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Dancing Arabs

Dancing Arabs

4.6 16
by Sayed Kashua, Miriam Shlesinger (Translator)

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A bildüngsroman suffused with humor and irony, Dancing Arabs centers on a young boy from a poor Arab village, his haphazard receipt of a scholarship to a Jewish boarding school, and the dislocation and alienation that ensues when he finds himself faced with the impossible: the imperative to straddle two famously incompatible worlds.

As a child, our


A bildüngsroman suffused with humor and irony, Dancing Arabs centers on a young boy from a poor Arab village, his haphazard receipt of a scholarship to a Jewish boarding school, and the dislocation and alienation that ensues when he finds himself faced with the impossible: the imperative to straddle two famously incompatible worlds.

As a child, our nameless narrator/antihero lives with his family in his grandmother's house. His grandmother and father constantly impress upon him the significance of their land: when so many people fled or sold theirs away, they held strong. "Better to die fighting for your land than to give it away."
Every night after his brothers fall asleep, he climbs into bed with his grandmother, his main source of comfort and protection. One night she tells him where the key to her secret cupboard are, and if she should die, he must find all the death equipment in the blue bag. Paranoid from then on, he races home every day at recess to see if she's died. One day he gets there and she is not there, so he unlocks the cupboard and pulls out the box. All he finds are towels and some soaps from Mecca, but then he notices his father's photo in the old newspaper lining the suitcase, and some postcards in his father's handwriting. At his urging, his grandmother tells him about the newspaper clippings: his father was always "the handsomest and the smartest" in Tira, until he was thrown in jail for his political activity (eg: bombing a school cafeteria). The grandmother visited her son every week, wrote letters to the mayor, anyone who might be able to help her son. When he was released years later, he remained politically active, revering the Egyptian president Nasser, and for a time, joined the communist party.

The young narrator is nothing like his father, who "doesn't understand how my brothers and I came out the way we did. We can't even draw a flag. He says kids smaller than us walk through the streets singing 'P-L-O——Israel NO!' and he shouts at us for not even knowing what PLO stands for." Not at all politically motivated, the boy knows nothing of national identity; he simply wants to get through the school day without getting smacked by his teacher.

He excels at school and his family dreams that by the time he graduates, they will have their own state and he will become a pilot, or a judge. One day the principal tells him the Jews are opening a school for gifted students and they will be admitting a few Arab kids too. He is accepted and his father whoops with joy-this will mean a better life for his son and his whole family.

His transition at school is very rough. The other students make fun of how he speaks and eats. On a bus home to Tira during his first school break, he is singled out and pulled off the bus by some soldiers. Humiliated, he proceeds on his journey home, but gets off of two more buses fearing that he will be questioned again. He winds up at Ben Gurion airport where his father has to come get him. He cries the whole way home and says he is never going back. His father mocks his tears and his weakness and tells him he has no choice-this is his only chance to escape the limitations of life in Tira. (The tug of war between father and son continues throughout the novel, the father putting his hopes and aspirations onto his son, as well as his defeats and disappointments.)

He goes back to school, but only after deciding that he will never be identified as an Arab again. He becomes an expert at assuming false identities: he shaves off his moustache, learns how to pronounce Hebrew like the Jews, buys new clothes, starts listening to only Hebrew music. Soon he falls in love with Naomi, one of his Jewish classmates. On Memorial Day for the Fallen Soldiers, the narrator does not stand up during the moment of silence, and Naomi, whose father had died in action, refuses to speak to him. Eventually, Naomi admits that she loves him too, and for a while, they are together in spite of their differences. She initiates him into a new world of movie theatres and restaurants, and for the first time he learns that Zionism is an ideology, not a swear word; that his aunt is called a refugee; that Arabs in Israel are called a minority; he learns the meaning of both national homeland, and anti-semitism.

As the end of his final term draws near, he is constantly tired and dizzy, cannot sleep or eat. He knows that he and Naomi will have to break up when school ends. He takes a bottle of pills the night before a big exam, and winds up in the hospital. His father comes and blames it on "that Jewish whore." After a short convalescence, he finds himself at Hebrew University. He trails Naomi at school, but she avoids him. He stops going to class-he uses his unlimited bus pass to travel the streets of Jerusalem for hours listening to his walkman. This is how he meets Samia, an Arab student who asks him the way to Hadassah hospital one day; he takes her there himself and they areeeeee a couple from then on. Four years later he decides it is time for them to marry. He and his wife are both Israeli citizens and know Hebrew well, but the narrator, a lost son, has no place to go back to after having been exposed to the tempting Israeli experience from which he is barred. He and his wife move to Beit Tsefafa, an Arab neighborhood where they don't know anyone. Soon the second intifada begins to rage-the narrator refers to it as "the war." He begins drinking heavily. He blames his father for his optimism, his faith that it will all turn out well for them, that his going to the boarding school would make a difference.

His aimlessness and self-loathing deepen and spiral: he grows apart from his wife, he drinks, fantasizes about taking a lover, and is preoccupied with all his failures. Through his self-destructive haze, he decides he will make everything right-he and his wife will sleep together peacefully, like spoons, he'll give up drinking, he'll start praying, he'll become politically active, a member of the Knesset. He even makes a pilgrimage to Mecca with his one Arab friend from boarding school. But the biggest revelation he has there is that there is no beer in all of Saudi Arabia.

One night the narrator is at a bar watching Arabs take over the dance floor. He is disgusted by their ugliness, their lack of grace and self-consciousness. He affirms that Arabs should not be allowed dance, not only because they look ridiculous, but because they make him, the narrator look ridiculous. On Land Day in March, his wife goes with her family to their old village, which is now a Jewish neighborhood. They dress up and bring a picnic as they do on every Land Day and Independence Day. His father criticizes her family, these "refugees"-if they really loved their land, why did they leave it in the first place?
After a trip to Egypt, his father gives up on his dreams of liberation and statehood. He was stopped at a border crossing for hours and something in him broke. Now he doesn't want to fight any more. He hates Arabs: "It is better to be the slave of your enemy than to be the slave of a leader from within your own people."

In the final scene, the narrator and his wife and baby are sleeping on a mattress in his grandmother's room and his grandmother gets up in the middle of the night and vomits. He gets up to take care of her and she tells him it's like this every night, but that it's not death that makes her cry, it's that she used to think she'd be buried in her own land and now she knows that will never happen. The narrator and his grandmother sit and they both cry together. Filled with humorous observations, this is ultimately a serious book in which huge human truths are delivered in the most deadpan tone, and in which the individual self is lost to the strangling demands of family, history, and political realities.

Editorial Reviews

The New York Times
As a portrait of a young man's drift into emotional no man's land, this novel has the feel of grim truth.—Charles Wilson
Publishers Weekly
Kashua resists stereotype in this slyly subversive, semi-autobiographical account of Arab Israeli life, telling the story of a Palestinian boy who wins a prestigious scholarship to a Jewish high school, but slips into listless malaise as an adult, despising himself, scorning his fellow Arabs and resenting the Israelis. The unnamed narrator spends his childhood in the village of Tira. His grandfather was killed in the 1948 war, and his father was jailed for two years before he was married, accused of blowing up a university cafeteria. The narrator doesn't inherit his father's revolutionary tendencies; he's even ignorant of his own history ("In twelfth grade I understood for the first time what '48 was.... Suddenly I understood that Zionism is an ideology. In civics lessons and Jewish history classes, I started to understand that my aunt from Tulkarm is called a refugee, that the Arabs in Israel are called a minority"). When he goes away to the Jewish boarding school, his greatest desire is to fit in, and he bursts into tears the first time he is stopped at a checkpoint. He never finishes college, taking low-level jobs at an institution for the retarded and a bar. When he finally drifts into marriage to an Arab nursing student, he cringes at her dark skin and soon dreams about taking a lover. He can't even find solace in belief, though he fantasizes about becoming a respected teacher of religion. The drab hopelessness of his life is offset by his self-awareness ("I'm a failure anyway") and by Kashua's deadpan, understated humor. Nearly absurdist at moments, this is a chilling, convincing tale. Agent, Deborah Harris at the Harris/Elon Agency. (May) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
This first novel features a young man who shares the author's Arab-Israeli background. In a more affluent and privileged setting, his hero might have been someone like Kerouac's Sal Paradise-engaged in life's possibilities but avoiding firm commitments. But this Palestinian narrator is filled with fear, hopelessness, and self-loathing. He fails to see the purpose in an existence that is at best marginalized and at worst terrifying. From the time he is admitted to an elite Jewish school, Kashua's hero seeks to become indistinguishable from his Jewish classmates. If one blends in, he reasons, one can avoid delays at roadblocks, removals from buses, and attacks from bullies. Kashua describes Palestinians leading routine lives as professionals and students, as multigenerational families raise children in the midst of military conflict and face futures that are anything but certain. As an outsider, this reviewer finds it difficult to fathom the full extent of the novel's complicated irony and the emotional impact it might have on Arab-Israeli readers. Yet readers far removed from the experiences portrayed by Kashua will gain a more personal view and a deeper sympathy for those born into the decades-long struggle for land and country. Highly recommended for public and academic libraries.-Rebecca Stuhr, Grinnell Coll. Libs., IA Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A quick, readable, highly engaging-and bluntly pessimistic-debut tale of an Arab-Israeli whose life is one of anger, fear, and broken spirit. "I was the best student in the class," announces Kashua's narrator, "the best in the whole fourth grade." So it's possible-isn't it?-that he'll go far, escape his family's drab, broken village, be a great success? He does take the very tough exam for admission to a competitive Israeli school, does pass, does get admitted, and does attend-but not successfully. There's too much shame for him in a boarding school full of Israeli Jews, shame at simple things like not knowing how to use silverware, what music to listen to, not having the right kind of pants, not pronouncing Hebrew correctly, and shame at bigger things, like the scorn, derision, and threat both in school and on the busses that take back home at the end of the week. Kashua offers nothing new so far-mightn't this be another tale of schoolboy alienation overcome, true merit being demonstrated, acceptance, comradeship, and success following thereby? No, the conflicts, wounds, and humiliations are too many and too deep. The boy's grandfather died in the war against Zionism, and even his father was a hero in his own college days, imprisoned on suspicion of complicity in blowing up a school cafeteria. And so, for all his brains, the boy, torn between cultures and histories, begins to fail in school, suffer health problems, lose morale. He never does finish college, but ends up as bartender in a seedy club, despising the Arabs who come in to dance, despising even his own wife, the birth of a baby daughter notwithstanding. Life, at novel's end, remains seedy, undirected, filled with sorrow,failure, and regret. Gloomy indeed. And yet this Arab-Israeli newcomer is never once self-indulgent or sentimental, with the result that his story rings out on every page with a compelling sense of human truth. Agent: Deborah Harris/Harris Elon, Jerusalem

Product Details

Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Publication date:
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Product dimensions:
5.50(w) x 8.25(h) x (d)

Read an Excerpt

Dancing Arabs

By Sayed Kashua

Grove Atlantic, Inc.

Copyright © 2002 Sayed Kashua
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-8021-4126-9

Chapter One

The Keys to the Cupboard I was always looking for the keys to the cupboard. I looked for them every time Grandma went to visit the home of another old woman in the village who had died. The old brown cupboard was like a locked trunk with a treasure inside-diamonds and royal jewels. One morning, after another night when I'd sneaked into her bed because I was too scared to fall asleep, I saw her take the key out of a hidden pocket she'd sewn in one of her pillows. Grandma handed me the key and asked me to take her prayer rug out of the cupboard for her. I leaped out of bed at once. What had come over her? Was she really letting me open the cupboard? I took the key, and as soon as I put it in the lock, Grandma said, "Turn it gently. Everything is rusty by now." White dresses were hanging in one section, and in the other were shelves with towels, folded sharwals, and stockings. No underpants. Grandma didn't wear underwear, just sharwals. The sheepskin prayer rug was on the bottom shelf. She'd made it herself: bought the sheep on 'id el-fitr, skinned it, salted it, and dried it in the sun. On the top shelf she'd put an enormous blue suitcase, the one she'd taken on her hajj a few years earlier. What's she got in there? I wondered. Maybe a few more of thosepolicemen's outfits, like the ones she brought back to us from Mecca. I pulled the rug off the shelf and spread it out on the spot where Grandma always said her prayers. She would pray sitting down, because by then it was hard for her to kneel for so long. Grandma lives with us. Actually, we live with her. She has her own room, with her own bathroom and a basin for washing her hands before saying her prayers, and she never passes through the living room or the kitchen. The way she sees it, anyone who wants her has to go into her room. She would never dream of invading Mother's territory. And if my parents would rather not talk to her, that's fine too; she has no intention of striking up a conversation. It used to be her house once, until my father, her only son, took it over, added a few rooms, got married, and had kids of his own. Of Grandma's four grandsons, I was the only one who would crawl into bed with her. I almost never slept in the room I shared with my brothers. I'd always wait for my parents to fall asleep, and then, very very quietly, I'd sneak into Grandma's room, into her bed. She knew I was afraid-of thieves, of the dark, of monsters. She knew that with her I felt protected, and she never told me not to come, never said, Don't crawl into bed with me anymore, even though it was a twin bed and more than thirty years old. Every morning I'd wake at dawn, when Grandma would be saying her prayers. I'd never seen the key. She'd never asked me to bring her anything from the cupboard. When she finished praying that morning, she turned to me. "Did you see where I hide the key? You're the only one I'm telling, and I want you to promise me not to tell anyone else till the day I die. Then you'll open the cupboard and tell your aunts-they're bound to come here when I'm dead-that all the equipment is in the blue bag. You understand? They mustn't use anything except that equipment. Promise?" I promised. "And it's time you stopped being afraid. Such a smart boy, what are you afraid of? Hurry up, off to your room before your parents wake up." Now I'm the one in charge of Grandma's death. She must know something I don't. Otherwise, what would she need death equipment for? And what is death equipment anyway? After that morning when Grandma told me where the key was hidden, I started racing home every recess. I only had five minutes, but we lived really close to the school. When the bell rang, I could hear it from our house, and I always made it back to class before the teacher had covered the distance from the teachers' room. I was never late. I was the best student in the class, the best in the whole fourth grade. Every time I ran home, I imagined my grandmother lying in her twin bed with her four daughters standing over her, weeping and singing the very same songs they sang when Uncle Bashir, Aunt Fahten's husband, died or when Uncle Shakker, Aunt Ibtissam's husband, died. I knew I mustn't miss Grandma's death, and I always prayed that I'd make it back before they buried her. I had to get there in time to tell them about the blue suitcase. I had to tell them about the death equipment. Nobody knew where the key was, not even my father, her only male offspring. At night, I continued sneaking off to Grandma's bed and sleeping beside her. But instead of being afraid of the dark, of thieves, and of dogs, I started being afraid that the woman next to me would die. Her large body no longer gave me a feeling of security. From that point on, I started sleeping with her to protect her. I would wake up very often, holding my breath and putting the back of my hand to her mouth. So long as I could feel the warm air, I knew-Not yet; death hasn't come yet. Grandma didn't mention the blue bag of death equipment again, as if she'd forgotten all about it, as if her death wasn't on her mind anymore. Then, at some point in fifth grade, between winter break and spring break, when I dashed home during recess as usual, Grandma wasn't there. Grandma rarely left her room unless someone had died. And when she did, it took her a long time to return. Without thinking twice I walked over to the pillow. Gently, without moving it, I pushed my hand into the secret pocket and pulled out the key. I remembered Grandma saying that everything was rusty, so I turned the key slowly and carefully. That's all I needed-for it to break off in the lock. The things in the cupboard were just as they had been, as if nothing had changed: the rug, the white dresses, the sharwals. No underpants, only stockings. I couldn't reach the top shelf. I took off my shoes, placed one foot on the shelf with the rug and the other one on the sharwal shelf, and managed to open the metal locks of the blue suitcase with one hand. I could hardly see what it held, but I could feel towels. What, only towels? Is that the death equipment: towels? But the whole house is full of towels. Since when are there special death towels? I ran to the kitchen to get a chair and stood on it. Just then I heard the bell. Another lesson was starting, but I was not going to run straight back this time. Let them mark me absent. I'd say I had a stomachache. They'd believe me because I'm a good student. I forgot about the bell and focused on the suitcase. Up on the chair I could reach it much more easily. I mustered all my strength before lifting it, but the suitcase was much lighter than I'd imagined. For some reason, I'd expected the death equipment to be heavy. I put the suitcase down on Grandma's bed and studied its contents. The towels on top were meticulously folded. I took them out, one by one, making a mental note of the position of each one so I could replace it exactly. There were five of them. Underneath was a large piece of white fabric with the word Mecca written on it. My grandma must want them to use this cloth for her shroud. Underneath, there were dozens of bars of soap, all made in Mecca. There were perfume and hand cream too, a pair of tweezers still in its wrapping, scissors, and a new hairbrush. I didn't know that the death equipment was toiletries. I was very disappointed. Is this what I was missing agriculture class for-soaps and towels? Now that all the equipment was out of the suitcase, I saw it was lined with newspapers. I was sure they were just there to protect the equipment from humidity, but before I had a chance to put the toiletries back inside, my eyes fell on a picture in one of the papers. It was all written in Hebrew, and I hadn't learned Hebrew well enough yet to read a paper, but in the newsprint I saw a small faded passport photo of a young man looking at me. My hands froze. It was a picture of my father. True, he looked much younger. I'd never seen a picture of him at that age, but I could swear it was my father. I lifted the paper, and underneath it were many more newspapers using that old passport photo. All of them were in Hebrew, and in class we were still plodding through "Who is this? This is Father. Who is this? This is Mother." I made up my mind: I've got to learn Hebrew. I've got to be able to read a Hebrew newspaper. I rummaged some more and found dozens of postcards hidden underneath. These were in Arabic. I recognized my father's handwriting right away: beautiful and rounded, like a drawing. My father had been the best student in Tira. I'd always wanted to be like him. I pulled out a postcard and read: Dear Bashir, How is my sister Fahten? I hope everything is well with you. I am fine, thank goodness. Tell Mother to stop crying. I will be released soon. Give my love to Sharifa, Fahten, Ibtissam, Shuruk, and the children. P.S. There are a few things I would like Mother to bring on her next visit: a notebook, two pencils, a pair of socks, and two pair of underpants. Yours, Your brother Darwish There were many red triangles on the postcard, with some Hebrew writing inside them, and on the back was a black-and-white picture of a girl soldier eating a falafel. Another bell went off. They were breaking for recess, and class would be starting again soon. I quickly arranged the postcards and the papers the way they were before, put all the equipment back in the suitcase, and placed the suitcase back on the top shelf. After locking the cupboard, I pushed the key into the hidden pocket, and within two minutes I had returned the chair to the kitchen, put my shoes on, locked the front door, and was running back to class. On my way, I saw a funeral. I spotted my grandmother. It was Abu Ziad who had died, our neighbor, whose grandson Ibrahim was in my class. My grandmother couldn't stand the sight of Abu Ziad. As for me, I couldn't stand the sight of Ibrahim. (Continues...)

Excerpted from Dancing Arabs by Sayed Kashua Copyright © 2002 by Sayed Kashua . Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Dancing Arabs 4.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 16 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Angie. 14. Elemental. Air. Blond hair. White shoes and dress. Green eyes. Pale-ish skin. Yui's sister. <p> Yui (pronounced You-E). 13. Flora. Brown hair. Green dress and shoes. Green eyes. Pale-ish skin. Angie's sister.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name: Reesha Dragon-Slayer (Dovah-Sil translated.). Age: 18. Race: Argonian. Looks: Red scales with a bit of black mixed in, white throat, turquiose eyes, reptile tail, snout and teeth & a raspy voice. Crush: Gaar. Family: Jen-Shamill (Father, deceased), Shal-Dirn (Mother, deceased), Gan-Filsdod (brother, deceased). History: She was orphaned at the age of 6 after bandits burned her house and killed her family. She was taken captive and sold to a Dark Elf slave owner, who got rid of her due to her additude. She spent the rest of her life hungry, cold and poor. She was almost executed in Skyrim after she had raided an Imperial camp for food and arms. At the last moment a dragon attacked and she escaped. Months later she discovered that she is Dragonborn. The soul of a dragon in the body of a mortal. She then went to many collages to learn magic. Personality: Snooty, stubborn, energetic and proud. Loves: Winning, aggressive games, being with her friends. Hates: Losing, non-aggressive games, fighting her foes. Weapons: Magic and a steel dagger. Other: ask.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
||Name: Gilbert Beilschmidt<br> ||Nickname(s): Gil, Gilby, Bert, [insert your variation here] <br> ||Age: The oldest of the group; around 17<br> ||Gender: MALE. He's a GUY. &male <br> ||Class: Flora(plants)<br> ||Looks: Gilbert is very tall, thin, and pale. I believe that he is an albino, which is not a disease, but rather a genetic condition. His eyes are a fiery amber-red. His messy pale hair is cut unevenly medium-length. He needs glasses, but will usually wear contacts, not wanting to show anything that could be considered a weakness. He wears just your average clothes, I guess. Not able to picture it? Search his name on Google.<br> ||Personality: He can be very rude, loud, and humorous. His obssession with "coolness" or "awesomeness" actually hides a very insecure individual... Not that you'll ever know.<br> ||Crush//ect.: Ha! No way!<br> ||Friends//Enemies: Gemma and Bari; maybe others//He makes enemies semi-easily, but none yet.<br> ||Other: Born in East Germany, raised in France and Spain: he accumulated a strange, mixed accent.<p> &starf Name: Gemma<br> &starf Nickname(s): Whatever you come up with.<br> &starf Age: In the middle of the age range of the trio; about 14<br> &starf Gender: &female, thank you very much.<br> &starf Class: Fauna(animals)<br> &starf Familiars: Ching the tiger, East the black eagle, and Nile the crocodile. Ching and Nile are very young.<br> &starf Looks: Gemma is a wiry girl of middling stature, and more muscled than you would guess. Her dark auburn hair sweeps to her waist, and she usually has it up in a braid or ponytail. Bright green eyes stand out in her tanned and freckled face. She likes to wear comfortable, casual clothes.<br> &starf Personality: Gemma is fairly shy, and prefers talking to her familiars to talking to people. She isn't very modern, but tries hard to be nice and polite.<br> &starf Crush/ect.: I highly doubt that will ever happen.<br> &starf Friends//Enemies: Gilbert and Bari//She tries to not make enemies.<br> &starf Other: Don't talk about the past, it's a touchy subject; she feels like she can only talk openly with Gilbert and Bari.<p> ?Name: Barius Gonzolez-Rodrieguez<br> ?Nickname: Call him Bari! Everyone does.<br> ?Age: The youngest, at 10 years old<br> ?Gender: Boy! Guy! Dude! Male! &male! Not female!<br> ?Class: Elemental<br> ?Element: Water (including ice, storms, and water vapor)<br> ?Looks: Bari is kind of short, even for his age. He has bronze skin and dark, clean-cut hair. His dark eyes have an air of innocence. Usually, he has a crooked, childish grin on his narrow face. Bari likes to wear jeans and slightly formal shirts.<br> ?Personality: Bright, excitable, and eager to please. He's kinda like a puppy. He enjoys teasing Gemma and trying to prank Gilbert.<br> ?Crush/ect.: Woah. Back up. He's waaaayyyyyyy too young.<br> ?Friends//Enemies: He considers the whole world his friend!//He wouldn't really notice if you didn't like him.<br> Other: He doesn't have a great memory, but doesn't really care; very young an impressionable.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Race: fauna (fox ears and tail) height: 5'6"/ weight: 110 pounds/ clothes: generally, she wears a simple white and red kimono with sandals during spring and summer. During winter and fall, she will wear a heavier tunic and cloak./ appearance: she has long flowing golden hair, the same color as her fox-like ears and tail. She has sharp blue eyes and pale skin./ class: she is still learning the basics, an apprentice if you will. But she is mainly an evocationist and a transmuter./ anything else, ask.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name: Marciline <p> Gender: 14 <p> Looks: has fox ears and a fox tail. Dont judge me <p> Other: just ask
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name - Anastasia Suzuki. <br> Age - 17 years old, 18 as of March 2nd. <br> Gender - &female <br> Alignment - Flora. <br> Race - Lineage from Belarus, Ukraine, and England. <br> Appearance - Anastasia, informally known as Ana, is an imposing figure. Her genes offer a tall, slim, and curvy physique, along with cool umber eyes framed with pale lashes and golden hair. Her features are soft but accentuated, slightly hawkish. Her skin is alabaster, from exposure to the sun [lack thereof.] She stands at about 6", and weighs an astonishing 130 lbs. Her long arms are covered in ivy pattern tattoos. <br> Apparel-wise, Ana tends to stick with the more-traditional swishing dresses of her culture. Pants are a rare luxury. Shoes annoy her, so she generally goes without, or slips on her favorite combat boots. Her curls are adorned with a simple white gold circlet, whose drooping centerpiece yields a large ruby that rests against the top of her nose's bridge. The rest of her jewelry is not-flashy, simple, and nature-oriented. <p> Persona - Her voice tends to suggest a soft, timid person, but Ana's really a ticking atom bomb, just waiting for someone to trigger their extinction. Though, when happy, she's very sweet and carefree. <p> Other - List of Random Sh<_>it - <br> Is a secret weeaboo <br> Has a heavy accent; sounds kinda Hungarian <br> Would marry a cat in a heartbeat <br> Loves languages - Knows Russian, French, Vietnamese, Mandarin Chinese, Spanish, and [of course] English. <p> Baiii
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name: rly ninja? Age: 15 about Looks: two different colored eyes (one violet and one green with specks of every other color), black hair , 5' 3", somewhat pale skin, and lots of scars. Clothes: A long black cloack, black leggings, combat boots, and a diferent shirt every day. Parents: Mary Presley and Stein (last name unkown ummarried) History: just ask. Class: fauna Familiars: a wolf and a cat
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
NAME: juan luke age:15 LOOKS: greyish silver hair (result of a spell going wrong) greenish eyes ATTIRE: a black cloak with a red on the inside of the hood TYPE OF MAGIC: elemental i can use polar opposites such as fice and ice OTHER: im bad at norl spells as you can tell by my greyish silver hair
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name: James Bond Age: 18 Class: Fauna Familiars: Wolf and Cat Personality: meet him! Looks:Black hair, royal blue eyes, stands at 6'1" 120lbs Gf/crush/kids: No/katrina/nope Straight Anything else ask
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name Ling <p> Age 16 <p> Gender female <p> Personality meet me <p> Appearance She has waist length black hair with a dark blue and silver streak in it and normaly wears a plain navyblue tshirt jeans and silver gladiator sandals with darkblue jewels on them. She also wears her hair in a braid and it has a small darkblue bow at the end of it. She wears a saphire pendant on a silver chain and she never takes it of. <p> Crush None <p> History dont ask <p> Class Fauna <p> Familiars A small silver dragonet that has darkblue spikes, claws, horns, and eyes.Her name is Twilight. And a small pheonix and instead of having fire like most pheonixes she has ice and water. Her name is Icymoon <p> <p> Name Arya <p> Age 16 <p> Gender female <p> Personality Meet me <p> Appearance She has waist length black hair with a white and gold streak in it. Her ears are pointed. She has White and gold dragon wings. She wears a white and gold graphic tshirt with a swan on it and faded jeans. She wears gold gladiator sandals with white jewels on them amd a Opal pendant on a gold chain which she never takes off. <p> Crush none <p> History dont ask <p> Class Flora <p> <p> Name Suzume but call me Zu <p> Age 16 <p> Gender female <p> Personality meet me <p> Appearance she has waist length black hair with a purple and gold streak in it She normaly wears a plain Purple tshirt and faded jeans. She wears gold gladiator sandals with purple jewels on then and an amythest pendant on a gold chain which she never takes off <p> History dont ask <p> Class elemental <p> Elements electricity and water <p> Thats it!!!!!!!!!!!!!! <p> ~Ling <p> ~Arya <p> and ~Zu
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Name : Sunset Shimmer<p>Nicknames : Sun, Sunny, Shimmer<p>Gender : &female<p>Age : 15<p>Class : Elemental<p>Element : fire<p>Looks : long red and yellow hair. The yellow streaks are lightningbolt-ish. Her eyes are gold. She is slightly tan. She wears a pair of dark blue skinny jeans that are tight fitting. She wears a red spaghettia-strap tank top with a yellow sun with wavy rays. She wears a pair of red convers. She stands at 5'3 and is very slender.<p>Crush : Thom<p>Personality : sharp personality<p>Siggy : S&upsilon&eta<_>s&epsilon&tau&#9788<p>Theme Song : Your Lips Are Moving by Meghan Trainor<p>Other : she realy is nice but every thing she says comes out snappish<p>&nbsp;<p>Name : Midna<p>Gender : &female<p>Age : 16 years<p>Class : Elemental<p>Element : darkness and twilight<p>Looks : black hair with turquoise streaks. She has silver skin. Her eyes are turquoise blue. She wears a tight fitting black jumpsuit with a turquoise collar. She wears knee-high tight fitting black boots with a 3 inch heel. She stands at 5'2 and is very slender and pretty.<p>Crush : Kaay'et<p>Powers : can control darkness and twilight, can create eternal twilight<p>Siggy : M&iota&delta&eta&alpha&#9830<p>Theme Song : All About That Bass by Meghan Trainor<p>Other : ask!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Baroness Delilah Ksalia: <br> Age: Never ask a lady her age. <br> Class: flora <br> Apperance: Long, jet black hair and forest green eyes. <br> Personality: Serious and somewhat intimidating when you first met her but caring. <p> Briar Galedeep: <br> Age: 20 <br> Class: fauna <br> Apperance: Spiked black hair and mischevous blue eyes. He finds shoes... tedious and so rarely wears them. <br> Personality: Funny and confident with a happy-go-lucky, fun-loving nature. <br> Familiars: A falcon and a red fox. <p> Fiona Jade: <br> Age: 37 <br> Class: Elemental <br> Element: Ice <br> Apperance: Curly, silvery blond hair and wintery blue eyes. <br> Personality: Kind and encouraging. She is usually very easy-going... unless something happens to her desk. <p> Kain Wright: <br> Age: 34 <br> Class: Elemental <br> Rank: Weapons master & training instructor <br> Apperance: Curly brown hair, dark brown eyes. A little bit of facial hair. <br> Weapon: a double bladed battle axe. Very big and very sharp. <br> Personality: A soldier, not a professor. Quick witted and sharp tounged but nice enough.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago