I want to tell the world a story..

Tell the stories about the stolen lands and dreams never exiled from memory.Tell the stories of untold violence and inconvenient truths.Tell the stories that stir our spirits and tug us out of ourselves and into the lives of a thousand others.Tell the stories that affirm human joy and dignity as rights – sacrosanct and immitigable. Tell the stories of triumph over tragedy.Tell the stories of love and astounding resonance.Tell the stories that are so much more than the consequence of a catastrophe.Tell the resplendent stories that perpetuate steadfast hope and resistance.

Tell the stories because they matter… they so deeply, richly matter.

(via chilangotrash)


و اللعنة على الغربة و المسافات و ذلك الغياب السقيم.. اللعنة … كم مرة على المرء أن يموت عند كل وداع و فراق.. كم مرة يجب عليه أن يقاوم و يلفظ أنفاسه و هو يغرق في ذلك الفراغ .. في تلك الوحده الكريهه .. كم مرة يجب عليك يا سيدي .. يا حبيبي الدعاء عند كل رحيل و توصيني كوصايا لقمان لابنه بأن لا أضعف و لا…

(Source: pearly0pal, via halalbacon)

"انا مسلكه لنفسي ماتبيني اسلك لك؟"

(via stuck-in-saudi)

نفس الكلام بمخي قبل دقيقتين

(via no6frahnocry)

(via 72724)


The earth is closing on us, pushing us through the last passage, and

we tear off our limbs to pass through.

The earth is squeezing us. I wish we were its wheat so we could die

and live again. I wish the earth was our mother

So she’d be kind to us. I wish we were pictures on the rocks for our dreams to carry as mirrors.

We saw the faces of those to be killed by the last of us in the last defense of the soul.

We cried over their children’s feast. We saw the faces of those who’ll

throw our children Out of the windows of the last space. Our star will hang up in mirrors.

Where should we go after the last frontiers? Where should the birds fly after the last sky?

Where should the plants sleep after the last breath of air? We will write our names with scarlet steam.

We will cut off the head of the song to be finished by our flesh.

We will die here, here in the last passage. Here and here our blood will plant its olive tree.


Mahmoud Darwish, After the Last Sky (via maxineanwaar)

(via sabrwasumud)

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