Post by Deleted on Mar 14, 2016 7:04:13 GMT 2
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'asriyah rashad al-zayadeen
the basics
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the looks
the freestyle part
10 places to visit
► Tehran, Iran[break]► Makkah, Saudi Arabia[break]► Rome, Italy[break]► Istanbul, Turkey[break]► Damascus, Syria[break]► Jerusalem, Palestine[break]► Dubai, UAE[break]► Marrakech, Morocco[break]► Petra, Jordan[break]► Cairo, Egypt[break][break]9 items in her room
► a small Gilgamesh statue[break]► an Iraqi flag on the wall[break]► a hookah pipe[break]► a clusterfuck of history books[break]► tasbeeh beads passed down from her great great grandfather[break]► a turbah given to her by her oldest brother[break]► several hip scarves[break]► a rack full of kufiyas[break]► an unopened bottle of Zamzam water from Makkah
[break][break]8 random facts
► has night terrors and survivor's guilt[break]►
[break][break]7 theme songs
► somebody to die for - hurts[break]► rebel girl - bikini kill[break]► radioactive - imagine dragons[break]► warriors - imagine dragons[break]► yellow flicker beat - lorde[break]► awake o sleeper - the brothers bright[break]► children - orphaned land[break][break]6 flaws[break]► impatient[break]► moody and temperamental[break]► reckless[break]► arrogant[break]► vengeful[break]► rebellious[break][break]5 quotes[break]► "Be an enemy to the oppressors and a helper to the oppressed." - Imam Ali (AS)[break]► "Death with dignity is better than a life of humiliation." - Imam Hussain (AS)
[break]►وَلَا تَحْسَبَنَّ اللَّهَ غَافِلًا عَمَّا يَعْمَلُ الظَّالِمُونَ ۚ إِنَّمَا يُؤَخِّرُهُمْ لِيَوْمٍ تَشْخَصُ فِيهِ الْأَبْصَارُ [break]And never think that Allah is unaware of what the oppressors do. He only delays them for a Day when eyes will stare [in horror].[QURAN 14:42][break]► "The ideal tyranny is that which is ignorantly self-administered by it's victims. The most perfect slaves are therefore, those which blissfully and unawaredly enslave themselves." - Dresen James[break]► "Smile, even if your heart is dripping blood." - Imam Ali (AS)[break][break]4 strengths[break]► fearless[break]► resilient[break]► compassionate[break]► determined[break][break]3 historical figures[break]► King Salahuddin[break]► Queen Zenobia of Palmyra[break]► The Prophet Muhammad (sallahu alayhi wasallam)[break][break]2 hobbies[break]► belly dancing[break]► horseback riding[break][break]1 letter[break]To Syed Rahim Al-Zayadeen:[break]translated from Arabic[break]Rahim, I didn't have a chance to apologize before you packed up and left us. So I'm sorry for making takfeer on you, akhi. I'd like to retract that statement. You are not a kaafir. You are a Shi'a of Ali, just like me and I'm sorry. Really sorry. See? I apologized. You know how hard it is for me to apologize to anyone but Allah. But remember, it's haraam to smoke hashish! Now to scold you for something that matters...[break][break]Amah said you went north to Erbil to join Peshmerga and fight with the Kurds. You could've at least joined Hashd al-Shaabi, then you would've had General Soleimani and Iran backing you. Stupid. Do you even speak Kurdish, Rahim? Do you know what "Peshmerga" means, you idiot? It means "those who confront death". Though, you've always been the
My name is 'Asriyah Rashad bint Mujahid Al-Zayadeen. I am from Karbala, Iraq - the holy city of martyrs. Karbala is a city of great significance to Shi'a Islam. It is the land where the Battle of Karbala took place - where my ancestor, Imam Hussain, stood up to the tyrant, Yazid(lanatullah alaih) and was martyred to save Islam from being corrupted by the Umayyad king. Even the very soil of Karbala is holy. Turbahs are made from the clay of the holy city, said to turn red on the Day of Ashura to symbolize the blood of martyrs spilled during the Battle of Karbala. It's a place that rivals the holiness of Al-Quds and Makkah. [break][break]My mother was from the esteemed Al-Zaidi family, a Syed clan from Yemen. My father was from the Al-Zayadeen family, who were Syeds from Benghazi, Libya. Syeds are descendants of the Prophet Muhammad and are scattered throughout the Middle East and parts of Africa. Our Prophet was born in a subclan of the Qurayshi called Banu Hashem. Both sides of my family are descended from the same clan. We're Hashemites, which gained us quite a bit of reverence and respect in the Middle East. My mother tells me that our other ancestors include the likes of King Gilgamesh, Queen Semiramis, the Queen of Sheba, and that we're cousins of the Al-Sa'ud family of Saudi Arabia. Though, knowing my mother as I do, I've always taken such claims with a grain of salt. I doubt that's true. Being a Sayeedah is enough for me. I've no desire to be blood relatives with the Shaytani House of Sa'ud. Can you believe they had the audacity to name the Land of Two Shrines after themselves? The arrogance of those damn Wahhabi dogs. Anyway...[break][break]I grew up in Karbala. The city drew all kinds of people, from all over the world to pay their respects to the Imam Hussain Shrine. Oh, how glorious my home city was, especially at night. Words cannot describe how beautiful Karbala is at night, when the shrine is lit up, when the streets are lined with lanterns. And when they call the adhan for Ishaa prayer - it is magical. [break][break]My family was heavily involved in the military. My father was a former Libyan Special Forces commander, and my mother fought in the South Yemen Civil War for the Yemeni Socialist Party. I have 5 older brothers, and every one of them joined Iraq's Special Forces. My parents were strict, but loving. My brothers were mischievous and often obnoxious, but also highly protective over me. I love my family. My parents mean the world to me, and my brothers are my best friends. I don't know what I would do without them. [break][break]I was 11 years old when I saw my first American soldier. To my confusion, he was not there to pay his respects at my ancestor's shrine. He was not there to pray in our masjid. He was not there to drink Iraqi black tea and buy falafel and hummus from Ahmed, the pushy street vendor. No...none of that. They were not there to appreciate my beautiful city. They were there to destroy it - at least, that's what I thought, and that's certainly what they did. They came with fire, flying bullets, missiles, tanks, and explosives. I was only a little girl. I didn't know why they were there. All I know was that horrible things were happening all around me, and I could do nothing to stop it. I felt helpless when I saw my best friend kneeling in the street over the corpse of her older sister, holding her lifeless body to her chest like a broken marionette. I was barely old enough to know that the red bits that littered the streets by my house was all that was left of these human beings that used to live, love, and laugh just like anyone else. My brother, Faisal, said that the bright streaks in the sky were angels. He never told me that they were bombs. But I foolishly made wishes on them anyway. I didn't know better. All I knew was that death was everywhere, all around me. [break][break]I later learned that the Americans were in my homeland to defend their homeland against extremists and overthrow our tyrant, Saddam Hussein - or so I was told. Why they cared about that khara, Saddam, I didn't know, especially since things seemed to get worse after his death. He was not their problem to fix. I didn't understand the political complexities of what you Westerners call "The Iraq War". I do now, but I didn't then. It was hardly a war from my point of view, it was a genocide. I didn't know what "democracy" meant at the time, nor did I know why the Americans wanted us to have it so badly at the price of 1.5 million lives, and why they invaded and destroyed our country to bring us this "democracy". Perhaps to bring civilization to us Iraqi savages, which is a funny thought. [break][break]Iraq is a cradle of civilization. It's one of the oldest civilizations on earth, next to Africa. Mesopotamia. Babylon. Assyria. Nineveh. Sumer. There was civilization in my homeland before America was even an idea, before the primitive tribes of Europe even knew what "civilization" was. How arrogant and imperialistic it is for Americans to think they must teach Iraqis what civilization is when we're the ones who invented it. We don't need their civilization. We didn't need someone to come overthrow our tyrant. [break][break]I always thought it was interesting how the West thought they were "helping". All I knew was that the country I loved was falling apart around me and I couldn't do anything to help. I couldn't get the screams of my people out of my head, nor the fighter jet lullabies I fell asleep to every night. I couldn't forget the smell of blood, smoke, gasoline, and decay even when I buried my face in my pillow until I could barely breathe. I tried shoving pieces of cotton up my nose because it got so unbearable, my throat burned and my head hurt. I distinctly remember being at home, doing my homework like any good school girl would. Until the airstrikes started, of course. It always started with the jets zooming overhead, which is when I'd duck under the nearest table. I'd sit, cowering under my homework desk with my older brother while he tried to hold my ears so I couldn't hear how close the air strikes were getting to the house. The explosions got closer and closer, and the screams became clearer and clearer. It's like being slowly drowned with no hope of anyone coming to rescue you. It's a feeling of helplessness unlike any other. When the air strikes were going on, my mother would always insist that we all stay in the same room together - because if we were to die, it would be best to die together.[break][break]I went through the many stages of coping. There was the fear, of course. But you slowly lose your fear of death and it turns to anger. I was angry for a time. My blood boiled every time someone mentioned America. I became irrationally angry every time I saw those goddamn stripes of scarlet and ivory waving over my beloved Iraq, like some sort of cruel, taunting rival who flew their flag over conquered land to humiliate its inhabitants. I went through the flag-burnings and the protests, too. Then there was the guilt. I felt the need to apologize. I wanted to tell the people of America that I was sorry if the people of Iraq had ever done anything to hurt them. It seemed that no matter how hard I prayed, no matter how many times I asked God, no matter how many times I tried to apologize...no one cared. No one cared about the Iraqis. Not a motherfucking soul. God had forsaken us, foreigners saw us as savages, and the people in the West, sitting happily with their families, in their cozy little houses, on their cozy little couches, simply said "well, better them than us". "Not my country, not my problem". We weren't humans to them. We were nameless, faceless ghosts. We were data and statistics. We were targets. We were meaningless. [break][break]My father trained me in guerrilla warfare when I was 14. I was tired of being helpless. I never officially joined an army or a rebel militia, but the friends I grew up with were more than happy to fight alongside me. I fought off extremists of every kind. I protected my mother, protected my friends, protected my people. I fed the orphans, helped the refugees cross safely into neighboring countries, tended to wounded soldiers, and brought swift retribution to those who meant me or my people harm. I tried to live up to my bloodline, tried to be the saint that my ancestors were. I ended up earning the title of "Angel of Karbala", so I must've done something right.[break][break]We eventually ended up leaving Karbala when our house was demolished in an air strike. We moved in with my wealthy uncle in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Much to my dismay, of course, because I despise Saudi Arabia..[break][break]We lived in luxury for a while, but I wasn't happy. I felt guilty for surviving. I felt guilty for living a posh life while my people were living under tents in the streets because their homes had been destroyed. I felt guilty because I wore designer clothes and my people wore the blood of their dead sons and daughters. I felt guilty because I had more money than I could count, while my people had more corpses than they could count.[break][break]Just recently, we moved to the USA after Saudiyya's strict law system became too much for us - and those Wahhabi dogs aren't the kindest to us Shi'a Muslims. We still live our posh life with the money given to us by Uncle Abdul. My brothers went back to help the Iraqi Army try to clean up the mess, and daddy dearest is back in Libya with the special forces. It's just me and my mother now.
[break]
the roleplayer
She had to find him. The murderer, the traitor - the Judas from Basrah. With her family's connections, it wasn't much of a hassle to find out that her former comrade had fled to the states and hid like a coward in the labyrinth that was Chicago's crime world. Not only did she despise traitors, but she couldn't stand cowards, either. Abu Khalif was a childhood friend of hers. Or, he used to be a friend. When he conspired with the enemy and took her on a suicide mission that nearly killed her, she had no problem with seeking vengeance upon her "friend". She wasn't known for thinking things through, so she still didn't know what exactly she would do if she found Khalif. All she knew was that she wanted to at least find him, and she wanted him to be painfully aware of the mistake he had made. She learned that he frequented bars and nightclubs all around the city, and it was possible that this Neo place was one of them. And if not, it was definitely possible that someone there knew of him. After all, it seemed that he had been getting around quite a bit...
The second she walked in, she felt instantly uncomfortable. She looked out of place here, and certainly felt that way, too. She spent most of her life in a holy city, raised by a strict family under the ways of their revered prophet. The sight of scantily-clad women, the scent of beer, and the sight of shameless flirting was unheard of to the Iraqi native. There were no nightclubs in Iraq. And she hadn't seen one during her stay in Saudi Arabia, either. This was the first time she had seen one and she wouldn't have even gone inside if it wasn't necessary...which it was, unfortunately. The scent of alcohol was revolting, and she frankly couldn't imagine what it could taste like. Westerners and their intoxicants never ceased to amaze her. They'd drink all manner of disgusting swill from a barrel just for a few hours of drunken fun. "Astaghfirullah..." she muttered the Arabic word to herself as she tentatively made her way to the bar. Every step felt weighted by the indoctrinated belief that she should never be in a place like this, especially because she was a Sayeedah. She almost expected her mother to appear out of nowhere and harshly scold her for being here.
She sat on one of the bar stools with a graceful posture that was a bit out-of-place compared to the slouched drunks and...people who simply lacked manners, really. 'What can I get ya?' the bartender asked over the nearly insufferable noise of the club. "Just water, please," she replied politely, to which the bartender nodded. Her attention was so ensnared by the atmosphere of the club, she barely noticed the glass of ice water that was placed beside her. What she did notice, however, was a nearby drunkard whose gaze swept over ever contour of her body - another thing American men(or Westerners in general) liked to do that she wasn't used to. Even so, her apprehension turned to curiosity the longer she sat here.[break]
made by remi of rilla go! and adoxography
