Posts Tagged With: Children

The Life and Death of Wasil, the Taliban-Hunting Child Warrior….


When his father was murdered, Wasil Ahmad vowed revenge. He was barely old enough to hoist a rifle, but still he trained to fight the Taliban. Finally, when the insurgents returned, Wasil found his chance. What he did next made him a legend. And then it made him a target.

All wars breed heroes, but some come in unexpected form. Wasil Ahmad was one of the unlikeliest. He was only 8 years old when the war in Afghanistan, already a family affair, set him on a path for vengeance.

One morning, about an hour’s walk from the family compound where Wasil slept, his father and three uncles stood guard at a newly built police checkpoint. For years, as the Taliban and the Afghan government had traded control of this stretch of southern Afghanistan, Wasil’s family seesawed between both sides. Now, with the Americans pulling out, the men in Wasil’s family glimpsed new opportunity—and new jobs—as leaders of a U.S.-backed police force. They pledged to fight the Taliban, to defend their valley from the insurgents.

They girded themselves for battle, which came that morning in the summer of 2012, as the Taliban swept down from the hills of the Uruzgan province and attacked the new checkpoint of the Afghan Local Police. Soon, the crack and pop of gunfire rattled through the valley of Nawa Sultan Mohammad, and the fighting spilled into the surrounding fields. The police, commanded by Wasil’s uncle Samad, fought the insurgents throughout the afternoon and into the evening, managing to kill ten Taliban fighters before the attackers were subdued. But three of their own had been gunned down, too—including Wasil’s father, Hamidullah.

That night, as darkness enveloped the family’s three-story mud-brick compound, Wasil’s uncles shuffled Hamidullah’s bloodied corpse inside. The boy drew close, his cheeks wet with tears. In the low light, he could see the blood that stained his father’s clothes. He was a child, yes, but he knew enough of his world to realize, without even asking, who had killed his father. And he knew what it meant for him.

In the weeks that followed, Wasil’s anger hardened into a grim and brutal ambition—one that would launch him toward fame and then toward tragedy. “Teach me how to shoot,” Wasil said to his uncle Samad when he had resolved himself to retribution. “I want to kill my father’s killer.”


At first, Wasil’s family managed to steer the boy away from his quest for revenge. “We convinced him to keep going to school,” Merwais Ahmad, one of Wasil’s other uncles, told me. But as he grew, Wasil refused to forget. Like very few things in Afghanistan, the boy’s hatred for the Taliban was simple. It was also unwavering—which was another rarity in a part of the country where the Taliban aren’t always the enemy.

His family’s own complicated relationship with the Taliban went back years, to the days before 9/11, when the group first came to power and Wasil’s uncle Samad became an eager climber in the local power structure. It wasn’t religious devotion that drove Samad but, rather, expediency. Like many, he wanted what the Taliban could offer. “At that time, I didn’t know what was good or what was bad,” Samad told me. “Everybody likes to have vehicles, a little power, to be on the government’s side. The Taliban provided us with fuel, with a better life.”

When the Americans arrived, three years before Wasil was born, Samad fought to repel them. He had battled invaders before—fighting the Soviets as a mujahideen warrior in the 1980s. Now, toiling for the Taliban, Samad buried IEDs in roads and under bridges and fashioned explosive vests for suicide attacks. Samad was a Taliban commander when Wasil was born—and as the boy grew, he became entranced with his uncle’s stories of courage and valor.

But by the time Wasil was 8, Samad was having doubts. In early 2012, as American and Afghan authorities were working hard to win the loyalties of fighters like him—offering them jobs and other incentives—Samad broke ranks with the Taliban. Along with 13 of his men, he pledged allegiance to the U.S.-backed Afghan government.

Whether or not Wasil could grasp the complexities of shifting allegiances, his family’s fortunes were changing. Samad, now a sworn enemy of the Taliban, was promptly appointed to run a unit of the Afghan Local Police, the region’s lone security force. He hired Wasil’s father, Hamidullah, a farmer and taxi driver, and his two other brothers—along with 30 ex-Taliban fighters and 40 other locals. They set up five fortified checkpoints and began keeping watch.

It was only a matter of time before the Taliban, eager to repay Samad and his men for their defection, roared down from the highland one morning and put a newly fatherless child on a mission for retribution.

In the months that followed, Wasil pleaded to join his uncle’s police unit. And by the time he turned 10, his nagging became too much. As Merwais told me, Samad finally relented. “He had to keep him happy. He was saying, ‘Okay, this is a pistol. Just shoot it like this.’ And he started teaching him.”

Thus began the training of a uniquely gifted child soldier.


When Wasil wasn’t at school, he and his uncle—sometimes accompanied by other policemen from the unit—would grab guns and hike into the hills. “We started with pistols, and then I gave him an AK-47,” Samad recalled. “He became very good at hitting targets a great distance.”

Samad’s men were impressed—the boy was a natural marksman, and as he graduated to more powerful weapons, he seemed surprisingly unaffected by the recoil of the guns. Before long, Wasil was firing rocket-propelled grenade launchers. “That got him excited,” Samad said. “He was shouting, laughing, and having fun.” Then came mortars, shot from a three-legged stand. Wasil asked his mother to stitch him a police uniform, which he proudly wore nearly everywhere. “He was not on a salary, he was not a legal policeman, but he trained with us,” Samad said.

In some ways, Wasil wasn’t unusual. In Afghanistan, a stew of factors—the intractable poverty, the primacy of family honor, and the high desertion and casualty rates within fighting forces—conspire to press children into war in large numbers, especially as foreign forces have pulled out. Last year, half the police checkpoints surveyed in Uruzgan were staffed by officers under 18, according to researchers from the organization Child Soldiers International.

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COURTESY OF FAMILY

The Taliban, which have stormed back to power in recent years all over the country, have been using child soldiers in even larger numbers than the government. In the north, in the Kunduz province, where the Taliban briefly captured the capital last year, insurgents used the schools to train children to fight on the front lines—instructing them in making and planting IEDs and detonating suicide vests at checkpoints. “The Taliban’s apparent strategy to throw increasing numbers of children into battle is as cynical and cruel as it is unlawful,” said Patricia Gossman, a senior researcher at Human Rights Watch.

Between September 2010 and December 2014, suicide attacks were carried out by 20 boys under the age of 18, according to a report from the U.N. In one incident, an IED was attached to a bicycle that a boy was made to push toward an Afghan National Army vehicle. The blast killed eight civilians as well as the child.

Still, as he joined the growing army of kids being called to fight, Wasil was different. Deeply committed and poised beyond his years, he was eager to fight. And unlike the rest of the child soldiers of the war, Wasil would soon be asked to lead.


By early 2015, Samad had a new reason to let his young nephew inch his way toward the fight: He needed the men. Across Afghanistan, the resurgent Taliban were a gathering threat. It hadn’t helped Samad that some of his own policemen—newly powerful and suddenly unruly—were making the prospect of a return to Taliban rule a bit more enticing to the locals in the valley. Several of his men had been implicated in assaults and robberies. And in a bid to amp up security, his cops increasingly resorted to harsh tactics: They rounded up elders and cut their beards to punish them for cooperating with the Taliban; they ordered the villagers to leave their doors open at night, in case the police wanted to search their homes.

Just 20 miles from the family compound, a force of roughly 2,000 newly emboldened insurgents had ventured from the mountains to besiege the Afghan Local Police’s district headquarters in Khas Uruzgan. From here, the Taliban set their sights on Samad’s unit and the valley from which he’d evicted them three years earlier.

By late May, the Taliban had begun their assault, targeting police checkpoints and forcing Samad’s fighters to withdraw farther and farther. In July, the police gathered their loved ones and planned one last retreat: They’d fall back to Samad’s three-story compound, where Wasil and his family were already ensconced. From there, they’d wait for rescue—or make their final stand.

Primed for what could come, Wasil was wearing the tiny gray police uniform his mother had stitched. He was 11 years old. He’d gotten pretty good with a rifle, but he had never fired a shot in battle, had never experienced the adrenaline rush and the terror of combat. But this was what he’d been training for.

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As the U.S. pulled out of Afghanistan, police units—like Wasil’s—took up the fight against the Taliban.


As the police and the families made their way to the compound, Taliban snipers opened fire on them—killing two policemen and cutting down Samad, who took a pair of bullets, one in the leg.

From the roof of the compound, Wasil could see beyond the walls to where his uncle lay in the dirt, possibly dying; the Taliban were bearing down. Wasil’s uncle Merwais remembers vividly what happened next. He watched Wasil, crouching behind sandbags, take careful aim with a Russian-made machine gun. The boy squeezed the trigger and began working to pin the Taliban in place, buying enough time for the men inside the compound to reach the dead and injured and to haul them in.

A wounded Samad was hustled to a second-floor bedroom, where he named his nephew the surrogate commander. The police unit contained 26 men at that point—and putting a boy in charge as the battle began, Samad told me, made perfect sense. “He was intelligent, brave, and calm under fire, and well trained.”

“You guys are not men,” Wasil screamed over the radio. “Just give us time to take the children out.”

The child leapt to duty, now commanding a makeshift fortress of last resort. Outside, the Taliban soon had the place surrounded, hundreds of them firing from the mountains above and the valley below. Day and night—across what would eventually become a three-week siege—Wasil kept watch from the roof, pointing out Taliban positions to his fellow marksmen. “Wasil was telling the soldiers to go to this position, that position, and giving them ammunition, and shooting the heavy machine gun,” said Merwais. He may have been only a boy, but Wasil cut the figure of the military leader he had now become.

In early August, as Wasil worked from the rooftop, a Taliban gunner sent a rocket-propelled grenade into the thick mud-brick wall on the compound’s second floor. From a corner bedroom rose the smoke and flames of burning mattresses and wooden furniture, as two terrified children trapped inside cried out for help. Throughout the compound, there was confusion, but Wasil was calm. He grabbed a radio receiver and shouted to a Taliban officer on the other end.

“We want a cease-fire,” he screamed, his voice high-pitched and crackling over the radio. “There are two kids in that room, and we need to get them out.”

More shots rang out.

“You guys are not men,” Wasil screamed over the radio. “Just give us time to take the children out.” There was something about Wasil’s insistent tone, his confidence in the face of danger, that the Taliban commander admired. He gave the order that silenced the Taliban’s guns. Wasil had the children pulled from the burning room.

But the truce was short-lived. The hardships stacked up. Food ran low, and Wasil’s men were reduced to eating grass boiled into a kind of porridge. Throughout August, as the siege dragged on, Wasil and Samad pleaded with army commanders and government officials to get them out. But the Taliban held the roads.

Unbeknownst to those trapped in the compound, Taliban engineers had been digging a tunnel toward them. And on August 21, they used it to place about 3.3 tons of explosives beneath the rampart. A deafening explosion blew a hole in one of the mud walls, killing two of the policemen. Amid the confusion, Wasil got on the radio to the chief of police in Tirin Kot. “They’ve broken down the wall. They’re coming to get us. We need a helicopter rescue,” he begged.

Twenty-four hours later, four Russian Mi-17 helicopters filled with Afghan special forces flew out of Tirin Kot toward the compound. A U.S. gunship accompanied them, raining fire on the Taliban and sending them scurrying for cover. The four Mi-17’s touched down in front of the mud fortress, and Afghan soldiers raced inside. Samad, Merwais, 15 more fighters, Samad’s two wives, Wasil, his three brothers, three cousins, and his mother dashed out, ducking low beneath the swirling rotor blades and rising dust, and climbed aboard. A short time afterward, according to the district governor, the Taliban swarmed the compound and burned it to the ground.

“They’re coming to get us. We need a helicopter rescue,” Wasil begged.

The Taliban had taken the compound and the entirety of the valley, but stories were already spreading, tales that would captivate the country. Reports of how Wasil had fired 120 mortar rounds in a single day’s fighting; how he’d manned a Kalashnikov long enough and well enough to take out six Taliban fighters, how he’d coordinated food and ammo drops that saved his soldiers’ lives. Stories spread of how he had negotiated the rescue of those children—and of how, finally, he had arranged that daring evacuation by helicopter. “He fought with the courage of 100 men,” the district governor would say. He was hailed as a “lion”; even the Taliban would speak of him with a measure of respect. But it was too soon to know what that growing fame would eventually inspire.


Wasil stared out of the helicopter as it sailed over green valleys, barreling toward Tirin Kot. “We’re out of danger, we can relax now,” he told his 9-year-old brother, Rabbani. Then, having comforted the boy, he turned back to the disbelieving men who’d just rescued him, the troops from the Afghan special forces who wanted to know how this boy had defended the compound for three harrowing weeks.

Just beyond the gates of Tirin Kot, the chopper zipped over the blast walls of the heavily fortified Afghan National Army base and came to rest on the ground. Rahimullah Khan, then the deputy police chief of the Uruzgan province, was waiting for them at the airfield. The boy, his uniform covered in dust, a sidearm on his waist, shook Khan’s hand and then jumped into the front seat of a police car. “He was tired, and happy to be out of the war,” Khan told me.

Tirin Kot, a sprawl of mud-walled houses, was, then as now, a city under siege. The Afghan government’s control extended for just a few miles beyond the walls. Checkpoints and sandbagged posts ringed the city of 70,000, but Taliban infiltrators had still managed to slip into town and strike periodically, planting IEDs on the streets.

To help ease Wasil back toward normalcy, deputy police chief Khan put the family up in his guarded guesthouse, gave them a monthly stipend, and arranged for Wasil to attend a nearby school. Khan also removed the boy’s sidearm. “The pistol is our enemy,” he told me. “When you have a pistol, you are a target, you are in the fight.”

It wasn’t easy for Wasil to accept that his fight was over. Family members and others who had survived the siege treated him like a legendary warrior. Samad, in particular, was proud of his nephew’s celebrity and wanted to honor him as a hero. He resented anyone who downplayed the boy’s achievements. “We fought with the Taliban for many, many days, fighting 500 people,” he said. “They should have given us medals.”

This sort of hagiography worried Khan, who was stunned to see Wasil’s family play up his heroic exploits on social media. “They said, ‘Wasil did this.’ ‘Wasil did that,’ bragging about the kid, how he killed this person and that person,” he told me. The deputy police chief urged the family to lower the boy’s profile. He was afraid that Wasil’s growing status as a folk hero was likely to put him in the Taliban’s sights. He pleaded with Samad to protect his nephew. But Samad, always ambitious, brushed off the warnings. “The family didn’t accept my help,” Khan told me. “They went the wrong way.”


After a couple of months, Wasil’s family moved out of Khan’s guesthouse, saying that they needed more space. Samad was eager to keep stoking the mythology growing around his nephew and cultivated in the boy a sense that he wasn’t beholden to the same rules that governed other people: He allowed the 11-year-old to drive around town in a police-issue Ford Ranger pickup truck. Khan thought the truck was a bad idea: Giving a boy a police vehicle was hardly going to encourage him to behave like a kid. “I was trying to get Wasil into a school in Kabul to get him more educated,” Khan told me. “But his mind was being changed again.”

Wasil was being pulled in conflicting directions. “He played soccer and cricket, but he was not like a child,” a schoolmate told the press. “He was more like a grown man—always serious.”

Most mornings, after breakfast, Wasil, along with his brothers and cousins, worked for three hours with a tutor who taught English, Persian, and chemistry. And by all accounts, Wasil was making progress—despite a frequent preoccupation with his past life as a soldier. “He was an intelligent guy, with an open mind; he was grasping things quickly,” Wasil’s teacher, Mahmoud Khan, told me. “But he was thinking about guns, he was talking about guns. I told him, ‘You should leave these things behind. You should focus on learning.’ ”

In early February 2016, six months after the siege, Wasil and two of his cousins finished their midday prayers and strolled outside their compound, hoping to buy some fruit. Normally, the family discouraged them from venturing into the streets without police guards, but there was a fruit-and-vegetable stall just across the wide road, a 30-second walk away.

Wasil crossed the road while his two cousins peeled off and headed for another shop. As he inspected the oranges, bananas, and apples and chatted with the grocer, two men on a motorbike pulled up behind Wasil.

Then two pistol shots rang out, and Wasil staggered back. “After the first shot, he was just saying, ‘I’ve been hit.’ Then the second bullet hit him in the head, and he fell,” a witness recounted. “The apples he bought were covered in blood.” The assailants raced off on their bike and disappeared.

“If some kids are seeing this, what will they think? They will just leave the school and tell themselves, ‘I am going to become a hero.’”

At home, Samad had been napping but was roused suddenly by his shouting nephews. “Wasil’s been shot,” they cried. Wasil’s uncle ran outside and saw the boy lying in a pool of blood, unconscious. An ambulance rushed Wasil to the local hospital, and then he was airlifted to Kandahar. Wasil died en route.

The next day, Wasil’s family wrapped his body in a white cloth shroud and bore him in his Ford Ranger to the cemetery. Six hundred people attended his burial. The sight of the small boy’s body moved many to tears. “This was a small child,” the journalist Najeed Lattif, who attended the funeral, told me. Samad was also crying. “He was saying, ‘They killed my right-hand man,’” Lattif said.


Six weeks after Wasil’s assassination, I joined his younger brother Rabbani and his uncle Merwais on a visit to Wasil’s grave. (Samad had relocated to Khas Uruzgan to begin a three-month trial as the district police chief. “He is a good fighter,” Uruzgan’s new governor, Wazeer Khararoti, told me. “He knows how to fight the Taliban, but you have to rein him in like a horse and not let him go so far.”)

We crammed into an armored four-by-four and joined a convoy between a black Land Cruiser and a Humvee filled with a dozen policemen. We reached a barren hillside covered with grave markers—spindly branches strung with decorative flags. The police took up positions, and I followed the uncle and brother to Wasil’s grave, crudely marked with stones, chunks of cement, and two willow branches adorned with colored cloths. It was only temporary, Merwais told me. “We will take him home,” he said, “as soon as Nawa Sultan Mohammed is no longer in the Taliban’s hands.”

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After news spread of Wasil’s feats in battle, his family was urged to downplay the heroics—lest the growing mythology inspire the Taliban to kill the boy.

In the days just after Wasil was shot, as paeans to his bravery flooded social media, the Taliban claimed responsibility for the assassination, according to The Independent. But when I reached the insurgents’ spokesman on the phone, he backed off, saying only that it “was possible” that the Taliban had killed him. He rebuked the Afghan police for encouraging the boy to fight and for then celebrating him as a hero.

That sentiment—that the breathless tales of Wasil’s exploits had contributed to his death—is shared by the region’s governor, Wazeer Khararoti. “He was a child, and we don’t have a right to make him a hero,” he told me. “If some kids are seeing this, what will they think? They will just leave the school and tell themselves, ‘I am going to become a hero.’”

But among the hard men who fight and die in Afghanistan’s violent backcountry, the governor’s perspective is not widely shared. There’s a grudging acceptance of the grim cycles that war perpetuates.

When I was in Kabul, I met with an old mujahideen fighter—a loyal friend of Samad’s—who now serves in parliament. His name is Haji Obaidullah Barakzai, and five years ago a Taliban fighter assassinated his 27-year-old son, as his son—Barakzai’s grandson—watched from a nearby car. The incident was eerily similar to the one that had put Wasil on his path for revenge, and it inspired in this boy the same response. He’s 8 now, and he’s been consumed by one thought. “I want to kill the Taliban who killed my father,” he told me shyly.

Barakzai hadn’t yet taken him to the firing range, but that day, he said, was not far off. “I’m buying plastic guns for the boy,” he told me, “so that he will be ready.”

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Joshua Hammer wrote about the crash of Germanwings Flight 9525 in the March 2016 issue of GQ.

This piece originally appeared in the January 2017 issue, with the title “The Improbable Life and Stunning Death of a Child Warrior.”

Categories: Middle East, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

Stunning Photos Show Caves Where Ancient People Lived For Centuries Before Suddenly Vanishing


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These stunning pictures show the caves where the ancient Anasazi people lived in America thousands of years ago.

Amateur photographer Wayne Pinkston snapped the astonishing images around the south-west of the U.S.

The pre-Columbian Anasazi civilisation lived in the alcoves because they could be easily defended.

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But they suddenly abandoned their homes around 1300AD, and never came back.

Virginia-based Mr Pinkston said it was “enthralling” and “very primal” to “look out and see the same thing they did so long ago.”

“Being in these ruins at night is fascinating. To see the starlit sky, and be surrounded by ancient habitations where people once thrived is magical,” he wrote on his Flickr account.

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“It’s like going back in time. The alcoves just glow with the light. You can imagine the glow of fires illuminating the ceiling and walls centuries ago,” he added.

The people lived in the area from around 200AD until 1300AD, when the disappeared.

Some researchers speculate that they migrated elsewhere, with others thinking they left because of drought.

(Pictures courtesy of Caters News Agency)

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Mexican site yields new details of sacrifice of Spaniards..cooked and eaten….


MEXICO CITY (AP) — It was one of the worst defeats in one of history’s most dramatic conquests: Only a year after Hernan Cortes landed in Mexico, hundreds of people in a Spanish-led convey were captured, sacrificed and apparently eaten.

Excavations at a site just east of Mexico City are yielding dramatic new details about that moment when two cultures clashed — and the native defenders, at least temporarily, were in control.

Faced with strange invaders accompanied by unknown animals, the inhabitants of an Aztec-allied town reacted with apparent amazement when they captured the convoy of about 15 Spaniards, 45 foot soldiers who included Cubans of African and Indian descent, women and 350 Indian allies of the Spaniards, including Mayas and other groups.

Artifacts found at the Zultepec-Tecoaque ruin site, show the inhabitants carved clay figurines of the unfamiliar races with their strange features, or forced the captives to carve them. They then symbolically decapitated the figurines.

“We have figurines of blacks, of Europeans, that were then intentionally decapitated,” said Enrique Martinez, the government archaeologist leading this year’s round of excavations at the site, where explorations began in the 1990s.

Later, those in the convoy were apparently sacrificed and eaten by the townsfolk known as Texcocanos or Acolhuas .

The convoy was comprised of people sent from Cuba in a second expedition a year after Cortes’ initial landing in 1519 and they were heading to the Aztec capital with supplies and the conquerors’ possessions. The ethnicity and gender of those in the convoy were determined from their skull features.

Some place the number of people in the group as high as 550. Cortes had been forced to leave the convoy on its own while trying to rescue his troops from an uprising in what is now Mexico City.

Members of the captured convoy were held prisoner in door-less cells, where they were fed over six months. Little by little, the town sacrificed, and apparently ate, the horses, men and women.

“The aim of the sacrifices … was to ask the gods for protection from the strange interlopers,” the National Institute of Anthropology and History said in a statement.

But pigs brought by the Spaniards for food were apparently viewed with such suspicion that they were killed whole and left uneaten. “The pigs were sacrificed and hidden in a well, but there is no evidence that they were cooked,” Martinez said.

In contrast, the skeletons of the captured Europeans were torn apart and bore cut marks indicating the meat was removed from the bones.

Some of the first European women to set foot in Mexico weren’t treated chivalrously. Along with the men, they were apparently kept in the walled-in spaces for months, with food tossed in, perhaps through small windows. A find last week indicates one woman was sacrificed in the town plaza, dismembered, and then had the skull of a 1-year-old child, who apparently was sacrificed as well, placed in her pelvis, for reasons that were probably symbolic and remain unclear.

While Spaniards later wrote accounts of the massacre that occurred in 1520, a dark year for the conquistadors, archaeologists are finding things they didn’t mention.

“The interesting part is that the historical sources (mainly Spanish chroniclers) didn’t mention the presence of women in the convoy, and here we have a large presence of women” among remains excavated so far, Martinez said.

Fifty women and about 10 children are estimated to have been in the convoy, and all were killed.

The Spaniards’ goods were, on the whole, treated indifferently. A prized and elaborate majolica plate from Europe was tossed into the wells as were the Spaniards’ jewelry and their spurs and stirrups, which were of no use to the Indians. A horse’s rib bone, however, was prized and carved into a musical instrument.

“This seems to be even more spectacular information about an important event of the Conquest … about which we have very little historical documentation,” wrote University of Florida archaeologist Susan Gillespie, who was not involved in the project. “It does add new dimensions to the acts of resistance of the indigenous people. There is the wrong-headed notion that many of them simply capitulated to the more superior European forces. But it is the victors who write the histories of war.”

The bloodiness of the brief chapter of dominance by the indigenous group is sealed in the second name of the Zultepec ruin site, Tecoaque, which means “the place where they ate them” in Nahuatl, the Aztec language.

When Cortes’ soldiers returned to the town, they found that townspeople had strung the severed heads of captured Spaniards on a wooden “skull rack” next to those of their horses, leading some to think the Indians believed that horse and rider were one beast.

When Cortes learned what happened to his followers, he dispatched a punitive expedition of troops to destroy the town, setting into motion a chain of events that actually helped preserve it.

The inhabitants tried to hide all remains of the Spaniards by tossing them in shallow wells and abandoned the town.

“They heard that he (Cortes) was coming for them, and what they did was hide everything. If they hadn’t done that, we wouldn’t have found these things,” Martinez said.

Cortes went on to conquer the Aztec capital in 1521

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Parrot laughs like a super villain…


Categories: 2nd Amendment, adult radio | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

3 Other Presidents did it, why not now….


No one in either party has the courage to do this today

cid:X.MA1.1398691793@aol.com

cid:X.MA21398691793@aol.com

cid:X.MA3.1398691793@aol.com

What did Presidents Hoover, Truman, and Eisenhower have in common?

(This is something that should be of great interest for you to pass around.

I didn’t know of this until it was pointed out to me.)

Back during the great depression, Herbert Hoover ordered

the deportation of ALL illegal aliens

in order to make jobs available to American citizens

that desperately needed work.

Harry Truman deported over two million illegal aliens after WWII

to create jobs for returning veterans.

In 1954 Dwight Eisenhower deported 13 million illegal Mexicans.

The program was called Operation Wetback.

It was done so WWII and Korean War veterans

would have a better chance at jobs.

It took two years, but they deported them!

Now, if they could deport the illegal aliens back then,

they could surely do it today.

If you have doubts about the veracity of this information,

enter Operation Wetback into

your favorite search engine and confirm it for yourself.

Why, you might ask, can’t they do this today?

Actually the answer is quite simple.

Hoover, Truman, and Eisenhower were men of honor,

not untrustworthy politicians looking for votes from the illegals!

Reminder:

Don’t forget to pay your taxes –

12 to 20 million illegal aliens – are depending on it … and

that’s why they all VOTE for the incumbent thieves!!

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Did you know??…It used to be common to send children through the mail….


In 1913 it was legal to mail children. With stamps attached to their clothing, children rode trains to their destinations, accompanied by letter carriers. One newspaper reported it cost fifty-three cents for parents to mail their daughter to her grandparents for a family visit. As news stories and photos popped up around the country, it didn’t take long to get a law on the books making it illegal to send children through the mail1524898_641076452617785_515751935_n

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Satanist Westboro Protest Could Change Everything…..


WebProNews writer Amanda Crum reported yesterday about the stylized counter-protest staged by Satanist’s against the Westboro Baptist Church. A small group of self-proclaimed Satanists gathered at the gravesite of Westboro leader Fred Phelps’ mother and performed a ritual they refer to as a “pink mass”, a rite that they say means that she is now “turned gay” for all eternity.

Of course, Phelps and his followers can easily dismiss this as ridiculous. They can ignore it. They can use it to fuel even more of their own anti-gay protests. But what they can’t do is stop it from happening again. And this is where a stunt like this could really cost Westboro dearly. Because it strikes a blow at Westboro in a way that few other protests have not been able to do. It takes the battle to them.

Counter-protests to Westboro’s activities are not new. Almost anywhere the group turns up nowadays, they are met with a group of locals that are intent on blunting their effectiveness. This is especially true when Westboro pickets funerals, whether they be of dead soldiers, children, or celebrities. People take the solemnity of a funeral seriously, and they will defend each other’s space and right to have an uninterrupted funeral. Common tactics include forming a cordon around the Westboro protestors to prevent their offensive signs being seen by passing funeral processions or graveside gatherings.
A protest like the Satanists staged at Phelp’s mothers grave goes further than responding directly to Westboro’s presence on a given day. It is retaliatory. And it is as offensive to Westboro members as the activities of Westboro itself are to others. For example, as part of the “pink mass” ceremony, a pair of gay men and a pair of lesbian women kissed over the grave, with photos to commemorate the occasion.
But the coup de grâce came when the officiating member also got a photo laying his penis on the headstone. Now, anytime Phelps visits his mother’s grave, he will know that a Satanist’s penis was there.
This protest takes the fight to the enemy, Inglorious Basterds-style. If other groups come up with innovative ways to do more of the same – like the group that bought a house across from the church and painted it like a gay pride flag – the Westboro folks may suddenly find that this game isn’t fun for them anymore.

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Reasons for Being a Republican by Ulysses S. Grant……


Ulysses S. Grant
September 28, 1880

IN view of the known character of the speaker who is to address you to-day, and his long public career, and association with the leading statesmen of this country for the past twenty years, it would not be becoming in me to detain you with many remarks of my own. But it may be proper for me to account to you on the first occasion of my presiding at political meetings for the faith that is in me.

I am a Republican, as the two great political parties are now divided, because the Republican party is a national party seeking the greatest good for the greatest number of citizens. There is not a precinct in this vast nation where a Democrat can not cast his ballot and have it counted as cast. No matter what the prominence of the opposite party, he can proclaim his political opinions, even if he is only one among a thousand, without fear and without proscription on account of his opinions. There are fourteen States, and localities in some other States, where Republicans have not this privilege. This is one reason why I am a Republican.

But I am a Republican for many other reasons. The Republican party assures protection to life and property, the public credit, and the payment of the debts of the government, State, county, or municipality, so far as it can control. The Democratic party does no promise this; if it does, it has broken its promises to the extent of hundreds of millions, as many Northern Democrats can testify to their sorrow. I am a Republican, as between the existing parties, because it fosters the production of the field and farm, and of manufactories, and it encourages the general education of the poor as well as the rich.

The Democratic party discourages all these when in absolute power. The Republican party is a party of progress, and of liberty toward its opponents. It encourages the poor to strive to better their children, to enable them to compete successfully with their more fortunate associates, and, in fine, it secures an entire equality before the law of every citizen, no matter what his race, nationality, or previous condition. It tolerates no privileged class. Every one has the opportunity to make himself all he is capable of.

Ladies and gentlemen, do you believe this can be truthfully said in the greater part of fourteen of the States of this Union to-day which the Democratic party control absolutely? The Republican party is a party of principles; the same principles prevailing wherever it has a foothold.

The Democratic party is united in but one thing, and that is in getting control of the government in all its branches. It is for internal improvement at the expense of the government in one section and against this in another. It favors repudiation of solemn obligations in one section and honest payment of its debts in another, where public opinion will not tolerate any other view. It favors fiat money in one place and good money in another. Finally, it favors the pooling of all issues not favored by the Republicans, to the end that it may secure the one principle upon which the party is a most harmonious unit — namely, getting control of the government in all its branches.

I have been in some part of every State lately in rebellion within the last year. I was most hospitably received at every place where I stopped. My receptions were not by the Union class alone, but by all classes, without distinction. I had a free talk with many who were against me in war, and who have been against the Republican party ever since. They were, in all instances, reasonable men, judging by what they said. I believed then, and believe now, that they sincerely want a break-up in this “Solid South” political condition. They see that it is to their pecuniary interest, as well as to their happiness, that there should be harmony and confidence between all sections. They want to break away from the slavery which binds them to a party name. They want a pretext that enough of them can unite upon to make it respectable. Once started, the Solid South will go as Kukluxism did before, as is so admirably told by Judge Tourgee in his “Fool’s Errand.” When the break comes, those who start it will be astonished to find how many of their friends have been in favor of it for a long time, and have only been waiting to see some one take the lead. This desirable solution can only be attained by the defeat, and continued defeat, of the Democratic party as now constituted

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Daniel Boone Settles Kentucky…….


Daniel Boone
c. 1800

It was on the first of May, in the year 1769, that I resigned my domestic happiness for a time, and left my family and peaceable habitation on the Yadkin River, in North Carolina, to wander through the wilderness of America, in quest of the country of Kentucky, in company with John Finley, John Stewart, Joseph Holden, James Monay, and William Cool.

We proceeded successfully, and after a long and tiresome journey through a mountainous wilderness, in a westward direction, on the seventh day of June following, we found ourselves on Red River, where John Finley had formerly gone trading with the Indians; and, from the top of an eminence, saw with pleasure the beautiful level of Kentucky.

We found everywhere abundance of wild beasts of all sorts, through this vast forest. The buffalo were more frequent than I have seen cattle in the settlements, browsing on the leaves of the cane, or cropping the herbage on those extensive plains, fearless, because ignorant of the violence of man. Sometimes we saw hundreds in a drove, and the numbers about the salt springs were amazing.

As we ascended the brow of a small hill, near Kentucky River, a number of Indians rushed out of a thick cane-brake upon us, and made us prisoners. The time of our sorrow was now arrived, and the scene fully opened. They plundered us of what we had, and kept us in confinement seven days, treating us with common savage usage. During this time we showed no uneasiness or desire to escape, which made them less suspicious of us. But in the dead of night, as we lay in a thick cane-brake by a large fire, when sleep had locked up their senses, my situation not disposing me for rest, I touched my companion and gently woke him.

We improved this favorable opportunity, and departed, leaving them to take their rest, and speedily directed our course toward our old camp, but found it plundered, and the company dispersed and gone home.

Soon after this my companion in captivity, John Stewart, was killed by the savages, and the man that came with my brother returned home by himself. We were then in a dangerous, helpless situation, exposed daily to perils and death among savages and wild beasts, not a white man in the country but ourselves.

One day I undertook a tour through the country, and the diversity and beauties of nature I met with in this charming season expelled every gloomy and vexatious thought. I laid me down to sleep, and I awoke not until the sun had chased away the night. I continued this tour, and in a few days explored a considerable part of the country, each day equally pleased as the first.

I returned again to my old camp, which was not disturbed in my absence. I did not confine my lodging to it, but often reposed in thick cane-brakes to avoid the savages, who, I believe, often visited my camp, but fortunately for me, in my absence. In this situation I was constantly exposed to danger and death. How unhappy such a situation for a man! Tormented with fear, which is vain if no danger comes. The prowling wolves diverted my nocturnal hours with perpetual howlings.

In 1772 I returned safe to my old home, and found my family in happy circumstances. I sold my farm on the Yadkin, and what goods we could not carry with us; and on the twenty-fifth day of September, 1773, bade a farewell to our friends and proceeded on our journey to Kentucky, in company with five families more, and forty men that joined us in Powel’s Valley, which is one hundred and fifty miles from the now settled parts of Kentucky.

This promising beginning was soon overcast with a cloud of adversity; for upon the tenth day of October the rear of our company was attacked by a number of Indians, who killed six and wounded one man. Of these my eldest son was one that fell in the action.

Though we defended ourselves, and repulsed the enemy, yet this unhappy affair scattered our cattle, brought us into extreme difficulty, and so discouraged the whole company that we retreated forty miles to the settlement on Clench River.

Within fifteen miles of where Boonsborough now stands we were fired upon by a party of Indians that killed two and wounded two of our number; yet although surprised and taken at a disadvantage, we stood our ground. This was on the twentieth of March, 1775.

Three days after we were fired upon again, and had two men killed and three wounded. Afterward we proceeded on to Kentucky River without opposition; and on the first day of April began to erect the fort of Boonsborough at a salt lick, about sixty yards from the river, on the south side. On the fourth day the Indians killed one man.

In a short time I proceeded to remove my family from Clench to this garrison, where we arrived safe without any other difficulties than such as are common to this passage, my wife and daughter being the first white women that ever stood on the banks of Kentucky River. On the twenty-fourth day of December following we had one man killed and one wounded by the Indians, who seemed determined to persecute us for erecting this fortification.

On the fourteenth day of July, 1776, two of Colonel Calaway’s daughters and one of mine were taken prisoners near the fort. I immediately pursued the Indians, with only eight men, and on the sixteenth overtook them, killed two of the party and recovered the girls. The same day on which this attempt was made the Indians divided themselves into different parties and attacked several forts, which were shortly before this time erected, doing a great deal of mischief. This was extremely distressing to the new settlers. The innocent husbandman was shot down while busy in cultivating the soil for his family’s supply. Most of the cattle around the stations were destroyed. They continued their hostilities in this manner until the fifteenth of April, 1777, when they attacked Boonsborough with a party of above one hundred in number, killed one man and wounded four. Their loss in this attack was not certainly known to us.

On the fourth day of July following a party of about two hundred Indians attacked Boonsborough, killed one man and wounded two. They besieged us forty-eight hours; during which time seven of them were killed, and finding themselves not likely to prevail, they raised the siege and departed.

The Indians had disposed their warriors in different parties at this time and attacked the different garrisons to prevent their assisting each other, and did much injury to the inhabitants.

On the nineteenth day of this month Colonel Logan’s fort was besieged by a party of about two hundred Indians. During this dreadful siege they did a great deal of mischief, distressed the garrison, in which were only fifteen men, killed two and wounded one.

This campaign in some measure damped the spirits of the Indians, and made them sensible of our superiority. Their connections were dissolved, their armies scattered, and a future invasion put entirely out of their power; yet they continued to practise mischief secretly upon the inhabitants, in the exposed parts of the country.

In October following a party made an excursion into that district called the Crab Orchard, and one of them, who was advanced some distance before the others, boldly entered the house of a poor defenseless family, in which was only a negro man, a woman and her children, terrified with the apprehensions of immediate death. The savage, perceiving their defenseless situation, without offering violence to the family, attempted to captivate the negro, who happily proved an overmatch for him, threw him on the ground, and, in the struggle, the mother of the children drew an ax from a corner of the cottage and cut his head off, while her little daughter shut the door. The savages instantly appeared, and applied their tomahawks to the door. An old rusty gun-barrel, without a lock, lay in a corner, which the mother put through a small crevice, and the savages, perceiving it, fled. In the mean time the alarm spread through the neighborhood; the armed men collected immediately, and pursued the ravagers into the wilderness. Thus Providence, by the means of this negro, saved the whole of the poor family from destruction. From that time until the happy return of peace between the United States and Great Britain the Indians did us no mischief.

To conclude, I can now say that I have verified the saying of an old Indian who signed Colonel Henderson’s deed. Taking me by the hand, at the delivery thereof, “Brother,” says he, “we have given you a fine land, but I believe you will have much trouble in settling it.” My footsteps have often been marked with blood, and therefore I can truly subscribe to its original name. Two darling sons, and a brother, have I lost by savage hands, which have also taken from me forty valuable horses and abundance of cattle. Many dark and sleepless night have I been a companion for owls, separated from the cheerful society of men, scorched by the summer’s sun, and pinched by the winter’s cold, an instrument ordained to settle the wilderness. But now the scene is changed: peace crowns the sylvan shade.

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Up to 75% Could Be Hit by Obamacare Tax……


The so-called “Cadillac Tax” facing employers who offer premium healthcare plans to their workers already is affecting employees, even though it doesn’t kick in until 2018.

Employers say they have to get started bringing down costs now, The New York Times reports, so employees who are used to $20 co-pays at the doctor’s office and $500 deductibles are learning a new reality. Many now are looking at deductibles as high as $6,000 for families.

That’s exactly how Obamacare planners designed it, the Times story says. The intent of what is officially known as the Affordable Care Act all along was to get companies to drop plans that protect workers from the high cost of healthcare, which can lead to unnecessary tests and procedures.

“The consumer should continue to expect that their plan is going to be more expensive, and they will have less benefits,” Cynthia Weidner of the benefits consultant HighRoads told the Times.

Still, the tax is one of the most controversial parts of the healthcare law. It imposes a 40 percent tax on the portion of a health plan’s cost that exceeds $10,200 for an individual and $27,500 for a family. That cost includes what both the employer and employee pay.

Some employees are feeling the pinch already. The Times talked to a nursing assistant who had to drop out of school and get extra jobs to pay for medicine for her husband, who has cystic fibrosis.

“My husband didn’t choose to be born this way,” said Abbey Bruce.

“The reality is it is going to hit more and more people over time, at least as currently written in law, ” said Bradley Herring, a health economist at Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health.

Herring estimated that as many as 75 percent of plans could be affected by the tax over the next decade — unless employers manage to significantly rein in their costs.

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