Feb 15(Jowhar)-Dalka Turkiga waxaa goordhow laga soo sagootiyey Markabka Cağri Bey oo ku soo wajahan Soomaaliya, kaas oo howlgal shidaal qodis ah ka sameyn doona xeebaha dalkeenna,
Xasan Sheekh:”Afrika Waa inay kursi joogta ah ku yeelataa Golaha Ammaanka”
Feb 15(Jowhar)-Madaxweynaha Jamhuuriyadda Federaalka Soomaaliya Mudane Xasan Sheekh Maxamuud ayaa ka qayb galay shir heer sare ah oo ku saabsanaa mustaqbalka Qaramada Midoobay, kaas oo ka qabsoomay magaalada Addis Ababa, kana mid ahaa kulan-doceedyada muhiimka ahaa ee Shir Madaxeedka Midowga Afrika.
Carney pledges support for a united Canada in Tumbler Ridge

Under the Cold Light of a Candle: Tumbler Ridge Grieves
Snow hissed in the streetlights as a small, determined procession threaded its way toward the town hall of Tumbler Ridge — a mining town where houses wear winter like a second skin and hockey is as much civic ritual as pastime. Candles trembled in mittened hands. Mothers hugged close to children who had come because they could not bear to stay away.
Prime Minister Mark Carney arrived that evening and stood beside leaders from across the political aisle. He did not offer grand promises; he offered presence. “I know that nothing I can say will bring your children home,” he told the crowd in a voice that broke the hush, “I know that no words from me or anyone can fill the silence in your homes tonight, and I won’t pretend otherwise. We wanted you to hear that Canadians are with you, and we will always be with you.”
It was a simple statement, but simplicity is sometimes what steadies people when everything else feels fractured. His visit — shared with opposition leaders and local responders — read as a national embrace, a gesture that the small town’s grief would not be absorbed in silence.
The Night That Changed Everything
On a winter day earlier this week, a young person moved through two homes and a school and left a community raw. The 18-year-old shooter, identified by police as Jesse Van Rootselaar, killed her mother and younger brother in their home before walking to Tumbler Ridge Secondary School, where five students and a teacher were fatally shot. She then took her own life. In total, eight people were lost — children, a teacher, a parent — a number that matches no tally of value.
The Royal Canadian Mounted Police said the shootings were not targeted at specific individuals, describing the gunman’s actions as “hunting.” Investigators released a photo of Van Rootselaar and noted she had a history of mental-health issues. Her modest brown house — two overturned bicycles resting in the snowy front garden — was cordoned off by police tape; officers maintained a presence there as the town sought answers.
Faces Behind the Names
The victims’ names have been shared sparingly, each one a bullet-point in a larger human ledger. Twelve-year-old Ticaria, remembered by her mother Sarah Lampert as having “a beautiful, strong voice that was silenced,” is now described in the present tense by the people who loved her: “She is forever my baby.” Zoey Benoit, another 12-year-old lost in the shooting, was hailed by family as “resilient, vibrant, smart, caring and the strongest little girl you could meet.” Ezekiel, 13, is named in Facebook posts that read like a town’s shared obituary: friends posting photos, grandparents posting memories, people trying to stitch a life back together by retelling it.
These are not statistics to the townsfolk; they are kids who learned to skate on the same backyard rink, kids who crowded the stands at junior hockey games, kids who were being taught the reading, the jokes, the small rebellions of adolescence. The sense of proximity here amplifies the hurt. Tumbler Ridge has about 2,400 residents: close enough that loss ricochets door-to-door, kitchen-to-kitchen.
A Community’s Rituals of Comfort
Within hours of the killings, the town’s rhythms shifted toward care. Inside the community centre, volunteer coordinators mapped out meals, counselling, and logistical support. Outside, a vigil drew people from surrounding towns: a woman named Christine James drove 120 kilometres from Dawson Creek because “I just needed to be here.” A pastor, George Rowe, pledged, “This will not break us. I think we’re going to be OK,” words that were both belief and a promise to the people clustered around him.
Across the street, a makeshift memorial sprouted: hand-written notes pinned to a bulletin board, stuffed animals soaking snow, bouquets arranged into patient crescents on the snow-packed curb. Children still skated at the rink — not out of callousness, but because routines can be a salve, a way to hold up normal for a day at a time.
- Eight people were killed, including five students and a teacher at the school, and two family members at a residence.
- Tumbler Ridge is roughly 1,180 km north of Vancouver and home to around 2,400 people.
- National leaders attended vigils and met with first-responders and health workers.
Questions That Won’t Go Quiet
When a town like Tumbler Ridge is scarred in this way, global questions gather at the edges: How do we keep our schools safe? How do smaller communities support mental health? What does prevention look like in places where everyone knows your name and yet some suffering goes unseen?
“We have to stop treating this as inevitable,” said a crisis counsellor who has worked in rural communities for two decades and who asked not to be named in order to speak candidly. “Smaller towns can be incredibly resilient, but they are also often underserved. Resources, early intervention, school-based mental-health supports — these are not luxuries, they are essentials.”
Canada’s record with gun violence is complex. Compared with its southern neighbour, the United States, Canada has far lower rates of gun homicides per capita, but it is not immune to mass-casualty events. Experts note that in recent years attention to community-based prevention, Indigenous mental-health services, and rural access to care must be part of the conversation — not only in the immediate aftermath but in the long tail of recovery.
The Long Work of Healing
Prime Minister Carney spent part of his visit meeting privately with first-responders, health workers and bereaved families. He described learning, once again, what had always defined Tumbler Ridge: “people caring for each other.” His words were small, but the unseen labor unfolding in the community is enormous: therapists wheel into the high school for sessions; volunteers coordinate meal trains; neighbours shovel driveways for families who cannot sleep.
Not all answers are policy prescriptions. Sometimes the work is simply this: to show up, to hold a candle, to deliver a casserole and hold hands with someone who is cold in more ways than one. “I made soup for a family on our street,” said an older woman at the vigil, her breath a white cloud. “It felt like the only thing I could do.”
What We Owe Each Other
As the vigil broke up and people wandered back through the slick streets to their homes, the town bore its losses into the night. For many readers far from northern British Columbia, Tumbler Ridge will be a name in a headline. For those who live there, it is the place where a daughter, a son, and a teacher once walked, laughed, learned.
What do we offer when a place like this carries the unthinkable? We offer presence. We offer sustained attention, not the flash of headlines and then distraction. We offer reforms shaped by science and compassion: better access to mental-health care, investment in emergency response in rural areas, school safety that does not render classrooms into fortresses. We offer to listen to the people who lived these lives, not speak for them.
And we ask ourselves: if a community this small can show up for each other in such fierce, palpable ways, what might it look like if the rest of us did the same — not just tonight, but tomorrow, and the day after that?
Jubaland oo bur-burisay 4 saldhig oo ay Shabaab ku lahaayeen duleedka Badhadhe
Feb 15(Jowhar)-Howlgal gaar ah oo uu hogaamiyay Agaasimaha Hay’adda Sirdoonka Iyo Nabadsugida Jubaland Maxamed Axmed Sabriye Basaam oo ka dhacay Howdka Fog ee Badda Madow, Deegaanka Lagta Hola-Wajeer, Degmada Badhaadhe, Gobolka Jubada Hoose oo lagu jabiyay Khawaariijta.
Palestine Action wins UK court challenge, protest ban still enforced
A crowd, a chant, and a judgment that refuses to be tidy
It was a grey morning in central London, the kind that drapes the city in a muted palette and sharpens the sound of voices. Outside the High Court, roughly a hundred people had gathered — students with worn backpacks, a grandmother clutching a thermos, a former serviceman wearing a flat cap — and their chorus rose and fell in waves: “Free Palestine.” When the court announced that Huda Ammori had won part of her legal challenge, the crowd cheered; when they learned the ban would remain in place for now, the cheer curdled into frustrated applause and determined chanting. It was protest, but also a ritual of defiance: communal, noisy, and full of questions.
“We came to be seen and to be heard,” said Fatima Khan, 28, who works as a nurse and travelled from east London. “This feels like the state telling us whose grief counts, and whose doesn’t. We can’t let them make our politics into a crime without answering.” Her voice shook, not from heat or cold, but from long-held indignation.
How we got here: a legal fight and a partial win
The story began in the summer, when the Home Office moved to proscribe Palestine Action under the Terrorism Act 2000. The ban — which came into effect on 5 July 2025 — made membership of, or support for, the direct-action group a criminal offence, carrying a maximum sentence of up to 14 years in prison. Within weeks and months, arrests followed. Government figures and defence counsel referenced more than 2,000 arrests linked to the proscription; on the first day of one hearing, police detained 143 people amid demonstrations.
Huda Ammori, a co-founder of the group, challenged that decision in the High Court, arguing the ban was heavy-handed, discriminatory and procedurally flawed. On the other side, the Home Office defended the proscription as a legitimate tool to protect national security and public order. The court’s answer was not simple: sitting with two other judges, Lady Justice Victoria Sharp said Ms Ammori had succeeded on two of the four legal grounds she raised, but she refused to lift the ban immediately. Instead, the order stays in place to allow the government time to assess and to appeal.
“I am disappointed by the court’s decision and disagree with the notion that banning this terrorist organisation is disproportionate,” said interior minister Shabana Mahmood in a swift reaction that left no ambiguity about the government’s next move. “Home secretaries must … retain the ability to take action to protect our national security and keep the public safe. I intend to fight this judgement in the Court of Appeal.”
Arguments, analogies, and the fight over civil disobedience
In court, the legal theatre was as much about precedent and principle as it was about one organisation. Barristers for Ms Ammori argued the proscription was alien to the traditions of common law and the protections of the European Convention on Human Rights. They described a broad sweep that swept up “priests, teachers, pensioners, retired British Army officers” — ordinary people whose support, they said, was symbolic rather than criminal.
“This is classic civil disobedience territory,” one defence counsel told the judges, invoking a history of protest that ranges from suffragettes to sit-ins to the refusal of segregation-era bus laws. “If we permit the state to criminalise mere expressions of alignment, we hollow out the right to contest unjust laws. Rosa Parks would be a criminal without conscience in the current formulation.”
Government lawyers countered with a different frame: the proscription is a proportionate step to stifle organisations whose tactics cross into activity the state must deter. “Proscription signals that such groups cannot rely on the oxygen of publicity or vocal and financial support,” their submissions said, adding that supporters may still protest lawfully without endorsing criminal conduct.
Lives caught in a legal net: arrests, authors, and unintended consequences
The practical fallout has been sharp. More than 2,000 arrests, legal representatives say, paints a picture of enforcement that blurs the line between quoted slogans and operational activity. That has real human consequences: people charged, futures potentially curtailed, and community relationships strained.
Then there is an unexpected cultural wrinkle. Novelist Sally Rooney — author of Normal People — provided evidence in support of the challenge after revealing plans to donate certain earnings to Palestine Action. She warned in written testimony that it was “unclear” whether companies could legally pay her under anti-terror laws, and that her ability to publish, produce or profit from new works in the UK could be “enormously restricted.” The suggestion that artistic life might be chilled by proscription lit up conversations among authors, publishers and free-speech advocates.
“When culture becomes collateral in a legal battle, we lose a space where ideas are tested and refined,” said Dr Laila Mansour, a political sociologist at a London university. “Artists don’t just make objects — they are part of civic debate. The risk is that proscription can shrink that debate into whispers.”
Voices from the street and the lecture hall
On the pavement outside the courthouse, a retired magistrate who has been named in court papers told me, softly and with a rueful chuckle, “I never expected to be on the wrong side of a law I once judged under.” An ex-army lieutenant, who requested anonymity, said he felt frustrated that people he considered principled civil disobedients were being labelled as criminals. “This isn’t about violence — it’s about moral pressure,” he said.
Not everyone shares that view. “When protests escalate into targeted sabotage or intimidation, the state has a duty to act,” argued a former counter-terrorism official. “Proscription is one of many tools in the toolbox. The question is whether it’s used with care — and whether the legal checks are sufficient.”
What this moment tells us about democracy and dissent
At stake is a larger civic question: how do liberal democracies balance the protection of public safety with the messy, sometimes uncomfortable business of political contestation? In a decade marked by intense polarisation over foreign policy, migration and identity, the lines between protest and criminality are increasingly litigated rather than debated. That shift has consequences beyond any single organisation.
Consider the facts on the table: a statutory framework (the Terrorism Act 2000) designed for a different era; a government anxious about tactics that might verge on illegality; protesters and artists warning of chilling effects; thousands of arrests and a chorus of public concern. Each of those facts is a prismatic fragment of a national argument.
What happens next — and what you might ask yourself
The government has said it will take this to the Court of Appeal. The legal fight will continue; the ban will, for now, remain. But the case has already raised durable questions: should support for a controversial political cause be equated to supporting a proscribed organisation? Where does civil disobedience end and criminality begin? And how do we preserve robust dissent without sacrificing safety?
As you read this, ask yourself: when the law narrows the space for public expression, who decides which voices are legitimate? And when state power expands to silence, what becomes of the very pluralism it claims to protect?
The High Court decision was neither a ceremonial victory nor a complete defeat. It was messy, contested and very much alive — a mirror held up to a society wrestling with the shape of its own freedoms.
Shir ku Saabsan Maaliyadda Cimilada Cagaaran oo Lagu Soo Gabagabeeyay Kigali
Feb 15(Jowhar)-Waxaa magaalada Kigali ee dalka Rwanda lagu soo gabagabeeyay shir muhiim ah oo ku saabsan Cimilada Cagaaran iyo is dhaafsiga aqoonta iyo khibradaha hannnaanka Maaliyadda cimilada.
Golaha Mustaqbalka oo la kulmay guddi ka socday xildhibaanada baarlamaanka xorta ah
Feb 15(Jowhar)-Waxaa goordhow kusoo idlaaday Hotel Airport kulan udhexeeyay xubno katirsan Golaha Mustaqbalka iyo gudigii farsamo ee ay shalay iska saareen xildhibaanada labaxay Baarlamaanka Xorta ah.
Erdogan oo todobaadkan isku-maraya wadamada Imaaraatka iyo Itoobiya
Feb 15(Jowhar)-Madaxweynaha Turkiga ayaa 16-ka ilaa 17ka bishan isku mari doona Imaaraatka Carabta iyo Itoobiya, wada hadalo ku beegmaya waqti xasaasi ah oo galal badan isku furan yihiin Turkiguna qeyb kayahay, oo taabanaya Khaliijka ilaa Badda Cas.
Heir to Iran’s Last Shah Urges US to Act at Munich Rally

A Sea of Green-White-and-Red: Munich’s Rally and the Politics of Longing
On a cold Munich afternoon, under skies swept clean by the Alps’ chill, a human tide gathered: flags stitched with a golden lion and sun fluttered like relics of another century, voices rose in a chorus that felt equal parts prayer and manifesto, and a figure who has lived most of his life in exile stepped forward to promise a different Iran.
Reza Pahlavi—son of Iran’s last shah and a man whose name still makes some inside his homeland wince and others weep with nostalgia—told an estimated 200,000 people that he was ready to lead a transition to a “secular democratic future.” The scene, on the sidelines of the Munich Security Conference, looked and sounded like a historical crossroads: chants of “Javid shah” (long live the shah) mixed with newer refrains demanding an end to the Islamic Republic.
Faces and Flags
“We are tired of fear,” said Maryam, a 47-year-old dentist from Tehran who travelled to Munich after securing a visa. Her voice trembled not with cold but with a stubborn hope. “We need someone to hold the bridge while we walk back to the ballot box.”
In the crowd, the same story unfolded in many languages. A 62-year-old man, Said, who gave his name only as a shape of memory, told me bluntly: “This regime is finished. We have been patient too long.” Others held up hand‑written signs with the names of loved ones lost in crackdowns, a quiet human ledger against the roar.
There is theater in exile politics. There is also urgency. Pahlavi’s call for rooftop and home chants—simple acts of public solidarity—was taken up across continents: protests in downtown Los Angeles, marches on the National Mall in Washington, and a spirited demonstration in Toronto where protesters shouted, “Trump act now!” The moment felt viral, global, and dangerously charged.
The Diplomatic Tightrope
At the same time as chants for monarchy and change echoed in Europe and North America, diplomats were quietly laying another kind of groundwork. Switzerland conveyed that Oman would host a fresh round of talks in Geneva next week—a tacit reminder that dialogue, however fraught, has not been precluded even as rhetoric heats up.
These parallel tracks—street politics and behind‑the‑scenes diplomacy—capture a paradox of our age. Public leaders and exiled figures play to cameras and crowds, while statesmen calibrate responses that could prevent escalation. President Donald Trump, who publicly declared that a change of government in Iran would be the “best thing that could happen,” also ordered a second aircraft carrier to the region, a muscular signal intended to deter but easily read as provocation.
“Hard power and soft power are being used at once,” observed a veteran Middle East analyst who asked to remain anonymous. “That mix makes outcomes less predictable. Diplomacy can succeed—but only if steps are taken to avoid misreading signals on the ground.”
Numbers That Hurt
The protests in Iran have not been ceremonial. Human Rights Activists News Agency, a US‑based group, reported at least 7,010 people killed in the security forces’ crackdown—most of them protesters—and more than 53,845 arrests. Rights organizations warn these figures may understate the true toll.
“Every number is a person,” said an activist in exile. “A young life taken, a family left to grieve. Numbers tell the scale; names tell the cost.”
- No diplomatic relations between the US and Iran since 1979.
- Reza Pahlavi has not returned to Iran since the 1979 Islamic Revolution.
- Reported casualties and arrests during the crackdown number in the thousands and tens of thousands, respectively, according to human rights monitors.
Divisions Within the Opposition
If the street scenes offer drama, the politics behind them carry awkward nuance. Pahlavi’s calls for return to monarchy—explicit or symbolic—resonate with some emigrant communities who remember the shah’s era with nostalgia. But many inside Iran do not want to import the baggage of the past.
Critics point out that Pahlavi has never formally distanced himself from his father’s autocratic rule and that his highly publicized visit to Israel in 2023 fractured an attempt to unify opposition groups. “You cannot build a bridge on remembered glories alone,” cautioned Dr. Amir Hosseini, a scholar of Iranian politics. “Opposition movements must answer two questions: what are they replacing, and who will they include?”
Inside Iran, the opposition landscape remains fragmented. Young Iranians who led recent protests often speak more of civil liberties, economic dignity, and an end to clerical rule than of restoration of the monarchy. Their slogans—sung from rooftops and verified in videos circulating online—are raw, local, and at times unpredictable.
Where Do We Go From Here?
So what should the international community do when a people’s cry collides with geopolitics? When demonstrations are answered with bullets, and when exiles offer themselves as patchwork leaders for a home they barely know? These are not rhetorical questions. They matter to diplomats, to ordinary Iranians, and to anyone watching the fragile architecture of the Middle East.
“External support for human rights must be principled, not transactional,” said a Geneva‑based diplomat. “If outside powers try to pick winners, they risk undermining the very democratic processes they claim to champion.”
Readers might ask themselves: would you entrust a nation’s fate to a figure who has been away for decades? Or is continuity with the past less important than a safe path to a free ballot and basic protections? There are no easy answers, only urgent responsibilities.
A Final Thought
In Munich, the crowd dispersed as twilight fell—some to head back to hotels, some into the cold to keep chanting—and the lion-and-sun flags folded away like stage scenery. But the questions the day raised will not be so quickly put aside: about exile and home, about the limits of slogans, about the difference between symbolic leadership and the messy, patient work of building institutions.
Whether Iran’s future bends toward the monarchy’s shadow, a secular republic, or something else entirely will depend as much on the courage and creativity of Iranians themselves as on the diplomacy and restraint of the world around them. Will the bridges that were promised be built? Or will they remain dramatic gestures in chilly plazas far from Tehran’s rooftops? For now, the answer is being written in both chants and quiet negotiations—and every observer is a witness.













