On July 6th, 2006, the very first Hetalia strip was posted to Hima’s blog. Now, 20 years later, the fanbase is still going strong, creating every beautiful fanworks showcasing out love for this series.
With 180 pages of content, Draw a Circle, That’s Hetalia! aims to showcase and and Celebrate not just Hetalia itself, but also this amazing fanbase that has grown around it. Here’s to another 20 years!
Zine download link here!
Ao3 Collection for the zine fics here!
Ao3 Collection for Director’s cuts of the fics here!
i contributed to this zine with my amephil fic, in a world where nothing can last! so happy to have contributed and congratulations to everyone! happy anniversary, hetalia!!!
despite the things i've given you — an amephil hetalia fanfic
Isabelo first hears of America during a war. Then another war comes, and another, and another, and somehow all everybody wants to talk to him about is America. Alternatively: some reflections on freedom, from scattered moments in Philippine history between 1762 and 1946.
TAGS: America/Philippines (Hetalia), 18th Century, 19th Century, 20th Century, Historical Hetalia, Philippine Independence. Nicknames, Character Study, Drama
Also available on: AO3
Isabelo first hears of America during a war.
“He’s lovely,” says the British Empire, a rare softness in his gaze. You won’t need to learn my name, I shan’t stay for long, so he said during his introduction, but Isabelo had lived in this old mansion for far too long not to know who Arthur Kirkland was. He promised to bring news of Isabelo’s home, and he did: the British forces had taken over Manila, meaning he was out of Antonio’s control — for the meantime, anyway. “I must have met him shortly after Antonio met you. Why, you should be about the same age! Technically, I mean, if not physically; he’s growing like a sprout.”
The truth was that Isabelo was likely older. But none of the Old World powers like hearing the truth, so he puts on a polite smile instead.
“He must be fortunate with good land then. I’m sure he has made you very wealthy.”
Arthur cackles. “Oh, he’s not the best at it! But he’s quite good, I daresay, quite good. It’s part of the reason why I can wage this war at all. You should thank him, really.”
“If he ever visits Madrid, I might,” Isabelo says. “You know of my situation here.”
“That situation may very well change. Should the winds blow well toward my aims and I conquer all of you, then I’ll grant you more agency than a cage.” Arthur stands, putting on his hat. Isabelo stands as well, ready to escort his guest out, knowing that Alejandro would be close by in case anything happened. “For now, Isabelo, you must forgive me. I’ll arrange the terms of your new settlement once all the dust has settled.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“Oh?” Arthur says. “You don’t sound very confident in my ability.”
“My heart is as loyal to the Spanish crown as your America is to yours,” says Isabelo, smiling. “You must forgive me for my belief that Antonio’s forces can best you yet.”
In the end, Antonio comes home bloody and beaten, assuring him that Arthur won’t visit again.
Looks like whoever America was, he didn’t change much after all.
---
The next time Isabelo hears of America is in Alejandro’s letters.
It is kind of Alejandro to send letters despite his independence, Isabelo thinks, since the older boy was his closest friend in the Spanish household. It was Alejandro who taught him how to pray, how to write, and how to avoid Antonio’s fury. It was Alejandro who took care of him when Antonio never could. It was Alejandro who left, along with most of the others, and didn’t bring Isabelo with him.
It is Carlos who is the prized jewel of the Spanish crown now, with Valentina as his support. And Isabelo is worth even less than he used to be, with no galleons sailing to Acapulco for trade.
At least Manila’s ports are finally open to the world, eh? He tries to see the silver lining in these things, he does. So he watches zarzuelas and he serves at mass and he enjoys the little freedoms he’s afforded, because he may not be able to go home, but he’s allowed to roam the city streets during the afternoon. After the sunset is when Isabelo reads Alejandro’s letters by candlelight, letters that are increasingly about America, America, America.
He’s a pain in the ass, in one letter.
He’s not so bad, in the next.
He reminds me of you, in another.
He took away a part of me I can never get back, in the last.
One of the more recent letters ends with: Sometimes I wish I could go back to simpler days. They never told me how lonely nationhood could feel. When you become free too, make sure to see me, okay? I miss you always, Chabelito.
Isabelo burns it. And it’s a little petty of him, but whatever America did, he hopes he made it hurt.
It’s not until Ludwig and Gilbert come along that Isabelo learns America’s name.
“He’s a kid,” Gilbert dismisses, the beer in his glass sloshing with the wave of his hand. “It’s nothing to worry about, Belchen, believe me. If you can take on Toni, you can take on Alfred.”
“Alfred, huh?” Isabelo smiles. The drinks and the dancing may have gotten him a little dizzy, but gossip and information? That is a sobering like no other. He leans across the table with a look that has the younger brother blush pink. “It sounds like you know him well enough. Tell me more.”
“He’s . . . loud,” Ludwig offers, and Gilbert snorts. “Obnoxious. Strong.”
“He’s got a nasty habit of sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong,” Gilbert says. “The other day, his commander even had the nerve to question why we were docked here! Me! When I bet I have as much people in Manila as Toni does! The goddamned nerve.”
“You encouraged him,” Ludwig points out.
“Bah,” Gilbert says. “If I’d known what he’d become, I would’ve thought twice.”
Isabelo thinks back to what he knows about America: a former British colony, who fought for his independence, with Alejandro and others shortly following suit. He had already proven himself against Alejandro, and now he was fighting Antonio too. He’d even brought his war to Isabelo’s ports. And somehow, the young rising star of global politics found it prudent to give the revolution — a revolution that he shouldn’t have cared about, a revolution that Isabelo was fighting to stay alive — its exiled leader back in the midst of it.
Gilbert grins sleazily. “I know that look. You’re interested.”
“He’s an interesting man,” Isabelo says. Gilbert laughs and Ludwig frowns. “He could be a friend.”
“For your sake and ours, I pray that he doesn’t become anything more.” Gilbert raises his glass with a cheer. After casting a furtive glance at Isabelo, Ludwig obediently does the same. “To your future independence!”
Looking back, Isabelo really should have known better.
---
“Is my brother treating you well?” says Matthew.
Several years have passed since the final surrender. His rayadillos are collecting dust in the back of a closet, his blades long confiscated, and his defeat quietly covered up. The American public only knows of revolts and skirmishes, minor at most, while the men of Washington remain skeptical of his use. Alfred quickly revealed himself as naive and self-centered when they met, and callous and brutal when they fought. Oh sure, the boyish charm is undeniably compelling. Yet Isabelo only sees the shadows of Arthur’s influence cast upon him: a clumsy copy of the empire, trying his hand at exercising a new power. To the victor go the spoils, or something like that.
One ray of light is that Alfred has kept Arthur’s withered promise. His “what’s yours is mine” philosophy apparently works vice versa, so Isabelo is welcome to explore America however he pleases. Although he is barred from returning home once again, he is no longer confined to a lonely mansion either.
The verdict? Not the worst. But certainly, the so-called land of the free could do a lot better.
Isabelo huffs. “Oh yes, for a certain definition of well. I don’t suppose I can become a dominion like you, instead?”
“It took many years before I gained Arthur’s trust,” Matthew says, smiling. “You can consider yourself lucky that Alfred offered you what he could from the start. He’s fond of you.”
“Fond is one thing, respect is another,” Isabelo counters.
“Respectfulness has never been one of my brother’s better traits.”
“He should learn.”
“Will you teach him?” Matthew asks. There is an edge to his voice that has Isabelo straightening up on instinct, the sudden shift too easily reminding him of— “This isn’t like Antonio, Isabelo. He is pledging to you what he pledged to Carlos: that by the end of this, you will be a nation of your own. And in the meantime, he’ll pull you together. Build your economy. Strengthen you into a proper state. He’s only trying to help.”
Isabelo smiles. “And make lots of money along the way, yeah? I’m still a colony. So are you.”
Matthew puts his hands up. He sighs and moves toward the door, turning his head back for one last aside. “Let it be known that I tried. Please, just stop avoiding him? His sulking is getting annoying.”
“That, we can agree on!” Isabelo chirps. The door creaks shut before any reply.
He peeks outside his bedroom window — he was adamant that he had a room facing the garden, or he would disappear to another state — to find Alfred pacing anxiously by the blooms. He exchanges quick words with Matthew, who brings him news that he’s obviously dejected by, then bids him goodbye. As soon as he’s alone, Alfred crumples in on himself, hunched low as he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. Isabelo knows Alfred doesn’t realize how stressed he actually is. Maybe he’s the only one who can realize it, as he’s the only one who’s privy to all of Alfred’s private moments.
The younger nation must sense he’s being watched, as he aims a blinding grin at Isabelo’s way. He waves his hands enthusiastically, seemingly distracted from his brief stupor.
“Isa!” Alfred yells. “Hi!“
For the first time, Isabelo waves back.
---
The funny thing is:
Things actually get good.
It feels like every day, Isabelo has to pinch himself. He gets senators. He gets a president. He gets a commonwealth. Years stretch into decades and as Alfred grows into his own, he gets brought along for the ride. He gets ice, cars, and movies! Isabelo loves the movies. Who can blame him if he gets a little carried away? One show at the theater and suddenly they’re kissing in the backseat, tumbling into bed, giggling through meetings, and holding hands. The push and pull of their relationship gains a teasing playfulness that undercuts the real political tensions between the two. Sure, maybe Alfred still doesn’t fully believe he’s ready for self-rule, but Isabelo doesn’t give a damn. He is slowly, steadily, finally crawling towards the end. He’s going to be free.
And then—
---
Life as part of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere is, to say the least, unprosperous.
Kiku arrives in the same way Alfred had: with death, fire, and gunpowder, overhauling his leadership with the promise that, one day, he would be granted freedom. Isabelo isn’t naive enough to fall for the same trick twice, so he fights with all he has. He gets captured anyway.
It makes for an unhappy reunion. Isabelo hasn’t seen most of his neighbors in centuries, and there’s a touch of envy in learning that the rest of them had been allowed to stay in their homeland when he hadn’t. Now Kiku has forcefully brought all of them together, and Isabelo is confronted with twisted versions of the old friends he can barely remember. Some of them even carry different names now. It’s only natural, he supposes. Isabelo wasn’t his original name either.
Antonio had given him many things, and prayer stood above all else. Every morning and night, Isabelo makes the sign of the cross, knowing his faith is the one thing Kiku can’t shake. He even forms a small alliance with Dirga and Malik because of it.
They’ll protect each other’s gods. It’s one of the few precious dignities they have left.
“He won’t come back for you,” Kiku says. Isabelo curses to himself. The fact that the master of the house could interrupt his evening prayers means the other two had been intercepted somehow. “I’ve known Alfred longer than you have. He is just as foolish as the other Western powers.”
Isabelo stands to face him with a cheerful smile. “Is that so? I always thought he was dumber.”
“Don’t play smart with me.”
“I’m so deprived here, I can’t do it with anybody else.” Isabelo sighs dramatically, subtly keeping an eye out for Kiku’s expression. He seems faintly amused. Good. “Besides, I’m hardly the only one with ties to the West. I hope Ludwig and Feliciano are good for you. When I knew them, they were in the shadows of something greater, and everyone doubted if they would ever measure up.”
Kiku’s eyes harden. Looks like the rumors of Italy’s surrender were true after all. “Your concern is noted, but unnecessary. All that matters is that we stand strong together.”
“Really? I thought you were only conscripting Yong-Soo’s men. So I guess we don’t have to fight together. One starts to question what the point of all this fighting even is…” Isabelo pretends to ponder. “You know, Alfred didn’t want to fight until you dragged him into it. But I trust you’re prepared to fight back. Obviously, the great and just Imperial Army is capable of taking on the world’s most advanced nation in modern warfare.”
“Of course,” Kiku says. “That’s why I have you, Philippines.”
Right.
“Well then,” Isabelo says brightly. “I’m going to bed. Good talk, Kiku. Let’s not do this again.”
He runs off before Kiku can say more. It’s getting too late for dashing so loudly through the servants’ quarters, and he can already imagine Ekkarat complaining about it in the morning. He doesn’t care. Feeling wretched and heartsick, he completes the unfinished prayer in his head:
Lord, give me strength. Lord, give me patience.
Please, Isabelo thinks, with a desperate fervor he didn’t even realize he had. Let me see him again.
---
“Today’s the day,” Alfred grins. “You ready?”
“I’ve been ready,” Isabelo laughs. He’s in his best barong and his shiniest shoes. A sprig of sampaguita flowers is pinned to his chest — a last-minute decision, but a fitting one, he thinks — and he’s so excited that he could jump out of his skin at any moment. “How do I look? Official and nation-y enough for the occasion?”
Alfred brushes imaginary lint off his shoulders, which Isabelo knows is just an excuse to get closer. His embrace is warm. “You look great,” he says affectionately.
“Hmm.”
“Amazing.”
“Oh?”
“You look perfect,” Alfred says. “Satisfied?”
Isabelo laughs again. “Very.”
He’s angling for a kiss, but Alfred steps away, his smile oddly bittersweet. The rising sun is casting a dark shadow on his face. “Things are going to be a lot different from here on out. Your priorities are going to change. Mine will too. I hope we can continue to work together.”
“Of course we will,” Isabelo says, a bit confusedly. “We’ve still got so many plans.”
“Yeah,” Alfred says. “You’re right.”
There’s an old tension in the room. Isabelo takes a deep breath.
“So that’s how it is,” he says. Alfred closes his eyes as Isabelo pushes him away. “Lying America has made his return. What secrets are you keeping from me this time? Another war? Another depression? Am I supposed to expect military ships at my ports and a treaty on my desk, so you can steal my independence one last time?”
“Will you ever let that go?” Alfred asks, exasperated.
“What is going on with you?” Isabelo presses.
Alfred explodes. “Nothing! For God’s sake, it’s nothing, Isabelo. And if it develops into something, I’ll tell you all about it, but right now, it’s none of your business, and I’m intent on keeping it that way.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Isabelo scoffs. “I’m sorry. I just meant, it’s supposed to be your day today, and we’re supposed to be happy about it. You’re happy. I’m happy. We’re good. Alright?”
Truthfully, Isabelo wants to prod him even more. But Alfred’s right. Today will be the first time his flag will be raised alone, and all the days after that should be spent focusing on his affairs, not Alfred’s. There’s a bit of hollowness to that realization, but maybe this is just what Alejandro meant by nationhood being lonely.
He’s finally going to know what nationhood is like. A smile forms on his face before he realizes it.
Alfred offers his arm. Isabelo, like he has done so for many years, takes it.
He doesn’t know that today will be the last time they walk side-by-side for a long, long while.
there really is something so beautiful about this page. dropping the chainsaw to grab Asa and this save her from her decline… the chainsaw being left in the dark via the shade behind him… fujimoto I never doubted you for a second
my thoughts about Caine's model lacking many essential facial features (as if he was never intended to show any emotions) and yet him being literally the most expressive character in the circus despite everything.
me being low-key obsessed with the implications episode 7 left us with. Players questioning everything they've been told and Caine being in the center of it all.
Just to be clear, I do believe Caine is written as a sentient AI who is just struggling to understand humanity and everything that comes with it. And I think these thoughts about him faking his emotions are inherently wrong within a story. He's oblivious and desperate but not malicious. But couple it with the fact that he's been lying about many other things (so far I'm inclined to think it was for players' sake in his own eyes) and that humans have been suffering for a while dealing with a literal god that doesn't understand them... Well, I have a feeling that they will doubt his motives and literally everything they know, rightfully so.
The amount of attention this little comic received is a bit terrifying and overwhelming and seeing all the different interesting interpretations people come up with I just wanted to explain mine own a little better <3
I want them all to be healed and happy, little guy absolutely included, but man the situation is rough, and the odds are against us
(Also please ignore typos, I'm hyperaware of them and even messed up writing my on name, i was really, really tired :') )
Women throughout (American and English) history worked. The idea that in the past the sole responsibility of women was domestic labor and childrearing is largely inaccurate for the majority of women in these societies. Women were expected to do domestic labor like cooking and cleaning and raising children AND work to bring income to their family, this was true for the average woman, excluding the upper middle class/wealthy. If a woman’s husband owned a tavern or restaurant, she also cooked and kept bar and did the duties associated with the business. If a woman’s husband was a (small scale/subsistence/tenant) farmer, the woman did farm labor. Often a woman was expected to do labor related to her husband’s job.
Women also had vocations and forms of income unrelated to their husband. The nature of these jobs changed over time but many women did things like weaving, embroidery, crafting, beer brewing, chicken tending and laundress work to bring income. Women with skills were seen as better marriage candidates because they’d make money for their husband.
My great-great-great-great grandmother told fortunes and did farm labor, my great-great-great grandmother was a midwife, my great-great grandmother worked in a textile factory for most of her adult life and my great grandmother was a school lunch lady.
This is why it makes me irate when women on the right say things like “feminism forced me to get a job instead of being allowed to stay home with my children” before feminism you would have had to tend house, raise your children and bring income to your husband. Now, at the very least, the money is hopefully your own. Women were always in the workforce, their work was not recognized.
relevant to that recent "people don't think working class women existed" thing.
What I think needs a little more spelling out as well is the way that historically, what we grammatically speak of as being the man's occupation was often in fact the entire family's occupation, with which parts of the necessary work each person did conventionally divided up along gender lines.
Just some random examples (the gender splits here are pretty typical but I can't say they're true of all cultures; I'm primarily familiar with western European history and especially the British Isles):
men fishing, women preparing the fish for sale and selling them at a market ("fishwives")
wives as salespeople and managers of the financial side of the business was also common for many male-coded artisan crafts; the man who is the 'silversmith' is actually smithing the silver (possibly with the aid of sons, apprentices and/or hired labourers), while his wife is taking care of everything else that is necessary for this to translate into a money-making business
husbands underground mining coal with a focus on speed over purity of product, children transporting it to the surface so he doesn't have to leave, and wives sorting the coal from the worthless rock on the surface. The entire family contributes to the pay check, which is based on the amount of sorted coal delivered.
wives as writers, editors, secretaries and research partners to male academics, scholars and politicians - also frequently doing much of the work associated with the networking that was neccessary for success in these careers. (It was not uncommon in some periods for wives to handle a lot of their husbands' correspondence, and of course a lot more socialising used to involve being hosted at peoples' homes. Wives of the relevant social classes for these careers were unlikely to be handling e.g. the cooking themselves - their job here is more like event manager and line manager of the staff doing the work.)
servants who were married were typically married to servants in the same household (and servant occupations were highly gendered)
"farmer's wife" and "baker's wife" and so on are properly understood as occupations, traditionally taking on parts of the work that a modern baker would need to hire someone for
the same is also true of soldiers' wives! this varies by army but in many pre-and early modern armies the 'camp wives' had duties and took on work that in modern armies is either done by soldiers (cooking, maintaining kit, guarding the camp, certain parts of supply chain management*) or external contractors
*by which we sometimes mean 'brutalising local peasants and stealing their stuff'; womens' involvement in these activities is well-attested to in contemporary art
I really really want to emphasize the academia one, because so many people think women weren't doing research historically, when more accurately they weren't doing *credited* research. But they were in the labs, working right alongside their husbands and fathers and brothers, getting the science done.
btw i will never forgive this site's "horses are scary and evil!" phase. horses are lovely and their big necks and heads are perfectly sized for hugging you.
Look I hope everybody has lesbian sex and gets their license and moves out and whatever but this post is about one thing only and you guys are diluting its power. No offense I hope that all happens but this post needs to be aimed at one point and it can't move.
