mashallah 2 myself
Palestinian flag raised on the Manhattan Bridge 2014
Puerto Rican flag raised on the statue of liberty 1977
Migrant detention centers are part of the expanding prison systems. In the United States, undocumented migrants comprise of the fastest growing prison populations with over two hundred detention facilities representing an 85 percent increase in detention spaces, and approximately three million detentions since 2003. Detained migrant women in the United States report routine abuse by male guards including the shacking of pregnant detainees. Australia’s off shoring of detention centers to remote islands and internationally condemned mandatory-detention-first policy has resulted in an average of three incidents of attempted self-harm per day as well as countless hunger strikes and prison riots. Legal organizations and refugee groups have called this dire situation of six thousand detainees in Australia detention centers “a national emergency” . Canada detains approximately nine to fifteen thousand migrants every year, more than one-third of whom are held in provincial prisons. A new Canadian law has introduced mandatory detention for many refugees including children over the age of sixteen.
Some miles away , Israel is constructing the world’s largest detention center. With a capacity of eight thousand people, this detention center is geared toward the incrimination of Eritrean, Sudanese, and other African asylum seekers who are deemed infiltrators under the recently amended 1954 Prevention of Infiltration Law for “threatening to change the character of the state,” refugees can be detained without trials for period of three years, and could even be held indefinitely. As part of the Zionist logic to keep Israel an exclusionary national home for Jews, this law was originally intended to imprison Palestinian refugees who were returning to their homes after the 1948 Al-Nakba. The law therefore simultaneously criminalizes Palestinians who defy dispossession and the illegal occupation of their homelands by asserting their right to return, as well as African refugees fleeing Western imperialism and structural poverty.
Harsha Walia, Undoing Border Imperialism
When my husband had an affair with someone else I watched his eyes glaze over when we ate dinner together and I heard him singing to himself without me, and when he tended the garden it was not for me.
He was courteous and polite; he enjoyed being at home, but in the fantasy of his home I was not the one who sat opposite him and laughed at his jokes. He didn’t want to change anything; he liked his life. The only thing he wanted to change was me.
It would have been better if he had hated me, or if he had abused me, or if he had packed his new suitcases and left.
As it was he continued to put his arm round me and talk about building a new wall to replace the rotten fence that divided our garden from his vegetable patch. I knew he would never leave our house. He had worked for it.
Day by day I felt myself disappearing. For my husband I was no longer a reality, I was one of the things around him. I was the fence which needed to be replaced. I watched myself in the mirror and saw that I was no longer vivid and exciting. I was worn and grey like an old sweater you can’t throw out but won’t put on.
He admitted he was in love with her, but he said he loved me.
Translated, that means, I want everything. Translated, that means, I don’t want to hurt you yet. Translated, that means, I don’t know what to do, give me time.
Why, why should I give you time? What time are you giving me? I am in a cell waiting to be called for execution.
I loved him and I was in love with him. I didn’t use language to make a war-zone of my heart.
'You're so simple and good,' he said, brushing the hair from my face.
He meant, Your emotions are not complex like mine. My dilemma is poetic.
But there was no dilemma. He no longer wanted me, but he wanted our life.
Eventually, when he had been away with her for a few days and returned restless and conciliatory, I decided not to wait in my cell any longer. I went to where he was sleeping in another room and I asked him to leave. Very patiently he asked me to remember that the house was his home, that he couldn’t be expected to make himself homeless because he was in love.
'Medea did,' I said, 'and Romeo and Juliet, and Cressida, and Ruth in the Bible.'
He asked me to shut up. He wasn’t a hero.
'Then why should I be a heroine?'
He didn’t answer; he plucked at the blanket.
I considered my choices.
I could stay and be unhappy and humiliated.
I could leave and be unhappy and dignified.
I could beg him to touch me again.
I could live in hope and die of bitterness.
I took some things and left. It wasn’t easy, it was my home too.
I hear he’s replaced the back fence.
— Jeanette Winterson, Sexing The Cherry (via pathofthesky)
finna get crunk