Passant Ewiger

BIG: Israeli “investors” bought around 70% of the village of Trozena in southern Cyprus, taking control of much of the land and many buildings in the area. The purchases sparked controversy after reports that private security restricted access to parts of the village and stopped visitors from entering certain areas. Cypriot authorities said the village remains under state control and people can enter.

🇵🇸 Meet "Abu Fathi" A Martyrs Story Ibrahim al-Nabulsi: The Lion of Nablus, A Ghost in the Mountain of Fire ✍️ By Taryn Zhar ~ Brummy 🎥Video Edit by Taryn Zhar ~ Brummy In the ancient streets of Nablus, where the air still hums with the echoes of the Second Intifada, Ibrahim al-Nabulsi, known lovingly as as 'Abu Fathi' was born on the 13th Oct 2003—a child of resistance, forged in the crucible of Zionist raids and the unyielding spirit of a city that refuses to kneel. His sharp, stoic eyes and narrow jaw, set like the blade of a keffiyeh, became the face of defiance against the apartheid machine of savage occupiers, the spineless compradors of the Palestinian Authority (PA), and the blood-soaked empire of the United States and their allies, that funnels billions upon billions into the endless slaughter of Palestinians. Martyred on August 9, 2022, at the age of 19, Ibrahim wasn't just a fighter, he was a warrior; he was a thunderclap, a 'Fuck You' to occupation and supremacy, birthing the Lions' Den and igniting a generation of the bravest of youth, He declare: "enough, we will not die quietly. We are going to be martyred and I hope all the Palestinians will follow us in our way of resisting," he whispered in his final voice note, a plea wrapped in fire that echoes through the olive-scarred hills for eternity. His story isn't history—it's a call to arms, a reminder that the PA's jails and enemy drones, bombs and bullets can't silence a lion's roar. Roots in Nablus: A Boy Amid the Rubble Nablus has always been Palestine's mountain of fire, a cradle of rebellion since the Great Arab Revolt of 1936, where peasants like Blessed Sheikh Izzedine al-Qassam first armed against the colonial boot. Ibrahim grew up in its shadow, in the Balata refugee camp's labyrinth of narrow alleys, where enemy tanks rolled in like thieves in the night, stealing lives and futures. Born amid the Al-Aqsa Intifada's just fury, he knew no childhood untouched by grief: friends gunned down at checkpoints, family murdered, homes bulldozed for settler sprawl, the PA's secret police lurking like jackals to drag away any whisper of defiance. His father, a man of quiet resolve in the Palestinian security forces, must have seen the storm brewing in his son's eyes—eyes that mirrored the defiance of ancestors etched into Nablus's white stone walls. It was at the tender ange of 15 that the forge truly heated. Arrested by the PA alongside his boyhood brothers Muhammad Dakhil and Adham Mabrouka, Ibrahim endured the beatings, torture and humiliations in Ramallah's black-site cells, where screams echo like prayers unanswered. Released, scarred but unbroken, they didn't bend to the PA's leash, not for a second—they forged the Nablus Brigade, a cross-factional fist of youth from Fatah's military wing, Hamas, Islamic Jihad, and the PFLP: no masters, only the homeland. He soon became a prominent Commander of Al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigades. Ibrahim's world was a quiet rebellion against despair. Described by those who knew him as humble, gentle, kind, generous, loyal beyond words, a great listener with the most beautiful and heartfelt smile that hid the weight of a thousand raids. He would gather his Brothers in arms and share tea in hidden courtyards always finishing their planning by, reciting lines from the Quran, and Palestinian poets like Mahmoud Darwish', his Grandfather's favourite "The Earth Is Closing on Us" a visceral cry against siege and erasure: The Earth is closing on us pushing us through the last passage and we tear off our limbs to pass through. The Earth is squeezing us. I wish we were its wheat so we could die and live again. I wish the Earth was our mother so she'd be kind to us. I wish we were pictures on the rocks for our dreams to carry as mirrors. We saw the faces of those who will throw our children out of the window of this last space. Our star will hang up mirrors. Where should we go after the last frontiers? Where should the birds fly after the last sky? Where should the plants sleep after the last breath of air? We will write our names with scarlet steam. We will cut off the hand of the song to be finished by our flesh. We will die here, here in the last passage. And here our blood will plant its olive tree. His love for his mother was fierce, an anchor in the storm—her face, lined with the Nakba's endless sorrow, the one he invoked in his dying breath. Comrades spoke of his fearlessness without bravado; he didn't chase glory, but it chased him. In a city where children play amid martyrs' posters and rubble, Ibrahim was the big brother who taught them to dream of Al-Quds, not just survive it. He was brigade's heartbeat: bonds with Ashraf Mubaslat and Islam Subuh, forged in shared escapes from the occupiers ambushes, a brotherhood that turned boys into lions. Even as drones buzzed overhead, he dreamt of, and planned a life beyond the wall: a free Palestine where his momma's tears could dry at last, where youth like him could build a free and liberated existence, not just bury it. The fighting Mans Guerrilla: Heart and Rifle as One Ibrahim wielded no manifesto, but his actions were poetry in motion—a living rebuke to the PA's capitulation and occupiers ethnic cleansing. He rejected the Oslo ghosts that chain Palestinians to negotiation tables stained with their own blood, tables bankrolled by the U.S.'s $500 million annual slush fund to the PA, money that buys batons and riffles for dissenters while settlements devour land in the West Bank. In 2022 alone, enemy Jewpremacists authorities advanced and approved some 30,000 housing units in the occupied West Bank, including East Jerusalem, accelerating the chokehold on Palestinian life. The Nablus Brigade under his shadow struck back: ambushes on patrols, fire on checkpoints, a guerrilla logic drawn from Fanon and the Intifada's ashes. "The Palestinian resistance consists of guerrilla formations whose strategies follow the logic of guerrilla warfare," he might have echoed, had he written it down—his life was the essay. In February 2022, as Operation Break the Wave unleashed hell on Jenin and Nablus, Enemy snipers cut down Mubaslat, Dakhil, and Mabrouka in a hail of betrayal. Ibrahim, grazed by death, slipped the noose and crashed their funeral: rifle raised, piercing the mourners' sea to salute his bloodied brothers. The crowd erupted—Nablus's old city, that ancient fortress, cloaking him like a shroud of stone. Israel thought he was dead; he rose, the Ghost of Nablus. By July, another dawn raid in Al-Yasmina: five hours of bombardment, founders Muhammad al-Azizi and Abdul Rahman Subuh martyred in the rubble. Again, Ibrahim evaded the missiles, emerging at their funeral with rifle aloft, the people's roar his armour. His father's words cut deep: "Ibrahim was hunting them, not the other way around." No fame-seeker, he vanished into the mountains, a spectre haunting Yamam units, his humility the blade that pierced enemy psyops. He trained the young—teens in Balata, dreaming of hybrid war against apartheid's sprawl—linking Nablus's fire to Gaza's siege, where by November 2025, the genocide's toll has surpassed 70,000 lives, with whispers from the rubble hinting at far more buried under U.S.-supplied bomb, sources say it could be over 300,000. To Ibrahim, resistance wasn't vengeance; it was the sacred right of a people facing erasure, a slow painful genocide, a cold calculated ethnic cleansing of Palestinians, a response to the relentless land grabs. "The word is the eternal God’s miracle on the earth," Ibrahim lived, his Telegram whispers—smuggled like contraband—urging unity over factional rot. In Nablus's cafes, proud elders nodded: this boy, son of a PA man, exposed the Authority's complicity, Just as Activist Bassel al-Araj had done before he was murdered in cold blood. On March 6, 2017, Israeli Yamam forces stormed his hideout in al-Bireh, guns blazing for two hours. They riddled his body with 10 bullets—one to the heart—because a thinker with a book is more dangerous to their colonial project than any bomb. The PA’s fingerprints are all over this. Their intelligence leaks, their cowardice, their deal with the devil. I accuse Mahmoud Abbas and his cronies of complicity, of selling our Brothers for a seat at the Zionist table, backed by the USA’s imperialist dollars and their Shin Bet handshakes trading Palestinian rifles for quiet nights. Nizar Banat was another beloved Palestinian political activist and human rights defender, His photo's placed proudly in my X banner. He was one of the most prominent advocates opposing the PA. On June 24, 2021, at 3:30 a.m., the PA’s security forces—trained and funded by Western allies—descended on Nizar’s refuge like a storm of vengeance. 25 officers from the Palestinian Preventive Security and General Intelligence forces stormed his uncle’s home in Hebron. Armed with iron bars, wooden batons, and guns, they set upon Nizar as he lay sleeping. Witnesses recounted a scene of unrelenting brutality: they pinned him to his bed, beating him mercilessly. They struck his head, chest, and limbs, leaving 42 critical injuries—bruises, gaping wounds cut into his flesh, binding marks on his wrists, ankles, and fractured ribs—that told a story of torture. As his family screamed, guns held to their heads, Nizar was dragged away, semi-conscious and bleeding profusely, his body broken under the weight of their rage. Within an hour, the voice of a generation was silenced forever. Betrayed and Besieged: The Lion's Last Stand The PA's shadow loomed long. Those 2018 arrests? Not random—collusion's first kiss, feeding names to Tel Aviv for a pat on the back and American aid. By 2022, Ibrahim was the Jewpremacists most-wanted, a teen with a bounty on his head, but the PA's jails swelled with his would-be recruits, torture cases, no doubt sexual abuse too, piling up as the vile, despicable, machine ground youth into submission. He knew the trap: PA puppets jailing fighters while the occupiers raids daily, killing over 1,000, close to 300 of were children, in the West Bank since October 2023, per UN tallies that undercount the silenced. On August 9, 2022, the noose tightened. A Dawn raid in Nablus's Old City: Yamam stormtroopers cordon a block, trapped him with 32 year old Islam Subuh and 16-year-old Hussein Jamal Taha in a besieged Ottoman-era house "Surrender!" they barked through megaphones. Ibrahim's reply? Bullets, resistance and defiance. Ibrahim's final stand unfolded over several gruelling hours in the narrow, ancient alleys of the Old City—a place that's become a symbol of Palestinian defiance amid relentless raids. Barricaded in the house with outdated weapons and little ammo, he refused to surrender, exchanging fire with enemy troops who surrounded the building. Witnesses describe a fierce gun battle, with bullets riddling the metal doors and walls. Ibrahim's final voice note to his beloved mother, his Resistance Brothers and his Kin, crackling into eternity in his last message home: "I love you all so much Brothers, you are my blood. If I am martyred, guys." "Enough, we will not die quietly. We are going to be martyred and I hope all the Palestinians will follow us in our way of resisting," "I love you my beloved mother with all my heart, you are my everything." "Take care of the homeland after I am gone, and my last wish for you, on your honour: do not drop the rifle – on your honour." "I am surrounded and I am going to my martyrdom." "Pray for me." "Pray for me.". As the standoff dragged on, enemy forces escalated, firing shoulder-launched rockets, missiles and RPGs directly at the house to blast open the doors and force entry. The blasts brought down heavy stonework from the old structure, collapsing the building amid the gunfire. Blood splattered the walls inside, witnesses say it was a blood bath, a grim testament to the chaos of the heinous, evil occupations hatred for Palestinians. Ibrahim survived the initial bombardment—footage captured him barefoot in military fatigues, being rushed to Rafidia Hospital by comrades, surrounded by chanting crowds who stormed the operating room in a bid to save him but to no avail. The intensity of Ibrahim's wounds were horrific, He suffered major gunshot trauma, a gaping bullet wound to the neck and head, causing catastrophic blood loss—visible in videos as he was carried into the hospital, miraculously still breathing. The rocket strikes and ensuing collapse inflicted devastating crushing injuries to his body from falling stonework. No autopsy details were publicly released, but this account paints a picture of prolonged suffering in his final hour. The beloved Commander was pronounced martyred about an hour later, leaving behind a city in mourning and rage. The operation sparked clashes across the city and beyond, injuring at least 60 Palestinians, including children and medics, many in critical condition. At the funeral, Nablus wept—thousands snatching his shroud from PA clutches, his mother seizing his rifle, vowing: "This is my son’s legacy." The PA's cronies—Mahmoud Abbas and his bloodied court—bear fingerprints on this grave, selling heroes for IMF loans while Gaza starves. And the U.S.? Their billions upon billions fed into the arms pipeline to Israel, vetoing UN cries 53 times since '72—imperialists all, architects of this charade. A Legacy of Roaring Flames: The Lions Rise Ibrahim's death didn't dim the fire, it lit embers amongst the youth—it forged the Lions' Den into legend. Two weeks later, their Telegram channel roared to life: 250,000 Comrades subscribing to a charter of unity, crossed rifles guarding Al-Quds, no factional chains. From Balata to Jericho, youth flocked—Gen Z militia, inspired by his viral martyrdom, spawning brigades that strike settlers and snatch back prisoners from PA claws. October 7's flood? Lions' Den answered first, calling factions to converge: a prelude, his ghost whispering. Nablus crowds still greet black-clad fighters with white headbands, children aping their salutes, parents' pride a shield against drones. His final words: "never put down the rifle"—viral scripture, morale's forge: "We are going to die anyway, so we refuse to die silently." The PA weeps crocodile tears; The Jewpremacists quake at every shadow. Ibrahim embodied the people's sacred right to armed resistance—not as chaos, but justice's tongue against apartheid's filth and lies. The Authority's farce—jailing critics, coordinating with Shin Bet—crumbles under his light; U.S. dollars can't buy a lion's heart. Dearest Ibrahim "Abu Fathi," my frontline Brother in the struggle: your blood stains Nablus's stones, and has left a permanent mark on my heart, it paints the canvases of resistance globally, steels the anti-Zionist souls, for you are beloved in our movement. Your mother wields your rifle; the world hears your roar. The Lions prowl, the resistance swells—armed with truth, just rage, the will to reclaim every stolen grain of soil. For you, we rise eternal, we will stand by Palestine's side. "And we love life / whenever we can find a way to it," Darwish defied in State of Siege, and in your name "Abu Fathi," we claw it back, unbowed. With my deepest love and respect. In solidarity until my last breath Your Sister by heart, Taryn Zhar ~ Brummy 💚 Ka’b ibn Malik reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “Verily, the souls of martyrs are in green birds, hanging from the fruits of Paradise, or the trees of Paradise.” "Do not consider as dead those who are slain in the path of God; rather they are alive and well-provided for in the presence of their Lord"🤲🕯️

Hajj Hussein Ali Faqih “Abu Ali,” 87, wasn’t killed in a strike. He wrote his own final chapter. He chose to return, every day, to the ruins of his home in Srifa, South Lebanon. His daily return to the rubble, as if the house were still intact, had become a story in itself. He slept on its stones, among the remains of a life he refused to leave behind, searching through the debris for the life he had lived there. Abu Ali died there, sleeping on the stones that were once the walls of his life in Srifa, taking shelter in memories heavier than the loss itself. War doesn’t always kill in a moment. Sometimes it finishes the job slowly.

Massacre in West Bekaa: ​In a direct strike on civilians outside evacuation zone, Israeli warplanes targeted a residential building in the town of Zelaya, 18 km north of the borders. the town's mayor and members of his family were insiden. A woman and two kids were confirmed martyred moments ago. Rescue ops are still ongoing.

“We have mutually agreed that, while the Blockade will remain in full force and effect, Project Freedom (The Movement of Ships through the Strait of Hormuz) will be paused for a short period of time to see whether or not the Agreement can be finalized and signed…” - President DONALD J. TRUMP

Third generation holocaust survivor. This is mental illness.

Iranian FM Abbas Araghchi travels to Beijing for talks on bilateral relations as well as regional and international developments. IRAN05 ✈️ A321 reg EP-SSN

⭕️⚡️UKMTO reports a Container ship was hit by a projectile in the Strait of Hormuz. (1h30 ago) Interestingly, for the first time they didn't disclose the location of the incident. I guess they don't want to embarass CENTCOM & their new "safe route".