“I liked being Princess Leia. Or Princess Leia’s being me. Over time I thought that we’d melded into one. I don’t think you could think of Leia without my lurking in that thought somewhere.” - Carrie Fisher, The Princess Diarist
WHEN THE WEAPON CAME AT THEM STEVE’S FIRST INSTINCT WAS TO SAVE BUCKY AND BUCKY’S WAS TO PULL STEVE IN CLOSER SO HE WOULDN’T GET HIT. THEY’RE MORE WORRIED ABOUT ONE ANOTHER THAN THEY ARE ABOUT THEMSELVES AND IF THAT ISN’T LOVE I DON’T KNOW WHAT IS
ANZAC Day is not a celebration of war. It does not glorify war and has never glorified war. I am so tired of select handful of ignorant morons who fail to understand that days of memorial are solemnn days of memory and not celebrations.
It commemorates the horrors and the sheer futility of war that veterans experience and emphasises that it’s to be avoided at all costs. “Commemorate” and “celebrate” do not mean the same thing either. There’s nothing joyful about the ceremonies run during ANZAC Day as it’s a solemn day of remembrance. Acknowleding that something happened is not the same as celebrating it. ANZAC Day is not a celebration of war, it’s a recognition of the horrors of war and what soldiers and their families experience due to it. It recognises all of the unfortunate people who were forced to go out and particpate in conflicts because other people with more authority them gave the order to fight for their country. It acknowledges and thanks these people for their contributions.
I repeat, ANZAC Day is not a celebration of war. Remembrance Day is also not a celebration of war. If you’re one of these people who thinks that remembrance and recognition of the fallen for their sacrifices somehow glorifies war then quite frankly you’re an arsehole and you should keep that ignorant bullshit to yourself. I don’t like wars or conflict, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to disrepect the soldiers and other people who participated in wars by pretending that it didn’t happen because I’m not an insensitive arsehole. The soldiers deserve better than some degenerate shitting all over their sacrifice so said degenerate can sit on the moral highground.
In the heart of Beirut, architect Mona El Hallak herds a group of students together outside a monumental mansion — a vast, elegant building whose yellow walls and graceful pillars are ravaged by thousands of bullet holes.
“We are,” she shouts over the cacophonous traffic, “at the intersection of Damascus Road and Independence Avenue.”