A Lost Muslim Bitch
⚡ ALL INFORMATION CLICK HERE 👈🏻👈🏻👈🏻
A Lost Muslim Bitch
GOODBYE GRANNY I cherish times you met Meghan & kids, says Harry in Queen tribute
ARTHUR EDWARDS Harry looked miserable but interaction between Kate & Meg was more telling
BOND OF BROTHERS Wills & Harry could walk side by side behind Queen’s coffin at her funeral
DAY OF MOURNING Queen's funeral Bank Holiday rules - will we have to go to work and school?
A shocking clip filmed in the Democratic Republic of the Congo shows the naked victim being slaughtered in front of a baying mob
HORROR images show a woman being raped, whipped and beheaded to please a cheering mob after serving "forbidden fish" to rebel soldiers - who then drank her blood.
The stills are from a shocking clip of an execution in Luebo, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and show the naked victim being dragged into the the town's main square by a group claiming allegiance to the Kamuina Nsapu movement.
The stomach-churning video - which was filmed on April 8, 2017 but only emerged this week - is said to show the poor woman being punished after being accused of serving the food to rebel killers who visited her restaurant.
"They said she gave them beans that contained pieces of a small, local fish," a Luebo resident told France 24 .
"Convinced that she had broken their protection charms, the council of rebels sentenced both the woman and the son of her husband's second wife [the young man was also working there that day] to commit incest in public."
The rebel group have to refrain from having sex, washing themselves and eating meat, fish and other items while fighting, revealed Congolese researcher and consultant Anaclet Tshimbalanga.
In video of the woman's execution, the leader of the rebel group, Kalamba Kambangoma, is seen grabbing the woman by the hair before she is taken to the stage to be publicly raped.
Rebel leaders force the woman to have sex with the son of her husband's second wife, and another woman is seen whipping the pair with branches.
Following the public ordeal, rebels executed the woman and the young man, believed to be in his 20s, by beheading them with machetes.
Several rebels drank their blood after the execution, and some even posed with the young man's severed head, according to wtinesses.
The bodies remained on display for two days before they were moved to a local cemetery.
Tshimbalanga said the woman's death actually "goes completely contrary to local customs, which forbid both the death sentence and incest".
She told France 24: 'These cases of extreme violence are a result of drugs or, sometimes, of people getting caught up in the frenzy and excitement of bloodshed and war.'
The group of Kamuina Nsapu rebels seized Luebo, a town of 40,000, on March 31 and held it for 20 days until being ousted by the Congolese army on April 19.
During their reign, they killed about ten people, including two police officers and the wife of Luebo's administrator.
Queen's funeral Bank Holiday rules - will we have to go to work and school?
Mystery as Queen's undertaker removes hearse window ad during six hour drive
Joe Wicks reveals newborn daughter's adorable name in sweet Insta post
ITV announces major schedule shake-up tomorrow
©News Group Newspapers Limited in England No. 679215 Registered office: 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF. "The Sun", "Sun", "Sun Online" are registered trademarks or trade names of News Group Newspapers Limited. This service is provided on News Group Newspapers' Limited's Standard Terms and Conditions in accordance with our Privacy & Cookie Policy . To inquire about a licence to reproduce material, visit our Syndication site. View our online Press Pack. For other inquiries, Contact Us . To see all content on The Sun, please use the Site Map. The Sun website is regulated by the Independent Press Standards Organisation (IPSO)
Our journalists strive for accuracy but on occasion we make mistakes. For further details of our complaints policy and to make a complaint please click this link: thesun.co.uk/editorial-complaints/
A soldier gestures to people to stay away from the site of a bomb blast in Peshawar, Pakistan on March 29, 2013. (Fayaz Aziz/Reuters)
A Pakistani-American man is accused of being a terrorist. In Pakistan.
This article is adapted from the book The Wrong Kind of Muslim , by Qasim Rashid.
I walked out onto the main street. Rabwah, Pakistan after dark is exciting. Shops are still open and the aroma of fresh fried delectables command the air. I walked past Tahir Heart Institute, a state-of-the-art cardiac center that provides free or near-free medical care to all Pakistanis, regardless of background. Pausing to admire it, I heard a voice call out to me to stop walking any further.
Thinking perhaps it was Uncle Bashir, I turned with a smile. Jogging up to me instead was a Pakistani police officer ready to draw his pistol.
The police officer's left hand was up, making the "stop" motion, the other securely on his holster. He was slender and tall; easily around 6'3, and in full uniform. I want to say that his giant mustache added to his intimidation factor, but it's more likely that I was paranoid about how tightly he gripped his pistol.
I wasn't sure how to react, but stood still for the moment to let him know I wasn't going anywhere. It isn't necessarily smart to run from a man clutching a gun.
"What are you doing here?" He demanded to know.
"Why did you stop me?" I replied rather glibly.
"I asked what you're doing here." He demanded again, taking a step towards me.
"I'm walking." My reply was ruder than I'd intended. But nothing could've prepared me for his response.
"I know what you're doing here. Where's the bomb? Where'd you put it?!"
"Wha.. What?? Bomb? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Don't get smart with me, you son of a bitch. You goddamn Americans! Where's the bomb? Where is it, you terrorist?!"
The police officer took another step closer, one hand still in front and the other tightly clutching his pistol. It occurred to me that there was nervousness in his voice. At first, it surprised me that he knew I was American. But I quickly realized how foreign I looked from the way I dressed, the way I walked, the way I combed my hair even. When he heard me speak in my accented Urdu, it confirmed that I was definitely either American or Canadian. He probably just guessed American, and guessed right.
My secret identity revealed, I decided to switch it up to English, having no idea whether he understood English or not. I figured it couldn't possibly get me in any more trouble.
"Alright, pal, listen. Slow down. You have no idea what you're doing, and you need to take your hand off your gun." My American humility showed through clearly. He became tenser. I countered by putting my palms out to show I had nothing to hide. "There's no bomb, I'm not a danger to you, and I'm only heading home." I found myself echoing a statement I'd made to police in post-9/11 America on more than one occasion.
"You not terrorist? Prove!" he said in his broken English as he pulled his gun partially out of its holster.
"Wait, what? I said slow down! Prove I'm not a terrorist?" How the hell was I supposed to do that? I paused because I couldn't believe the question. I had to deal with proving I wasn't a terrorist every time I flew in America since 2001. Every time I crossed the U.S.-Canada border I was "randomly stopped" to be searched, sometimes for hours. And traveling with my U.S. Marine brother wasn't any better. Once while crossing through Cornwall in Ontario, Border Patrol actually separated us and interrogated us about one another for four hours.
I'd been pulled off planes, interrogated in back rooms with a "mirror" on one wall, and frisked up and down. I'd had all my books and home videos copiously examined by airport security. I'd been pulled over dozens of times and let off with a warning while never actually told why I was pulled over in the first place. I'd dealt with the stares and the uneasy fellow travelers. I'd been randomly selected for a search so many times that the customs agents at O'Hare Airport actually recognized me, and I them.
Now, back in Pakistan in 2006, the land of my birth, the land of my ancestors, as I came to reconnect with my roots, I had to deal with...the exact same damn thing? What the hell was this world coming to? I was furious inside. Unfortunately for me, the cop didn't care.
"Look, this is ridiculous, how the hell do I prove to you I'm not a terrorist?"
He responded by gripping his gun tighter. He was getting impatient.
"Look, if I was a terrorist I would've..." I was about to argue that I would've looked like one, but the argument immediately failed in my mind. Let's face it; I was in my early twenties, brown, bearded (I had let it grow out for a few weeks), not from the area, and walking alone in the dark. For someone looking to stereotype, particularly under the veil of anti-American prejudice, it didn't take much to convince him or her that they'd uncovered a CIA agent looking to cause trouble. Such conspiracy theories run rampant in Pakistan. To be fair, they're not all conspiracies, but that wasn't helping my case at the moment.
He wasn't budging from where he stood. Neither was his hand from where it rested. He watched me, obviously nervous, waiting for some magical proof of my non-terrorism. Proof I didn't have. Meanwhile, despite somewhat freaking out, I was amazed. I was amazed that he equated terrorism with being American. I was a terrorist not because I was Pakistani, but because I was an American, a "goddamn American" at that.
It felt like the twilight zone. Americans? Terrorists? No, no, but we were the victims of terrorism. We were the good guys. That's what 9/11 was all about, right? The whole world knew this. I saw Ground Zero with my own eyes after the towers fell. It was absolute carnage. I wept with my fellow Americans. Terrorists did that to us Americans. We did nothing wrong, right? And all this was even before we discovered that Osama bin Laden was hiding just a few hundred miles from where the police officer and I stood that day in Pakistan. How dare you call us Americans terrorists?
None of that would've mattered to the officer at that point. He remained silent, but stared me down, waiting; for what, I wasn't sure. But, I was sure it was something I didn't have.
And suddenly, it hit me. A light bulb literally turned on. The proof I needed to show that I wasn't a terrorist. Just as soon as the idea entered my mind, however, the fear of exposing it forced me to reconsider. Dare I show my evidence? Proof would require breaking a cardinal rule, one that my family had warned me never to break.
Even before I left for Pakistan, everyone repeatedly--particularly my parents--sat me down and warned me, "Listen, Qasim, you've got a big mouth, understand?"
"But when you get to Pakistan, under no circumstance, for any reason, to any person, particularly to the government, do you ever break this rule. No matter what happens, you absolutely, positively, do not--"
"Just listen! Under no circumstance are you to reveal to someone, anyone, that you don't know personally, that--"
"This sounds important. I should probably write this down."
"Don't tell them that you are an Ahmadi Muslim! That's the single rule! Do not tell them you are an Ahmadi. Just ignore it and move on. Police tortured your cousin to near death, your other cousin was lynched, and too many things can go wrong. Too many are being killed. The last thing we need is you getting arrested or killed because you can't keep your big mouth shut. Do you understand?"
"Actually, I can probably remember that. Don't think I need to write it down."
"Yeah, sure sure, no problem, got it."
"NO, do you understand? You do not mention you're an Ahmadi! Under no circumstance! Zero. This is not a light matter, Qasim."
"Yeah yeah, got it got it, I won't mention it. Mouth closed."
Well, I guess I've never been particularly good at following orders. Middle children, psychologists say, tend to be more rebellious than the eldest or youngest because they supposedly get less attention. I am a middle child. And not that I'm bitter at my jerk siblings for hogging all the attention, but what I did next was probably the exact recklessness I was told to avoid.
"Officer, I'm not a terrorist, and the proof is that I'm an Ahmadi."
I blurted it out flatly, without emotion. I paused, envisioning Hollywoodesque furies of anger erupting from the officer. I might've flinched a little.
Instead, it seemed to catch him completely off guard. "You're...a Qadiani? An American Qadiani?"
"Erm, yes, an American Ahmadi. "So you know I'm not a terrorist."
I had a point. Despite the persecution, Ahmadis have never once instigated, retaliated, advocated, or endorsed any form of terrorism. Despite his obvious prejudice against "Qadianis," he knew this. The officer remained stoic, pondering over his next move. As was my big mouth habit, I kept talking.
"I'm visiting from America, but I was born here. I'm an Ahmadi; I'm just here to visit family. I assure you I have no bomb. I actually have difficulty getting my cell phone battery out of its case. I couldn't possibly put together a whole bomb."
He gave me a confused look. I guess my goddamn American humor must have been lost on him. Whatever the case, he gave me one more hard stare, and slowly took a step...backwards. Then another, then another. He put his gun back in its holster and without saying another word, turned around and walked back the other way.
I did a little happy dance in my head and breathed a huge sigh of relief. My heart was beating like mad. I'm not entirely sure I understood then the danger I had been in. Instead, I was in shock that I was called a terrorist in my birth country. Despite everything, I walked away with a swagger knowing that I mentioned my faith to a cop and lived to tell about it.
Our friends at Je Joue just launched 2 toe-curling Toys.
Elephant-tested and resoundingly Approved.
Take 20% OFF using code EJ20 >>
Our friends at Je Joue just launched 2 toe-curling Toys.
Elephant-tested and resoundingly Approved.
Take 20% OFF using code EJ20 >>
Share
Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Link:
Top Contributors
Latest
Staff Picks
No search term specified. Showing recent items.
Search or use up and down arrow keys to select an item.
Every time you read, share, comment or heart you help an article improve its Rating—which helps Readers see important issues & writers win $$$ from Elephant. Learn more .
This experience is integrated into the fabric of my being, a bend in the road of my sexuality.
I am more than a survivor . I am resilient. I thrive in my life.
This event, being raped at 12 years old, was one turn in the long and winding road back to myself.
This is the story of how I lost my virginity against my will.
I was 12 years old, the summer before I turned 13.
I had recently moved in with my father, after years of conflict with my mother. It was early summer, nice enough to be outside but not oppressively hot. There was no camp or summer vacation for me that year. The summer was spent hanging out in the neighborhood, around the basketball court.
I was not particularly interested in making girlfriends in this new neighborhood. I was looking for thrills, excitement, cigarettes, attention—anything to keep me away from the pain of being me, of being alive. The intoxication of intrigue and sexual desire had already become a drug for me. I hadn’t had sex yet (other than a few kisses and childhood sex play with peers). The euphoria that I felt from obsessing about boys, fantasizing about sex, and being in love was satisfying my need to escape reality.
When this boy/man (let’s call him “Dicky”) talked to me and showed interest in me, the sensations in my body felt good. I felt good about being alive in that moment. He had never really paid attention to me before. He was older and sexy with his beautiful skin, thin, muscular body, and big lips. He had no heart, he was cold as ice, and this may have been the most attractive part of him.
I wanted to be that—cool and hard and invulnerable.
His attention gave me a little cred with the other kids at the basketball court because of his tough-guy reputation and his criminal enterprise. This attention and cred was giving me everything I thought I needed in life: the euphoria of attention and a place to belong.
My father was new to parenting, but he knew enough to give me a curfew (maybe 9 p.m.). As my curfew approached, I knew I wanted more of this good feeling—the perfect weather, the cigarettes and pot, the feeling of belonging and being special. I decided to ask my dad if I could stay out later.
I went in to find my dad and his friends sitting around on the floor playing cards. I asked him if I could go back out, and he said yes. One more hour.
I went back to the basketball court for more Marlboros and more of the good feelings. Too soon, my hour was up and it was time to go home again.
This time, Dicky walked home with me; my house was just a few blocks from the basketball court. My front door was actually a gate to an alleyway that led to a back apartment.
He kissed me at this gate. I woke up inside. I didn’t really like how wet his kisses were, but I liked being physically close to him and feeling his desire for me. I decided to ask for more time so I could get more of this. He waited at the gate for me while I went in to ask.
My dad and his friends were still sitting around on the floor playing cards. The apartment was filled with smoke. There were beer bottles, money, ashtrays, and cards arranged neatly around the circle.
My dad knew what I wanted. He was always seemed to know what was in my head. He said I could have one more hour.
As soon as I came back out, Dicky had his mouth on me. He was more forceful now, pushing me against the wall next to the gate. I felt the bricks pushing into my back.
I started to feel more conflicted now, not liking the way he pushed into me or his wet kisses that now felt almost like he was drooling on me. I was still enjoying the feeling of being touched in a way and feeling his desire for me. (I am not making a euphemism for his erection. I mean I enjoyed the energetic feeling of his desire for me.)
He whispered in my ear, “Do you want to get fucked?”
I liked the feeling of his hot breath in my ear, but I froze with fear, because I did not like the tone of his voice. I thought I liked sex (from my imagination, masturbation, and the games I had played as a little girl with my peers) and looked forward to playing with someone whom I loved.
I was pretty sure that’s not what he meant when he asked if I wanted to get fucked. I was pretty sure he wasn’t asking, either. I couldn’t speak.
He whispered, “Have you ever been fucked? I think you want to get fucked.”
Still I couldn’t answer. I was frozen with fear inside.
I know now that when the nervous system detects a life threat, there are three possible reactions: fight, flight, freeze, or some combination. At 12 years old, my nervous system had been habituated to freeze in the face of danger.
He was not really asking anyway; he didn’t need an answer . He had decided that he was going to fuck me no matter what my response was.
He started to lead me across the street, heading for a patch of grass behind the I-95. Moving my body snapped my mind back, and I knew I did not want to go with him. I turned to walk away from him, back to my apartment.
He grabbed my arm and yanked me back to him. He easily picked me up, holding my arms against my body and carrying me like a baby. I squirmed and kicked. Now my words came back.
The fear and the guilt and confusion set in, the defeat. The certainty that I had made a mistake and now I was going to pay for it. I once again
Threesome Mom Hd
Joi Clips
Tube Hot Mom My Friends