u/Leamsezadah

The unbearable, haunting allure of never having been born. Even as I am dying, I still have to worry. Because my family will hate me even more. They will be disgusted with me once they fully understand that I am queer. So much so that even then, I will not find peace.

Dying itself is another ordeal. Do not be fooled by how easy it looks in movies. It is nothing like that. The terrible thing is that living feels impossible, yet dying is difficult too. Finding a way is so difficult, so utterly inaccessible. And when I die, the image of me as someone completely perfect will disappear from society. Most likely, news of my death will reach the community I came from. Everyone will know. Perhaps I will become a story. They will be disgusted by me. I will not find peace.

But what about never having been born at all? I would never have had to deal with any of this, because I would have been given the gift of never possessing consciousness in the first place. Now I have to struggle to find a way to bring this consciousness to an end. Otherwise, I will experience even worse suffering.

Mother, I am angry with you. I am angry that, at thirty-eight, you chose to give birth to me instead of having an abortion. I am angry that you did this cruelty to me.

God has turned His face away from me, and perhaps no matter what I do anymore, He does not see me, or perhaps He simply does not want to see me.

I admit that this is a somewhat self-centered and presumptuous discourse. But at the end of the day, I am talking about myself here, not about all of us. Therefore, I cannot claim that what I say has any authority over you.

Does God exist or not? That question everyone seems to ask in our modern age. Because we are pushed to ask it. The authority and responsibilities of God have diminished quite considerably over the last few centuries. Once upon a time, God controlled the entire plot. He created everything, brought diseases upon us and took them away, filled the clouds with rain, and, when angered, brought famine. But day by day, we have taken another responsibility away from God and assigned it to something else. Is there a disease? We assign the task to a microbe, a bacterium, or a malfunctioning cell. Is it raining? The water cycle and the climate. The God who once had to do so many things has gradually become more and more unnecessary.

And now we are living precisely in the age of the AI revolution. No matter how much we may dislike sounding like Luddites, we are all worried, because we are experiencing a technological transformation unlike anything we have seen before. With each passing day, our human skills seem to lose their meaning, as an equivalent can be produced more easily and, often, better. We are all worried. Will we find work? What work will we be able to do? If we cannot find work, what will we eat? And, most fundamentally, what is our purpose anymore? How are we supposed to spend the typical seventy years of a human life? As a much more primitive version of robots? I do not know.

Frankly, I do not think God's problem is food or shelter. But He shares another problem with us: what is my purpose now? Am I useful?

I will try to answer this question based on my complicated relationship with God. In a sense, I am going to give God a personality test based on our own personal relationship.

At the beginning, I mentioned the question we have all asked: does God exist or not? I remember being a child in primary school. I had an innocent belief in God. A child that age does not think, "God does not exist." Because God exists. Just as a tree exists. The question has not yet formed in the child's mind.

Then came Facebook, and the atheist pages of the age. Looking back now, I find many of their arguments rather foolish and easily refutable. But at the time, those pages felt enormous, and so did their influence. I remember one moment in particular, a post that seemed to destroy the entire illusion in my head. I remember feeling that something inside my heart had broken. That pure faith had been broken. Once it was broken, it could never be restored in the same way again.

So what happened? Did you become an atheist and was that the end of the story? No. Quite the opposite. I can say that for most of my life I have had some kind of spiritual and philosophical practice. Yet intellectually, I never fully believed in God's existence. I simply wanted Him to exist. I hoped He existed. His existence would have made life much more interesting, much more meaningful.

It was always obvious that I had an innate interest in theology and esotericism. But if I think about my ancestry, perhaps it is not so strange after all. My ancestors were religious scholars and esotericists. Look at the irony of it. You are born with an inclination toward something, only to discover that the thing toward which you are inclined is not real. How sad is that? Yes. It is.

We have taken many authorities and responsibilities away from God, but there was one thing we could not take away from Him: being the "patron saint" of last hope.

When we feel helpless, powerless, and hopeless, we wish God existed. That was God's authority in the twenty-first century. Not controlling the climate or inflicting collective punishments upon peoples, but being the place where the powerless, the elderly, the oppressed could lean, the place where they could find support.

And yet, in my life, I came to need that final place of support desperately. In this life I did not choose, under circumstances I found myself trapped within, I was born queer in a backward little place, different from everyone else, thinking differently, and therefore being left alone and abandoned. I lost my mother to cancer when I was a child, and so on.

What did I do?

I begged God.

My mother was dying before my eyes. What was I doing? I was begging God. I did everything I could to convince Him. I recited every prayer. I tried every technique. I prayed for hours without stopping. Only later did I learn that there was a name for this, scrupulosity.

But there I was, trying everything to convince that being called God.

And what happened?

He was not convinced, apparently.

My mother died in agony.

I am angry with God for that, and I turn my face away from Him. But then I become helpless and find myself in another desperate situation, and once again, unwillingly, I feel the need to lean on God. And it continues like this.

Frankly, what probably distinguishes me from most people is that I have tried an absurd number of methods. Shi'a Islam as a child, Catholic Christianity from adolescence into young adulthood, then, if I may put it that way, witchcraft, paganism, angelolatry, working with demons, ancient gods, and so on. I do not want to go into too much detail, but I suppose there is hardly anything I have not tried.

This time I thought, perhaps God will answer. I have tried every option.

I am not proud of this, frankly. But if I were born again and forced to live under the same circumstances, I would do it all over again.

Despair is not easy.

You have to create your own hope.

That is exactly what I have been doing these past few months.

My death is coming. I know it.

Rational, materialist solutions are not producing results. Time is passing. The clock is running down. There is no hope left. What are you going to do?

Create hope.

Rest your head against God.

Try prayer to God. Try the prayers to the Virgin Mary, the miracles of Fátima where the sun was supposedly moved across the sky by the order of Mary, letters, novenas, prayers to the saints. Someone once recommended Saint Expedite to me. I prayed to him too, as much as I possibly could.

Try demons.

Belial, Bune, Seere, and others.

Try angels.

Try the books of magic.

Ask my dead mother for help.

Just keep trying.

God damn it, there is almost nothing I have not prayed to.

I tried and tried.

But no, brother, it does not work.

There is no answer.

No matter what you do, it does not work.

God has turned His face away.

He only sees those who live at the summit of this mountain. Those crushed beneath it, people like me, are outside His field of vision.

Does God not see me, or does He simply choose not to see me?

I cannot answer that.

But at the end of the day, I do not particularly care which one it is.

Because in either case, He is useless to me.

At the beginning of this text, I wondered whether God Himself perhaps asks, "What is my purpose now? Am I still useful?"

Well, if you are wondering, dear God, let me answer you.

You have lost your final purpose as well.

Because you are bad at your job, and you are shirking it.

You are completely unnecessary now.

So do whatever you want with this existential crisis, this angst.

Perhaps this is your curse too.

To be unable to kill yourself and to be condemned forever to uselessness.

I will not wish you good luck or anything of the sort, because you are not even turning your face toward me to hear it.

-leamsezadah

I want to die and feel the rest,

To lie in chill soil and never care.

I want a little gravestone, one candle, and an angelic prayer;

I want these wild daisies to blossom there.

Wish I had been one of those gay martyrs,

Reaching for eternal peace before the war even started.

Instead, I am twenty-two and fighting for next day survival,

While feeling super and superb suicidal.

Can I go back to my teens?

End all this suffering

Before it even starts,

So I could release?

Before anything happens, I want to explain at length why I have reached this point. It may be long. Honestly, I do not know exactly where I should begin, but I have to begin somewhere. First, let me explain who I am now. I am a 22-year-old boy, I am queer, and I have just graduated from my bachelor's degree with the highest academic standing in my department and faculty. Physically, I would not describe myself as particularly ugly or particularly handsome, but people have always told me that I am cute. For years I have been receiving treatment for major depressive disorder, severe anxiety disorder, and PTSD. I was born in the southernmost part of Azerbaijan, in one of the least developed, most conservative, and rural parts of the country. I was born to parents who were almost forty. I had two older sisters who were okder than me for 10 and 14 years, and apparently I also had an older brother who died as a child. When I think about my childhood, many of the memories that come to me are actually beautiful ones, especially the memories of my mother. My mother and I were extremely attached to each other. People used to call me her "tail" because we were almost always together. We cooked together, cleaned together, woke up early together, talked for hours, and went everywhere together. My relationship with my father was completely different. I always knew that he existed, but I never felt any desire to spend time with him. I would count the minutes until I could leave. Even his presence in the same room made me uneasy. I never felt the kind of love toward him that people usually describe when they talk about complicated relationships with their fathers. For me, there was simply nothing there.

From childhood, there was also something about me that made me stand out in the environment where I was raised. I was born into an extremely toxic masculine culture, but I was never a wild or stereotypically masculine boy. I did not like fighting, destroying things, breaking things, or acting aggressively. I liked cooking, books, gardening, science, art, sewing machines, and other things that people around me considered feminine. But to be honest I was not even feminine(there is nothing wrong with being feminine of course). I was just a bit different. I was also extremely shy. That was enough for neighbours and relatives to criticize my parents and tell them to raise me properly, because I was acting like a girl. At the same time, I was constantly told that I needed to behave like a man. I remember being a small child and having boys surround me in the street, circling around me and shouting "girl, girl, girl." I cried and tried to hit them with my little scooter. There was obviously nothing wrong with being a girl, but I was growing up in an environment where being perceived as feminine was itself treated as an insult. I was not doing anything to anyone. I was simply a shy, gentle, non-aggressive boy, and that alone was enough to make me a target.

When school started, I became even more withdrawn. I did not want to approach people. I trusted nobody. I had no safe person to talk to and no one I felt could understand me. Whenever I revealed more of my personality, I would hear that I should stop acting like a girl, become more masculine, or "be a man." I also began hearing local homophobic slurs. My own sisters used the word "gay" against me constantly to mock me. They were older than me, so they understood what they were saying. This was how I first learned what homosexuality supposedly meant. I learned it through insults and humiliation before I understood my own sexuality. I was beaten by family members and by people outside the family, and I became extremely socially anxious. At school I talked to almost nobody. I had no friends. I would simply sit in the classroom. But academically I was exceptional. I consistently received the highest grades and examination scores and eventually became one of the strongest students in my entire city. Education and intelligence became my secret weapons. They were the strongest things I had. My mother's own academic perfectionism also played a role. She had always been an excellent student herself, and education was one of the things we shared.

As I grew older and the boys around me entered puberty, the abuse became sexual. Male classmates would randomly come up and touch my ass. Bigger boys would push me toward walls and imitate sexual acts against me, treating me as though I were a girl they were having sex with. It happened with clothes on, but it was still sexual abuse. I became afraid to use the school bathroom because I was afraid I would be raped. I told nobody. I prayed alone because I had no one I could tell. I knew that if I spoke, I might be blamed or punished instead. The logic around me was that because I was shy and conventionally non-masculine, these supposedly masculine boys had some right to use me to satisfy their urges. If I had been "man enough," I was made to believe, this would not have happened. I remember one day when the boys in my class were talking together during a break and I realized they were discussing me. I heard them saying that I would scream like a girl, that I was skinny like a girl, that I could not do anything, and that they were sure I desired them myself. I was sixteen years old, I had already lost my mother, I had no friends to talk to, and I was hearing myself being discussed as part of other people's fantasies of sexual violence.

My family home was not a place of peace either. My father did not physically abuse me or my sisters, but he constantly fought with my mother and used physical force against her. My mother was an extremely strong and aggressive woman herself, so their fights were often both of them screaming and physically struggling with each other. I hated waking up to those sounds. I remember my sister getting out of bed and running to separate them while I stayed in bed trembling. Every night I prayed that the next morning they would not fight. My father also repeatedly cheated on my mother and was openly egotistical. He said that he loved himself more than anything else. He would rather spend money on himself and on women who gave him attention than on his own children. My mother had to force him to spend money on us. We were not rich, but both parents worked and we were not starving. The household could have been much better if my father had actually cared about his family. My mother carried an enormous amount of anger and stress. In 2017, when I was thirteen, she was diagnosed with stage three rectal cancer. Because she was a healthcare professional, she understood what the disease meant and what she would have to go through. After learning about the cancer, she attempted to hang herself because she did not want to experience the pain. My father saved her at the last moment. Later, when my sister asked him how he felt, he said that he was worried the police might think he had killed her. My mother underwent surgery and received a colostomy bag. In the winter of 2018 the cancer spread, and in the summer of 2019, when I was fifteen, she died.

My mother was the person I loved most in my family. Losing her left me alone with my father. He did not beat me and he bought me food, but emotionally I could not feel safe around him. He was a deeply patriarchal man who believed women were inferior and primarily useful for sex. He openly told me these things during conversations between us. I never responded. I was sitting next to him as his closeted gay son while listening to him express views that made me terrified of what would happen if he ever knew who I really was. He has openly said that he would behead a "ladyboy" son. He repeated things like this regularly. Even now, hearing his voice can make my chest hurt and trigger panic. My sisters have their own complicated relationships with him and still retain some affection for him because he is their father. I do not. I feel nothing toward him. At seventeen, I left Azerbaijan to attend university in Turkey, partly because I needed to escape that environment and finally live as myself.

University initially gave me a chance to build a life. I was still being abused by my sister, whom I lived with, and she repeatedly told me things such as "why don't you kill yourself" and that she did not want me in her home. She beat me and psychologically abused me. I began self-harming even more. My arms are still covered with scars from that period. I had almost no money. I sometimes ate once a day. Some days I searched the ground for coins because I hoped I might find enough to buy tea. But academically I continued to excel. After my preparatory year, I obtained a scholarship. I also finally saw a psychiatrist and began taking antidepressants for my major depressive disorder and anxiety. I became significantly better. I started making friends. I met queer people. I changed my appearance and grew my hair long. I started attending a Catholic church because I was desperately looking for a sense of parenthood and belonging. I tried religious and spiritual paths because I was desperate for something to hold onto. I prayed. I questioned. I tried to understand whether there was some meaning behind what had happened to me. I did not do this casually. I was looking for a reason to keep living.

My academic success eventually gave me more independence. I became an undergraduate researcher and received additional scholarship money. I also received support from Hande Kader Trans+ Öğrenci Dayanışması, a Turkish LGBT+ student organization. With my academic income and scholarships, I was finally able to save money for my Erasmus visa. After a long and painful process, I obtained a Czech visa and went to Czechia in September 2025. The first months were beautiful. I had beautiful experiences and photographs, and for the first time I felt as though my life might actually be beginning. Then, on December 24, 2025, my sister contacted me and told me that her friend had seen me on a dating app. She sent me a screenshot. She now knew that I was gay. She used this as the reason to expel me from her home. She sent homophobic threats, including telling me that if I came back to her house I would be dead. She also threatened to tell my father that I was gay so that he could finally kill me. I do not know whether she actually told him because I no longer have ties with my family. I had a major breakdown in Czechia. I stopped eating and started self-harming again after having managed to stop for a long period.

I had to return to Turkey on February 2, 2026, but I had nowhere to go. The dormitory applications had already closed months earlier. When I arrived, I stayed at the airport for the first day because I literally had nowhere else to go. During the day I went to an AVM, and at night I slept in a central park with my suitcases. After three days of being literally homeless, I got lucky. Someone left a private dormitory and a bed became available in a two-person shared room. It cost 8,750 liras per month and required a 5,000-lira deposit. I borrowed money from a friend and moved in. My monthly income was approximately 8,000 liras. The Erasmus fund of approximately 500 euros, which was paid after I returned to Turkey, helped me eat once a day and cover the rest of the rent. I have been malnourished for more than six months. I am not legally allowed to work in Turkey. The only work I could realistically do was sex work, but it is too dangerous and I am not mentally healthy enough to carry that level of stress and risk.

Normally I survived through two scholarships. One was an academic merit scholarship, and the other was based on my LGBT activism and risk status from Hande Kader Trans+ Öğrenci Dayanışması. Together they provided approximately 8,000 liras. Since I graduated in June, those scholarships ended. I currently have no stable source of income. My friends donated approximately 200 euros so that I could pay rent and buy food. That is how I am currently surviving. I have to leave the dormitory by September.

The most painful part is that I actually have a way out. I was accepted into master's programs at universities including Pisa and Genoa. I was also accepted into the Master of Science in Data Analysis and Economics at the University of Verona after an interview. I received a merit scholarship that provides free education and an 8,000-euro annual stipend. Certi Diritti and Pink Verona have agreed to help me with asylum seeking once I arrive in Italy. I have an actual academic future waiting for me there. I have admission. I have funding. I have organizations willing to help me once I arrive. My scholarship documentation itself covers a substantial part of the financial requirement. I have done almost everything already. The problem is that I cannot get there. I do not have enough money to show the required financial funds, pay for insurance, buy the ticket, or cover the necessary fees. I do not even consistently have enough money to buy food.

I have tried everything I could find. I contacted Rainbow Railroad and my case was rejected. I contacted ORAM and my case was rejected. I contacted Front Line Defenders and did not receive a solution. Scholars at Risk knew about my case and said they would try to find help, but nothing came from it. The European External Action Service flagged my case and referred it toward organizations including ProtectDefenders.eu, but again there was no solution. I contacted LGBT organizations, human rights organizations, journalists, academic protection organizations, refugee support organizations, and other people who might have been able to help. I have been in contact with journalists, who has said that she will publish my story in a major Italian newspaper if I die. Many organizations know my situation. My case has even been flagged by the European External Action Service. I did not simply wait for someone to rescue me. I contacted everyone I could. I asked for help getting to Verona because once I am there, I already have a concrete path forward.

I also tried religious and philosophical paths because I was desperate. I tried to understand whether I could continue believing in God when I was repeatedly asking for help and nothing changed. I was not saying that God owed me anything. I was asking whether disbelief could really be morally blameworthy in a situation like mine. If God has the power to intervene, knows that I am asking for the opportunity to live a normal human lifespan, knows that I have exhausted worldly options, and nevertheless does not intervene, what exactly am I supposed to conclude? I do not desire eternal life. I do not understand Heaven as a reward because eternal existence does not have subjective value to me. I am not saying that I want evil or that I want to hurt anyone. I wanted an ordinary human life. I wanted to study, work, have friends, love someone, cook, garden, learn things, and grow old. I tried religion because I wanted a reason to keep living.

If I return to my hometown, I believe my family and community could kill me because of my sexual orientation. If I return to Azerbaijan more generally, I also face conscription and the dangers associated with military hazing and sexual violence. I do not see a safe future there. Turkey is not financially sustainable either. I cannot legally work in the way I need to survive, my scholarships have ended, I am already malnourished, and I have to leave my dormitory by September. Italy is the one concrete place where I have admission, a scholarship, and people willing to help me, but I cannot overcome the financial barrier required to reach it.

I am not just a random queer guy applying for help. I am an activist and a scholar who fought for a very long time and has now reached a point where I do not see another option. I have spent my entire life turning academic success into a weapon because it was the only thing I could control. I became one of the best students in my city. I became a researcher. I became an activist. I graduated first in my department and cum laude. I won scholarships. I was accepted into a master's degree in a safe country. I won an 8,000-euro annual scholarship. I built a future for myself. I did everything I was supposed to do. And yet I am still trapped because I cannot afford the final step.

I want people to understand that I did not simply decide that life was not worth living. I have been fighting to live for twenty-two years. I survived my family. I survived my hometown. I survived homophobia. I survived sexual abuse. I survived my mother's death. I survived my father's presence. I survived abuse from my sister. I survived poverty. I survived homelessness. I survived depression, PTSD, anxiety, and self-harm. I survived years of hiding who I was. I kept studying while barely eating. I kept applying. I kept contacting organizations. I kept looking for religious, spiritual, academic, humanitarian, and political solutions. I tried Rainbow Railroad. I tried ORAM. I tried Front Line Defenders. I tried Scholars at Risk. I tried ProtectDefenders.eu and other organizations. I contacted journalists. I contacted human rights groups. I contacted LGBT organizations. I tried everything I could find.

I wanted to live. I really wanted to live. I am only 22. I had a future that I can actually see. I have a university waiting for me. I have a scholarship waiting for me. I have people in Italy who have said they will help me. The tragedy is that I cannot reach it. I am currently self-harming again, and I am afraid of what will happen if this situation continues. I do not want anyone to interpret my desperation as a lack of desire to live. The opposite is true. The reason I am desperate is precisely because I wanted to live and can see a possible life in front of me but cannot reach it.

I am writing this because I wanted somewhere to speak before I disappear from everyone's lives. For most of my life, there were very few people I could tell the truth to. I spent years pretending that everything was fine. I pretended with my father. I pretended with my family. I hid my sexuality. I hid my depression. I hid my self-harm. I kept getting excellent grades while my private life was collapsing. I became very good at surviving silently. Now I do not want to be silent anymore. I want someone to know the entire story and understand that I tried. I fought for my life for as long as I could. I wanted to live. I still want to live. I simply do not know how much longer I can survive without a way out.

With love.

Hello, I have a question about whether disbelief can be morally blameworthy in a situation like mine.

I am asking this sincerely, and I would prefer philosophical or logically serious answers rather than simply being told that "God has a plan" or that "God's ways are mysterious."

Before explaining my argument, I want to make one thing clear: I am not claiming that God owes me anything. I am not saying that God is obligated to give me what I want simply because I ask for it. I understand that, from a Catholic perspective, God may have reasons for allowing suffering and may not be obligated to grant every prayer.

My question is different. I am asking about moral blame.

If God does not give me what I ask for, how could my conclusion that I no longer have a reason to believe in or serve Him itself be considered morally evil?

I am currently in a situation where, unless something changes, I may die. I have tried worldly solutions and attempted to find help, but I have not been able to secure the help I need.

My question is specifically about the Catholic conception of God, Jesus, and Mary.

Catholicism attributes extraordinary power to these figures. For example, Mary is associated with the miracle of the sun at Fatima, and Jesus is believed to have resurrected the dead and Himself risen from death. So, according to Catholic belief, supernatural intervention is at least possible. I am not asking whether God is technically capable of intervening.

I have also prayed and petitioned God, Jesus, and Mary for help with my situation. The specific thing I want is not eternal life. I want to live a normal human lifespan.

This is important because I genuinely do not desire eternal life. I am not saying that I want to do evil, hurt people, or live an immoral life. I simply do not want to exist forever.

I have never understood Heaven as a reward because eternal existence has no subjective value to me. I am not afraid of Hell either. I am not saying that I want to go to Hell. I am saying that the possibility of eternal existence, whether Heaven or Hell, does not function as an incentive for me.

So, from my perspective, the situation is something like this:

1. I am currently in a situation that, if it continues, will probably result in my death.

2. I have tried worldly solutions.

3. I have asked God, Jesus, and Mary for help.

4. The God of Catholicism is believed to have the power to intervene in the world.

5. I do not desire eternal life, so the promise of Heaven does not provide me with a benefit that I actually value.

6. If I die, I will not receive the only outcome I actually want: a normal human lifespan.

If this is the situation, then I genuinely do not understand how my decision to stop believing in or serving God could be considered morally evil.

I am not saying:

«"God does not exist because He did not give me what I wanted."»

I am asking something more specific:

«If God has the power to save me, knows that I am asking to live a normal human life, knows that I do not value eternal existence, and nevertheless does not intervene, on what logical or moral basis could God condemn me for concluding that I no longer have a reason to believe in or serve Him?»

I understand that a Catholic might respond that God has reasons for allowing suffering, that earthly life is not the ultimate good, or that God does not owe me the outcome I want.

But those responses seem to assume that eternal existence is necessarily a greater good than earthly life. For me, it is not. If I genuinely assign zero value to eternal existence, why should I be morally obligated to treat it as a reward?

I am also not claiming that God owes me obedience simply because I ask for something. My question is about moral blame.

If I am not choosing evil, harming others, or acting out of hatred, but instead conclude that a God who could help me did not help me in the only way I actually value, how could that conclusion itself be morally evil?

I would especially appreciate answers from Catholics or people familiar with Catholic philosophy. I am interested in whether there is a genuine logical response to this argument, rather than simply an appeal to mystery or the assertion that disbelief is inherently sinful.

Thank you for reading.

Hello. I want to save my prayer and offering to Saint Expedite here so that, if it is accepted, I can remember it and fulfill my offering.

I am passing through a huge life crisis because of my queer identity. I am in danger, and almost every physical option to secure my safety has failed. Prayers do not bring results. I self-harm because I feel that if I do not kill myself, I will be killed anyway, but in a far more horrible way.

I ask for the help of Saint Expedite to bring me an urgent solution. I need to get to the city of Verona for my safety. I won a master's degree with a merit scholarship there, but there are many problems-such as a visa, finances, and other issues that I cannot solve as a person without family support. I have approximately one month.

Saint Expedite, please help me. Please find a way for me.

If my prayer is accepted, I promise in front of everyone here that I will offer my first Mass in your honour when I arrive in Verona.

Amen.

Hello, this will be long. I am a 22 year old gay man whose life is in danger from both my government and my family. I need to solve structural problems to get to a safe country. I have tried almost everything.

I worked with Bune, Clauneck, Seere, Belial, Azazel and his four demons, also gods like Ishtar and Hecate, Venus, and angels from Adam Blackthorne's Gallery of Magick books. Nothing works. No results, no movement, no signs. Or if there were signs they led nowhere if there was a barrier. Demons only contacted once then never appeared again.

Recently I tried to summon Lord Kiltan from Azazel's demons to deal with my elder sister who harassed, abused and traumatised me. Normally I can summon a demon and feel its presence within twenty minutes. This time over an hour nothing. In tarot the card I intuitively associate with him immediately falls from the deck in other readings but this time nothing. I asked the cards why my sister seemed so powerful and the answer came: an old familial protection.

That is when everything clicked.

My great grandfather, the father of my grandfather, was a famous jinn master and esoteric. Everyone in my lineage are scholars. My surname literally means sons of scholars in the local language. He used to treat jinn cases coming from different geographies, often by harming the jinn. But in return his own children would die before being born. Eventually he made a deal with the jinn: he would never touch the jinn again, and the jinn would not touch his descendants for seven generations. As proof of the agreement his children were born bald. Even the girls in that generation were bald throughout their lives.

In my culture there is not much distinction between jinn and demons. Demons are seen as evil jinn. So if the pact was made with the jinn, it likely covers every entity I have been trying to work with.

Could this really be the reason absolutely nothing ever works for me despite all my attempts? If my sister is protected then I am protected in the same way. And that protection might be blocking any spirit from touching my life, including the ones I was begging for help.

Tarot kind confirmed it. I asked: is my great grandfather's pact still relevant and does it protect me from demon contact? I pulled Judgement, Reversed Ten of Swords, Temperance. To me that was a clear yes. The pact is alive, it averts disaster, and it holds a careful balance. It is a binding treaty that prevents potential spiritual harm but also prevents those same spirits from acting on my behalf.

Then I asked: if not demons then who can help me? I pulled Reversed Nine of Wands, Empress, Death. I interpreted this as my late mother. I lost her in 2019 when I was 15. The Empress is the mother archetype, Death is the ancestor realm. The reversed Nine of Wands maybe tells me to stop fighting alone. I do not know for sure of course.

Where I am now is lost. I have real dangerous problems that need real world solutions. Demons are blocked. Gods and angels gave nothing. Maybe ancestors can help? Since probably not part of the pact? I do not know how to work with them practically or how an ancestor can actually change physical circumstances like getting me out of a hostile country. I do not know. It is just so complicated.

If anyone has experience with inherited pacts like this, bloodline agreements that block entire classes of spirits, or has successfully worked with an ancestor to create major life changes, I would be deeply grateful for advice.

I am tired, I am in danger, and I need a path that actually works. Thank you for reading this far.

Hello, this will be long. I am a 22 year old gay man whose life is in danger from both my government and my family. I need to solve structural problems to get to a safe country. I have tried almost everything.

I worked with Bune, Clauneck, Seere, Belial, Azazel and his four demons, also gods like Ishtar and Hecate, Venus, and angels from Adam Blackthorne's Gallery of Magick books. Nothing works. No results, no movement, no signs. Or if there were signs they led nowhere if there was a barrier. Demons only contacted once then never appeared again.

Recently I tried to summon Lord Kiltan from Azazel's demons to deal with my elder sister who harassed, abused and traumatised me. Normally I can summon a demon and feel its presence within twenty minutes. This time over an hour nothing. In tarot the card I intuitively associate with him immediately falls from the deck in other readings but this time nothing. I asked the cards why my sister seemed so powerful and the answer came: an old familial protection.

That is when everything clicked.

My great grandfather, the father of my grandfather, was a famous jinn master and esoteric. Everyone in my lineage are scholars. My surname literally means sons of scholars in the local language. He used to treat jinn cases coming from different geographies, often by harming the jinn. But in return his own children would die before being born. Eventually he made a deal with the jinn: he would never touch the jinn again, and the jinn would not touch his descendants for seven generations. As proof of the agreement his children were born bald. Even the girls in that generation were bald throughout their lives.

In my culture there is not much distinction between jinn and demons. Demons are seen as evil jinn. So if the pact was made with the jinn, it likely covers every entity I have been trying to work with.

Could this really be the reason absolutely nothing ever works for me despite all my attempts? If my sister is protected then I am protected in the same way. And that protection might be blocking any spirit from touching my life, including the ones I was begging for help.

Tarot kind confirmed it. I asked: is my great grandfather's pact still relevant and does it protect me from demon contact? I pulled Judgement, Reversed Ten of Swords, Temperance. To me that was a clear yes. The pact is alive, it averts disaster, and it holds a careful balance. It is a binding treaty that prevents potential spiritual harm but also prevents those same spirits from acting on my behalf.

Then I asked: if not demons then who can help me? I pulled Reversed Nine of Wands, Empress, Death. I interpreted this as my late mother. I lost her in 2019 when I was 15. The Empress is the mother archetype, Death is the ancestor realm. The reversed Nine of Wands maybe tells me to stop fighting alone. I do not know for sure of course.

Where I am now is lost. I have real dangerous problems that need real world solutions. Demons are blocked. Gods and angels gave nothing. Maybe ancestors can help? Since probably not part of the pact? I do not know how to work with them practically or how an ancestor can actually change physical circumstances like getting me out of a hostile country. I do not know. It is just so complicated.

If anyone has experience with inherited pacts like this, bloodline agreements that block entire classes of spirits, or has successfully worked with an ancestor to create major life changes, I would be deeply grateful for advice.

I am tired, I am in danger, and I need a path that actually works. Thank you for reading this far.