#Barja

[shionanies]

I have stolen more outfits!

Owners of the outfits i borrowed are (from left to right)

@justeclotilde @/karasuman @followthechick @gumdumblollypop @/tokkiWakfu

[trendynewsnow]

Israeli Airstrike in Barja: 30 Lives Lost Amid Escalating Tensions

Tragedy Strikes Barja: Israeli Airstrike Claims Lives In a devastating incident on Tuesday, rescuers recovered the remains of 30 individuals from a damaged apartment building in the coastal town of Barja, following an Israeli airstrike, as reported by Lebanon’s Civil Defence. Mostafa Danaj, a civil defence official, indicated that local residents fear there may still be additional victims trapped…

[athena5898]

SOUTH LEBANON (RNN) — At least four martyrs have ascended and 14 injuries were reported in the IOF airstrike (https://t.me/RNN_Backup/62600) that targeted a residential building in Barja near Jiyeh, deep in southern Lebanon. Glory to the martyrs.

[aschenblumen]

A lo que es el pensar le pertenece de idéntico modo el movimiento y la detención del pensamiento. Donde el pensar alcanza detención, en el seno de la constelación cargada de tensiones, es en donde aparece justamente la imagen dialéctica. Eso es precisamente la cesura en el movimiento del pensar, mas su lugar no es uno cualquiera. Ese desde luego hay que buscarlo, por decirlo precisa y brevemente, en el espacio donde la tensión entre contradicciones respectivas de carácter dialéctico llega a su mayor intensidad. Por lo mismo, el objeto construido por la concepción materialista de la Historia es la imagen dialéctica. Y ella es idéntica al objeto histórico, justificando así precisamente el hacerlo que salte del continuo del curso de la Historia.

—Walter Benjamin, «N [Teoría del conocimiento, teoría del progreso]» en Obra de los pasajes, vol. 1. Edición de Rolf Tiedemann, traducción de Juan Barja.

[filmap]

As bestas / The Beasts Rodrigo Sorogoyen. 2022

House Quintela 24521 León, Spain See in map

See in imdb

[beritanews]

Kepala Biro Barjas Sulsel Masuk Nominasi UKPBJ Berprestasi Nasional

Kepala Biro Bajras Sulsel Masuk Nominasi UKPBJ Berprestasi Nasional

BERITA.NEWS,Makassar- Kepala Biro Barang dan Jasa (Barjas) Pemprov Sulsel Kasman masuk daftar nominasi Kepala Unit Kerja Pengadaan Barang Jasa Berprestasi (UKPBJ) beprestasi nasional. Penghargaan Kepala UKPBJ berprestasi ini merupakan apresiasi yang dilakukan oleh Lembaga Kebijakan Pengadaan Barang/Jasa Pemerintah (LKPP) untuk Kementerian, Lembaga, Pemerintah Provinsi dan Daerah. Kepala Biro…

[piracicabaacorda]

Dança Barjas com DeadPool

[bantennewscoid-blog]

Sachrudin: Jangan Coba-Coba Langgar Aturan

TANGERANG – Di hadapan para peserta pelatihan, Wakil Walikota Tangerang, Sachrudin menegaskan pentingnya mengelola pengadaan barang dan jasa dengan cara mengindentifikasi dan pengelolaan risiko untuk memitigasi dampak yang dapat ditimbulkannya. Hal tersebut disampaikan Sachrudin, saat membuka Pelatihan Mitigasi Risiko dalam Pengadaan Barang dan Jasa Lingkup Pemerintah Kota Tangerang (Pemkot)…

[27moremoons]

Kamala Harris and the United States murdered and wounded these people today

RNN:

11 martyrs and 61 wounded were reported as a result of the IOF's attacks on Lebanon, yesterday, Monday, including massacres in Sour and Saida. 3,013 martyrs and 13,553 wounded have been reported since October 8th, 2023.

As of dawn today, over 25 martyrs have ascended, most notably in Barja, south of Beirut, where a massacre claimed at least 15 martyrs (initial toll). Bodies of 27 martyrs were also recovered.

In the Gaza Strip, 17 martyrs and 84 wounded were reported in the last 24 hours, while over 61 martyrs have ascended since dawn, with over 46 of them in the northern Gaza Strip, including the Al-Radie family massacre (20 martyrs), in light of the absence of Civil Defense and renewed bombardment and siege of Kamal Adwan and Al-Awda Hospitals.

Glory to the martyrs.

[fatimaash]

My name is Fatima Shahin, and I live in the Shuweifat area of Lebanon. Like many others, my family has been devastated by war. One dark night, explosions destroyed our home, leaving us with only a few clothes and important documents as we fled.

Now, we are scattered between Naameh and Barja, living in constant fear amid destruction and despair. Our need for help is urgent, as every day deepens our sense of helplessness. Our children are suffering, and even basic needs like food and shelter have become nearly impossible to secure.

We appeal to kind-hearted people to extend their support. Your help could be the lifeline we desperately need in this crisis. We hope for peace and compassion to survive and rebuild some part of our lost lives. Every donation or act of kindness can make a difference and save a family clinging to hope for solidarity and love.

https://gofund.me/de3f4cda

[shionanies]

I have done a thing!

I got a few more suggestions/requests for this, so I'm gonna make multiple parts, probably!

The og owners of the outfits (from left to right) are

@wawoyal @aureliaadhara @jinxedeyes @dj-m0th

[good-old-gossip]

Israel escalates attacks against Palestinian journalists in Gaza

Palestinian Territory - Since the start of its genocidal warin the Gaza Strip on 7 October 2023, Israel has made Palestinian journalists one of its primary targets and committed numerous crimes against them.

These grave crimes and violations against journalistscontravene international law, the rules of war, and the duty to protect journalists and not impede their pursuit of truth and accurate representation of the reality on the ground.

Palestinian journalists face intimidation and a range of brutalities intended to deter them from carrying out their work, including planned and targeted killings, arbitrary detentions, forced disappearances (during which they are often accompanied by their families), destruction of their workplaces, denial of access to equipment needed for their jobs, and outright threats.

Since the start of its genocide in the Gaza Strip, Israel has killed approximately 150 Palestinian journalists. These journalists have been targeted while wearing their press jackets, working in the field, inside their offices, in press tents erected next to hospitals for media coverage, or with their families in their homes, which Israel has destroyed over their heads.

During the Israeli army’s ground operation, journalists havealso been subjected to arbitrary arrest, crimes of torture, and inhumane treatment. Some of these journalists were released, but others remain under arrest and remain forcibly disappeared; their fate remains unknown, as they have beendenied legal representation and are being treated inhumanely. These journalists include Nidal Al-Wahidi,Haitham Abdel-Wahed, Imad Al-Efrangi, Ahmed Abdel-Aland his brother Khader Abdel-Al, and others.

Dozens of journalists have also been injured in Israeli air and artillery attacks or by direct gunfire. Some of them sustained severe injuries, while others had to have their limbs amputated. At the same time, Israel’s military has deliberately destroyed the vast majority of press headquarters, either partially or entirely, forcing them out of service, while the broadcasting systems of most of Gaza’s 24 radio stations have been disrupted by ongoing bombing and/or fuel shortages.

Furthermore, Israel has imposed tight restrictions on TV channels that operate in the Occupied Palestinian Territoryover their press coverage; this includes the closure of Al Mayadeen Media Network and Al Jazeera Network’s operations in Palestine.

Together with the systematic Israeli targeting of Palestinian journalists in the Gaza Strip, there is also public incitement by Israeli ministers, officials, and official Israeli social media accounts, through the publication of reports that question specific journalists’ objectivity and integrity and/or falsely accuse them of being members of Palestinian factions without any evidence. They also claimed to have known in advance about the military operation that some Palestinian factions launched in the Gaza envelope area on 7 October.

In an effort to stop them from performing their work, the Israeli army has been directly threatening journalists in different ways.

Just days ago, photojournalist Mahmoud Barjas Shalha received a call from a private number. When he answered, the caller told him in halting Arabic that he was from the Israeli army and that Shalha should “stop filming completely”. He then proceeded to hurl vulgar insults at him before hanging up the phone without allowing Shalhato finish his sentence.

Israel has also persisted in barring journalists and members of foreign media from entering the Gaza Strip since the start of its ongoing military assault, with the exception of a small number of individuals who have been permitted to accompany Israeli military forces on their ground operations and are subject to strict restrictions, such as remaining only in certain areas authorised by Israeli forces.

Under UN Security Council Resolutions 2015/2222 and 2006/1738, which denounce international attacks on journalists and media workers in times of armed conflict, targeting journalists is considered to be a war crime and a violation of international law. Additionally, the 1977 Geneva Conventions' Additional Appendix (Protocol) I, Article 79, emphasises the need to safeguard journalists who work in areas of armed conflict by treating them as civilians.

In addition to launching a thorough international investigation into the crimes and violations the Israeli armyhas committed against journalists in the Gaza Strip, the international community must act promptly to hold all perpetrators accountable and compensate the victims. Pressure should be applied to Israel to stop the deliberate killing and direct targeting of journalists, to safeguard their work, to allow them to convey the truth and carry out their messages, and to permit foreign news agency crews and journalists to enter and work in the Strip without hindrance as long as their safety is guaranteed.

Direct and indiscriminate attacks against civilians are strictly forbidden by international criminal law and humanitarian law, which classifies such attacks as war crimes. When such attacks are carried out as a component of a larger, coordinated assault against a civilian population—as is currently occurring in the Gaza Strip—they are also classified as crimes against humanity.

Euro-Med Human Rights Monitor emphasises that these assaults are a component of the crime of genocide that Israel has been committing against Gaza Strip inhabitants since 7 October.

[catdotjpeg]

Lebanon’s Civil Defence crew has pulled 30 bodies from the rubble of an apartment building in Lebanon’s Barja, after it was destroyed in an Israeli strike yesterday. Search efforts were ongoing today and it was unclear how many survivors or bodies were still under the rubble. At least 20 people were reported to have been killed in the attack.

-- "Thirty bodies retrieved from the rubble in Lebanon’s Barja" by Lyndal Rowlands for Al Jazeera, 6 Nov 2024 19:20 GMT

[aschenblumen]

El giro copernicano producido en la visión consiste en haber tomado como punto fijo «lo ya sido», a cuyas resultas el presente se vería forzado como a dirigir, entre tanteos, cuando respecta al conocimiento solo en dirección a aquella «marca». Pero lo que ahora es necesario es invertir dicha relación; lo sido debe ahora transformarse en su vuelco dialéctico, en la irrupción de lo que es la conciencia despierta estrictamente. (...) De este modo los hechos se convierten en lo que nos acaba de alcanzar, y fijarlos es cosa del recuerdo. Dado que, en efecto, el despertar es el caso ejemplar del recordar: ese a cuyo través no es posible recordar incluso lo banal, lo que se halla más próximo a lo cercano. Aquello mismo en lo que piensa Proust al reordenar mentalmente el mobiliario en su duermevela matinal, lo que Bloch reconoce en calidad de la oscuridad característica del instante vivido, no es sino aquello que, a nivel colectivo e histórico, desde resultar asegurado. Saber-aún-no-consciente de lo sido: su extracción posee justamente la estructura que tiene el despertar.

—Walter Benjamin, «K [Ciudad soñada, arquitectura onírica, las ensoñaciones del futuro, nihilismo antropológico, Jung]» en Obra de los pasajes, vol 1. Edición de Rolf Tiedemann, traducción de Juan Barja.

[the-rhyme-witch]

"Immortal cells" had sounded like a good thing. That isn't much defense, but it is all I have.

My name is Merielle. I look twenty three, which is hard evidence that looks can be deceiving. I am petite and angular, with brown eyes and black hair that goes it's own way. I got it from my father and my mother used to joke that my hair shared my personality.

I miss my parents.

I can't tell you about mima and pepa, not really. Not in the way I want to. It has been so long and I've never been clever with words, but a description feels pedestrian regardless. I could tell you mima was statuesque, with satiny dark skin and hair she wore cropped close as moss but it wouldn't capture how she moved through the world like an artist, every choice and movement just so. I could tell you pepa was lanky and pale and that his wild black hair made him paler but it wouldn't capture how he could light up a room with a kind word or a laugh. Perhaps it is enough to say they were my parents and I loved them. We both did.

Coretta is easier to describe, if not explain. She was my twin, my sister, my beloved friend from before either of us knew the word, so she looked much as I do. We were not identical in soul, but in body and heart we matched exactly. When we were born, my parents had worried at first. Were we a soul split in two? Holy Sister Giriette had explained, though, and our parents had repeated her words to us growing up. Sometimes, when a chance to be reborn comes, two souls try to join the same baby at the same time, and when they do, the baby becomes two to make room. It has reassured our parents. It had reassured the others in our village too. A soul is a precious thing. The idea of one cut into two people was almost as terrifying as the Incomplete Ones, who had given part of their soul to demons in exchange for Red Magic.

Aside from the occasional accusation of our souls being spliced, Coretta and I grew up as happy as a childhood could be. You would not, now, recognise how we lived. The subterranean flurbarja that once roamed the land, leaving burrow networks that my people used to shelter when skaybarja came down in the storms to rake the land above, they are long since gone from our world, though they live on in legends as Floor Badgers and Sky Badgers.

Coretta and I were close, too, so close that we both chose the same mate and Jontotto chose to leave his family tunnel to join us in ours. In times now, this would be a complex issue, but in that time, love was not greedy. Love was not a fruit, to be cut up and doled out to greedy mouths until it was gone but rather a light that warmed a home and all that was in it, be there two or twenty. I shared my mate with my twin with joy and satisfaction and we were all happy. When Coretta became pregnant, then gave birth to my nephew, our family joy was magnified.

Then the Sickleclaws came.

Like the flurbarja, the Sickleclaws are gone from this land but unlike the 'barjas, I cannot mourn their loss. They came to the tunnels that were our home and tore them apart while storms raged and skaybarjas ravaged the land, but it was the Sickleclaws that took my family, snipping away their lives and snubbing the light from my world.

All except my nephew. Little Otto was just a baby, barely eating food, too young to even have a prename yet. I had buried my family, my mima and pepa and twin and mate, as was the custom of our people. Our families souls were cut now, free to roam the earth. Without a proper ending, the souls would be hungry for rebirth but my burial rites would soothe them from choosing their new life hot with anger from their lives cut short. I knew my duty now was to embrace my own grief, my tears reassuring their souls that they were loved to help them choose their next life well.

Then I had held little Otto to my heart, both of us sticky with the blood and mud of all the world we had ever known, and sworn an oath to the souls of my family. I would protect my nephew, and love him, and guide him. I would stand for his mima and his pepa and his grandmima and grandpepa too. I would be his family.

I kept my word.

I found us a new tunnel community. I carried my grief for my lost family like a dear toy, clutched hidden but close to my heart, and I did not forget. Otto grew to be a rambunctious seven year old and gained his prename, naming himself for his mother. Cortotto became my family and my soul glowed. It was not easy to be a parent to my nephew but I was shocked at how fierce my love was. I had loved my parents, adored my mate and had been bonded heart-to-heart with my twin, but nothing had felt like this. Even when things were hard, and parenting was harder than I had ever guessed, my love for my little nephew was a furnace.

Then the immortal cells came.

First it was a lump, a strange bump on the side of my chest. Then my neck started to bulge. The Holy Brother of my new tunnel, Honturru, had explained. Normal bodies die a little all the time, Merielle, but parts of you have forgotten. They do not die when it is their time and instead stay immortal, passing their forgetfulness onto other parts of you. We need death for life, my sister, and the parts of you that have forgotten this will kill the rest of you.

I had asked when? When would my forgetful, immortal parts push enough of my mortal body out of shape to kill me? Soon, had been Holy Brother Hunturrus reply.

I had thought of my nephew, my son in my heart, my Cortotto. I thought of the way his cheek dimpled like Jontottos had, how he had inherited my pepas hair like Coretta and I, how he bounced from being a small man to a baby and back in a whirlwind of elbows and mischief. I thought about how I had inadvertently made myself his world and in doing so left him starkly vulnerable. How could I let my immortal cells leave him alone, truly alone?

So I did what my village had feared since my birth. I made a deal with a demon.

I left the tunnel system during a storm. I had dodged skaybarjas and stayed wary of Sickleclaws, then knelt in the dirt. As the rain flattened the spring from my hair and splashed stinging into my eyes, I made the sign of demons and lay on the ground, closing my eyes and whispering my deal over and over.

"Do not let the immortal cells kill me, let me live long for my nephew, let me live, let me live, let me live."

Red had lit up the back of my eyelids.

When the storm abated and I climbed filthy and trembling back into the village tunnel, I felt at my neck, at my chest. They were smooth.

I found that having a nibbled soul was bearable. It was a weighty secret to carry. I knew my new village would spurn me if they they knew I had dealt with the Red Magic, that I had willingly become an Incomplete One. The secret lay hard and heavy in my stomach, weighing me down as my pared soul attempted to struggle against it. Sometimes, I would think of the souls of my dead family. Would they damn me for this? Should I have been braver, looked the death of my life in the face and known my soul would endure? Perhaps.

But then I would hear Cortotto laugh and I was not so sure.

Cortotto continued to grow like a weed, his body changing as he approached adolescence and his voice recklessly bouncing through octaves like our shared rebellious hair bounced on our heads. He grew taller and stronger.

I stayed the same.

Cortotto changed from a cheeky young boy to a clumsy teen, throwing emotions on and off like a cloak in uncertain weather, striving to discover what he though, and how, and why, aping his peers one minute and forging his own path the next.

I stayed the same.

Cortotto became a young man, his soft baby body hardening and roughening into sinewy muscle and stubble. His personality found a shape that fit and settled into it, like a new shoe just waiting for a little wearing to make it just so.

I stayed the same.

When Cortotto was first mistaken for my elder brother rather than my nephew, I realised what the demon had done, and cursed myself for a fool. The Red Magic had not reminded my immortal parts how to die. It had made my entire body forget.

Our new village watched. Then whispered. Then acted.

They came for me as a community, during a skaybarja rampage, a sad eyed Holy Brother Honturru leading the way. I knew why. I understood. I even had intention to stay but my cowardice betrayed me and I fled the tunnels to the surface. But I did not flee alone.

Cortotto came with me.

I told myself at the time that he did not understand but I knew enough even then to smell the lie in my own thoughts. My heart might see my little nephew but Cortotto was a man now and to deny him that was to deny our life together. I had taught him the faith of our people and he was no fool. He knew what I was.

He came anyway.

So when the Sickleclaws found us, I was not alone, and for the second time in my life, my world was snipped from me in a flurry of claws as my bold, beautiful, radiant nephew was hit in a strike meant for me. But the beast did not drop his body. It carried him away.

I followed, or I tried, but I am a small human. I failed. When Holy Brother Honturru and the village found me, I begged for them to kill me. I had run from them before but now he was dead. My nephew was dead, his souls journey cut short, and his body was not buried and his soul, his beautiful bright gorgeous soul, was left tumbling like a feather in a storm, starving and abandoned, and no amount of grieving would remind it of how much it was loved. The agony tore every part of me. My heart seemed to swell until I felt it would erupt through my throat, my skull seemed to squeeze down on everything that I was, except that they didn't because I couldn't change. I never changed.

Holy Brother Honturru did not kill me. He saw in my eyes that my depleted soul could not be let loose.

I lost my faith that day. That is I told myself over the decades that followed, as I lived a life for a score of years before moving to a new village, a new tunnel, a new version of existence, I told myself my faith was broken. It was wrong. It had to be.

It had to be wrong because if it wasn't, my beloved nephews soul had been left to choose angry.

It had to be wrong because the alternative was so much worse.

Time moves on, even when it feels frozen, and while I am immortal, people are not. Beliefs are not. I saw the 'barjas slowly disappearing and the Sickleclaws with them, then people start to explore surface-based shelters. I saw fashions rise and fall, languages move, customs spark into life and then falter without a trace. People started to farm surface plants, then train them as they trained animals until parks evolved as a space for humans to worship in a new way. My faith as I learned from my parents moved into first a nostalgic tale of old times, then to a barely remembered story until nobody knew it at all, though modern faiths hold echoes.

My grief changed too and I hated it.

Some days I found myself forgetting. Sometimes I spent a week without thinking of Cortotto. When I realised this, my blood ran cold and I panicked so much that I thought I was dying but the Red Magic of demons cares not for petty feelings. I lived on the same as always. So I started courting grief. I made a point of it. If my grief was all I had left of Cortotto, sharp and bitter and shameful as I felt, how could I abandon it? I had made an oath.

Every morning, I sat. I sat and I thought of Cortotto. I challenged myself to remember, again and again. I cut my heart with my memories and when time blunted them, I taught myself to remember myself remembering and cut my heart anew. I made this my new faith, patching it over the canyon-deep faith of my childhood, though I paid lip service to the faiths of the times. My nephew, my family, my hearts son, my boy, my Cortotto.

It was a time not so far gone by mortal standards when I found myself in a park.

As is the custom now, prayer benches lined the public space. I had lived too long to think much of this now, though how my parents would have stared at the open greenery! I found a space empty of people and sat on a bench, my body language matching that of the other people in the park. What they prayed for, I did not know, but I took up my real faith. I thought first of Cortotto as baby Otto, when my twin and our mate and parents had been alive, giggling like a mountain spring in a desert. I thought of our life together and how I had gotten him killed. I tried to pretend not to worry about his soul wandering hungry and alone and loveless and choosing rage because, of course, that was a dead faith now and of course I didn't believe it but not looking into a canyon does not stifle it's echoes and my heart remembered what my head refused to.

"You think of me after all this time?"

I turned. A person had joined me on the prayer bench. I had never seen their face before. Their voice was unknown.

I looked into their eyes and my battered, emaciated, wounded soul recognised what my mind did not.

Cortotto.

It’s been many years since you’ve stopped aging. You’ve seen nations rise and fall. Met, and forgotten countless people. One day, as you’re resting your eyes in a park, dreaming of a love long past, the person on the bench next to you speaks. “You think of me after all this time?”

[beritanews]

Sekda Jufri Rahman Dorong Peningkatan Kualitas Pengadaan Barang dan Jasa

Sekda Jufri Rahman Dorong Peningkatan Kualitas Pengadaan Barang dan Jasa

BERITA.NEWS,Makassar- Sekretaris Daerah.(Sekda) Provinsi Sulsel Jufri Rahman membuka Temu Fungsional Pengelolaan Pengadaan Barang dan Jasa (PBJ) tahun 2024, yang dilaksanakan di ruang Command Center Kantor Gubernur Sulsel, Jum’at, 20 September 2024. Dalam sambutannya, Jufri Rahman menyampaikan bahwa kegiatan ini merupakan momentum penting untuk meningkatkan kualitas pengelolaan pengadaan di…