IN THE CAPITAL OF MY HOME COUNTRY

Stop trying to make poor people feel guilty for splurging on a $12 bottle of wine once in a while or a $2 coffee every other morning while you throw around money like it’s nothing.

I’m so sorry to tell you, but when someone works 40+ hours a week, or even just part time, and still can’t afford to spend $2 for a damn coffee, THEY ARE NOT THE PROBLEM. Our society is.

You’re out here buying yourself $20 lunches and $50 shampoos like, please tell me more about how a coffee that puts a smile on my face is me “spending irresponsibly”.

What am I supposed to just work, and go home? Never do anything, never buy myself a lunch or a new shirt ever or enjoy life in the slightest? Cause there are millionaires out there with vacation mansions in 8 different countries so please keep telling me how I’m wasting my money on a fucking $10 lipstick that made me feel pretty.

5

19th of April.

I’m no longer currently living in Venezuela, but my family is still there as well as my friends. Today another protest is happening against the dictator that is Maduro. Venezuela represses freedom of speech and this is one of the few ways I can feel that I can help by sharing word of what is happening.

It is a peaceful protest, however “colectivos” are throwing tear gases to the public (as always), the public is trying to get away from it by crossing Caracas’ river where human disposal is thrown. Today another student’s life is added to the countless victims of their actions.

I could honestly keep going on and on but in summary human rights are being violated in Venezuela. We have been under the same government for 19 years now. Caracas is the most dangerous city in the whole world. People are dying from lack of medicine and food, so they quit their jobs all together to get something out of garbage trucks (as minimum wage can barely get you some eggs). So many other things that I could keep listing but this is just a post I’ve done out of the moment but please take time out of your day to research what’s happening at my home country or at least share what you’ve found as Venezuelans sadly can’t.

UPDATE: Two students were killed on this day. Over 400 people detained by peacefully protesting in this date alone in the Capital.
updates
  • we still don’t have water (i live in an apartment building and we have a water tank, but many people don’t have ANY water at home)
  • classes at schools in lima (the capital city) have been suspended again - they resume on wednesday
  • my uni has postponed classes: i was supposed to start tomorrow but they will start on the 27th
  • right now, a jail is on fire
  • many bridges have fallen and cities at the north of the country are now completely inaccesible
  • probably the rains and mudslides won’t stop for at least a month

also: i’m temporarily closing my studyblr. from now on i’m only going to share info about the situation here in peru. i know i don’t have a lot of followers and many of you have been ignoring this (which makes me feel really sad and dissapointed at the studyblr community) but it doesn’t feel right to go on like nothing is happening. if you want to contact me and ask me how can you help, i’ll be happy to tell you all i know.

What Happened (In the Room Where It Happens)

Co-written with @hamiltonwrotetheother51 !!! She wrote Hamilton, and I wrote Jefferson!

Chapter One: the Meeting

Pairing: Jamilton and SO MUCH SMUT
Warnings: Sex, dirty talk, begging, sass, teasing, political pursuits, Thomas Jefferson
Word Count: 5745
A/N: This is my first official Tumblr Hamilton fic and I am so happy to have co-written it with @hamiltonwrotetheother51. Her fics are amazing and everyone should read them 5,000 times. I couldn’t pass up on the opportunity to write with her, so go follow her and reblog all her stuff!

There will be a chapter two to this, I promise!


Chapter One: The Meeting


Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The grandfather clock in the Secretary of State’s office sounded ever so softly, but it was a nuisance to Thomas Jefferson’s ears. He grimaced. Hamilton was late for this meeting, as usual, and Madison was making it particularly awkward by remaining silent. Madison was a good friend, but he just wasn’t the most fun to be around. He was a mellow soul, and Jefferson needed a little spice. That was exactly what made this little meeting with Hamilton so worthwhile.

Jefferson’s dark brown gaze drifted over to Madison slowly, and he let out a small sigh. “See if Hamilton is outside, James. I’ll fill the glasses with wine,” he told the man as he rose to his feet. As Madison nodded and departed from the room, Thomas took the bottle of wine from the ice bucket and opened it with a pop. He wrinkled his nose slightly, wondering why on Earth he was wasting a bottle of wine of Hamilton. And a good bottle, mind him.

He shook his head, pouring the wine into three glasses that were set up on a small, round table. It had just enough room for the three men and their meals, which would be brought out by a maid as soon as Hamilton arrived. Jefferson completed filling the glasses and returned the wine to the ice bucket, then looked to the door expectantly for Hamilton’s arrival and Madison’s return.

Keep reading

I have always reacted strongly to the vicious terrorist attacks on our home Europe. Paris, Brussels, Berlin, Nice London… but this time it is different. This time the enemy struck my own beloved country and our beautiful capital city. My close friend almost lost her life. She stood one meter from the murderer.

It could have been me for all I know. I was on the exact spot where the attack happened very recently.

Me and my sister are currently at Stockholm Airport (but will fly to Israel later tonight). I really don’t know what to say. Because this will, once again, be talked about for a couple of days and then be forgotten. Maybe another capital city will light up their main building in yellow and blue. Probably not even that. It does not matter.

Brothers and sisters in Europe: for the love of god don’t make this one pass. The ones of you who can do something, do something. Spread the truth no matter what. Demonstrate. Write on walls, riot anything. Vote right wing. I am aware that these are empty words once again but eh… if you don’t, you might end up in the same situation I am right now; trying to comfort a dear person who almost died in a terrorist attack.

anonymous asked:

how do you world build? i have all these ideas but i dont know how to translate them into writing.

Hi Anon! There are many approaches to worldbuilding and a lot of them are messy and lead to you working hard on things you don’t end up using, some still are a little simplistic for my taste so I often mix it up. Note: This is just how I do it and not the only way to do it. I avoid writing pages and pages of text on the minutia of life in my world but I don’t restrict things to the rule of threes either, I like my setting with a bit more meat on it. My four stage of world building are under the cut. Looooongnpost warning!

Keep reading

Pray for Stockholm ❤

My heart is broken into a billion pieces and I can’t stop crying. I can’t believe it’s true, that something like this happened to my city, my people, my home. Today something horrible happened, but it won’t brake us, they won’t win. We stand together as a capital, as a country and as human beings! Please be kind to one another and don’t let hate win!❤

DO YOU WANT TO HEAR A SAD STORY???

So, I’ve been exited and heartbroken about the finale on Wednesday. And today I received an email from work that I have to travel to Santiago (the capital of my country) for a managers meeting on Wednesday. But that’s not all. The meeting will end at 18:45. And do you know how much time it takes me to travel back home??? 4 hours!!! 4 FUCKING HOURS!! And what happen on Wednesday at 21:00?!?!

THE 100 FUCKING FINALE!!! And at what time I’m going to be at home??? At 22:45. I’m literally dying. So that’s it! My job ruined the finale and I can’t enter the internet until I watch the episode.

now this is a pretty rough map (e.g. the biggest continent is missing entirely, and i’d say most of the proportions are just plain wrong but that’s what you get when you don’t have satellites), but at least you can see where the different countries are! Under the cut I’ll be covering the home countries of my pov characters ^^

Keep reading

WHAT THE HELL IS SLOVAKIA?!

Some random guy in Moscow: “Hi, where are you from?”

Me: “I’m from Slovakia.”

Random guy: “Sorry?”

Me: “I AM FROM S L O V A K I A.”

Random guy: “What the hell is Slovakia? Nevermind. Do you speak English in there?”

Me: *trying not to scream everything I know about my country into his face*

So, Slovakia is a small country in the center of Europe. The official name of Slovakia is Slovak Republic (or Slovenská republika in Slovak if you want). The official language is our euphonious Slovak. There is “only” 5 000 000 of us, but when I drive home through Bratislava (the capital of Slovakia) after school, even those 423 000 people in Bratislava are enough. Most people who live here complain about this little piece of Earth, but I think that when you look properly, you can find something good even about Slovakia.

If you want to see how Slovak language looks I translated this ˄˄ text for you:

Takže, Slovensko je malá krajina v strede Európy. Oficiálny názov sovenska je Slovenská republika. Oficiálny jazyk je naša ľubozvučná slovenčina. Je nás „iba“ 5 000 000, ale keď idem cez Bratislavu (hlavné mesto Slovenska) domov, aj tých 423 000 ľudí v Bratislave je dosť. Väčšina ľudí, ktorí tu žijú sa na tento malý kúsok Zeme sťažujú, ale myslím si, že keď sa správne pozriete, môžete vidieť niečo dobré dokonca aj na Slovensku.

Map of Slovakia:

Slovak flag:

Bratislava:

Camila Cabello: "Our Dreams Were Bigger Than Our Fears

Beautifully written by Camila herself 👍

——

A bus. The yellow lighting of the gas station against the dark hours of midnight. Fast asleep. Silence. My head slumped over my mom’s shoulder. Her voice timid and hesitant as she stumbled through a sentence in English at the cash register. A Winnie the Pooh journal. These are the things I remember when I think of when my mom and I immigrated to America.

I was almost 7 at the time, born in Havana, Cuba. My papá is puro Mexicano and we lived back and forth between the heat of Havana and the concrete jungle of Mexico City. I didn’t realize it then, but, boy, does it hit me now. I realize how scary it must have been for them. For my mom to leave the streets of Havana where our neighbors were our friends, where we gathered every holiday to eat pork and my grandma’s rice and beans, to not hear the malecón and the heartbeat of her city pulsing with every crash of the wave. For my Dad to leave behind his four brothers and sisters, the memory of his parents, the street vendors selling the elotes con mayonesa that I would beg him to get in the mornings before school, the best friends he’d grown up with … everything. To decide to start from the ground up.

With a couple hundred dollars, the clothes on our backs, no family in the United States, and no clue of what was going to happen next, that’s exactly what we did. Like my mom said, “I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t stay here.” And that was enough.

Why were we packing up our stuff? Why was my grandma hugging me tighter than usual? Where were we going? “We’re going to Disney World!” That’s what my Mom told me when we were crossing the border. She packed a little backpack with my Winnie the Pooh journal and my doll, and we crossed the border from Mexico to the US, seeing my Dad become an ant in the distance as he stayed behind.

Just Disney World. Whenever I have to make a decision now and I’m afraid, my mom always reminds me of that day. “That day, I knew if I thought about it, fear would make me turn back. That’s why when you’re afraid, you force yourself to jump. You don’t think, you just jump,” she says to me.

After she sat down with the immigration officer in a tiny office, we and a bunch of people from other countries with similar hopes were placed in rooms with tiny beds in them, a hotel full of these rooms. It was me and my mom and two other families in a little room waiting for somebody to come in and let us know if we were going to be granted permission to enter the US or be sent back. Some people spent days there, some spent weeks in agonizing anxiety over what the answer would be. Meanwhile, I was wondering when the heck we were going to get to Disney. We were there only a day when we finally got the news. The room bursted with joy, everybody around me clapping and hugging and screaming and crying! And me yelling out “Yay! We’re all going to Disney!” Little did I know.

Little me and my mamá ended up on a Greyhound bus to Miami that took 36 hours — that’s where I have my most vivid memories. Other stuff I vaguely remember and know from stories my parents told me years after. But I remember writing in my Winnie the Pooh journal a lot on that bus ride.

We got to Miami and moved into my grandpa’s colleague’s house who later became my godmother. My mom was a very good architect in Cuba, but when she came to America none of the degrees she earned in Cuba counted, so to make enough to keep us fed and put me into school she began stacking shoes in Marshalls and going to school at night to take courses in English, all while taking me to and from school and helping me with my homework all by herself, alone in a strange country. I can’t imagine how frustrating it must have been for her to have worked her whole life in architecture and then have it all erased when she came here.

One day, as if God was listening, two elderly Cuban women were conversing with her and told her: “Oye, tu estás muy bonita para trabajar en Marshalls. Where are you from?” My mom told her the story of how she was Cuban and she was actually an architect. You wouldn’t believe it, but the two Cuban women said they had a brother who worked in architecture and needed someone who worked in Autocad, a complicated architectural computer program. They asked her: “Do you know Autocad?” Internally, my mom was like “Autocad? What the hell is Autocad? We use pencil and paper where I’m from.” But to the ladies, she said: “Autocad? Of course. Yes, of course. I can do that.” She learned how to use the program in a week and made enough to move us out of my godmother’s house and into an apartment.

She learned fast because she literally had to in order to survive. Immigrants have one thing in common: Hunger. I don’t mean it literally, although that’s true too, but metaphorically. The hunger to do the impossible because you have no choice, because you came too damn far, because you’ve known what struggling is, and you’re not going to take an opportunity for granted. The hunger and ability to win above people with better circumstances than you simply because you want it badly enough.

Long story short, my papá came over from Mexico a year and a half later — I had a little calendar in my room counting down the days — because he couldn’t stand being away from us. He went through such hardship to cross the Mexican border and had it harder than my mom and I did, literally risking his life for his family to physically make it here. When he first came to the US, he started off washing cars in front of Dolphin Mall in the blistering Miami heat. But we kept moving on up … with the Latin community in Miami, helping each other up as we did it. Slowly and slowly my parents kept working and climbing and ended up forming a construction company together named after my sister and I. They always pushed me to focus on my studies because the whole reason we came here was so my sister and I could have better opportunities in life than they did. They said: “Money comes and goes, but your education, lo que tienes aquí (and they would point to my head while saying that), nobody can ever take that away from you.” They let me know that in order to go a good college I had to get a scholarship, so I worked as hard as I could. However — plot twist! — that didn’t quite go the way we thought it would.

You see, in 9th grade, a little girl who had never sung in front of people before asked her parents if they could take her to Greensboro, NC, to audition for a little show called The X Factor. Yikes! I had never sang in front of people before. Well, did my mom know Autocad? No. Did I know how to perform on a stage on TV? No. But I wanted it badly enough, and I learned from my family that if you work hard enough and you want it badly enough, you can do the impossible.

I was wrong about one thing. My mamá and papá did not leave everything behind, they brought it with them. My grandma still makes pork and rice and beans every holiday like she did, and my mom still feels the waves of the malecón in her heartbeat because she still feels the most at peace when she’s by the sea. My grandma and dad still get drunk and sing Luis Miguel in the kitchen. We found our favorite Taco spot in Miami (I capitalized Taco because they are that good). And whenever we find another person from our country, we freak out. “¿De qué parte?” Because we have home in us. Because we brought it with us. Every Cuban brought it with them and so we have Miami. Mexicans brought it and so we have the best Mexican food ever. The Italians brought it and so we have pizza. The Swedish brought it and we have great pop songs. The list goes on and on. And so, that’s why when I hear a bigoted, racist man with power and influence speak with anger and ill-will about immigrants, I think “what a fool.”

I am so proud to be Cuban-Mexican. This country was built on immigrants. People who were brave enough to start over. How strong we are to leave behind everything we know in hopes of something better. We are not fearless, we just have dreams bigger than our fears. We jump. We run. We swim, we move mountains, we do whatever it takes. And so next time, when anybody wants to tell you they want to build a “wall” on our border, remember behind that wall is struggle, determination,hunger. Behind that wall, could be the next cure for cancer, the next scientist, the next artist, the next drummer, the next anything they work hard enough to become!

P.S. I did end up going to Disney for the first time a year later.

Camila Cabello (September 14, 2016)

—–
http://www.popsugar.com/latina/Camila-Cabello-Her-Cuban-Background-42239921

9

I’m feeling a little homesick so I made this

1) Cameroon’s traditional attire
2) Erykah Badu finding her roots in us———— 3) the markings and patterns on the cloth are usually done by hand. Each symbol holds its own meaning.
4) bride and groom both wearing another Cameroon traditional print
5) Unity Palace (home of le president)
6) Monument de la Réunification (symbolizing the unity of French and English Cameroon). Can you guess who divided us up in the 1st place? 😒 Colonialism.
7) National Capital, Yaounde
8) Milla Roger. He is why you know about Cameroon’s football team. He is why you know about Eto'o. 1st African country to make it to the world cup quarter finals, thanks to him….and he basically coined the goal dance
9) My 2nd favorite fruit 😄

There is so much more! I left 10years ago. These are a few beauties I remember

10 days in Romania. Starting in Bucharest, capital city. Going down to the Black Sea, Constanta. Moving to Targoviste, then to Sinaia. To Bran and to Brasov, without forgetting Sighisoara and Sibiu, the most beautiful parts of the country. Continuing to Sibiu and from there to Cluj. The last stop will be Timisoara. Doesn’t matter that I’ve already seen everything. He wishes to see my home. I’m proud to inspire people with traveling. I’ve met so many people talking shit about Romania, and I managed to make them go and check by themselves. It’s the thing I’m best at. Can’t wait to show you one of my beautiful countries.

And can’t wait to share it with you guys
the signs as things Steve Rogers (probably) says
  • Aries: water? no thank you, I'd much rather have a tall glass of independence
  • Taurus: [entering another country] [sniffs] well...this doesn't smell like the home of the brave
  • Gemini: boy I love waking up to the beautiful aroma of capitalism and frEEDOM
  • Cancer: what do you mean I don't have to do the pledge of allegiance before every meal
  • Leo: I love this country...the way it just.. [clenches fist] is free
  • Virgo: [screech of freedom]
  • Libra: what color are my underwear? well I'll have you know they are onLY RED, WHITE AND BLUE
  • Scorpio: what a country
  • Sagittarius: yes I sing the national anthem while showering ????
  • Capricorn: the only tea I drink is liber-tea
  • Aquarius: so what if I say "God bless America" after every sentence
  • Pisces: [sniffs] can you smell that? it smells like hard work and perseverance

arbetarmakt  asked:

"the’re literally nothing wrong with killing communists" lmao great job equating nazism, the movement that wants to see me dead, and is actively killing people like me simply for existing as trans women, with communism, the only movement that is actually capable of bringing about transgender liberation, go fuck yourself if you honestly think i deserve to die for not wanting to see myself dead at the hands of capitalism and patriarchy :^)

Yeah communism did sucha good job helping people, remember the Ukraine famine caused by soviet soldiers taking all the crops way?

Remember how the soviets massacred my people at Katyn and proceeded to falsify documents to plant on the corpses to pin the blame on the Germans?

Remember not being able to speak your language in public for fear of being shot? Remember when family friends were dragged out of their homes, sprayed with water and dumped into the lake with bricks tied to their feet? Remember when your entire country lived on food stamps that supplied you with more vodka than meat a month?
Remember that?

Because my mother does. I do. Stalin was responsible for far more deaths than Hitler. Communism has utterly ruined my country.

And you have the gall to complain about the patriarchy?

You’re pathetic.

anonymous asked:

Turkey traveling places

Turkey is a big country full of history and incredible places. 

Turkey has been home to various ancient Anatolian civilizations, Aeolian, Dorian and Ionian Greeks, Thracians, Armenians, and Assyrians. Istanbul was the capital of the Roman and Byzantine Empires after 324 and then became part of the Ottoman Empire. Its location at the nexus of Europe and Asia has made it a center of culture and commerce from ancient times to today. 

So, as an architect, it’s tough choosing places to go in Turkey, here are some that are on my Bucket List:

Istanbul has architectural jewels like Topkapi Palace, Hagia Sophia (above), Blue Mosque, and Grand Bazaar. While in Cappadocian you will find the Göreme Open-Air Museum (below).

Near Selçuk you will find the ancient ruins of Ephesus (above) and the House of the Virgin Mary. While on the Black Sea coast you can see the Greek Orthodox Monastery of the Virgin Mary, better known as Sumela Monastery (below).

PS There is much more! 

Camila Cabello: "Our Dreams Were Bigger Than Our Fears"

A bus. The yellow lighting of the gas station against the dark hours of midnight. Fast asleep. Silence. My head slumped over my mom’s shoulder. Her voice timid and hesitant as she stumbled through a sentence in English at the cash register. A Winnie the Pooh journal. These are the things I remember when I think of when my mom and I immigrated to America.

I was almost 7 at the time, born in Havana, Cuba. My papá is puro Mexicano and we lived back and forth between the heat of Havana and the concrete jungle of Mexico City. I didn’t realize it then, but, boy, does it hit me now. I realize how scary it must have been for them. For my mom to leave the streets of Havana where our neighbors were our friends, where we gathered every holiday to eat pork and my grandma’s rice and beans, to not hear the malecón and the heartbeat of her city pulsing with every crash of the wave. For my Dad to leave behind his four brothers and sisters, the memory of his parents, the street vendors selling the elotes con mayonesa that I would beg him to get in the mornings before school, the best friends he’d grown up with … everything. To decide to start from the ground up.

With a couple hundred dollars, the clothes on our backs, no family in the United States, and no clue of what was going to happen next, that’s exactly what we did. Like my mom said, “I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t stay here.” And that was enough.

Why were we packing up our stuff? Why was my grandma hugging me tighter than usual? Where were we going? “We’re going to Disney World!” That’s what my Mom told me when we were crossing the border. She packed a little backpack with my Winnie the Pooh journal and my doll, and we crossed the border from Mexico to the US, seeing my Dad become an ant in the distance as he stayed behind.

Just Disney World. Whenever I have to make a decision now and I’m afraid, my mom always reminds me of that day. “That day, I knew if I thought about it, fear would make me turn back. That’s why when you’re afraid, you force yourself to jump. You don’t think, you just jump,” she says to me.

After she sat down with the immigration officer in a tiny office, we and a bunch of people from other countries with similar hopes were placed in rooms with tiny beds in them, a hotel full of these rooms. It was me and my mom and two other families in a little room waiting for somebody to come in and let us know if we were going to be granted permission to enter the US or be sent back. Some people spent days there, some spent weeks in agonizing anxiety over what the answer would be. Meanwhile, I was wondering when the heck we were going to get to Disney. We were there only a day when we finally got the news. The room bursted with joy, everybody around me clapping and hugging and screaming and crying! And me yelling out “Yay! We’re all going to Disney!” Little did I know.

Little me and my mamá ended up on a Greyhound bus to Miami that took 36 hours — that’s where I have my most vivid memories. Other stuff I vaguely remember and know from stories my parents told me years after. But I remember writing in my Winnie the Pooh journal a lot on that bus ride.

We got to Miami and moved into my grandpa’s colleague’s house who later became my godmother. My mom was a very good architect in Cuba, but when she came to America none of the degrees she earned in Cuba counted, so to make enough to keep us fed and put me into school she began stacking shoes in Marshalls and going to school at night to take courses in English, all while taking me to and from school and helping me with my homework all by herself, alone in a strange country. I can’t imagine how frustrating it must have been for her to have worked her whole life in architecture and then have it all erased when she came here.

One day, as if God was listening, two elderly Cuban women were conversing with her and told her: “Oye, tu estás muy bonita para trabajar en Marshalls. Where are you from?” My mom told her the story of how she was Cuban and she was actually an architect. You wouldn’t believe it, but the two Cuban women said they had a brother who worked in architecture and needed someone who worked in Autocad, a complicated architectural computer program. They asked her: “Do you know Autocad?” Internally, my mom was like “Autocad? What the hell is Autocad? We use pencil and paper where I’m from.” But to the ladies, she said: “Autocad? Of course. Yes, of course. I can do that.” She learned how to use the program in a week and made enough to move us out of my godmother’s house and into an apartment.

She learned fast because she literally had to in order to survive. Immigrants have one thing in common: Hunger. I don’t mean it literally, although that’s true too, but metaphorically. The hunger to do the impossible because you have no choice, because you came too damn far, because you’ve known what struggling is, and you’re not going to take an opportunity for granted. The hunger and ability to win above people with better circumstances than you simply because you want it badly enough.

Long story short, my papá came over from Mexico a year and a half later — I had a little calendar in my room counting down the days — because he couldn’t stand being away from us. He went through such hardship to cross the Mexican border and had it harder than my mom and I did, literally risking his life for his family to physically make it here. When he first came to the US, he started off washing cars in front of Dolphin Mall in the blistering Miami heat. But we kept moving on up … with the Latin community in Miami, helping each other up as we did it. Slowly and slowly my parents kept working and climbing and ended up forming a construction company together named after my sister and I. They always pushed me to focus on my studies because the whole reason we came here was so my sister and I could have better opportunities in life than they did. They said: “Money comes and goes, but your education, lo que tienes aquí (and they would point to my head while saying that), nobody can ever take that away from you.” They let me know that in order to go a good college I had to get a scholarship, so I worked as hard as I could. However — plot twist! — that didn’t quite go the way we thought it would.

You see, in 9th grade, a little girl who had never sung in front of people before asked her parents if they could take her to Greensboro, NC, to audition for a little show called The X Factor. Yikes! I had never sang in front of people before. Well, did my mom know Autocad? No. Did I know how to perform on a stage on TV? No. But I wanted it badly enough, and I learned from my family that if you work hard enough and you want it badly enough, you can do the impossible.

I was wrong about one thing. My mamá and papá did not leave everything behind, they brought it with them. My grandma still makes pork and rice and beans every holiday like she did, and my mom still feels the waves of the malecón in her heartbeat because she still feels the most at peace when she’s by the sea. My grandma and dad still get drunk and sing Luis Miguel in the kitchen. We found our favorite Taco spot in Miami (I capitalized Taco because they are that good). And whenever we find another person from our country, we freak out. “¿De qué parte?” Because we have home in us. Because we brought it with us. Every Cuban brought it with them and so we have Miami. Mexicans brought it and so we have the best Mexican food ever. The Italians brought it and so we have pizza. The Swedish brought it and we have great pop songs. The list goes on and on. And so, that’s why when I hear a bigoted, racist man with power and influence speak with anger and ill-will about immigrants, I think “what a fool.”

I am so proud to be Cuban-Mexican. This country was built on immigrants. People who were brave enough to start over. How strong we are to leave behind everything we know in hopes of something better. We are not fearless, we just have dreams bigger than our fears. We jump. We run. We swim, we move mountains, we do whatever it takes. And so next time, when anybody wants to tell you they want to build a “wall” on our border, remember behind that wall is struggle, determination, hunger. Behind that wall, could be the next cure for cancer, the next scientist, the next artist, the next drummer, the next anything they work hard enough to become!

P.S. I did end up going to Disney for the first time a year later. [source]

dailymail.co.uk
I saw despair with my own eyes... now we are waking up to the truth
It is good news that Britain and other European countries are now understanding that we all need to work to help Syrian refugees, writes MICHELLE DOCKERY.

Together with the rest of the world, I was shocked last week by the devastating photograph of three-year-old Aylan Kurdi, the Syrian boy washed up on a beach in Turkey.

It had particular resonance for me: I visited the Zaatari refugee camp in Jordan with Oxfam in 2013, where 120,000 refugees had travelled to find safety and respite from the constant conflict and struggle caused by the war in Syria.

In nearby Jawa, where refugees had set up more makeshift camps, children were running all around. A grandmother told me of their desperate situation while I held her one-week-old grandchild.

There was a makeshift school in a small tent that a young Syrian man had set up – he had been a teacher in his country before the war.
The children sang us songs and recited the numbers one to ten in both Arabic and English.

The teacher asked some children what they wanted to be when they grew up. Each one answered clearly and with pride.
‘A pharmacist.’
‘A doctor.’
‘A teacher.’
‘A farmer.’

Looking at that picture of Aylan Kurdi, I am reminded of those children, of their hopes for the future and their families’ desperate desire to find them a safe place to live.

Without our help and that of other countries to give them that safety, I fear these children will never have the chance to become any of those things.
During my trip I also visited refugees living in communities on the outskirts of Jordan’s capital city, Amman. There I met Um Hani, 37, and her eight children.

Um was forced to go there with her offspring, leaving behind her husband to continue working on the land.
She broke down in tears when she talked of the beauty of their home in Syria, which the couple had spent 20 years building.
Her children had a good education and a happy life in Syria, but because of the war she and her family had been forced to leave, giving up a life they loved through no fault of their own.

Her youngest son, aged two, was recovering from a severe fever and had a persistent cough due to the poor living conditions they now found themselves in.She, like all mothers, feared for her children’s health and well-being as they had no access to medical attention.Abdullah Kurdi was clearly devastated last week by the loss of his wife Rehan, and sons Aylan and Galip during a journey he made in the hope that they would find a safe and better life. The tragedy shows that the plight of Syrian refugees is now getting increasingly desperate – they are in a terrible situation.

It is good news that Britain and other European countries are now understanding that we all need to work to help them.

Feeling very sad and incredibly angry. My city burns tonight. The capital of the country that I love (my adopted home and the land of my ancestors), today lost any sense of innocence that may have been left here. Tonight the center of Kyiv has become a war zone.

This place of peace, of multiple languages and religions, of intellectual vibrancy, of tolerance and mutual understanding, today is drenched in the blood of protesters whose only demand was to be led by a just and non-corrupt government.

As I write these words, the church tent on the Maidan where I have prayed for peace countless times during the past 2 months, burns - set on fire by riot police. Don’t look for logic behind such an act - there is no logic that can explain the work of thugs taking orders from an uber-thug desperately holding on to power.

So far we know of 10 confirmed deaths today (in addition to the 5 who died in January’s clashes on Hrushevskoho St) and hundreds injured. Tonight we cry. We mourn those who innocently believed freedom could be won peacefully.

Tomorrow we’ll regroup. There will be no more false beliefs. There will be no more negotiations. There is nothing to talk about. Tomorrow we’ll take back our city and the day after we’ll take back our country. There is no way that a few thousand riot police can hold back millions. God help them if they try…

To all my friends throughout the world: I ask for your prayers for those who lost their lives today, and for those whose lives will be lost in the coming days. Pray for those who are sped away in ambulances outside our windows. May their wounds heal quickly. Pray for the heroes who are desperately trying to stop the inevitable advance on Maidan tonight. They face thugs in police uniforms, armed with live rounds. Many will not return home tomorrow.

My world turned black and white today - there is no grey. Academic impartiality be damned. Evil must be stopped.

God help us!

- Mychailo Wynnyckyj