you the opportunity to work in many other contexts.

noa is absolutely stunned by your fluency when speaking french, you’re almost as good as a native. he wonders how much effort you had to put into learning languages. japanese is pretty different from european languages, especially because of the alphabet and the sentences’ structure.

“merci à vous pour votre disponibilité” you thank him after finishing the interview. he loves how cute your japanese accents sounds.

noa is almost tempted to ask you if you’d like to ask a couple more questions, just to hear you speaking french again. however, a bunch of other journalists is coming towards him, so he wouldn’t have enough time to answer to everyone.

he can see your name and the newspaper you work for before you leave, though. he saves a mental note to look for you during the next interview or conference, and who knows, he might ask you what he hasn’t asked you today.

ITOSHI SAE

sae wasn’t expecting to find someone like you to interview him after his return to japan. he’s always been used to those old journalists who have been in the industry for like, what? a century or so? you are quite a surprise to him.

“welcome back, itoshi, so, how was your adventure in europe?” you ask him through your microphone, waiting for his answer. you’re not just pretty, your voice is also nice to hear.

while he’s answering with all the details about how the team acted towards him and such, sae looks at you, taking notes about his answer.

he swears he’s never seen you before. however, you might be one of the most famous journalists in japan, since he’s been abroad for a long time.

at the end of his conference, when everyone is leaving, he walks towards you and, when he’s sure that no one is listening, sae asks for your name.

“are you new in the field? i mean, it might have been because i’ve not been around, but your face seems new to me” he questions. you nod in response “i’ve been working as a journalist for a couple of months now. the newspaper i write for isn’t as big as many others, but i personally love my job”

“i’ve noticed it, you look much more professional than any other one in the room” you smile after hearing his compliment. oh god, your smile. sae is completely lost.

“would you like to get a coffee or something with me? we can chat a bit and i can tell you some exclusives to add on your article” he asks.

when you accept gladly, sae smiles. he’s totally fallen for you and he won’t give up so easily.

@rindouheart ‘s scenarios — 02092023

#blue lock #bllk #bllk scenarios #bllk imagines #bllk x y/n #blue lock x reader #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae #sae itoshi #bllk itoshi sae #noel noa #noa noel #bllk noel noa #blue lock sae #blue lock noel noa #bllk sae #bllk x reader

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asdfghjklmals · 10 months

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LUNCH DATE✩༶‧˚

GENRE + T/W: sfw, fluff. WORD COUNT: 1.5k words. TAGS: satoru gojo x fem!oc, established couple. bestie!nanami.

SYNOPSIS: oc gojo girlfriend and satoru want someone to double date with, so she helps nanami approach his crush at coco's. AUTHOR'S NOTE: i named the cute cashier at coco's after one of my jjk besties. i always feel weird giving other characters names (that's why i refuse to name oc gojo girlfriend) but oh well! REMINDER: if you want to imagine yourself in oc gojo girlfriend's character descriptions instead, please do!

“we’re going to be late for lunch, satoru.” you scolded your boyfriend. he had a bad habit of being late for things. it was something that principal yaga hoped you could fix in satoru. you were always punctual, but satoru could never be early for something to save his life.

“it’s just nanami. he won’t mind. plus, that gives him time to talk to the cute cashier at coco’s.” satoru laughed at the thought of his shy junior trying to flirt with the cafe employee.

it was yours and satoru’s lunch break at jujutsu high and every wednesday, you had lunch with nanami at a small hole-in-the-wall cafe called coco’s you used to frequent when you were students. coco’s was the place to be for greasy food after late night missions or for early morning breakfasts back in the day.

satoru and you walked together, hand in hand. cherry blossoms flowing in the wind, cars bustling back and forth on the busy streets of shibuya. you bumped your hips playfully into satoru’s while he grinned at you, he’d get you back for that later. your shikigami birds flying overhead, scanning the area for any threats. your birds liked to go on walks with you and satoru.

satoru opened the door to the cafe to see nanami already seated at your usual table, reading his weekly newspaper.

“ladies first,” he said as you walked in front of him to greet the 7:3 sorcerer.

“hi nanamin!” you smiled cheerfully, “how’s work going?”

“hey, (y/n). nothing’s changed.” nanami grumbled. he flipped to the next page of his newspaper.

“wanna come back and just be a full time sorcerer?” satoru asked him with hope in his eyes. he was always looking for a partner in crime now that tsumiki was studying abroad for high school and she was always busy with all her extracurricular activities. satoru hated that you raised such a popular and social child.

“what? ijichi not good enough?” nanami retorted.

“no way, ijichi is too scared to break any rules.” satoru scoffed.

you and satoru sat down in the booth across from nanami. you three were regulars here and the cafe always had your coffee ready. you had a hot vanilla latte with soy milk, satoru had a caramel frappucino, and nanami had an iced americano.

“it’s nanami’s turn to order today.” you said with a sly smile. the cute cashier with brown hair was working today. satoru and you always tried to get nanami to ask her out in hopes that one day you could double date.

“i think not, i ordered last week. it’s gojo’s.”

“you really want him to order?” you pointed at your boyfriend, “he messed up both of our orders last time.”

satoru started to say, “hey! in my defense—”

“forget it, i’ll do it.” you interrupted him as you got up from your chair. behind your shoulder, you shot a glare at the blindfolded sorcerer. he gave you a shit-eating grin. you knew he would’ve winked at you if it wasn’t for his blindfold.

the two men watched you approach the cashier to order lunch for the three of you: a turkey blt minus the tomato for you, a grilled cheese for satoru, and a ham sandwich for nanami.

**********************************

“come on, nanami. just ask her for her number.” the white-haired sorcerer egged on his blonde colleague.

nanami always frequented this cafe because he enjoyed the ham sandwiches here, not because there was a cute girl who worked here.

“i will do no such thing, gojo. quit bothering me and go get our food.” nanami said sternly.

“nah, (y/n) is gonna grab our food because she wants to make sure they didn’t put tomatoes in her sandwich.” satoru put his elbow on the table, chin in his hand, and tapped his cheek with his fingers. he watched as you gave the cashier your order number. he smiled when he saw you lift your slice of bread up to check for tomatoes.

laughing, satoru softly said, “that’s my girl.”

“did she check for the tomato?” nanami asked.

“yup.”

**********************************

you returned to your usual booth in the corner of the cafe as you set the tray down onto the table. the men reached for their assigned sandwiches.

“babe, you have the most childlike order. who orders a grilled cheese? the last time someone in this family ordered a grilled cheese was when tsumiki was like 9.”

“obviously not the lactose intolerant.” satoru retorted knowing you were the lactose intolerant, “the grilled cheese is good here. they use 3 different kinds of cheeses, they toast the bread with butter, and the sourdough is exquisite.”

you and nanami stared at satoru as he took a bite into his grilled cheese. the cheese pull from his mouth and the sandwich was entertaining to watch.

“delicious as always.” he gave you and nanami a thumbs up as you both rolled your eyes at him.

you wiped the remaining bread crumbs from the side of his mouth with a smile and kissed him on the cheek. you happily returned to your own sandwich. nanami watched the way you and satoru interacted with each other all the time, he never really felt like a third wheel, but for some reason he did today.

**********************************

during lunch, you updated nanami about the latest gossip at the school which was totally about yuta and maki flirting with each other between classes, how megumi is preparing to enter jujutsu high, and satoru talked about toge’s latest mission.

“so… what’s new with you?” you asked nanami. he wiped his mouth politely with his napkin before speaking.

“i’ve just been working. it’s the end of a closing period, so buying and selling stocks have been keeping me busy.”

“are you busy enough to not be able to go on a double date?” you started batting your eyelashes at nanami, “i will literally ask her right now.” you pointed at the cashier.

“she will do it.” satoru instigated, nodding in agreement while sipping his frappucino. he knew you were stubborn, and you always got your way. especially with him.

“please, don’t bother her. she’s working.” nanami sighed.

“i have 4 tickets to the teamlab digital art museum, and you’re coming with me and satoru.” you stated, shoving the tickets in nanami’s face.

satoru gasped excitedly, “babe, when did you get those tickets?!”

“don’t worry about it,” you ignored your boyfriend and slyly peered at nanami, “what do you say, nanami?”

“like i said—”

“okay, great! i’ll ask her right now!” you quickly jumped out of your seat and walked towards the cashier. nanami face palmed his forehead in defeat, satoru watched you sprint to the counter with a grin.

“hi!” you said cheerfully.

“oh, how can i help you? did you get everything with your order?” the sweet cashier asked.

“yes, i did! i actually wanted to talk,” you peered at her name tag, “alicia. that’s a cute name. are you from around here?”

“i’m not! i’m actually studying abroad, it’s my last year at the university.” she replied with a smile.

you introduced yourself with your best foot forward, “well, i’m (y/n) (l/n), i’m a high school administrative secretary. the tall blindfolded guy with the white hair over there in the corner is satoru gojo. he’s a teacher and he’s my boyfriend, unfortunately. and our friend, the handsome blonde, is the one and only, kento nanami.”

“oh, i know who you guys are. my boss told me that you guys have been coming here for like 10 years. he says whatever you guys ask for, to give it to you.” alicia smiled and leaned in closer to you and whispered curiously, “do you guys really like the food here that much?”

you started laughing, your cheeky smile hiding your bright green eyes, “it’s decent food and it’s nostalgic for us. for some reason my boyfriend likes the grilled cheese. i’m lactose intolerant so i would never touch it and—”

“and you hate tomatoes.” alicia added confidently.

“that’s correct.” you laughed, “so, alicia… our friend nanami over there. he thinks you are super cute. would you like to join us on a double date sometime?” you mouthed ‘please’, alicia’s face blushing.

you could sense nanami’s cursed energy flaring. his embarrassment was hard to hide as he turned bright red, satoru’s arms around his shoulder playfully teasing him.

alicia smiled at you, “i’d love to. kento has always been super nice to me whenever we’ve talked.”

“right? he won the ‘most likely to end up on the bachelor’ vote in high school. satoru was a little jealous about that.” you giggled, “here’s nanami’s number, alicia.” you slipped her a pink sticky note with his cell phone number.

you winked and waved at the sweet cashier and walked back to your table where your boyfriend and long-time friend sat.

“thank me later, nanami. i expect to be included in your wedding vows.” you teased the 7:3 sorcerer.

DIVIDERS PROVIDED BY @/ANLIAN-AISHANG

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goldenbuckyyy · 1 year

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MATILDA

Summary: During the holiday season, Harry helps you realize that it’s okay to build your own family.

Pairings: Harry Styles x fem!Reader

Word count: 3.5kish

Warnings: Mentions of past childhood neglect, slight smut mentioned, angst, crying, anything else?? Let me know!!

A/N: hi!!! Merry Christmas to all of you!! I wanted to post this earlier today, but ended up spending the holidays with my family! I got this request by someone anonymous and I loved the idea!! Hopefully you all do as well. Inspired by: “Matilda” by Harry Styles.

All mistakes are my own. Please do not repost or translate my fics on any other site nor this one.

I appreciate any likes, reblogs, messages, and interactions.

Masterlist

Today is the day before your birthday.

It’s Christmas Eve.

And you are not a fan of the holidays.

You didn’t particularly enjoy any of them.

Mostly because you’ve never had a chance to ever actually celebrate them.

You’ve never had an Easter egg hunt on Easter Sunday. You’ve never popped loud fireworks on the 4th of July. You’ve never had a warm turkey dinner on Thanksgiving. You’ve never even decorated a Christmas Tree for Christmas holidays.

You’ve never even had Christmas presents waiting for you under the tree on Christmas Morning.

It doesn’t help the fact that your birthday is on Christmas Day.

Every memory you had of a holiday was tainted with the background noise of your parents fighting and you crying yourself to sleep.

One of your earliest memories was when you were eight and your godmother, Eva, gifted you a brand new pretty pink bicycle. You loved that bike from the moment you saw it. You remember the way your heart felt so full at that age and the overpowering feeling of excitement overcame you.

You learned how to ride it with her cheering you on for your birthday, you remember laughing so loud in happiness that your belly hurt, and when you yelled for your mom to watch you… she was reading the newspaper and waved you away with her hand as she said “It’s no big deal.”

You remember the instant dread you felt in the pit of your belly, the way your happiness was instantly stripped away from you, the way tears immediately filled your eyes which caused your vision to haze, your hands to shake, and it made you lose control of your brand new pretty bike.

Then, you fell. You scraped your knees which turned into a bloody mess, bruising all your legs and arms, and you spent the entire time crying. Only Eva helped you. You remember hearing her scold your mother, but she didn’t care.

The tainted memory stayed with you forever. The scar on your knees proves it.

You never rode that bike again.

After that, you only focused on school. You remember only focusing on your grades and your after school activities. You wanted to get the highest grades and the highest praises so you could go to the best college. You wanted to do whatever you could do to get away from your family.

You wanted to get out of this small town in this forgettable state and move far far away from here. You didn’t care about how you did it. You just had to do it.

Turns out.. you had a hidden talent for singing and songwriting. One hit song when you were seventeen right after graduation ended up landing you the record deal of the year. You had gotten lucky and you felt grateful every day since.

That song and album won you three Grammys in your very first year in the spotlight. It felt overwhelming.

Suddenly, you were being pulled in different directions. You had millions of fans. You performed sold out shows in the biggest arenas in the United States and all abroad. You were living the life you had never thought you would have ever wanted. But it made you happy.

You were the happiest you had been in years. In your whole life, maybe.

And you never went back home. Especially for your birthday. You didn’t enjoy celebrating it because everything about Christmas time reminded you of your horrible childhood.

So.. yeah. You weren’t a fan of the holidays.

And it didn’t help that your wonderful, loving, teddy bear of a boyfriend loved them. He absolutely loved Christmas time.

He was the type to hire decorators to decorate the outside of the house and then to come inside and go the full nine yards in here, too.

You admit.. it made you happy seeing him happy. It made your heart tug a little bit and all you wanted was for him to be happy. But this year, you were both going to celebrate in your shared New York City penthouse.

Harry said Anne and Gemma were aching to spend the holidays up here.

You had somehow managed to get out of the Christmas holidays the past three years. Always scheduling something so you wouldn’t be home, but Harry begged you to not plan anything this year. That he wanted to celebrate with you and finally be together for your birthday, here at home. With him. You love him and you know how much this means to him. You want to make him happy, so you agreed. He’s your entire world.

Harry came into your life like a bulldozer. Fast, unexpectedly, and it was life changing. He had reached out to you back in 2018 during the holiday season.

You remember seeing “Harry Styles just sent you a Direct Message” on your notification and you about had a heart attack. Of course you knew who freaking Harry Styles was. You had basically grown up with One Direction, but with you focusing on school.. you didn’t really have time to obsess over them. But you did know them and occasionally listened to their music.

So yeah, you knew who Harry Styles was. Young, devilishly handsome, and surprisingly single. And he was messaging you. Gushing about how much he loved your music and admired the way you carried yourself in your interviews. You had just released your second album at the age of twenty one and were about to start touring for it. He was already touring for his first solo album. (Which you loved)

He wanted to come to one of your shows. You gave him a seat in the family and friends section and a backstage pass.

You had been messaging back and forth since his first message a couple months back. You had spent all of your free time texting him and if your timing aligned with his time.. then you’d talk for hours on the phone.

It felt almost like you knew him. The connection that you felt with Harry was something you had never experienced before. And it felt crazy to you. This was all new to you and it was exciting. And a little scary.

And finally, he was able to get away from his own tour to come see you.

And he met you backstage after your show and immediately pulled you into his arms, praised you with his words, and the way you felt in his arms made you cry.

It was overwhelming and pretty embarrassing. It felt safe. Harry’s embrace made you feel safe. And you don’t even remember the last time you had ever felt that way. If you had ever even felt that way before that moment.

When Harry noticed, he immediately ordered everybody in the room to get out and the look on his face… he looked so worried. So sincere. So honest.

It made you incredibly emotional and you profusely apologized for ruining his shirt with your tears. And he said he didn’t care about his shirt.

That he cared about you.

And ever since the day you met him, that’s the one main thing Harry has always made sure you feel. That you feel safe.

It did take some time for you to open up to Harry about your childhood, but when you did.. you felt grateful. It felt good to finally talk to someone other than your therapist about everything you had gone through. He had always wondered why you never talked about your family or why he hadn’t met anyone other than Eva in the year of you guys dating. And when he finally knew, he held you and didn’t let you go for hours.

Harry felt like home.

Now it was the day before Christmas Eve 2021. You and Harry were cuddling on the comfy gray couch in the living room that overlooked the NYC skyline and the Christmas tree that you had both decorated together at the beginning of December was glimmering in the darkness. All the awaiting presents under it make you smile.

Anne and Gemma had already settled into bed for the night. They stated they needed some more sleep to adjust to the time difference and you couldn’t agree more. You and Harry had decided to stay up a little longer.

You cuddled into Harry’s chest as he held you while a Christmas movie played for you guys. You guys are watching ‘Elf’ and you admit it’s a good Christmas movie. No wonder it’s one of Harry’s favorites.

Harry feels extremely warm underneath you and it makes you want to stay here forever.

He’s rubbing your scalp gently with the tips of his fingers and your hand is underneath his sweater. Gently rubbing your own fingers on his almost non existent little belly.

But his body always held into a tiny little pouch under his belly button and you secretly loved it. You played with the happy trail there and ran your fingers over his abs slowly as well.

The atmosphere around you feels peaceful. It feels entirely calm and it’s a feeling that sinks deep into your bones.

You just weren’t used to this over the holidays and it felt almost weird to allow yourself to enjoy this.

Suddenly, Harry gets a slight hold of your chin and tilts your head up to meet his lips. His kiss surprises you, but you melt into him. He kisses you softly and lets his tongue slip into your mouth slightly. You smile into the kiss and hum in content when he pulls away from you.

Meeting his eyes, “What was that for?” You whisper as you wipe his bottom lip with your thumb.

His eyes twinkle with happiness and his arms wrap around you tightly, pulling you to sit on his lap completely, and he smiles so sweetly.

You let your hair fall over your shoulders as you look down at him. He’s so handsome.

“Happy birthday, my sun.”

You intertwine your hands in his own, glancing at the clock next to you that shows it’s exactly midnight, and you smile sheepishly at Harry. You lean down and kiss him again.

“Thank you, honey.”

“Let’s go to bed,” Harry says with a teasing smile as he holds onto your waist with one arm, shuts off the tv with his free hand, and easily lifts you up into the air.

“H!” You shriek with a giggle as you koala hug him to not fall down. He laughs lowly, “I’ll never drop you, sun.”

You both giggle until you fall into the mattress in your room, locking the door in a rush, but then Harry takes his time taking you apart and letting you come undone.

Helping you fall apart with his fingers, his tongue, and then with his cock.

And when he has to clamp his hand over your mouth tightly to keep you from screaming out during your orgasm, he’ll do that all night long just to make you happy.

•••

You wake up the next morning, slowly, and to the wonderful smell of bacon in the air.

You inhale the scent with a small smile as you stretch your limbs awake. You sit down on your bed, pulling the white comforter over your naked torso, and looking around for Harry. The floor to ceiling windows are cloudy with the Christmas chill, but it sends a wave of comfort throughout the room.

And it’s as if he knew you were searching for him.

Because he walks into the bedroom with a bed tray stacked with food.

You instantly perk up with a smile, “Hi.”

Harry leans down and kisses you, “Hi. Happy birthday, my sun.”

You giggle and shush him. “You already wished me a happy birthday.”

“I’m going to keep wishing my wonderful girlfriend a happy birthday all day long,” he says teasingly with a smirk as he sets down the tray in front of you.

You adjust yourself in the bed and admire the yummy food in front of you. “Did you do all of this for me?”

Your heart fills with warm love and your cheeks flush.

“Mom did. She made all of your favorites.”

Now his cheeks are flushing bright pink and you’re instantly overcome with a sense of love.

“She made all of this for me?” You ask in shock as you look at the chocolate chip pancakes, sunny side up eyes, fresh fruit, and amazing smelling bacon.

“Of course, sun. She loves you,” he says with a kiss to your forehead.

“Shouldn’t we go eat with them in the dining room?”

“Nah. You love eating in bed and today’s all about you,” he says as he starts cutting up your pancakes.

“But—“

“No buts.”

You shut your mouth with a smile as he feeds you the pancakes and takes some for himself with a teasing grin.

“We’re only doing what you love today. That’s all.”

And that’s how the rest of the day goes with Harry pampering you and only letting you do something if you truly want to do it.

You felt so lucky.

Now it’s the afternoon, you’re all gathered in the living room after eating a yummy and fulfilling dinner in your matching Christmas pajamas. Harry bought them for all of you guys and they’re grinch themed. You have to admit that seeing Harry so giddy and excited filled your heart with so much warmth and love. You truly felt so happy today.

You all had already exchanged gifts with each other. You two had gotten Anne and Gemma a full paid trip to Paris for a little winding down when you and Harry were going to go next summer. And you had framed two of your favorite pictures of the four of you together and gifted them each one. They loved it.

Anne had gifted you and Harry two homemade sweaters that she had knitted herself and it meant so much to you. Way more than any other money made gift.

Gemma gifted you a homemade shirt that she had stitched a quote for your favorite show and she had made Harry a matching one as well.

It was something cheesy, “you’re my lobster” and Harry immediately loved it. You did as well.

You have to admit that this felt insanely weird. You and Harry always exchanged gifts, but it was never in this type of setting. With his mom and sister.

It felt so intimate and loving.

So intimidating that it felt scary, but this was something that you didn’t know you needed.

“I wrote something for you,” Harry states as he gets the guitar from Gemma. It’s one of his favorites. It’s the one that was gifted to him from a friend. It’s the one with the starry design.

“You wrote me a song?” You ask with a grin as you grip onto your hot chocolate while you adjust yourself on the couch cushion.

“Another one?” Gemma says jokingly and Anne sushes her with a jab.

You see Harry’s cheeks blush faintly as he sits down on a small stool he pulled out from the pantry.

He slowly starts to make sure his cords are in key and he lets out a shaky breathe. He looks up to meet your eyes.

“This song… is for you. Completely and utterly for you. I hope you like it, my sun.”

There’s so much honesty in his eyes that it makes you feel completely warm and full inside.

He slowly starts to strum his guitar.

You were riding your bike to the sound of "It's No Big Deal"

A small gasp leaves your lips as your fingers grip into the mug. Instant tears fill your eyes as you hear the first sentence of your song.

And you're trying to lift off the ground on those old two wheels

Harry gives you a small smile as you stare at him with a wavering expression.

Nothing about the way that you were treated ever seemed especially alarming 'til now

Your bottom lip is quivering.

So you tie up your hair and you smile like it's no big deal

You can feel your water line filled with tears and you slowly set your mug down on the side table. You watch Harry intently.

You can let it go

You can throw a party full of everyone you know

And not invite your family, 'cause they never showed you love

You don't have to be sorry for leaving and growing up, mmh

You shut your eyes for a second, allowing his words fill your body, tears slowly start falling down your cheeks, and you allow yourself to feel the emotions. Allowing yourself to finally feel the emotions you’ve been keeping pilled down deep.

You feel someone sit by you and grip your hand in theirs. You open your eyes to see Anne next to you, smiling so sweetly at you, and hold your hand tightly in her own. Her own tears filling her eyes as she holds you. Her love these past years have shown you what your own mother couldn’t.

A mothers love.

Matilda, you talk of the pain like it's all alright

But I know that you feel like a piece of you's dead inside

Harry gives you a small smile as his own tears fill his eyes. The childhood movie you loved to watch fills your mind as it used to help you escape. You frown at the memories and grip onto Anne’s hand harder.

You showed me a power that is strong enough to bring sun to the darkest days

It's none of my business, but it's just been on my mind

You can let it go

You can throw a party full of everyone you know

And not invite your family, 'cause they never showed you love

You don't have to be sorry for leaving and growing up

Images of the last years rush through your mind. Everything you’ve managed to accomplish.

You can see the world, following the seasons

Anywhere you go, you don't need a reason

'Cause they never showed you love

You don't have to be sorry for doing it on your own

Harry lets his guitar rest on the space next to him on the floor and he reaches for your hand. You grip onto his hand with your free one and he continues to sing. His beautiful angelic voice filled the entire room. His raw voice fills your ears like heaven.

You're just in time, make your tea and your toast

His voice cracks and slow tears fall down his cheeks.

You framed all your posters and dyed your clothes, ooh

You don't have to go

You don't have to go home

Oh, there's a long way to go

Gemma walks out of the room and into the kitchen.

I don't believe that time will change your mind

In other words

I know they won't hurt you anymore as long as you can let them go

You can let it go

Harry kisses each one of your knuckles and holds your hand against his cheek, his smile wavering as he continues to sing.

You can throw a party full of everyone you know

You can start a family who will always show you love

You don't have to be sorry for doing it on your own

You can let it go

You see Gemma walking into the room with a beautiful baby pink cake with colorful sprinkles all over the top and matching long candles that are glowing in the dark night. You cry even harder.

You can throw a party full of everyone you know

You can start a family who will always show you love

You don't have to be sorry, no

Tears filled your eyes as you looked around the room. A wavering smile on your lips as you watched everyone in front of you wearing a giant smile and matching tears.

And just for a second… it was quiet.

There wasn’t any loud voices behind you yelling at each other. There weren’t any doors being slammed shut nor glasses being thrown to the floor or the walls.

All you could hear was the wood crackling in the fireplace, the soft sound of the Christmas music playing on the record player, the small sniffs of the people around you trying to hold in their tears as you let your own fall freely, and you could hear your own heart silently patching itself back together.

You sniffle as you watch Harry reach for the cake and he proceeds to move the cake at your eye level.

His beautiful green eyes rimmed red, nose tinted pink, and he’s smiling at you.

“Make a wish, my love.”

Anne’s hand lets go of your own and she instead starts rubbing your back in comfort. You wrap your own hands delicately around Harry's wrists as you let the candle's warmth coat your face so lightly.

“You’ve already made all of them come true,” you whisper as you slowly blow out the candles.

Your only wish is to only ever feel this way for the next holidays.

#harry styles x singer!reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x fem!reader #harry styles x female reader #harry styles x famous!reader #harry styles au #harry styles #harry styles writing #harry styles angst #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan fic

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i-cant-sing · 2 years

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Imma need more if president Kai office au, that was hilarious and idc if it’s platonic or romantic

Okay, let's do platonic president Dad Kai and his baby reader. So, I'm seeing baby reader getting into braiding and since she can't do her own her hair because her small chubby hands can't reach that far back, nor does she have a doll that has proper hair to practice on, she goes to her father for help.

You peek into his office and see him working on some papers. Kai sees your small head and he nods at you to come in, pushing away from his desk to let you jump into his lap. "What is it, princess?"

"I- I want to braid your hair! Can I? Please?"

Kai sighs. He's a man in his late 30s, president to the greatest country in the world, and a kid wants to braid his hair-

"Stop moving, dad!" You giggled, gently yanking his head. Kai smiled and leaned his head back for you. He continued working though, one hand writing down some notes while the other held a phone.

"No- no, I can't pass that bill. Why? Because its sexist, Jeff! Oh yeah? You threatening me? Well, you know what? I'm gonna pass that cancelling student loans bill, and now you can answer your billionaire clients about what's it gonna cost them!" Kai slammed the phone down before sighing as your tiny fingers continued playing with his hair. A few minutes later, he heard you let out a frustrated huff.

Kai turned his head towards you. Your brows were furrowed and you were pouting. Utterly adorable. "What's wrong, doll?"

"Your hair's too short to braid!" You complained.

Kai's brows rose. "Oh, um honey sorry- oh. Oh- oh, where are you going?" He watched you hop off the couch and stomp out of the room.

A few days passed by and Kai forgot about the whole braiding thing. He had been a little busy with some official duties so he hadn't been able to give time to you. So today, he'd decided to spend some quality time with you. But when he went to your room, he didn't find you there.

He asked one of the maids, who told him that you were in Miruko's (who is Kai's publicist) office. And when Kai went there, he saw Miruko on the floor while you sat on her bed, braiding her hair. Miruko held up a mirror and admired her hairstyle. "Wow, Y/n! You did a really great job!" She hugged you and tickled you a bit. "I feel like a princess!"

The very next day, Miruko was sent off to a meeting abroad. Kai's too possessive of you, to jealous for you to give your love and attention to someone else.

After having breakfast with Kai, he saw you getting up. "Where are you running off to?"

"Miruko! Wanna braid her hair."

"Oh, but Miruko is gone. Just for a few days." He saw your face fall. "But if you want, you can braid my hair."

You shook you head. "Its too short."

Kai hummed. "Well, I have an idea for that."

You were happily braiding your father's hair. Or- a wig that your dad was wearing. Long, silly black hair, Kai had ordered it a day ago so that you could happily style his hair however you wanted without feeling the need to go to someone else.

He'd brought you out to the garden because you wanted to place flowers in his hair as you braided it. He thought it was a good idea to spend some quality time with you.

Kai did however make one grave mistake.

He forgot about the paparazzi.

Boy were they having a field day snapping pictures of their president wearing a silly wig as the baby of the country played with his hair. Hell, you'd even used some of your own hair accessories.

The newspapers and articles were filled with pictures of you brushing the President's hair with your very small, glittery princess hairbrush. And a few pictures of Kai scowling at the cameras too.

All kinds of headlines were made, especially about Kai's "transition to being a mother", or "does baby Y/n want a mother? MAMA Kai to the rescue!" And so on.

Well all jokes aside, Kai did have a picture of you laughing as you braid his hair, framed in his office.

#yandere kai chisaki #yandere kai #yandere president dad kai #yandere president kai #yandere overhaul x reader #yandere overhaul #yandere bnha #bnha headcanons #yandere mha #bnha imagines

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blackswaneuroparedux · 1 year

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In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?

- Samuel Beckett, Collected Poems in English and French

I went to a restaurant once that said it served "breakfast at any time" so I ordered French toast during the Renaissance. My waiter got the joke.

What isn’t a joke is the traditional English breakfast as a national institution. Most of us love a full English breakfast; you can even travel abroad, to the Mediterranean resorts in Spain for example, and find this quintessentially British dish on sale in cafes and restaurants.

Sometimes also called a ‘fry-up’, the full English breakfast consists of fried eggs, sausages, back bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried bread and often a slice of white or black pudding (similar to bloodwurst). It is accompanied by tea or coffee and hot, buttered toast. These days, breakfast may also include other items such as baked beans and hash browns.

There are many regional versions of this staple. For example, the Ulster Fry includes Irish soda bread; the Scottish breakfast boasts a tattie scone (potato scone) and even maybe a slice of haggis; the Welsh breakfast features laverbread (barra lawr, made from seaweed); and the Cornish breakfast often comes with Cornish hogs pudding (a kind of sausage).

The tradition of breakfast dates back to the Middle Ages. At this time, there were usually only two meals a day; breakfast and dinner. Breakfast was served mid or late morning, and usually consisted of just ale and bread, with perhaps some cheese, cold meat or dripping.

A lavish breakfast was often served by the nobility or gentry at social or ceremonial occasions such as weddings. A wedding mass had to take place before noon, so all weddings took place in the mornings. The first meal the new bride and groom ate together would therefore be breakfast and became known as the ‘wedding breakfast’.

By Georgian and Victorian times, breakfast had become an important part of a shooting party, weekend house party or hunt and was served a little earlier. The gentry loved to entertain lavishly and that included breakfast.

Breakfasts were unhurried, leisurely affairs with plenty of silver and glassware on show to impress the host’s guests. The breakfast table would groan under the weight of the produce from the host’s estate. Newspapers were available for the family and guests to catch up on the day’s news. Indeed, it is still socially acceptable today to read newspapers at the breakfast table (a definite ‘no-no’ at any other meal).

As well as eggs and bacon, which was first cured in the early 18th century, the breakfast feast might also include offal such as kidneys, cold meats such as tongue and fish dishes such as kippers and kedgeree, a lightly spiced dish from colonial India of rice, smoked fish and boiled eggs.

The Victorian era saw a wealthy middle class begin to emerge in British society who wished to copy the customs of the gentry, including the tradition of the full English breakfast. As the middle classes went out to work, breakfast began to be served earlier, typically before 9am.

Surprisingly, the full English breakfast was also enjoyed by many of the working classes. The punishing physical labour and long hours of work in the factories of the Industrial Revolution meant a hearty meal first thing in the morning was necessary. Even as late as the 1950s, almost half the adult population began their day with a good old English fry-up.

#beckett #samuel beckett #poem #poetry #english breakfast #eggs #bacon #beans #sausage #toast #heart attack #breakfast of champions #culture #society

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todaysdocument · 2 months

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FBI Surveillance Log of Judith Coplon's Activities

Record Group 21: Records of District Courts of the United StatesSeries: Criminal Case FilesFile Unit: United States of America v. Judith Coplon and Valentine A. Gubitchev

DR - C594 Date | Time | IC or OG | ACTIVITY RECORDED | Initials 2-17-49 | 10:00AM to 10:16 AM | | COPLON heard typing. Not recorded | LWB Con't. | 10:28AM | OG | COPLON ext 500 in Justice Bldg. She asked the service unit to send her file number 146-7-51-864 and charge it out to LENVIN. She just wnated the last section. Record #65 cut #5 | LWB | 10:40AM to 11:14AM | IC | COPLON received call from ANN at State Dept. COPLON dictated to ANN various paragraphs the she marked in a report dealing with the work and political publicity of the "National Council of American-Soviet Friendship" and affiliate groups. COPLON mentioned radio programs, lectures, films and photographs on soviet life, photographic exhibits, war exhibits, furnished approved Soviet speakers, and meetings. She mentioned that labor leaders were contacted to send greetings to labor leaders in Russia; state governors were contacted to issued proclamations favoring Russia and to appease anti-Russians; trying to reach Americans of foreign birth; trying to get public officials to make statements in favor Log No. [blank], Page No. 95 Date | Time | IC or OG | ACTIVITY RECORDED | Initials 2-17-49 Con't | | | of Russia; try to papuralize in America various Soviet policies; try to give technical and business advise and aid to Russia; try to get Congress to grant large long credit terms to Russia for reconstruction; exchange of correspondance amng citizens of America and Russia. COPLON briefly mentioned similar groups abroad. COPLON gave ANN newspaper citations which contained some of the above mentioned items. COPLON is mailing ANN some newspapers clippings today. No statements were made about FBI reports or work. All of records #66, 67, 68 | LWB | 11:50AM | IC | COPLON received call from SHAPIRO. He asked what are we doing about lunch today. She said she was busy and would call him. Record # 69 cut # 1 | LWB | 11:52AM | IC | MICROUTSICOS to LENVIN who was out. COPLON said he could be reached at EX 0707 all day. (LENVIN is working on income tax reports there) Record # 69 cut # 2 | LWB | 12:05AM | OG | COPLON to SHAPIRO. They are going to meet at 12:15PM and go to lunch and shop at Hechts. Record # 69 cut #3

#archivesgov #February 17 #1949 #HUAC #communism #spies

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gulfjobindians · 2 years

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Gulf job vacancy Today | Assignment abroad Times today | Job in Dubai

Job Vacancy for Dubai Qatar Oman Bahrain Kuwait Saudi Arab Abu Dhabi muscut Europe Assignment abroad Times newspaper today. Requirement for shutdown project in Saudi Arab. If you’re Looking gulf job opportunity so you Right place. I am glade to be you are here Because of we are only providing Daily basis Assignment abroad Times newspaper at my website. Even you are fresher, you can also apply…

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#31 August Assignment abroad Times newspaper today #Aasiapower Consultancy #abroad assignment newspaper today #Abroad Jobs Interview in Mumbai #abroad times abroad times newspaper #abroad times newspaper today #abroad times newspaper today delhi #abroad times newspaper today pdf download #abroad times today #Assignment abroad times newspaper today Saturday #Dynamic Office Delhi Gulf Interview 2021-2022

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gulf-job-indians-posts · 2 years

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Gulf job vacancy Today | Assignment abroad Times today | Job in Dubai

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homomenhommes · 2 months

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THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … March 12

1860 – Eric, Count Stenbock, Estonian poet and author of macabre fantastic fiction, born (d.1895); Stenbock's father died suddenly while he was one year old; his properties were held in trust for him by his grandfather Magnus. Eric's maternal grandfather died while Eric was quite young, also, in 1866, leaving him another trust fund.

Stenbock attended Balliol College in Oxford but never completed his studies. While at Oxford, Eric was deeply influenced by the homosexual Pre-Raphaelite artist and illustrator Simeon Solomon. He is also said to have had a relationship with the composer and conductor Norman O'Neill and with other "young men".

Stenbock behaved eccentrically. He kept snakes, lizards, salamanders and toads in his room, and had a "zoo" in his garden containing a reindeer, a fox, and a bear. When he traveled, he invariably brought with him a dog, a monkey, and a life-sized doll. This doll he referred to as "la Petite Comte" ("the little Count") and told everyone that it was his son; he insisted it be brought to him daily, and—when it was absent—he asked about its health. (Stenbock's family believed an unscrupulous Jesuit had been given large amounts of money by the Count for the "education" of this doll.)

One never knew what one would find at this house, where he wrote his opium-induced poems and stories and where he kept a pet toad named Fatima and a lover picked up on a London bus. Visiting Stenbock one day, Oscar Wilde dared to light a cigarette at the votive lamp before the bust of Shelley that his host venerated. This sacrilege caused Stenbock, in true dandy style, to fall to the floor in a dead faint. The unperturbed Wilde, in even truer dandy form, exhaled a puff of smoke, stepped over the prostrate body, and took his leave.

Stenbock lived in England most of his life, and wrote his works in the English language. He published a number of books of verse during his lifetime, including Love, Sleep, and Dreams, 1881, and Rue, Myrtle, and Cypress (1883). In 1894, Stenbock published The Shadow of Death, his last volume of verse, and Studies of Death, a collection of short stories that were good enough to be the subject of favorable comment by H.P. Lovecraft.

1890 – An Ohio newspaper publicizes the suicide of a married man who had taken another man he met in a bar back to his hotel room. A letter in his pocket from his wife complains that she hadn't heard from him.

1890 – Vaslav Nijinsky (d.1950); A Russian ballet dancer and choreographer of Polish origin, Nijinsky was one of the most gifted male dancers in history, and he became celebrated for his virtuosity and for the depth and intensity of his characterizations. He could perform en pointe, a rare skill among male dancers at the time and his ability to perform seemingly gravity-defying leaps was legendary.

Probably the greatest male ballet dancer of all time, Nijinsky's two greatest achievements, assisted by his impresario lover Sergei Diaghilev, were to bring the role of the male dancer to the fore, and to revitalise a world of classical ballet which had entered a period of decline.

Born in Kiev, Ukraine to Polish dancer parents, he was admitted to the St Petersburg Imperial School of Ballet aged 10, where he received an excellent general education as well as a thorough grounding in classical ballet. He was a brillant student and on graduation joined the Imperial Ballet as a soloist in 1907.

He had two love affairs with two Russian noblemen, Prince Pavel Dmitrievitch Lvov and Count Tishkievitch but then he met Sergei Diaghilev, a member of the St Petersburg elite and wealthy patron of the arts, promoting Russian visual and musical art abroad, particularly in Paris.

Nijinsky and Diaghilev became lovers, and Diaghilev became heavily involved in directing Nijinsky's career. In 1909 Diaghilev took a company to Paris, with Nijinsky and Anna Pavlova as the leads. The show was a great success and increased the reputation of both the leads and Diaghilev throughout the artistic circles of Europe.Diaghilev created Les Ballets Russe in its wake, and with choreographer Michel Fokine, made it one of the most well-known companies of the time. His partnership with Tamara Karsavina, of the Mariinsky Theatre, was legendary.

Later, Nijinsky danced again the Mariinsky Theatre, but was dismissed for appearing on- stage wearing tights without the trunks obligatory for male dancers in the company. The Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna complained that his appearance was obscene, and he was dismissed. It is probable that the scandal was arranged by Diaghilev so Nijinsky could be free to appear with his company, in the west, where many of his projects now centered around him. He danced leading roles in Fokine's new production Le Spectre de la Rose, a role never satisfactorily danced since his retirement, and Igor Stravinsky's Petrushka, in which his impersonation of a dancing but lifeless puppet was much admired.

In 1913 he married a young Hungarian woman, Romola Pulszky, who had travelled throughout Europe in pursuit of her dieu de la danse, whilst on tour in Buenos Aires. Devastated by his betrayal, Diaghilev dismissed his star from the company leaving Nijinsky stranded with wife and child and no career - furthermore, it was the First World War and Nijinsky was a Russian citizen in Hungary, and technically a prisoner of war.

Diaghilev attempted a reconciliation with Nijinsky, inviting him to rejoin the Ballet Russes on more than one occasion, but relations between the two former lovers and Nijinsky's wife frustrated every attempt to recreate his former success.

In the later years of the First World War signs of Nijinsky's mental illness became increasingly obvious to his wife and colleagues. In 1919 he suffered a mental breakdown. Increasingly unhappy with his marriage, his ruined career, and a world in turmoil, Romola committed him to a mental institution where he was diagnosed with schizophrenia and subjected to years of drugs and experimental shock treatment. He became a broken man and spent the rest of his life drifting between institutions, even having to be rescued from one asylum when the Nazis began to inter the mentally ill. He died in London in 1950.

Nijinsky's Grave, Montmartre Cemetary, Paris

Of the thousands of descriptions of the famous dancer, only Cocteau's suggests the "mortal god" that was Nijinsky. Cocteau alone observed

"the contrast between the Nijinsky of Le Spectre de la Rose, bowing and smiling to thunderous cheers as he took his fifty curtain calls, and the poor athlete backstage between bows, gasping and leaning against any support he could find, half fainting, clutching his side, being given his shower and massage and rubdown by his attendance and the rest of us. On one side of the curtain he was a marvel of grace, on the other, an extraordinary example of strength and weakness..."

Early pic of Sergei, Vladimir and siblings

1900 – Sergei Nabokov (d.1945), brother of Russian author Vladimir Nabokov, was born in St. Petersburg. The Nabokovs were members of imperial Russia's most exclusive social circles. The family was extraordinarily wealthy; their lineage included princes and generals and government ministers, and even their faithful dog, Box II, was descended from a pair that belonged to Anton Chekhov.

While Vladimir was the eldest and the center of attention, Sergei grew up out of the limelight, shy and unhappy and somewhat odd. Sergei was afflicted with an atrocious stutter that would only get worse as he got older. He idolized Napoleon and slept with a bronze bust of him in his bed. He also loved music, particularly Richard Wagner, and he studied the piano seriously.

Vladimir and Sergei Nabokov

When he was 15 and Vladimir 16, Vladimir found Sergei's diary open on his desk and read it. He showed it to their tutor, who showed it to the children's father. It was proof of his blossoming sexuality.

His homosexuality was behind Sergei's withdrawal from the famously progressive Tenishev school, an all-boy private school also attended by Vladimir and by poet Osip Mandelstam. Sergei left because of a series of "unhappy romances," about which his family instituted a kind of "don't ask, don't tell" policy.

When the revolution came in 1917, the Nabokov family fled Russia, barely escaping with a fraction of their fortune on a Greek cargo boat loaded with dried fruit. Neither Vladimir nor Sergei would ever return to his motherland. After brief stops in Athens and Paris, Vladimir wound up enrolled at Cambridge University; Sergei started at Oxford but joined his brother at Cambridge a semester later, where they both earned degrees.

When the brothers graduated in 1922, they joined their family in Berlin, which had become the social and cultural center of the Russian diaspora. Sergei fit easily into the growing gay community there, and he was friendly with German activist Magnus Hirschfeld, founder of the world's first gay tolerance organization. Sergei and Vladimir went to work at a bank, but the 9-to-5 routine didn't suit them: Sergei quit after a week, Vladimir in a matter of hours. Vladimir remained in Berlin, where he met and married his wife, Vira, but Sergei moved on to Paris.

In the Paris in the '20s, Sergei most likely felt at home for the first time in a city that celebrated art and music, and that took his gayness in stride.

In the winter of 1923 he met painter Pavel Tchelitchev, whose work now hangs in New York's Museum of Modern Art and who painted sets for Sergei Diaghilev. Tchelitchev was also gay and also a Russian imigri, and the two of them shared an apartment with Tchelitchev's lover, Allen Tanner.

The flat was tiny. It had no electricity and no bath — they had to wash themselves in a zinc tub using water heated on a gas stove. Sergei survived by giving lessons in English and Russian.But the cultural scene in which Sergei found himself was rich. Sergei became good friends with Jean Cocteau, and he was also connected, through Tchelitchev, and his cousin Nicolas Nabokov, to Diaghilev, to composer Virgil Thomson, to the Sitwells and even to the legendary salons conducted by Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas.

The story of Sergei's life in Paris has a Cinderella ending. Sometime in the late '20s or early '30s he met and fell in love with a wealthy, aristocratic Austrian, Hermann Thieme.

Charming, handsome, something of a dilettante, Thieme was the son of an insurance magnate. His family owned (and still owns) Schloss Weissenstein, a magnificent 12th century castle in the tiny Alpine village of Matrei im Osttirol near Innsbruck, Austria. During the '30s Hermann and Sergei often retreated to Schloss Weissenstein.

In the spring of 1940 Hitler invaded France, and by May the Germans were bombing Paris. Vladimir and his family left for America on the last boat out of St. Nazaire, but Sergei was away in the countryside at the time. He returned to Paris to find the family apartment suddenly empty.

He chose to stay in Europe with Hermann. The Nazis were already rounding up homosexuals as actively as they were Jews, and to avoid attracting suspicion Sergei and Hermann saw each other only rarely. Sergei took a job as a translator in Berlin, but he had no stomach for war, and the Allied bombings frightened him horribly. The fighting grew more intense, and flight became impossible; Sergei had almost no money, and as a refugee from czarist Russia his only travel document was a flimsy Nansen passport.

In 1941 the Gestapo arrested Sergei on charges of homosexuality. It released him four months later, but he was placed under constant surveillance. It's ironic that at that moment, after a lifetime of shyness and stuttering, Sergei could not keep silent. He began to speak out vehemently against the injustices of the Third Reich to his friends and colleagues.Three weeks later he was arrested for the second time.

An old Russian acquaintance asserts that asserts that Sergei was in fact involved in a plot to hide an escaped prisoner of war, a former Cambridge friend who had become a pilot and been shot down over Germany.

After his arrest Sergei was taken to Neuengamme, a large labor camp near Hamburg, where he became prisoner No. 28631. Conditions were brutal: The camp was a center for medical experimentation, and the Nazis used the prisoners to conduct research on tuberculosis. Of the approximately 106,000 inmates who passed through Neuengamme, fewer than half survived, and as a rule, the guards singled out homosexuals for particularly harsh treatment.

Sergei's conduct in the camp was nothing less than heroic. Ivan, son of Sergei's composer cousin Nicolas Nabokov, says that after the war, survivors from Neuengamme would telephone his family out of the blue — they were the only Nabokovs in the book — just to talk about Sergei. "They said he was extraordinary. He gave away lots of packages he was getting, of clothes and food, to people who were really suffering."

Meanwhile, Hermann had also been arrested, but he was sent to fight on the front lines in Africa. He would survive. He spent his later life at Schloss Weissenstein, without a career, caring for his invalid sister. He died in 1972.

In the early fall of 1945, in his apartment in Cambridge, Mass., Nabokov dreamed of his brother Sergei. He saw him lying on a bunk in a German concentration camp, in terrible pain. The next day he received a letter from a family member in Prague. According to camp records, "Sergej Nabokoff" had died on Jan. 9, 1945, of a combination of dysentery, starvation and exhaustion. Neuengamme was liberated four months later.

1922 – Jack Kerouac, (d.1969); bisexual American novelist, writer, poet and artist. Along with William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, he is amongst the best known of the writers (and friends) known as the Beat Generation. Kerouac's work was popular, but received little critical acclaim during his lifetime. Today, he is considered an important and influential writer who inspired others, including Tom Robbins, Lester Bangs, Richard Brautigan and Ken Kesey, and writers of the New Journalism.

Kerouac also influenced musicians such as The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Morrissey, Tom Waits, Simon & Garfunkel, Lebris, Ulf Lundell and Jim Morrison. Kerouac's best-known books are On The Road, The Dharma Bums, Big Sur and Visions of Cody.

Kerouac, born Jean-Louis Kerouac in Lowell, Massachusetts,was the third child of a working-class, French-Canadian family. Kerouac did not speak English until attending parochial school at the age of six, the French-Canadian dialect Joual being his primary language.

As a young man, he enlisted in the U.S. Navy but was discharged on psychiatric grounds. Through his first wife, Edie Parker, Kerouac met Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs in 1944. In 1946, Neal Cassady became involved with their group, and the nucleus of the Beat Generation was created. It was with Cassady that Kerouac took to the road.

Though many of his poet and artist friends, including Cassady and Ginsberg, were gay, Kerouac, in his correspondence and journals, considered homosexuality to be a fault, a sin, a vice. In On the Road, Sal's friend Carlo Marx, based on Ginsberg, is openly gay.

Kerouac, himself, was bisexual, but in denial. He exchanged letters with Alan Ginsberg in an attempt to clarify for himself the nature of his sexuality. It appears that he may have had some gay encounters with Neal Cassady on their travels together (In Visions of Cody he waxes rhapsodic about everything from the size of Cassady's penis to how much he thought about his best friend.), but he generally detested homosexuals.This kind of hatred of gays by some gay or bisexual men is not uncommon, and may be a way for them to compensate for feelings of guilt or inadequacy. On the other hand, at that time homosexuality was not an open subject. If he were writing today, he might still be as sexually conflicted as he was in life, but he would have had a richer public context in which to view his conflicts.

Kerouac's Catholic guilt made lasting relationships with men impossible, as evidenced by his casual attitude toward his male sex partners - among whom were Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, Alan Ansen and Gore Vidal. (Kerouac, Vidal bragged in print later, was the bottom that night).

Kerouac's uneasiness toward his homosexuality led to his practice of omitting his homosexual experiences from his books. For example, The Subterraneans (1958) alters his real-life affair with Gore Vidal into a platonic night spent in a hotel room. Despite this reticence and ambivalence, many of his early works authentically depict gay culture at a time when such portrayals were rare in popular literature.

He died in 1969, from complications of alcoholism.

1928 – The American playwright Edward Albee (d.2016) was born in Washington, DC, as Edward Ranklin Albee III. He is best known for his plays Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, The Zoo Story, A Delicate Balance and Three Tall Women. His works are considered well-crafted, often unsympathetic examinations of the modern condition. His early works reflect a mastery and Americanization of the Theatre of the Absurd that found its peak in works by European playwrights such as Jean Genet, Samuel Beckett, and Eugène Ionesco.

Younger American playwrights, such as Pulitzer Prize-winner Paula Vogel, credit Albee's daring mix of theatricalism and biting dialogue with helping to reinvent the post-war American theatre in the early 1960s. Albee continued to experiment in newer works, such as The Goat: or Who Is Sylvia? (2002).

His early off-Broadway work was, for its time, daring in his mention of homosexuality and its implied homoeroticism. The Zoo Story is a Central Park confrontation between Peter, an ineffectual wealthy man, and Jerry, a counter-cultural figure intent on telling his life story and driving someone to kill him. Jerry's world is the zoo of the title, a brutal universe in which God is "a colored queen in a kimono," indifferently filing his nails. The American dream is a scantily clad, beautiful but heartless male hustler.

Yet Albee's homosexuality and the gay subtext of his early work came to haunt him. Some heterosexist critics, angered by Albee's scathing picture of modern marriage in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, insisted that George and Martha, the feuding central couple in the play had to be a thinly-disguised gay couple

By this time, leading New York critics were becoming increasingly hostile toward the more openly gay work of Williams, William Inge, and Albee. When Albee's allegorical Tiny Alice, in which a cardinal and a lawyer are bickering ex-lovers, opened in 1964, critics attacked furiously.

There is always a hint of the homoerotic about his male-male confrontations. Conventional heterosexual marriage, which is always depicted as infertile, and heterosexual all-American boy-men are his favorite targets. However, Albee saw himself as a satirist of the American condition and not a dramatist of the gay community. As a playwright who staked his success on Broadway in the 1960s and 1970s, he had no choice. However, his critics, though seldom fair, were partly right: It is impossible to ignore the far-from-gay homosexuality in Albee's plays.

Albee was openly gay and stated that he first knew he was gay at age 12 and a half. Albee was briefly engaged to Larchmont debutante Delphine Weissinger, and although their relationship ended when she moved to England, he remained a close friend of the Weissinger family. Growing up, he often spent more of his time in the Weissinger household than he did in his own, due to discord with his adoptive parents.

Albee insisted that he did not want to be known as a "gay writer", stating in his acceptance speech for the 2011 Lambda Literary Foundation's Pioneer Award for Lifetime Achievement: "A writer who happens to be gay or lesbian must be able to transcend self. I am not a gay writer. I am a writer who happens to be gay." His longtime partner, Jonathan Thomas, a sculptor, died on May 2, 2005, from bladder cancer. They had been partners from 1971 until Thomas's death. Albee also had a relationship of several years with playwright Terrence McNally during the 1950s.

Albee died at his Montauk, New York, home on September 16, 2016, aged 88.

1963 – Randall Kenan is an American author of fiction and nonfiction. Raised in a rural community in North Carolina, Kenan has focused his fiction on what it means to be black and gay in the southern United States.

Kenan was born in Brooklyn, New York. Initially raised by his grandparents, Kenan soon went to live with a great-aunt in Chinquapin, North Carolina, a rural community of fewer than a thousand people. The community later became the basis of the fictional Tims Creek, where all of Kenan's fiction is set.

Kenan's first novel, A Visitation of Spirits, was published in 1989. While a few critics praised the book, it did not receive much attention. This changed with the publication in 1992 of Kenan's second book, a collection of short stories titled Let the Dead Bury Their Dead. The stories, based in the fictional community of Tims Creek, focused on (among other things) what it meant to be poor, black, and gay in the southern United States. The book was hailed as a revival of classic southern literature and was nominated for the Los Angeles Times Book Award for Fiction, was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, and was named a New York Times Notable Book. The short story collection also brought renewed attention to his first novel, which was likewise set in Tims Creek.

Kenan strongly identifies with both his African American and gay identities, both of which were highlighted in his next two books. In 1993 he published a young adult biography of gay African American novelist and essayist James Baldwin. Kenan has frequently stated that Baldwin is one of his idols. He then spent several years traveling across America and Canada collecting oral histories of African Americans, which he published in Walking on Water: Black American Lives at the Turn of the Twenty-first Century (1999).

1985 – On this date the first memorial to the Nazi's Gay victims was unveiled: a pink granite stone monument at the former Neuengamme concentration camp, inscribed "Dedicated to the Homosexual victims of National Socialism."

1998 – Levi Davis is an explosive winger with an eye for the whitewash and is a former England U18s and U19s international. Davis was a regular in the Bath United team in the 2017 season and scored on his first team debut in the 26-22 victory against London Irish in November 2017.

Davis started the 2019/20 campaign in a rich vein of form, scoring three times in as many games in the Premiership Rugby Cup, with Anthony Watson, Ruaridh McConnochie and Joe Cokanasiga away with England at the Rugby World Cup and Semesa Rokoduguni injured at that point of the season.

In January 2020 he signed a loan deal with Championship side Ealing Trailfinders.

He went to the same school, The Friary in Lichfield, as Daniel Sturridge and was involved in the Wolverhampton Wanderers Academy, but he was 'scouted' for rugby aged 12 when spotted chasing someone who had stolen his cap.

Levi on X-Factor

A talented musician, Levi appeared on Celebrity X-Factor in 2019 as part of rugby boy band Try Star with Thom Evans and Ben Foden.But in April 2020, in the midst of lockdown, every Bath Rugby player received a WhatsApp message they weren't expecting. The message from Levi read: 'Hi guys. I just want to tell you something that's been eating away at me for four years now. I want to be open and honest with you boys, as friends and team-mates. I'm bisexual. It's something I have known since I was 18.'

Jokingly he signed off, 'None of you lot are on my radar... so it's OK'.

What happened next brought an overwhelming rush of relief to the former England U18s and U19s player as the supportive messages from his team mates quickly buzzed into his inbox.

'Mate, we support you.'

Davis, who joined highly ambitious Championship side Ealing Trailfinders over the summer, has praised his former Gallagher Premiership club Bath for supporting him over the last year as his mental health suffered and he turned to heavy drinking as he wrestled with his secret.

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antoine-roquentin · 11 months

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This series is about something, maybe assassination, identity, and mass politics. The previous part, Part 3, is here.

Almost nobody remembers Ramparts anymore. The 1962-1975 magazine was a mainstay on newsstands with its glossy covers and sensationalism, and yet inside was a type of investigative muckracking journalism more in common with Mother Jones or Counterpunch (both of whom it helped spawn) than the tabloids it stood with. Its story is an effusive narrative with a star-studded cast, featuring early works from virtually everybody well known on the left today as well as people famous for writing in its heyday who have fallen by the wayside. It’s really not a tale that can be told as a one paragraph pitch, because it happens to have a load of complexity. Ramparts reflected an America in transition between an old idea of multiculturalism as a progressive force to put Protestants, Catholics, and Jews onto an equal footing into a new one to negotiate whether black people and other minorities would be integrated into the management of America’s global empire, work together to overthrow it, or be mutilated by an apartheid regime in freefall. It also showcases the role of insurgency, especially symbolism, and counterinsurgency, especially intelligence, in the management of that global empire at home and abroad.

The magazine began the way many failed dreams do: a moralizing Catholic who inherited a small fortune from his parents. Real estate lawyer Edward Michael Keating had been born to a poor woman and grew up in orphanages when he was suddenly adopted by a millionaire who he’d always suspected was his biological father, too ashamed to keep him until he was too ashamed to not. He married Helen English, another millionaire whose parents died young which meant he got their money. Flush with cash and guilt, he decided he would found a left wing Catholic magazine. America was dominated by a conservative bloc of Catholics: the most powerful American Catholic was Cardinal Spellman of New York. He had agitated for an American invasion since the French defeat in 1954 and worked with the CIA to defeat Juan Bosch in the Dominican Republic in 1965. Keating was an idealist. He published Ramparts chock-full of the ramblings of every heterodox Catholic in the country (an early review compared it to a middle school girls’ poetry rag), but also with reports from prominent liberal Catholics like Thomas Merton, a hippie monk who wanted to bring Buddhist practices into the church, and John Howard Griffin, a white guy who painted himself black and toured the south as an undercover journalist. Their advocacy of black civil rights kept them from mainstream American Catholicism, but they found a voice in Keating.

This attracted left wing radicals to a magazine which had a rich donor willing to back any odd idea they’d have, who was more dedicated to exposing America’s hypocrisies than in dealing with his own. Perhaps the most important figure here was Warren Hinckle, a Catholic who got on Keating’s good side by being devil’s advocate in print to prominent Catholic figures and who brought credence by having worked for an actual newspaper, the San Francisco Chronicle. He had done a stint in Oakland and learned how the police treated black people (”the loss of a white life had more news value than the loss of a black life”). Hinckle was a hard drinker who loved thumbing his nose at every piety he could, which made him an antagonist of everything from the national intelligence establishment to good manners. However, he still attended mass weekly, the same as virtually every lapsed Catholic did in those days because the center of virtually all American social life at the time was at places of worship, something definitively not true nowadays.

Hinckle’s tactics at selling magazines were what made him permanent as the editor. When German playwright Rolf Hochhuth wrote a play criticizing Pope Pius XII’s role in the Holocaust, Keating and Hinckle both thought it was shit privately. However, Hinckle overheard famed muckracking journalist I.F. Stone’s sister Judy on the phone unable to sell an interview with Hochhuth, he convinced Keating to run it alongside a defense of the play. Moreover, Hinckle decided to promote it with a press conference at the Waldorf Astoria in New York. He phoned every newspaper and magazine in the city to promote it including Bedside Nurse, Detergent Age, Professional Barber, and the Jewish Braille Review, offering free danishes and bloody marys. When the press came and Keating began to orate, both were enthralled at the attention they received. Hinckle followed this up with a story purported to name the murderers of 3 civil rights workers in Alabama that never emerged, a story featuring graphic pictures of white police beating black men during Harlem riots, and a picture of swear words under an image of Christ. Merton cautioned the two over the sensationalism, but they continued to publish their work because it sold and got them attention.

It also got them funders. Jessica Mitford, the heir of a British lord who had joined the American Communist Party, was one of many rich left wing ideologues who liked the mag’s bent and could use some of the ad space (her own story is pretty incredible). Others were businessmen for whom the bargain bin rate outweighed the salaciousness. Hinckle’s prowess at negotiations always made it seem like he was doing the investor a favour, despite them having to sign a waiver indicating sound mind after seeing the accounting sheets. Income never came close to outweighing expenses given the predilection for expensive stunts, the need to come up with in-depth investigative journalism, or the sheer amount of expenses Hinckle and others were willing to charge. With creative accounting, however, Ramparts never had to resort to printing on cheap “butcher paper” without colour illustrations like other leftist mags until the end of the 60s.

This marked the shift away from explicit Catholicism to leftism, shifting some control out of Keating’s hands and allowing them to hire white people from other religions. Two key hires at the end of 64 and beginning of 65 were Jews. Dugald Stermer was a graphic designer with no leftist credentials to speak of. He was given control of the entire magazine’s look every month and designed most of the covers himself, and his talent became much of the reason for Ramparts’ continued success. For decades after, magazines like Rolling Stone, Mother Jones, and the Nation based their work on his. The second was Robert Scheer. A New York red diaper baby, his formative years were spent in CCNY arguing with other Jews about left wing economics. Bearded and long-haired before it was cool, his academic career was derailed by a trip to Cuba where he met with Che, killing his job at Princeton and forcing him into the ghettos of left wing journalism. Scheer’s first article with Ramparts was in January 1965, in an issue focused on the Vietnam War. Keating had managed to get the magazine an interview with his old college roommate, a senator from Idaho who had come out against the war named Frank Church (later of the Church Committee). Scheer critiqued the work of prominent Catholic supporter of the war Thomas Dooley with his own experiences, having travelled to Vietnam in 63. His article had come as a result of his girlfriend meeting Hinckle’s wife. Before he could be hired, a sitdown was necessary between Keating and Scheer. It occurred at a restaurant where the waitresses were topless. Keating, ever the moral conscience of Ramparts, did not like the experience, saying “It didn’t seem safe to serve hot food that way“. Scheer rose quickly because he was one of the few people on the staff who had foreign policy knowledge and was willing to fly to the places he discussed to do research. By October, he was “Foreign Editor”, his hands on every Vietnam War piece published. He also had other beats: in 1966, during the Reagan campaign for California governor, he was tasked with getting an in person interview. Scheer fell asleep in a chair in a hotel room waiting for him to show up, and woke to Reagan pulling up his pants, apparently not having noticed Scheer. That month, October 1966, he was “Managing Editor”.

There were other important early hires. WASP Adam Hochschild, later founder of Mother Jones Magazine and author of King Leopold’s Ghosts, was motivated by what he had seen on a stint working for an anti-apartheid publication in South Africa as well as the assassination of Patrice Lumumba. He depicted Ramparts’ offices as a madhouse. Hinckle’s pet monkey, named after the owner of Time Magazine and long-time CIA friend Henry Luce, was allowed to wander the halls freely but tended to travel in the company of its owner. One day, a television crew from a foreign country would be in filming a documentary. The next, a leftist luminary would be in toting drugs or guns, like Malcolm X’s widow Betty Shabazz, who had 12 armed bodyguards with her, or Hinckle’s protege Hunter S. Thompson, who brought a backpack filled with illicit substances that Luce promptly broke into and pilfered from. Hinckle rarely did anything without lunch at a restaurant, where he would consume a dozen scotches without showing any sign of inebriation. One of his favourites was a cop bar he’d found on his old beat, where he’d pick up tips as to what was going on in the city. Often, he’d come up with a new business plan on the fly, only to balk when he realized the cost. Scheer would press him on it, “What’s the matter? Got no guts?” Scheer disliked the cop bar since there wasn’t enough women to hit on.

Reese Erlich later won a Peabody, worked for NPR and Vice, and published books on Iraq, Syria, and Iran in the 2000s. He was part of the Oakland Seven on trial for anti-war protests. Their successful lawyer later defended Huey Newton and Jim Jones. He was hired along with his girlfriend as part-time office assistants. At one point, Hinckle told them to drive him to the airport. He pulled them into a bar despite them being underage. The bartender, knowing Hinckle, immediately set up 15 vodka screwdrivers. Hinckle drank them all and missed his flight. Erlich later had an article where he interviewed a co-defendant. The cover was a picture of Stermer’s child waving a Vietcong flag.

Ralph Gleason, a jazz reviewer at the Chronicle, was poached by Hinckle for music columns. He later met a young man named Jann Wenner at a concert and pulled him in as a rock columnist for the abortive glossy spinoff Sunday Ramparts. Wenner ended up marrying a young copy editor he’d met at the magazine named Jane Schindelheim. When Hinckle published an article on the Haight-Ashbury drug scene calling the hippie movement fascist, Gleason left in protest, and Wenner followed him. Stermer allowed them to take his design for their new magazine, Rolling Stone. Hinckle himself had picked up the term “hippie” from his conversations with his friend, noted San Fran columnist Herb Caen.

Perhaps the biggest hire was Ramparts’ first black writer. Keating’s friend Beverly Axelrod, a lawyer, sent him the writings of a client she had taken on. He’d been in the market for an attorney after a conviction for attempted murder and hoped to pay for one with money from a writing career he wanted to start. His work covered the American prison system, colonialism, and race in a visceral style with an elevated vocabulary that excited its highbrow white promoters. Keating in turn committed himself to getting Eldridge Cleaver, the future information minister of the Black Panther Party, out of prison for October 1966. Cleaver’s first article, behind a June 1966 cover featuring Cesar Chavez, was not actually about the prison system but rather was a critique of James Baldwin, whose own critique of Richard Wright he’d read in prison. Wright, the future founder of the CIA cutout group AMSAC mentioned in the last part, had written a book about a violent black criminal which focused on condemning the society that made him just as much called Native Son. Baldwin attacked the book for its portrayal of a violent criminal as the only thing a black man could become in a sick society like America. Cleaver, clearly seeing himself in the figure, in turn attacked Baldwin for being a homosexual who hated strong men. This masculine streak in Cleaver, who refused to refer to a woman at the magazine who hadn’t taken her husband’s last name with anything but a derogatory nickname he’d come up with, was probably what attracted Huey Newton to him and made their ultimate fight so much more acrimonious, as well as contributing to Cleaver’s conversion to Reaganism in his later years.

Ramparts was a hit-based magazine and needed a hot new story for every month. July 1965 was an interview with Hugh Hefner. It featured a foldout, but rather than a woman, they had Hefner himself (Keating turned his office into an imitation of Hefner’s after it hit newsstands). November was an attack on Reagan’s new autobiography penned by Mitford, anticipating his decision to run for governor. February 1966 was a special forces officer, Donald Duncan, who’d turned against the war and was attacking the CIA as its secret puppet master. But it was the April cover piece, readable here, that ultimately caused the CIA to assemble almost 400 separate dossiers on anybody who had anything to do with the magazine. A Michigan State University economics professor named Stanley Sheinbaum had been involved with a project to build the South Vietnamese government with secret support from the Agency. In secret, professors and students trained Vietnamese cops in fingerprinting, assisted Finance Ministry officials in accounting, and wrote the constitution from scratch for class credit. Concealed among them were CIA officers employed as MSU faculty engaged in torture and assassination, some of which Sheinbaum witnessed. The staff were sworn to secrecy except for Sheinbaum by clerical oversight, allowing him to tell his story. By April 18, the CIA had sprung into action. Director Raborn ordered an immediate file on the major staff members and a two month followup to identify every investor. This was technically illegal by dint of the 1947 law that created the CIA and banned it from spying on Americans, but the Agency had never actually adhered to that law anyways. It meant that the staff’s phones were under permanent wiretaps and virtually all of them would be audited yearly by the IRS. In July, the FBI followed suit, calling the magazine an agent of the Soviet Union. Both would engage in repressive action against Ramparts under the guise of COINTELPRO and MHCHAOS, illustrated by FBI man William Turner.

Turner was a 10 year Bureau veteran (Catholic, like most) who had become disillusioned after hearing Hoover call MLK “the most notorious liar in the country”. He was picked up by Ramparts, his first piece a critique of the FBI for a lack of convictions in attacks on civil rights campaigners. Turner became Ramparts’ muscle man, adding to stories through information gained from his connections with law enforcement across the country and helping to make lower level government investigations back off. Not long after he was hired, Turner was invited to the first of many parties at the offices. Also attending was Jessica Mitford and her husband, Robert Treuhaft, a lawyer who defended black southerners from the death penalty. Turner was introduced to them and immediately stated that he already knew them from somewhere, but they were sure he didn’t. It took him a few minutes to realize that he’d been listening to wiretaps of them from long before Ramparts even existed. Later, former Beirut Chief of Station Edgar Applewhite testified “I had all sorts of dirty tricks to hurt their circulation and financing. The people running Ramparts were vulnerable to blackmail. We had awful things in mind, some of which we carried off, though Ramparts fell of its own accord. We were not in the least inhibited by the fact that the CIA had no internal security role in the United States.“ His boss at the time, Desmond Fitzgerald, after being briefed on his recommendations said that he had blood on him. Louis Dube, who had experience dealing with drug-smuggling KMT guerillas in Burma, described what they’d done as “heady shit”.

Of course, this was a magazine run by drunken, drug-addled Irish Catholics with a penchant for spending work hours in strip bars and flying across the country holding lavish press conferences with old guard media men. It’s difficult to know where the sabotage ends and the incompetence begins. After Easter weekend 1967, Turner came into the office to find it ransacked with fire extinguisher goo and broken glass everywhere and a typewriter in the toilet. After months of searching, he finally found his culprit, a GOP official who’d committed the burglary for private right wing backers and then given photocopies to the CIA. He phoned up Hinckle, who immediately confessed to being the culprit. He’d trashed the office after a late night drinking session with Gene Marine, later the author of the first book on the Black Panthers. Not so, Turner said: the man he’d found had files from Ramparts’ storage. In fact, the burglar had done what he said, but nobody noticed the mess he’d made for two whole days in the general chaos of the workplace. It was a process repeated across many leftists groups in both macro and micro before and since.

#i got through half of what i wanted to put here #definitely more ramparts later

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random-kazakh-stuff · 8 months

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In the beginning of 20th century there were very rough estimates of exactly what population of today's Kazakhstan was, and how many kazakh people were out there.

There are some estimates that said it was like 6.5 million kazakhs in 1914.

There are some communist party documents that suggest they thought it was 10 million.

One Moscow historian said that only in Northern regions there were 9 million around that time.

Russian Revolution happened through 1917-1923. At this time troops ravaged the countryside. There is an excerpt from a newspaper that only in 1918 30% of population in Turkistan region died from hunger.

In 1921-1922 a drought hit, and around 1.7 million people died.

In 1926-1927 Goloshekin decided to organise "Small October" that was set to suppress the national intelligentsia(most educated and politically adept people) as well as collectivize the agriculture. The collectivization somehow went so poorly that from 40 million heads of livestock registered in 1929(and taken from kazakh people) only 4 million remained 1933.

Because all of this 3.3 million people living in countryside died. Lost to hunger and sickness.

The hunger of 1930-1933 was called Asharshylyq meaning simply hunger(of a nation). There are debates on whether it is a second one(the first being in 1921-1922) or even third.

Through 1928-1932 USSR continued to sell grain abroad "to get money for industrialisation".

There were also repressions, where USSR was fighting against uprisings and people against the regime.

There was also 600 thousand Kazakhstani people that went to WW2 and died. 400 thousand of them were kazakh men and women. 300 thousand civilians in Kazakhstan died behind the front lines.

There were around 3.6 million kazakhs in 1959.

Today Kazakhstan nears 20 million people in population. In 2021 there were a bit more than 13 million kazakhs that lived in Kazakhstan.

There is really no telling how much was lost. Not just in people but also in culture. Kazakhs were nomadic and had most of their culture shared orally in crafts that were very perishable.

I heard a story once, from a grown woman of age. She was a girl and someone in her family somehow procured a recording of dombra on vinyl, with some küis. When the elders(grandfathers and grandmothers maybe someone else too) heard the recording they wept.

#kazakhstan #kazakh #kazakh culture #kazakhstan history #kazakh history #tw death #tw hunger

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 4 months

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By: Andrew Doyle

Published: Dec 12, 2023

Towards the end of Christopher Marlowe’s play Tamburlaine Part Two, our marauding anti-hero burns a copy of the Quran, along with other Islamic books, as a kind of audacious test. “Now, Mahomet,” he cries, “if thou have any power, come down thyself and work a miracle.” Two scenes later, he is dead.

We might see this as a cautionary tale for our times. After all, it isn’t only Turco-Mongol conquerors who find themselves punished for Quran-burning. Last week, the Danish parliament voted to ban the desecration of all religious texts following a spate of protests in which copies of the Qur’an had been destroyed. Inevitably, the new law has been couched as a safety measure. This burning of the book, claims justice minister Peter Hummelgaard, “harms Denmark and Danish interests, and risks harming the security of Danes abroad and here at home”.

He has a point. Even unconfirmed accusations of Quran-burning can be sufficient to prompt extremist violence. In 2015, being accused of defiling the holy book, Farkhunda Malikzada was beaten to death by a ferocious mob in Afghanistan while bystanders, including police officers, did nothing to intervene. Many filmed the brutal murder on their phones and the footage was widely shared on social media. In 2022, a mentally unstable man called Mushtaq Rajput was similarly accused and tied to a tree and stoned to death in Pakistan. Earlier this year in Iran, it was reported that Javad Rouhi was tortured so severely that he could no longer speak or walk. He was sentenced to death for apostasy and later died in prison under suspicious circumstances.

But while we might anticipate that the desecration of the Quran would be proscribed in Islamic theocracies, it is troubling to see similar laws being passed in secular nations such as Denmark. The government had not been so faint-hearted when faced with similar problems in 2005. After cartoons of the Prophet Mohammed were published in Jyllands-Posten, a global campaign from Indonesia to Bosnia demanded that the Danish authorities take action. The government stood firm and the judicial complaint against the newspaper was dismissed.

In a free society this is the only justifiable response, albeit one that takes considerable courage. And the climate of intimidation that has descended since is a product of our collective failure to defend freedom of speech against the demands of militants. When the Ayatollah Khomeini pronounced his fatwa on Salman Rushdie for his novel The Satanic Verses, one would have hoped for a unified front on behalf of one of our finest writers. Instead, much of the literary and political establishment abandoned or even censured him. In the Australian television show Hypotheticals, the singer Yusuf Islam, formerly known as Cat Stevens, implied that he would have no objections to Rushdie being burned alive.

That a work of fiction such as The Satanic Verses could not even be published today gives us some indication of the extent to which we have forsaken the principle of free speech. If we are so squeamish about the burning of Qurans, why were so many of us indifferent to the burning of Rushdie’s book on the streets of Bolton and Bradford? Yusuf Islam’s remark about the author’s immolation might have been flippant but, as Heinrich Heine famously wrote: “Where they burn books, they will in the end burn people too.”

The ceremonial burning of books in Germany and Austria in the Thirties has ensured that the act will always have a unique charge, and a disquieting, visceral effect. It is why, for instance, the most memorable scene in Mervyn Peake’s Titus Groan is when the villain Steerpike sets fire to his master’s library. It is a gesture designed to repudiate the very heights of human achievement, to hurl his victim into a spiral of despair. When Rushdie saw his own novel publicly incinerated, he confessed to feeling that “now the victory of the Enlightenment was looking temporary, reversible”.

The burning of the Quran leaves many of us similarly troubled. We do not need to approve of the contents to sense that the destruction of a book is symbolic of a desire to limit the scope of human thought. When activists post footage of themselves gleefully setting fire to copies of Harry Potter, one cannot shake the similar suspicion that they would happily substitute the books with the author herself.

But while many of us find the burning of books instinctively rebarbative, to outlaw this form of protest is essentially authoritarian. And to reinstate blasphemy laws by specifying that only religious books are to be protected is fundamentally retrograde. Of course, such laws already exist in most Western countries in an unwritten form. In March, a 14-year-old autistic boy was suspended from his school in Wakefield, reported to the police, and received death threats after he accidentally dropped a copy of the Quran on the floor, causing some of the pages to be scuffed. He may not have committed a crime, but many people behaved as though he had.

And the same unwritten laws are in force in the fact that few would be brave enough to publish cartoons of the Prophet Mohammed after the massacre at the offices of French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo in 2015. Five years later, the schoolteacher Samuel Paty was beheaded on the streets of Paris simply for showing the offending images during a lesson on free speech. Closer to home, a teacher at Batley Grammar School in West Yorkshire is still in hiding after showing the images to his pupils and stirring the ire of a righteous mob.

The failure of the school’s headmaster, as well as the teaching unions, to support this man against the demands of religious fundamentalists is revealing. Why must those who claim to be defending the dignity of Muslims treat them as irascible children? At the same time, as Sam Harris recently pointed out, there is an oddity in the fact that so many Muslims do not appear to be alarmed that “their community is so uniquely combustible”.

The bitter reality is that terrorism works, particularly when so many governments across the Western world are seemingly willing to fritter away our bedrock of liberal values. This has been actuated, in part, by an alliance of two very different forms of authoritarianism: ultra-conservative Islamic dogma and the safetyist ideology of “wokeness”. The latter has always claimed that causing offence is a form of violence, and the former has been quick to adopt the same tactics. This is why protesters outside Batley Grammar School asserted that the display of offensive cartoons was a “safeguarding” issue, and the Muslim Council of Britain criticised the school for not maintaining an “inclusive space”. The same censorious instincts have been updated, and are now cloaked in a more modish language.

In a civilised and pluralistic society, the burning of a holy book might provoke a variety of responses — anger, disbelief, or just a shrug of the shoulders — but it should never lead to violence. Back when The Onion still had some bite, the website satirised this “unique combustibility” through the depiction of a graphic sexual foursome between Moses, Jesus, Ganesha and Buddha. The headline said it all: “No One Murdered Because Of This Image”.

Freedom of speech and expression still matters, and if that means a few hotheads and mini-Tamburlaines might burn their copies of the Quran then so be it. It is unfortunate that we have reached the point where Islam must be ring-fenced from ridicule or criticism, whether due to fear of violent repercussions or a misguided and patronising effort to promote social justice. But for this state of affairs we ultimately have only ourselves to blame, and in particular our tendency to capitulate to religious zealots when they seek exemption from the liberal consensus.

#Andrew Doyle #blasphemy #blasphemy laws #quran burning #quran #islam #islamic authoritarianism #authtoritarianism #i'm offended #offended #religious authoritarianism #free speech #freedom of speech #freedom of expression #criticism of islam #religion #religion is a mental illness

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