Bharat Rakshak

A riveting collage portrays a century of Inuit history, and envisions a vibrant future
In her celebrated short film Three Thousand (2017), the Montreal-based Inuk artist Asinnajaq presents a bold vision of Inuit life. Her experimental work weaves together nearly a century of footage from the vast archive of the National Film Board of Canada, as well as newly commissioned animations. Early black-and-white ethnographic films give way to coloured images, including scenes of Inuit children in Canada’s infamous residential school system and, eventually, visuals with aurora-inspired colours that hint at a vibrant Inuit future. The flurry of scenes is set to a score of lullabies, stirring strings, Inuit throat singing and sounds of the Canadian north. And, despite its many eclectic parts, Asinnajaq’s collage forms a unified, stirring whole – one that glimmers with contradictions, vitality and hope.

sanman wrote: ↑28 Sep 2023 06:18...

NRao wrote: ↑28 Sep 2023 06:42 ^^^^

I have to defend myself here.

Rao actually originates from the Kargil area. It is a (original) Konkani construct (NOT the current Goan Konkani, which has Creol, via Portugal, in it). The original Konkani is pure Sanskrit based, perhaps Prakrit.

So, how did Rao originate?

Konkanis were originally from the Kargil area. When Muslims invaded they migrated south (there is a story of Parashurama and Konkan too). When they settled in Kanara (in Karnataka) the locals heard these people refer to each other with the suffix ravvuu. Ravvuu = "ji" in Hindi. Ravvuu became Rao/Rau. And, it became the last name.

The actual construct of our names is "name of village" "First name" Rao. I dropped the name of the village. Thus NRao.

Some of my ancestors - 500+ years ago converted to Islam. Thus Pakistan Muslims have the last name Rao or Rau.

This scoundrel, in the real-life comedy in Canada, is not related to me.

shravanp wrote: ↑29 Sep 2023 18:46 Watched VaccineWar last night. Fantastic movie! Really drives home the following points:
1. The pandemic was nothing short of a war. It was a bio-economic war imposed on countries including India.
2. Frontline health workers going above and beyond, in the face of a hostile environment around them, in a war-like scenario equalizing them to defense force soldiers/army personnel.
3. Some of the best scientists work in Bharat, and yet they are so underfunded for basic needs, such as not being able to pay the excess baggage fee at the airport for helping out stranded desh vaasis in Quom.
4. Last but not least, the role of extremely hostile media undermining India's effort in vaccinating the population by downgrading the quality of Covaxin, creating vaccine hesitancy, and above all - being stooges to Western pharma.

I was on a pilgrimage of sorts myself. From my home in New York, Bolivia would be my first stop in what I had envisaged as three journeys across three great faiths, spread out over a year: fiesta high in the Andes, where pre-Hispanic ritual and belief underlay Catholicism; a spring of pilgrimage through Buddhist and shamanic Mongolia; and lastly, a time of mourning in Shiite Iraq.

Over peanut soup and steak with fries, I asked Father Chitarroni about the Roman Catholic Church’s appropriation of Andean sanctity. “The problem we have all over the Americas,” he said, “is when you give people the Good News and it is contrary to their local beliefs. We can introduce new things,” he added, “but we have to let people keep their roots — the thoughts of their parents.”

I was intrigued by Father Chitarroni’s open embrace of syncretism. The Spain that conquered the New World, full of the religious zeal of La Reconquista (and the Inquisition), had been uniquely incapable of understanding how among the earth religions, like that of the Incas, it was possible to adopt new deities without forgoing the old gods. In “Conquistadores” (2021), the Mexican historian Fernando Cervantes writes that the arrival of every new bishop in the New World instigated a campaign aimed at the “extirpation” of “idolatry” in the Americas.

In his 1653 book, “Inca Religion and Customs,” the Jesuit priest Bernabé Cobo writes that the reddish-green rock that we were now in front of, its vertical face some 18 feet high, had been a gathering place for large groups of pilgrims who had come from far away. “Thus this place became so famous that its memory will live on among the Indians as long as they last,” he writes.

No pilgrim now came to the spot where the sun had first risen, even though we all felt its strange Ozymandian power. What looked like a sacrificial table of white sandstone, surrounded by andesite blocks, prompted Quisbert to speak of capacocha, an Inca ritual in which children of both sexes were selected for sacrifice. The table was the object of tourist lore, scarcely a few decades old. Just as Catholicism had appropriated Andean sanctity, so now did tourism titillate visitors in a place where pilgrims had come with holy dread in their hearts.

Across the bay, a ghostly white basilica was preparing for its biannual fiesta, which would take place over two days and include several nights of revelry. Copacabana had been home to a pre-Christian shrine featuring what a Spanish chronicler had called a blue-stone idol, which was possibly female and fish-bodied. It had been part of this ancient nexus of pilgrimage that had included the Islands of the Sun and the Moon but, in the 16th century with the arrival of the Spanish, its old sanctity had been reconsecrated in the figure of the Virgin. Standing between these two poles of pilgrimage, one defunct, one active, I couldn’t help but wonder who the ultimate victors are in a land where conquest has brought about a rupture with the past, yet where the old culture has so thoroughly assimilated the new as to leave it unrecognizable.

Nor did it help that evangelism was on the rise all over South America. “They tell them they cannot adore images,” Friar Yeguaori said, his brows beetling. “First they tell them God will punish them, then they take their money, saying, ‘If you give us money, God will give you more.’ ”


The most beautiful of the acts was Uma Marka, a troupe whose name means “land of water.” At the center was a man who played an Andean trumpet of war called a pututu. “I came from afar to fulfill my promise / because I love you with my soul,” the man sang. “I will always cherish you, my beautiful little morenita. / I will always adore you, Copacabeñita.” Then, almost in the same breath, he began to sing in praise of Pachamama (Mother Earth), “shin[ing] in the cosmos.” He was a schoolteacher from Warisata, one of the lake towns. When I asked him how it was so easy for him to sing to both the Virgin and Pachamama, he said, “Both of them are the same for us. The Virgin is the mother of God. Pachamama is the mother of the earth.”

Pilgrimage is bigger than the nation and, though it derives its authority from religion, it’s often bigger than religion, too. Like the journey to Mecca, which started as a pre-Islamic pilgrimage common to many tribes of the Arabian Peninsula, this fiesta is at bottom an emanation of Andean culture. The religious component acts almost as a framing device for the expression of distinctive cultural elements, rituals, customs, song and dance, such as the Waka Waka, or the ancient pre-Christian use of llama parts in sacrifice.

As Mass got going, Ensamble Sincrético filled the gold-and-blue vault of the church with haunting music. “A Vuestros Pies Madre” (“At Your Feet, Mother”), they played. It evoked the spirit of an older Europe, even as it sounded unmistakably Indigenous — so much so that the Europeans who came after the original missionaries didn’t recognize it as their own until they were shown the sheets on which it had been carefully scored. It was Christian missionaries — that endless flow of Jesuit, Augustinian, Dominican and Franciscan friars — who primarily brought baroque music to Bolivia. It formed a deep synthesis here with a culture for which music was already a form of worship. As Quintela explained to me, referring to the Guarayos, an Indigenous group in northeastern Bolivia: “When they die, they must pass several tests [in order to reach the afterlife. One of them] is to cross a river on the back of an alligator who only advances to music. If he [the deceased] is not a good musician, the alligator devours the soul of the Guarayo.”

I had wanted to find more examples of how the old pre-Columbian religion of the Altiplano merged with Catholicism. The man performing it was an amauta, a shamanic figure. The young couple desperately wanted a car of their own. “Whatever we desire, the Virgin will give us the power and the will,” said Axel. Pilgrimage, though couched in spiritual aims, often bordered on sheer cupidity. Some wanted peace, love and health, others an automobile, but everyone wanted something. When I asked Axel why his wife had been crying earlier, he said, “We need to have faith, and there’s a lot of emotion [involved].” But was there no conflict between these two systems of belief, the Virgin and the amauta? “It’s just a belief,” the man in the red bolero said, casually expressing a great truth about the unthinking quality of its hold over us. “We believe in the priest, and we believe in the amauta.”

The wizened-faced amauta sang. He rang his bell. He used incense, a holdover from the classical world everywhere, to entreat the Virgin to give the couple what they wanted. When he was finished, I asked him what his religion was. “Católico,” the amauta said. But what about this rite? That was surely not Catholic. “It’s from our ancestors,” he said. “This was from before we were Catholic.”

The influence of Buddhism grew sporadically for almost seven centuries in Mongolia, merging in profound ways with its ancient worship of nature — of mountains, water, the eternal blue sky. But then, in the early decades of the 20th century, Buddhism encountered a mortal enemy: Soviet-backed Communism. Even by the standards of a tumultuous century, the Stalin-directed purges of the late 1930s stood out for their systematic eradication of Mongolia’s religious culture. The great majority of the country’s monastic institutions were leveled to the ground; some 18,000 monks were killed; and, in a society where about one-third of the adult male population were lamas (though not all living in monasteries), Buddhism was ripped out root and branch.

In 1990, with the fall of Communism, religious freedom was established in Mongolia and Buddhism was allowed to be practiced again. My first destination was the Khamar monastery, 300 miles south in the Gobi Desert, which had been all but destroyed in 1938. It was said to be situated at one of the portals to Shambhala — a mythical kingdom of peace and tranquillity in the Buddhist imagining — and had been founded in the century before by an artist, saint and sybarite called Danzanravjaa, known as the lama of the Gobi.

Amid what seemed like trackless wastes there periodically appeared the giant ragged form of an ovoo, or cairn. Its beanpole of a body was bandaged in blue khadags (prayer scarves), its stony mound of a base littered with vodka bottles and the occasional skull of a dead animal. The ovoo is a monument to the spirits of the natural world, known here as nagas and savdags. Orgil, following the custom of honoring these easily offended beings, lest they punish you for your neglect, honked three times as we went by. “This is the Gen Z way,” he said, grinning, “but I prefer the old way,” which involves circling the ovoo on foot three times in a clockwise motion.

Orgil, in between telling me of his days in a metal band, when “I drank beers left and right,” would occasionally grow serious. “During Communism,” he said, “we lost our national identity.” The purges of the 1930s plundered the country’s monasteries and temples — there had been some 700 in the 19th century — which Orgil described as repositories of folklore, history, traditional medicine and learning. Mongolia, after winning independence from Qing China in 1911, began those early decades of the 20th century as a feudal theocracy with a godlike figure, akin to the Dalai Lama, called the Bogd Khan at its helm, overseeing around 80,000 monks. (The Dalai Lama recently introduced a Mongolian child as the 10th reincarnation of the Bogd.) “They shot all the head lamas,” Orgil said. “They murdered all the teachers.” The fires from the monasteries were rumored to have burned for weeks. Christopher Kaplonski, a social anthropologist who has conducted research in Mongolia, has written that, though the total number of Mongolians killed between 1937 and 1939 is unknown, “credible estimates range from 35,000 to 45,000.”

They had arrived by train from the capital. “I came here to recharge my energy and cleanse my spirit,” said Egi, the economist. (Mongolians use patronymics rather than Western-style surnames; in conversation, people often go by just one name.) “This place is a world energy center.” When I asked if the ritual had been handed down to him by his parents, he said, “They knew about it, but they were not authorized to come. We are the lucky generation.” He added: “This Shambhala reminds us that we are not just ordinary nomads. We had an enlightened one [Danzanravjaa] live among us.” Since the transition to the democratic era, Egi said, “Mongolian people have come to know that we have a great religious and cultural heritage.”

Our guide, Haidav, was from the Gobi region. In his early 30s now, he had been selected as a boy by Gandantegchinlen (often referred to simply as Gandan), the country’s main monastery in Ulaanbaatar, to spend four years in the southern Indian state of Karnataka, where, at a center of Tibetan Buddhism — the Namdroling monastery, popularly known as the Golden Temple — he had been educated in the religion of his forefathers with the express aim of reintroducing it to Mongolia. As he led us into the Shambhala, he seemed less like a guide than like a monk re-educating his countrymen about a faith whose core precepts, such as the belief in karma and reincarnation, had survived the ravages of Communism, but whose rituals had to be relearned from scratch. Our group was composed almost entirely of Mongolians, but no one knew what to do at the various stations any more than I did.

Our last station was the Golden Skull Hill, where a central ovoo overlooked the desert beyond. There we chanted, “Um sain amgalan boltugai” — “may there be peace with you” — and sang “Ulemjiin Chanar” (“Perfect Qualities”), a Mongolian folk song that Danzanravjaa had composed himself. Haidav was almost scolding in the care with which he instructed us to sing as a chorus. “Whatever your failures,” he said at the end of our morning at the Shambhala, “it’s because of your mind.”

Kublai Khan may have laid the foundation for the rise of Tibetan Buddhism in Mongolia, but it was a man called Zanabazar — a monk, scholar and artist — who solidified its position. In everything from scripture to ritual, temple design and even religious fashion, including monastic robes with blue cuffs evoking the blue sky that Genghis Khan claimed to worship, the hand of Zanabazar is visible.

At the Erdene Zuu monastery, founded by Zanabazar’s great-grandfather in the 16th century after the declaration of Tibetan Buddhism as the state religion of Mongolia, I witnessed an amazing scene, proof of the cocktail of motives that puts us on the road to pilgrimage. Erdene Zuu, with its green-tiled roofs in the Chinese style, is Mongolia’s oldest monastery, built in 1586. It is also located near the ruins of the Mongol capital at Karakorum, about 530 miles from Khamar monastery. On entering Erdene Zuu’s vast, grassy complex, with its perimeter wall crenelated with white stupas and nothing but big sky on all sides, I felt the spirit of a Mongolian camp. Nomadism harbors a disdain for materiality, yet it was hard not to feel myself on consecrated ground, even if only in historical terms. It was mainly from here that the descendants of Genghis Khan in the 13th century brought the world to its knees, from present-day Ukraine to Korea. The site had more recent memories, too. Of its 62 temples and some 500 facilities, the vast majority had been destroyed during the ravages of the 1930s. All around me, amid a handful of stupas and temples, were the flattened foundations of buildings in the religious complex. There had been 1,500 lamas here in the 19th century; there were fewer than 50 today. At the entrance, I spoke briefly to Mandakhtsog Monkhbaatar, who was in his early 20s, dressed in orange-and-red robes with those huge turquoise cuffs and high boots with blue piping. Like Haidav, he had spent years studying at the Golden Temple monastery in India, relearning the traditions that Communism had left Mongolian Buddhism too depleted to teach. Monkhbaatar’s great-grandfather had been a prominent lama in the southwestern province of Bayankhongor. When I asked the young monk about him, he said casually, “He was murdered,” then rushed into the great complex, where the morning chants were set to begin.

To be Shiite was to live with the pain, never more acute than at Ashura, of not having been there for Hussein when it mattered most. In 680, Hussein had hearkened to the call of Muslims in the garrison town of Kufa, a few miles east of Najaf. His grandfather the Prophet had been dead for less than 50 years. In that time, the small community of believers had grown into the vast Arab Muslim empire. Hussein’s father, Ali — the Prophet’s beloved son-in-law and cousin — was the last of the four Rashidun (“rightly guided”) caliphs until he died in 661 at the hands of an assassin who struck him with a poisoned sword as he prayed. The Shiat Ali (Partisans of Ali) were at first merely his followers, people who believed that the mantle of the Prophet could only be assumed by one of his bloodline. So when, in 680, Muawiya, the first caliph since Ali, died and the caliphate passed to his dissolute son, Yazid, the Shiat Ali implored Hussein to take his rightful place at the head of Islam.

He would have believed he was defending the true faith of his father and grandfather when he rode out from Medina, in present-day Saudi Arabia, with 72 of his companions, to the Plain of Karbala, 50 miles north of Najaf. On the way, many tried to dissuade him, telling him that “though the heart of the city [of Kufa] is with thee, its sword is against thee,” but he rode on, like a man running to meet his destiny — a Christlike figure who sought to redeem the religion of his grandfather by forfeiting his life. At Karbala, Hussein found himself quite alone. Yazid, having subjected the living descendants of the Prophet Muhammad to days of heat and thirst, slaughtered them in a massacre that traumatized Sunni and Shiite alike. The main difference was that the Sunnis, who today are a vast majority of 1.9 billion Muslims, were able to move on, whereas the Shiites dedicated themselves to bearing witness to Hussein’s sacrifice — the word for martyr in Arabic, shahid, like the Greek martur, means “witness.”

AJAF ON THAT first night was like a town preparing for a medieval battle. We entered on foot through narrow side streets with knife sharpeners at every corner, whetstones crackling and sparking. Broad-bellied iron vats on low blue gas fires held vast quantities of rice and qeema, a spiced stew of meat and chickpeas made especially at Ashura. We dropped our bags at the hotel and walked into the floodlit precincts of the shrine of Imam Ali. A siren sounded, as if summoning soldiers to their stations. The dandyish men I had seen earlier stood in a line on a red carpet, brandishing swords in long, sweeping movements. Farther along, in an arena of sorts, the neighborhoods of Najaf were marching in procession, bearing banners, coats of arms and liquid-eyed images of Hussein wearing a dark, youthful beard and a green turban. At the center of each procession, a strongman carried a mashael (an iron chandelier) on his muscular shoulders, its 27 flaming lamps doused in crude oil. He plowed it into the crowd like a battering ram, wielding it around and around to the sound of drums, cheers and an excited cleric speaking into a microphone like a sportscaster. The crowd eddied, some with batons dancing concentrically around the wheel of fire, others collecting around two young men in white. They had cut their heads in a ritual called tatbir, and their faces were streaming with blood. As the tempo rose, a perimeter of cellphone screens formed around them. The modern technology, with its direct link to social media, amplified certain elements of bravado and exhibitionism that were already part of the performance. One of the men, bearded and handsome, who looked like he might be in his early 20s, fell to his knees and sliced at his bleeding head with the two daggers he carried in his hands, as if he’d meant to scalp himself. “We have come to return the sacrifice of Imam Hussein,” said the 18-year-old friend of the man on his knees, by way of explanation of his actions to me. “Imam Ali was killed by the sword. Now we remember their sacrifices.”

He said that each night from now until Ashura was dedicated to a different episode in the re-enactment of the tragedy of Hussein, which was a procession of deaths — those of Hussein’s son (Ali Akbar), his nephew (Qasim), his half brother (Abbas), his 6-month-old baby (Ali Asghar) and others — culminating in that of Hussein himself. Looking down at the rectangle of men at our feet, many of whom had removed their black shirts and were thumping their bare chests in a slow, hypnotic movement, Yaseen, perhaps afraid I would misunderstand, said, “We’re not hurting ourselves for nothing. Fourteen hundred years ago, Imam Hussein went for something, and we were not with him, so one of the things we say during this period is ‘Ya letna kona ma’km,’ ‘We wish we were with you.’ ”


On that first morning, watching Khuder kiss the door of the shrine of Imam Ali, it occurred to me that another way to think of the Sunni-Shiite split was in terms of what had been a recurring theme on this pilgrimage of mine — namely, the ancient division between materiality and pure abstraction that had riven Byzantine Christianity no less than Islam. On the one hand were shrines, images, sacred objects; on the other, a fierce love of formlessness born out of a loathing of consecrated ground, idols and clergy. The Wahhabis, who dominate the religious landscape of Saudi Arabia, practice an extreme form of Sunni Islam. To them, even the Prophet’s house in Medina could be destroyed without a thought (as it was in 1925) lest it become a shrine. Shiite Islam, by contrast, is a religion of touch and physicality, of clergy and sacra. People here made turbahs (clay tablets) from the earth of the two shrine cities of Najaf and Karbala. In this culture of the physical imbued with the sacred, Najaf and Karbala, with their grand ayatollahs and seminaries, along with the mosque in Kufa, where Ali died, form the points of a sacred triangle.

The role of Zaynab, Hussein’s sister and the Prophet’s granddaughter, was especially important. It was she who would live to tell the tale — she who would protect Hussein’s sole surviving son, Ali Zayn al-Abidin, who was too sick to fight, and thereby the bloodline of the Prophet. With each loss of life, Hussein addressed the audience, who stood agog in the heat with cardboard boxes over their heads to shield them from the fierce morning sun, asking if anyone was with him or whether he was alone. “Labaik ya Hussein,” came the solemn chorus of surrounding voices. It was a theater of the people in that most affecting sense, where even the poverty of the staging — the sun-bleached flags, the crackling loudspeaker, the melodrama and the audience in thrall — served only to deepen the pathos. On our return through the now-deserted town, we saw the field hospital had been cleared away.

VKumar wrote: ↑25 Dec 2023 23:15 Why are the aliens apparent only to Americans and Canadians?

VKumar wrote: ↑25 Dec 2023 23:15 Why are the aliens apparent only to Americans and Canadians?

The Allahabad high court has held that unmarried daughters, regardless of their religious affiliations or age, have the right to obtain maintenance under the domestic violence act, from their parents.

Dismissing a petition filed by Naimullah Sheikh and another, Justice Jyotsna Sharma observed, “There remains no doubt that an unmarried daughter, whether Hindu or Muslim, has a right to obtain maintenance, irrespective of her age. This is made clear again that the courts have to look for other laws applicable when the question pertains to the right to be maintained. However, where the issue does not pertain to mere maintenance, the independent rights are available to an aggrieved under section 20 of the domestic violence Act itself.”

hgupta wrote: ↑18 Jan 2024 09:58 You gotta be shitting me. How stupid can this justice get? Can not she foresee the unfolding disaster this will create? It basically make fathers forcibly marry off their daughters at the earliest possible age and encourage more female foeticide aka female abortions regardless of the law banning ultrasound scans of the fetus for sex. This decision needs to be immediately overruled.

After they spread pink petals on golden statues of Ganesh and Shiva, and recited prayers to blue-skinned and eight-armed gods, the Hindu faithful left their temple and headed to a party for another one of their divinities — the Catholic St. Rosalia.
“To the other goddess!” said Swasthika Sasiyendran, 23, after she changed from her gold-and-white sari into a T-shirt bearing Rosalia’s face.


“Santa Rosalia,” Ms. Sasiyendran said. “She welcomes everybody.”
Palermo’s Hindu Tamils, most of whom are originally from Sri Lanka, have added the Catholic saint to their colorful pantheon of gods. Many are attracted to her reputation for miracles, especially for saving the city from a plague in the 17th century. They are also drawn to her mystical sanctuary, a cave on a mount north of the city where she is said to have died after escaping an arranged marriage.
Most of the pilgrims who visited the cave on a recent Sunday were Tamils. In the shrines that many Tamils have in their homes, the image of Rosalia in a monk’s habit features alongside images of Hindu gods like Lakshmi, wrapped in golden necklaces, her legs crossed on top of a lotus flower.
“Santa Rosalia is like our mother,” said Tharsan Mahadevar, the secretary of the Hindu temple, as he sat eating lentils and a spicy vegetable curry while wearing a shiny sarong, the image of Ganesha tattooed on his arms and chest.

Kuganathan Kanagasingam, 54, said that when his wife had depression in 2022, he began walking up the mountain every Sunday at 5 a.m. — even in the pouring rain or scorching heat.
“Now she is well,” he said. “The medicines do a part, God does the other,” he said, before kissing the steps leading to Rosalia’s cave.
Alongside the cave hung baby shoes, ultrasound photographs and silver figurines of organs the saint had healed, among other votive paraphernalia.
Kiru Ponnampalam, 48, a Tamil cleaner, lit a red candle and placed it in front of Rosalia’s statue. He said he had been married for 10 years with no children until he began going to the sanctuary, when he finally managed to have a child, Abi, who is now 6.
“It was a miracle by Santa Rosalia,” he said.
Academics who have studied the community say that the Tamils’ devotion to Rosalia has provided a way to legitimize themselves and to be accepted by Sicilians.

“Santa Rosalia was a person,” said Mohan Thampiaijah, 56, another Tamil pilgrim. “Vishnu is blue and Ganesh is an elephant.” He paused. “I haven’t heard of any other differences.”
A family of Tamil pilgrims, after wetting their hands with holy water from a spring in the sanctuary, went to change from their cotton dresses into elaborate red-and-gold saris before heading to the Hindu temple. Others soon joined them, some still wearing plastic Christian crosses.
That evening, they headed to Rosalia’s annual party, where they mixed with Sicilians, tourists, street vendors and loudspeakers blasting Italian summer hits. They watched the fireworks and admired Rosalia’s statue: Like the Hindu goddess Lakhsmi, she was wrapped in flower petals, a lily this time.
“I really don’t see that big of a difference,” said Dhanja Kirupakaran, 20 — who, according to her mother, was born because of a miracle by the saint.

Hriday wrote: ↑25 Dec 2023 17:36 I had shared a post by @Starboy2079 in X about Deep State on the Hamas attack thread. He is saying that the Deep State is essentially a secret society called Illuminati and they are into satanic practices and rituals which include torture and indecent acts with children.

In the past few years, I had seen several reports and videos in X of LGBTQ people promoting indecency among children.
One repeated slogan by them is, 'We will come for your children '.

Marina Abramovic, who is said to be a satanic practitioner was recently in the news on getting the invitation by the Ukranian president to be the ambassador of Ukraine and to teach Ukranian students. There is an easy-to-read short thread by @Starboy2079 about Marina Abramovic in X. Link given below.

https://twitter.com/Starboy2079/status/ ... Q1vIg&s=19

Various influencers share their discontent and anger while alleging that Paris Olympics opening ceremony mocked Jesus Christ’s last supper.

#PARIS2024 #ParisOlympics2024

Earlier Olympic ceremonies used to depict traditions n culture

Now Paris Olympic opening ceremony presented :
Drag queen, LGBTQ, Decapitated woman, man in woman dress, obese woman. The entire ceremony was about Satanism and Pedophilia

We were never conspiracy theorist
We always tried to tell u truth

West has fallen. Save India if you can

Under the proposed law, parents, who fail to acknowledge and support their child's gender transition, could face potential consequences, including the loss of custody rights to another parent or even the state itself.

US is at stage 6 n near to stage 7

Many EU countries r also at stage 5 and stage 6

So a movement that started with Love between adults of same sex was actually intended to exploitation of kids

Child sex is an imp ritual in Satanism
Objective is to establish a New World Order

In this view, God is seen as the oppressor and evil one, and Satan is seen as the hero and savior.

This is Sam Smith's grammy performance based on Devil and Satan. It was sponsored by Pfizer.

Is Satan is controlling federal government and coming for your kids ?

They believe that

These sex rituals strengthen Satan and keeps them young, makes them immortal and powerful

They believe that as degeneration, crime, greed, sins, pedophilia will increase it will give power to devil and ultimately power to them

They r anti God

BREAKING: Washington DC family lose custody of their autistic son, 16, after refusing to let him transition…

“A military family who lost custody of their autistic son after they refused to transition his gender are suing a major DC hospital.”

“The lawsuit says the child is currently living with the hospital's 'non-gendered' chaplain.”

Earlier this year, a friend of mine almost had his young daughter taken from him in California just because he wanted her to wait a few years to permanently transition.

He talked the police out of taking her when they came to his house.

That day, he left California with his family.

sanjaykumar wrote: ↑26 Aug 2024 05:57 Just a quick survey.

I am looking at prevalence of type 2 diabetes and time of evening meal in Indian states.

I hope people can post just two terms:

1 state
2 usual time of evening meal (or before 7 pm or after 7 pm).

Thanks

Of course there will be significant variation in the latter with respect to urban rural income type of work et, but that granular data is not available. However crude diabetes prevalence rates are available.