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Something odd about those campus tent encampments. Almost all the tents are identical - same design, same size, same fresh-out-of-the-box appearance. Which suggests that rather than an organic process, whereby students would bring a variety of individual tents, someone or some organization has supplied them and organized the event. I think it would be instructive if we can determine who that someone is. Because rather than spontaneous demonstrations, these are choreographed events by hidden actors - and the students, sincere though they may be, are merely manipulated props.

🕯️ The Mossad Agent Who Danced Through Tehran This is not fiction. Not a movie. Not a Netflix script. This is the real, haunting story of a woman who shattered a regime without firing a single bullet— Only with trust. And betrayal. She was born in Paris. Jewish. Secular. Free. But her blood carried the winds of Yemen, the pulse of exile, the poetry of desert silence. She studied the Middle East like a lover reads a letter— Sunni and Shia. Arab and Persian. Revolution and rot. Then—she vanished. Reappeared in London. As a devout Shia Muslim. Chador. Farsi. Hadith. She quoted Khomeini like sacred scripture. She bowed toward Qom. She wept with the faithful. And Tehran opened its arms. But she was a dagger. Sharpened in Tel Aviv. Poison-tipped with prose. She wrote for Press TV. For Tehran Times. Her articles ran under Supreme Leader Khamenei’s official site. Her pen didn’t praise. It mapped. Every paragraph—a code. Every metaphor—a missile lock. They called her Catherine. She sipped mint tea with IRGC wives. She prayed beside scientists' daughters. She whispered with veiled softness: “Does he sleep well after such burden?” “Do you ever feel afraid when he travels?” And they answered. With schedules. With names. With secrets. Every sigh she heard became a funeral. Operation Shabgard (Nightwalker) June 13–14, 2025 Iran burned. 🛑 8 IRGC commanders incinerated in their beds 🛑 7 nuclear scientists—never made it to work 🛑 3 Quds Force ghosts—wiped from the earth No drones. No spies in alleys. Just her words. Her whispers. Her silence. Her poetry. When the missiles fell, she vanished. Qom. Isfahan. Karaj. They traced every prayer rug she knelt on. But she was gone. A Mossad team plucked her from a dry riverbed in the Zagros Mountains. No footprints. No calls. Just smoke. Today, she is a ghost. Her blog? Deleted. Her Twitter? Gone. No photo. No trail. No trace. But in Tehran, they curse her name. And in Tel Aviv, they whisper it like a myth: “The Woman Who Burned Qom Without a Match.” “The Writer of the Minarets.” “The Pen that Pierced the Republic.” She fought not with fists—but faith. Not with violence—but intimacy. She killed no one. And yet thousands never woke again. 🕯️ She is not a character. She is a reminder. That in the age of drones and data— A woman with a pen and a prayer can still rewrite history.

When we were led into the gas chamber, YOU said nothing. When we were forcibly converted, YOU said nothing. When we were thrown out of a country just for being Jews, YOU said nothing. When we now defend ourselves all of a sudden, YOU have something to say. How did we take our revenge on the Germans for their Final Solution? How did we take revenge on the Spanish for their Inquisition? How did we take revenge on Islam for treating us as Dhimmis? How did we take revenge on the lies of the Protocols of Zion? We studied our Torah We innovated in medicine We innovated in defense systems We innovated in technology We innovated in agriculture We made music We wrote poetry We made the desert bloom We won Nobel prizes We founded the movie industry We financed democracy We fulfilled the word of Hashem by becoming a light unto the Nations of the Earth. So World, when you criticize us for defending our heritage and our ancestral homeland,we the Jews of the world do exactly what you did, we ignore you. You have proven to us for the last 2,000 years that when the chips are down you don’t care. Now leave us alone and go sort out you own back yard whilst we continue our 5784-year-old mission, enhancing the world we share. --by Howard Klineberg, in the Jerusalem Post of February 2, 2015.

Auschwitz, 1943 Henek was a violinist. Before the war, he filled concert halls with the sound of hope. But in Auschwitz, his music became a funeral hymn. The Nazis forced him into the camp orchestra. His job? To play while men, women, and children were marched to their deaths. Each morning, he lifted his bow like a broken prayer. Each note of Schubert’s Serenade trembled— not from cold, but from the unbearable weight of what he knew. One day, as a line of prisoners walked past, a girl no older than thirteen turned to him. Her lips barely moved: "Your music is the last thing I’ll hear. Thank you." Henek survived the war. But he never touched a violin again. He said, "The strings were soaked in sorrow. I buried my music with them."

"Israelis are White Colonizers." Israelis:

Something odd about those campus tent encampments. Almost all the tents are identical - same design, same size, same fresh-out-of-the-box appearance. Which suggests that rather than an organic process, whereby students would bring a variety of individual tents, someone or some organization has supplied them and organized the event. I think it would be instructive if we can determine who that someone is. Because rather than spontaneous demonstrations, these are choreographed events by hidden actors - and the students, sincere though they may be, are merely manipulated props.

🕯️ The Mossad Agent Who Danced Through Tehran This is not fiction. Not a movie. Not a Netflix script. This is the real, haunting story of a woman who shattered a regime without firing a single bullet— Only with trust. And betrayal. She was born in Paris. Jewish. Secular. Free. But her blood carried the winds of Yemen, the pulse of exile, the poetry of desert silence. She studied the Middle East like a lover reads a letter— Sunni and Shia. Arab and Persian. Revolution and rot. Then—she vanished. Reappeared in London. As a devout Shia Muslim. Chador. Farsi. Hadith. She quoted Khomeini like sacred scripture. She bowed toward Qom. She wept with the faithful. And Tehran opened its arms. But she was a dagger. Sharpened in Tel Aviv. Poison-tipped with prose. She wrote for Press TV. For Tehran Times. Her articles ran under Supreme Leader Khamenei’s official site. Her pen didn’t praise. It mapped. Every paragraph—a code. Every metaphor—a missile lock. They called her Catherine. She sipped mint tea with IRGC wives. She prayed beside scientists' daughters. She whispered with veiled softness: “Does he sleep well after such burden?” “Do you ever feel afraid when he travels?” And they answered. With schedules. With names. With secrets. Every sigh she heard became a funeral. Operation Shabgard (Nightwalker) June 13–14, 2025 Iran burned. 🛑 8 IRGC commanders incinerated in their beds 🛑 7 nuclear scientists—never made it to work 🛑 3 Quds Force ghosts—wiped from the earth No drones. No spies in alleys. Just her words. Her whispers. Her silence. Her poetry. When the missiles fell, she vanished. Qom. Isfahan. Karaj. They traced every prayer rug she knelt on. But she was gone. A Mossad team plucked her from a dry riverbed in the Zagros Mountains. No footprints. No calls. Just smoke. Today, she is a ghost. Her blog? Deleted. Her Twitter? Gone. No photo. No trail. No trace. But in Tehran, they curse her name. And in Tel Aviv, they whisper it like a myth: “The Woman Who Burned Qom Without a Match.” “The Writer of the Minarets.” “The Pen that Pierced the Republic.” She fought not with fists—but faith. Not with violence—but intimacy. She killed no one. And yet thousands never woke again. 🕯️ She is not a character. She is a reminder. That in the age of drones and data— A woman with a pen and a prayer can still rewrite history.

Auschwitz, 1943 Henek was a violinist. Before the war, he filled concert halls with the sound of hope. But in Auschwitz, his music became a funeral hymn. The Nazis forced him into the camp orchestra. His job? To play while men, women, and children were marched to their deaths. Each morning, he lifted his bow like a broken prayer. Each note of Schubert’s Serenade trembled— not from cold, but from the unbearable weight of what he knew. One day, as a line of prisoners walked past, a girl no older than thirteen turned to him. Her lips barely moved: "Your music is the last thing I’ll hear. Thank you." Henek survived the war. But he never touched a violin again. He said, "The strings were soaked in sorrow. I buried my music with them."