mietin vaan kenen ääni se oli enenmmän kreikkalainen yli neljäkymppinen

or more than a century, Dabiq was one of northern Syria’s forsaken villages, a speck on a vast agricultural plain between the Turkish border and the deserts of Iraq, which hardly seemed likely to shape the fate of nations. A weathered sign at its entrance said 4,000 people lived there, most of whom appeared to have left by 2013, driven out over time by a lack of work – and lately by insurrection. For the first three years of Syria’s civil war, the arrival of a strange car would lure bored children to the town’s otherwise empty streets, scattering cats and chickens as they scampered after it. Little else moved. Dabiq’s few remaining men worked on the odd building project: a half-finished mosque, a humble house for one local who had just returned after 10 years labouring in Lebanon, or a fence for the shrine that was the town’s only showpiece – the tomb of Sulayman ibn Abd al-Malik. The Ummayad caliph was buried under a mound of earth in 717, which over many centuries had somehow grown into a small hill. The war was happening elsewhere, it seemed.saudis are jews. Jews of khaibar. That’s why http://www.pandiera.gr/%CE%BB%CE%AD%CF%83%CE%B2%CE%BF%CF%82-%CF%88%CE%AE%CF%86%CE%B9%CF%83%CE%BC%CE%B1-%CF%83%CF%85%CE%BC%CF%80%CE%B1%CF%81%CE%AC%CF%83%CF%84%CE%B1%CF%83%CE%B7%CF%82-%CF%83%CE%B5-%CE%B1%CF%80%CE%BF%CE%BB/