When they come for one of us, they come for all of us.A Jewish father walking home from synagogue on Pico Boulevard was followed, ambushed, choked, thrown to the ground, and told “Free Palestine” as he lay there terrified for his life. This is not “just” an attack on Jews. It is an attack on the right of every American to walk freely to worship. It is an attack on safety in our neighborhoods. It is an attack on the values that make this country worth defending — freedom, decency, and the refusal to let hate dictate who belongs. Antisemitism is not a Jewish problem. It is an American problem. It is a human problem. When hatred is allowed to target one group with impunity, it eventually comes for everyone. We will not be silent. We will not be divided. We will not normalize this. To every community, every leader, every citizen of goodwill: Stand up. Speak out. Show up. Protect your neighbors. Reject the poison of hate in all its forms. Demand justice without excuses.Hate has no home here. Not in Los Angeles. Not in America. Not anywhere. We stand together — or we fall divided. The choice is ours.#WhenTheyComeForOne# #HateHasNoHome# #StandUnited# #NeverAgain# #ProtectOurCommunities# Hate crime charge filed in Pico-Robertson attack

Today is World Refugee Day. In these profoundly unstable and turbulent times, more than 120 million people have been forced from their homes. This marks the highest level of displacement since World War II, making it one of the largest refugee and humanitarian crises ever recorded in human history. Even now, more than a quarter of the way into the 21st century, I find myself asking: Why are we still unable to learn from the tragedies and mistakes of our past and choose a better path? Why has humanity not yet achieved the growth of consciousness and spirit that our world so desperately needs? I can feel nothing but deep frustration and sorrow. Refugees are victims of war, conflict, and violence—people whose lives have been torn apart and who have been forced to leave their homes through no choice of their own. No one ever chooses to become a refugee. Why can the world not extend a greater hand of compassion to them? To those living in refugee camps, to those struggling to survive after seeking safety in foreign lands and to those suffering through the uncertainty of asylum applications, I believe far greater support and care should be provided. They are not strangers. They are our brothers, sisters, and family members who share this planet with us, regardless of race, ethnicity, nationality, or faith. Until the day they can regain their lives and safely return to their homelands, I will continue to support them and will never stop doing what I can to help. I deeply hope that humanity can break free from the chains of hatred, anger, and violence and finally attain a greater level of consciousness and spiritual maturity. Now, more than ever, the world must become kinder. The world must become more peaceful. SGZ Photo by Keiko TANABE.

He spent his early years feeling completely invisible, deeply insecure about his looks. Long before he was George Michael, he was just Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou—a chubby, incredibly shy boy growing up in London with thick glasses and unruly hair. He felt completely disconnected from the cool kids at school. Yet, inside this quiet boy was a massive heart and a beautiful, hidden world made entirely of melodies. The warmth of George Michael’s childhood stems from a deep, quiet bond he shared with his mother, Lesley. While his father, a hardworking Greek-immigrant restaurateur, believed life was only about strict discipline and manual labor, his mother saw the gentle soul in her son. When George was about seven years old, he was gifted a secondhand tape recorder. It became his most prized possession. He would sit in his room for hours, recording his voice over radio tracks. One afternoon, after hearing his father complain that music would never pay the bills, Lesley walked into George's room, kissed the top of his head, and whispered, "Don't listen to him, darling. You keep singing. Your voice is going to make people happy one day." That small, maternal shield gave George the emotional safety net he needed to keep dreaming. Living in a traditional immigrant household meant that expectations were heavy. His father wanted him to pursue a stable, conventional career and viewed any artistic hobby with deep suspicion. To please his family while secretly funding his true passion, George took on odd jobs as a teenager. He worked long hours as a janitor sweeping floors at a local cinema, and later found a job as a DJ in local pubs, collecting vinyl records with every spare penny he earned. He would stare at the album covers of Motown legends and Elton John, studying their expressions and wondering if someone so painfully introverted could ever belong in that world. His internal world was completely transformed when he was about eight years old by a freak accident. He fell down a flight of stairs and suffered a severe concussion. In later years, George often spoke about this moment as a bizarre, mystical turning point. He claimed that after the head injury, his brain chemistry seemed to shift, and he suddenly became completely obsessed with music. Melodies started playing constantly in his head, and he began to possess an absolute, intuitive understanding of vocal harmonies that he never had before. Despite this new internal gift, his outward confidence remained incredibly low. He absolutely hated his natural, tightly curled hair and spent frustrating hours in front of the bathroom mirror trying to blow-dry it straight, usually ending up with a frizzy mess due to the damp London weather. He began writing lyrics on the backs of bus tickets and school notebooks, using music as a private sanctuary where his appearance didn't matter. By the time George was seventeen, that shy boy had developed a musical genius so fierce that he wrote the entire melody and saxophone hook for "Careless Whisper" while riding a regular city bus to his part-time job at the cinema. He had transformed years of childhood loneliness, family pressure, and teenage insecurity into a universal language of love and vulnerability. Because he knew exactly what it felt like to be vulnerable and rejected, that little boy grew up to possess an incredibly big heart. When he achieved unfathomable wealth and fame, he never forgot the struggle of ordinary people. He spent his entire adult life secretly helping thousands of individuals without ever asking for recognition. He would quietly call into television shows to pay off the medical debts of strangers, tip struggling waitresses tens of thousands of dollars to cover their college fees, and fund homeless shelters anonymously. He gave away millions in total silence, strictly demanding that his generosity never be leaked to the press while he was alive. We love to remember George Michael as the flawless, confident god of pop, but his greatness didn't come from a place of vanity. It came from that soft-hearted, clumsy boy who was loved by his mother, found his escape in the notes playing inside his head, and quietly healed the world with his kindness. >We Are Human Angels< Authors Awakening the Human Spirit We are the authors of 'We Are Human Angels,' the book that has spread a new vision of the human experience and has been spontaneously translated into 14 languages by readers.

Made with Seedance 2.0 Prompt used: 1–2s Inside a cold blue-gray Gothic church, towering stone pillars rise toward the sky. Faint, cool light filters through the stained glass. A white-haired woman with her eyes closed and head bowed stands before the altar. She wears a black-and-white nun-like robe, a small red vertical mark on her forehead, and a silver cross pendant around her neck. 2–3.5s Her eyes slowly open, expression cold and restrained. A golden holy grail descends into the frame, its surface churning with surging red light that illuminates her face and fingers. 3.5–5s She cups the grail with both hands and drinks. Red mist spills from the rim, a red core ignites on her chest, and the cold blue color palette is overtaken by a bloody crimson glow. 5–6.5s The black-and-white robe is torn apart by red energy. Silver spiked armor rapidly forms across her shoulders, chest, and arms. A deep crimson cape billows open behind her back. 6.5–8s A silver crown of thorns, dotted with dark red roses, forms above her head. She rises, transforming into a dark battle valkyrie in silver and deep crimson, her chest core glowing brightly. 8–9.5s Red metal shards and light converge in her hand to form a spear or halberd, its blade glowing with a blood-red hue. She raises the weapon at a low angle, the armor reflecting the church's cold light. 9.5–11s The altar at the far end of the church shatters. A giant shadowy boss emerges from the rubble and black mist, clad in broken black armor with a red-and-black core in its chest and tattered bone wings extending from its back. 11–12.5s The boss swings its massive clawed arm, sending stone pillars crumbling and candles sputtering out. She charges forward, her red-and-black cape trailing, the spear leaving a red trail as it scrapes the ground. 12.5–14s She leaps, spins, and thrusts. The red spear cuts through the mist, piercing the boss's shoulder armor and erupting in silver sparks and red-and-black energy shards. 14–15s The boss's chest core flares bright, ready to counter. She grips the spear with both hands, driving it straight for the core. The frame freezes on the moment the spear tip is about to strike, no subtitles or dialogue shown.

He walked into Mecca disguised as an Afghan doctor, took a spear through the face in Somalia, and translated the Kama Sutra into English before dinner. Sir Richard Francis Burton was the closest thing Victorian England ever produced to a comic-book character. He spoke twenty-nine languages fluently. He could break the back of a new one, he claimed, in six weeks. He was a master swordsman. He was reputed to have fought more men in single combat than any other British officer of his generation. He had "panther eyes" and a moustache that terrified junior lieutenants. His fellow Bombay Army officers gave him the nickname Ruffian Dick — not affectionately. He was born in Torquay, England, on March 19, 1821, to an Anglo-Irish army officer and an English mother. He spent his childhood on the continental European boarding-school circuit — France, Italy, back to France. By the time he was fifteen he was fluent in five languages and had been in fistfights on three countries' worth of playgrounds. At Oxford he lasted less than two years. On his first morning at Trinity College, another undergraduate walked past him in the courtyard and made a comment about his moustache. Burton challenged him to a duel on the spot. The other student wisely declined. Burton spent the next eighteen months treating the entire Oxford establishment with open contempt. When the dons caught him attending a horse race in defiance of a specific college rule, they expelled him for good. He drove out of Oxford in a horse-drawn carriage, blowing a bugle at the professors as he left. He joined the East India Company's Bombay Army the same summer. They sent him to India. He spent the next seven years posted to the 18th Regiment of Bombay Native Infantry in Gujarat and Sindh. His fellow officers hated him. He preferred the company of the locals. He learned Hindustani, Gujarati, Marathi, Punjabi, Sindhi, Saraiki, Persian, and Arabic, and passed six formal army language examinations. He kept forty tame monkeys in his officer's quarters, trying to reconstruct their vocabulary. He claimed to have identified sixty distinct "words" before his commanding officer forced him to release them. He worked undercover for the army in the brothels of Karachi. In 1853, he disappeared. The Bombay Army knew he had taken leave. They did not know that Burton had grown a full beard, memorized the Quran in Arabic, adopted the identity of an Afghan doctor named Hajji Mirza Abdullah, and joined a caravan of Muslim pilgrims heading east. Non-Muslims caught inside Mecca were executed on sight. Burton walked the entire Hajj pilgrimage circuit. He drank from the Zamzam well. He touched the Kaaba. He returned to his tent each night and mapped the interior of the Great Mosque from memory, drawing floor plans the British military had wanted for a century. He came home alive, a Hajji. Two years later he was back on the Horn of Africa, leading a Royal Geographical Society expedition to find the source of the Nile. On the morning of April 19, 1855, at approximately 2:30 AM, two hundred Somali warriors of the Isaaq clan attacked his camp on the Berbera coastal plain in what is now northern Somalia. Burton grabbed his sabre and fought back in the dark. In the chaos, a Somali warrior drove a javelin through the left side of his jaw. The metal shaft entered his left cheek and came out the right side. His mouth was pinned shut by an iron spear the length of his forearm. He fought his way out of the camp anyway. Lieutenant William Stroyan, one of his fellow officers, was killed in the same attack. John Hanning Speke, Burton's second-in-command, was wounded eleven times. Burton escaped on foot with the javelin still lodged through his face. He carried the visible scar on his left cheek for the next thirty-five years. He was back in the field within a year. In 1858, still healing, he trekked with Speke deep into the interior of East Africa. They became the first Europeans to see Lake Tanganyika. Speke pressed on alone and discovered Lake Victoria, which he believed was the true source of the Nile. The two men returned to England as bitter enemies. Speke died of a gunshot wound the afternoon before their public debate at the Royal Geographical Society was to be held. It was officially ruled an accident. Burton always believed Speke had killed himself rather than face him. Burton took a diplomatic posting instead. He spent the next thirty years as a British consul — in Fernando Pó off West Africa, then Santos in Brazil, then Damascus, and finally Trieste on the Adriatic coast. He wrote. Across those thirty years he authored forty-three books and translated thirty more. He gave English readers the first unabridged translation of One Thousand and One Nights — the Arabian Nights — in sixteen volumes between 1885 and 1888. He translated the Kama Sutra from Sanskrit in 1883. He translated The Perfumed Garden from Arabic in 1886. He translated Camões' Lusiads, the Portuguese national epic, in 1880. He wrote three books on swordsmanship: A New System of Sword Exercise for Infantry in 1876, The Book of the Sword in 1884, and The Sentiment of the Sword, published after his death. He wrote poetry. Geography. Anthropology. A whole book on falconry. He died at his consular residence in Trieste on the morning of October 20, 1890, of a massive heart attack. He was sixty-nine. His widow Isabel Arundell Burton — a devout Catholic who had spent thirty years married to the least Catholic man in the British Empire — arranged last rites over his still-warm body. Then she took his forty years of private journals, his unpublished translations, and the entire supplementary appendix to The Perfumed Garden, and burned them all in the garden behind the consulate. She said she was protecting his soul. Historians have been trying to reconstruct what was in those journals for a hundred and thirty-five years. The scar on his left cheek was visible in the last photograph taken of him. He never had it removed. If his story stayed with you, drop one word in the comments — Ruffian, Berbera, Mecca, anything that comes to mind. Tap the like button so more people find this story. The page is small. Every reaction helps us keep telling stories like this one.

My hatred grows everyday for @bucees Now they are suing the local Beaver’s Mini Mart in “Beavercreek OH.” The mini mart was there before Buc-ee’s ever opened 1 location in OH. Many businesses in the town use a beaver as its logo.

Christianity isn’t compatible with genuine racial hatred. I advocate for freedom of speech, Remigration, and ethno nationalism. But it’s important to remember who’s side we are on. Religion > Race ✝️ (This isn’t me walking back on my rhetoric, I’ve always held this postion)