When they talk about their fake history full of massacres… Exactly one year ago, the same Satanyahu — who calls himself a “friend of the Iranian people” — bombed Tehran’s main water pipeline at Ghods Junction in Tajrish. Supplying 15 million civilians. On a busy street full of innocent drivers and their passengers. Zionist “friendship” in action.

I$rael once again sprayed cancer-linked chemicals on agricultural land in south Lebanon on Friday, an act condemned as a war crime and a bid to make the border region uninhabitable Our report from the ground

My name is Gabe Einhorn. I’m a 24 year old founder, building VryfID, which verifies renters identity and income, then matches them with apartments they can actually afford. For landlords, this helps them fill units faster, increase occupancy, and raise NOI. I posted last week about an antisemitic incident, and since then it has blown up everywhere. Social media is flooded with people who hate Jews, and their only goal is to try to destroy us, as you see below. This guy just wants to destroy my business, and take down any Jewish person. Thank God, there are many good people out there who have been supporting me, and who are standing up to hate. If you are seeing this and want to be involved with what we are building, both with VryfID, as well as our fight against hate, please reach out.

Posted by former US Congressman @AdamKinzinger on Facebook. Beautifully written, in both form and substance: Hey everyone, happy Sunday. Are you ready for some good news? I know I am. We are told, over and over, that America has gone cold on the rest of the world. That we have decided the people on the other side of the ocean are a threat to be kept out. That the welcome mat got rolled up and put away for good. Then a soccer team from the North African nation of Algeria showed up in Lawrence, Kansas, and within a week the whole town was wearing green. For today's Good News Sunday, I want to tell you about one of the best things happening in this country right now. It is happening at a soccer tournament, and it has almost nothing to do with soccer. The World Cup is here, 48 teams playing across the United States, Canada, and Mexico. Each team in the tournament picks a base camp, one town to live and train in between matches. Germany set up shop in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Spain is training in Chattanooga, Tennessee. And Algeria, playing two of its games up the road at Arrowhead, picked Lawrence and made it home for the summer. What the people of Lawrence did with that is the part I can't stop thinking about. It started small, with a whole town of people who had never given Algeria much thought deciding, more or less overnight, that this was their team now. Flags went up in shop windows. Folks pulled on the green jerseys. People drove over just to catch a glimpse of the players. And then a local news crew stopped an older gentleman on a Lawrence sidewalk, standing in front of a storefront draped in a whole row of Algerian flags he had clearly just gone out of his way to find. They asked him what he actually knew about the country whose colors he was flying. He grinned, paused for a beat, and said something along the lines of: not much yet — but we want to welcome you here. There is no agenda in that man. Nothing performative. Just a neighbor, thrilled to his bones that these strangers chose his town, and perfectly at ease with the fact that he has a lot left to learn about them. The welcome only got bigger from there. The University of Kansas, the state's flagship school that calls Lawrence home, sent its marching band out to the training ground. They had spent the previous days learning Algeria's national anthem, note for note, and they played it as the players walked out for practice. Think about what that means for a moment. These men are thousands of miles from their families, living out of a hotel in the American Midwest, preparing for the biggest sporting event of their professional lives. And the first thing they hear when they step onto the grass is the sound of their own country's song, played by a hundred American college kids in red and blue who learned it just for them. Several of the players stopped walking. A few of them looked like they weren't sure what to do with themselves. Algeria did its part, too. The team opened a training session to the public and spent the afternoon out on the grass with neighborhood kids, walking them through drills, signing autographs, posing for pictures. There are children from small-town America who are going to be telling the story of the day they trained with a World Cup team for the rest of their lives. And the Algerians have spent the last week calling themselves honorary Kansans, falling hard for a corner of a state most of them could not have found on a map two months ago. But it's not just Lawrence. This is happening all over the country, in towns you would never expect. The city of Alexandria, Virginia threw a street festival with an evening of Croatian food and music, and wrapped a city bus in the team's red and white. After crowds in Spokane, Washington flocked to watch Egyptian superstar Mohamed Salah, a brand-new Egyptian restaurant in town suddenly had locals lining up for food most of them had never tasted. All told, 19 American communities that are not hosting a single match still raised their hand to take in a national team and call them neighbors for a month. There is a story we get told constantly about who we have become. That Americans have soured on outsiders. That we have decided the rest of the world is a threat. That we look at people who do not talk like us or pray like us or come from where we come from and see a problem instead of a person. And then a college town in Kansas goes and learns every note of a North African country's national anthem, just so a group of strangers feel at home for a few weeks. An old local stands in front of a row of its flags and tells them, in so many words: we don't know much about you yet, but we are awfully glad you came. That is who we actually are when nobody is telling us to be afraid. The band on the field, playing somebody else's song as if it were their own. The neighbor who knows next to nothing about you and waves you in anyway. We forget it sometimes. The good news is that it takes about one afternoon to remember. That, my friends, is good news for your Sunday. — Adam