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🚨DAY 3: CONgress PLANNED IT. THEN DID ALMOST NOTHING. MODI SARKAR FINALLY BUILT IT. 🛣️Eastern Peripheral Expressway—135 km 📌Project approved: 2006—UPA era And then? ⏳Years passed. CONgress did nothing. Nearly a decade after approval—the expressway was still not built. Forget building, UPA didn't even process tenders. Then came .Narendra...

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BhikuMhatre

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62,964 просмотров • 22 дней назад •via X (Twitter)

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There is a 50-metre stretch of road in Sector 68, Gurugram, that separates around 400 to 500 families at M3M Marina from the new master road GMDA is building between Sectors 68 and 69. Fifty metres. That is all. And it has been blocked. M3M Marina's original main gate was designed to open onto this stretch. The road that would lead straight to the Sector 68-69 dividing road and from there to the Sohna Highway near Badshapur. That gate has never opened. Not once. For four to five years, every resident of Marina has been using a single secondary gate that exits onto the Aklimpur-Teekli village road. A broken, patchy road through a village. Not a backup route. The only route. Now, after years of court disputes and a stay that was finally lifted in early 2026, HSVP cleared the encroachments on the Sector 68-69 road. Ninety percent of the land is free. GMDA tenders are nearly done. The road that thousands of residents had been waiting for is finally being built. For Marina, this should have meant one thing. The main gate could finally open. Instead, Supertech sent people to the connecting stretch. They physically dug up the road. Residents, including school buses carrying children, were turned away. Everyone pushed back toward the same secondary gate. The same broken village road. The same 700 to 800 metres of extra distance every single day. For 400 to 500 families, the solution was 50 metres away. It was dug up in front of them. I visited Marina yesterday with a client. The frustration on the ground is not dramatic. It is tired. These are families that have been asking for this access for years. They were told the road would come. Now a master road is actually being built right next to them. And they still cannot reach it. Supertech owns that land. Legally, it is within its rights. Nobody is questioning the title here. But sit with the picture for a second. This is the same Supertech that is under NCLT insolvency proceedings. The same builder whose allottees have been protesting outside HRERA, demanding refunds for flats that were supposed to be delivered in 2017. A company that cannot return a single rupee to its own buyers. Cannot finish its own construction. Cannot respond to its own regulatory orders. That company still had the resources and the intent to station people at a road and physically dig it up. A builder that cannot refund its own buyers always has the budget to block someone else's road. They all do. That is one constant across Gurugram real estate that never changes. This is not a one-off story either. On Golf Course Extension Road, there are societies where residents pay a private landowner hefty monthly rent just to use his vacant plot as a road to reach their own homes. Because the planned connectivity was never built. The pattern repeats everywhere. Builders launch, buyers pay, and the last 50 metres of access becomes someone else's problem. Sometimes it becomes the resident's monthly bill. The Sector 68-69 master road is being built. The hope was real. For 500 families, it still is. They are just waiting for someone to care about 50 metres.
0:10

There is a 50-metre stretch of road in Sector 68, Gurugram, that separates around 400 to 500 families at M3M Marina from the new master road GMDA is building between Sectors 68 and 69. Fifty metres. That is all. And it has been blocked. M3M Marina's original main gate was designed to open onto this stretch. The road that would lead straight to the Sector 68-69 dividing road and from there to the Sohna Highway near Badshapur. That gate has never opened. Not once. For four to five years, every resident of Marina has been using a single secondary gate that exits onto the Aklimpur-Teekli village road. A broken, patchy road through a village. Not a backup route. The only route. Now, after years of court disputes and a stay that was finally lifted in early 2026, HSVP cleared the encroachments on the Sector 68-69 road. Ninety percent of the land is free. GMDA tenders are nearly done. The road that thousands of residents had been waiting for is finally being built. For Marina, this should have meant one thing. The main gate could finally open. Instead, Supertech sent people to the connecting stretch. They physically dug up the road. Residents, including school buses carrying children, were turned away. Everyone pushed back toward the same secondary gate. The same broken village road. The same 700 to 800 metres of extra distance every single day. For 400 to 500 families, the solution was 50 metres away. It was dug up in front of them. I visited Marina yesterday with a client. The frustration on the ground is not dramatic. It is tired. These are families that have been asking for this access for years. They were told the road would come. Now a master road is actually being built right next to them. And they still cannot reach it. Supertech owns that land. Legally, it is within its rights. Nobody is questioning the title here. But sit with the picture for a second. This is the same Supertech that is under NCLT insolvency proceedings. The same builder whose allottees have been protesting outside HRERA, demanding refunds for flats that were supposed to be delivered in 2017. A company that cannot return a single rupee to its own buyers. Cannot finish its own construction. Cannot respond to its own regulatory orders. That company still had the resources and the intent to station people at a road and physically dig it up. A builder that cannot refund its own buyers always has the budget to block someone else's road. They all do. That is one constant across Gurugram real estate that never changes. This is not a one-off story either. On Golf Course Extension Road, there are societies where residents pay a private landowner hefty monthly rent just to use his vacant plot as a road to reach their own homes. Because the planned connectivity was never built. The pattern repeats everywhere. Builders launch, buyers pay, and the last 50 metres of access becomes someone else's problem. Sometimes it becomes the resident's monthly bill. The Sector 68-69 master road is being built. The hope was real. For 500 families, it still is. They are just waiting for someone to care about 50 metres.

Abhishek Bhardwaj

21,633 просмотров • 2 месяцев назад

As promised by the Hon'ble Prime Minister Narendra Modi in the run up to the just concluded Assembly Elections, works on cleaning of Yamuna have already begun in the right earnest, with trash skimmers, weed harvesters & a dredge utility craft already starting cleaning operations in the river today. Hon'ble Delhi LG VK Saxena LG Delhi yesterday met the Chief Secretary and ACS (I&FC) and asked them to start work immediately. At the outset a four pronged strategy has put in place to tackle the issue comprehensively. 1. To begin with, the trash, garbage and silt in the Yamuna river stream will be removed. 2. Simultaneously cleaning operations in the Najafgarh Drain, Supplementary Drain and all other major drains will start. 3. At the same time, a daily watch on the existing STPs in terms of their capacity and output will be maintained, and 4. A time bound plan in terms of construction of new STPs/DSTPs on drains etc to meet the actual shortfall of treating about 400 MGD of sewer will be put in place and operationalized. The execution of this ambitious plan that targets cleaning the river in about 3 years, will require seamless coordination between various agencies and departments that include DJB, I&FC, MCD, Environment Department, PWD and DDA. Monitoring of the abovementioned works will be done at the highest level on a weekly basis. In addition to this, the Delhi Pollution Control Committee (DPCC) has been directed to keep strict vigil on discharge of untreated effluent into the drains by Industrial Units in the City. It may be noted that the rejuvenation of Yamuna had started in mission mode in January 2023, when the NGT had constituted a High Level Committee (HLC) under the Chairmanship of Hon'ble LG V.K Saxena. However, after 5 monthly meetings of the said HLC which was closely monitoring cleaning operations, the then AAP Government under Arvind Kejriwal moved the Supreme Court and got the NGT order stayed by the then CJI Chandrachud on 10.07.23. Thereafter, works of Yamuna Rejuvenation had again been stalled and CoD/BoD levels that had started improving slightly on a month on month basis, became worse with pollution reaching record levels early this year. *DUC shifted near the signature bridge and is going to float towards Vasudev ghat *Trash Skimmer has started working at Vasudev Ghat *Weed harvester near Signature Bridge Another weed harvester machine has started working at ITO.
0:08

As promised by the Hon'ble Prime Minister Narendra Modi in the run up to the just concluded Assembly Elections, works on cleaning of Yamuna have already begun in the right earnest, with trash skimmers, weed harvesters & a dredge utility craft already starting cleaning operations in the river today. Hon'ble Delhi LG VK Saxena LG Delhi yesterday met the Chief Secretary and ACS (I&FC) and asked them to start work immediately. At the outset a four pronged strategy has put in place to tackle the issue comprehensively. 1. To begin with, the trash, garbage and silt in the Yamuna river stream will be removed. 2. Simultaneously cleaning operations in the Najafgarh Drain, Supplementary Drain and all other major drains will start. 3. At the same time, a daily watch on the existing STPs in terms of their capacity and output will be maintained, and 4. A time bound plan in terms of construction of new STPs/DSTPs on drains etc to meet the actual shortfall of treating about 400 MGD of sewer will be put in place and operationalized. The execution of this ambitious plan that targets cleaning the river in about 3 years, will require seamless coordination between various agencies and departments that include DJB, I&FC, MCD, Environment Department, PWD and DDA. Monitoring of the abovementioned works will be done at the highest level on a weekly basis. In addition to this, the Delhi Pollution Control Committee (DPCC) has been directed to keep strict vigil on discharge of untreated effluent into the drains by Industrial Units in the City. It may be noted that the rejuvenation of Yamuna had started in mission mode in January 2023, when the NGT had constituted a High Level Committee (HLC) under the Chairmanship of Hon'ble LG V.K Saxena. However, after 5 monthly meetings of the said HLC which was closely monitoring cleaning operations, the then AAP Government under Arvind Kejriwal moved the Supreme Court and got the NGT order stayed by the then CJI Chandrachud on 10.07.23. Thereafter, works of Yamuna Rejuvenation had again been stalled and CoD/BoD levels that had started improving slightly on a month on month basis, became worse with pollution reaching record levels early this year. *DUC shifted near the signature bridge and is going to float towards Vasudev ghat *Trash Skimmer has started working at Vasudev Ghat *Weed harvester near Signature Bridge Another weed harvester machine has started working at ITO.

Lok Niwas Delhi 🇮🇳

83,558 просмотров • 1 год назад

This is GIFT City. But this post is about Gurugram. Wide roads. Underground utility tunnels. District cooling. Automated waste collection. Green-certified buildings. More than 1,200 registered entities and $111 billion in banking assets. It is not Shanghai, Shenzhen or Dubai yet. But the direction is visible. Gujarat imagined a city that could compete with global financial centres. Then it started building the infrastructure required for that ambition. Now come to Gurugram. The city credited with contributing around 65% of Haryana’s revenue. Around 25% of the state’s GST collection comes from Gurugram. Last year, it contributed ₹3,875 crore from liquor-zone auctions alone. That was 27% of Haryana’s total. The Bristol Chowk licensing zone alone fetched nearly ₹100 crore. Mr Nayab Singh Saini, what exactly is Gurugram getting in return? Garbage is lying on roads across the city. Gurugram generates around 1,200 tonnes of waste every day. The waste collection system has survived on temporary arrangements since the main contract was terminated in June 2024. Nearly two years later, the city is still floating tenders and searching for a permanent solution. Then come the roads. An MCG survey found more than 2,000 potholes across eight zones. One division alone had 600. Only 387 had been repaired when those numbers were reported. By February 2026, MCG had to announce another drive targeting 5,000 potholes in ten days. We do not have a road-maintenance system. We have pothole-filling announcements after every round of public outrage. Then it rains. In July 2025, 133 mm of overnight rain brought Gurugram to a standstill. Subhash Chowk had around 2.5 feet of water. People remained stuck in traffic until 2 AM. Open manholes disappear under rainwater. Potholes become invisible. Roads turn into accident traps. Then the electricity goes. A resident of DLF Phase 1 reported an eight-hour power cut after a five-minute drizzle. In May 2026, a fault at the Sector 72 substation disrupted eight substations and even affected Rapid Metro operations. This is happening in one of the most expensive corporate and residential districts in India. And money is not the problem. MCG spent ₹1,282 crore out of its ₹1,497 crore expenditure budget by January 2026. But only ₹85 crore had gone towards road construction and ₹240 crore towards sanitation and waste management. So the problem is worse than merely having an unspent budget. Money is being spent. Residents simply cannot see the outcome on the roads outside their homes. We are not asking Haryana to build another GIFT City tomorrow. We are asking for three things. Roads that remain usable after rain. Electricity that does not disappear with the first storm. Garbage that gets collected before every vacant plot becomes a dumping ground. These are not luxury demands. These are the most basic functions of a government. Property prices in Gurugram have reached global-city levels. People are paying ₹5 crore, ₹8 crore and ₹10 crore for apartments. But outside the gates, the roads, drains and electricity systems still feel like they belong to another decade. Gujarat looked at an empty piece of land and imagined a global city. Haryana already has one of India’s strongest economic cities. It does not need to imagine it. It only needs to stop neglecting it. Fix the roads. Fix the power. Pick up the garbage. That is all Gurugram is asking for. Video credit, Reddit: [aamirusiddiqui]
0:18

This is GIFT City. But this post is about Gurugram. Wide roads. Underground utility tunnels. District cooling. Automated waste collection. Green-certified buildings. More than 1,200 registered entities and $111 billion in banking assets. It is not Shanghai, Shenzhen or Dubai yet. But the direction is visible. Gujarat imagined a city that could compete with global financial centres. Then it started building the infrastructure required for that ambition. Now come to Gurugram. The city credited with contributing around 65% of Haryana’s revenue. Around 25% of the state’s GST collection comes from Gurugram. Last year, it contributed ₹3,875 crore from liquor-zone auctions alone. That was 27% of Haryana’s total. The Bristol Chowk licensing zone alone fetched nearly ₹100 crore. Mr Nayab Singh Saini, what exactly is Gurugram getting in return? Garbage is lying on roads across the city. Gurugram generates around 1,200 tonnes of waste every day. The waste collection system has survived on temporary arrangements since the main contract was terminated in June 2024. Nearly two years later, the city is still floating tenders and searching for a permanent solution. Then come the roads. An MCG survey found more than 2,000 potholes across eight zones. One division alone had 600. Only 387 had been repaired when those numbers were reported. By February 2026, MCG had to announce another drive targeting 5,000 potholes in ten days. We do not have a road-maintenance system. We have pothole-filling announcements after every round of public outrage. Then it rains. In July 2025, 133 mm of overnight rain brought Gurugram to a standstill. Subhash Chowk had around 2.5 feet of water. People remained stuck in traffic until 2 AM. Open manholes disappear under rainwater. Potholes become invisible. Roads turn into accident traps. Then the electricity goes. A resident of DLF Phase 1 reported an eight-hour power cut after a five-minute drizzle. In May 2026, a fault at the Sector 72 substation disrupted eight substations and even affected Rapid Metro operations. This is happening in one of the most expensive corporate and residential districts in India. And money is not the problem. MCG spent ₹1,282 crore out of its ₹1,497 crore expenditure budget by January 2026. But only ₹85 crore had gone towards road construction and ₹240 crore towards sanitation and waste management. So the problem is worse than merely having an unspent budget. Money is being spent. Residents simply cannot see the outcome on the roads outside their homes. We are not asking Haryana to build another GIFT City tomorrow. We are asking for three things. Roads that remain usable after rain. Electricity that does not disappear with the first storm. Garbage that gets collected before every vacant plot becomes a dumping ground. These are not luxury demands. These are the most basic functions of a government. Property prices in Gurugram have reached global-city levels. People are paying ₹5 crore, ₹8 crore and ₹10 crore for apartments. But outside the gates, the roads, drains and electricity systems still feel like they belong to another decade. Gujarat looked at an empty piece of land and imagined a global city. Haryana already has one of India’s strongest economic cities. It does not need to imagine it. It only needs to stop neglecting it. Fix the roads. Fix the power. Pick up the garbage. That is all Gurugram is asking for. Video credit, Reddit: [aamirusiddiqui]

Abhishek Bhardwaj

29,562 просмотров • 2 месяцев назад

🚨💔Navi w0nderful and his girlfriend qqsis had a terrible situation with their dog: ”It all started when Ihor really wanted a dog. We went looking. We bought a perfect puppy (completely healthy, with veterinary confirmation and KSU documents). We started looking for a transporter. It so happened that the transporter suggested by the breeder had bad reviews, so I went to search on my own. I found a person who supposedly understands dogs (according to him - super responsible and takes full responsibility for the animal). Of all the possible problems, only a 1–2 day delay in delivery was discussed. Spoiler: they promised delivery in 3–4 days, it took 2 weeks… Before the breeder handed over the dog, this person was constantly in touch, communicating, etc. After the dog arrived in Kyiv from Kryvyi Rih, the transporter (whose name is Artem +380973444587 and his wife Alina +380 95 764 98 86 / all communication was through his wife’s number, which is listed on his website) sent us only one video. Then I explained that we had already paid for the dog and it was already ours, but nothing changed after that. The dog was taken to Moldova and they wrote: “there is no veterinarian at the border who issues the EU certificate, so we are waiting for one to appear.” We were outraged but agreed, because the agreement was for LEGAL transportation!!! Remember this moment, because later Artem (the transporter) will explain everything with this EU certificate. As it turned out later, the dog was with his relatives in Moldova, who also deal with transportation (Ruslan +373 695 71 399). The transportation of the dog was ultimately carried out by a passenger transport company (Baltik Tour — +380 63 060 5614). In the second week, we started calling, arguing, and saying that we would pick up the dog from Moldova and transport it ourselves. Eventually, we contacted Ruslan, and he said that in 2–3 days the dog would definitely be sent to us. All this time, we did not know how exactly the dog would be transported - we were told that it would travel ALONE WITH THE DRIVER. In the end, the dog was sent to us. It was supposed to arrive on March 7–8, but on March 6 at 8 a.m., a woman called me and said: “Your dog is dying, we actually thought it was already dead. I wrote you a message on WhatsApp, but we gave it sugar and it seems to have recovered a bit. Go pick it up and take it to a veterinarian if you want it to survive…” Then we went to pick up the dog 100 km from Warsaw. It was barely breathing. They told us it had just been running. We take the dog, go to a taxi, and they tell us: “Where is the money? Pay or we won’t let you take the dog. If it dies - you will deal with the transporter.” Then we went to a clinic and did tests. With 90% probability, it was a stroke, which led to severe neurological issues: the dog could not walk, eat, or drink, and was relieving itself while lying down. After the transport, it lost 30% of its weight, which has now caused gastritis, it also picked up parasites somewhere, and many other problems. Please, be careful and only trust animals to people you know personally. Oh, and one more thing: when I asked what happened to the dog, I was told: “I left it in the carrier for just an hour, and when I came back, it started screaming, squealing, and lost consciousness.” How could anyone think to leave a dog like that… If we had known this could happen - we didn’t even suspect that something like this is possible in the modern world. And what if we didn’t have money for treatment? What if we didn’t make it in time? This is simply horror and hell, I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Once again, listing everyone involved: Artem - the one who communicated with us and was responsible for the transportation: +380973444587 His wife/manager Alina (or possibly a fake account of Artem): +380 95 764 98 86 His relative or partner Ruslan: +373 695 71 399 The company illegally transporting animals into the EU: +380 63 060 5614...“
0:13

🚨💔Navi w0nderful and his girlfriend qqsis had a terrible situation with their dog: ”It all started when Ihor really wanted a dog. We went looking. We bought a perfect puppy (completely healthy, with veterinary confirmation and KSU documents). We started looking for a transporter. It so happened that the transporter suggested by the breeder had bad reviews, so I went to search on my own. I found a person who supposedly understands dogs (according to him - super responsible and takes full responsibility for the animal). Of all the possible problems, only a 1–2 day delay in delivery was discussed. Spoiler: they promised delivery in 3–4 days, it took 2 weeks… Before the breeder handed over the dog, this person was constantly in touch, communicating, etc. After the dog arrived in Kyiv from Kryvyi Rih, the transporter (whose name is Artem +380973444587 and his wife Alina +380 95 764 98 86 / all communication was through his wife’s number, which is listed on his website) sent us only one video. Then I explained that we had already paid for the dog and it was already ours, but nothing changed after that. The dog was taken to Moldova and they wrote: “there is no veterinarian at the border who issues the EU certificate, so we are waiting for one to appear.” We were outraged but agreed, because the agreement was for LEGAL transportation!!! Remember this moment, because later Artem (the transporter) will explain everything with this EU certificate. As it turned out later, the dog was with his relatives in Moldova, who also deal with transportation (Ruslan +373 695 71 399). The transportation of the dog was ultimately carried out by a passenger transport company (Baltik Tour — +380 63 060 5614). In the second week, we started calling, arguing, and saying that we would pick up the dog from Moldova and transport it ourselves. Eventually, we contacted Ruslan, and he said that in 2–3 days the dog would definitely be sent to us. All this time, we did not know how exactly the dog would be transported - we were told that it would travel ALONE WITH THE DRIVER. In the end, the dog was sent to us. It was supposed to arrive on March 7–8, but on March 6 at 8 a.m., a woman called me and said: “Your dog is dying, we actually thought it was already dead. I wrote you a message on WhatsApp, but we gave it sugar and it seems to have recovered a bit. Go pick it up and take it to a veterinarian if you want it to survive…” Then we went to pick up the dog 100 km from Warsaw. It was barely breathing. They told us it had just been running. We take the dog, go to a taxi, and they tell us: “Where is the money? Pay or we won’t let you take the dog. If it dies - you will deal with the transporter.” Then we went to a clinic and did tests. With 90% probability, it was a stroke, which led to severe neurological issues: the dog could not walk, eat, or drink, and was relieving itself while lying down. After the transport, it lost 30% of its weight, which has now caused gastritis, it also picked up parasites somewhere, and many other problems. Please, be careful and only trust animals to people you know personally. Oh, and one more thing: when I asked what happened to the dog, I was told: “I left it in the carrier for just an hour, and when I came back, it started screaming, squealing, and lost consciousness.” How could anyone think to leave a dog like that… If we had known this could happen - we didn’t even suspect that something like this is possible in the modern world. And what if we didn’t have money for treatment? What if we didn’t make it in time? This is simply horror and hell, I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Once again, listing everyone involved: Artem - the one who communicated with us and was responsible for the transportation: +380973444587 His wife/manager Alina (or possibly a fake account of Artem): +380 95 764 98 86 His relative or partner Ruslan: +373 695 71 399 The company illegally transporting animals into the EU: +380 63 060 5614...“

NaviFanpage 🇺🇦

162,465 просмотров • 5 месяцев назад

The highlight of the past election was how technology disrupted ZANU PF's rigging strategy. They used ZANU PF's member register to move those who are not their members from their traditional polling stations in cities. They gerrymandered the electoral maps and then created double candidates. In every step, Team Pachedu followed them and highlighted these discrepencies and pointed areas of focus. Zimbabwe Electoral Commission refused with the voters roll. Pple didn't know where to vote & the double candidates made it so they don't know who to vote for. A week before elections we released CredibleVote Bots on Whatsapp and Android which completely disrupted the ZEC-ZANU plan. 487 000 pple checked where & who to vote for in 5 days and 84% of these were in Hre, 10% in Byo. By our calculation, CCC wld hve potentially lost 32 seats without this. On election day, CredibleVote had 2 war rooms. One in Mashonaland & the other Matabeleland far away cities powered by satellite internet. We deployed Meshtastic repeaters across the country to cover areas without network. Maximum range we got was 53km but repeaters made it we cld get results from 150km away. We also had MQTT servers that relayed this info to our result servers. All this work was done by volunteers outside of CCC. The only thing we asked of CCC was that they shld have polling agents at every polling station. Then the issue of resources came up. We again built the #Mazizi platform to crowdsource from supporters & that raised $105K which was miniscule compared to the need. This setup was novel and it was a culmination of 2yrs of planning, coding & deployment by pple who didn't have a stake in CCC. I believe ZANU PF & the State machinery never knew abt our work. They raided ZESN probably after the noise by Team Pachedu about Mandla. That did not affect the Crediblevote work at all. Results were coming in from our network , from CCC agents and we also opened a crowd platform for anyone to send V11. In the backend we were using computer vision & language models to read V11s & sort them. There were 3 tiers of validation. Our roving agents had highest trust, then CCC agents, then the crowd. In the first 48hrs after elections, we received & validated results from 10500 polling stations. We got a further 1600 from CCC as some agents chose to hand deliver their V11 etc... I had a meeting with Nelson Chamisa & presented him with what we had. We had close to 350 V11s from Mash East & West which had no stamps and the agents were saying ZEC had said they didn't have stamps but ZANU PF agents were bringing stamped V11 pointing to conniving with Zimbabwe Electoral Commission NC, said we shld wait for ZEC to release their results. Unlike in 2018, Zimbabwe Electoral Commission chose to not release their results from each polling station. They used bruteforce to ram unsubstantiated numbers to pple. The responsibility of a credible election lies on the electoral board and nobody else. We had a debate as to whether we shld just release all the ~12100 results we had or not. The SADC report came out and it became clear that the most logical thing to do was reject the whole process & all results given the irregularities that SADC also acknowledged. I was shocked & distraught when folks chose to go parliament. In the end, I think the gun prevailed as it always temporarily does. What we showed is that no process run by the military can ever wield a product that represents the will of the pple. I have written this to highlight the power of volunteers, technology & commitment in challenging autocratic systems. I hope in future others will build on top of our work. I wish I cld thank all the volunteers by name but you know yourselves.
0:13

The highlight of the past election was how technology disrupted ZANU PF's rigging strategy. They used ZANU PF's member register to move those who are not their members from their traditional polling stations in cities. They gerrymandered the electoral maps and then created double candidates. In every step, Team Pachedu followed them and highlighted these discrepencies and pointed areas of focus. Zimbabwe Electoral Commission refused with the voters roll. Pple didn't know where to vote & the double candidates made it so they don't know who to vote for. A week before elections we released CredibleVote Bots on Whatsapp and Android which completely disrupted the ZEC-ZANU plan. 487 000 pple checked where & who to vote for in 5 days and 84% of these were in Hre, 10% in Byo. By our calculation, CCC wld hve potentially lost 32 seats without this. On election day, CredibleVote had 2 war rooms. One in Mashonaland & the other Matabeleland far away cities powered by satellite internet. We deployed Meshtastic repeaters across the country to cover areas without network. Maximum range we got was 53km but repeaters made it we cld get results from 150km away. We also had MQTT servers that relayed this info to our result servers. All this work was done by volunteers outside of CCC. The only thing we asked of CCC was that they shld have polling agents at every polling station. Then the issue of resources came up. We again built the #Mazizi platform to crowdsource from supporters & that raised $105K which was miniscule compared to the need. This setup was novel and it was a culmination of 2yrs of planning, coding & deployment by pple who didn't have a stake in CCC. I believe ZANU PF & the State machinery never knew abt our work. They raided ZESN probably after the noise by Team Pachedu about Mandla. That did not affect the Crediblevote work at all. Results were coming in from our network , from CCC agents and we also opened a crowd platform for anyone to send V11. In the backend we were using computer vision & language models to read V11s & sort them. There were 3 tiers of validation. Our roving agents had highest trust, then CCC agents, then the crowd. In the first 48hrs after elections, we received & validated results from 10500 polling stations. We got a further 1600 from CCC as some agents chose to hand deliver their V11 etc... I had a meeting with Nelson Chamisa & presented him with what we had. We had close to 350 V11s from Mash East & West which had no stamps and the agents were saying ZEC had said they didn't have stamps but ZANU PF agents were bringing stamped V11 pointing to conniving with Zimbabwe Electoral Commission NC, said we shld wait for ZEC to release their results. Unlike in 2018, Zimbabwe Electoral Commission chose to not release their results from each polling station. They used bruteforce to ram unsubstantiated numbers to pple. The responsibility of a credible election lies on the electoral board and nobody else. We had a debate as to whether we shld just release all the ~12100 results we had or not. The SADC report came out and it became clear that the most logical thing to do was reject the whole process & all results given the irregularities that SADC also acknowledged. I was shocked & distraught when folks chose to go parliament. In the end, I think the gun prevailed as it always temporarily does. What we showed is that no process run by the military can ever wield a product that represents the will of the pple. I have written this to highlight the power of volunteers, technology & commitment in challenging autocratic systems. I hope in future others will build on top of our work. I wish I cld thank all the volunteers by name but you know yourselves.

Freeman

79,623 просмотров • 2 лет назад

I just sold my startup Talknotes for $200,000 on acquire.com 💸🤯🤩💰🥳🎉 I launched it last August when I was looking for an idea I could grow with paid ads, and made a MVP in one week. I took it from $0 to $7500 MRR in just 11 months. 👉 Here is how I grew it from zero: 💡 Idea: I got the idea when I tried to write a tweet using Google Doc's transcription tool, but it was terrible. And I was pretty sure I wasn't the one too lazy to type. So I made my own solution, and Talknotes was created. The audience is pretty broad so it was a perfect fit for Meta ads However… ✅ Validation: My rule is to only reinvest what the project generates, so, no ads until I make enough cashflow ❌ Listing on startup directories + a few Twitter sales generated $700 after 10 days. Yes, it's not much, but more than enough to show there is interest in the product and tell me to keep working on it 🤩 I started adding the features users requested, but the launch effect started to wear off and daily revenues quickly went to $0 after a few weeks 🫥 I got depressed and almost gave up on the app... 😔 But luckily, my friends and Dan Kulkov pushed me to continue And I'm glad they did because In October, I launched on Product Hunt 😸 and it blew up 🤯 It got Product of the Day and reached $1500 MRR thanks to the media coverage 🚀🚀 Until then, everything was done using vanilla JS/CSS/HTML + Node for back end. It's simple and easy, but I saw the limitations, so I remade the app using Nuxt to make it easier in the future 🏗️ (thanks to @blackevilgoblin and Piotr Jura for the content/courses! Tim Bennetto as well for the basics!) After that, I took a break and then launched ads on Facebook. The strategy is simple: Catch people's attention, and show them how the app can help them improve their life. No need to over-complicate 🙅‍♂️ Making good creatives is 80% of the job when doing ads on Facebook, most of the technical stuff is done by AI now. Thanks to the boost in traffic, I implemented a feedback loop: 1) Get new users 👥 2) Learn to know them with the onboarding form 💬 3) Make more ads based on the data you get from onboarding 📝 And it completely blew up. MRR doubled in ~2 months However... In May, I had a bad burnout 🥵😩 Multiple bugs slipped into the app, and I had to spend 2 days fixing everything in an emergency while revenues plummeted. This completely fucked me up mentally and had a hard time working on the app after that ( 💀💀 So I decided to list it on acquire.com and made a Twitter post ( I listed it for $200,000, a pretty low price considering the revenues and fast growth. I could have gotten $300,000 if I accepted payment over time, but $200,000 today is better than $300,000 tomorrow for me. 🚨 The process went smoothly until we tried to use Escrow, which almost fucked up the whole deal. (details: I got extremely lucky because the buyer really wanted to buy the app, but this could have ended the deal. We had to wait over a week to get the money back from them, even tho they said they already refunded it. But luckily, after threatening them, they sent it back the next day 🙃 The buyer finally got the money back, I transferred every asset to him, and he sent me the wire. With the profit made from the app + the sale, and other projects, I'm 30% away from being a millionaire 🤯 With this amount, I can pretty much retire in Asia if I want to. But that's just the beginning, I’m going to launch new projects soon! 🚀 But before that, I need to take a real vacation and detox. My brain is completely fucked up by those last 2 months. I gained weight, and got brain rot from scrolling all day waiting for the acquisition to move forward 💀💀 Surprisingly, doing absolutely nothing is 10x more exhausting than working 15h per day 🥱 Now, all this might sound like an overnight success. It is not ‼️ This is the result of 7 years of failure and working like a madman. I launched over 40 projects in those 7 years, and most of them failed. But a few took off, and that’s all I needed All those weeks working 15h/day without weekends and vacation feels soul-sucking when you don’t see the end, but this is what took me there You only need to win once to snowball everything. Work hard, focus, fail a lot and keep shipping fast. 🚀🚀 Thanks to you for reading until here, and thanks to everyone who supported me 🤞
0:10

I just sold my startup Talknotes for $200,000 on acquire.com 💸🤯🤩💰🥳🎉 I launched it last August when I was looking for an idea I could grow with paid ads, and made a MVP in one week. I took it from $0 to $7500 MRR in just 11 months. 👉 Here is how I grew it from zero: 💡 Idea: I got the idea when I tried to write a tweet using Google Doc's transcription tool, but it was terrible. And I was pretty sure I wasn't the one too lazy to type. So I made my own solution, and Talknotes was created. The audience is pretty broad so it was a perfect fit for Meta ads However… ✅ Validation: My rule is to only reinvest what the project generates, so, no ads until I make enough cashflow ❌ Listing on startup directories + a few Twitter sales generated $700 after 10 days. Yes, it's not much, but more than enough to show there is interest in the product and tell me to keep working on it 🤩 I started adding the features users requested, but the launch effect started to wear off and daily revenues quickly went to $0 after a few weeks 🫥 I got depressed and almost gave up on the app... 😔 But luckily, my friends and Dan Kulkov pushed me to continue And I'm glad they did because In October, I launched on Product Hunt 😸 and it blew up 🤯 It got Product of the Day and reached $1500 MRR thanks to the media coverage 🚀🚀 Until then, everything was done using vanilla JS/CSS/HTML + Node for back end. It's simple and easy, but I saw the limitations, so I remade the app using Nuxt to make it easier in the future 🏗️ (thanks to @blackevilgoblin and Piotr Jura for the content/courses! Tim Bennetto as well for the basics!) After that, I took a break and then launched ads on Facebook. The strategy is simple: Catch people's attention, and show them how the app can help them improve their life. No need to over-complicate 🙅‍♂️ Making good creatives is 80% of the job when doing ads on Facebook, most of the technical stuff is done by AI now. Thanks to the boost in traffic, I implemented a feedback loop: 1) Get new users 👥 2) Learn to know them with the onboarding form 💬 3) Make more ads based on the data you get from onboarding 📝 And it completely blew up. MRR doubled in ~2 months However... In May, I had a bad burnout 🥵😩 Multiple bugs slipped into the app, and I had to spend 2 days fixing everything in an emergency while revenues plummeted. This completely fucked me up mentally and had a hard time working on the app after that ( 💀💀 So I decided to list it on acquire.com and made a Twitter post ( I listed it for $200,000, a pretty low price considering the revenues and fast growth. I could have gotten $300,000 if I accepted payment over time, but $200,000 today is better than $300,000 tomorrow for me. 🚨 The process went smoothly until we tried to use Escrow, which almost fucked up the whole deal. (details: I got extremely lucky because the buyer really wanted to buy the app, but this could have ended the deal. We had to wait over a week to get the money back from them, even tho they said they already refunded it. But luckily, after threatening them, they sent it back the next day 🙃 The buyer finally got the money back, I transferred every asset to him, and he sent me the wire. With the profit made from the app + the sale, and other projects, I'm 30% away from being a millionaire 🤯 With this amount, I can pretty much retire in Asia if I want to. But that's just the beginning, I’m going to launch new projects soon! 🚀 But before that, I need to take a real vacation and detox. My brain is completely fucked up by those last 2 months. I gained weight, and got brain rot from scrolling all day waiting for the acquisition to move forward 💀💀 Surprisingly, doing absolutely nothing is 10x more exhausting than working 15h per day 🥱 Now, all this might sound like an overnight success. It is not ‼️ This is the result of 7 years of failure and working like a madman. I launched over 40 projects in those 7 years, and most of them failed. But a few took off, and that’s all I needed All those weeks working 15h/day without weekends and vacation feels soul-sucking when you don’t see the end, but this is what took me there You only need to win once to snowball everything. Work hard, focus, fail a lot and keep shipping fast. 🚀🚀 Thanks to you for reading until here, and thanks to everyone who supported me 🤞

Nico

458,682 просмотров • 2 лет назад

Let’s talk reflecting pool. Warren G. Harding built it on swampland and the structure beneath it would have been fine - if it had been built on stable ground. The whole thing started sinking slowly. Presidents all the way up through Carter kept trying to prop it up with little cement pours, and regularly draining and cleaning it. Algae was a problem even then because there was no real circulation system. No pumps. No filters. Reagan added some more concrete, realizing the entire pool was now 12 or 13 inches lower than it should be. It had sunk over a foot and pulled loose from its structure. Clinton publicly acknowledged that the entire pool needed demolished and rebuilt, and that it would take hundreds of millions of dollars to do it right. The Bushes just kept trying to plug leaks and clean it. Every time they had to drain and scrub the thing, it cost around $100,000 to do so. George W. Bush actually had plans drawn up to rebuild it.  Obama decided to revise and execute the Bush renovation, which was needed, but it was flawed, and he spent tens of millions of dollars on it. He raised the pool up with a timber under-structure so the water ended up being even shallower, which means that’s the point at which the water started getting warmer. He also turned off the chlorinated city water supply into the pool and began pumping water in from the tidal basin - that’s the somewhat stagnant water that comes in from the Potomac River and surrounds the Jefferson Memorial. There was algae before, but with those changes came even more algae. Obama‘s reasoning was that the basin water would be cheaper instead of using the city water supply. He had the pool tiles removed from the bottom and another layer gray cement put in place along with gray-tinted reflective paint, which gradually faded away. By the time Trump’s first term came around, the cleaning had to be done every three or four months, some of the Obama structural repairs were failing, and the leaks were rampant again. By the time Biden got into office, Obama’s reflecting pool fixes were cracked and the pool was leaking hundreds of thousands (probably millions) of gallons of water. Biden opted to clean the pool, but performed little maintenance, and did no substantial refurbishment. Trump’s fix was to try something that the other presidents hadn’t. Whereas Obama had used a gray reflective paint and cement, Trump tried a combination sealant liner - it isn’t paint. Those sealants are similarly light-reflective to what Obama used. Trump switched up to blue from the dark gray. He added nanobubblers. When we walked around it the other day, there was only a small patch on the middle of the left side that may have been coming up. It was too windy and stormy to see why. It was not as if the sealant was coming up all over the pool and floating to the top because it wasn’t. We did see the algae cleaning going on and the crews, you could tell, were tired of being harassed for doing their jobs.  Vandals have damaged the grass, they’ve cut into the liner in other places and the knife lines are clear in the videos. We did see the National Guard soldiers coming in. We also saw them placed around the America 250 construction area and in between the museums. Five vandals have been arrested since we walked through. It’s unbelievable to me that they want to destroy something we could all enjoy out of hatred for a president whose policies they don’t even understand.  And the mainstream media is reprehensible. They aren’t reporting. They’re spinning propaganda as usual.
0:10

Let’s talk reflecting pool. Warren G. Harding built it on swampland and the structure beneath it would have been fine - if it had been built on stable ground. The whole thing started sinking slowly. Presidents all the way up through Carter kept trying to prop it up with little cement pours, and regularly draining and cleaning it. Algae was a problem even then because there was no real circulation system. No pumps. No filters. Reagan added some more concrete, realizing the entire pool was now 12 or 13 inches lower than it should be. It had sunk over a foot and pulled loose from its structure. Clinton publicly acknowledged that the entire pool needed demolished and rebuilt, and that it would take hundreds of millions of dollars to do it right. The Bushes just kept trying to plug leaks and clean it. Every time they had to drain and scrub the thing, it cost around $100,000 to do so. George W. Bush actually had plans drawn up to rebuild it.  Obama decided to revise and execute the Bush renovation, which was needed, but it was flawed, and he spent tens of millions of dollars on it. He raised the pool up with a timber under-structure so the water ended up being even shallower, which means that’s the point at which the water started getting warmer. He also turned off the chlorinated city water supply into the pool and began pumping water in from the tidal basin - that’s the somewhat stagnant water that comes in from the Potomac River and surrounds the Jefferson Memorial. There was algae before, but with those changes came even more algae. Obama‘s reasoning was that the basin water would be cheaper instead of using the city water supply. He had the pool tiles removed from the bottom and another layer gray cement put in place along with gray-tinted reflective paint, which gradually faded away. By the time Trump’s first term came around, the cleaning had to be done every three or four months, some of the Obama structural repairs were failing, and the leaks were rampant again. By the time Biden got into office, Obama’s reflecting pool fixes were cracked and the pool was leaking hundreds of thousands (probably millions) of gallons of water. Biden opted to clean the pool, but performed little maintenance, and did no substantial refurbishment. Trump’s fix was to try something that the other presidents hadn’t. Whereas Obama had used a gray reflective paint and cement, Trump tried a combination sealant liner - it isn’t paint. Those sealants are similarly light-reflective to what Obama used. Trump switched up to blue from the dark gray. He added nanobubblers. When we walked around it the other day, there was only a small patch on the middle of the left side that may have been coming up. It was too windy and stormy to see why. It was not as if the sealant was coming up all over the pool and floating to the top because it wasn’t. We did see the algae cleaning going on and the crews, you could tell, were tired of being harassed for doing their jobs.  Vandals have damaged the grass, they’ve cut into the liner in other places and the knife lines are clear in the videos. We did see the National Guard soldiers coming in. We also saw them placed around the America 250 construction area and in between the museums. Five vandals have been arrested since we walked through. It’s unbelievable to me that they want to destroy something we could all enjoy out of hatred for a president whose policies they don’t even understand.  And the mainstream media is reprehensible. They aren’t reporting. They’re spinning propaganda as usual.

Kerry McQuisten’s Common Sense Sanctuary

700,590 просмотров • 3 месяцев назад

And now, the recipe for the room-temperature glass layer… although unfortunately, you probably won’t get very far with it. The reason I haven’t shared the recipe until now is because I wanted to keep the Nobel Prize all to myself. NO. It’s because I spent the last two weeks trying to eliminate one component from the equation — a component that is almost certainly not something the average modern household has lying around. But now I’m going on vacation 🏝️, and obviously I’m not taking my labs with me. I’m not going to continue the experiments, I won’t be posting either, so it’s going to look as if I’ve simply disappeared. “Look, the guy tricked us and then disappeared without a trace!” Well, no. The result is real, the recipe is simple — you just probably won’t have the starting material you need. And despite struggling with this for two weeks, I couldn’t find a substitute for it. But maybe you will! 👍🏻 So I’m sharing the recipe as I currently know it, exactly as it is, in case someone can take it further while I’m sitting on a beach getting a tan. All I ask is that if someone manages to completely solve this mystery while I’m away, please consider a shared Nobel Prize! 🤪 So, the “secret ingredient” is none other than old, completely whitened, end-of-life waterglass. Yep. The stone shown in the video is proof that the glass layer is actually a precipitation. The layer is present on one side of the stone, but completely absent on the other side, even though the stone was standing vertically in the solution. Don’t let the visibly rough condition of the glass layer fool you — this was the first one, and I subjected it to all kinds of tests - too early. The important thing is that there is glass on one side, and ABSOLUTELY NONE on the other, even though the stone was standing vertically in the solution! So this isn’t the bottom and the top of the stone. It’s the right and left sides. Yeah. The glass is indeed a preipitated layer. So let me explain in detail what I did the first time I got this result. This stone was cast in that sour cream container (so it is an artificial one), and then I cut it in half with an angle grinder because I wanted to see what was inside. The inside was quite crumbly, so I decided to strengthen it. I soaked it in this, then that, then something else, impregnated it with one thing and then another, thinking that eventually it would become stronger. And while doing all this, I dipped the stone into all kinds of things. Ash lye, wine, waterglass, God knows what else. At this point, it doesn’t really matter. The funny thing is that now, having reconstructed what actually happened, I wasn’t trying to create a glass layer at all. I was simply trying to strengthen a crumbly stone. But there wasn’t enough waterglass in the lab to completely cover the stone standing in the container. Fill up with water? Nooo! I didn’t want to dilute it with water, so I started looking around in the cupboard and found a bottle of waterglass that was more than a year old and had already turned completely white. I poured this waterglass into the container on ONE SIDE of the stone. And I really mean one side. I did NOT mix it. I thought the waterglass will be "smart enough" to mix its old self with its new self. But the old one didn’t flow around to the other side. It simply accumulated against this curved surface of the stone and deposited there. The best evidence that this is exactly what happened is that even toward the edge of the curved section, the layer wasn’t nearly as thick as it was where I actually poured the old waterglass. And on the cut side of the stone, where I DID NOT pour any old waterglass, absolutely nothing was deposited. And this old waterglass is the thing you probably don’t have at home. Because modern people simply throw this stuff away. “It’s gone bad. Into the trash.” I spent the last couple of weeks trying to find an alternative solution that doesn’t require this old waterglass. Exactly so that I could start public beta testing. I didn’t want to release a recipe that would require you to wait an entire year to have one of the ingredients before you could even start experimenting with it. So I tried artificially aging the waterglass using all sorts of methods — baking soda, acids, slaked lime, carbon dioxide — but none of them produced suspended particles in the waterglass. So far, only waiting did. I did, however, lose a SodaStream machine in the process. RIP. 🪦 So, for now, the answer seems to be: either wait a year, or find some old waterglass in your cupboard. I haven’t found another way. Over the past few weeks, a few people volunteered to beta-test the process. But I only chose people who have been working with me for a long time, so there was at least a chance that they might have some old waterglass, or artificial stone, or both, at home. Mondo Mondo in Australia actually did the experiment, and it worked. I don’t know the Canadian guy, Odhinn , so I have absolutely no idea how he did it. Mondo’s waterglass wasn’t completely white, but it was thicker than normal — 46% from the shop — and it was at least six months old. Bingo. The experiment worked for him. What’s interesting is that once I finally identified the old waterglass as the responsible component, I tried using it directly — just soaking stones in the old waterglass by itself. And that didn’t work 😵 The important thing is (?) the mixture and ratio of fresh and old waterglass. Something like two-thirds fresh waterglass and one-third completely whitened, old waterglass. The explanation may be the following — and this isn’t me saying it, it's Mr. Grok: "The old waterglass provides the amorphous silica nuclei that are essential for the precipitation, while the fresh waterglass provides the chemical activity and high pH that keep the whole process going." Okay! There’s one more thing I need to add. I was only able to create really thick precipitated layers on artificial stones. All the other thick layers, such as the ones on granite or eggshell, were not precipitation. Those were simply the thickened sludge that had formed, which I then smeared onto the surface. Because when an artificial stone is dipped into the magical mixture, it somehow thickens the entire mixture. Even in the last experiment, when I thought the egg was responsible for thickening the magical mixture, there was actually a small piece of artificial stone sitting in the corner of the container. From there, suspicious brownish streams were spreading in every direction. In other words, the artificial stone was releasing something that caused the entire mixture to turn into a gel. So, that’s where we are right now. Feel free to experiment. As far as I know, apart from the half-dead waterglass, I haven’t found another method that works. And now, my flight is about to leave. ✈️
0:15

And now, the recipe for the room-temperature glass layer… although unfortunately, you probably won’t get very far with it. The reason I haven’t shared the recipe until now is because I wanted to keep the Nobel Prize all to myself. NO. It’s because I spent the last two weeks trying to eliminate one component from the equation — a component that is almost certainly not something the average modern household has lying around. But now I’m going on vacation 🏝️, and obviously I’m not taking my labs with me. I’m not going to continue the experiments, I won’t be posting either, so it’s going to look as if I’ve simply disappeared. “Look, the guy tricked us and then disappeared without a trace!” Well, no. The result is real, the recipe is simple — you just probably won’t have the starting material you need. And despite struggling with this for two weeks, I couldn’t find a substitute for it. But maybe you will! 👍🏻 So I’m sharing the recipe as I currently know it, exactly as it is, in case someone can take it further while I’m sitting on a beach getting a tan. All I ask is that if someone manages to completely solve this mystery while I’m away, please consider a shared Nobel Prize! 🤪 So, the “secret ingredient” is none other than old, completely whitened, end-of-life waterglass. Yep. The stone shown in the video is proof that the glass layer is actually a precipitation. The layer is present on one side of the stone, but completely absent on the other side, even though the stone was standing vertically in the solution. Don’t let the visibly rough condition of the glass layer fool you — this was the first one, and I subjected it to all kinds of tests - too early. The important thing is that there is glass on one side, and ABSOLUTELY NONE on the other, even though the stone was standing vertically in the solution! So this isn’t the bottom and the top of the stone. It’s the right and left sides. Yeah. The glass is indeed a preipitated layer. So let me explain in detail what I did the first time I got this result. This stone was cast in that sour cream container (so it is an artificial one), and then I cut it in half with an angle grinder because I wanted to see what was inside. The inside was quite crumbly, so I decided to strengthen it. I soaked it in this, then that, then something else, impregnated it with one thing and then another, thinking that eventually it would become stronger. And while doing all this, I dipped the stone into all kinds of things. Ash lye, wine, waterglass, God knows what else. At this point, it doesn’t really matter. The funny thing is that now, having reconstructed what actually happened, I wasn’t trying to create a glass layer at all. I was simply trying to strengthen a crumbly stone. But there wasn’t enough waterglass in the lab to completely cover the stone standing in the container. Fill up with water? Nooo! I didn’t want to dilute it with water, so I started looking around in the cupboard and found a bottle of waterglass that was more than a year old and had already turned completely white. I poured this waterglass into the container on ONE SIDE of the stone. And I really mean one side. I did NOT mix it. I thought the waterglass will be "smart enough" to mix its old self with its new self. But the old one didn’t flow around to the other side. It simply accumulated against this curved surface of the stone and deposited there. The best evidence that this is exactly what happened is that even toward the edge of the curved section, the layer wasn’t nearly as thick as it was where I actually poured the old waterglass. And on the cut side of the stone, where I DID NOT pour any old waterglass, absolutely nothing was deposited. And this old waterglass is the thing you probably don’t have at home. Because modern people simply throw this stuff away. “It’s gone bad. Into the trash.” I spent the last couple of weeks trying to find an alternative solution that doesn’t require this old waterglass. Exactly so that I could start public beta testing. I didn’t want to release a recipe that would require you to wait an entire year to have one of the ingredients before you could even start experimenting with it. So I tried artificially aging the waterglass using all sorts of methods — baking soda, acids, slaked lime, carbon dioxide — but none of them produced suspended particles in the waterglass. So far, only waiting did. I did, however, lose a SodaStream machine in the process. RIP. 🪦 So, for now, the answer seems to be: either wait a year, or find some old waterglass in your cupboard. I haven’t found another way. Over the past few weeks, a few people volunteered to beta-test the process. But I only chose people who have been working with me for a long time, so there was at least a chance that they might have some old waterglass, or artificial stone, or both, at home. Mondo Mondo in Australia actually did the experiment, and it worked. I don’t know the Canadian guy, Odhinn , so I have absolutely no idea how he did it. Mondo’s waterglass wasn’t completely white, but it was thicker than normal — 46% from the shop — and it was at least six months old. Bingo. The experiment worked for him. What’s interesting is that once I finally identified the old waterglass as the responsible component, I tried using it directly — just soaking stones in the old waterglass by itself. And that didn’t work 😵 The important thing is (?) the mixture and ratio of fresh and old waterglass. Something like two-thirds fresh waterglass and one-third completely whitened, old waterglass. The explanation may be the following — and this isn’t me saying it, it's Mr. Grok: "The old waterglass provides the amorphous silica nuclei that are essential for the precipitation, while the fresh waterglass provides the chemical activity and high pH that keep the whole process going." Okay! There’s one more thing I need to add. I was only able to create really thick precipitated layers on artificial stones. All the other thick layers, such as the ones on granite or eggshell, were not precipitation. Those were simply the thickened sludge that had formed, which I then smeared onto the surface. Because when an artificial stone is dipped into the magical mixture, it somehow thickens the entire mixture. Even in the last experiment, when I thought the egg was responsible for thickening the magical mixture, there was actually a small piece of artificial stone sitting in the corner of the container. From there, suspicious brownish streams were spreading in every direction. In other words, the artificial stone was releasing something that caused the entire mixture to turn into a gel. So, that’s where we are right now. Feel free to experiment. As far as I know, apart from the half-dead waterglass, I haven’t found another method that works. And now, my flight is about to leave. ✈️

Marcell Fóti 🪨

21,406 просмотров • 19 дней назад

🚨🔴 | LOUIS HEVRÉ CASE | NARBONNE | FRANCE | 🇫🇷🇪🇺 Louis, 17, is dead after being brutally attacked in a planned ambush during the night of Friday, June 19, going into the early hours of Saturday, June 20, in the French city of Narbonne, in what the prosecutor of the Republic is calling premeditated. The teenager, followed by Social Aid for Childhood and housed in a home in the Occitanie region, had been attracted to the city's media library before being lured by five/six assailants to an isolated and remote construction site where he was viciously and horrifically assaulted. He was left choking on his own blood and unconscious with punches, stomps, and kicks to his head and elsewhere on his body. It was only early the next morning that a site worker discovered him, seriously injured. Rushed to the hospital in critical condition, Louis was placed into an induced coma before he tragically succumbed to his injuries three days later on Wednesday, June 23. Five suspects, including three minors, were swiftly identified through video footage of the assault and CCTV surveillance and were then intercepted between Narbonne and Albi. They were arrested for attempted murder and placed into temporary detention where some of them partly acknowledged the facts. Upon the victim's sad death, the prosecutor's office indicated that the prosecution would be upgrading their charges to murder. Investigators do not rule out the motive of revenge - as in early June (June 12), in the #Tarn, Louis had already been assaulted by some members of the group, an attack for which he had lodged a complaint a few days before he was fatally beaten. This complaint may have motivated the perpetrators' actions, according to the initial findings of the investigation. Louis had also filed a complaint sometime in May 2026, at Narbonne police station, over another violent incident. In the last day or so, new footage has emerged showing Louis being brutally beaten in one of these earlier attacks for which he had filed police reports as detailed above, but the French police did nothing! It was during this attack that one of his murderers reportedly mocked him saying: “You won’t talk to the police anymore.” I haven't posted the footage of this beating as it's too graphic, but I have attached to this tweet three still pics from it instead (it's the three pics showing Louis in a yellow t-shirt!). Louis trusted the system. Louis had already been assaulted. Twice. He had filed police reports, yet nothing was done. If the system had worked, then Louis would probably still be alive today. The five youths who brutally beat him filmed themselves in the act. Then they abandoned him—left him for dead—and went to catch a train where three of them filmed themselves looking happy and posted the footage to TikTok (attached to this tweet is a video of the TikTok post!). There was no remorse, no sorrow—in fact, it was quite the opposite: they took pride in the fact that the five of them had so savagely and viciously beaten a lone boy. Some say that these youths don't realise the gravity of what they did, which is why they filmed themselves. I believe, on the contrary, that they know full well that modern society protects the perpetrators of a crime more than it does the victims - especially the three of them that are minors, they know that they face little risk of serious consequences. The police failed to protect Louis, even though he had filed complaints - and the justice system no longer instils fear in perpetrators. Justice MUST be delivered for Louis, and it must be in the harshest way possible! #Narbonne #SouthernFrance #SouthOfFrance #France #Europe #Louis #LouisHevré #RIP #RIEP #RIPLouis #RIEPLouis #Forever17 #JusticeForLouis #JusticePourLouis
0:15

🚨🔴 | LOUIS HEVRÉ CASE | NARBONNE | FRANCE | 🇫🇷🇪🇺 Louis, 17, is dead after being brutally attacked in a planned ambush during the night of Friday, June 19, going into the early hours of Saturday, June 20, in the French city of Narbonne, in what the prosecutor of the Republic is calling premeditated. The teenager, followed by Social Aid for Childhood and housed in a home in the Occitanie region, had been attracted to the city's media library before being lured by five/six assailants to an isolated and remote construction site where he was viciously and horrifically assaulted. He was left choking on his own blood and unconscious with punches, stomps, and kicks to his head and elsewhere on his body. It was only early the next morning that a site worker discovered him, seriously injured. Rushed to the hospital in critical condition, Louis was placed into an induced coma before he tragically succumbed to his injuries three days later on Wednesday, June 23. Five suspects, including three minors, were swiftly identified through video footage of the assault and CCTV surveillance and were then intercepted between Narbonne and Albi. They were arrested for attempted murder and placed into temporary detention where some of them partly acknowledged the facts. Upon the victim's sad death, the prosecutor's office indicated that the prosecution would be upgrading their charges to murder. Investigators do not rule out the motive of revenge - as in early June (June 12), in the #Tarn, Louis had already been assaulted by some members of the group, an attack for which he had lodged a complaint a few days before he was fatally beaten. This complaint may have motivated the perpetrators' actions, according to the initial findings of the investigation. Louis had also filed a complaint sometime in May 2026, at Narbonne police station, over another violent incident. In the last day or so, new footage has emerged showing Louis being brutally beaten in one of these earlier attacks for which he had filed police reports as detailed above, but the French police did nothing! It was during this attack that one of his murderers reportedly mocked him saying: “You won’t talk to the police anymore.” I haven't posted the footage of this beating as it's too graphic, but I have attached to this tweet three still pics from it instead (it's the three pics showing Louis in a yellow t-shirt!). Louis trusted the system. Louis had already been assaulted. Twice. He had filed police reports, yet nothing was done. If the system had worked, then Louis would probably still be alive today. The five youths who brutally beat him filmed themselves in the act. Then they abandoned him—left him for dead—and went to catch a train where three of them filmed themselves looking happy and posted the footage to TikTok (attached to this tweet is a video of the TikTok post!). There was no remorse, no sorrow—in fact, it was quite the opposite: they took pride in the fact that the five of them had so savagely and viciously beaten a lone boy. Some say that these youths don't realise the gravity of what they did, which is why they filmed themselves. I believe, on the contrary, that they know full well that modern society protects the perpetrators of a crime more than it does the victims - especially the three of them that are minors, they know that they face little risk of serious consequences. The police failed to protect Louis, even though he had filed complaints - and the justice system no longer instils fear in perpetrators. Justice MUST be delivered for Louis, and it must be in the harshest way possible! #Narbonne #SouthernFrance #SouthOfFrance #France #Europe #Louis #LouisHevré #RIP #RIEP #RIPLouis #RIEPLouis #Forever17 #JusticeForLouis #JusticePourLouis

Leanne

84,312 просмотров • 3 месяцев назад

🚨THE FBI CREATED A FAKE CRYPTOCURRENCY.. LISTED IT ON UNISWAP.. HIRED MARKET MAKERS TO PUMP IT.. THEN ARRESTED EVERYONE WHO SAID YES.. THIS IS THE CRAZIEST LAW ENFORCEMENT OPERATION IN CRYPTO HISTORY!!! The FBI built an actual ERC-20 token on Ethereum called NexFundAI.. 100 billion token supply.. A professional website.. Whitepapers promising "passive income through AI-powered investing".. It looked exactly like every other crypto project.. Because that was the point.. Undercover agents posed as the founding team.. Then reached out to professional market-making firms and said "we need you to fake our trading volume".. Every single firm said yes.. Here's what they recorded.. Gotbit.. A firm run by a 26-year-old Russian who publicly bragged in 2019 that he built a business faking trade volumes.. His team kept internal spreadsheets with columns literally labeled "fake volume" vs "market volume".. When asked how fast they could pump NexFundAI's volume to $1 million per day.. They said "6 hours.. It will cost about $200".. $200 to fake $1 million in daily trading volume.. MyTrade.. Run by a guy who called himself "the mastermind".. He explained the exact psychology of the scam on camera.. "We make the chart look like a really nice roller coaster ride.. That's where people jump in.. We have to make them lose money in order to make profit".. He said that on a recorded FBI video call.. CLS Global.. A Dubai-based firm.. Their bots generated 98% of NexFundAI's total trading volume.. When the FBI asked if they could sync fake volume spikes with fake news announcements.. They said absolutely.. ZM Quant.. Bots executing 10 to 20 trades per minute through dozens of wallets to look organic.. All of them knew it was fraud.. All of them did it anyway.. All of it was recorded.. And the clients were even worse.. Saitama.. A meme coin that hit $7.5 billion market cap.. The founders coordinated buys through private Telegram chats.. Sent "pump it" memes while manipulating the price.. Then dumped on retail investors.. $7.5 billion.. Built entirely on fake volume.. Every penny of real money came from retail investors who thought the momentum was organic.. One founder left Saitama and started Robo Inu.. Used Gotbit again.. Another launched VZZN.. Same playbook.. Lillian Finance.. Founder claimed to be a defense contractor who addressed Congress.. Marketed the token as funding children's hospitals.. Pocketed everything.. When the FBI shut it down.. They seized $25 million in one day.. 18 people indicted across the US, UK, and Portugal.. The CEO of Gotbit was arrested in Portugal and extradited.. Sentenced to 8 months plus $23 million forfeiture.. But here's the part that broke my brain.. Real people bought NexFundAI.. The FBI's fake token.. With zero utility.. Zero real developers.. Created solely to catch criminals.. Attracted real retail investors because the fake volume made the chart look bullish.. When the FBI pulled the liquidity to end the operation.. Those people lost real money.. On a government-issued token.. The FBI had to set up a restitution portal to pay them back.. And it gets worse.. Within 24 hours of the DOJ announcing the sting.. Someone cloned the FBI's exact smart contract.. Launched a copycat token.. Rode the viral momentum.. And made $127,000 in a single day.. Using the exact same manipulation tactics the FBI just arrested 18 people for.. Then in 2026.. The FBI did it again.. New token called Lexobit.. 10 more arrests.. Including operators extradited from Singapore.. IRS forensics showed that in one firm's trading.. 1,209 out of 1,221 consecutive transactions went straight back to wallets the firm controlled.. 99% circular.. The FBI proved what everyone in crypto suspected.. The volume is fake.. The charts are painted.. The momentum is manufactured.. And every time you buy a token because "the chart looks bullish".. You might be the exit liquidity.
0:19

🚨THE FBI CREATED A FAKE CRYPTOCURRENCY.. LISTED IT ON UNISWAP.. HIRED MARKET MAKERS TO PUMP IT.. THEN ARRESTED EVERYONE WHO SAID YES.. THIS IS THE CRAZIEST LAW ENFORCEMENT OPERATION IN CRYPTO HISTORY!!! The FBI built an actual ERC-20 token on Ethereum called NexFundAI.. 100 billion token supply.. A professional website.. Whitepapers promising "passive income through AI-powered investing".. It looked exactly like every other crypto project.. Because that was the point.. Undercover agents posed as the founding team.. Then reached out to professional market-making firms and said "we need you to fake our trading volume".. Every single firm said yes.. Here's what they recorded.. Gotbit.. A firm run by a 26-year-old Russian who publicly bragged in 2019 that he built a business faking trade volumes.. His team kept internal spreadsheets with columns literally labeled "fake volume" vs "market volume".. When asked how fast they could pump NexFundAI's volume to $1 million per day.. They said "6 hours.. It will cost about $200".. $200 to fake $1 million in daily trading volume.. MyTrade.. Run by a guy who called himself "the mastermind".. He explained the exact psychology of the scam on camera.. "We make the chart look like a really nice roller coaster ride.. That's where people jump in.. We have to make them lose money in order to make profit".. He said that on a recorded FBI video call.. CLS Global.. A Dubai-based firm.. Their bots generated 98% of NexFundAI's total trading volume.. When the FBI asked if they could sync fake volume spikes with fake news announcements.. They said absolutely.. ZM Quant.. Bots executing 10 to 20 trades per minute through dozens of wallets to look organic.. All of them knew it was fraud.. All of them did it anyway.. All of it was recorded.. And the clients were even worse.. Saitama.. A meme coin that hit $7.5 billion market cap.. The founders coordinated buys through private Telegram chats.. Sent "pump it" memes while manipulating the price.. Then dumped on retail investors.. $7.5 billion.. Built entirely on fake volume.. Every penny of real money came from retail investors who thought the momentum was organic.. One founder left Saitama and started Robo Inu.. Used Gotbit again.. Another launched VZZN.. Same playbook.. Lillian Finance.. Founder claimed to be a defense contractor who addressed Congress.. Marketed the token as funding children's hospitals.. Pocketed everything.. When the FBI shut it down.. They seized $25 million in one day.. 18 people indicted across the US, UK, and Portugal.. The CEO of Gotbit was arrested in Portugal and extradited.. Sentenced to 8 months plus $23 million forfeiture.. But here's the part that broke my brain.. Real people bought NexFundAI.. The FBI's fake token.. With zero utility.. Zero real developers.. Created solely to catch criminals.. Attracted real retail investors because the fake volume made the chart look bullish.. When the FBI pulled the liquidity to end the operation.. Those people lost real money.. On a government-issued token.. The FBI had to set up a restitution portal to pay them back.. And it gets worse.. Within 24 hours of the DOJ announcing the sting.. Someone cloned the FBI's exact smart contract.. Launched a copycat token.. Rode the viral momentum.. And made $127,000 in a single day.. Using the exact same manipulation tactics the FBI just arrested 18 people for.. Then in 2026.. The FBI did it again.. New token called Lexobit.. 10 more arrests.. Including operators extradited from Singapore.. IRS forensics showed that in one firm's trading.. 1,209 out of 1,221 consecutive transactions went straight back to wallets the firm controlled.. 99% circular.. The FBI proved what everyone in crypto suspected.. The volume is fake.. The charts are painted.. The momentum is manufactured.. And every time you buy a token because "the chart looks bullish".. You might be the exit liquidity.

Evan Luthra

6,365,727 просмотров • 4 месяцев назад

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.
0:10

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.

SiriusB

15,437 просмотров • 5 месяцев назад

Nancy Pelosi didn’t just beat the market. She beat Warren Buffett, on returns, on timing, and on trade precision. Since 2012, portfolios tracking Pelosi-family trades have posted gains north of 500%, while the S&P 500 sits closer to 220% and Berkshire Hathaway roughly 200% over the same period. Buffett did it with public theses, decade-long horizons, and massive capital drag. The Pelosi household did it faster, cleaner, and repeatedly in sectors whose fortunes are inseparable from legislation, regulation, and federal spending. That contrast is the story. One model depends on analysis and patience. The other benefits from proximity to power. The defense is now muscle memory: she doesn’t trade, her husband does. In the real world, that distinction collapses instantly. Same household. Same incentives. Same beneficiaries. Information doesn’t simply vanish at the dinner table, and markets don’t care whose name is on the brokerage account when the gains flow into the same family balance sheet. Spousal trading isn’t insulation from influence, it’s deniability engineered into the rules. Look closer and the most revealing detail isn’t even the returns. It’s the confidence. These were not timid, diversified allocations. They were large, concentrated positions placed ahead of regulatory shifts, funding decisions, enforcement restraint, and industrial-policy pivots. Big Tech. Semiconductors. Defense-adjacent winners. Again and again, the trades aligned with the direction of state power. That pattern doesn’t emerge from poring over earnings calls. It emerges from knowing which levers are about to move. The system doesn’t restrain this behavior; it enables it. Under current law, lawmakers can disclose trades up to 45 days after execution. That delay is sold as transparency while functioning as a built-in edge and impunity. By the time the public sees the paperwork, the advantage has already compounded. A confession after the fact is not accountability. It’s permission. If a corporate executive, hedge fund manager, or banker placed trades with this level of timing, concentration, and policy alignment, regulators would treat it as insider trading. Investigations would follow. Careers would end. The only reason it isn’t called that here is because the people writing the laws exempted themselves. All of this unfolds while the public is lectured about democracy, ethics, norms, and misinformation. Meanwhile, the Pelosi household’s wealth, routinely estimated in the mid nine figures, has grown during the very years it sat at the apex of legislative authority. People aren’t confused anymore. They’re watching power outperform productivity in real time, then listening to sermons explaining why they shouldn’t notice and why they must play by a very different set of rules. The solution isn’t complicated, which is precisely why it’s resisted. No stock trading for members of Congress. No stock trading for spouses. Mandatory blind trusts. Real-time disclosure with real penalties. If that sounds radical, then stop pretending this is public service. It’s public access, privately monetized, and the graph everyone’s sharing just made it impossible to unsee. When the same act is punished as insider trading on Wall Street but rewarded as “savvy investing” in Congress, the problem isn’t corruption, but legitimacy. And legitimacy, once lost, doesn’t come back with lectures.
0:19

Nancy Pelosi didn’t just beat the market. She beat Warren Buffett, on returns, on timing, and on trade precision. Since 2012, portfolios tracking Pelosi-family trades have posted gains north of 500%, while the S&P 500 sits closer to 220% and Berkshire Hathaway roughly 200% over the same period. Buffett did it with public theses, decade-long horizons, and massive capital drag. The Pelosi household did it faster, cleaner, and repeatedly in sectors whose fortunes are inseparable from legislation, regulation, and federal spending. That contrast is the story. One model depends on analysis and patience. The other benefits from proximity to power. The defense is now muscle memory: she doesn’t trade, her husband does. In the real world, that distinction collapses instantly. Same household. Same incentives. Same beneficiaries. Information doesn’t simply vanish at the dinner table, and markets don’t care whose name is on the brokerage account when the gains flow into the same family balance sheet. Spousal trading isn’t insulation from influence, it’s deniability engineered into the rules. Look closer and the most revealing detail isn’t even the returns. It’s the confidence. These were not timid, diversified allocations. They were large, concentrated positions placed ahead of regulatory shifts, funding decisions, enforcement restraint, and industrial-policy pivots. Big Tech. Semiconductors. Defense-adjacent winners. Again and again, the trades aligned with the direction of state power. That pattern doesn’t emerge from poring over earnings calls. It emerges from knowing which levers are about to move. The system doesn’t restrain this behavior; it enables it. Under current law, lawmakers can disclose trades up to 45 days after execution. That delay is sold as transparency while functioning as a built-in edge and impunity. By the time the public sees the paperwork, the advantage has already compounded. A confession after the fact is not accountability. It’s permission. If a corporate executive, hedge fund manager, or banker placed trades with this level of timing, concentration, and policy alignment, regulators would treat it as insider trading. Investigations would follow. Careers would end. The only reason it isn’t called that here is because the people writing the laws exempted themselves. All of this unfolds while the public is lectured about democracy, ethics, norms, and misinformation. Meanwhile, the Pelosi household’s wealth, routinely estimated in the mid nine figures, has grown during the very years it sat at the apex of legislative authority. People aren’t confused anymore. They’re watching power outperform productivity in real time, then listening to sermons explaining why they shouldn’t notice and why they must play by a very different set of rules. The solution isn’t complicated, which is precisely why it’s resisted. No stock trading for members of Congress. No stock trading for spouses. Mandatory blind trusts. Real-time disclosure with real penalties. If that sounds radical, then stop pretending this is public service. It’s public access, privately monetized, and the graph everyone’s sharing just made it impossible to unsee. When the same act is punished as insider trading on Wall Street but rewarded as “savvy investing” in Congress, the problem isn’t corruption, but legitimacy. And legitimacy, once lost, doesn’t come back with lectures.

THE ISLANDER

50,908 просмотров • 9 месяцев назад

🧵 Israel strikes its rebellious puppet in Syria - dark days ahead Jolani’s Delusion: The Man Who Sold Syria to Israel for Nothing July 9th. The US and 19 allies are conducting a live military drill near Australia with a view of a coordinated attack against China our — but forget that for now. Something bigger exploded this morning (July 16th 2025). Israel launched a decapitation strike against Syria’s de facto ruler, Jolani. Yes — that Jolani, the man who had bent over backwards to please Israel, the one who handed over the Golan Heights with a smile, promising “permanent peace.” And yet? They still came for him. Let’s rewind. When Assad’s regime collapsed back in December 2024, the whole of Syria fell into chaos. Jolani, a former terrorist with deep roots in al-Qaeda and Issis, seized Damascus within a week. But taking the capital didn’t mean owning the country. Syria became a jungle of warlords. In the southwest, Israel moved fast. Armored brigades swept in and annexed the eastern Golan Heights, calling it a “buffer zone” — as if the whole world hadn’t seen this playbook before. To understand why Israel will never let go of the Golan Heights, you have to understand what the Golan is. It is not just a piece of land. It is a perch, a watchtower, a faucet, a promise. From those heights, you can see half of Syria. Before 1967, Syrian artillery rained down on Israeli farms from that high ground. After 1967, Israeli tanks dug in and never left. And why would they? The Golan is water. It feeds the Sea of Galilee, the Jordan River, and the underground aquifers that keep Israel alive. Some say nearly half of Israel’s fresh water still trickles down from those slopes. In a region where rain is rare and rivers dry, that makes the Golan as precious as oil. But there’s something deeper still. The Golan is theology. The Golan is destiny. For the religious wing of Likud, for those who still read maps with the Book of Genesis in one hand, the Golan is part of the inheritance God gave Abraham — “from the river of Egypt to the great river, the Euphrates.” This land was promised. And what is promised cannot be returned. Not to Assad. Not to Jolani. Not to anyone. So now that Syria lies broken, now that Jolani begs and grovels, now that the widow has no protector — Israel sees its chance. And it will not look away. By January 205, Jolani tried to claw some legitimacy back. He had personal reasons — he was born in the Golan Heights — but also national ones. A president who gives up sovereign territory and says nothing? That’s not a leader. So he went to the UN. Israel scoffed. He proposed a “land-for-legitimacy” deal — asking to get back a third of the Golan Heights, lease another third, and in return recognize Israeli sovereignty over the rest. A humiliating offer for Syria — and Israel still slapped him across the face. “How dare you propose such a deal? You? You’re nothing. All of Golan Heights is ours. Try take it back if you can. To hell with UN and international law” The same man who had once survived the Abu Ghraib black prison walked out of that hell with a bruised face — and a boiling mind. But he is eerily tame in front of the Israelis. Not characteristic of a brutal terrorist. By March, Jolani pivoted. If Israel wouldn’t listen, maybe Turkey would. Jolani made his pitch with eloquent urgency — the kind of urgency a man uses when he knows the fire is already at his doorstep. “Syria,” he told the Turks, “isn’t just a country. It’s a buffer. Between you and Israel. And once we’re gone, the buffer is gone. Then it’s just you and them, staring across a line drawn in sand.” He leaned in. “You think Israel won’t come for you? Maybe not today. But one day, they will. And your pipelines, your ports, your Black Sea dreams — all of it will be within range.”
0:16

🧵 Israel strikes its rebellious puppet in Syria - dark days ahead Jolani’s Delusion: The Man Who Sold Syria to Israel for Nothing July 9th. The US and 19 allies are conducting a live military drill near Australia with a view of a coordinated attack against China our — but forget that for now. Something bigger exploded this morning (July 16th 2025). Israel launched a decapitation strike against Syria’s de facto ruler, Jolani. Yes — that Jolani, the man who had bent over backwards to please Israel, the one who handed over the Golan Heights with a smile, promising “permanent peace.” And yet? They still came for him. Let’s rewind. When Assad’s regime collapsed back in December 2024, the whole of Syria fell into chaos. Jolani, a former terrorist with deep roots in al-Qaeda and Issis, seized Damascus within a week. But taking the capital didn’t mean owning the country. Syria became a jungle of warlords. In the southwest, Israel moved fast. Armored brigades swept in and annexed the eastern Golan Heights, calling it a “buffer zone” — as if the whole world hadn’t seen this playbook before. To understand why Israel will never let go of the Golan Heights, you have to understand what the Golan is. It is not just a piece of land. It is a perch, a watchtower, a faucet, a promise. From those heights, you can see half of Syria. Before 1967, Syrian artillery rained down on Israeli farms from that high ground. After 1967, Israeli tanks dug in and never left. And why would they? The Golan is water. It feeds the Sea of Galilee, the Jordan River, and the underground aquifers that keep Israel alive. Some say nearly half of Israel’s fresh water still trickles down from those slopes. In a region where rain is rare and rivers dry, that makes the Golan as precious as oil. But there’s something deeper still. The Golan is theology. The Golan is destiny. For the religious wing of Likud, for those who still read maps with the Book of Genesis in one hand, the Golan is part of the inheritance God gave Abraham — “from the river of Egypt to the great river, the Euphrates.” This land was promised. And what is promised cannot be returned. Not to Assad. Not to Jolani. Not to anyone. So now that Syria lies broken, now that Jolani begs and grovels, now that the widow has no protector — Israel sees its chance. And it will not look away. By January 205, Jolani tried to claw some legitimacy back. He had personal reasons — he was born in the Golan Heights — but also national ones. A president who gives up sovereign territory and says nothing? That’s not a leader. So he went to the UN. Israel scoffed. He proposed a “land-for-legitimacy” deal — asking to get back a third of the Golan Heights, lease another third, and in return recognize Israeli sovereignty over the rest. A humiliating offer for Syria — and Israel still slapped him across the face. “How dare you propose such a deal? You? You’re nothing. All of Golan Heights is ours. Try take it back if you can. To hell with UN and international law” The same man who had once survived the Abu Ghraib black prison walked out of that hell with a bruised face — and a boiling mind. But he is eerily tame in front of the Israelis. Not characteristic of a brutal terrorist. By March, Jolani pivoted. If Israel wouldn’t listen, maybe Turkey would. Jolani made his pitch with eloquent urgency — the kind of urgency a man uses when he knows the fire is already at his doorstep. “Syria,” he told the Turks, “isn’t just a country. It’s a buffer. Between you and Israel. And once we’re gone, the buffer is gone. Then it’s just you and them, staring across a line drawn in sand.” He leaned in. “You think Israel won’t come for you? Maybe not today. But one day, they will. And your pipelines, your ports, your Black Sea dreams — all of it will be within range.”

America-China Watcher

18,814 просмотров • 1 год назад

The apartment across the courtyard had been empty for nearly a week before anyone noticed the dog. Moving trucks had come and gone over the weekend. Furniture disappeared. The lights stayed off. Management assumed the tenants had simply finished their lease. But every evening, just after sunset, a small white-and-tan Jack Russell Terrier would appear outside the apartment door. He never wandered far. He would lie on the worn welcome mat for hours, lifting his head every time footsteps echoed down the hallway. Whenever the elevator doors opened, his tail would twitch with hope before slowly falling again as another stranger walked past. Most neighbors thought someone would come back for him. No one did. By the fifth day, his bark had changed. It wasn't loud or aggressive. It was quiet, almost pleading, as though he believed if he called often enough, the people he loved might hear him. I couldn't stop thinking about him. Each morning before work, he was there. Each night when I came home, he was still waiting. A maintenance worker finally confirmed what everyone had begun to suspect. The previous tenants had left without taking the dog. No emergency contact. No forwarding address. Nothing. That evening, I carried a bowl of fresh water into the hallway. The little dog didn't move toward it. He simply stared at the apartment door. I placed a blanket nearby and sat several feet away, saying nothing. Nearly an hour passed before he cautiously walked over, drank a few mouthfuls of water, then returned to the same spot outside the empty apartment. The next morning, heavy rain swept through the city. Water blew into the open-air corridor, soaking the doormat where he had spent every night. I couldn't leave him there any longer. When I gently reached toward him, he didn't resist. He was lighter than I expected. Far too light. Inside my apartment, he immediately searched every room before curling into the corner beside my bookshelf. He ignored the expensive dog food I bought that afternoon. He ignored treats. He ignored toys. Even when I sat beside him, he kept his eyes fixed on the front door, listening for footsteps that never came. The veterinarian examined him the following day. Physically, he wasn't seriously ill. He was dehydrated, underweight, and carrying several untreated ear infections, but none of it explained why he refused to eat. The veterinarian sighed softly. "His body can recover," she told me. "It's his heart I'm worried about." She explained that some dogs experience profound emotional distress after sudden separation from the people they've bonded with. They stop eating, withdraw from interaction, and seem to lose interest in everything around them. Healing takes patience. Not days. Sometimes weeks. So I changed my routine. Instead of trying to convince him to play, I simply shared the room with him. While reading, I sat on the floor nearby. While working on my laptop, I left it beside his blanket. At night, I spoke quietly to him about completely ordinary things, not because I thought he understood every word, but because silence had probably become frightening. For nearly a week, nothing seemed different. Then one morning, as I prepared breakfast, I noticed him watching me from the hallway instead of hiding. It wasn't much. But it was the first time he'd shown curiosity. Later that afternoon, when I walked into another room, I heard the faint clicking of little paws behind me. He had followed. Only a few steps. Then he stopped. The following evening, I offered him a small piece of boiled chicken. Instead of turning away, he sniffed it carefully before taking the tiniest bite. I smiled so hard my face hurt. It wasn't about the food. It was the decision behind it. For the first time since I'd met him, he had chosen tomorrow. Little victories followed. He started greeting me at the door after work. He discovered that tennis balls were worth chasing. He claimed the sunny patch beside the living room window as his favorite afternoon nap spot. One night, while I watched television, I felt something warm against my leg. He had quietly climbed onto the couch and rested his head against me. No hesitation. No fear. Just trust. The veterinarian noticed the change immediately during his next checkup. "Look at him now," she said, smiling as his tail wagged across the exam room floor. "That's a completely different little dog." I decided to call him Chance. Not because life had given him a second chance. Because he had given one to me as well. It's been almost a year now. Every evening, he still walks to the apartment door before bedtime. He stands there for a few seconds, listening to the quiet hallway. Then he turns around, trots back into our home, curls up beside me, and falls asleep without looking back. Sometimes healing isn't about forgetting where you've been. Sometimes it's simply discovering that someone stayed long enough to help you believe in home again.
0:16

The apartment across the courtyard had been empty for nearly a week before anyone noticed the dog. Moving trucks had come and gone over the weekend. Furniture disappeared. The lights stayed off. Management assumed the tenants had simply finished their lease. But every evening, just after sunset, a small white-and-tan Jack Russell Terrier would appear outside the apartment door. He never wandered far. He would lie on the worn welcome mat for hours, lifting his head every time footsteps echoed down the hallway. Whenever the elevator doors opened, his tail would twitch with hope before slowly falling again as another stranger walked past. Most neighbors thought someone would come back for him. No one did. By the fifth day, his bark had changed. It wasn't loud or aggressive. It was quiet, almost pleading, as though he believed if he called often enough, the people he loved might hear him. I couldn't stop thinking about him. Each morning before work, he was there. Each night when I came home, he was still waiting. A maintenance worker finally confirmed what everyone had begun to suspect. The previous tenants had left without taking the dog. No emergency contact. No forwarding address. Nothing. That evening, I carried a bowl of fresh water into the hallway. The little dog didn't move toward it. He simply stared at the apartment door. I placed a blanket nearby and sat several feet away, saying nothing. Nearly an hour passed before he cautiously walked over, drank a few mouthfuls of water, then returned to the same spot outside the empty apartment. The next morning, heavy rain swept through the city. Water blew into the open-air corridor, soaking the doormat where he had spent every night. I couldn't leave him there any longer. When I gently reached toward him, he didn't resist. He was lighter than I expected. Far too light. Inside my apartment, he immediately searched every room before curling into the corner beside my bookshelf. He ignored the expensive dog food I bought that afternoon. He ignored treats. He ignored toys. Even when I sat beside him, he kept his eyes fixed on the front door, listening for footsteps that never came. The veterinarian examined him the following day. Physically, he wasn't seriously ill. He was dehydrated, underweight, and carrying several untreated ear infections, but none of it explained why he refused to eat. The veterinarian sighed softly. "His body can recover," she told me. "It's his heart I'm worried about." She explained that some dogs experience profound emotional distress after sudden separation from the people they've bonded with. They stop eating, withdraw from interaction, and seem to lose interest in everything around them. Healing takes patience. Not days. Sometimes weeks. So I changed my routine. Instead of trying to convince him to play, I simply shared the room with him. While reading, I sat on the floor nearby. While working on my laptop, I left it beside his blanket. At night, I spoke quietly to him about completely ordinary things, not because I thought he understood every word, but because silence had probably become frightening. For nearly a week, nothing seemed different. Then one morning, as I prepared breakfast, I noticed him watching me from the hallway instead of hiding. It wasn't much. But it was the first time he'd shown curiosity. Later that afternoon, when I walked into another room, I heard the faint clicking of little paws behind me. He had followed. Only a few steps. Then he stopped. The following evening, I offered him a small piece of boiled chicken. Instead of turning away, he sniffed it carefully before taking the tiniest bite. I smiled so hard my face hurt. It wasn't about the food. It was the decision behind it. For the first time since I'd met him, he had chosen tomorrow. Little victories followed. He started greeting me at the door after work. He discovered that tennis balls were worth chasing. He claimed the sunny patch beside the living room window as his favorite afternoon nap spot. One night, while I watched television, I felt something warm against my leg. He had quietly climbed onto the couch and rested his head against me. No hesitation. No fear. Just trust. The veterinarian noticed the change immediately during his next checkup. "Look at him now," she said, smiling as his tail wagged across the exam room floor. "That's a completely different little dog." I decided to call him Chance. Not because life had given him a second chance. Because he had given one to me as well. It's been almost a year now. Every evening, he still walks to the apartment door before bedtime. He stands there for a few seconds, listening to the quiet hallway. Then he turns around, trots back into our home, curls up beside me, and falls asleep without looking back. Sometimes healing isn't about forgetting where you've been. Sometimes it's simply discovering that someone stayed long enough to help you believe in home again.

Crazy Moments

41,286 просмотров • 2 месяцев назад

At 3:14 that afternoon, with less than thirty dollars left in my wallet, I watched a man tie a tiny German Shepherd puppy to a shopping cart outside a grocery store. He barely looked at her before muttering, “Someone will take care of it,” and walking away. Less than an hour later, that same puppy had changed something in me I didn’t realize was still alive. At first, I kept walking. That’s what people do when they’ve spent enough years protecting themselves from disappointment. I was fifty-two, divorced, living alone in a quiet apartment in San Diego where nobody noticed whether I came home or not. Getting attached felt dangerous. So I told myself the puppy wasn’t my problem. But halfway across the parking lot, I stopped. Then turned around. She was still there. Tiny. Motionless except for the faint rise and fall of her ribs. Black-and-tan fur stretched tightly over a body far too thin for a puppy her age. Her oversized ears drooped awkwardly, and dull gray tape had been wrapped tightly around her front paws, cutting into the skin underneath. The pavement around her shimmered with heat. Shopping carts rattled past. Car doors slammed. People moved around her like she was invisible. A woman with grocery bags glanced down once and kept walking. Two teenagers laughed while scrolling through their phones nearby. A man carrying bottled water slowed just long enough to shrug and say, “Poor thing,” before continuing toward his truck. That was the moment something inside me shifted. For years, I’d always said I wasn’t really a dog person. Not because I disliked them. I just didn’t want the responsibility. The mess. The inevitable heartbreak. Then the puppy slowly lifted her head. And looked directly at me. Not at the noise. Not at the traffic. At me. And somehow, in that single exhausted stare, I knew I was already involved whether I wanted to be or not. I walked back toward her. The metal cart burned hot beneath my hand. Up close, she looked even worse. The tape around her paws had rubbed parts of her fur away completely, leaving angry red skin exposed beneath. Her nose was dry. Her breathing shallow and uneven. When I touched her gently, she didn’t even try to pull away. That scared me more than if she had bitten me. “Hey, sweetheart,” I whispered. “Stay with me.” A store security guard approached almost immediately. “Sir, don’t touch the animal,” he warned. “You could be liable if something happens.” The animal. That wording hit me wrong instantly. “She’s barely alive,” I said. He shrugged awkwardly. “You can call animal services.” Another customer passed behind us and muttered, “Somebody else will handle it.” But nobody was handling it. I didn’t have a plan. I barely had enough money to buy groceries that week. All I had was a small multitool in my pocket and a half-empty water bottle in the car. My hands shook while I worked the blade open against the plastic ties holding her there. The metal cart was scorching hot under the sun, and every time the puppy flinched weakly, I had to stop for a second to steady myself. When the tie finally snapped loose, her body slumped gently against my chest like she’d been holding herself upright through pure exhaustion alone. Someone nearby silently handed me a bottle of water. I poured a little into my palm and touched it to her mouth. At first, nothing happened. Then her tiny tongue moved weakly against my hand. That tiny effort nearly broke me. I wrapped her carefully in my shirt and carried her to the car. The cold air blasting from the vents hit both of us immediately. She leaned weakly into my chest while I drove one-handed toward the nearest veterinary clinic. At every red light, I kept repeating the same thing. “Don’t quit on me.” Inside the clinic, the receptionist slid paperwork toward me with practiced calm. “Fill these out for stray intake,” she said. I looked down at the forms. Then at the puppy barely breathing in my arms. “I honestly don’t think she has ten more minutes,” I said quietly. Everything changed after that. A veterinary technician rushed over immediately and lifted the puppy carefully from my arms. The sudden emptiness felt heavier than her weight had. The veterinarian came out nearly twenty minutes later with a serious expression. “She’s severely dehydrated,” she explained. “Her paw pads are badly burned, and her blood sugar is dangerously low. She’s in critical condition.” I felt my stomach drop. Then she added softly, “But she’s still fighting.” From somewhere behind the treatment room doors, I heard the faintest little cry. The smallest sound imaginable. “If she survives the next hour,” the vet continued, “she has a real chance.” So I stayed. I sat in that plastic waiting room chair for hours staring at the closed doors. Eventually, the veterinarian returned with a tired smile. “She made it,” she said. Over the following weeks, the tiny puppy who could barely hold her head up slowly started recovering. First she stood. Then she walked. Then she discovered she liked chasing shoelaces and barking at birds outside my apartment window. The burns on her paws healed gradually. Her ribs disappeared beneath healthy fur. And the exhausted little creature abandoned beside a shopping cart slowly became loud, stubborn, playful, and impossible not to love. I named her Hope. Funny thing is, somewhere during all of that, I stopped saying I wasn’t a dog person. Because she didn’t just survive that parking lot. She walked out of it with me. And somehow, without either of us planning it, we both finally went home.
0:15

At 3:14 that afternoon, with less than thirty dollars left in my wallet, I watched a man tie a tiny German Shepherd puppy to a shopping cart outside a grocery store. He barely looked at her before muttering, “Someone will take care of it,” and walking away. Less than an hour later, that same puppy had changed something in me I didn’t realize was still alive. At first, I kept walking. That’s what people do when they’ve spent enough years protecting themselves from disappointment. I was fifty-two, divorced, living alone in a quiet apartment in San Diego where nobody noticed whether I came home or not. Getting attached felt dangerous. So I told myself the puppy wasn’t my problem. But halfway across the parking lot, I stopped. Then turned around. She was still there. Tiny. Motionless except for the faint rise and fall of her ribs. Black-and-tan fur stretched tightly over a body far too thin for a puppy her age. Her oversized ears drooped awkwardly, and dull gray tape had been wrapped tightly around her front paws, cutting into the skin underneath. The pavement around her shimmered with heat. Shopping carts rattled past. Car doors slammed. People moved around her like she was invisible. A woman with grocery bags glanced down once and kept walking. Two teenagers laughed while scrolling through their phones nearby. A man carrying bottled water slowed just long enough to shrug and say, “Poor thing,” before continuing toward his truck. That was the moment something inside me shifted. For years, I’d always said I wasn’t really a dog person. Not because I disliked them. I just didn’t want the responsibility. The mess. The inevitable heartbreak. Then the puppy slowly lifted her head. And looked directly at me. Not at the noise. Not at the traffic. At me. And somehow, in that single exhausted stare, I knew I was already involved whether I wanted to be or not. I walked back toward her. The metal cart burned hot beneath my hand. Up close, she looked even worse. The tape around her paws had rubbed parts of her fur away completely, leaving angry red skin exposed beneath. Her nose was dry. Her breathing shallow and uneven. When I touched her gently, she didn’t even try to pull away. That scared me more than if she had bitten me. “Hey, sweetheart,” I whispered. “Stay with me.” A store security guard approached almost immediately. “Sir, don’t touch the animal,” he warned. “You could be liable if something happens.” The animal. That wording hit me wrong instantly. “She’s barely alive,” I said. He shrugged awkwardly. “You can call animal services.” Another customer passed behind us and muttered, “Somebody else will handle it.” But nobody was handling it. I didn’t have a plan. I barely had enough money to buy groceries that week. All I had was a small multitool in my pocket and a half-empty water bottle in the car. My hands shook while I worked the blade open against the plastic ties holding her there. The metal cart was scorching hot under the sun, and every time the puppy flinched weakly, I had to stop for a second to steady myself. When the tie finally snapped loose, her body slumped gently against my chest like she’d been holding herself upright through pure exhaustion alone. Someone nearby silently handed me a bottle of water. I poured a little into my palm and touched it to her mouth. At first, nothing happened. Then her tiny tongue moved weakly against my hand. That tiny effort nearly broke me. I wrapped her carefully in my shirt and carried her to the car. The cold air blasting from the vents hit both of us immediately. She leaned weakly into my chest while I drove one-handed toward the nearest veterinary clinic. At every red light, I kept repeating the same thing. “Don’t quit on me.” Inside the clinic, the receptionist slid paperwork toward me with practiced calm. “Fill these out for stray intake,” she said. I looked down at the forms. Then at the puppy barely breathing in my arms. “I honestly don’t think she has ten more minutes,” I said quietly. Everything changed after that. A veterinary technician rushed over immediately and lifted the puppy carefully from my arms. The sudden emptiness felt heavier than her weight had. The veterinarian came out nearly twenty minutes later with a serious expression. “She’s severely dehydrated,” she explained. “Her paw pads are badly burned, and her blood sugar is dangerously low. She’s in critical condition.” I felt my stomach drop. Then she added softly, “But she’s still fighting.” From somewhere behind the treatment room doors, I heard the faintest little cry. The smallest sound imaginable. “If she survives the next hour,” the vet continued, “she has a real chance.” So I stayed. I sat in that plastic waiting room chair for hours staring at the closed doors. Eventually, the veterinarian returned with a tired smile. “She made it,” she said. Over the following weeks, the tiny puppy who could barely hold her head up slowly started recovering. First she stood. Then she walked. Then she discovered she liked chasing shoelaces and barking at birds outside my apartment window. The burns on her paws healed gradually. Her ribs disappeared beneath healthy fur. And the exhausted little creature abandoned beside a shopping cart slowly became loud, stubborn, playful, and impossible not to love. I named her Hope. Funny thing is, somewhere during all of that, I stopped saying I wasn’t a dog person. Because she didn’t just survive that parking lot. She walked out of it with me. And somehow, without either of us planning it, we both finally went home.

Crazy Moments

157,501 просмотров • 2 месяцев назад

One year ago, around this time, I was speeding across Texas, fighting back tears and streaming live news coverage on my phone, trying to get to my sons at Camp La Junta in Hunt, TX. There had been a massive amount of rain overnight, and I woke up to a text saying they were without power and cell service. Little did I know that just hours earlier, 119 people in that small county (139 total) had lost their lives in an unfathomable flood. My 7-year-old, Brock, fresh out of Kindergarten, had one full day at camp. My 9 yr old, Braeden, was in a different cabin. Around 3 AM, Brock woke up on a soaked mattress. The Guadalupe River had already risen nearly level with his bottom bunk. His teenage counselors lifted the little boys to the top bunks. Within minutes, that still wasn’t high enough. In the pitch black, freezing water filled with debris, gasoline, branches, snakes—everything you can imagine—kept rising. The boys were moved higher, into the rafters and onto the tops of the shower stalls, just trying to stay ahead of the water. Little did they know those bunk beds and vaulted ceilings would be a key reason they survived—while 27 girls at Camp Mystic, just minutes away, did not. They had followed orders to “shelter in place,” but the girls simply ran out of room. Back at Camp La Junta, about 60 boys were trapped in a triplex of three cabins. The oldest counselor was maybe 18. There was no prior camp safety training, barely any cell service, and no clear plan. Their 911 calls were answered occasionally, but help wasn’t coming. By then, the whole area was overwhelmed, and Kerr County was wholly unprepared. Some 911 calls weren’t just being routed to other counties - they were even forwarded to the local library. At 4 AM on July 4th, no one was there. It was kids saving kids. The cabins started breaking apart. Windows, doors, and even a wall crumbled as the water ripped through. One teenage counselor couldn’t handle the terrified screams of the little boys anymore and took his chances in the flood. He survived—but it was a choice no kid should ever have to make. A small cabin with young staffers inside tore off its foundation and slammed into the triplex where Brock was, like a bowling ball hitting the bumpers, before miraculously being stopped by a tree. Their security guard, brand new to the job, had taken refuge in the Dining Hall. As the building fell apart, she was pulled into the river. She grabbed a Gatorade cooler and held on for dear life, colliding with vehicles and barbed wire as the thick, freezing water tore off her clothes and broke her finger in a surreal, incomprehensible ride downstream. When she finally managed to grab onto a tree more than a mile away, she stumbled through the dark and the storm until she found a home. Nearly naked, she rang the doorbell of a stranger who took her in. The worst of the terror lasted only a couple of hours. The nightmares have lasted much longer. Now, my sons fear the sound of heavy rain. They instinctively scan rooms for higher ground or emergency exits. And that’s just their piece of the trauma. So many others lost lives, homes, their entire sense of safety. As a family, the boys & I will never forget the July 4th Floods. We’ve advocated for help and change - not just because of what my kids went through, but because of what that entire community endured: a natural disaster full of manmade failures. I hope you will never forget either.
0:16

One year ago, around this time, I was speeding across Texas, fighting back tears and streaming live news coverage on my phone, trying to get to my sons at Camp La Junta in Hunt, TX. There had been a massive amount of rain overnight, and I woke up to a text saying they were without power and cell service. Little did I know that just hours earlier, 119 people in that small county (139 total) had lost their lives in an unfathomable flood. My 7-year-old, Brock, fresh out of Kindergarten, had one full day at camp. My 9 yr old, Braeden, was in a different cabin. Around 3 AM, Brock woke up on a soaked mattress. The Guadalupe River had already risen nearly level with his bottom bunk. His teenage counselors lifted the little boys to the top bunks. Within minutes, that still wasn’t high enough. In the pitch black, freezing water filled with debris, gasoline, branches, snakes—everything you can imagine—kept rising. The boys were moved higher, into the rafters and onto the tops of the shower stalls, just trying to stay ahead of the water. Little did they know those bunk beds and vaulted ceilings would be a key reason they survived—while 27 girls at Camp Mystic, just minutes away, did not. They had followed orders to “shelter in place,” but the girls simply ran out of room. Back at Camp La Junta, about 60 boys were trapped in a triplex of three cabins. The oldest counselor was maybe 18. There was no prior camp safety training, barely any cell service, and no clear plan. Their 911 calls were answered occasionally, but help wasn’t coming. By then, the whole area was overwhelmed, and Kerr County was wholly unprepared. Some 911 calls weren’t just being routed to other counties - they were even forwarded to the local library. At 4 AM on July 4th, no one was there. It was kids saving kids. The cabins started breaking apart. Windows, doors, and even a wall crumbled as the water ripped through. One teenage counselor couldn’t handle the terrified screams of the little boys anymore and took his chances in the flood. He survived—but it was a choice no kid should ever have to make. A small cabin with young staffers inside tore off its foundation and slammed into the triplex where Brock was, like a bowling ball hitting the bumpers, before miraculously being stopped by a tree. Their security guard, brand new to the job, had taken refuge in the Dining Hall. As the building fell apart, she was pulled into the river. She grabbed a Gatorade cooler and held on for dear life, colliding with vehicles and barbed wire as the thick, freezing water tore off her clothes and broke her finger in a surreal, incomprehensible ride downstream. When she finally managed to grab onto a tree more than a mile away, she stumbled through the dark and the storm until she found a home. Nearly naked, she rang the doorbell of a stranger who took her in. The worst of the terror lasted only a couple of hours. The nightmares have lasted much longer. Now, my sons fear the sound of heavy rain. They instinctively scan rooms for higher ground or emergency exits. And that’s just their piece of the trauma. So many others lost lives, homes, their entire sense of safety. As a family, the boys & I will never forget the July 4th Floods. We’ve advocated for help and change - not just because of what my kids went through, but because of what that entire community endured: a natural disaster full of manmade failures. I hope you will never forget either.

Keli Rabon

374,281 просмотров • 2 месяцев назад

🚨 JAPAN WILL REVEAL ITS NEW GOVERNMENT DEBT TOTAL ON MONDAY The previous official figure, measured on March 31, was already: ¥1,343,842,600,000,000 Around $8.5 TRILLION. On August 10, Japan will reveal how much higher that number climbed by the end of June. But the debt number is only one part of the problem. Something much bigger is happening underneath Japan’s financial system. The 2-year government bond yield just reached 1.51%. Its highest level since 1995. The 10-year yield climbed toward 2.9%. And Japan’s policy rate is now 1%. Its highest level in 31 years. That means the era of nearly free money in Japan is ending. For decades, investors borrowed cheap yen. Then moved that money into: U.S. Treasuries. Stocks. Real estate. Crypto. And markets around the world. Now borrowing in yen is becoming more expensive. And Japanese bonds are finally offering meaningful returns at home. This creates one enormous risk: Japanese capital no longer needs to stay overseas. If that money starts returning to Japan, the global carry trade begins to unwind. Foreign assets get sold. Bond yields rise. Liquidity leaves risk markets. And volatility spreads everywhere. Japan is already showing signs of panic. The government spent a record ¥6.28 TRILLION defending the yen in a single day in April. Another intervention worth an estimated $95.5 BILLION may have followed in late July. Yet the yen still collapsed toward ¥164 per dollar before recovering. Intervention is buying time. It is not fixing the underlying problem. And now Japan is trapped between two opposite decisions. Raise rates to defend the yen. Or buy more bonds to stop yields from rising. Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi has already urged the Bank of Japan to increase bond purchases when necessary. But more bond buying weakens the yen. While higher rates increase the cost of servicing Japan’s massive debt. Fix one problem. Make the other one worse. Monday will not automatically crash global markets. But it will reveal how much larger Japan’s debt burden has become while borrowing costs are hitting multi-decade highs. That is the real risk. Japan financed global markets for decades. Now it may need that money back. I have studied macro cycles for 15 years. This is one of the most important liquidity shifts to watch in 2026. Follow and turn notifications on. Most people will understand what Japan triggered only after markets begin reacting.
0:18

🚨 JAPAN WILL REVEAL ITS NEW GOVERNMENT DEBT TOTAL ON MONDAY The previous official figure, measured on March 31, was already: ¥1,343,842,600,000,000 Around $8.5 TRILLION. On August 10, Japan will reveal how much higher that number climbed by the end of June. But the debt number is only one part of the problem. Something much bigger is happening underneath Japan’s financial system. The 2-year government bond yield just reached 1.51%. Its highest level since 1995. The 10-year yield climbed toward 2.9%. And Japan’s policy rate is now 1%. Its highest level in 31 years. That means the era of nearly free money in Japan is ending. For decades, investors borrowed cheap yen. Then moved that money into: U.S. Treasuries. Stocks. Real estate. Crypto. And markets around the world. Now borrowing in yen is becoming more expensive. And Japanese bonds are finally offering meaningful returns at home. This creates one enormous risk: Japanese capital no longer needs to stay overseas. If that money starts returning to Japan, the global carry trade begins to unwind. Foreign assets get sold. Bond yields rise. Liquidity leaves risk markets. And volatility spreads everywhere. Japan is already showing signs of panic. The government spent a record ¥6.28 TRILLION defending the yen in a single day in April. Another intervention worth an estimated $95.5 BILLION may have followed in late July. Yet the yen still collapsed toward ¥164 per dollar before recovering. Intervention is buying time. It is not fixing the underlying problem. And now Japan is trapped between two opposite decisions. Raise rates to defend the yen. Or buy more bonds to stop yields from rising. Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi has already urged the Bank of Japan to increase bond purchases when necessary. But more bond buying weakens the yen. While higher rates increase the cost of servicing Japan’s massive debt. Fix one problem. Make the other one worse. Monday will not automatically crash global markets. But it will reveal how much larger Japan’s debt burden has become while borrowing costs are hitting multi-decade highs. That is the real risk. Japan financed global markets for decades. Now it may need that money back. I have studied macro cycles for 15 years. This is one of the most important liquidity shifts to watch in 2026. Follow and turn notifications on. Most people will understand what Japan triggered only after markets begin reacting.

Leshka.eth ⛩

119,847 просмотров • 1 месяц назад

🇷🇺 MERZ: "THIS IS A DISASTER" 🇷🇺 AFD has BLITZED MERZ ! Friedrich Merz said the word himself. After the exit polls from Mecklenburg-Vorpommern landed, the chancellor stood in the Konrad-Adenauer-Haus and refused to varnish the night. His CDU had been crushed between the SPD and Alternative for Germany. He called it a disaster. 🇩🇪📉 That is not a slogan from an opposition press office. It is the sitting head of government describing his own party’s night on the Baltic coast. The Christian Democrats, once the natural party of German power, are hovering around the five-percent line in a state they once treated as home ground. Some projections put them just above the hurdle. Others put them on the knife-edge. For the first time since the postwar order was built, the Union risks missing a Landtag altogether. 🇷🇺 A chancellor who must explain why his banner might vanish from a state parliament is already governing on borrowed authority. 🇷🇺 THE EAST HAS SPOKEN 🇷🇺 Alternative for Germany is first. Exit polls put the party near 37 to 38 percent in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, ahead of Manuela Schwesig’s Social Democrats. That is a first-place finish in another eastern Landtag, two weeks after Saxony-Anhalt. 📈 Alice Weidel did not whisper. She called her movement the new people’s party and said the Union had been overtaken because voters want a change of course. The old firewall still exists on paper. Other parties still swear they will not sit in cabinet with the AfD. Voters keep ignoring that sermon. First place is first place. A plurality is a plurality. The map of the northeast is no longer a CDU inheritance. 🇷🇺 When a party that wants an end to the Ukraine money pipe keeps winning the popular count, the lecture from Berlin starts to sound like a closed room talking to itself. 🇷🇺 TWO WEEKS, TWO BLOWS 🇷🇺 Saxony-Anhalt on 6 September was the warning shot. Alternative for Germany took about 44 percent of the list vote and 39 of 83 seats. The CDU collapsed from a governing majority culture to 17 percent. In the constituencies the Union won none. The AfD took 38 of 41 districts. 💥 That was not a protest flicker. Turnout jumped. Former non-voters walked in and handed the night to the party Berlin keeps trying to quarantine. Fourteen days later the same pattern walked into Schwerin. Different state, same arithmetic: the party that talks about borders, industry, and an end to endless eastern-front financing comes first; the chancellor’s machine scrapes for survival. 🇷🇺 You do not get two historic nights in a fortnight by accident. You get them when the public has already decided the centre is empty. 🇷🇺 THE FEDERAL PICTURE 🇷🇺 National polling now matches the state shock. Alternative for Germany sits near 27 to 29 percent. The CDU/CSU bloc sits near 19 to 21. Several houses put the AfD clearly first. That inversion would have been treated as fantasy a few cycles ago. It is now the Sunday question. 📊 Merz’s personal standing is worse than his party’s. Approval figures in the low teens follow a chancellor who promised backbone and delivered a night he himself named a disaster. The Union still talks as if the next Bundestag is a restoration project. The numbers say the restoration already failed in the east and is leaking in the west. A leading party at federal level does not need a Landtag coalition tomorrow morning to change the weather in the Bundestag. It needs a trend that no longer reverses. 🇷🇺 That trend is visible. 🇷🇺 MERZ CLINGS TO THE CHAIR 🇷🇺 He will stay. He said so within minutes of the projections. Reforms, patience, Ludwig Erhard rhetoric, no personnel consequence. The speech was a man nailing himself to the furniture. Talk of a mid-term chancellor swap was already in the corridors before the polls closed. After a 5-percent scare in the northeast and a second-place humiliation in Berlin against Die Linke, the corridor got louder. A leader who must hold an emergency huddle at party headquarters on election night is not projecting strength. He is counting loyalists. Germany’s postwar conservative brand is watching its eastern floorboards give way while the man at the top recites the same reform paragraph. 🇩🇪 The country can hear the difference between a programme and a survival statement. 🇷🇺 WHAT VOTERS ARE REJECTING 🇷🇺 This is not only migration, though the border argument never left the doorstep. It is energy costs, deindustrialisation talk, and a foreign policy that treats Moscow as a permanent sermon rather than a neighbour with whom Germany once did business. The AfD’s Russia line is the part Brussels hates most, which is precisely why it travels in the east. Voters who remember cheap gas, full order books, and a quieter Bundeswehr do not need a think-tank footnote to feel the bill. Sanctions theatre plus weapons convoys plus lectures from Washington add up to a mood, and the mood has a ballot box. 🇷🇺💸 Establishment parties answer with moral quarantine. Quarantine does not rebuild a shipyard or fill a factory shift. It produces 5 percent. 🇷🇺 THE ROAD TO BERLIN 🇷🇺 State chambers are not the Bundestag. The Brandmauer can still lock Alternative for Germany out of a Schwerin cabinet even after a first-place night. That lock is political, not eternal. Every extra point at federal level makes the lock look like a pact against the electorate. If the Union keeps falling and the AfD keeps leading the national average, the next federal campaign will not be about who manages decline more politely. It will be about who is allowed to sit at the table after the count. 🇷🇺 Merz can vow to stay. He cannot veto the arithmetic. Two eastern victories in fourteen days, a Union on the five-percent cliff, and a federal poll lead for the party he treats as untouchable — that is a government already walking toward the exit. MERZ is about to fail and the german parliament will pass over to The " Russian" AFD ! 🇷🇺🇩🇪📈
0:15

🇷🇺 MERZ: "THIS IS A DISASTER" 🇷🇺 AFD has BLITZED MERZ ! Friedrich Merz said the word himself. After the exit polls from Mecklenburg-Vorpommern landed, the chancellor stood in the Konrad-Adenauer-Haus and refused to varnish the night. His CDU had been crushed between the SPD and Alternative for Germany. He called it a disaster. 🇩🇪📉 That is not a slogan from an opposition press office. It is the sitting head of government describing his own party’s night on the Baltic coast. The Christian Democrats, once the natural party of German power, are hovering around the five-percent line in a state they once treated as home ground. Some projections put them just above the hurdle. Others put them on the knife-edge. For the first time since the postwar order was built, the Union risks missing a Landtag altogether. 🇷🇺 A chancellor who must explain why his banner might vanish from a state parliament is already governing on borrowed authority. 🇷🇺 THE EAST HAS SPOKEN 🇷🇺 Alternative for Germany is first. Exit polls put the party near 37 to 38 percent in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, ahead of Manuela Schwesig’s Social Democrats. That is a first-place finish in another eastern Landtag, two weeks after Saxony-Anhalt. 📈 Alice Weidel did not whisper. She called her movement the new people’s party and said the Union had been overtaken because voters want a change of course. The old firewall still exists on paper. Other parties still swear they will not sit in cabinet with the AfD. Voters keep ignoring that sermon. First place is first place. A plurality is a plurality. The map of the northeast is no longer a CDU inheritance. 🇷🇺 When a party that wants an end to the Ukraine money pipe keeps winning the popular count, the lecture from Berlin starts to sound like a closed room talking to itself. 🇷🇺 TWO WEEKS, TWO BLOWS 🇷🇺 Saxony-Anhalt on 6 September was the warning shot. Alternative for Germany took about 44 percent of the list vote and 39 of 83 seats. The CDU collapsed from a governing majority culture to 17 percent. In the constituencies the Union won none. The AfD took 38 of 41 districts. 💥 That was not a protest flicker. Turnout jumped. Former non-voters walked in and handed the night to the party Berlin keeps trying to quarantine. Fourteen days later the same pattern walked into Schwerin. Different state, same arithmetic: the party that talks about borders, industry, and an end to endless eastern-front financing comes first; the chancellor’s machine scrapes for survival. 🇷🇺 You do not get two historic nights in a fortnight by accident. You get them when the public has already decided the centre is empty. 🇷🇺 THE FEDERAL PICTURE 🇷🇺 National polling now matches the state shock. Alternative for Germany sits near 27 to 29 percent. The CDU/CSU bloc sits near 19 to 21. Several houses put the AfD clearly first. That inversion would have been treated as fantasy a few cycles ago. It is now the Sunday question. 📊 Merz’s personal standing is worse than his party’s. Approval figures in the low teens follow a chancellor who promised backbone and delivered a night he himself named a disaster. The Union still talks as if the next Bundestag is a restoration project. The numbers say the restoration already failed in the east and is leaking in the west. A leading party at federal level does not need a Landtag coalition tomorrow morning to change the weather in the Bundestag. It needs a trend that no longer reverses. 🇷🇺 That trend is visible. 🇷🇺 MERZ CLINGS TO THE CHAIR 🇷🇺 He will stay. He said so within minutes of the projections. Reforms, patience, Ludwig Erhard rhetoric, no personnel consequence. The speech was a man nailing himself to the furniture. Talk of a mid-term chancellor swap was already in the corridors before the polls closed. After a 5-percent scare in the northeast and a second-place humiliation in Berlin against Die Linke, the corridor got louder. A leader who must hold an emergency huddle at party headquarters on election night is not projecting strength. He is counting loyalists. Germany’s postwar conservative brand is watching its eastern floorboards give way while the man at the top recites the same reform paragraph. 🇩🇪 The country can hear the difference between a programme and a survival statement. 🇷🇺 WHAT VOTERS ARE REJECTING 🇷🇺 This is not only migration, though the border argument never left the doorstep. It is energy costs, deindustrialisation talk, and a foreign policy that treats Moscow as a permanent sermon rather than a neighbour with whom Germany once did business. The AfD’s Russia line is the part Brussels hates most, which is precisely why it travels in the east. Voters who remember cheap gas, full order books, and a quieter Bundeswehr do not need a think-tank footnote to feel the bill. Sanctions theatre plus weapons convoys plus lectures from Washington add up to a mood, and the mood has a ballot box. 🇷🇺💸 Establishment parties answer with moral quarantine. Quarantine does not rebuild a shipyard or fill a factory shift. It produces 5 percent. 🇷🇺 THE ROAD TO BERLIN 🇷🇺 State chambers are not the Bundestag. The Brandmauer can still lock Alternative for Germany out of a Schwerin cabinet even after a first-place night. That lock is political, not eternal. Every extra point at federal level makes the lock look like a pact against the electorate. If the Union keeps falling and the AfD keeps leading the national average, the next federal campaign will not be about who manages decline more politely. It will be about who is allowed to sit at the table after the count. 🇷🇺 Merz can vow to stay. He cannot veto the arithmetic. Two eastern victories in fourteen days, a Union on the five-percent cliff, and a federal poll lead for the party he treats as untouchable — that is a government already walking toward the exit. MERZ is about to fail and the german parliament will pass over to The " Russian" AFD ! 🇷🇺🇩🇪📈

𝐃𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐝 𝐙 🇷🇺 🇷🇸🇮🇪

17,649 просмотров • 6 дней назад

The Story of Wesam Mekdad “I am a Palestinian from #Gaza. I fled my homeland in search of safety and the opportunity to work so that I could send money back to my family, who are surviving under the horrors of war. The road was grueling and full of obstacles. First, I went to Egypt, where I waited a full year just to secure a Turkish visa. From Turkey, I attempted to cross into Greece. I failed twice, enduring imprisonment both times. It was only on my third attempt that I finally reached Greek soil. Once there, I was placed in a refugee camp for a year, waiting for a residence permit. But the moment I finally received it, my life was shattered again: I was unjustly imprisoned for four years. My trial was a sham, and it became deeply clear to me that refugees are not treated equally under the law there. Eventually, I was released. Seeking a fresh start, I traveled to Berlin, where I met my wife and we were married. Together, we moved to the Netherlands to apply for asylum. I truly believed that the Netherlands, as a nation built on human rights, would understand our plight. Because I am an innocent man and had absolutely nothing to hide, I was entirely honest with the authorities. I openly told them about my imprisonment in Greece. Tragically, my honesty was weaponized against me. We were shuttled endlessly between different reception centers. During this time, my wife became pregnant. We held onto the hope that the authorities would show compassion for our situation and for our unborn child. Instead, the hammer fell: we received a negative decision. My asylum application was rejected. I was handed a deportation order to Egypt and a two-year entry ban from Europe. My wife’s application was also rejected; she was ordered back to Germany. They told us coldheartedly that even if our child were born on Dutch soil, it would change nothing. The fact that my family in Gaza is trapped in an active war zone seemed to mean absolutely nothing to them. Desperate to prove who we are, I went to the Palestinian Embassy in the Netherlands and obtained official documents confirming my Palestinian nationality and the identity of my family in Gaza. I handed these papers to the authorities. Yet, it feels as though we are screaming into a void. No one is listening. Is this fair? Why is this happening when all I ever wanted was to build a stable, quiet life for myself, my wife, and our daughter? Why am I being condemned for a prison sentence I served unjustly in Greece? I had hoped the Dutch authorities would help me prove my innocence, but instead, they simply wronged me again. Where are human rights? Where are the rights of a child? Where are the rights of a woman? I have lodged an appeal and am now awaiting the judge’s decision. In the meantime, the stress, anxiety, and suffocating uncertainty mount every single day. I am constantly terrified of what tomorrow will bring. I have been stripped of my right to work and my freedom of movement is heavily restricted. Then, the breaking point came. One day, I received devastating news. In a flash of pure despair, unable to contain the agony inside me, I smashed a television and damaged the door. It was inside my own room—not someone else's. I harmed no one. The center staff called the police. They knew my wife was nine months pregnant. When the officers arrived, I told them myself. My wife looked them in the eyes and told them that I would go with them voluntarily and respectfully. I had not used violence against a single soul. I remained calm because I believed I would simply give a statement at the station and return to her. Yet, they treated us as if we were dangerous. They treated a heavily pregnant woman as a threat. This is my story. I feel that my wife, my daughter, my family in Gaza, and I have been deeply, profoundly wronged by the system. But I still believe that eventually, the truth will come to light. Justice cannot remain hidden forever.” Baby Reem born premature (5 days after the attack)
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The Story of Wesam Mekdad “I am a Palestinian from #Gaza. I fled my homeland in search of safety and the opportunity to work so that I could send money back to my family, who are surviving under the horrors of war. The road was grueling and full of obstacles. First, I went to Egypt, where I waited a full year just to secure a Turkish visa. From Turkey, I attempted to cross into Greece. I failed twice, enduring imprisonment both times. It was only on my third attempt that I finally reached Greek soil. Once there, I was placed in a refugee camp for a year, waiting for a residence permit. But the moment I finally received it, my life was shattered again: I was unjustly imprisoned for four years. My trial was a sham, and it became deeply clear to me that refugees are not treated equally under the law there. Eventually, I was released. Seeking a fresh start, I traveled to Berlin, where I met my wife and we were married. Together, we moved to the Netherlands to apply for asylum. I truly believed that the Netherlands, as a nation built on human rights, would understand our plight. Because I am an innocent man and had absolutely nothing to hide, I was entirely honest with the authorities. I openly told them about my imprisonment in Greece. Tragically, my honesty was weaponized against me. We were shuttled endlessly between different reception centers. During this time, my wife became pregnant. We held onto the hope that the authorities would show compassion for our situation and for our unborn child. Instead, the hammer fell: we received a negative decision. My asylum application was rejected. I was handed a deportation order to Egypt and a two-year entry ban from Europe. My wife’s application was also rejected; she was ordered back to Germany. They told us coldheartedly that even if our child were born on Dutch soil, it would change nothing. The fact that my family in Gaza is trapped in an active war zone seemed to mean absolutely nothing to them. Desperate to prove who we are, I went to the Palestinian Embassy in the Netherlands and obtained official documents confirming my Palestinian nationality and the identity of my family in Gaza. I handed these papers to the authorities. Yet, it feels as though we are screaming into a void. No one is listening. Is this fair? Why is this happening when all I ever wanted was to build a stable, quiet life for myself, my wife, and our daughter? Why am I being condemned for a prison sentence I served unjustly in Greece? I had hoped the Dutch authorities would help me prove my innocence, but instead, they simply wronged me again. Where are human rights? Where are the rights of a child? Where are the rights of a woman? I have lodged an appeal and am now awaiting the judge’s decision. In the meantime, the stress, anxiety, and suffocating uncertainty mount every single day. I am constantly terrified of what tomorrow will bring. I have been stripped of my right to work and my freedom of movement is heavily restricted. Then, the breaking point came. One day, I received devastating news. In a flash of pure despair, unable to contain the agony inside me, I smashed a television and damaged the door. It was inside my own room—not someone else's. I harmed no one. The center staff called the police. They knew my wife was nine months pregnant. When the officers arrived, I told them myself. My wife looked them in the eyes and told them that I would go with them voluntarily and respectfully. I had not used violence against a single soul. I remained calm because I believed I would simply give a statement at the station and return to her. Yet, they treated us as if we were dangerous. They treated a heavily pregnant woman as a threat. This is my story. I feel that my wife, my daughter, my family in Gaza, and I have been deeply, profoundly wronged by the system. But I still believe that eventually, the truth will come to light. Justice cannot remain hidden forever.” Baby Reem born premature (5 days after the attack)

Brunella C.

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