dose of...well me

Zahra. New York.

"You could have loved me forever. And maybe in another universe, I let you."

— Gaby Dunn - Maybe in another universe, I deserve you. (via verlaufen)

(Source: verlaufen, via shirleendatt)

relegere:

Whoa…

(via proluxe)

paradoxdil:

my lawddd

paradoxdil:

my lawddd

(Source: oriental-sunrise, via zarayyy)

(via bel0ve)

fulmadz:

I have like 277262 kisses saved up for you

(via cerulean-hearts)

"

Sometimes he’ll tell me about his college days, about an Afghanistan I have never known and very few people would believe ever existed.

"In the College of Engineering, there was this lecture hall, with seats for 1,000 students," his says as eyes begin to get bigger. "At the end of the lecture, the seats would move. The whole auditorium would shift as you spun along the diameter. The engineering of the building itself was very interesting." He continues to describe the construction details, then sighs. "I wonder if it’s still around?"

There is a pause. For 25 years I have tried to fill that silence, but I have never quite figured out what to say. I guess silence goes best there. He is the next one to speak. “You see, even your old-aged father was once part of something important.”

When he says things like that I want to scream. I don’t want to believe that the years can beat away at you like that. I don’t want to know that if enough time passes, you begin to question what was real or who you are. I am unconcerned with what the world thinks of him, but it is devastating to know that he at times thinks less of himself.

We are the same, but we are separated. People don’t see him in me. I wish they would. I walk in with a doctor’s white coat or a suit or my Berkeley sweatshirt and jeans. High heels or sneakers, it doesn’t matter, people always seem impressed with me. “Pediatrician, eh?” they say. “Well, good for you.”

I wonder what people see when they look at him. They don’t see what I see in his smile. Perhaps they see a brown man with a thick accent; perhaps they think, another immigrant cabdriver. Or perhaps it is much worse: Maybe he is a profile-matched terrorist, aligned with some axis of evil. “Another Abd-ool f——-g foreigner,” I once heard someone say.

Sometimes the worst things are not what people say to your face or what they say at all, it is the things that are assumed. I am in line at the grocery store, studying at a cafe, on a plane flying somewhere.

"Her English is excellent; she must have grown up here," I hear a lady whisper. "But why on earth does she wear that thing on her head?"

"Oh, that’s not her fault," someone replies. "Her father probably forces her to wear that."

I am still searching for a quick, biting response to comments like that. The trouble is that things I’d like to say aren’t quick. So I say nothing. I want to take their hands and pull them home with me. Come, meet my father. Don’t look at the wrinkles; don’t look at the scars; don’t mind the hearing aid, or the thick accent. Don’t look at the world’s effect on him; look at his effect on the world. Come into my childhood and hear the lullabies, the warm hand on your shoulder on the worst of days, the silly jokes on mundane afternoons. Come meet the woman he has loved and respected his whole life; witness the confidence he has nurtured in his three daughters. Stay the night; hear his footsteps come in at midnight after a long day’s work. That sound in the middle of the night is his head bowing in prayer although he is exhausted. Granted, the wealth is gone and the legacy unknown, but look at what the bombs did not destroy. Now tell me, am I really oppressed? The question makes me want to laugh. Now tell me, is he really the oppressor? The question makes me want to cry.

At times, I want to throw it all away: the education, the opportunities, the potential. I want to slip into the passenger seat of his cab and say: This is who I am. If he is going to be labeled, then give me those labels too. If you are going to look down on him, than you might as well peer down on me as well. Close this gap. Erase this line. There is no differentiation here. Of all the things I am, of all the things I could ever be, I will never be prouder than to say that I am of him.

I am this cabdriver’s daughter.

"

A pediatrician takes pride in her Afghan cabdriver father

It’s been four years and this piece still moves me to tears every time. 

(via musaafer)

(via cerulean-hearts)

(Source: 5ft1, via bel0ve)

"Jissay Allah apni mohabbat deta hai ussay aur kisi cheez ki khwahish nahi hoti. Aur jo duniya ki khwahish karta hai, uss ki khwahish bhook ban jati hai, kabhi na khatam honay wali bhook"

Translation: When a person has Allah’s love, they don’t desire to have anything else. But when a person desires the pleasures of this world, their desire becomes a hunger for the world, a never ending hunger.

Shehr E Zaat

(via heartheraindrops-fall)

(Source: heartheraindrops--fall, via onethousandonenights)

mydollyaviana:

disneyismyescape:

carry-on-until-its-gone:

wish-upon-the-disney-star:

This scene is SO important. Maleficent is with someone she trusts, someone she considers a friend. And then the next thing she knows, she wakes up in pain, bleeding, with her wings burned off. A huge part of her has been destroyed.

Rape is so prominent in our culture that it is in a Disney movie. Maybe not explicitly, but it is very clear what this scene represents and it is so sad.

I fucking cried my eyes out during this scene

AJ even confirmed that this is what this scene was a metaphor for (x) - just because i saw someone say today that this is not what this scene is about

'We were very conscious that it was a metaphor for rape': The actress explained how the scene in which her character has her wings ripped off her body while in a drug-induced sleep had to be something 'so violent and aggressive' that it would make her 'lose all sense of her maternity, her womanhood and her softness' 

when a man violates a woman, he cuts off her wings.

(Source: bbuchanann, via cerulean-hearts)