seterhen akbar

Unilever / Magnum stopped Ben & Jerry’s from creating a flavor for Palestine — so I’m doing it myself. I’ve got a watermelon, an empty pint, and I need your help: Name the flavor or suggest ingredients Or design the pint packaging Tag @yobencohen, @MagnumGlobal use #JusticeforPalestine to submit Use your voice when Ben & Jerry’s can’t — to secure peace, justice, and dignity in Palestine #FreeBenandJerrys

@nurijanian Society of middle class Indonesian tech workers. To cultivate the wisdom, in the age of AI where EO Wilson said: the problem with mankind is that we have paleolithic brain (emotion), medieval institutions, and god-like technology. Hence Wisdom is needed. A DAO maybe?

Imagine someone handed you $10 million, no strings attached, and said: “You can’t invest it or save it. You must build something the world actually needs, using your existing skills and taste. It doesn’t have to be profitable, but should be meaningful and exciting enough that you’d wake up early for it.” What would you build or explore first?

A message from a Kindergarten teacher: After forty years in the classroom, my career ended with one small sentence from a six-year-old: “My dad says people like you don’t matter anymore.” No sneer. No malice. Just quiet honesty — the kind that cuts deeper because it’s innocent. He blinked, then added, “You don’t even have a TikTok.” My name is Mrs. Clara Holt, and for four decades, I taught kindergarten in a small Denver suburb. Today, I stacked the last box on my desk and locked the door behind me. When I started teaching in the early 1980s, it felt like a promise — a shared belief that what we did mattered. We weren’t rich, but we were valued. Parents brought warm cookies to parent nights. Kids gave you handmade cards with hearts that didn’t quite line up. Watching a child sound out their first sentence felt like magic. But that world slowly slipped away. The job I once knew has been replaced by exhaustion, red tape, and a kind of loneliness I can’t quite describe. My evenings used to be filled with construction paper, glitter, and glue sticks. Now they’re spent filling out digital reports to protect myself from angry emails or lawsuits. I’ve been yelled at by parents in front of twenty-five children — one filming me with his phone while I tried to calm another child mid-meltdown. And the kids… they’ve changed too. Not by choice. They arrive tired, anxious, overstimulated. Their tiny fingers know how to swipe a screen before they can hold a crayon. Some can’t make eye contact or wait in line. We’re expected to fix all of it — to patch the gaps, heal the trauma, teach the curriculum, and document every move — in six hours a day, with resources that barely fill a drawer. The little reading corner I once built, full of soft beanbags and paper stars, was replaced by data charts and “learning metrics.” A young principal once told me, “Clara, maybe you’re too nurturing. The district wants measurable results.” As if kindness were a weakness. Still, I stayed. Because of the small, holy moments that no spreadsheet could measure — a whisper of, “You remind me of my grandma.” a shaky note that read, “I feel safe here.” a quiet boy finally meeting my eyes and saying, “I read the whole page.” Those tiny sparks were my reason to keep showing up. But this last year broke something in me. The aggression grew sharper. The laughter in the staff room turned to silence. The light went out of so many eyes. I watched brilliant teachers — my friends — vanish under the weight of burnout, their joy replaced by survival. I felt myself fading too, like chalk on a board that’s been wiped one too many times. So today, I began my goodbye. I pulled faded art off the walls and tucked thirty years of handmade cards into a single box. In the back of a drawer, I found a letter from a student from 1998: “Thank you for loving me when I was hard to love.” I sat on the floor and cried. No party. No applause. Just a handshake from a young principal who called me “Ma’am” while checking his notifications. I left my rocking chair behind, and my sticker box too. What I carried with me were the memories — the faces of hundreds of children who once trusted me enough to reach out their hands and learn. That can’t be uploaded. It can’t be measured. It can’t be replaced. I miss when teachers were partners, not targets. When parents and educators worked side by side, not in opposition. When schools cared more about wonder than numbers. So if you know a teacher — any teacher — thank them. Not with a mug or a gift card, but with your words. With your respect. With your understanding that behind every test score is a heart that cared enough to try. Because in a world that often overlooks them, teachers are the ones who never forget our children.

Video shows Palestinian children jumping with joy as a parent chants “Hudna! Hudna! Hudna!” — an Arabic word meaning a long-term truce or ceasefire.

Oh, how sweet it would have been to hear from you, Anas. We miss you, our great martyr, the eternal voice of Gaza.

First words from Tadhg Hickey as he returns home to Ireland after being kidnapped and illegally detained by the occupying forces. We pray for the release of all Palestinian Men, Women and Children being illegally detained.

🆘The Conscience Boat and Thousand Madleens to Gaza — part of the Freedom Flotilla Coalition — have just been intercepted! Please share! Please keep your eyes on the Flotilla!

I do not believe, based on all of the evidence, that a single Israeli woman was sexually assaulted by a Palestinian on October 7th. If I believed it, I would completely condemn it and condemn anyone who did such a thing. I've studied the evidence for 2 years. It didn't happen

BREAKING 🚨🚨 The #FreedomFlotilla ships heading to #Gaza are now approximately 150 miles off the coast of Gaza!

Keep your eyes on this new flotilla wave- they have less big names so our attention matters more. Keep Gaza in your hearts and minds as well because that is what all of this is for.

U.S. State Department official Stacey Gilbert Quit her 20 year career over a report. She said it was falsified to absolve Israel of war crimes and Justify Continued US Weapons sales to Isreal.

Freedom Flotilla, 545 kilometres from Gaza🇵🇸,on a mission to break the siege, stop the genocide, and secure a maritime corridor. “Thank you to all of you who are keeping an eye on the flotilla & sharing our content”🔁 🔴Tracker: #help" target="_blank" rel="nofollow noopener">globalsumudflotilla.org/tracker/#help

🚨 NEW: Netflix secretly recorded an interview with Dr. Jane Goodall in March, set to air only after her death. In it, she says she wishes Trump and Elon Musk could be blasted into space… and closes with: “Don’t lose hope.” Now that’s a final message.

💥 If you read one thing today, make it this story by Italian journalist Lorenzo D’Agostino — captured aboard the Global Sumud Flotilla: beaten, blindfolded, mocked with homophobic slurs, and held half-naked in freezing vans and scorching cells. According to D’Agostino and multiple accounts, Israeli forces subjected Greta to severe cruelty, forcing her to crawl and kiss the Israeli flag. “They did exactly what the Nazis did,” said Ersin Çelik, a member of the Global Sumud Flotilla. They publicly humiliated her and targeted her specifically because she’s a well-known figure. It appears that the Italian state, government, and parts of the Church tried to stop the Flotilla not to prevent an armed clash with Netanyahu, but to avoid the media exposure of a country increasingly radicalized and indefensible — except through repressive laws — and to suppress reports of egregious human rights violations. "We were intercepted at 1:58 a.m. on Thursday. On my boat, the Hio, part of the Global Sumud Flotilla mission, five Israeli soldiers boarded with rifles pointed at us, lasers aimed. Exactly one month after our departure from Barcelona. On board, the soldiers allowed us to go to the bathroom, eat, drink, and smoke. Then they redirected the boat toward the port of Ashdod. We stayed moored for a couple of hours. Before letting us disembark, one soldier wanted to speak to our captain: “My friend, my friend, listen to me, you’ll like this one: when dwarfs cast long shadows, it means the sun is low.” That was the last thing he said. As we disembarked, someone from the other boats shouted, “The police will be worse.” As soon as I stepped onto land, an officer grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my back to cause maximum pain. They made us sit on the ground, on a concrete esplanade. Greta Thunberg was wrapped in the Israeli flag like a war trophy. They sat her in a corner; officers surrounded her, taking selfies. Then they turned on another girl, Hanan, forcing her to sit in front of the flag so she’d have to look at it. They kicked people, ordered us to lower our heads and look at the ground — anyone who looked up was forced to kneel. An older activist wet himself. Anything associated with Palestine was ripped away, thrown to the ground, and trampled. They tore bracelets off everyone’s wrists; one girl was dragged because hers wouldn’t break. It wasn’t even the Palestinian flag — it was Somali. We stayed on the concrete for hours. They asked for Italian passports and took us through immigration control. There they opened our bags: anything linked to Palestine was thrown in the trash. When they found a copy of the Quran in my bag, they went berserk — convinced I was Muslim. For two hours, every officer passing by mocked me. In my toiletry bag they found pink wet wipes and laughed, saying “you’re a woman.” They slapped each other’s backs, amused. After border control, they forced us to strip down to our underwear. We went through two interrogations — only one with a lawyer present. They asked if we wanted to be deported. Then came the announcement: we were going to jail. That’s when Itamar Ben Gvir, Israel’s Minister of National Security, arrived. He came to Ashdod to make sure we were treated as terrorists. He screamed it at us — that we were terrorists. Right in front of him, the police wanted to show their zeal: they blindfolded us and tightened plastic handcuffs around our wrists until they cut into the skin. They loaded us into an armored vehicle wearing only light shirts. The air conditioning was blasting; it was freezing. A Scottish boy managed to loosen his cuffs and, with help from an Italian named Marco, released the others. When we saw the others getting off, their hands were purple. Some had been tied since the interception — traveling to prison with their hands bound from 2 a.m. to 4 p.m. (1/2)

True Heroes

Don't Stay Silent 🍉

🇮🇱🇵🇸 "Made possible by the heroes of the Global Sumud Flotilla" — Palestinian fishermen are taking advantage of the Israeli navy's preoccupation with the Global Sumud Flotilla to fish in peace and safety

The people of Gaza thank the Global Sumud Flotilla for giving them an opportunity to fish by distracting the occupation forces whose mission is genocide by hunger.

For two years, Tokyo ramen chef Chikahiro Naoya has been protesting the genocide in Gaza alone, outside the Israeli Embassy. Police have tried to silence him—but he came back every week, rain or shine. One man. One voice Notice how the police treat their citizens vs the US/EU

A Palestinian girl, Shahed, draws as she waits for the Global Sumud Flotilla on the shores of Gaza.