Those same excuses were used as the reason not to be part of Somaliland Shall I bother searching how many times 'clan fiefdoms' etc has been thrown Somalilands way? Today Makhir is created and all is well. Its pro TFG and Somaliwyn etc etc and they all forget what they have been saying for years about SL :rolleyes: Good luck to Maakhirians.

Should there be a police like this? I'm reminded of the Burcaawi wadaad ya JB.

^^LooL Didnt know planes could take off from the sea saxib or are they going backwards when taking off?

An interesting yet disturbing development. A production-sharing agreement template says the government would receive 8 percent of revenues in cash on the first 25,000 barrels of oil per day if the price was $55 or more a barrel. I think its safe to say oil prices will remain above $55/day. 8% of revenues on this would mean $110,000 per day in cash for the govnt. Good news for a cash strapped TFG but what about the rest of the revenues? Is this 8% all the govnt gets on the 25k barrels production? The new production deals will set out different financial terms, exploration periods and obligations as well as new block sizes. Who is over-seeing this? If the legislation passes, it would give the go-ahead for the creation of a state-owned Somalia Petroleum Corporation -- to be 49 percent-owned by Indonesia's PT Medco Energi Internasional Tbk and Kuwait Energy Company. 49% is way too much,,,,,,

Checkpoint Checking A trio of middle-aged Charlie's Angels come at dawn to monitor the army's treatment of Palestinians crossing the border. Slumped against the concrete slabs of the graffiti-covered security wall, I drifted off to sleep as I waited for the line of Palestinians to shuffle forward towards the checkpoint. The sun shone weakly through the dark early morning clouds, a cold wind did its damnedest to extinguish the cigarettes that hung from almost every pair of lips, and the only sound was the rustle of paper bags as the workers ate their breakfasts al fresco - as if they had a choice ... Welcome to rush hour at the Bethlehem checkpoint, where the difference between a day's paid work or a wasted morning's queuing followed by a mournful trudge home all rests on the whims of the bored teenagers manning the turnstiles inside their bullet-proof sentry boxes. My own presence in the midst of the interminable line of labourers was down to my guides for the day, three Israeli women from Mahsom Watch who had encouraged me to use my British passport to pass through the checkpoint into Bethlehem so I could time how long it took me to return to the Israeli side. A trio of middle-aged Charlie's Angels, the women come every Thursday morning to the checkpoint at the crack of dawn to keep an eye on the army's treatment of those crossing the border, and to intervene when required on behalf of the helpless Palestinians whose complaints fall on deaf ears. As the queue edged forward agonisingly slowly, I looked around me at the world-weary faces of the men in their tattered work clothes as they stared helplessly at the red and green lights that hung above the turnstile. Those at the front of the semi-dark hall were bathed in the luminous glare of the red light, as it beamed out its warning to stand still and not come any closer to the booth 10 metres ahead. A couple of muttered cries of "open another window, please" punctured the silence, but had little effect on the stony-faced soldiers manning their posts. All of a sudden, the green light flashed into life, and the crowd surged forward as though scrambling for a place on the last helicopter out of Saigon. Five seconds later, and the light was cruelly switched back to red, with less than a dozen people having managed to make it through to the promised land. Eventually, the floodgates opened once again, and this time I was propelled forward by the swell as we pushed our way through the iron doorway. As we rounded the corner, the men began removing their belts and holding up their trousers pitifully with one hand, as they clutched their valuables with the other. When we reached the x-ray machines, paint-spattered workboots were kicked off and placed on the conveyor belt, along with bags of food and bundles of clothes. Forgetting my current status as merely another body to be searched, I walked through the metal detector without removing either my belt from my waist or my keys from my pocket. The siren screamed out its annoyance at my slip, and I retraced my steps and tried again. Again I failed, thanks to the lighter in my back pocket, and the men behind me angrily motioned for me to take the situation more seriously. This was no good-humoured queue of holiday-makers making light of inconvenient airport security - this was real life, and time was money to the impoverished men desperate to get through to find work on the other side. Once I'd reattached my belt and rejoined the queue, I stood morosely in line for another 15 minutes. Those ahead of me had their hand-prints read by the computer monitors and handed their papers to the soldiers through the gap in the glass. Brandishing my British passport like a shield, I strode up to the cubicle, where the bored girl gave my maroon-encased papers a cursory glance before nonchalantly waving me through - evoking jealous stares from the green-ID-carrying masses behind me. On my return, I rejoined the three Mahsom Watch women and we spent another half hour observing the machinations of the checkpoint. When it became clear that there were not enough windows open to deal with the burgeoning number of people crossing, Ruti phoned the local army commander, who agreed to send a soldier to man another stall. I was standing next to the door of the troop's barracks, and a sharp blow from behind announced the arrival of the extra soldier dispatched to deal with the crowd, as she kicked the door open and strode into the hall. Expecting her to apologise for knocking me sideways, I looked plaintively at her, and received a glower and "nu, what?" in return. I responded in kind, but she'd spotted our Mahsom Watch badges by now and knew full well who was responsible for the sudden end to her break time. She sneered at me and flounced away, gun swinging from her shoulder in time with her footsteps. Every now and then, an incoming Palestinian would stop and greet Ruti and her comrades, exchanging pleasantries and thanking them for their work. Outside the reception hall stood half-full minibuses, and those exiting the checkpoint hurled themselves at the bus doors, fighting one another for a coveted place aboard that would guarantee them a day's income on a building site in Jerusalem. As the queue finally thinned, our observation job was nearly done for the day, and we got into the car and headed off into the hills for the next stage of the proceedings. We drove to Neve Yunis, where two Palestinian men were stranded after receiving fines from the police. Thanks to yet another malicious trick on the Israeli authorities' behalf, a Palestinian who gets a speeding ticket, for example, will have his papers confiscated until he pays the fixed penalty at the appropriate office. Except, of course, he can't get to the offices without his papers, since the army won't let any Palestinian through a checkpoint without his ID documents. No payment, no papers; no papers, no payment - which is where the women of Mahsom Watch come in. Ruti and her colleagues play the middleman in this particular game of chicanery, ferrying the money and the papers between the two sides until the situation is sorted, and so it was this morning. The two grateful men poured out their hearts in thanks, before clutching their documents to their chests and heading off down the dirt track towards their village. Next up was a visit to the DSO offices, where a large crowd of young men stood resignedly outside, waiting for a chance to plead their case for a permit to work inside Israel's borders. As we approached the group, a white-haired man called out to Ruti, hurrying over to her and begging her to help him. "I've been put on the Shabak list", he cried, "and I don't know why. They say I'm banned from entering Israel, and they won't give me a hearing to put my case to them. I've got six children to feed, and all my work's in Israel - I don't know where to turn". Trying to calm him, Ruti thrust into his hand the phone number of her colleague Sylvia, who is well-versed in intervening with the security services in cases such as this. "I've spoken to her," he replied, running an anxious hand through his thinning hair, "but she hasn't been able to do anything so far." "It's getting desperate now at home", he went on - "what am I meant to do?" Save for encouraging him to try Sylvia again, Ruti was unable to give him any other practical advice, having calculated the odds stacked against him. Afterwards, she told me that often Shabak wait until people like him are on the verge of penury, and then approach them quietly and tell them all their troubles could be over - if they'll just provide them a name of a terrorist in their village. Even though their quarry might not have a clue who is or isn't on the extremists' books, he'll often give any name just to get his papers back and regain the chance to work - and thus the cycle continues. As we drove back to Jerusalem, Ruti waxed lyrical about the status quo that is allowing such criminal deeds to occur. "Occupation has to involve dehumanisation," she told me. "If you have feelings, you can't kick someone down - so we've conditioned our soldiers to have no feelings for the Palestinians. We've brought up this third generation [of Israelis] to act like conquerors, and to have contempt for the conquered." I suggested that the plight of the Palestinian workers is similar to that of battery chickens. No one likes to think of the conditions battery chickens are forced to live in; instead they prefer not to dwell on the issue at all, so long as they get their cheap meat (or cheap labour, in this case). Ruti agreed, saying "Israelis just don't want to know what goes on, they don't want to see themselves as the bad guys. People need to feel good, so they simply close their eyes to reality." Which is what makes the work Mahsom Watch does so crucial to breaking the silence. These women and their colleagues are all Israeli Jews, and their publicising via the Israeli media the atrocious conditions for Palestinians means that their message reaches parts that international activist groups can't reach. At the same time, "we show the Palestinians that not all Israeli [Jews] are enemies, and that's a vital part of our work," said Ruti. "Once, at Qalandiya checkpoint, a man brought his six-year-old daughter to meet us to make her understand that there are good Israelis as well as bad. She was reluctant to meet us, and shied away at first, but he soon got her smiling and talking to us." The army and the authorities will always be able to justify the tight security measures they use to keep the Palestinians at arm's length, and so too will the Israeli public themselves. However, what they won't, or can't see is that it's the daily humiliation and hardship that breeds the next generation of bombers, and guarantees the hatred is passed down from father to son and beyond. The man who returns home without a day's pay to a hungry and desperate family won't blame anyone but the lackadaisical soldier who didn't switch the light from red to green in time for him to clamber aboard the minibus - and neither will his children. The man with no means of getting his ID card back other than coming cap in hand to a group of tirelessly devoted volunteers from Mahsom Watch won't ever forgive the authorities for the misery they put him and his family through. And the man forced to turn collaborator just to put food on the table for his six kids won't ever forget the cruelty of the occupiers who put him in such an awful predicament. If we don't want terror on our doorstep, we'd do well to treat those over the garden fence with at least a modicum of respect and consideration. If we don't; if we refuse to retreat from our entrenched position of mistrust, mistreatment and misanthropy, then there's no hope for any kind of resolution that doesn't involve more bloodshed for years to come. Unless the call is heeded now by those with the power to help the Palestinians, a bitter harvest will once more be reaped by the very people the army is meant to protect with their actions. http://commentisfree.guardian.co.uk/seth_freedman/2007/08/checkpoint_checking.html

'inside' the mosque? Lets hope he get better IA. I remember a mad man ran in shouting 'i have a bomb' at Jumca prayers,,,,

It was business as usual for Saudi Arabia's religious police one night in June this year when a dozen of them stormed into the house of 28-year-old hotel security guard Salman al-Huraisi, arrested 10 members of his family, and ransacked his property in search of banned alcohol. Known as the mutawa'in, this strike force of the Kingdom's Committee for the Protection of Virtue and the Suppression of Vice have essentially had unlimited power since their establishment, patrolling the streets with short sticks to flog those who overstep their strict Wahhabi version of Islam. Their "work" ranges from enforcing prayer times to ensuring segregation of the sexes. But the mutawa'in went too far after detaining al-Huraisi, beating him so severely that he died in custody. Outrage has been expressed across the kingdom, with calls for justice bursting forth even from the heavily-restrained Saudi press. "Five years ago, we could have never done this" says one editor at the Saudi-owned daily Arab News. "The change is drastic." Equally dramatic is the launching of three separate lawsuits against the committee - an unprecedented call to accountability for their heavy-handed behaviour. The public outcry has also forced the government to launch an investigation into the committee's behaviour - a striking illustration that the Wahhabi clergy may be slowly losing their stranglehold over the Saudi polity. Established as a result of the pact between the religious establishment and Abd al-Aziz ibn Saud, the military leader and founder of modern Saudi Arabia, the mutawa'in were the symbolic bedrock of a union which has legitimised the existence of Saudi Arabia in its current form. When asked by al-Watan newspaper in 2003 whether the committee ought to be restructured, Prince Nayef, the ultra-conservative interior minister overseeing its work, responded scathingly to the reporter: "As a Saudi, you should be ashamed of asking this question." The newspaper's editor was fired shortly after the encounter. The infallibility of the mutawa'in began to erode in 2002, when committee members reportedly prevented schoolgirls from fleeing a burning building because they had left their headscarves inside. Fifteen girls died in the blaze. Though Prince Naif refused to acknowledge any responsibility for the deaths, the particularly gruesome incident was a strong blow to the Committee's credibility. Today, criticism of the committee has reached fever pitch. The National Society for Human Rights, officially sanctioned by the Saudi rulers, has issued a report criticising committee practices. Significantly, the interior ministry recently circulated a pointed directive reminding Committee members not to hold suspects in detention centers. Physical attacks on the religious police have even been reported, with 21 incidents documented last year. "Sometimes my friends and I dress in western clothing just so that we can provoke fights with them," says one Saudi teenager with inflated bravado. "Their time is over." The breakdown of these taboos stands as a testament to the kingdom's radical transformation over the past few years. Since officially taking power in 2005, the reform-minded King Abdullah has been attempting to sideline the official religious establishment in favour of the merchant classes and more progressive Islamic leaders. These changes are anchored in the need to provide jobs to the 75% of Saudi society that is under 30 years of age and suffers from a 30% unemployment rate. Mindful of this talent pool of potential terrorists and anti-regime dissidents, King Abdullah has launched vast economic reforms, capped by accession to the World Trade Organisation. These will have ripple effects in conservative Saudi society. According to Jean-Francois Seznec, a leading expert on the kingdom, "the official ulama [religious scholars] will be among the main losers' of Abdullah's market-oriented reforms. But while the link between the palace and the clergy has been diluted, it is far from broken. The Wahhabi establishment still has a wide base of support among some royal circles while conservative Islamism is popular in regions such as the Nejad. And the clock is ticking for Saudi Arabia's progressives. At 83, time for King Abdullah's reforms is running out, before one of his more conservative or less bold brothers takes the Saudi throne. One thing is clear, however, as a sociology Professor at King Abdulaziz University in Jeddah says: "The committee will never be able to regain its previous, untouchable status, after this public backlash." check the link to the school girls story,,,

Wouldnt mind going to it if its here.

Maybe it is the fact there are FIVE of them, you are not use to so many demands! Doesnt matter about the numbers. They are spoilt rotten! They are going back to LaLa land tomorrow where they get everything they want on a plate :rolleyes:

Very sad news. Allah yarxamhum.

Where will it be held? Hargaisa?

I cant sit here and say Kulmiye or UCID will better than UDUB but its obvious now that a change is needed. People have had enough. I believe Kulmiye is the best bet for a party to bring about what needed most. A semblance of justice for all and much needed development of other parts. Cant tell you whats been promised

This article reminds of the time I told a drunk football fan, who told me to go back to where I came from, that I spoke better English than him (and alot more but we wont get into that ) Merson the mangler joins TV's glottal gobstoppers John Sadler Tuesday August 14, 2007 The Guardian Television coverage of the start of the new football season was as comprehensive as ever - unless you are bothered about the way in which children are influenced by what they see and hear on the small screen. There seems to be no respite to the speed at which the letter T is being eliminated from the English language now mangled by those invited to air their views. It would be too much to expect delivery on a par with Ustinov, Burton or Olivier, I know, but unless I am mistaken the art of punditry is being dumbed down to a level where even northerners speak with a southern accent. Where Celtic is Cel'ic, Charlton becomes Charl'on, Forest hail from No'ingham, City is Ci'y and United is similarly untied. The ball had been set rolling long before Jamie Redknapp, having earlier described a scoring chance as "a great opportuni'y", seriously questioned Tottenham's losing performance at newly promoted Sunderland by informing his audience: "There was a lack of quali'y from quali'y if you know what I mean." The mood had been set on Sky's Soccer Special where a panel of former players report matches "live" from studio monitors having first previewed the fixtures with sundry pearls of wisdom such as Paul Merson's take on the appointment of Sammy Lee as Sam Allardyce's successor at Bolton: "It's one of them situations where he couldn't refuse the job." And he registered his doubts about Liverpool's prospects, believing: "If Jamie Carragher don't play, I think they'll struggle." Just as Spurs struggled at the Stadium of Light, apparently, for Redknapp was sure: "Roy Keane will be pleased because they [spurs] haven't really threa'ened." In an age when some people argue against the need for schools to teach accurate spelling perhaps we should not worry too much about the diction of those from whom so many of the young take their example. Never mind the quali'y, mum, have you bought me the la'est replica shirt? And when little Johnny's older he might master the longer words like repe'i'ive and compe'i'ive because he'll know no be'er. Oh for the days before television inundated the eardrums with ungrammatical piffle from a combination of failed managers and ex-players. The 50s and 60s produced a series of gems from managers who actually tried to speak English and whose mistakes were genuine errors that generated humour of which they were not aware. I am thinking of Ivor Powell, a Welsh legend in this specialised field who managed Bradford City and Carlisle and whose clumsiness with words remains memorable even today. After one particularly fruitful sequence of results his analysis was simple: "Without doubt," he said, "one of the secrets of our successful season was the harmonium in the dressing room." It was probably during that run when Powell decided on a celebratory dinner for his team and later described it as: "A lovely meal, we had. Lovely. We had a big steak - with all the tarnishings." Quite possibly it was the day when the coach driver was having difficulty finding the ground. Until Ivor made his way to the front as they approached a junction and instructed the man at the wheel: "Don't veer right, now, and don't veer left. Just you veer straight on." One tires of managers nowadays who say virtually nothing, whose profound assessment of any given 90 minutes stretches little further than "they made it difficult for us" or "we didn't really play", like Chris Hutchings, the new Wigan manager, at the weekend: "We worked hard enough; it was just a matter of putting the ball in the net." No such drivel deserves reporting but Ron Saunders, that tough nut of a manager of both Birmingham and Villa in the 70s and 80s, warrants immortality for two statements attributed to him. Asked about allegations of unrest behind the scenes he apparently posed his own question: "Allegations are all very well but I'd like to know who these alligators are." And in trying to explain how a two-goal lead had become a 3-2 defeat insisted: "As I see it, if you're going to commit suicide, you don't do it yourself." We laughed then - not at them but with them - and had less reason to be appalled, as we are today. No channel is particularly worse than another but their teams of pundits leave much to be desired. Not like Dick Duckworth whose contentment with his line-up at Scunthorpe in 1962 was such that he rang me to say: "I think I've the best side I've ever had now. We've a nice blend of old 'uns and youngsters. I think I've got the mucus of a good team." He was sure he had it sor'ed. http://football.guardian.co.uk/comment/story/0,,2148140,00.html

JB, source? And how reliable is this news?

As I said before. A BIG mistake by Riyaale and UDUB. They havnt won any fans these past few weeks and those they had are now questioning that stance. Get on with the elections already,,,

^^True. A good development none the less.

Edit NN They told the truth unlike some people who are simply willing to 'tow the line',,,,,

Very small Islands with large enough landing strips for 747s means a closer than usual touchdown. This is where pilots earn their keep.

Victor Meldrew

^^The old boy was scared and quickly went into his shell,,,,

^^LoooL When can we expect your good self to part take in a spot of 'geel jireenimo' iyo dalxiis?

LoL Well I think that about from me. We will await ina bada cass (the unsociable one) to post his pics whenever he decides to go back to the states.

I see a cross on the camel's behind (with one leg missing) on MMA's first post.

The View The gate-keeper. Why did I think of Victor Meldrew and One Foot in the Grave when I saw this tortoise?? Shiekh Hospital

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