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French appeals court to rule on Marine Le Pen appeal July 7
A courtroom, a calendar date, and the future of French politics
On a rain-slick afternoon in Paris, the marble steps of the appeals court hummed with more than the usual legal gravity. Television vans angled their satellite dishes like mechanical sunflowers. Journalists tucked damp umbrellas beneath their arms. People who months ago might have been strangers—senior citizens wrapped in tricolour scarves, young activists with folding bikes, a few men in well-worn RN caps—clustered and argued in small, urgent groups.
All of them came for the same reason: a date circled in the national consciousness. On 7 July, an appeals court will decide whether Marine Le Pen, the polarizing leader of France’s far-right who twice pushed the country to the final round of presidential voting, should be blocked from holding public office for five years. For a nation still digesting seismic electoral shifts, the verdict promises to be a hinge point: legal judgment on one hand, political fate on the other.
What’s at stake
The charge is deceptively simple on paper and knotty in practice. Prosecutors say that, while a member of the European Parliament, Le Pen and associates employed people on the EU payroll who in reality worked for her party—the National Rally—back in France. The result, according to the courts, was a misuse of public funds and a betrayal of public trust.
Last year a lower court concluded she should be banned for five years from holding public office and handed down a prison sentence in connection with the scheme. Prosecutors in the appeal have urged the same or harsher penalties: they asked for the five-year ban to be maintained and for a four-year prison term with three years suspended. The first trial had returned a four-year prison sentence with two years suspended.
Legal minutiae can feel arid, but the political consequences are vivid. If the appeals court upholds the ban, Le Pen—57, a veteran of three presidential campaigns—would be prevented from standing in 2027, widely seen as the clearest window for her to finally take the presidency. If the court overturns the judgment, she could as easily walk toward another run, or delay a decision to play the strategic long game.
Faces and voices outside the courtroom
“You can’t reduce this to a legal quibble,” said Amélie Rousseau, a schoolteacher who stood beneath a coffee shop awning watching the scrum. “It’s about standards. If politicians use public money like a personal slush fund, where does that leave the rest of us?” Her palms were warm around a paper cup; the rain had made conversation intimate.
A counterpoint came from Marc Lefebvre, a small-business owner from the northeastern suburbs. “I voted RN once,” he told me. “Not because I liked everything, but because I felt ignored. This is politics as usual—investigations, chases. We need hope, not endless scandals.” He glanced at a passing group singing snippets of campaign chants. “If she can’t run, there’s a new face ready—maybe that’s better, maybe not.”
Those new faces include Jordan Bardella, 30, the charismatic head of National Rally who has been floated as a possible successor if Le Pen is forced to step aside. A poll in November indicated that if he were the RN candidate, he could reach the second round and, according to that survey, win the final ballot against a range of opponents. Whether polls will hold up in three years—and whether that November snapshot still tells the story—is a matter only time will settle.
Why this matters beyond France
France occupies a special place in Europe’s democratic imagination. It is a nation whose presidents and policies often send ripples through Brussels and into capitals from Berlin to Rome. The rise of new right-wing movements across the continent has been one of the defining political trends of the last decade—waves that have reshaped debates on immigration, sovereignty, the economy, and the European Union itself.
So when a widely known national figure is entangled with questions of public funds and legal accountability, the implications travel farther than the Seine. The case raises deep questions about how democracies police their own leaders: Are courts an instrument of impartial justice or a political battleground? When should law intersect with politics, and when should it be kept at arm’s length?
Global echoes
Look around the world and you’ll see similar dynamics: charismatic outsiders driven to the brink of power only to be checked by institutions that are sometimes robust, sometimes fragile. From corruption probes in Latin America to constitution disputes in Eastern Europe, the same duet of accountability and political mobilization keeps replaying. In this light, the Le Pen case is both intimately French and broadly illustrative.
The woman behind the headlines
Marine Le Pen’s portrait is a study in persistence. She first shocked political insiders by breaking through to the second round in 2017, drawing roughly 34% of the vote against Emmanuel Macron. Five years later she did it again—stronger, more formidable—claiming about 41.5% in the 2022 runoff. She has recast the National Rally from a fringe party associated with her father, Jean-Marie Le Pen, into a party capable of commanding millions of votes. To her supporters she is a fighter who speaks plainly about security, identity, and the economic anxieties of the forgotten. To her critics she represents a vision of France at odds with liberal norms.
“She’s a complicated figure,” said Dr. Lucien Moreau, a political sociologist at a Paris university. “On one hand, she normalised a strain of politics that used to be taboo. On the other, these legal proceedings show the limits of that normalisation. Democracies must balance between giving voice to disaffected citizens and protecting the rule of law.”
Possible outcomes and what they could mean
- If the appeals court upholds the ban: Le Pen would be sidelined from running in 2027, but the National Rally would not necessarily collapse—leaders like Bardella could step forward, and the wider movement’s energies might intensify. Some supporters could see the ban as proof of elite obstruction, fuelling recruitment.
- If the ban is overturned: Le Pen’s path to a potential 2027 candidature would reopen, thrusting France back into the same polarised theatre of 2017 and 2022 and forcing other parties to recalibrate strategies in a Macron-less field (he’s barred by term limits from running again).
- If the court delivers a mixed decision: partial exoneration or reduced penalties could muddy the political waters, leading to protracted legal and electoral manoeuvring.
What will you be watching on 7 July?
The ruling could read like legal closure—or like kindling. Will it settle a decade-long debate about accountability, or will it fan the flames of grievance and political realignment? That is the question Parisian cafés, provincial town squares, and international commentators will be parsing in the days that follow.
As you read these lines, consider the broader currents in your own country. Are institutions resilient enough to handle uncomfortable reckonings? Do voters feel seen by the parties that claim to represent them? How should democracies hold leaders to account while ensuring the political arena remains open and fair?
On 7 July, France will turn a page—one that will be read domestically and abroad. Whether it becomes a paragraph of legal finality or the beginning of a new chapter of contestation, the outcome will remind us that in democracies, law and politics are never strangers. They’re roommates, quarrelling and negotiating the same space at the same time.
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Feb 12(Jowhar)-Madaxa howlgalka ciidamada socdaalka ee ka socda Minnesota , Tom Homan, ayaa sheegay in howlgalkii weynaa ee Minnesota uu dhamaaday.
Xasan Sheekh oo Madaxtooyada ku qaabilay wafdi ka socda Ingiriiska
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Russia Confirms Nationwide WhatsApp Ban, Blocking Popular Messaging Service
When the green ticks went quiet: WhatsApp blocked in Russia
On a gray morning in central Moscow, the usual symphony of digital life stuttered. Cafés hummed; the tram hissed; people scrolled through feeds. But across a dozen phones at a single long table, the familiar pair of green ticks that confirm a WhatsApp message had been seen did not appear. Conversations paused mid-emoji. “I tried to send my boss the invoice and the message just kept spinning,” said Irina, a freelance photographer, tapping her phone with a frustrated laugh. “It felt like someone had pulled the plug on a small, private world.”
That small private world has been reshaped by a blunt decision from Moscow. The Kremlin has moved to block WhatsApp, citing the app’s alleged failure to obey local law. Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov told reporters that “such a decision was indeed made and implemented” and blamed WhatsApp’s “reluctance to comply with the norms and letter of Russian law.” Officials have simultaneously urged users to adopt Max, a domestic messenger that the government describes as an accessible national alternative.
A nudge—or a shove—toward homegrown apps
For months, Russian authorities have promoted Max as the kind of national platform that fits into the country’s vision of a sovereign internet. The pitch is straightforward: move your conversations to a homegrown service, it is argued, and they will be governed under Russian rules, facilitating moderation and legal oversight. “Max is an accessible alternative, a developing messenger, a national messenger,” Peskov said, framing the shift as a matter of market choice.
But the pitch carries a deeper implication. Max does not provide end-to-end encryption in the same way WhatsApp does—meaning messages are more accessible to the service provider and, by extension, to any state actors with legal or technical pathways into the system. Human rights advocates have described this difference as anything from a privacy downgrade to a mechanism that could enable mass surveillance.
WhatsApp, Meta and the users caught in the middle
WhatsApp, owned by Meta, responded with defiance tinged with concern, saying it believed the Kremlin’s move was meant to force users onto the domestic platform. “We continue to do everything we can to keep users connected,” a company spokesperson said. The platform, which counts roughly two billion users worldwide, is estimated to serve close to 100 million people in Russia—though precise, constantly shifting figures are hard to pin down in the wake of disruptions.
For ordinary people the choice is rarely between principles and convenience; it is often about how to keep working, staying in touch with family abroad, or running a small business that depends on instant communication. “I sell handmade scarves online, and 80 percent of my orders come through WhatsApp chats,” said Yuri, a vendor near the Pushkin Square market. “If people stop getting my messages, I stop getting paid. That’s the real cost.”
Voices from the streets and the servers
Across cities, reactions have been as varied as the people voicing them. In a small co-working space in St. Petersburg, a software engineer named Olga rolled her eyes. “This is predictable,” she said. “We’ve been living with Roskomnadzor’s attention for years. People will use VPNs, mirror apps, or switch to Telegram—anything to keep the flow. But the risk is the slow normalization of platforms that don’t protect private conversations.”
At a university campus outside Kazan, students debated the ethics of switching. “Privacy feels like a luxury,” said Arman, a political science student. “If the price of connectivity is making everything visible to someone else, that changes how we talk to each other.” A human rights lawyer based in Moscow, speaking on background, warned that the move echoes earlier efforts to centralize internet control, from data localization mandates to the 2019 “sovereign internet” laws that empowered authorities to isolate Russian internet traffic.
Tech experts and civil society sound the alarm
Security specialists point to Russia’s existing technical apparatus for lawful interception—known as SORM—which allows authorities to tap communications through court orders and other mechanisms. “Removing end-to-end encryption from widely used channels raises the baseline risk for users,” explained Dr. Marina Petrov, a cybersecurity researcher. “When messaging goes through servers that are accessible under domestic law, the door is open—legally and technically—for broader surveillance.”
International rights groups have framed the block as part of a wider trend: a tightening of civic space under the guise of regulation. “This is not merely a dispute about paperwork or compliance,” said an analyst at a European digital rights NGO. “It’s about governance and control of the public square. When governments steer citizens to domestic platforms with weaker protections, it has chilling effects on free expression.”
Fishing for data in choppy global waters
Look beyond Russia and you see a pattern. Nation-states across the world—from Beijing to Tehran—have pursued a strategy of digital compartmentalization: fragmenting the global internet into national segments governed by local rules. The arguments vary—security, cultural sovereignty, fighting extremism—but the result often converges on the same point: when apps are forced into compliance or replaced by domestic alternatives, privacy erodes and the architecture of surveillance grows.
There are also economic consequences. Small businesses that rely on cross-border communication face operational headaches. Russian expatriates and international companies that depend on encrypted channels for legal or financial confidentiality will need to reassess their risks. For journalists and independent investigators, the stakes are existential: sources, whistleblowers, and vulnerable communities rely on the confidentiality that encrypted messaging provides.
What users can—and do—do
When a favored platform is shuttered, people are resourceful. In cities across Russia, VPN downloads spike. New users flock to Telegram, the messenger that has had a fraught relationship with Russian authorities but remains widely used. Some adopt burner phones and encrypted e-mail. Others simply return to older habits—phone calls, in-person meetings, or communicating through less obvious channels.
- Tools people commonly turn to: VPNs, alternate encrypted messengers, mirror sites.
- Short-term coping strategies: migration to other apps, use of temporary SIM cards, offline coordination.
- Long-term effects: erosion of digital civil liberties; chilling of dissent; shifts in business operations.
Questions for readers—and for democratic societies
So what should we make of this moment? Is it a necessary assertion of national regulatory authority, or a step toward more invasive state control? Can societies strike a balance between lawful oversight and the right to private communication? These are not academic questions. They shape how families coordinate during crises, how journalists protect sources, and how dissidents can safely voice dissent.
As you read this, consider the devices in your pocket. Who controls the servers they ping? Whose laws govern your conversations? And if the global internet fractures into national strands, what will be lost—and what might be won—by that new map?
Final note: a cityscape adapting
Back at the café in Moscow, the patrons adjusted. Some switched SIMs; others queued for printed receipts and old-fashioned phone calls. “We always adapt,” Irina said, smiling with a hint of resignation. “We will find ways to keep telling each other stories—but every change leaves a scar. The question is who notices, and who pays attention, when those scars form.”
Across the world, similar scenes are unfolding wherever people rely on the quiet intimacy of a private message. The blocking of WhatsApp in Russia is not merely a technological act; it is a social one, reframing how a nation converses, trades, and contests its future. And for anyone who cares about the shape of the public square, that is worth watching closely.
Grieving Families Urge Parents: Hold Your Children Close After Shooting
A Small Town Shattered: Remembering the Children Lost in Tumbler Ridge
The mountains around Tumbler Ridge hold secrets the earth has kept for millennia: fossils, ancient tracks, the slow hush of spruce and cedar. On a bright weekday morning this week, those same slopes witnessed a different kind of silence — a silence that spread through a town of roughly a few thousand people like a winter fog.
It began like any other school day. Backpacks were zipped, hugs were given, and parents waved their children onto buses and into classrooms. By afternoon, eight lives had been taken, including five children and a beloved teacher at the local secondary school. Two more bodies — a woman and an 11-year‑old boy — were later found at a nearby residence. The numbers read cold on a page; the reality is a town that will not be the same.
Names and Faces
Among the dead was 12‑year‑old Kylie Smith, a girl her father remembers as “a light in our family.” Lance Younge told me how that morning he saw Kylie off with her brother Ethan, not knowing it would be the last time he would watch his daughter walk away. “She loved art and anime,” he said, his voice cracking under the weight of ordinary memories now forever sacred. “She wanted to go to school in Toronto. She was thriving in high school. She was the last person who ever deserved this.”
Ethan, who survived by hiding in a small utility room, will carry the memory of that morning with him always. Mr. Younge also spoke of a teenager he called “a hero named Maddie,” who performed CPR on Kylie in a desperate bid to save her. “She did everything she could,” he said. “We told Maddie she was brave. We told the kids were brave.”
Abel Mwansa, another parent, described his 12‑year‑old son — also named Abel — as a boy who loved school so much he once cried when his father suggested home schooling. “I raised him to respect his elders, to be strong, to work hard, and to always put a smile on your face,” Mr. Mwansa wrote on social media. “Seeing your child murdered at this age is heartbreaking.”
Community in Mourning
By nightfall, hundreds gathered in the town’s main square, a circle of candles and breath visible in the cold air. People stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the same peaks where children had played soccer, where families had picnicked on summer nights, where grandparents passed down stories about the first miners and the first fossil hunters.
“This is like one big family,” Mayor Darryl Krakowka told the crowd, his voice steady and soft. “If you need a hug, put your hand out. Reach out to your neighbour.”
Kevin Matthews, a resident of more than twenty years, summed up what many felt: “Nearly everyone in this town knows someone who is grieving. The path forward is to be with grieving families — to show up.”
What Happened
Police identified the shooter as 18‑year‑old Jesse Van Rootselaar. Authorities say she killed her mother and stepbrother before attacking her former school. The assailant later died; investigators have said the death appears to be self‑inflicted. As the town waits for forensic details, the focus for many residents has been simple and immediate: hold the community together and honor the children who will never grow up.
Lance Younge pleaded with media and the public to shift the gaze away from the perpetrator. “These kids were lost before they got to become teenagers,” he said. “So let’s put their pictures up and remember them, not this murderer.” His words echoed the growing chorus of families and friends who want memorials, not notoriety, for the person who committed this act.
Beyond One Town: Questions for a Nation
Canada does not experience mass shootings with the regularity of some nations, but when they occur the pain is no less profound. The country’s darkest mass shootings — the 1989 École Polytechnique massacre that claimed 14 women, and the 2020 Nova Scotia rampage that killed 22 people — remain etched in the national memory. Each tragedy forces a familiar, difficult conversation about gun access, mental health systems, and the way communities support one another.
What does safety look like in a town where everyone knows everyone? How do you reconcile the familiarity of a place with the knowledge that violence can arrive at any door? These are not local questions alone — they are questions for every small town and large city where parents send children out the door with hope rather than fear.
Voices from Experts and the Street
“Communities like Tumbler Ridge are resilient, but resilience doesn’t mean invulnerability,” said Dr. Maya Patel, a psychologist who specializes in trauma. “After an event like this, the immediate needs are grief support, clear communication from authorities, and long‑term mental health resources. These towns will need sustained help, not just moments of sympathy.”
At the vigil, an elderly neighbour wrapped a wool blanket around a shivering teen. “You learn to rely on each other,” she said, pulling her jacket tighter against the night. “We share tools, baby‑sit, bring casseroles. Now we share the sorrow.”
Remembering the Small Things
When a child’s life is cut short at 12, what remains are the small, incandescent details: a favourite anime character, a sketchbook half full of drawings, a dream of moving to a city she’d only seen in glossy postcards. These fragments are what families clutch to keep their children alive in memory.
“She was a beautiful soul,” Lance Younge said of Kylie. “She loved art. We just loved her so much.”
In the days to come, Tumbler Ridge will collect flowers and candles and ribbons. There will be fundraisers and casseroles and community meetings. There will be therapy groups and quiet people who cannot find the words. And there will be questions about how to prevent another morning like that — how to make sure that the next generation has schools that are truly safe, and systems that notice when a young person is in distress.
How to Help — A Few Practical Steps
- Reach out to local organizations offering grief counselling; many towns set up central support hubs after tragedies.
- Donate to verified family funds through official community channels rather than unvetted pages.
- Volunteer time or skills — from organizing vigils to offering childcare — can be as valuable as money.
- Press for sustained investment in mental health and school safety, rather than short bursts of attention.
Leaving the Reader with a Question
How will we, as neighbors, voters, colleagues, and citizens, choose to act after the grief settles into new rhythms? Will we let the story fade, or will we insist that the names of Kylie, Abel, and the others be more than headlines — that they be the impetus for change?
In Tumbler Ridge, people are lighting candles and holding tight to one another. They know how to make community out of quiet places. Perhaps the most meaningful tribute we can offer is not a headline that fades but a steady gaze at the work that must follow: supporting survivors, honoring lives cut short, and building systems that keep children — and all of us — safer.
“We will remember them,” Mayor Krakowka said at the vigil. “We will lean on each other. That is how we move forward.”
Madaxweyne Ruto oo Ku Dhawaaqay Dib-u-furista Xadka Mandheera
Feb 12(Jowhar)-Madaxweynaha Kenya, William Ruto, ayaa ku dhawaaqay go’aanno muhiim ah oo lagu xoojinayo nolosha iyo dhaqaalaha bulshada ku dhaqan xadka u dhexeeya Soomaaliya iyo Kenya, isagoo shaaciyay in bisha Abriil dib loo furi doono xadka Mandheera.
Local pastor calls Canada shooting unfathomable and utterly devastating
When a Mountain Town Went Quiet: Tumbler Ridge After the Unthinkable
There are towns that live by the rhythm of the seasons—snowmelt in the spring, long summer hikes, the steady hum of a single main street. Tumbler Ridge is one of those towns, carved into the foothills of northeastern British Columbia, where conversations at the post office drift into questions about trail conditions and where the local café knows your order before you finish saying your name.
On an ordinary afternoon, that comfort was shattered. News arrived first as an emergency alert: stay inside, keep doors locked. Minutes stretched into hours. By nightfall the count was heartbreakingly simple and yet impossible to place in the vocabulary of a town so small—nine people were dead, 27 others wounded. Six of the dead had been shot at the high school where many in the community had learned and taught; another died while being taken to hospital. Police later found two more bodies in a nearby residence. Authorities say the suspected shooter took their own life.
“Beyond comprehension”: A pastor’s grief becomes the town’s
“We raised our children in that school. I taught there for eight years,” said George Rowe, the town’s pastor and a face familiar to many. His voice, even over the radio, carried the kind of exhaustion that comes when words don’t match the scale of loss. “It’s a beautiful town. Why this happens… we’ll be waiting for answers.”
Rowe walked the lines between ritual and emergency duty—offering comfort at the recreation centre, sitting with families who’d watched the worst possible fears unfold, fielding donations poured in from across the country. “People will grieve in different ways,” he told a national broadcaster. “Some may never find their footing again. But we will make sure no one falls through the cracks.”
Faces at the centre
At the recreation centre, a volunteer who asked to be called Elena described the scene as both pastoral and surreal. “You could smell the coffee and antiseptic, hear trainers snapping and people whispering names. Someone kept setting out mugs with the names of the missing—like talismans,” she said. “I watched a man trace the edges of a child’s picture with his thumb, the way you would a gravestone.”
Another resident, a high school teacher who had been at the school in previous years, told me she couldn’t shake the image of an empty classroom. “I keep imagining lockers, backpacks, an ordinary day. It’s trivial and it’s the only thing that makes sense,” she said. “We went from baseball games and parent-teacher nights to this. How do you stitch that back together?”
What we know — the facts behind the headlines
- Deaths: Nine people confirmed dead—six at the school, one who died while being transported to hospital, and two discovered at a residence.
- Injuries: 27 people wounded; reports indicate two with serious injuries and 25 with non-life-threatening wounds.
- Perpetrator: Police indicate the suspected shooter appears to have died by suicide at the school.
- Emergency response: The federal-provincial emergency alert system was used to instruct residents to shelter in place while police secured the scene.
Numbers are cold by necessity, yet they are also the scaffolding on which we hang stories: whose names will we learn, who will speak at a memorial, who will keep the tradition of pancake breakfasts alive? For a town of roughly 2,500 people, this level of loss ricochets through every household.
How a community responds: rituals, practicalities, and solidarity
In Tumbler Ridge the response was immediate and intimate. Neighbours checked on neighbours. The local food bank switched from donations to prepared meal deliveries. Volunteers combed through lists to make sure every family impacted had someone with a phone number and a car. “There’s no charted path for this,” said a municipal councillor. “You learn by doing: if someone cries in your grocery line, you bring them tea. If someone needs childcare, you bring it.”
From Vancouver to Ottawa, messages poured in. “We’ve received offers of grief counselling, financial support, and even a temple sending blankets and fragrant prayers,” Rowe said. The country’s small-town solidarity is not merely sentimental; it will be operational—helping pay funeral costs, providing therapy, sustaining families who might otherwise be left adrift.
Emergency alerts and the new geography of fear
We live in an era where a phone can become both a lifeline and a harbinger. The alert that flashed on screens during the Tumbler Ridge incident—part of Canada’s Alert Ready system—saved lives by keeping people indoors while police moved to secure the area. But it also meant hours of frozen uncertainty: do you go to help? Do you huddle in your basement? Do you try to reach loved ones?
“Those messages are a double-edged sword,” said Dr. Amina Sayeed, a trauma psychologist who has worked in rural crisis response. “They can prevent immediate harm but they also amplify a population’s sense of vulnerability. In small towns, where pathways and faces are familiar, the psychological dissonance of someone ‘unknown’ committing a local atrocity is deep.”
Questions that reach beyond town limits
As the community of Tumbler Ridge begins the slow, private work of mourning, larger questions are already taking shape in the public imagination. What drove this person to violence? Could anyone have intervened? What do we owe each other when tragedy flows out of everyday life?
Canada’s recent history includes painful precedents. In 2020, Nova Scotia experienced one of the country’s deadliest mass shootings, which led to national soul-searching about firearms policy, emergency response, and mental health care. Policymakers have since tightened certain regulations; yet, as experts like Dr. Sayeed note, laws are only part of the story. “You can legislate guns, but you also need networks of care, community awareness, and sustained investment in mental health—especially in remote areas,” she said.
What can readers do? A short guide to meaningful action
It’s easy to scroll past tragedy and feel helpless. Real help is practical and sustained. If you want to help communities like Tumbler Ridge, consider:
- Donating to verified local relief funds rather than ad-hoc collections.
- Supporting national mental health organizations that funnel resources to rural areas.
- Advocating for policies that blend safety with community-led prevention work.
- Checking in on your own neighbours—particularly in tight-knit communities—because small acts of care accumulate into lifelines.
Closing: holding a town in mind
Soon there will be memorials; perhaps small gatherings in the high school gym where the community hosts its potlucks, or a vigil lit beneath the blue of the northern sky. There will be lists of names, and stories—how a teacher stayed behind to help, how a neighbour drove someone to safety, how a community that prided itself on the sound of laughter learned the language of grief.
“We will mourn in different ways,” Rowe said, and that phrase—plain and fierce—hung with me. It is an instruction and a promise. If you find your thoughts returning to this town, let them be active. Write to an elected official, support a vetted relief effort, or simply call someone you care about. Grief insists on being attended to. Solitude is the opposite of recovery.
When the trails of Tumbler Ridge open again and the school bell rings, the town will be forever altered. The work of rebuilding will be both deeply local and quietly universal: a small town asking the rest of the country—and the world—to stand with it, not for a moment, but for the long haul.
Axmed Madoobe iyo Sheekh Shariif oo kulan uga socdo magaalada Muqdisho
Feb 12(Jowhar)-Madaxweynihii Todobaad ee Soomaaliya Shariif SHeekh Axmed iyo Madaxweynaha maamulka Jubaland Axmed Madoobe ayaa kulan waxa uu uga socdaa gudaha Airport Hotel, kulankkaasoo saxaafadda dibad joog ay ka tahay.
Inkabadan boqol malyan oo ruux oo maanta doorasho u dareerey
Feb 12(Jowhar)-Shacabka dalka Bangladesh ayaa saaka u dareerey doorasho iyadoo ay xaqu leeyihiin inay codeeyaan dad gaaraya 127 milyan oo qof,kadib markii kacdoon ardaydu hogaaminayeen xilka lagaga tuuray hogaamiyihii muddada dheer Sheekh Hasina bishii Agoosto 2024.
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