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azerothpeacecouncil · 4 years

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During the Remembrance of Undercity, we had a segment titled The Ceremony of Embers and Spirit in which Forsaken (and allies) were welcome to toss that which they want left behind to burn in a symbolic fire and help them move forward in their unlife or life. Anything from mementos from long past, banners or tabards or anything that they feel no longer belongs with them and no longer represents them. All were allowed to do this, but focus was put on Forsaken first. We had all who wanted their items showcased fill out a doc so we can share and forever view these small, but impactful, character moments. Down below is everyone who chose to have their moment showcased and what their feelings are that went with it as well as the item itself.

Due to the length of this post, please hit the Read More to view all items that have been tossed into the flames.

Caleb Mcswain Item: A blue star moss boutonnière. This item represented resentment, hatred for Caleb's undeath, and fear of the Horde. Shandras Korpus Item: A stuffed animal "...I can't possibly atone for the murderous rage my Dark Lady once inspired, but I can surely commit to do better." Silffred Queen Item: A patched and beaded Undercity tabard. Silffred leaves his spot, a ratty, patched tabard of the Undercity draped in his hands. He tries to steel himself, and fails. From the crowd, a death knight comes to his side; a -Night Elf- death knight. She whispers something to him and, together, they drop the tabard onto the smoldering bonfire. The Knight puts her hand on his shoulder, and Silffred raises his head to address the crowd. "I cast off my tabard for the final time, and with it... The piece of me that could end up no where else... But the flames." Jarisold Acridwell Item: Wedding ring Jarisold steps up quietly and pulls out a ring. He looks at it with a solemn expression, signing slowly with his free hand. "I have little to say here except I'm sorry. I wish I could have protected you." He grips it one last time, looking over it as he casts it into the fire. Nicolai Wyther Item: A Leatherbound notebook full of old alchemical research. Nicolai looked down at his old leatherbound book. Inside were a mix of notes, research and alchemical studies he had done many years ago for the Forsaken cause. Some were helpful, but many used for harming those who dared to mess with the Forsaken. "I was naive. I didn't know any better." he muttered under his breath as his veil covered his sorrowful face. "Years of my life were written down in this book I used to be proud of it...but when I see this book on my mantle, I don't think of the time I spent with my old Order or the happy memories." his voice trembled. "I only see regret. Anguish!" He opened the book to take out a dried out Arthas Tear, holding it between his skeletal fingers "And I must...move on." As he tossed the book into the fire. Donovan Morris Wightborn Item: A Forsaken insignia of excellence and a medallion with a red soulstone in it. Donovan pulls up a faded insignia from his bags. "Today, I burn two pages of history from my present so they may join the ashes of the past. First, an insignia of excellence given to me by the Dark Lady during the Gilneas campaign. With this, I burn what little respect I had for the Banshee... Along with a deep resentment for the people of Gilneas." He drops his insignia into the flames "And then..." he grasps at a silver necklace with a cracked red gem around his neck and pulls, snapping the chain as he removes it. He stares at it for a moment, in his hand, and holds it up "A soulstone medallion which was once used to twist my soul into undeath, and that I then used to imprison and punish the necromanceress responsible. With this, I let go of an old bitterness and drive: Vengeance. I slew her and her soul is long gone. No need for this to remain and remind me of her. I am Forsaken, driven by the glory and growth of our people, not unfocused hatred of an old witch." with that, he tosses it into the fire and watches it burn. He thought 'Donovan Morris died for Lordaeron. Donovan Wightborn claimed vengeance for him. Now we both live, in this glorious dark rebirth, as Forsaken.' Nettie Ka'an Item: Insignia of a Forsaken soldier Nettie steps foward and takes out a small, shiny object. "This insignia represents my time as a soldier on the Gilnean-Forsaken front. I had just been raised, and unlike many of you, felt little loyalty to the Banshee Queen."She pauses. "I joined to try to preserve my home, Gilneas, despite the Forsaken's onslaught. Since then, I have met and bonded with more Forsaken than I had thought I ever would. This insignia is a reminder of a past era, of distrust towards my own people." She continues. "We have all lost our homes, in one or way another. It is time to move forward." She gently drops the insignia into the fire, where it glows, and rejoins the circle. Geniya Zigzy Item: Old Undercity military ID card Geniya tosses the card into the fire, and it quickly flares up and away. "I used this only once since the fall of Undercity, as a way to pass myself off as the officer in Sylvanas' forces that I once was, for the purpose of sneaking some dissenters to safety. We are now ALL safe. We are free to be whoever we are, with no one watching over us from above. I will never need to use this card again." Benemus Crungey Item: Wedding Ring & Silver Dagger Benemus steps up, twisting a tarnished ring off of his finger and dropping it into the fire. "The last trappings of when I was alive," He said simply. "Attachment to someone who has spoken of her hatred for what I have become. I do not need this reminder that only makes me upset." Then he removes a dagger from his pack, and drops it in as well. "Be well on your journey into the shadows." Édouard Chaudron Item: Old Academy Frying Pan Anger at his Father who didn't support his culinary pursuits nor his soup kitchen for the poor of Lordaeron. His father would be the ghoul that sent him to his unlife, something which he clung to in anger prior to this event. Tossing it was to help let go of his difficult feelings in regards to his relationship with his father and to move past the guilt, doubt and other painful emotions that had him second-guessing his chosen path in life + unlife. Canthar Item: Remains preserved in jars. "I no longer have need for these. That competitive abomination assembly were a thing is disgusting. That I got caught up in it... Regardless. Dead should only be raised willing. These morbid cadavers no longer fascinate me..." Hylden Caspian Levanthorpe Item: An amethyst sphere (a speakstone) Hylden holds in his hand a stone. A beautiful amethyst sphere. Staring down at the thing, the storm of emotions that brewed on his features, in his eyes spoke to something deeper than he could express in words. He closed his fingers around it, and took a breath, staring down at the flames. “This was a gift, from a man I loved more than anythin’. Anythin’ I ever could have described, anythin’ I thought I could have felt. In that awful darkness, he called me a sweet thing. A mouse. That man would have had us believe that he was a snake. A serpent. Clever and connivin’. ...but snakes kill their prey quickly. No.” His eyes flicked upward, burning brightly, focusing directly on the man. “That man was a glue trap. Unfortunately for him, this mouse didn’t stay stuck. His grip was far too weak.” He glanced back down to the fire, opening his hand and staring back into the depths of that sphere, glowing with a life all its own. As his eyes turned from the fire, he lifted his hand and tilted it to the side, letting it roll from his palm as he said, “Goodbye. I’ll always love you. Though I’ll never know if it was my choice or not, will I?”

Vynaendra Highwood Blood Elf Item: Insignia of Sylvanas Vyn feels anger seeing the image of her face. Anger and disgust and sadness. Bagorpagork Mok’nathal A very old tome containing warlock spells and rituals Gork was clutching onto an old tattered book. A black cover with fel green demonic lettering and symbols. He held it out, giving it one last look before tossing it into the flames. "As time passes, sometimes you learn that the things that made you strong, the things that help you win, come at a price. The Alliance may have essentially lost that day. But it cost a great price for the Forsaken. I think uh, Mr Eralos put it quite really... I have begun to question my own power, the price I may someday come to pay. I have decided I do not need this power anymore. It is time to move on" he ended with a small smile. Lembri Vulpiana Shal’dorei Item: Menagerie Insignia Lembri removes an insignia from her satchel, bearing the mark of Suramar's Royal Menagerie. It's been battered with age, and no longer shines like the rest of the silver that adorns her. "I used to be afraid... I thought that I had to help protect the creatures of the outside from their own h-home... I'll never be able to forgive myself fully for the animals still trapped in that sick circus but... T-This is the start of redemption." The nightborne tosses the medal into the fire, feeling great relief as it disappears amongst the flames. Sorrel Silverblade Kaldorei Item: A rosary; an innumerable amount of red strings Sorrel approaches the fire, holding a rosary befitting a priest or priestess of the Church of the Holy Light. Its beads are made of dark, worn wood and yellowed ivory, the strand of silk they're strung on yellowed and brittle. At the end is a truesilver holy symbol, tarnished with age. He opens his other hand, filled with tiny red strands of string, curled and folded as if they'd been tied into position for a long time. He clears his throat a bit. "...you deserved better. A better life. A better son. I killed in your name, as if death or life were a game I could succeed in." He lowers his eyes and ears, gritting his teeth. "...I know better now. Life and death mean much more to me, in each of their forms. To the Light I pray you find solace." He lets the rosary fall into the fire. Sorrel stares intently into the flame. "To the Shadows I pray that they may guide my hand so that I may serve my fellows honourably. To learn from the mistakes of my youth." He lets the red strands fall. "To move past my sins." With that, he returns to his friends. Geniya, on behalf of Gornagh Starcrusher Undead Orc Item: Ebon Blade Warbanner Gornagh gave Geniya the banner to toss into the flames as a way of finally severing himself from the Ebon Blade, an organization he left very abruptly after realizing that his morals no longer aligned with theirs. He wishes to feel free of reminders that make him angry, for a group that he believes is no longer worth his energy to think on. Kuyr Driftwood Tauren Death Knight Item: Decaying old Saronite gauntlet Said: "Watching time pass me by...I should let go of this and work on my bonds. What it will bring with my new tribe. I don't know. But it's better then being alone." Thought's: *The pain and suffering is still unbearable. I can't break free fully. Maybe this will help me fight more to be myself. But I still wish at times just...release.* Litharial Solstar Sin’dorei Item: A single, grey arrow with raven fletching. Approached the bonfire that blazed with the ashes and memories of those that fed it before her. She drew a single, grey arrow with raven fletching, so unlike her golden ones. Examining the arrow a moment, she spoke quietly, "This belonged to my sister, Asarial. We fought together at the battle for Lordaeron when the Alliance broke through the gate, she told me to go first to make sure the wounded were well cared for. Her selflessness cost her her life. And it nearly broke me. Fast forward to the relevancy of this story, I found myself before the city of Ogrimmar, ready to liberate the city. However, it became apparent that loyalists were sabotaging the weaponry." Takes a moment to sniffle, a lone tear falling down her cheek. "It was then that I found the thing of my nightmares. My sister, who was raised as a Dark Ranger to serve the Banshee Queen. It was my duty to defend Saurfang's army and I did so, quickly slaying the two other Dark Rangers with her, and after a terrible duel...her." Her eyes grew ever luminescent as they reflected the warm light of the bonfire. "She lost..." Looking at the arrow once again, she turned it over in her hands, "I understand this ceremony is to honor our Forsaken brothers and sisters. But I can never truly hate the Dark Rangers, for what became of them. I cannot even hate Sylvanas, for she will always be remembered as a hero to Silvermoon for her sacrifice. So it is my hope, that the Dark Rangers and Sylvanaas find their way into this pyre. My sister, at least, shall find hers." Litharial placed the arrow gently, almost reverently, in the consuming fire. The flashed quickly licked the arrow, turning a dark purple where the arrow touched the flames, before blazing a righteous orange again. "Al diel shala, Asarial. Elor bindel felallan morin'aminor, Belore'dorei. Shorel'aran, sister." Dragway Orc Item: An old royal crest banner of the Rally family, it's dark blue banner with a falcon holding a mason hammer and pickaxe in its talons Dragway said this about the banner "This was the crest of Baron Danton Rally, who was a warden to many internment camps for the orcs, I spent my childhood as a slave under him, he was slain when Thrall came to liberate us. I toss my grieve for the child who was living in dirt and mud, and give hope to the adult still standing here. May the orcs...no...no other races, never be put into chains ever again!” Gotosh, on behalf of Katamar Orc Item: A red hair ribbon Gotosh clutched the red hair ribbon in his palm, looking down to it. He thought of what it meant to his friend, a connection to people who are long gone and their souls lost. Part of him didn’t want to toss it into the fire, feeling the weight it carried. But he promised to do this and with one toss the ribbon joined the other items to be burned away. May they rest, he thinks, may he rest too.

#Undercity Remembrance #APC events #Items of Ashes #IC events

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shirlleycoyle · 4 years

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How Mail Is Delivered During Natural Disasters

This article was sent on Tuesday to subscribers of The Mail, Motherboard’s pop-up newsletter about the USPS, election security, and democracy. Subscribe to get the next edition before it is published here, as well as exclusive articles and the paid zine.

Hey everyone, welcome to another edition of The Mail. Before we get started, two quick announcements.

First, we're getting the zine ready for the printer, which means this is your last chance to sign up if you want to get it, and I really think you will. Here’s a preview:

Zine preview

I can’t wait to get my copy. Make sure you get yours by clicking the button below.

Second, our colleagues at Waypoint are doing their annual fundraiser called Savepoint to raise funds for National Bailout. You can read more about it here, but basically it's a gameathon to raise money. The whole shebang will be broadcast on Waypoint's Twitch channel. I will be joining Motherboard's Editor-in-Chief Jason Koebler on Wednesday at 3 p.m. Eastern to talk about post office things. Hope you can join us!

Ed Curzon had two minutes to get out. It was the morning of October 8, 2017 in Santa Rosa, California, and he awoke to the smell of smoke and the sight of glowing orange embers blowing in the wind. The houses across the street were on fire.

"So think of everything in two minutes that you'd want to take from your home, and that's pretty much what we took," Curzon said in an interview for a National Letter Carriers Association documentary about the fires. "We got the dogs, each other, a pillow and a blanket, our cell phones, our IDs, and that's about as much time as we had to get out."

Curzon's home of 29 years burned down that day, along with virtually all the homes in Coffey Park, a neighborhood in Santa Rosa. It was the hardest hit neighborhood in the hardest hit city of the most destructive wildfire in California history up to that point.

Curzon was one of 13 letter carriers in Santa Rosa who lost their homes. The fires continued to burn in the city for more than a week, filling the air with smoke and ash. But just a few days after losing his house, Curzon went back to work.

Jerry Andersen, president of the NALC Branch 183 in Santa Rosa, told Motherboard recently that Curzon wasn't the only one who went back to work despite losing so much. "We asked them why they were coming in and they said 'I don't have anything to do.' And they felt they had their duty to deliver the mail."

It may seem odd that letter carriers felt the need to deliver mail while fires were still burning. After all, it was 2017. Many Americans—especially ones in Santa Rosa, not far from the Bay Area and Silicon Valley—probably believe everything important happens online or, at worst, over the phone. In a disaster, do people really need their mail?

According to FEMA, the answer is yes. Delivering mail is considered a "Primary Mission Essential Function," meaning it must be resumed within 12 hours of any emergency event.

The reason for this is simple. People impacted by hurricanes, wildfires, blizzards, flooding, and pandemics need things, whether it be food, medicine, clothes, blankets, or any number of other physical objects to stay alive and begin the process of rebuilding their lives. The post office brings these things to people. And, through tools like mail forwarding, it keeps track of where people are in a way no other federal agency can.

Not only do Americans in distress need their mail, but they need their mail carriers, who have unparalleled local knowledge about their neighborhoods and the people who live there.

That's one of the reasons Curzon went back to work while the remains of his home were still smoldering. In the documentary, he explained "I don't know why I went to work, but I have a lot of elderly people on my route and some special needs people and there was such a lack of communication. There was smoke everywhere, there was a lot of confusion on the streets. Half of me wanted to run away from this problem and the other half wanted to make sure some of those people are going to be OK."

Some carriers in Santa Rosa returned to their routes only to find virtually all of the homes along it were no longer there. One carrier had 293 homes along her route before the fire. Afterwards, there were only 18 still standing. As Curzon demonstrated, they know which families are especially vulnerable and need to be sought out for emergency care.

Not only do postal workers go back to work sooner than anyone else in the face of disaster, but they keep working through conditions most others wouldn't tolerate. There has perhaps never been a more illustrative year than the one we are currently living through. Through the pandemic, hurricanes, and now historic wildfires burning across the west, the USPS has, for the most part, continued to deliver the mail.

Of course, you won't see any LLV delivery trucks plowing through flames (unless, of course, the flames are coming from the truck itself). The USPS does, in fact, stop delivering mail when conditions become unsafe. For example, when local authorities issue evacuation orders for wildfires or hurricanes, postal workers leave, too.

In fact, where the USPS has stopped delivering mail is about as good of a snapshot as you'll get of where in America is currently in a desperate crisis. The USPS National Map is a kind of Down Detector for the post office. It shows which of the USPS's 32,000-plus facilities are experiencing limited or no service due to issues ranging from power outages, maintenance issues, and natural disasters along with NOAA map overlays. As of Monday early afternoon, the map looked like this:

USPS service status map. Screenshot: USPS National Map

As you can see, there are a lot of closed post offices where Tropical Storm Sally is making landfall in the Gulf Coast and along the wildfires in the west. In most of those areas, delivery is suspended as well. You can find a full list of residential service disruptions at the USPS's website here.

It is impossible to write about the post office delivering (or not) in harsh conditions without mentioning its unofficial motto "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." This sentence—written by Herodotus about the couriers ferrying news during the Persian Wars of 500 B.C—is inscribed on the majestic James A. Farley post office complex in Manhattan (which was also, somewhat ironically given the inscription, the epicenter of the 1970 postal workers strike). But the USPS's official mission statement reads as if Herodotus got a lobotomy:

The Postal Service shall have as its basic function the obligation to provide postal services to bind the Nation together through the personal, educational, literary, and business correspondence of the people. It shall provide prompt, reliable, and efficient services to patrons in all areas and shall render postal services to all communities.

For the countless times I've had postal workers recite Herodotus's words back to me or seen the sentence cited in some scholarly or literary work about the post office, I have never heard anyone mention its "mission statement." Hardly surprising, really, I just typed the sentence and can barely even remember it.

But I don't think it's just because Herodotus's words are easier to remember and more poetic. In one sentence, it provides what every corporate mission statement fails to achieve. It inspires people, or at the very least reminds them of a profound sense of purpose.

And many postal workers latch onto that inspiration. Working through wildfires in particular, where health officials tell people to stay indoors as much as they possibly can, is a physically taxing experience. For example, Portland, Oregon is experiencing some of the worst air quality the country has ever seen at the moment, but postal workers are still making their deliveries.

I spoke to one letter carrier there who described the city as "apocalyptic" right now. When he's gotten off of work the last few days, he has a layer of grit all over his skin, needs to stick a q-tip up his nostrils to get the black smut out, and has a blistering headache. The N95 masks only do so much. He said the smoky air is much worse than other extreme weather like heat waves or ice storms, because you can take a break from those. But not the wildfires. "I don't think I'd ever get used to this," he said. "Every single second I'm out in this stuff, all I can think is I can't wait for this to be over."

When disaster strikes, we look for robustness. We look for the big structures that won't blow away in the storm, the concrete fire-resistant gymnasiums, the places we expect to survive, and we count on them to see us through the worst of it. We look for the people who respond well in crisis, who know what to do when times are tough, who react quickly, decisively, and knowledgeably. So, too, do we look for robust institutions to help us get back on our feet. Not the ones that deliver to us only if it is profitable or easy, but the ones that are here for us every day, that endure. And, despite everything that has happened to the post office over the years and decades, there is still no American institution more robust than the post office.

In the documentary about Santa Rosa, Andersen used a phrase I have been thinking about a lot when reading the news coverage about the current wildfires. He said that once the first responders like the EMTs, firefighters, and police move on to the next tragedy, the post office workers are "the second responders. We're there and showing people hey, we're back, and we're going to make this right."

This has been a year for second responders, the ones who quietly make life possible. The post office is far from a perfect institution, but in times of trouble, we seek normalcy. And there is nothing more normal, nothing more routine, than getting the mail.

When I spoke to Andersen about all this, he said after the Santa Rosa fires, he noticed something strange. He doesn't know how to explain it, but even in neighborhoods entirely wiped out by the fires, where every single house burned down, one thing seemed to still be standing in front of every lot. For some reason, the mailboxes were still there.

The Week In Mail

Mail-in voting news:

My colleagues at VICE put together a guide on how to vote by mail in all 50 states.

Many states have harsh penalties for anyone who double votes, as Trump has encouraged his supporters to do. In Georgia, the Republican Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger is alleging hundreds if not thousands of Georgians did exactly that in the June primary, although he hasn't presented any evidence of it yet. Either way, it's worth noting here how easily someone could accidentally vote twice if election officials screw up. Let's say you send in your vote-by-mail ballot, but then go to the polls just to make sure your vote was counted, only to find it wasn't, so you vote in person, because election officials mistakenly didn't relay to the poll workers your vote had been tallied. Is that a crime? Raffensperger says yes: "“At the end of the day, the voter was responsible and the voters know what they were doing. A double voter knows exactly what they were doing, diluting the votes of each and every voter that follows the law.”

Colorado sued the USPS over a vote-by-mail information postcard being sent to every residential address in the country. On Saturday, a judge issued a restraining order against the USPS from sending the postcards out in that state. The state's argument is that the postcard contains misinformation because it tells voters to request a ballot at least 15 days before the election, but a handful of states like Colorado automatically mail a ballot to every voter. The judge ruled the postcard is likely to confuse voters and therefore should not be sent. I must admit, of all the things that could potentially cause "irreparable harm" to the voting process in Colorado or any state, this postcard seems low on the risk list to me. The bullet point above the one Colorado took issue with says "Rules and dates vary by state, so contact your election board to confirm.” It then directs people to the url usps.com/votinginfo, which is little more than a portal to your state election website. Even if someone completely misinterprets the postcard into thinking they have to request a ballot when they don’t, all they will do is go online and see that they don’t have to request a ballot. Considering all the insane rhetoric about vote-by-mail coming from the White House all the way down, does anyone really believe this is what will confuse people? If nothing else, this goes to show just how poorly the USPS works with states on vote-by-mail issues. The lawsuit is here and the postcard is on the third page.

USPS news:

A Senate report found mail-order pharmacies reported an increase in average delivery times between 18-32 percent in the summer. Good thing no one relies on prompt delivery of…medicine?

“This man is doing a tremendous job,” USPS Republican board member John Barger said of DeJoy last week. Similarly, the USPS says service is continuing to improve without acknowledging why it tanked to begin with.

The USPS is refusing to release DeJoy's calendars for completely bullshit reasons because the calendars of public officials are public documents under the Freedom of Information Act. The courts will eventually force them to do this, but probably not until well after the election.

My Motherboard colleague Lorenzo Franceschi-Bicchierai reported on a potentially catastrophic security vulnerability that the USPS Inspector General found had been hiding in their computer systems for years. USPS says they fixed it. I asked Lorenzo what he thought about this story and he said "Government systems tend to be shittily maintained but this could have been really bad."

Little known fact: “Mr. Trump entered the White House when not a single [USPS] board member was in place — Republicans had blocked all of President Barack Obama’s nominees — and as its long-term fiscal viability was increasingly in doubt.”

Postcards

We have received more than 50 postcards! Thank you so much to everyone who has sent them in. In addition to featuring some here, we’re including many more in the zine. So keep ‘em coming!

And, as a reminder, we'll be doing a snail mailbag at some point in the future, so if you have questions feel free to start mailing them in.

Our address is:

VICE Media c/o Aaron Gordon 49 S 2nd St. Brooklyn, NY 11211

Postcard

I couldn't capture the holographic element of the T.rex stamp, but I can assure you it was indeed sick. Also, I hate to disappoint J. but I do not have any cool stamps. I bought a bunch of the frog forever stamps for my personal correspondence, but I'm looking to get some better ones.

See you next week,

Aaron

How Mail Is Delivered During Natural Disasters syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

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jesliey · 7 years

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The Many Ask Thingymabob

Second times the charm...

Tagged By: @caramiathegreat

Spoofy Soundcloud or Pandora? Im a spoofy kinda man

Messy or clean room? I think my room is comparatively clean

What colour are your eyes? Bluest blue to ever blue

Do you Like your name and why? Its alright. It always seemed a little lackluster to me

Relationship status? The running joke in my friend group is my 3 year dry spell. It isnt a very funny joke.

Describe your personality in 3 words or less? Distanced pragmatic dumbass

What colour is your hair? Golden and luscious

What kind of car do you drive? My moms PTA-mobile

Where do you shop? Bad Dragon

How would you describe your style? Dying, yet fashionable college student

Favourite social media account? We all know timboblr is utter trash, and i picked up natter a while ago and its honestly pretty fun

Bed size? Queenie my man

Any siblings? two older stepsisters and a wee lil half sister

Anywhere to live in the world and why? GERMANY OR POLAND. BECAUSE HERITAGE

Favourite snapchat filter? I really like the flower crown an butterfly ones but my phone is being dumb with snapchat and i cant get them

Favourite makeup brand? I mean i dont wear it, but im definitely not opposed! i dont know anything about brands and i am ashamed...

How many times a week do you shower? I go by how my hair feels. Usually its every other day, or every two days.

Favourite TV show? Currently? Gotta be that weeb and say Jojo...

Shoe Size? Depends on where i go, but like 12 - 13

How tall are you? Very

Sandals or sneakers? I like wearing socks and sandals feel weird on my feet

Do you go to the gym. I LIFT SO MANY THINGS WEEKLY SWOLE SESSIONS BRUH.

Describe your dream date? Existent... T-T

How much money do you have in your wallet? I dont carry cash!

What colour socks are you wearing? Black

How many pillows do you sleep with? Like 6. Ones a memory foam body pillow its soooo nice....

Do you have a job? Nah...its not for lack of trying though

How many friends do you have? Like...sooo many duuude...not really...

Whats the worst thing youve done? Cut someone who was bad for me out of my life. Bad for them, good for me.

Favourite candle scent? I mean i dont do candles but i love lavender

Favourite boy names?

Gabriel

Alistair

Jeremiah

Favourite girl names?

Elizabeth

Abigail

Lauren

Favourite actor? Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson

Favourite actress? Ashley Johnson

Celebrity crush? theres a lot...

Favourite movie? The Boondock Saints. Easy question.

Do you read a lot? Whats your favourite book? I dont read as much as i think i should, but i loved 1984. I wanna try David Foster Wallaces Infinite Jest and i have the first book in Baccano that i borrowed from a friend and havent touched yet :/

Money or brains? Ignorance is bliss and im filthy fuckin rich HOLLA

Do you have a nickname? Jesliey is an old one. People also call me J a lot. Very briefly in highschool someone called me J-Money whenever he saw me

How many times have you been to a hospital? Not very many. I went in a few years ago for a tonsil infection but that was it in recent history

Top 10 Favourite Songs? Ok this is in no particular order and also limiting to 10 is blashpemy

Subdivisions by NSP

Everybody Wants to Rule The World by NSP

Resist and Bite by Sabaton though if im honest most of Heroes belongs here this ones just my fav

Winged Hussars by Sabaton POLISH PRIIIIIIDE

Wrong Side of Heaven by Five Finger Death Punch

All of Pendulums Immersion album im not picking one

Come with Me Now by KONGOS

History Maker by Dean Fujioka

Setting Sail, Coming Home by Darren Korb

Sonata For Whitestone Castle by Aiden Chan

Do you take any daily medications? No, but i probably should have...

Whatis your skin type? on a good day, slightly dry. on a bad day, cracked bleeding sandpaper.

Whats your biggest fear? My man i used to battle almost daily with some quite hefty anxiety. I could stare down the Grim Reaper and say “I served my time you come and take me”. Wasps and needles are pretty bad though i guess

How many kids do you want? Id be lying if i said i didnt want a daughter at some point...but theres no way im passing on my genetics. im adopting if i ever want a kid.

Whats your go-to hairstyle? Either free flowing and glorious, or ponytail if i need it out of my face

What ype of house do you live in? Moms house is pretty decently sized i suppose

Who is your role model? I dont really have one...

What was the last compliment you received? I dont know I dont really get those often...this is getting kinda depressing....

What was the last text you sent? “Well i hope shes alright”

How old were you when you stopped believing in Santa? Like 10 or 12

What is your dream car? Oh god i want a 1985 Pontiac Trans Am so bad you have no idea...

Opinion on smoking? I dont get the appeal but everyone can make their own choices

Do you go to college? Yes and im dying

What is your dream job? Metalworking and blacksmithing has lowkey been a huge fascination of mine for like 2 years now. i would love to be able to do that for a living

Rural area or life in suburbia? I like the idea of both, but rural areas have space for metal workshops

Do you take shampoo/conditioner bottles from hotel rooms? Nah i bring my own

Do you have freckles? A few spread sporadically all over my body. no noticeable patches though

Do you smile for pictures? Yeah but most of the time it feels so forced

How many pictures do you have on your phone? Somewhere between 1 and 2 hundred. Im not adding them up among all the folders...

Have you ever peed in the woods? Bruh the forest has seen every bodily fluid ive got

Do you still watch cartoons? ANIME IS NOT A CARTOON DAD. also yes quite often.

Wendys or McDonalds nuggets? GIMME DEM CHICKIN MCNUGGiES

Favourite dipping sauce? Sweet chili thai!

What do you wear to bed? Pajama pants, a shirt, and socks usually. Occasionally whatever i wore during the day. Ive been known to ditch my pants and socks in my sleep.

Ever won a spelling bee? Never been in one, but i think i could have if i wanted to

What are your hobbies? I wont as long as i live under my mothers roof, but i would hella get into amateur blacksmithing!

Can you draw? yes. should i draw? no.

Do you play an instrument? I can play trumpet, but i would really like to pick up playing cello

What was the last concert you saw? If i remember correctly it was the Scorpions

Tea or coffee? Both. Simultaneously. I like to remain calm while containing the energy of a god.

Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts? Fuck you america! Tim Hortons!

Do you want to get married? I wont oppose if a future partner wants to, but if i love someone enough to want to spend the rest of my life with them, then it wont be necessary

What is your crushs first and last initial? Which one tho?

Are you going to change your last name when you get married? Im indifferent

What colour looks best on you? Blue and red are my standard colours

Do you miss anyone right now. If i think about this at all the answer is usually yes

Do you sleep with your door open or closed? I have the lovely habit of losing my pants in my sleep. for the sake of everyone else in this house, closed is best

Do you believe in ghosts? Call me a skeptic

What is your biggest pet peeve? Im pretty laid back about a lot of things. Only thing i can think of now is more of an anxiety thing but i cant stand people randomly touching my hair without me knowing

Last person you called? My mother

Favourite ice cream flavour? Butterscotch ripple

Regular or golden oreos? Golden

Chocolate or rainbow sprinkles? Rainbow

What shirt are you wearing? An old white one with some brand graphic on it

What is your phone background? Lockscreen is Goku from DBZ if he were done as a Jojo character, and home screen is a cr1t1kal quote

Are you outgoing or shy? Im not overly comfortable with just meeting new people and striking up conversations without some kind of help

Do you like it when people play with your hair? I mean i used to...theres a girl at my college who has absolutely no concept of personal boundaries who has at least partially ruined that for me now. Like i said earlier, i cant stand people touching my hair now without me acknowledging it

Do you like your neighbors? Ive lived her about 8 years and im still learning their names

Do you wash your face at night? In the morning? lmao

Have you ever been high? Hella my dude

Have you ever been drunk? Also hella my dude?

Last thing you ate? Coscto chicken penne and a salad.

Favourite lyrics right now? “Light up the night./ There is a city that this darkness can’t hide./ There are embers of a fire that’s gone out,/ but I can still feel the heat on my skin./ This mess we’re in, well you and I,/ maybe you and I,/ we can still make it right./ Maybe we can bring back the light!” Light Up the Night by The Protomen

Summer or Winter? Autumn fuck that noise

Day or night? Night

Dark milk or white chocolate? White!

Favourite month? October

What is your zodac sign? League of Legends Cancer

Who was the last person you cried in front of? I legitimately dont remember...probably @vocoterra

GOOD LORD THIS TOOK TOO LONG TO FINISH

If anyone wants to do this feel free and say i tagged you!

#long post #good lord i was as far as the crush initials one #and then chrome closed and i shed a single tear #now excuse me i need to shower

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mahmoodjamal · 5 years

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Tasting the Sky - Ibtisam Barakat PART I A Letter to No One 1981, Surda, West Bank Like a bird clawing The bars of a cage And wishing them branches, My fingers grasp The bus rails before me. But I wish for nothing. I'm midway from Birzeit to Ramallah, at the Israeli army checkpoint at Surda. No one knows how long our bus will stay here. An army jeep is parked sideways to block the road. Soldiers in another jeep look on with their guns. They are ready to shoot. A barrier that punctures tires stands near the stop sign. I regret that I chose to sit up front. The window of the bus frames the roadblock like a postcard that I wish I could send to all my faraway pen pals. They ask me to describe a day in my life. But I do not dare. If I told them of the fear that hides under my feet like a land mine, would they write back? A soldier leaps into the bus. He stands on the top step. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, dark like midnight. "To where?" He throws the question like a rock. I pull myhead toward my body like a tortoise. If I don't see him, perhaps he won't see me. He asks again. I stay silent. I don't think a high school girl like me is visible enough, exists enough for a soldier with a rifle, a pistol, a club, a helmet, and high boots to notice. He must be talking to the man sitting behind me. But he leans closer. His khaki uniform and the back of his rifle touch my knee. My flesh freezes. "To where?" He bends close to my face. I feel everyone on the bus nudging me with their anxious silence. "Ramallah," I stutter. "Ramallah?" he repeats as if astonished. "Khalas. Ma feesh Ramallah. Kullha rahat," he says in broken Arabic. The words sound like they have been beaten up, bruised so blue they can hardly speak their meaning. But I gather them. "There is no Ramallah anymore," he says. "It all should be gone by now." I search for the soldier's eyes, but his sunglasses are walls that keep me from seeing. I search for anything in his face to tell me more than the words he's just said about Ramallah. What does he mean? Are the homes all bulldozed down? And the people? My father and my family, will I find them? Will they wait for me? Fear is a blizzard inside me. A thousand questions clamor in my mind. It was less than an hour ago that I took the bus from Ramallah to Birzeit. Now I am returning. How could everything disappear in less than one hour? Something must be wrong with me. Perhaps I do not know how to think, how to understand my world. Today I chose to sit up front whenI should have chosen to hide in the back. I should have known a front seat lets one see more of what lies ahead. I want to open my mouth and let my feelings escape like birds, let them migrate forever. I am waiting for the soldier to step off the bus. But he doesn't. He counts us, then takes out a radio and speaks. I don't understand, and I am somehow content that I do not. I do not want to know what he says about me or the bus, or what he plans to do. He switches back to Arabic, takes the driver's ID, tells the driver to transport us all--the old passengers, the young, the mothers, students, everyone--to the Military Rule Center. He means the prison-court military compound on the way to Ramallah. I know where that is. It sits on the ground like a curse: large, grim, shrouded in mystery. In ten minutes our bus will be there. New soldiers wait for us at the entrance to the compound. One walks to our driver's window, tells him to let all the passengers off, then turn around and leave. The driver apologizes to us. He says if it weren't for the order, he would wait for us no matter how long it took. I wonder if he is afraid to continue on to Ramallah, to be alone when he finds out whether it's really in ruins. "Wait a moment," he says. "I will return your fare." But no one can wait. "Yallah! Yallah!" a soldier goads. "Hurry!" After a second head count, at gunpoint, we form a line and walk to a waiting area. We stand against a wall that faces the main door. The compound feels like the carcass of a giantanimal that died a long time ago. Its exterior is drab, bonelike, and hostile. We take out our IDs. Two soldiers collect them to determine if any of us had been caught in previous confrontations with the army. Our IDs inform on us. The orange-colored plastic covers, indicating that we all are Palestinian, pile up on the table like orange peels. Two college students, with thick books in their hands, are quickly separated from the group. For a moment, my dream of going to college feels frightening. "Hands up!" someone says, and one of the two soldiers now chooses the people he wants and inspects their bags, pockets, bodies. He skips the girls and women. All is quiet until he raises his hand to search a teenage boy standing next to me. Even before the soldier touches him, the boy starts to giggle. The sound breaking the anxious silence is shocking. At first, the giggles are faint, then they grow so loud that soldiers from outside the yard hear and come to see. The boy's laughter is dry and trembling. Worried. I know what he feels. He wants to cry, but in spite of himself, in spite of the soldiers and the guns, all he can do is giggle. Angered, the search soldier punches the boy, but like a broken cup that cannot hold its contents, the boy continues to laugh. The soldier punches him again. The boy's laughter now zigzags up and down like a mouse trying to flee and not knowing which way to turn. But a kick on the knee from the soldier's boot finally makes the boy cry. He folds down in pain and then is led inside the building. We stand still like trees--no talking, no looking at oneanother, no asking questions, no requesting water or trips to the bathroom, no sitting or squatting. We do not know what we are waiting for or why we are waiting. The hours stretch like rubber bands that break and snap against our skins, measured by the ticking of boots, going and coming across the yard, in and out of the building. I keep my eyes on our main guard, who now sits by the door. Lighting a cigarette from the dying ember of the one he has just finished and filling his chest with the flavor of fire, he makes frog cheeks and blows smoke rings that widen like binoculars as he glances at us through the smoky panel. He looks at us as though we are only suitcases in his custody I want to ask him if I can take out a pen and paper. If he lets me, I will empty myself of what I feel. I will distract myself from my hunger, for I have not eaten all day. And I will record details to give to my mother in order to avoid her wrath--if Ramallah is not really gone. But something in my mind wags a warning finger not to ask, not to do the wrong thing. It's a finger like Mother's, telling me to get home in a hurry, not ever to be late. But I am already many hours late. Mother tells me not to speak about politics. She is always afraid that something bad could happen suddenly. "Khalas, insay, insay," she demands impatiently. "Forget, just forget." And I do. I know less about politics than do most of my classmates. I never even learned how the colors of the Palestinian flag are arranged. Sometimes I glance at the outlawed flag during street demonstrations. I see it for seconds only,before the hand that holds it is shot at by Israeli soldiers. At times, I see the flag drawn in graffiti on walls. Someone does it at night and leaves it for us to discover in the morning. The soldiers spray over it during the day. Anyone caught with the Palestinian flag is punished. Mother does not want me or any of my siblings to do anything that could cause us even the slightest trouble with the army. "Imshy el-hayt el-hayt wu qool yallah el steereh," she says. Walk by the wall. Do not draw attention to yourself. Be invisible if you can, is her guiding proverb. If I see Mother again, I will tell her what happened to the bus at the checkpoint. "Why go to Birzeit?" She will slice at the air with her hands, half wanting to hear my answer, half wanting to hit me. Birzeit is where students go to college after finishing high school in Ramallah. Some also come from Gaza, Nablus, and other cities, towns, and refugee camps. In Birzeit, many students become active in politics and have fights with the Israeli army. They chant on the streets that they want freedom from the occupation. But I did not go there to chant for freedom. I have my freedom. It is hidden in Post Office Box 34. This is what takes me from Ramallah to Birzeit. Post Office Box 34 is the only place in the world that belongs to me. It belonged to my brother Basel first. He left Ramallah and did not want to give up the box, so he passed it on to me. On the days I don't go to Birzeit, I bury the key in the dirt under a lemon tree near our house. If I die, the key for the box will be under the ground with me. Having this box is like having a country, the size of atiny square, all to myself. I love to go there, dig the key out of my pocket, turn its neck around, open the door, then slowly let my hand nestle in and linger, even if the box is empty. I wish I could open my postbox every day. I feel that my hand, when deep inside it, reaches out to anyone on the other side of the world who wants to be my friend. Some postal worker in Birzeit must like me, perhaps because I put "Thank you to the postman" on all my envelopes. When many days go by without my coming for letters, I sometimes find a stick of chewing gum in my box. Someone has opened it first, written a line of cheerful poetry, then wrapped it again. Smiling, I skip out of the post office. I chew the line, taste its meaning. Paper and ink, poems and my postbox are medicines that heal the wounds of a life without freedom. On some days, I wish I could stay inside my postbox, with a tiny pillow made from a stamp with a flower on it. At the end of the day, I could cover myself up with one pinkenveloped letter and sleep on a futonlike stack of letters from my pen pals: Dimitri from Greece. He writes of a Greek holiday called No. I reply that all teenagers in the world should celebrate this day. Dimitri and I argue about baklava. He insists it's Greek. I assure him it is Arabic. Perhaps it is both, we finally decide to agree, since both our peoples love it. Luis from Spain. He is unhappy for reasons I do not understand. His country is not occupied, and he does not have a strict mother like mine. But I like it that he always writes something about basketball. He says when he gets out on the court he forgets all his worries. Hannah from Great Britain. What if I wrote "Great" next to "Ramallah" when I send my letter? From Great Ramallah to Great Britain. We would be equals then. Hannah's letters are always egg white, with the queen stamp, which I stare at for a long time. The crowned queen is beautiful. Hannah writes about the trips she takes with her family and the books she reads. She loves Gulliver's Travels and Emil and the Detectives, books that I, too, love, because Gulliver and Emil remind me of myself. Gulliver knows exactly what it is not to be free. And both Gulliver and Emil form fond friendships with strangers. Sally, a grandmother from America, speaks about eating turkey on Thanksgiving. "Eating a country?" I write back. She explains. And I laugh because Mother dislikes the "Roman rooster," our name for turkey. She would never let one in our house, much less cook it for a celebration. I have many pen pals: tourists, Holy Land pilgrims, and students who join pen pal programs to see the world through other people's words. Some write only once in a long while. Others write often. But all of them send me scraps of their lives translated into English, which I have been studying for six years, ever since I turned eleven. In return, I tell my pen pals about my school, friends, teachers, studies. I describe the seasons, the land, the wheat and olive harvests, and the Eid celebrations. Looking into a hand mirror, I describe myself if I don't have a picture to send. Translating many words and sentences, I also write about the Arabic language. I explain that verbs in Arabic form roots that create trees of nouns and word structures. An yaktub means towrite. Maktoob means a written letter. Katebah is a female writer. Ala-katebah is a typewriter. Kitab is a book. Maktab is a desk for writing. Maktabah is a library, the place where one finds books. All these words grow from the root verb kataba. Making words in Arabic is like planting a field with seeds, growing an orchard--words hang on the vines like grape clusters, leaves throw shadows of meanings to the ground. I am eager to answer all my pen pals' questions about language. But when they ask me about my childhood, suddenly I have nothing to say. It's like a curtain comes down and hides my memories. I do not dare part it and look. So I skip all childhood questions and reply only about the day. Today, I wish I could tell my pen pals that I was going to Birzeit to open my postbox, to meet their words. There were no letters from anyone. Maybe they were on their way, but the postal trucks were unable to get to Birzeit. The roads and mail system here are like our country, broken. Letters are like prayers; they take a long time to be answered. What would my pen pals say if I told them that I am standing at a detention center because I went to open my postbox for their letters? Now, gazing at the ground under my feet, I remember that I need to make up something ingenious to convince Mother that I did not go to Birzeit to talk to college boys or do anything related to Palestine or politics. I usually cannot convince her of anything. She is cleverer than I am. She is cleverer than anyone I know. Perhaps ten mothers in Ramallah are not clever at all because she has gotten their share of cleverness. When unsatisfied, she pokes my chest and curses me. To answer her, I write poems about the cruelty of mothers. "What difference is there between a mother and a soldier? None." I underline my answer. "Mothers and soldiers are enemies of freedom. I am doubly occupied." I post the poems on the wall like freedom graffiti or tuck them in "her journal," a journal that I keep only for my mother. She reads it when I am gone. Often, however, I write good words in her journal, hoping that when she sees them she will know that I care about her and be gentler with me. "God, I feel terrible for Mother because she works so hard. And I don't know what it is to be a mother in a land filled with soldiers and war. Please make her happy. Take from my happiness if that's the only way to help." "Liar," she pencils next to my words, then erases it. The faint traces remain. I see them. We never speak about her journal, but we meet there to say the things we cannot say out loud. My true journal is written with no pen or paper, but in my mind, with an invisible hand in the air. No one will ever find it. When Mother says to come home, I write in my mind that I feel at home nowhere. I want to wander the streets after school, walk forever, walk away from a world I do not understand, a world that tells me daily there is no place in it for me. And it is not just Mother who is afraid and watches over me. Father does, too. My parents, Suleiman and Mirriam, whom I call Yaba and Yamma, often disagree on things, but when it comes to me, they act as though they never disagree.My father copies his feelings from Mother the way one copies homework. On some mornings, they whisper a few words, then my father pretends to go to work early. But he waits outside until I walk to school, and follows me. He must want to see how I behave on the streets when I am alone. He does not know that I read him the way I read a street sign, and that I watch for him every day the way I watch for the snipers on top of the large buildings in Ramallah. They, too, watch how we walk and what we do. Without looking at them, we know exactly where they are. When my father walks behind me, as if he thinks he can outwit me, I feel sad. How little he knows me. "Yaba, why not wait outside until I leave?" I said one morning. "What for?" he asked. "So that you can follow me," I fumed. He became outraged and charged after me. I bolted into a room and locked the door. "Why do you challenge me?" he shouted. I opened the door and walked right up to him. He only shook his head, blamed my defiance on my schooling, and blamed himself for sending me to school. "You dig your head into your Nakleezi books like a sheep, grazing all day," he said, and sighed, perhaps wishing he, too, could read English books. I know that my father does not really want to put down my schooling, especially because of the way he treats the word chair, the only word in English he knows. He says it with pride, moves it around in his speech as though to gaina better view of things. He sits on it like it's a throne. Yet it is a lonely chair. My love for language and words seems to come between us. It takes away his authority over me. The books, not he, are my references. The soldiers are another force that separates us. Father knows that they, not he, are the ones who control every one of us. We are not free to be a family the way he wants, with him a lion in our lives. He is like a lion in the zoo. Any of us can be taken away any day. No one can stop that, no matter how hard he roars from the fenced space allotted to him. I compare my father with the fathers of other girls. He is poorer than many, and war lives inside him. Every night, he wakes up shouting that someone is going to kill him, kill us all. He punches at the air, kicks with his feet to free himself, and cries for someone to help him. Mother sleeps on the farthest edge of the bed to avoid getting hit. She pretends she does not hear his cries. But every night I run to comfort him. I bring him a cup of water and sit beside him. I ask him to tell me what he sees. Catching his breath, he mixes words and tears. My father has no language for the pain and loneliness he feels. Is that because he has lived all his life not knowing freedom? Or does he hide his freedom somewhere, the way I hide mine in Post Office Box 34? It is late afternoon, and we are still standing, still waiting at the detention center. My feet are aching for rest. Then, unexpectedly, I am released. My tears drip onto my shoes. Tears are my secret ink, inthe absence of real ink. Liquid stories. On the air that comes into and leaves my chest, I write all the things that happen to me. "Now the soldier hands me my ID and tells me that I can go home ..." I run toward the center of Ramallah, my heart heavy, as if it has stones in it. Questions rattle in my mind. What did the soldier on the bus mean? But ... Ramallah ... is ... still ... there. It is there. Juabah newspaper shop, Salaam taxicab office, Fam boutique, Abu Azmi grocery shop, Zabaneh market, Salah pharmacy are all closed, but all are there. I want to hold Ramallah the way one holds oneself when there is no one else to touch. Quickly, I realize that some fight between Palestinian protesters and Israeli soldiers must have taken place. The streets are deserted, except for speeding military vehicles. I walk cautiously. I feel afraid and alone. "Walk by the wall." Mother's proverb now guides me like a map. I hurry up until I get to the street near our home. But there, my heart begins to race, and my mind begins to fill with soldiers. Suddenly, I can see the kinds of things that my father describes in his nightmares. With every step I take, more images of war appear. I stagger through the door under Mother's scrutinizing eyes. She is filled with fury. But one look into my face, and all turns into worry. "What happened?" she gasps. I tell her that the soldiers detained me with many others. I tell her that, like Father, I have become ill with war. I describe to her the images I see. But I do not say I had gone to Birzeit. Perhaps she does not really want to know. For this, I am grateful. "When a war ends, it does not go away," she says. "It hides inside us." She knows. "Do not walk that road," she warns me. "Insay. Insay." "Just forget!" But I do not want to do what Mother says. I cannot follow her advice. I want to remember. Sinking in the sea Of forgetfulness I reach for the raft of remembering. Where the small girl I once was Stands alone, Holds a key to the postal box of memory, And awaits The day When she will Find her home By asking Her heart to Take her there.

#memior #biography #art #poetry #literature

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republicstandard · 6 years

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Archbishop Welby Hosts Muslim Leader Who Calls Homosexuality a "Disease"

“What will Christian pastors who accept homosexuality tell Jesus?” It was not a Christian, but a Muslim who asked this inflammatory question at the Islamic University of Syarif Hidayatullah, in South Tangerang, Indonesia in 2016.

The Muslim asking this question was no ordinary Muslim. He is the most revered Sunni Muslim leader in the world. Sheikh Ahmed al Tayyeb is Grand Imam of Al-Azhar University in Egypt.

Over the last two days, Sheikh al Tayyeb has had the opportunity to ask the same question to the leader of 80 million Anglicans. If he had been as blunt as Donald Trump and popped the question to his host at Lambeth Palace, the Archbishop of Canterbury wouldn’t be tweeting his praises from the top of the minaret.

Tonight, the Grand Imam of Al-Azhar and I shared our gratitude and admiration for the Christian and Muslim #EmergingPeacemakers who have been with us at @LambethPalace this week. You are a sign of hope for our world. #EPForum18 pic.twitter.com/NgooMHEctx

— Archbishop of Canterbury (@JustinWelby) July 18, 2018

I thought the Lord Jesus Christ was the "hope for our world", not the Grand Imam of Al-Azhar! Unless, of course, Welby’s Muslim messiah is a tolerant and inclusive liberal, who is deep into "good disagreement" and "mutual flourishing" and who licked his fingers after tucking into a full English breakfast of bacon and black pudding at Lambeth Palace to prove his credentials.

But let’s not pour kerosene on the glowing embers of cynicism. Welby must have had good reasons to invite such a towering figure from the Muslim world. Things have been getting hot for Christians in Egypt. Copts, Anglicans and evangelical Christians are living in fear. The Religion of Peace is busy firebombing churches.

So after reading Donald Trump’s Art of the Deal, it is possible Welby could have invited the Sheikh to do a deal. “Let’s just shake on it, Sheikh, and we can all live in peace and write books together,” Welby might well be telling his Muslim counterpart. Sheikh al Tayyeb is just down the road at Al-Azhar Uni and because now that Welby is his pal and they follow each other on Twitter, all the Sheikh has to do is to issue a fatwa putting an end to Christianophobia in Egypt.

This morning we had an excellent meeting with the Grand Imam of @AlAzharUniv to discuss how religious leadership can be reimagined for the greater good of the world. #EPForum18 pic.twitter.com/lGyYW5lkdJ

— Archbishop of Canterbury (@JustinWelby) July 17, 2018

As President Donald Trump told the press following his meeting with Kim Jong Un: “Very good. Very, very good. Excellent relationship. We’ll solve the big problem, the big dilemma, that until this point has been unable to be solved. We will solve it. We will be successful. And I look forward to working on it with you. It will be done.”

Now if you are going to re-imagine religious leadership for the greater good of the world, you might begin by asking how to re-imagine a religion that believes in killing people who convert to another religion; the muslim apostates. Welby is passionate about evangelism. He set up his Task Group for Evangelism and Mission. Surely he would want to pop that question to Sheikh al Tayyeb?

So how do you think Sheikh al Tayyeb would re-imagine the concept of apostasy in Islam? You can find the Sheikh’s answer on several Egyptian TV channels and on the official YouTube Channel of Al-Azhar University, Sunni Islam’s most prestigious university. It is, of course, in Arabic.

Since Archbishop Justin speaks English and French, but not Arabic, I am supplying him with a link so he can listen to the liberal, inclusive, moderate and tolerant answer his new Muslim pal gives his Arabic-speaking audience.

The Sheikh doesn’t do Anglican fudge in front of his Muslim brethren. He gets straight to the point and gives the standard answer expected of any Islamic scholar. “The four schools of law all concur that apostasy is a crime, that an apostate should be asked to repent, and that if he does not, he should be killed.” Sheikh al Tayyeb goes on to deliver his exegesis of the relevant verses in the Quran and Hadith.

“There are two verses in the Quran that clearly mention apostasy, but they did not define a specific punishment. They left the punishment for the Hereafter, for Allah to punish them as He sees fit. But there are two hadiths [on apostasy]. According to the more reliable of the two, a Muslim can only be killed in one of three cases, one of which is abandoning his religion and leaving the community,” he says.

“We must examine these two expressions: ‘Abandoning religion’ is described as ‘leaving the community’. All the early jurisprudents understood that this applies to someone who leaves his religion, regardless of whether he left and opposed his community or not. All the early jurisprudents said that such a person should be killed, regardless of whether it is a man or a woman – with the exception of the Hanafi School, which says that a female apostate should not be killed,” he adds.

Feminists like Bishop Sarah Mullally, who was present at one of the meetings with Sheikh al Tayyeb and re-tweeted a picture of her sitting with other religious panjandrums, would surely ask the Sheikh to reimagine his idea of a woman.

I’m very grateful we were joined by #Anglican leaders from Egypt, Pakistan, Bangladesh and the Holy Land. They are confronting questions of hope and despair each day – and living out the love of Jesus Christ for the world. pic.twitter.com/3jXSy3sCWY

— Archbishop of Canterbury (@JustinWelby) July 17, 2018

Why? When the interviewer asks al Tayyeb why a female apostate should not be hacked to death, the Sheikh gives an answer that would give even the mildest feminist an apoplectic fit.

“Because it is inconceivable that a woman would rebel against her community,” he notes. The Sheikh knows his hadith. After all, one of the most authoritative hadiths, Sahih Bukhari cites Muhammad as saying, “‘Is not the evidence of two women equal to the witness of one man?’ They replied in the affirmative. He said, “This is the deficiency in her intelligence’” (6:301).

So our cuddly Sheikh needs to re-imagine religious freedom and women’s rights. Surely the Grand Imam has got it right on human rights? After all, human rights are as universal as unicorns, no?

Here’s what the Sheikh says in the interview: “The concepts of human rights are full of ticking time-bombs.” At least he is not so naïve to affirm that the West and the rest share the same values. “The problem is that the [Islamic and Western] civilizations are different. Our civilization is based on religion and moral values, whereas their civilization is based more on personal liberties and some moral values,” he tells his interviewer.

That is why Sheikh al Tayyeb is not going to make a donation to Stonewall and apologise to Peter Tatchell for the Islamic sport of throwing gays from rooftops to see if they can defy gravity. Good grief, never! After all, the Sheikh thinks homosexuality is a disease!

“My opinion was – and I said this [in the West] – that no Muslim society could ever consider sexual liberty, homosexuality and so on to be a personal right. Muslim societies consider these things to be diseases, which must be fought and treated.”

Treat homosexuality? Surely Justin Welby is going to introduce Sheikh al Tayyeb to the Anglican LGBT activist Jayne Ozanne and to Penny Mordaunt, the women and equalities minister, who says that conversion therapy –sometimes referred to as "gay cure"– is “abuse of the worst kind and must be stamped out”.

So what else does Sheikh al Tayyeb have to say about gay rights and Christianity? “Unfortunately some Heads of Churches in the United States accept same-sex marriages. What will the heads of Churches in the US that accept gay marriage say to Jesus? I wonder what is left of the Bible in those Churches. And what will they say in front of Jesus, peace be upon him,” the Grand Imam told an international meeting organized by the Muslim Council of Elders in Indonesia.

So what do Anglicans like Jayne Ozanne and Sarah Mullally and Theresa May think Archbishop Justin should say to Sheikh al Tayyeb? After all, at the beginning of this month, Mrs May vowed to eradicate the "abhorrent" practice of gay conversion therapy as she published the world’s largest LGBT+ survey and a government plan aimed at addressing discrimination and health inequality.

Here is what Archbishop Welby actually said.

Thank you Grand Imam of @AlAzharUniv for an honest and hope-filled conversation about the role of religious leaders in our world today. And thanks to our Christian and Muslim #EmergingPeacemakers for your challenging questions and inspiring contributions. #EPForum18 pic.twitter.com/p4rG7Z2FeL

— Archbishop of Canterbury (@JustinWelby) July 17, 2018

Could it be that Sheikh al Tayyeb has been giving Justin Welby a masterclass in taqiyyah, the Islamic practice of dissimulation, which permits Muslims to lie to infidels? Or, could it be the other way round, with the Archbishop of Canterbury giving the Grand Imam of Al-Azhar a one-to-one drill in the use of Anglican double-speak and weasel words?

There is a difference between engaging with an alien religion and prostating oneself before it.

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