Julian Assange said this in 2011:
“This generation is burning the mass media to the ground.”
15 years later, was he right?
#JulianAssange#WikiLeaks#PressFreedom
It wasn't just a tree, it was a home.
While money pulls the strings of humanity, nature pays the ultimate price. This visual contrast shows the dark side of "luxury living" and progress at the cost of life.We need to rethink what "wealth" actually means before there's nothing left.
I’m being warned of multiple fake accounts posing as Julian on FB, TG, X etc.
Julian is not currently on ANY social media. I and @wikileaks will announce and verify any accounts he does eventually use.
People posing as Julian are either trying to scam you, manipulate you or harm Julian’s reputation. Please report them.
Israeli journalist Amira Hass, daughter of Holocaust survivors, has spent decades reporting from Gaza and the West Bank — including years living among Palestinians in Gaza itself. In conversation with Middle East Eye’s Lubna Masarwa, she confronts what so many still refuse to name: the scale of destruction inflicted on Gaza and the growing power of far-right politicians shaping Israel’s trajectory.
Hass does not speak from abstraction. She carries the memory of her parents’ survival and the knowledge of what industrialised destruction looks like. That history does not give Israel a blank check. It makes the scenes in Gaza — flattened neighborhoods, shattered infrastructure, a population left to absorb generational trauma — impossible to look away from.
The war’s impact will not end when the bombs stop. An entire society has been pushed into conditions that will shape health, education, memory, and possibility for decades. Far-right voices in Israeli politics have treated that outcome not as a warning but as a political opportunity.
Listen to those who have lived the story from both sides of the line. The people of Gaza are not a footnote. They are the measure of whether “never again” still means anything.
#AmiraHass #Gaza #Palestine
#Palestina36 arriva finalmente nelle sale italiane. In una di queste, presto, ci sarò anch'io.
La storia riportata in vita in questo film è un pugno in faccia, ingentilito solo dall'amorevolezza del popolo palestinese.
Grandiosa la regista @AnnemarieJacir. Meraviglioso il cast
A 25-minute standing ovation at the Biennale has put NAZA, an Israeli-made film confronting Israel’s genocide in Gaza, in the spotlight. Its filmmakers recognise their Israeli identity gives them greater access, while Palestinian filmmakers face barriers to telling their stories.
المقابلة الأخيرة من أمتع المقابلات التي شاهدتها لإدوارد سعيد
تحدث فيها عن محطات بحياته وبداياته وأفكاره وعن الاستشراق ومن انتقده وردوده.
يندر أن تجد مفكرا له كاريزما الظهور والكتابة والحوار مثله.
- إدوارد سعيد مفكر قلما نجد له نظير-
رابط المقابلة كاملة:
https://t.co/GzAMeJ7XJA
Palestinians in the occupied town of Birzeit bid farewell to Suleiman Mansour — Palestine’s greatest prominent artist, whose work gave voice to the Palestinian people’s struggle and resilience. Rest in power and peace.
@suleimanmanso13@AbeerSalmanCNN
A Voice That Needs Almost Nothing
Black-and-white footage. An empty stage. Joan Baez stands alone with an acoustic guitar, long hair falling to one side, a dark dress, no band. She begins “500 Miles.” The first notes are enough to explain why first-time listeners, even more than sixty years later, are still often caught off guard.
Joan’s 1965 voice does not live on volume, grit, or obvious emotional display. It is a clear, high soprano that places each note close to center. Very little vibrato. Almost no edge. No deliberate curves meant to “sell” the feeling. The sound is held flat and precise, so the force does not come from pushing air. It comes from clarity: every vowel is fully exposed.
“500 Miles” is a traditional American folk song, shaped by Hedy West from older variants and then carried into the folk revival. The lyric is plain: no money, no way to cover the distance home, still too far to go. Peter, Paul and Mary brought it to a wider audience with warm three-part harmony. Joan does something else. She sings as if she does not need a second layer of storytelling. The melodic intervals and the rests between lines do the narrating. The longing is not interpreted. It is left bare.
The stage in the clip does one job: it removes every place to lean. One guitar. One microphone. Flat light. No backing harmony, no drums to pull the tempo, no camera moves engineered for a climax. Each note has to stand in the air on its own. The silence between phrases registers like a second rhythm. Fingers on the fretboard, the slight tilt of a shoulder, a glance that drifts off-camera — details modern production usually swallows — become the entire visual language.
The audience in the old footage sits still. No applause between verses. No one performing enjoyment for the lens. Early-’60s folk asked for that kind of attention: listening the way you listen to someone speak, not the way you watch a number. The quiet of the room is not a side effect. It is the environment that lets the soprano travel the full distance without needing more volume.
Other versions of “500 Miles” often take the opposite path. Some are warmer, denser with harmony, more willing to keep the sadness close to the surface. Bobby Bare turned it into a country hit with a clear narrative pulse. Later recordings frequently add pads or studio atmosphere for a sense of space. Joan’s early reading does not manufacture space. The space is already there: the room, the gap between her and the seats, the miles named in the lyric. The voice simply moves through those distances.
Not every singer can work this way. Most voices need arrangement, texture, other instruments to feel complete. The 1965 clip shows a narrower case: when a voice already has enough clarity and control, adding layers can start to cover more than it lifts. The black-and-white footage does not argue the point with a statement. It simply leaves Joan Baez, a guitar, and a song about not being able to get home.
Sixty years on, the performance does not feel like a finished musical number from the past. It feels more like a held silence that was preserved. Joan Baez does not try to close the five hundred miles in the lyric. She only sets a microphone in the middle of that open distance, sings the song once, and lets the quiet finish the rest.