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Cast: Harmony Rose, Jordan Ash & #KeiranLee #rhapiuREVIEWS 742 #ReleasedThisDay0616 2008 DPrhapiu ANALrhapiu

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48,163 次观看 • 3 年前 •via X (Twitter)

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Today, the soil of Bengal spoke. At Tarakeswar, Kalna, Monteswar, and Bardhaman Dakshin, I spent time with my people. The warmth I received, the voices that rose in unison, the faces full of resolve, I carry all of it within me. This is not merely an election. This is Bengal's answer to those who wish to divide us, diminish us, and dictate to us from afar. The people of this state have never surrendered their dignity. They will not begin now. In this Bengal of harmony, of syncretic culture, of centuries of coexistence, the politics of fear and hatred has no ground to stand on. The Bangla-Birodhi forces may conspire. But Maa-Mati-Manush will prevail. I appeal to every son and daughter of this soil to protect Bengal's language, protect Bengal's culture, protect Bengal's future. Cast your precious vote for Ramendu Singha Roy from Tarakeswar, Becharam Manna from Singur, Dr. Karabi Manna from Haripal, Deboprasad Bag from Kalna, Swapan Debnath from Purbasthali Dakshin, Rabindranath Chatterjee from Katwa, Siddiqullah Chowdhury from Monteswar, Apurba Chowdhury (Achal) from Mangalkot, Rasbihari Halder from Memari, Khokon Das from Bardhaman Dakshin, and every Maa-Mati-Manush candidate standing in this election. Bengal's democratic spirit is unbreakable. Let us vote to keep it that way.

Today, the soil of Bengal spoke. At Tarakeswar, Kalna, Monteswar, and Bardhaman Dakshin, I spent time with my people. The warmth I received, the voices that rose in unison, the faces full of resolve, I carry all of it within me. This is not merely an election. This is Bengal's answer to those who wish to divide us, diminish us, and dictate to us from afar. The people of this state have never surrendered their dignity. They will not begin now. In this Bengal of harmony, of syncretic culture, of centuries of coexistence, the politics of fear and hatred has no ground to stand on. The Bangla-Birodhi forces may conspire. But Maa-Mati-Manush will prevail. I appeal to every son and daughter of this soil to protect Bengal's language, protect Bengal's culture, protect Bengal's future. Cast your precious vote for Ramendu Singha Roy from Tarakeswar, Becharam Manna from Singur, Dr. Karabi Manna from Haripal, Deboprasad Bag from Kalna, Swapan Debnath from Purbasthali Dakshin, Rabindranath Chatterjee from Katwa, Siddiqullah Chowdhury from Monteswar, Apurba Chowdhury (Achal) from Mangalkot, Rasbihari Halder from Memari, Khokon Das from Bardhaman Dakshin, and every Maa-Mati-Manush candidate standing in this election. Bengal's democratic spirit is unbreakable. Let us vote to keep it that way.

Mamata Banerjee

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Weak as weak as he can be: America, listen. From the first rebels who broke free of empire, to the generations that stormed beaches, marched for justice, rebuilt after fire and flood, and to the Native peoples who carried this land’s spirit before any of us arrived—we are all part of one story. A story written in rebellion, in courage, in blood and hope. We were never a people who bowed. Not to kings. Not to dictators. Not to fear. We are a nation of defiance. We carry the First Amendment in our lungs and the Second Amendment in our hands, not because we crave violence, but because we refuse to ever be silenced or chained. We are a republic, a democracy, and above all, a people who rise after every blow. Remember, America—when Pearl Harbor burned, we rose. When the towers fell on 9/11, we rose. When hurricanes drowned our cities, when wildfires turned forests to ash, when tornadoes ripped entire towns from the earth—we rose. We did not rise alone. We rose together. We forgot politics, race, wealth, and creed. We stood as neighbors. We stood as one. That is who we are. This moment, right now, is another test. A different kind of attack—quiet, corrupt, and creeping. It doesn’t come with bombs or planes, but with division, lies, and men who dream of power above the people. And once again, the world is watching us. They may laugh at Trump. They may mock the madness of his court. But behind that laughter, they wait with hope. Hope that America—the same nation that carried freedom across oceans for eighty years—will not betray it now. Hope that the torch we lit for the world will not be dropped in the dirt. Yes, we have been hit. We have lost. We have bent under weight we thought might break us. Since 2008. Since 2020. Since tragedies that ripped holes through our hearts. But America’s story is not tragedy. America’s story is resurrection. Time after time, we rise from ashes that would bury any other nation. No other people take hits like ours—natural disasters, wars, betrayals from within—and still get back up, still lock arms, still hand food to strangers, still rebuild for neighbors we may never know. That is our greatness. That is our secret. That is why we endure. So I ask you—remember who you are. You are the heirs of rebels. You are children of pioneers, immigrants, and warriors for justice. You are not meant to kneel to corruption. You are not meant to surrender to tyranny. You are meant to rise together—louder than fear, stronger than hate, brighter than the darkness pressing in. The whole world is watching, America. They are praying, cheering, waiting. Let us not let them down. Remember who you are. And never forget—America does not fall. America rises.

Weak as weak as he can be: America, listen. From the first rebels who broke free of empire, to the generations that stormed beaches, marched for justice, rebuilt after fire and flood, and to the Native peoples who carried this land’s spirit before any of us arrived—we are all part of one story. A story written in rebellion, in courage, in blood and hope. We were never a people who bowed. Not to kings. Not to dictators. Not to fear. We are a nation of defiance. We carry the First Amendment in our lungs and the Second Amendment in our hands, not because we crave violence, but because we refuse to ever be silenced or chained. We are a republic, a democracy, and above all, a people who rise after every blow. Remember, America—when Pearl Harbor burned, we rose. When the towers fell on 9/11, we rose. When hurricanes drowned our cities, when wildfires turned forests to ash, when tornadoes ripped entire towns from the earth—we rose. We did not rise alone. We rose together. We forgot politics, race, wealth, and creed. We stood as neighbors. We stood as one. That is who we are. This moment, right now, is another test. A different kind of attack—quiet, corrupt, and creeping. It doesn’t come with bombs or planes, but with division, lies, and men who dream of power above the people. And once again, the world is watching us. They may laugh at Trump. They may mock the madness of his court. But behind that laughter, they wait with hope. Hope that America—the same nation that carried freedom across oceans for eighty years—will not betray it now. Hope that the torch we lit for the world will not be dropped in the dirt. Yes, we have been hit. We have lost. We have bent under weight we thought might break us. Since 2008. Since 2020. Since tragedies that ripped holes through our hearts. But America’s story is not tragedy. America’s story is resurrection. Time after time, we rise from ashes that would bury any other nation. No other people take hits like ours—natural disasters, wars, betrayals from within—and still get back up, still lock arms, still hand food to strangers, still rebuild for neighbors we may never know. That is our greatness. That is our secret. That is why we endure. So I ask you—remember who you are. You are the heirs of rebels. You are children of pioneers, immigrants, and warriors for justice. You are not meant to kneel to corruption. You are not meant to surrender to tyranny. You are meant to rise together—louder than fear, stronger than hate, brighter than the darkness pressing in. The whole world is watching, America. They are praying, cheering, waiting. Let us not let them down. Remember who you are. And never forget—America does not fall. America rises.

Carina C. C

76,100 次观看 • 10 个月前

📚 The Final Book of Accusations: From the Dawn of Empire to The Occupation of Holy Land 👇 By Noah From the first breath of civilization to this very hour, there has been a throughline of corruption, deception, enslavement, and desecration. It is not abstract. It is not faceless. It is men and dynasties, kings and financiers, generals and priests, who built their thrones on the screams of the violated, the broken bodies of the enslaved, and the stolen inheritance of the innocent. Thrones have been raised upon fields littered with the corpses of the murdered and the starved, upon cities reduced to ash by conquest, upon villages where women were dragged into captivity and children were torn from their mothers’ arms to be sold, abused, or slaughtered without mercy. The record begins in the valleys of Mesopotamia, where the first empires forged chains of debt and codified laws that stripped families of their land and freedom, where armies burned rival cities to the ground and carved their dominion into flesh and stone. It moves forward into Egypt, where monuments rose on the backs of the oppressed, where Pharaohs enslaved nations to build their eternal tombs, and where conquest meant the rape of women and the shattering of entire peoples. It carries into Rome, where the crucifixion of rebels lined the roads for miles, where one million Gauls were butchered in Caesar’s campaigns and another million dragged into bondage, where the siege of Jerusalem ended in rivers of blood, children dashed against stone walls, and the holy temple reduced to rubble. This current flows through medieval Europe, where crusaders stormed Jerusalem not with prayers but with swords, cutting down tens of thousands in streets that ran with blood knee-deep, where inquisitors stretched human beings on racks in the name of God, and where financiers drained kingdoms through usury until kings turned against them, expelling them in fury after their subjects had been bled dry. It thickens in the age of empire, where ships ferried millions of Africans across the Atlantic in chains, stacked like cargo, where lash and starvation claimed countless lives before their feet touched foreign soil, and where colonizers extinguished entire civilizations in the Americas, pillaging gold, spreading plague, and baptizing mass slaughter as holy conquest. And it threads forward still, into the rise of modern banking dynasties who learned to fund both sides of wars, who turned the blood of soldiers into profit columns on ledgers, who underwrote railroads and armories, who acquired land in Palestine and prepared it for dispossession. It bursts into the twentieth century, where entire villages were erased in the Nakba, where women were cast into exile, where children grew up behind checkpoints and barbed wire, and where the land of Bethlehem and Nazareth, the very soil on which Christ Himself had walked, was captured, militarized, and desecrated under the guise of prophecy. This is not opinion. This is not conjecture. This is history itself, written in contracts signed with blood, in treaties brokered with deceit, in ledgers fattened by slavery and usury, and in the cries of innocents carried across the centuries. It is written in shattered bodies, in raped women, in children buried in unmarked graves, in the smoke of villages burned, in the rubble of temples razed, in the ruins of cities bombarded, and in the silence of the world that has too often turned away. 🧵Video Thread Series 📽️👇 Countless hours of my life have been devoted to the careful crafting of Part I. Every sentence was shaped with deliberation, every thought refined with the utmost precision, not for my sake, but so that it might serve as a lantern in the fog for those who seek truth. If you found even a measure of illumination within these words, I ask only one thing in return... allow it to travel further. Share it with those whose hearts are still restless, whose minds remain clouded, whose souls yearn for remembrance. For knowledge, once awakened, is not meant to be hoarded in silence. It grows in strength when carried from one soul to another, as flame kindles flame, until what began in a solitary hand becomes a great light upon the earth. By sharing, you do not merely extend my labor; you become a participant in its purpose, a co-bearer of its message, and a steward of the awakening it was written to inspire. I stand permanently barred from every channel of monetization, and I accept this reality without hesitation or regret. As with all of my writings and every piece of content I have ever produced, what I create will be given freely to all who seek it. I devote uncounted hours, often at great personal cost, not for profit nor recognition, but out of an unwavering passion for the dignity of humanity. My labor is not transactional but sacrificial, poured out with the singular hope that through these words, at least one soul might awaken, one mind might break free from illusion, and one heart might remember its divine inheritance. To teach under such circumstances is not merely to instruct but to bear witness. It is to believe that truth, when offered without price, carries a resonance that no barrier can silence and no ban can extinguish. This is why I persist, why I endure exclusion, why I choose generosity over gain. For what value has wealth if it is hoarded, and what meaning has knowledge if it is withheld? To awaken even a solitary spirit is to alter the course of eternity itself, and it is for this reason that my work will never be bound by the machinery of monetization.

📚 The Final Book of Accusations: From the Dawn of Empire to The Occupation of Holy Land 👇 By Noah From the first breath of civilization to this very hour, there has been a throughline of corruption, deception, enslavement, and desecration. It is not abstract. It is not faceless. It is men and dynasties, kings and financiers, generals and priests, who built their thrones on the screams of the violated, the broken bodies of the enslaved, and the stolen inheritance of the innocent. Thrones have been raised upon fields littered with the corpses of the murdered and the starved, upon cities reduced to ash by conquest, upon villages where women were dragged into captivity and children were torn from their mothers’ arms to be sold, abused, or slaughtered without mercy. The record begins in the valleys of Mesopotamia, where the first empires forged chains of debt and codified laws that stripped families of their land and freedom, where armies burned rival cities to the ground and carved their dominion into flesh and stone. It moves forward into Egypt, where monuments rose on the backs of the oppressed, where Pharaohs enslaved nations to build their eternal tombs, and where conquest meant the rape of women and the shattering of entire peoples. It carries into Rome, where the crucifixion of rebels lined the roads for miles, where one million Gauls were butchered in Caesar’s campaigns and another million dragged into bondage, where the siege of Jerusalem ended in rivers of blood, children dashed against stone walls, and the holy temple reduced to rubble. This current flows through medieval Europe, where crusaders stormed Jerusalem not with prayers but with swords, cutting down tens of thousands in streets that ran with blood knee-deep, where inquisitors stretched human beings on racks in the name of God, and where financiers drained kingdoms through usury until kings turned against them, expelling them in fury after their subjects had been bled dry. It thickens in the age of empire, where ships ferried millions of Africans across the Atlantic in chains, stacked like cargo, where lash and starvation claimed countless lives before their feet touched foreign soil, and where colonizers extinguished entire civilizations in the Americas, pillaging gold, spreading plague, and baptizing mass slaughter as holy conquest. And it threads forward still, into the rise of modern banking dynasties who learned to fund both sides of wars, who turned the blood of soldiers into profit columns on ledgers, who underwrote railroads and armories, who acquired land in Palestine and prepared it for dispossession. It bursts into the twentieth century, where entire villages were erased in the Nakba, where women were cast into exile, where children grew up behind checkpoints and barbed wire, and where the land of Bethlehem and Nazareth, the very soil on which Christ Himself had walked, was captured, militarized, and desecrated under the guise of prophecy. This is not opinion. This is not conjecture. This is history itself, written in contracts signed with blood, in treaties brokered with deceit, in ledgers fattened by slavery and usury, and in the cries of innocents carried across the centuries. It is written in shattered bodies, in raped women, in children buried in unmarked graves, in the smoke of villages burned, in the rubble of temples razed, in the ruins of cities bombarded, and in the silence of the world that has too often turned away. 🧵Video Thread Series 📽️👇 Countless hours of my life have been devoted to the careful crafting of Part I. Every sentence was shaped with deliberation, every thought refined with the utmost precision, not for my sake, but so that it might serve as a lantern in the fog for those who seek truth. If you found even a measure of illumination within these words, I ask only one thing in return... allow it to travel further. Share it with those whose hearts are still restless, whose minds remain clouded, whose souls yearn for remembrance. For knowledge, once awakened, is not meant to be hoarded in silence. It grows in strength when carried from one soul to another, as flame kindles flame, until what began in a solitary hand becomes a great light upon the earth. By sharing, you do not merely extend my labor; you become a participant in its purpose, a co-bearer of its message, and a steward of the awakening it was written to inspire. I stand permanently barred from every channel of monetization, and I accept this reality without hesitation or regret. As with all of my writings and every piece of content I have ever produced, what I create will be given freely to all who seek it. I devote uncounted hours, often at great personal cost, not for profit nor recognition, but out of an unwavering passion for the dignity of humanity. My labor is not transactional but sacrificial, poured out with the singular hope that through these words, at least one soul might awaken, one mind might break free from illusion, and one heart might remember its divine inheritance. To teach under such circumstances is not merely to instruct but to bear witness. It is to believe that truth, when offered without price, carries a resonance that no barrier can silence and no ban can extinguish. This is why I persist, why I endure exclusion, why I choose generosity over gain. For what value has wealth if it is hoarded, and what meaning has knowledge if it is withheld? To awaken even a solitary spirit is to alter the course of eternity itself, and it is for this reason that my work will never be bound by the machinery of monetization.

Noah B. Price

208,083 次观看 • 10 个月前