Do you see how they talk about us when they think we’re not listening?
Do you see how they debate our humanity, our right to exist, our children’s safety?
Do you see where that hatred leads when it’s fed long enough?
A Muslim child was stabbed to death at a russian school.
Ten years old.
Not a threat. Not a symbol. Not a headline.
A child with a backpack, a mother, a future.
And the one who did it was a coward, too afraid to face adults, too weak to confront anyone equal, so he chose the smallest body his hatred could reach.
This is not an "isolated incident."
This is the end result of Islamophobia, xenophobia, and dehumanization being excused, joked about, and politically rewarded.
When Muslim lives are treated as disposable, eventually someone acts on it.
We are told to stay quiet. To be patient. To prove we’re “peaceful.”
Meanwhile, our children bleed.
Mourn this boy loudly.
Say his name, Kobiljon Aliev, even if they want it forgotten.
Protect your children, your dignity, your truth.
Our grief is real.
Our anger is justified.
And our lives ,especially our children’s lives, are not negotiable.
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Tws: blood and injury, psychological horror, controlling partner dynamics, romanticized violence undertones and ritualized predation.
It was a mere short cut across your skin: the knife slid against your thumb as you were chopping onions; a sharp line of red drops glinting like rubies.
You flinched a little at first, holding your injured digit with your other hand while inspecting the wound.
‘Are you alright, sweetheart?’ He turned around to get a better look at you; His idea of a concern expression was a long stare, eyes spilling the feeling while his jaws and lips rested perfectly still; it made Hannibal all the more handsome in your eyes.
‘I’m fine’ you looked at him ‘It’s just a little cut, I’ll wash it-’
‘I’ll clean your wound’ He reached already for the first aid kit he kept tucked in the top drawer, fingers moving with that effortless, practiced grace that made you trust him more than you should.
You didn't protest, it was good getting attention.
He squeezed your wound gently in the sterilized piece of cotton ‘I told you I am perfectly capable of cooking on my own.’
‘I still want to help.’ You simply replied.
He caressed your injured hand; sipping in the smooth flesh covered in skin, the wound just a crack into the red within— you'd taste exquisite, he's sure.
“Being alive for me is enough” He shoots you a sweet smile “You shouldn't bleed for just helping me.”
You mirror his expression, basking in the attention and care of your husband; one of the small joys you wanted.
The cotton sank in water, immediately drinking the liquid as faint red bloomed across the glass: blood.
The bathroom lamp sliced stern white light; you went to bed hours ago and he's finally left alone: he is never bored of you, he just wanted a little time to indulge in something else he loved about you.
As the cotton emptied its last elixir, he pulled it out and in one graceful move, he threw it in the trash can before drinking the glass of blood and water— slow sips, full taste and his hands shook in joy.
He resisted the urge to lick your wound earlier because he's fully aware of how his appetite rattled in its cage when you were the meal, he might have bitten off your thumb or chomped your palm. It's easier this way but never satisfying enough, your blood was the most he could have for now -even if they're just a few drops-.
Leisurely, the glass emptied and so his soul after each of these small occasions.
You were still asleep inside, having no idea nor aware of what your husband is doing. On his and your rings there is written:
“Volo bibere aquam puram quae es tu.”
Back then, you called it romantic and sweet, stroking your ego and need to be worshiped, and he can't help but wonder in these moments: Has it ever crossed your mind that it could be literal?
Tomorrow, if I’m lucky, she might cut her finger off. Yet he doesn't want you hurt; torn between the urge to protect you and gore you apart as if a worshiper beholding his abusive idol.
Maybe if you die first he'll allow himself a feast.
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Despite her young age and innocence, she fell into a state of depression and tried to end her life a few days ago. She hasn’t gone to school for a week now. Her parents are very worried because she has shut herself in her room and is afraid to go back to school due to the bullying she faces from her classmates. Her family doesn’t know what to do.
Hūr Mohamed Fetouh Badran, an 8 year old child in second grade at the Experimental School in Al-Manzala - Dakahlia - Egypt, tried to end her life because of the bullying and physical abuse she faced from some of her classmates because of her dark skin, curly hair and glasses.
Her mother complained many times to the school administration and on the mothers' WhatsApp group, but no action was taken to protect her or to hold the girls who bullied her accountable. Instead of apologizing and disciplining their children, they told her mother that her daughter was "unpopular because she causes problems and is misbehaved".
When Hūr tried to defend herself, things escalated into even more aggression. One of her classmates brought her older brother to assault Hour. Then another group brought their brothers from middle school, and they beat her inside the school and broke her glasses.
They also encouraged other classmates to ignore her, not play with her, and exclude her from any activity. They even threatened any child who tried to play with her with physical harm. Imagine: this is the behavior of elementary school children.
All of this caused Hūr to feel oppressed and hopeless, and she attempted to take her own life by jumping from the classroom window, but her teacher was able to stop her just in time.
Even though her parents sent numerous complaints to the Ministry of Education and the Child Helpline, no authority took action to help Hour. She continues to cry all the time and refuses to go to school.
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Girls don't want boyfriends, they want a Mountaineer's axe with heart-shaped holes and bronze reinforced shaft from Japan, Muromachi period, 14th century .⋆
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In Sarajevo (Bosnia And Herzegovina), walking bent over in the streets was not a sign of weakness or fear: it was a language of survival.
People walked hunched along the walls, not in submission to man, but fleeing from sniper bullets that tore through the air at every moment.
They were the Bosnian Muslims during the genocide war of 1992— a time when simply crossing the street was an adventure between life and death.
But what has been revealed today surpasses imagination in its horror: the snipers were not all regular soldiers, some were Western tourists who came to practice killing as a paid hobby.
On Tuesday (the 11th of this month), the British newspaper The Guardian published a shocking report revealing that prosecutors in Milan have opened an investigation into a group of Italians alleged to have paid Bosnian Serb soldiers for trips to Sarajevo during the four-year siege, trips in which they could shoot Muslim civilians for entertainment.
During the Siege of Sarajevo (1992–1996), more than 10,000 people were killed by relentless shelling and sniper fire in the longest siege in modern history, following Bosnia’s declaration of independence from Yugoslavia. Snipers were what terrified people most: they hunted passersby randomly: children, women, the elderly as though it were a human hunting park.
The Italian investigation indicated that some of these snipers were not soldiers at all, but “sniper tourists” from the West who came to Sarajevo to experience the thrill of killing, after paying large sums to soldiers of the army loyal to former Serbian leader Radovan Karadžić— convicted of genocide and crimes against humanity.
These “tourists” were taken to the hills overlooking Sarajevo to fire at civilians, then returned to Europe to boast about their “trips,” as others would about hunting safaris in Africa.
Investigator Gavazzini added that the number of Italians involved is very large— and that among them were also Germans , French , and Englishmen, all wealthy gun enthusiasts who paid money to enjoy scenes of bloodshed, without any political or religious motive.
Some would gather in Trieste, travel to Belgrade, where they were received by Bosnian Serb soldiers who escorted them to sniper positions. Gavazzini described it as “the indifference to evil”— where killing turned into a paid form of entertainment.
The main road leading to the airport was known as “Sniper Alley,” where no one could pass without bending close to the walls, running between the rubble to avoid death descending from the mountains.
Lawyer Nicola Brigida, who helped build the legal case, said:
“We have strong evidence, and it is time to name these perpetrators. The blood spilled in Sarajevo does not fade with time.”
Meanwhile, the Muslims of Sarajevo embodied the highest forms of humanity amid the tragedy — sharing the little bread they had, hiding children in basements, and praying between the sounds of explosions.
While they crouched behind walls clinging to life, those so-called “civilized” men paid money to shoot at them as if death were a paid excursion.
That is the cruelty of the paradox: nations that preach civilization yet revel in bloodshed— and a faith accused of violence, yet the only one that raised mercy as its banner in war and in peace.