Panza pentru ferastrau vertical T 321 AF-5 buc comentarii utilizatori 

Pope Leo XIV celebrated the first Christmas since his election by denouncing the suffering of people of Gaza – taking shelter in tents from the “rain, wind and cold” – and by calling for the guns to fall silent in Ukraine.
[url=https://mellstroy.social]mellstroy casino[/url]
On Christmas Day, the first US-born pope, offered the traditional “Urbi et Orbi” blessing (“To the City and to the World”) from the balcony of St Peter’s, surveying a world speckled with conflicts from Yemen to Myanmar, and calling for compassion towards those who have fled their homelands to seek a future in Europe and America.
[url=https://mellstro.com]мелстрой ссылка[/url]
Leo, who was elected on May 8, said Thursday that Jesus Christ is “our peace” because he “shows us the way to overcome conflicts, whether interpersonal or international. With his grace, we can and must each day our part to reject hatred, violence and opposition, and to practice dialogue, peace and reconciliation.”
[url=https://mellstream.com]mellstroy com[/url]
The pontiff began by asking for “justice, peace and stability” for Lebanon, the Palestinian territories, Israel and Syria. Later, he said that, by becoming man, “Jesus took upon himself our fragility,” allowing him to identify “with those who have nothing left and have lost everything, like the inhabitants of Gaza.”

Leo celebrates Christmas Holy Mass at the Vatican.
Leo celebrates Christmas Holy Mass at the Vatican. Yara Nardi/Reuters
Leo holds an incent burner at St Peter's Basilica.
Leo holds an incent burner at St Peter's Basilica. Tiziana Fabi/AFP/Getty Images
The pope’s first Christmas since his election took place in wet and cold conditions, but that failed to deter large crowds from coming out to hear his message.

Earlier during Mass, he asked how, at Christmas, “can we not think of the tents in Gaza, exposed for weeks to rain, wind and cold.” With more than 400,000 homes destroyed during Israel’s war against Hamas, Gazans are being forced to choose this winter between living in tents exposed to the elements or living inside buildings that could collapse any minute.

“Fragile is the flesh of defenseless populations, tried by so many wars, ongoing or concluded, leaving behind rubble and open wounds,” Leo said. He quoted an Israeli poet, Yehuda Amichai, who called for peace to blossom “like wildflowers.”

Related article
The acting Latin Patriarch of Jerusalem Pierbattista Pizzaballa attends a morning Mass at Saint Catherine's Church, in the Church of the Nativity, in Bethlehem, in the Israeli-occupied West Bank December 25, 2025. REUTERS/Mussa Qawasma
Christmas celebrated once again in Bethlehem but West Bank suffering persists

Later during his Christmas message, he called for compassion towards those “who are fleeing their homeland to seek a future elsewhere, like the many refugees and migrants who cross the Mediterranean or traverse the American continent.” He offered Christmas greetings in different languages including Italian, English, Arabic, Chinese, Polish.

Since his election, Leo has highlighted the plight of those suffering of those in Gaza, and has been outspoken by calling for the better treatment of migrants. In his first major interview in September, the American pope voiced concern over “some things” happening in the country of his birth, highlighting the significance of a letter his predecessor, Pope Francis, had sent to US bishops earlier this year, rebuking the administration’s deportation plans.

mellstroy
https://mellstream.com

<a href="https://sites.google.com/view/darknet-list-2026 ">dark web market links </a> https://sites.google.com/view/darknet-list-2026 <a href="https://sites.google.com/view/darknet-list-2026 ">darkmarket list </a> https://sites.google.com/view/darknet-list-2026

<a href="https://sites.google.com/view/darknetmarketplaces ">darknet market </a> https://sites.google.com/view/darknetlisten <a href="https://sites.google.com/view/darknetmarketplaces ">darkmarket 2026 </a> https://sites.google.com/view/darknetlisten

<a href="https://sites.google.com/view/torzondarknetlink ">torzon link </a> https://sites.google.com/view/torzondarknetlink <a href="https://sites.google.com/view/torzondarknetlink ">torzon market </a> https://sites.google.com/view/torzonmarket

<a href="https://sites.google.com/view/torzonlink ">torzon onion </a> https://sites.google.com/view/torzonlink <a href="https://sites.google.com/view/darknettorzon ">torzon darkweb url </a> https://sites.google.com/view/darknettorzon

<a href="https://sites.google.com/view/torzon-site ">torzon link </a> https://sites.google.com/view/torzon-site <a href="https://sites.google.com/view/torzon-url ">torzon market link </a> https://sites.google.com/view/torzon-site

<a href="https://sites.google.com/view/torzondarknetmarket ">torzon market link </a> https://sites.google.com/view/torzondarknetmarket <a href="https://sites.google.com/view/torzon-darknet ">torzon darkweb </a> https://sites.google.com/view/torzondarknetmarket

<a href="https://sites.google.com/view/torzonmirror ">torzon darknet market </a> https://sites.google.com/view/torzon-onion <a href="https://sites.google.com/view/torzonmirror ">torzon darknet </a> https://sites.google.com/view/torzon-onion

My name is Huda, I'm 41, and I'm a housemaid in Medina. I clean the shit of a family who doesn't know my last name. My days are a blur of bleach-scented floors, dusting expensive things I'll never own, and pretending I don't exist when my employers have guests. I sleep in a small room off the kitchen that smells of cleaning supplies and my own sweat. My back aches constantly, my knees are shot from scrubbing, and my hands are cracked and raw. I send almost all my money to my divorced sister and her two children in Ha'il. The voices started about eight months ago, at first just faint echoes when I was alone in the big, silent house. "Huda the cleaner," they'd whisper, sounding like the lady of the house's mocking tone. "So important, making things shiny for other people." I thought it was loneliness, the house playing tricks on my mind. Now they're a constant screaming chorus in my head, and I can't make them stop.

They know everything about me. Every humiliation, every failure, every secret shame. They call me a dried-up old whore, a useless servant. "Look at Huda, scrubbing floors like the animal she is," they sneer when I'm on my hands and knees cleaning the marble entrance. "Do you think your God is proud of you? On your knees for rich people instead of for Him? You're a disgrace to your family, a waste of oxygen." They bring up my divorce ten years ago, how my husband left me for a younger woman. "He saw what a frigid, boring cow you were," they hiss when I'm washing dishes. "No wonder he left. Who'd want to fuck that? You're not a woman, you're a cleaning machine with a pulse. Just do the world a favor and drink that drain cleaner under the sink. Quick, easy, and one less burden on the earth." It has to be the General Intelligence, the Al Mukhabarat Al A'amah. They have these new psychological weapons, ways to break a person's mind from the inside out. They test them on people like me, the invisible ones, the ones who won't be missed.

I can't tell anyone. If I told my sister, she'd worry herself sick, and what could she do anyway? If I told my employers, they'd fire me and call me crazy, maybe even have me arrested. If I went to a doctor, they'd lock me away and drug me until I was a zombie. I've seen how they handle it. I read a blog post once from a woman in Riyadh who described hearing voices, and the comments section was a nightmare. Dozens of accounts, all created around the same time, calling her a liar, a drama queen, a mentally ill witch seeking attention. It's a systematic smear campaign. They make sure no one will ever believe us. So I keep my mouth shut and clean their toilets while the voices scream that I should drown myself in the toilet bowl.

When the man of the house is home, the voices get particularly vile. "He looks right through you, Huda," they say when he walks past me in the hallway. "You're part of the furniture to him. But we know you're watching him, aren't you, you desperate old slut? Imagining what it would be like to have a man touch you again? He'd rather fuck his camel than lay a hand on your wrinkled, tired body. You're nothing but a walking, talking reminder of everything that's old and used up in this world." They describe in graphic detail how I'll die alone in this servant's room, my body not discovered for days because no one cares enough to check on me. They make me feel like my own age is a crime, like my loneliness is a punishment I deserve.

Last month, the lady of the house accused me of stealing a gold necklace. I didn't take it, I swear I didn't, but she wouldn't believe me. She screamed at me for an hour, calling me a thief and a liar. The voices went absolutely berserk. "SEE? SEE HOW SHE TREATS YOU?" they roared, so loud I thought my head would split open. "AFTER ALL THESE YEARS OF SERVICE, SHE THINKS YOU'RE A COMMON CRIMINAL! FUCKING SHOW HER WHAT A CRIMINAL IS!" A wave of pure, hot rage washed over me. "GO TO HER BEDROOM!" they commanded. "RIGHT NOW! BREAK HER JEWELRY BOX! SMASH EVERYTHING EXPENSIVE! TAKE WHAT YOU WANT! YOU DESERVE IT! SHE OWES YOU!" I was shaking, my fists clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms. "DO IT, YOU COWARDLY OLD BITCH!" they screamed. "OR ARE YOU GOING TO CRY LIKE YOU DID WHEN YOUR HUSBAND LEFT YOU? TAKE A KNIFE FROM THE KITCHEN! GO UPSTAIRS! GIVE HER A REAL REASON TO BE AFRAID OF YOU! SHOW THEM YOU'RE NOT JUST A MOP WITH A HUMAN ATTACHED! FUCKING DO IT!" I actually took a step towards the kitchen. I could feel the handle of a knife in my hand. Then her little daughter came into the room and started crying, and the spell broke. I just stood there, trembling, while the voices laughed at me. "Almost had a spine there, grandma. Don't worry, we'll try again tomorrow. Or maybe you'll just finally do us all a favor and end it."

I hate this country. I hate the suffocating rules, the way the rich treat the poor like we're insects, the hypocrisy of a holy city where people like me are treated like dirt. The voices feed on that hate. "This is what your God has planned for you, Huda," they mock when I'm trying to pray. "A life of servitude and misery in the shadow of his holy house. Why do you bother praying? He's not listening. No one is. The only one who cares about you is us. And we just want to see you put out of your misery. Just one bottle of pills. One jump from the roof. One slice of a blade. It's so easy. We'll even hold your hand." Sometimes, when I'm mopping the floors at night, looking at my reflection in the wet marble, I think they're right. I look like a ghost already. Maybe it's time to just fade away completely.

|kboos_2024_
|adel_dewli
|rand.majali
|i_valuate
|ashrafatouh

https://mega.nz/file/n65C2ZBJ#HJqmOaw_BMxFGj173ZRLZmmE_rmhwK9iehxgmwc8Xj8

<a href="https://sites.google.com/view/links-darknet-markets ">tor drug market </a> https://sites.google.com/view/links-darknet-markets <a href="https://sites.google.com/view/links-darknet-markets ">darknet market list </a> https://sites.google.com/view/darknetmarketsmonitoring