text:
[318px-Flashmob_gegen_MC3A4nnergewalt2C_KC3B6ln_2016_-4384]

If the American Left’s newfound concern  for protecting female virtue is to be believed, one would think that the violence and sexual assault plaguing Germany might elicit greater concern than the lewd talk of Donald Trump and accusations of unwanted advances leveled by women. But it does not. Rather, anyone who suggests such a thing is apt to be dismissed as “scary.”

“Scary”? Why? What’s being insinuated here? That the very thought of wanting to avoid what is happening in Germany is “racist”? “Xenophobic”? “Islamophobic”? Or is  the growing influence of these politically correct sensibilities, in Germany and here, what is truly “scary”?

A REAL “WAR ON WOMEN”

Germany professes to care deeply about  gender equality but, at the same time,  does little to ensure the safety of its women. In August 2015, Chancellor Angela Merkel announced that Germany would put no limit on the number of asylum-seekers it would accept from Syria. Over a million—mostly Muslim—migrants flooded into the country. Their arrival has accelerated incidents of violence which have become, in recent years, increasingly regular features of European life—e.g. terror attacks, sexual assaults, and honor killings.

In July, for example, a 17-year old axe and knife wielding Afghan asylum-seeker shouting “Allahu Akbar” hacked five people riding a train in Wuerzburg; a 27-year old Syrian asylum-seeker pledging allegiance to Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, the leader of ISIS, detonated a nail-packed suicide bomb outside a wine bar in Ansbach, injuring 15 people; and a 21-year old Syrian migrant wielding a machete killed a woman and injured two others at a fast food restaurant in Reutlingen.

These attacks plainly endanger men, women, and children. But German women and girls are paying an especially high price, enduring attacks which, in their very nature and scope, recall the dark days of Soviet occupation at the end of, and immediately after, World War II.

Most notably, last New Year’s Eve migrants from North Africa and the Middle East attacked revelers in Cologne. Though the men “pickpocketed and robbed males and females,” Heather Mac Donald reported, “they directed most of their violence against women: grabbing their breasts and buttocks, inserting their fingers into the women’s vaginas, and, in a few instances, raping them, while shouting sexual insults. A total of 653 victims filed reports with the police.”

Similar attacks were reported in 12 German states, including another 400 cases in the city of Hamburg. In July, Suddeutsche Zeitung, Germany’s largest paper, reported that leaked government documents indicate police now estimate 1200 women were assaulted by as many as 2000 men across Germany’s major cities. More chilling still, Germany’s minister of justice, Heiko Maas, later stated that these attacks appear to have been planned and coordinated in advance through social media.

What happened at New Year’s is now happening on a smaller scale in every German state with alarming frequency.

In July alone hundreds of German women and girls (but also some boys and older men), ranging in age from 9 to 79, were sexually attacked by migrants as they went about the most ordinary of activities. They were attacked on playgrounds and the street, in grocery stores, shopping malls, train stations, taxis, swimming pools, parks, public restrooms and even at a cemetery.

As disturbing as all this is, the subsequent response of German authorities is even more troubling. Merkel’s government could frankly acknowledge the source of the attacks and make policy changes designed, minimally, to forestall their increase. This is what Hungary has done. It has tightened restrictions on asylum-seekers and sought to strengthen its 110-mile border with Serbia by erecting a four meter high, razor-wire wall. (Bulgaria and Austria have also built walls.) But Merkel has steadfastly refused even to do this.

CONCEALING THE THREAT

Worse, German authorities are also deliberately concealing, whitewashing and otherwise downplaying the attacks.

Gatestone Institute Fellow Soeren Kern, cites a story published in the  _Bild_ newspaper, which quoted a high-ranking police official in Frankfurt saying:

“There are strict instructions from the top not to report offenses committed by refugees. Only direct requests from media representatives regarding specific crimes should be answered. … It is extraordinary that certain offenders are deliberately NOT being reported about and the information is being classified as confidential (nicht pressefrei).”

Rather than alerting the public to the danger, the police are taking the “extraordinary” step of concealing it. Moreover, as Kern notes, when the authorities do describe the assailants they only refer to them with oblique “politically correct euphemisms” like “’southerners,” “men with ‘dark skin,’” or “southern skin color.” They also, “almost invariably” downplay the attacks as “isolated incidents,” the work of lone wolves, rather than a problem national in scope.

But at least Germany is throwing the book at the perpetrators, right? Wrong. Most of the attackers are never even located. Of the few who are, very few have ever been convicted. According to Minister of Justice Maas, only 8 percent of rape trials result in convictions. Most assailants, moreover, will never be deported.

Last month, the German Parliament did finally pass  “no means no” legislation designed to make it easier to punish sexual assaults and deport migrant offenders. Whether these laws actually deter further sexual violence will depend upon how vigorously they are enforced. But Germany’s recent track record is not encouraging. “When it comes to immigration,” Kern observes, “political correctness often overrides the rule of law in Germany where many migrants who commit sexual crimes are never brought to justice, and those who do stand trial receive lenient sentences from sympathetic judges.” Where the perpetrators are migrants and the victims are its own female citizens, in other words, the German judicial system shows greater solicitude for the migrants.

SILENCING CRITICS

But there is one area in which Merkel’s government has energetically attacked the problem. Almost as soon as she announced her open door refugee policy, Merkel was overheard pressing Facebook’s Mark Zuckerberg to crack down on users posting “racist” and “xenophobic” comments. One might suppose Merkel’s concern with social media stems primarily from the way terrorist organizations have used it to foment and coordinate violent attacks on the German people. But, given her concern about “xenophobia,” Merkel seems at least as concerned about curbing Germans who use social media to criticize those who are attacking them.

In January, Facebook capitulated, and, with a truly Orwellian flourish, styled its new censorship program an “initiative for civil courage online.” (Censorship, it would seem, is about empowering people!) The aim of the new policy, Douglas Murray explains, “is to remove ‘hate speech’ from Facebook—specifically by removing comments that ‘promote xenophobia.’”

In May, the EU announced it too had reached agreement with Facebook, Twitter, YouTube and Microsoft to delete “hate speech” from their platforms. In a statement announcing the new policy, Vera Jourova, the EU Commissioner for Justice, Consumers and Gender Equality, reassuringly declared: “This agreement is an important step forward to ensure that the Internet remains a place of free and democratic expression, where European values and laws are respected.”

Those are fine words. A mere two days after the agreement was announced, however, Facebook deleted journalist Ingrid Carlqvist’s account where she had posted a short video, released under the auspices of the Gatestone Institute, in which she coolly explains the origin and magnitude of Sweden’s own appalling migrant rape epidemic. Watch the video and mark carefully the substance of the speech that was apparently deemed “xenophobic” and thereby cast out of Jourova’s vaunted “free and democratic discourse.”Astoundingly, not even a veritable epidemic of rape  justifies criticism of migrants.

Facebook’s sanctioning of Carlqvist provoked considerable backlash. Unlike most users, Carlqvist has a degree of prominence. Although Facebook subsequently restored her account, it would be foolish to expect such a reserve to last long. Since the Spring, Maas and key members of Merkel’s CDU have continued to press Facebook and other social media outlets to censor posts more aggressively. “There is still too little, too slow and too often the wrong thing is deleted,” Haas complained in July. Facebook’s efforts fall “well short of what we agreed together in the task force[.]” In October, a key leader in Merkel’s CDU publicly declared Germany would  begin imposing significant fines unless Facebook, Twitter, and other social networks police users more aggressively.

After failing to act to reduce the threat to which it exposed its own people, after failing to pursue, identify and prosecute its migrant offenders vigorously, Germany’s politically correct authorities are vigorously seeking to cut off their citizens’ access to the most effectual channel they have to publicize what is happening to them and to galvanize political redress. What else would Merkel have her female citizens do? “Relax and enjoy it”?

COMING TO AMERICA?

All of which brings me back to Trump and the choice we face in November. Hillary Clinton is an ardent champion of the politically correct views that are wreaking such havoc in Germany. Trump’s “irredeemable” “basket of deplorables,” remember, contains “xenophob[es]” and “Islamophob[es].” Clinton has also promised to take Merkel-like steps with regard to Syrian refugees and on immigration policy more generally.

Whereas Clinton has called for increasing President Obama’s 2016 “target” for admitting 10,000 Syrian refugees to 65,000 annually, Trump wants to suspend immigration from Syria and Libya. Whereas Clinton declares that “we have to go back to being a much less harsh and aggressive enforcer” of immigration law, and favors a comprehensive reform package to provide a “full and equal pathway to citizenship” for illegal aliens, Trump favors building “an impenetrable physical wall” along the southern U.S. border—where, last year alone, more than 30,000 illegal immigrants from “countries of terrorist concern” entered—and subjecting those seeking legal admission to an “extreme vetting” process designed to ascertain whether they “share our values and love our people” and, more specifically, how they view women, gays and other minorities, honor-killings, and radical Islam.

Trump, for all of his supposed hatred of women, possesses an unusual, and desperately needed, willingness to challenge the PC orthodoxies and policy stances that have proven to be a real danger to German women, children, and men. Should we let the opportunity to elect such a man in America slip, it’s far from clear we will have another chance.

question: What are the German people feeling threats from?

answer: From migrants and asylum-seekers across North Africa and the Middle East following numerous attacks.

question: What is Germany being accused of?

answer: Doing little to ensure the safety of its women.

question: How are German authorities concealing the threat

answer: By whitewashing and downplaying attacks.

question: How are critics being silenced?

answer: Germany is cracking down on Facebook posts.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: A news article highlights the real "war on women" and accuses Germany of doing little to ensure the safety of its women. People, specifically women, are feeling the threat after Chancellor Angela Merkel announced that Germany would put no limit on the number of asylum-seekers it would accept from Syria.


split: train

text:
This is my first ever short story, feedback would be lovely.

Being the most handsome man in the psych ward has its benefits. This is the place where time reverses and dead men talk to all the pretty nurses, so naturally they (the nurses) have a soft spot for a young stallion such as myself. A man who doesn’t spit or piss on himself, a man who could sell the sun to a block of ice. My charm proved vital as I received benefits such as allowing to be unchained for 30 minutes each month. During these 30 minutes I could roam the entire hospital and its grounds.

I can’t remember when I first arrived at Grand Budapest Cente for Mental Health, and I think that has been their intention from the beginning. Situated in an abandoned town, the streets are barren and the surrounding shops closed. Picture a scene from a spaghetti-Western flick minus the tumbleweeds and dirt roads. Replace them with concrete and graffiti.

It was funny really, I had never done anything wrong but they chose to place me on the seventh floor, the highest one they had managed to build in 1964. This was the floor where the most notorious of the residents were placed. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms. 16 cells lined the single hallway, all encased in glass, and then reinforced with wrought-iron. Even if I wanted to escape I could not, but life was outstanding here. It surely had to be better than out there, around people and around problems.

I have been thinking about letting my hair grow, and I have been thinking about cutting it short. I have been thinking about dying it yellow, but I don’t think I have the bone structure or wardrobe to support that kind of look. I would not want to risk looking poorly for the ladies here, although they think so highly of me that it probably not make a difference. I reckon I could get Rodney to cut my nose clean off and they wouldn’t bat an eye. We won’t get into Rodney, but he has been growing his toenails allegedly since he got here – long before me.

Two guards in pink body armour with pink rifles escorted me wherever I pleased on my monthly journey through the halls. I exclusively spend this free time in the women’s ward on floor six. The women got to wear dresses in all colours and sizes which I was a fan of. Before returning to my cell I would always create a couple of mental images in my mind for later. I was greeted by Mrs. Entendu, who always looked after the women.

“Dylan! It has been far too long. How long has it been exactly?” She asked.

“Jesus Christ, you ask me this every time. 30 days. 30 fucking days.” I kindly replied.

Her eyes lit up in glee, and she winked at me while saying:

“You are such a sweetheart Dylan. I want you to meet our newest lady.”

I was walked over to a table that was foreign to me. It was made of crystal, and next to it was a golden chair, or a throne if I could call it that. Upon this throne sat a midget, or at least I thought so for the time being. She faced the end-wall window, and all I could see was a tiny frame and long black hair.

“Her name is Emerald, you’re going to love her!” Mrs. Entendu proclaimed.

So I walked up to Emerald, thinking about how long of a name that is. I thought to myself:

“Emerald…Emerald…Emera…Emer…Eme…Eme…Eme! What a nice name that is, Eme.”

As I got closer to Eme, all I could hear was a high pitched mumble, almost like a mouse squeaking. I couldn’t make out what she was saying right away, but as I drew nearer it became clear.

“I’m a queen, I’m a queen, I’m a queen, I’m a queen”. She whined.

“I am Dylan, nice to meet you Eme. I live upstairs and figured I should come say hi. I hope I haven’t kept you up at night with my racket. I think my room is right above yours in fact. We should take a walk, you and I.”

I could see her face now. Although cute, and silent now, she stared into the window. She didn’t respond, and she just sat there with odd expressions on her face. Her lips contorted in all directions, creating shapes I had never before seen. Eye twitches and nose scrunches, everything. I could see why she was in here – she was crazy, unlike me.

“Allow me to open up the window, Eme. Surely you must be warm in that robe and crown”. I said.

“Never call me Eme again, and if you open up that window I am going to punch you in the dick so you can never have children – that is if they ever let you out of here. I heard about you, you’ve killed people.”

“You’ve heard wrong little lady, I am a God amongst men. I’ve slain serpents, I have cured world hunger, and once I get out of here I am going to free you all.”

While I waited for her response, one I was not sure was even going to come, I took some time to assume things about her. She probably doesn’t wear her glasses, but she probably needs them to read. She probably values her downtime, but she probably doesn’t get much sleep. And she probably hates the movies, but she probably goes anyway. Hell I bet she even fights with her mother a lot when she feels like there’s nothing to say.

A response did not come, but something a lot more important did. The lights shut off, and for a brief moment I figured out what I needed to do.

I grabbed Eme’s hand as fast as I could, lifted her up and ran us to the window. It was pitch black both inside and out, but I had a feeling she was staring up at me. I opened the window and away we went.

title: Warding [Criticism Very Appreciated]

question: What does the story say about why the narrator was in a mental institution?


text: The air conditionner is burring. His room is kept at a comfortable 65 degrees fahrenheit. He is lying on his bed, reliving his life in his head, going through whats and what ifs. He enjoys this temperature, for it allows him to sleep with one leg under the covers and another over. He turns from side to side, hoping to a spot comfortable enough for him to sleep. Nothing comes of it. So, he decides to sit up. He searches for something to do, but, nothing comes of it. So, he searches again. Beneath the festering pile that has become his dirty laundry, he finds something. A magazine of some sort. He begins rummaging,and after the turn of first page, remembers that it is a former copy of his high school's literary magazine. Rummaging through, he recalls the times he imagined he had submitted a short piece. It would have been nothing much, merely a drunken rambling he would have managed to scribble down one night, but enough that he thought is was submittable. But what would have been submittable? He imagined himself toiling over this work, for it to be his first, his only. Thats how it was supposed to be. He would submit one piece anonymously and hope, that once the magazine came around, they had chosen his piece. That would have been it. No more writing, just that. He then remembers that he had created an alternate to that situation. He would have gone about doing the same things, but this time around, he would have signed it. And once they read his piece, they were slightly moved. Not so much as to be ecstatic, just so much that they might approach him in the hallways and commend him for it. Thats how it was supposed to be. It would have been a small dream accomplished.As he reveled in the thought of being slapped on the back by his peers, he realized something else. Why? Why hadn't he, after all, actually submitted something. Then, he came back to from his pathetic bout of courage to realize why he hadn't. He was too scared. Too scared of being rejected. But by not trying, there was no failure, as he didn't even try.

title: The air conditionner is burring

question: Why didn't the narrator submit something?

answer: He didn't submit anything because he was too scared of being rejected.

question: What setting does this passage take place in?

answer: The passage takes place in the narrator's bedroom.

question: Describe the narrator's mood initially.

answer: The narrator is initially restless, and wishful about his prospects.

question: Describe the narrator's mood by the end.

answer: By the end, the narrator is disappointed in himself for not trying to submit anything.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator is restless and tries to keep his mind occupied. He finds his high school's literary magazine and thinks back on when we wanted to submit something. He thinks on why he never submitting anything and realizes he was too scared of being rejected.


text:
Matt D'Amico
Mr. Cusick
Creative Writing
25 Feburary 2013

The year is 2175, forty years after the Great War. The war that shaped the New World into what it is now, a emotionless, unimaginative nation where its inhabitants only goal is for “the betterment of the country and for our great ruler President Samuel Hudson”. The people are brainwashed into working, not for pay, but for the privilege of life. And when they go home they sit, mindlessly, in front of their television taking in the only channel that has been running for the past forty years, preaching to them and their kids about how perfect their life is. The government has stripped its people of all emotion, because with emotion comes ambition, and with ambition comes the want for a better life. It has filled the void of emotion with the “feeling” of national pride.

For the entire twenty-two years of his life George Huxley lived his life every other human being does, like a robot. He wakes up and puts on his gray jumpsuit, with the little name tag that read Mr. G. Huxley, that he got when he joined the workforce at the age of eighteen. Steps outside of his one bedroom apartment, and goes downstairs into the basement of his complex. This is where he works. All jobs are located in the same building as the apartment complexes as to prevent as much human interaction as possible. George’s job is manufacturing Infantile Joy Modules which are virtual reality helmets that are put on babies to silence their crying and allow the assigned caretakers to enjoy their television in peace. He is told by his supervisor how lucky he is to be working and living in this great country. This never sits well with George, but he doesn’t know why. After work he walks up the stairs to the lobby to get dinner. He eats at the same “restaurant” every day, President Samuel Hudson’s Food and Drink. He gets the same bland meal every day then proceeds back to his home. Back in his room, he pushes the power button of his television, but the T.V. doesn’t turn on. “Hmmm, that’s odd” he thinks to himself. He would go get a home supervisor to get it fixed but he is too tired and decides to sit down on the metal folding chair that he calls furniture. Sitting in the silence George is able to think to himself, something he hasn’t done for a very long time. He begins conjuring up images of his childhood days where he would be able to play with the other children. He finally goes to sleep with a feeling he has never felt before. A feeling that he and his fellow countrymen have been numb to for their entire existence. This feeling is happiness.

The next day at work when his supervisor says  how lucky he is to be working and living in this great country, he is very disturbed, but he doesn’t know why. After work he decides to skip dinner and goes straight home so he can be by himself in that wonderful silence. George begins longing for that silence every waking hour he is at work. He sees his co-workers blank stare and wants so badly to tell them what they are missing. That he has felt happiness, but he knows that they won’t understand because they haven’t felt anything for too long and more importantly he did not want to risk getting caught. He had heard stories of people that went crazy and started thinking for themselves. He heard about what the government did to those evil freethinkers, and knew that getting caught with these emotions wasn’t an option.

It has been a month since George’s television has broke, he is aware of the world around him and realizes what he must do. After work he stops at President Samuel Hudson’s Food and Drink. He sees that their is a new cashier. “Hello mam, I haven’t seen you working here before, are you new?” he asks. “Yes sir, this is my first day. I am so excited to be working for my terrific country.” She responds with a childlike excitement. “Very good” George replies. He reads her name tag Ms. Mary King. He gets the same tasteless meal then goes up to look for Ms. Mary Kings room. Because she is new he knows that her room will be somewhere on the bottom floor (the order of the floors go from the most experienced at the top to the neophytes at lower floors.) He finds the door that reads M. King and is able to walk straight into her room because crime is hardly an issue where one’s only occupation is work and television. Once in her room he is greeted by that sweet, freeing silence. He takes her T.V. and dismantles it rendering it useless, feeling something he has never felt before, accomplishment. After his task is complete he goes back down to the lobby There he sees Mary, with that same childlike wonder. He waits there until her shift is over then followers her to her room. Once he sees the door close he begins to walk down her hallway. He puts his ear on her door and hears her struggling to put her television on. “Hello, sir are you my floor’s supervisor?” she asks with a palpable frustration. “Yes, yes I am, what can I do for you?” he confidently responds. “My T.V. seems to be broken”. “Alright, let me take a look” and they both walk into the room. “I’m pressing the button but it won’t turn on” she says. “Mary... I am not the floor supervisor. My name is George Huxley.” George says not knowing how she will react. “Okay, George, but why did you say you were the supervisor?” she aks. “Listen Mary, I need to warn you about something, something unimaginable, something that humans haven’t been able to experience for a long, long time.” he preaches to her. Mary sees the genuine look of concern and something seen hasn’t seen in many people’s face. “I need to tell you of this before this country brainwashes you and your just another numb robot walking around with no drive or purpose.” he pleads. “Brainwash? Drive? Purpose?” she asks with a flurry of thoughts racing through her head. “Listen, I know this may all sound strange to you, I know you think that you live in a perfect world, but this world is far from perfect Mary. I need you to trust me. Do you trust me?” As he says this he reaches for her hand and when their hands touch she says, “I, I guess, what are we going to do though?” His eyes light up “I want you to sit and think, no television, and just think?” “Think? About what?” she asks, she has never heard of such a strange activity. “About anything, about how great your life was when you were a child, no cares, no worries, just you and your friends.” He gets up and walks towards the door, turns around and says “and remember, just because you are told to do something, and you see everyone else mindlessly following what they are told to do doesn’t mean they are right. The most important thing in this life is not the beloved country or the great ruler, it’s you.” He opens the door and walks out into the hallway. There are two colossal police officers, with blank stares waiting for him.

title: Just started writing, this is my first work. What do you think?

question: How old is George?

answer: George is 22 years old.

question: What allows George to think for himself?

answer: George's TV breaks which allows him to think for himself.

question: What does George do for a living?

answer: George's job is manufacturing Infantile Joy Modules.

question: Whose television does George break?

answer: George breaks Mary King's television.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: George is living in a dystopian society when his TV breaks. Instead of fixing it, he begins to think for himself. He then breaks someone else's TV to try and get them to think for themselves, but is caught by two police officers.


text:
Bilal}}

BILAL (born 1983) is a Gypsy singer from Lebanon, who is notable for singing not only in Arabic, but mainly in Domari, his native language, that of the Doms, the nomadic community he belongs to.[1]

Background

BAN BELLA EL HANTIR, also known as BILAL, THE ARAB GIPSY PRINCE, comes from the Dom people, a Romany Middle Eastern ethnic group that Gadjos call the “Nawar” in Arabic. Like most nomadic Domi families, Bilal's clan constantly moves from one place to another throughout the Middle East. To earn their wage during their stops, grown up men play musical instruments and sing, and women dance and tell good fortune. As for young boys, they often work as shoeshiners in large cities such as Damascus, Beirut and Istanbul.[2]

Musical career

Bilal was a shoeshine boy when Greek-Lebanese producer Michel Elefteriades met him after he heard him singing an Arab Gipsy song while shining a customer's shoes on the sidewalk near his Beirut office. This was in 1997 and Bilal was only 14 years old. Elefteriades was immediately struck by his young voice and felt the artistic potential the young man had for future success. Moreover, being an eminent tziganologist,[3] he was eager to launch a successful career for an artist who comes from the Dom community and to reflect its impact positively on the image of Gypsies around the Arab world. As Bilal was illiterate and had never been to school, Elefteriades started and supported both his general and musical education, also providing him with the necessary skills and assets that would enable him to put up with the stress and responsibilities of future stardom.[4]

[Bilal performing on stage] In 2002, Bilal started performing in concerts and was guest to major Arab TV shows on the Middle East's prime satellite television networks. The peak of his success story was his appearance at one of the most prestigious performing arts festival in the Arab world, the Baalbeck International Festival. Bilal's recordings include, for the first time in history, songs in the gypsy language known as Domari, a language that Bilal has noticed to be very close to Romani, as he was able to communicate with his Rom cousins from Romania, Bulgaria and Yugoslavia, each speaking their own mother tongue.[5]

In 2012 Bilal was a guest on Coke Studio (Middle East) alongside Rouwaida Attieh and The Yugoslavian Gypsy Brass Band from the Balkan.[6]

They all come together to create a fusion where the Oriental Tarab music meets the Gypsy music with all its facets.[7]

In 2014 Bilal was featured in the book _“Beirut Re-Collected” by Tamyras._[8][9]

In the summer of 2014, Bilal released his first album entitled: _Bilal The Gipsy Prince_.[10]

In the summer of 2016, he performed at the MusicHallogy Festival, which was held at The MusicHall Waterfront.[11]

In July 2017, he appeared in another prestigious performing arts festival in the Arab world, The Jounieh International Festival.

Activism

[Bilal interacting with audience] [Bilal] In addition to being an artist, Bilal is also working actively for the recognition of his people, the Dom, who still live in poor conditions.[12] Results of his struggle are starting to show, as more people are realizing that the “Nawar” have a rich cultural heritage that deserves to be known and recognized.[13]

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

[12]

[13]

title: Bilal (Lebanese singer)

question: What does the text say about Michel Elefteriades?

answer: In 1997, Greek-Lebanese producer Michel Elefteriades met Bilal, who was working as a shoeshine boy at the time. Elefteriades was struck by Bilal's voice and was eager to launch a successful career for an artist from the Dom community and thus show Gypsies in a positive light around the Arab world. Elefteriades ensured Bilal had a solid education and foundation of skills to handle future success.

question: What does the text say about Romanipen?

question: What does the text say about Domari?

answer: Domari is the language of the Doms, a nomadic Romany Middle Eastern ethnic group. Bilal has noticed that Domari is close to Romani. Domari is Bilal's native language, and he has recorded songs in it for the first time in history.

question: Summarize what happened in 1980.


text:
_LATHYRUS LIBANI_, the LEBANON VETCHLING is a species of wild peas in the  in legume family, Fabaceae. It grows in mountainous regions of the Eastern Mediterranean at elevations between to .[1]

[1]

title: Lathyrus libani

question: What is the Lathyrus Libani also called?

answer: The Lebanon Vetchling

question: What is the Lebanon Vetchling?

answer: It is a species of wild peas.

question: What family does it belong to?

answer: The legume family, Fabaceae.

question: Where do the Lebanon Vetchling grow?

answer: It grows in mountainous regions of the Eastern Mediterranean.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: Lathyrus Libani is a species of wild peas that belong to the Legum family, Fabaceae. The Lebanon Vetchling grow mainly in mountainous regions of the Eastern Mediterranean.


text:
**Red Ribbon**

   Each blink is more difficult and it takes me just a bit more effort to open my eyes than it did the last time. The cold of my bathtub is comforting. I lean back, take a deep breath and slowly exhale. My mind hasn't stopped racing, showing me images from my childhood, from my adolescence, from high school, from college.

   At four years old, I ran away from a camping trip to try to catch up to my parents on a hiking trail. I didn't know which direction they had gone, so I just followed the river. Ten minutes later, I was still alone and it started to sink in. No one is going to take care of me but myself. “#%!^, that's a scary thought. How will I be able to eat? I don't know how to do anything...” I wandered for what felt like forever, never straying from the security of the path I was on. Ah, the path.

   I snapped back to the present. That path. Nearly thirty years later and I realized I was jealous of that path. It had a direction, it knew where it was going. The only surprises on that path came from off the trail. Was this the right way to live my life? Is this how I would find happiness? Should I become a singularly focused individual, striving only for one goal, ignoring anything outside of that? This path is more soulful than I would have imagined a dirt road could be.

   I blink again. My eyelids feel sticky. I'm in my kitchen and I'm nine years old. Our kitchen is being remodeled and the floor is missing. I can see the dirt, spiderwebs, the century of unuse under the house. There is no rot, there is no termite damage, there is no foundation. Our house sits directly on the dirt hillside, raised up just enough to allow air to flow underneath. The house feels sturdy but there is nothing holding it in place, it could slide down the hill at any moment. Who cares? What does this mean?

   The hole in the floor of the kitchen is all I can think about when I open my eyes again. This house has lasted for more than 100 years. All without any sort of foundation, in earthquake country. It has been shaken and beaten more then I ever could be. It refuses to collapse but instead welcomes new people and wraps them in its love. This house is like a grandmother nearing senility; a shaky foundation, but a strong outward presence. A welcoming hug every time you enter through the front door. Is this how I should live? Wandering the earth, rootless, searching for a place to make a stand and show my love for my fellow man? I tried that in college, it didn't work. Free love and no foundation made me completely insecure. At any moment I could be cast aside and would have nothing to fall back on.

   My eyes lose focus as I follow the wall down from the ceiling to the bathtub, finally coming to rest on the floor of the bathtub. The rouge river winds down hands to my knees and finally pools at my heels until there is enough to continue its one-way journey. The thin thread heads straight into the darkness at the end of the tub, where it drips nosily into the drain.

   I blink twice. The second blink takes me away again. It's my Sophomore year of high school and I'm in love for the first time. Her name was Carrie, she was blonde with blue eyes. She was the co-captain of the JV Cheer squad and she always smelled like a freshly picked peony. We went on our first date together when I asked her to the Winter Formal. When I picked her up, I had to sit through “the talk” from her father while I waited for her to put her finishing touches on. After the dance, we went to an after party thrown by one of the Seniors. I didn't drink at all (it was part of “the talk”) but she did and by the time I got her back to her house, the alcohol was in full effect. We made out for half an hour. That 30 minutes was all it took, I knew I was in love. Our relationship lasted for the rest of the year but it didn't make it past the Summer she spent working on her uncle's ranch in Wyoming. I got two reasons out of her, and I've never known which one was more true. She said, “You're just too....nice” and “Cowboys.” My soul crushed, I spent the next two months sad and pitiful. First love, first loss, first time the nice guy finished dead last.

   My eyelids are heavy, but I open them and sigh. I'm back in the bathtub. I'm not an adolescent any more. I sigh again, this time in relief. The bathtub isn't so cold anymore, it has stolen my body heat giving only white porcelain in return. I brush my hand against the side of the tub, leaving irregular streaks as I move my fingers and paint with my essence. I see bits of Van Gogh and Cezanne in the chaotic crimson my fingers trail behind. I shut my eyes and am transported to my friends dorm in college. Jill is seated on her bed with Starry Night peaking at me over her right shoulder. There are two other friends in here, but I can't see their faces or remember their names. We have been discussing which super power we would want to have and why for the last three hours. I have held to my contention that being able to stop time would make one unstoppable while heavily debating flight and superspeed. We finally stop debating at 2am and I go home to sleep. In the morning, I hear from friends in the dorms near Jill. They are all asking me what I was talking about last night, apparently they could hear my laugh from the next dorm over. I tell them. They laugh more. I feel ashamed that my laugh has made me recognizable from hundreds of feet away. I am embarrassed by our conversation. I make a mental note, which I will immediately forget, to tone down my laugh.

   As I open my eyes from this memory, I realize the truth. I have spent most of my life running from my emotions. They crippled me time and again. My brain doesn't see it that way however, it relishes the emotions, the differences, the change, the unique. The problem is that I don't. My brain is pleading with me in the only way it knows how. It is pleading for me to reverse this process. It is imploring me to lift myself up, to stand up again. It has shown me the memories that were most important to me. I finally relent and lift my heavy hands, attached to heavy arms, to the edge of the tub. I set my feet flat against the floor of the tub, toes pushing against the side so I don't slip in the pooled and partially coagulated blood. I see my phone, it is across the room. It is now my only chance for survival. I strain my muscles to stand.

My eyes close.

title: Red Ribbon [1200 words] (first post here, feedback welcome, please comment)

question: What is the narrator suffering from?

answer: The narrator reflects from on his past shameful memories throughout his life.

question: Which memories his the narrator reflecting upon?

answer: Memories from childhood, adolescence, high school and college.

question: Which truth does the narrator realize?

answer: He has spent most of his life running from his emotions.

question: What is the narrator's earliest memory in which he reflects upon?

answer: Running away from a camping trip at four years old.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: Thirty years later, the narrator recounts a camping trip which he gets lost on a trail. The narrator recounts other stressful life events, including the breakup with his high-school sweetheart. The narrator realizes that he has spent most of his life running from his emotions, crippling him.


text:
KOKORI is one of the six suburban 'states' of the Agbon 'kingdom' in LGA Ethiope East, Delta State, Nigeria. The other 'states' are Okpara, Eku, Ovu, Orhoakpor, and Igun.[1]

Geography

Its land area is 196 square kilometres and is blessed with a period of downpour which lasts seven months (from March to October) and a relative five months of little or no rain (from October to February). It has twenty nine streets and roads; and it is surrounded by thirty village communities, including Samagidi a rapidly developing township. Network of streams and creeks cuts across different parts of Kokori territory. Three major streams are identifiable: the Omwe stream on Eku road, Iranzo stream on Orogun road and Erhanaka stream on Kokori – Ofuoma road.[2]

It is a hinterland bounded by Eku and Igun on the north; by Ugono, Orhomaru, Erhobaro, Ovara and Idionvwan villages all in Orogun, on the east; on the west by Isiokolo and Okpara Inland in Agbon 'sub-nation'; and by Awirhe in Agbara and Odovie in Ughelli on the south.[3]

The entire Kokori land is flat and situated in the evergreen tropical forest zone which is dominated by the oil palm tree.[4]

History

Kokori's original name was 'Ukori' and her people were called 'Uhwokori', an abbreviation of 'Ihwo-ru-Ukori'. The Uhwerun people changed the name to 'Tokori' when Agbon people led by Ukori, their ancestral father, migrated to stay on their land. British colonial administrators further changed the name to Kokori which she now bears. Five waves of migration birthed Kokori. First, from Benin to Asseh. Second, from Asseh to Irri. Third, from Irri to Uhwerun. A fourth migration graced the face of Urhobo history when they migrated to Isiokolo. In 1606 A.D, the incessant invasions and the conspiracy against the Kokori people because of the discord which bedevilled the four Agbon families- Okpara, Ukori, Eku and Orhoakpor- made Isiokolo turbulent and the Agbon families began to migrate to their respective present sites.[5]

Mentifacts

Kokori is cradle for the Igbe religion which began in 1858; founded by Ubiecha of Egbo Street in Kokori. Although it had no written constitution like the Decalogue of ancient Israel, it was able to mould Kokori society into one worthy of stay. The Igbe religion spread to many destinations beyond Kokori and the Urhobo nation at large.[6] In fact, based on its monotheistic vocation and puritan practices, it gained international platform – a congregation was established in London for the adherents in that destination.[7]

As regards her festivals, three festivals rear their terrific heads – Egba, Orerode and Ibi festivals respectively. The Egba festival celebrates the Egba fetish; the Orerode festival celebrates the ancestors of the Kokori people while the Ibi festival commemorates the gun fires that were fired against the invaders who threatened their sovereignty. The Egba and Orerode festivals are celebrated annually while the Ibi festival is celebrated once in a century.[8]

Demographics

Kokori people speak one tongue- urhobo. Kokori does not frown at intra-marriage and neither does it not smile at inter-marriage which enhances integration. In the first quarter of the twentieth century, Christianity was introduced to Kokori via the arrival of the Roman Catholic Mission in 1905 in Umiahwa quarter of the town; the Anglican Mission at Urhuokpokpo quarter in 1927; and the Baptist Mission in 1945. Thus, most of the people practice Christianity; some the Igbe religion which originated in Kokori in the pre-colonial era and found its way to the contemporary era and other parts of Nigeria; few, traditional faith; and, a very few, Islam.[9]

Administration

Kokori is divided into three administrative quarters- Alaka, Urhuokpokpo and Umiahwa. And the Okarorho is the administrative head of the town, in the absence of the Ovie. He rules by a council (Ehonvwore). The okarorho's spokesman is the otota who also is the spokesman of the town.[10]

Mineral resources

In 1958, Shell Petroleum Development Company carried out an exploration work which led to the discovery of crude oil on Kokori soil. She has over twenty oil wells and second best crude oil in the world by reason of its low sulphur content. In 1994, Kokori generated N68 billion for the federal government of Nigeria.[11]

Education

-   St. Kevin College ( Kokori Boys Grammar School)
-   Now St. Kevin's College, wholly owned by the Catholic mission.
-   Egbo Commercial Grammar School
-   Kokori Mixed Secondary School
-   Kokori Girls Grammar School.

[1] Success Akpojotor, Pre-Colonial Socio-Political History of Kokori Inland. B.A Thesis(University of Benin, Benin City, Nigeria) 2011. p.15

[2] Success Akpojotor, p.15

[3]

[4] Success Akpojotor, pp.67-9

[5] Success Akpojotor, pp.16-25

[6] Success Akpojotor, pp.44-7

[7] http://www.waado.org/urhobo_community/archive...

[8] Success Akpojotor, pp.47-55

[9]

[10] Success Akpojotor, pp.28-39

[11] S.J Odje, Kokori People, Ancient and Modern, Benin: Assembly Printers, 1995. pp.139-40

title: Kokori

question: What does the article say about Kokori the person?

question: What does the article say about Kokori culture?

answer: The Kokori people speak one tongue: urhobo. The culture does not frown at intra-marriage nor does it approve of inter-marriage. Most of the people practice Christianity, while some practice the Igbe religion. There are three major festivales: Egba, Orerode, and Ibi.

question: What does the article say about the geography of Kokori?

answer: The land area is 196 square kilometres and has a period of downpour that lasts seven months. A network of streams and creaks cut across different parts of the territory. The area is a hinterland. The land is flat and situated in the evergeen tropical forest zone, dominated by the oil palm tree.


text:
 October 12, 1989:

	She wore a red dress of exquisite formidability. The fabric, elegant in its simplicity, tightly enveloped her body in a manor that distinguished the alluring curves of her veneer. The top was cut just above the breasts, exposing her shoulders; from the waist down, the dress loosened and draped to where it was cut just below the knee: revealing a red ribbon, equal in shade to that of the dress, tied securely around her right ankle. The dress acted as a bright contrast to the seemingly monochrome topography of the Lexington Avenue subway station on 59th Street. The white-tiled walls were now withered and coated in miscellaneous filth and graffiti art. The station's accepted commoners and vagrants, alike, all flooded it's floors and weaved through parallel columns spanning the length of the platform. Public benches were offered for the weary; mutters of impatience among the waiting could be heard under the flicker of fluorescent light. This was indeed, she thought, a beautifully tragic representation of social conformity.
	She was 36 years of age as of June, though she appeared to be in her mid 20's. Her hight was average: slender body. Her skin was smooth and pallid, almost white in color, with light blush accents. She had always possessed a pale complexion ever since she could remember. As a result, she had often been mistakenly labeled with ailments and profiled by her former peers. Her skin also offered an ideal canvas for the red of her dress and the dark indentations of the bruises she bore.Though most were concealed, one could barley be seen emerging from the seam of her dress on her upper back; she was used to bruises. Her lips were red: again, similar to the red of the dress. Her eyes were bright blue, emphasized by a minimal application of eye liner. Very little cosmetics were used. She possessed a naturally youthful face: one which did not accurately reflect her age. Cosmetics were rarely applicable. Her long, dark hair was pinned in an upsweeping French twist with the graceful decent of frayed strands that intertwined on each side. This was a suitable frame for her aesthetic facial features and a fitting style for the formality of her appearance.
	She descended the stairs of the subway station and stepped onto the lowest level of the underground platform. The station was moderately populated: comprised of a cluster of age groups ranging from elders in suits to small children, who's restless stirrings pronounced the stationary positions of their guardians. With each step she took, the click of her high heels resonated up the length of her legs to the seductive sway of her hips. Immediately, the diverted attention of those around her brought about sporadic glances: not only of her beauty. She carried in her right arm, with her, an infant child wrapped in a blanket and suspended in a woven cradle. The child was abnormally silent, given its age and the current setting. The child was dormant and not a sound was uttered.
	She walked, with a confident poise, to a wooden bench near the center and sat down to the left of a man with a leather suitcase resting at his feet. The man appeared to be in his late 20's. He was relatively tall, medium built, with a freshly shaven face and black hair that was gelled back like some bad 50's nock-off. He wore a tattered, leather jacket over a black crew neck shirt, blue jeans, and some worn sneakers. He was well groomed and sanitary, though his attire reflected some financial difficulty. Upon the bench, she placed the cradle with the child on her lap and folded her hands against her lower abdomen. Her legs were stationed tightly together, and her posture was straight and unrelenting. She remained motionless, faced forward, for a moment staring at the train tracks. She was lost in abysmal thought in an almost transcending foreshadowing of her future actions. This was not so much out of hesitation or doubt but of reflection and confirmation. She knew what she had to do and how it had to be done; there was no avoiding it. This in no way, though, diminished the difficulty of its nature. Without parting her lips, she inhaled deeply and turned to face the man sitting aside of her. Her gaze was unyielding and expressed a measure of both innocence and confidence. She bore a slight smile as though she was content with the man and her circumstances. It almost seemed fake, like a sarcastic mask to comfort any onlookers. For her, this was often the case; however, this was the first time she had smiled in years. It took the man a considerable time before he became aware of her, for she spoke not a word. He turned to his left only to be entranced by her profound beauty. He could not remember a time when such a tantalizing sight had graced his eyes. Though he silently inquired as to the cause of this wanton attention, it was of no great concern at the time. For a moment that depicted an eternity, they remained suspended in an uncomfortable silence before a sound was uttered.
	"What is your name?" she asked. Her voice was seamless and youthful. The man hesitated for a brief moment before clearing his throat.
	"Jake Crow," he replied.
	"And what is your profession?" she asked. Her diction was formal with no noticeable accents  and a relatively fast rate of speech. Jake once again hesitated. He found it queer to be abruptly confronted with a series of disjointed personal inquiries. He felt as though he was being interviewed for a job or something. She had a detached, clinical way about her, the way she conducted herself, that gave him a sense of uneasiness: never breaking composure.
	"I'm in the service," he retorted.
	"Are you married?"
	"I'm sorry... who are you?" he finally asked. Her smile widened, as if he had met her expectations, as she closed her eyes and faced forward. She paused for a moment.
	"I was a dancer once," she said with nostalgia. "I studied dance at Juilliard and performed for the American Ballet Theatre in New York... I was exceptional.... and that was a long time ago." She paused again and turned back to face him. "Do you know why men find the color red alluring Mr. Crow?" she asked as she subtly directed his attention to the fabric of her dress. He shook his head. "Though some argue it's purely the cause of societal conditioning or popular culture, there's reason to believe that men's attraction to the color red is a result of primal, biological effects, their nature, for this anomaly often occurs naturally. Valentines day hearts, carnations, the red illumination of a brothel, red sports cars and the ties that drive them, the attire of nobility and the red cross of authority... Red not only symbolizes passion and romance but power and anger... hate....death." Her voice was now sullen and repressive. "Sometimes, Mr Crow, we have to bleed red to prevent those who draw it." The man was struck speechless. He was almost overwhelmed by this peculiar meeting and what she had said and was unsure on how to retort. He could see pain in her eyes, though she was attempting to hide it; these words had meaning. He decided to change the subject.
	"The child is beautiful," the man said nervously. "Is it yours?" Her face brightened in a bestowal of mirth at his question as her smile returned.
	"Yes," she replied as she gazed down upon her. "Her name is Alice." She stated her name as though there was nothing else.
	"I'm actually engaged," he said. "We've been trying to conceive, but with no luck."
	"Everything I am....everything I do is for her," she said. "Remember that." The distant sound of an approaching train resonated throughout the station. She seemed flustered at the noise. She leaned down and untied the red ribbon from her ankle, folding it and gently placing in the cradle beside her infant daughter. She stood up and placed the cradle on the bench where she previously sat. She bent over and kissed the child affectionately before handing the man a small leather-bound diary. "Please give this to her when she becomes of age....Please take care of her."
	"What?...I....I don't understand," he stuttered with confusion. She smiled once again at him and her daughter before turning to face the tracks. Her pace was constant as the locomotive neared. She crossed the thresh hold marked with caution and balanced upon the ledge before closing her eyes and falling forward. Her morbid greeting with death, elegant in its simplicity, was as a lily on a grave painted in red.

title: The Red Ribbon: Ch. 1

question: Why does the woman ask Mr. Crow to give the diary to her daughter when she comes of age?

answer: Because she is planning to kill herself and thus won't be around to do it herself.

question: What is implied by the woman's bruises?

answer: That she is in some sort of abusive relationship.

question: What is Mr. Crow likely to do with the baby?

answer: He might raise it as his own.

question: What might be the woman's motivation for killing herself and leaving her baby with Mr. Crow?

answer: She might have done it for the sake of her own baby, so that it wouldn't have to grow up in an abusive household.


text:
ABOUT NIT MEGHALAYA

The National Institute of Technology (NIT) Meghalaya is one among the thirty one NITs in India established under the NIT Act 2007 (Amended 2012) of the Parliament of India as Institutes of National Importance with full funding support from the Ministry of Human Resource Development, Government of India.

The Vision:

A Centre of Excellence vibrant with academic activities and bubbling with youthful creative energy, making significant contribution to the World of Knowledge and Technology and to the Development of the State, the Region and the Nation.

The Mission:

1) To impart quality education in the fields of Engineering, Science and Technology at Undergraduate as well as Postgraduate levels with special attention to encourage innovation and creativity in these fields in a clean and healthy environment.

2) To engage in creation of knowledge and development of technologies through effective research programs.

Read more

MESSAGE FROM DIRECTOR

[]

NIT Meghalaya was established in 2010 and started functioning from its temporary campus in Shillong in 2012. Its permanent campus is currently under development at Cherapunjee. The campus will come up with state-of-the-art infrastructures and all the necessary modern amenities while maintaining harmony with the serene environment of Cherrapunjee. The aim is to build it to be a center of excellence in education and research in the fields of engineering, science and technology. The vision is to develop it to be an Institution vibrant with academic activities and bubbling with youthful creative energy. The challenge is to overcome the apparent disadvantages of its remote location and turn them into advantage.

The Institute's efforts since the starting of its functioning in Shillong have been to set-up the best possible facilities within the constraints of a temporary campus with limited available space, build-up a very...

Read More >

question: How many National Institutes of Technology are there in India at the time of this article?

answer: 31

question: What is the Institute's Vision?

answer: A Centre of Excellence vibrant with academic activities and bubbling with youthful creative energy, making significant contributions to the World of Knowledge and Technology and to the Development of the State, the Region, and the Nation.

question: What is the Institue's mission?

answer: To educate and engage in the creation of knowledge and development of technologies.

question: When was NIT Meghalaya established?

answer: In 2010

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: The text describes the National Institute of Technology in Meghalaya, India along with its mission and vision.


text:
MUCOCILIARY CLEARANCE (MCC), MUCOCILIARY TRANSPORT, or the MUCOCILIARY ESCALATOR, describes the self-clearing mechanism of the airways in the respiratory system.[1] It is one of the two protective processes for the lungs in removing inhaled particles including pathogens before they can reach the delicate tissue of the lungs. The other clearance mechanism is provided by the cough reflex.[2] Mucociliary clearance has a major role in pulmonary hygiene.

MCC effectiveness relies on the correct properties of the airway surface liquid produced, both of the periciliary sol layer and the overlying mucus gel layer, and of the number and quality of the cilia present in the lining of the airways.[3] An important factor is the rate of mucin secretion. The ion channels CFTR and ENaC work together to maintain the necessary hydration of the airway surface liquid.[4]

Any disturbance in the closely regulated functioning of the cilia can cause a disease. Disturbances in the structural formation of the cilia can cause a number of ciliopathies, notably primary ciliary dyskinesia.[5] Cigarette smoke exposure can cause shortening of the cilia.[6]

Function

In the upper part of the respiratory tract the nasal hair in the nostrils traps large particles, and the sneeze reflex may also be triggered to expel them. The nasal mucosa also traps particles preventing their entry further into the tract. In the rest of the respiratory tract, particles of different sizes become deposited along different parts of the airways. Larger particles are trapped higher up in the larger bronchi. As the airways become narrower only smaller particles can pass. The branchings of the airways cause turbulence in the airflow at all of their junctions where particles can then be deposited and they never reach the alveoli. Only very small pathogens are able to gain entry to the alveoli. Mucociliary clearance functions to remove these particulates and also to trap and remove pathogens from the airways, in order to protect the delicate lung parenchyma, and also to provide protection and moisture to the airways.[7]

Mucociliary clearance also takes part in PULMONARY ELIMINATION, which with exhalation removes substances discharged from the pulmonary capillaries into the alveolar space.[8] [Scanning electron micrograph of the cilia projecting from respiratory epithelium in the trachea involved in mucociliary clearance.]

Components

In the respiratory tract, from the trachea to the terminal bronchioles, the lining is of respiratory epithelium that is ciliated.[9] The cilia are hair-like, microtubular-based structures on the luminal surface of the epithelium. On each epithelial cell there are around 200 cilia that beat constantly at a rate of between 10 and 20 times per second.

The cilia are surrounded by a periciliary liquid layer (PCL), a _sol_ layer that is overlain with the _gel_ layer of mucus.[10] These two components make up the epithelial lining fluid (ELF), also known as the airway surface liquid (ASL), the composition of which is tightly regulated. The ion channels CFTR, and ENaC work together to maintain the necessary hydration of the airway surface liquid.[11] An important factor is the rate of mucin secretion. The mucus helps maintain epithelial moisture and traps particulate material and pathogens moving through the airway, and its composition determines how well mucociliary clearance works.[12][13]

Mechanism

Within the thin periciliary liquid layer the cilia beat in a coordinated fashion directed to the pharynx where the transported mucus is either swallowed or coughed up. This movement towards the pharynx is either upward from the lower respiratory tract or downwards from the nasal structures clearing the mucus that is constantly produced.[14]

Each cilium is about 7 μm in length,[15] and is fixed at its base. Its beat has two parts the power stroke, or effector stroke, and the recovery stroke.[16][17] The movement of the cilia takes place in the periciliary liquid which is a little shorter in depth than the height of an extended cilium. This allows the cilia to penetrate the mucous layer during its full extension in the effector stroke, and to propel the mucus directionally, away from the cell surface.[18][19] In the recovery stroke the cilium bends from one end to the other bringing it back to the starting point for the next power stroke.[20] The returning cilia bend to immerse completely in the PCL which has the effect of reducing a reverse movement of mucus.[21] [Cilia movement in a metachronal wave.]

The coordinated movement of the cilia on all the cells is carried out in a fashion that is not clear. This produces wave-like motions that in the trachea, move at a speed of between 6 and 20 mm per minute.[22] The wave produced is a metachronal wave that moves the mucus.[23] Many mathematical models have been developed in order to study the mechanisms of ciliary beating. These include models to understand the generation and rhythm of the metachronal wave, and the generation of the force in the effective stroke of the cilium.[24]

Clinical significance

[Accumulated mucus in the airways resulting from impaired mucociliary clearance, that may involve mucus hypersecretion.] Effective mucociliary clearance depends on a number of factors including the numbers of cilia, and their structure particularly their height, and the quality of the mucus produced that needs to be maintained at a correct humidity, temperature, and acidity.

The cilia need to be able to move freely in the periciliary liquid layer and when this is impaired through damage to the cilia or by imbalances in the moisture or pH of the PCL, the mucus is unable to be cleared properly from the airways. Cystic fibrosis is a consequence of imbalances in the PCL.[25] Accumulated mucus, apart from causing varying degrees of airflow obstruction, makes a breeding ground for bacteria that cause many respiratory infections that can seriously worsen existing lung disorders. Obstructive lung diseases often result from impaired mucociliary clearance that can be associated with mucus hypersecretion and these are sometimes referred to as _mucoobstructive lung diseases_.[26] Studies have shown that the dehydration of airway surface liquid is enough to produce mucus obstruction even when there is no evidence of mucus hypersecretion.[27]

Humidity

High humidity enhances mucociliary clearance. One study in dogs found that mucus transport was lower at an absolute humidity of 9 g water/m³ than at 30 g water/m³.[28] Two methods of supporting this, particularly in mechanical ventilation are provided by active and passive respiratory gas humidifiers.

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

[12]

[13]

[14]

[15]

[16]

[17]

[18]

[19]

[20]

[21]

[22]

[23]

[24]

[25]

[26]

[27]

[28]

title: Mucociliary clearance

question: Summarize why the cilia need to be able to move freely in the process of mucociliary clearance.

answer: The cilia are surrounded by a liquid substance with a gel, or mucous, layer over it. The cilia have two functions: to move fluid all over the cells of various parts of the lungs, and to sensorily intercept foreign passengers, such as unnatural or higher-than-normal volumes of bacteria.

question: Explain why a person with cystic fibrosis might encounter difficulties with their cilia.

answer: Cystic fibrosis could in part be attributed to water that slips between the water and the mucous, allowing for pathogens to travel despite the natural efforts of the "sweeping" cilia. In normative or regular pulmonary elimination processes, the mucous would be thinner, which would allow for greater mobility of the cilia.


text:
Bobbie Ephrem, a used car dealer and patriarch of Portland's tight-knit Gypsy community, was sentenced this morning in U.S. District Court to a short prison term for filing a false tax return.

Assistant U.S. Attorney Lance A. Caldwell sought a sentence of between 12 and 18 months for Ephrem, who willfully understated receipts from his auto sales business.

Ephrem's lawyer, Marc D. Blackman, told U.S. District Judge Ancer L. Haggerty that imprisoning his client was unnecessary.

"He's done everything he could do to make things right," Blackman said.

Ephrem stood and apologized.

"I'm a person that doesn't cheat anybody," he said. "I'm sorry."

Haggerty explained that in all his years on the bench, he has never sentenced anyone to less than a year for filing a false tax return. He sentenced Ephrem to 1 year and 1 day in prison. With time off for good behavior, Ephrem could be out of prison in a little more than 10 months.

The judge also fined Ephrem $10,000 and ordered him to pay an outstanding tax debt of $109,000.

Ephrem's troubles with the law commenced five years ago, when a government informant told IRS agents that the Gypsy leader concealed huge sums of cash, failed to pay taxes and often used his son's Social Security number, according to court records.

In August 2006, IRS agents searched Ephrem's home and safety deposit boxes at three Portland area banks, seizing $2.7 million in cash.

Portland is home to roughly 3,000 Gypsies, who call themselves Roma. They are a cloistered, cash-on-the-barrelhead community that tends to be mistrustful of banks and checking accounts.

After seizing Ephrem's money, the IRS issued him a rare tax jeopardy assessment, which accused him of not filing income taxes for nine years. The government calculated that Ephrem owed taxes, penalties and interest of $8.5 million.

Ephrem sued the U.S. government, accusing the IRS of stealing his family fortune, which included more than $1 million in "sacred" inheritance money that belonged to him, his three brothers and a nephew. Ephrem explained in civil court that the bulk of the cash seized by the IRS was inheritance money, loans, gifts and proceeds from his extended family.

As a family patriarch, it was Ephrem's duty to hold the money.

U.S. District Judge Michael W. Mosman ordered the government to return the money to Ephrem, with interest.

Haggerty ordered Ephrem to report to prison on June 2, and the judge recommended that he be allowed to serve his time at the Federal Prison Camp in Sheridan.

-- Bryan Denson

Note to readers: if you purchase something through one of our affiliate links we may earn a commission.

question: Who is Bobbie Ephrem?

answer: An auto sales businessman and a gypsy leader in Portland

question: What was Bobbie sentenced for?

answer: Falsifying his tax return and understating sales receipts

question: How long was Bobbie sentenced for?

answer: one year and one day.

question: Where was Bobbie sent to service his time?

answer: Federal Prison Camp in Sheridan.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: Bobbie Ephrem, used car dealer and Gypsy leader, is sentenced to a year in prison for falsifying a tax return and understating receipts of his auto sales business.


text:
_By Roger Smith_

In the 1986 movie _Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home_, Scotty, the technology expert in the time-traveling starship's crew, is invited to use an Apple Macintosh, the most usable computer of the 1980s.

Puzzled, he picks up the mouse and speaks into it: "Hello, computer?"

"Just use the keyboard,” advises the computer owner. "A keyboard?" Scotty replies. "How quaint."

Nowadays, people routinely talk to the computer in their mobile phone and it talks back to them in the guise of a Microsoft Cortana, Apple Siri, or Google Now personal assistant. Software developers mainly use the Java programming language to write a single set of computer programs (or source code) that can run on all these different platforms.

Java is used for building everything from mobile phone apps to video games to enterprise IT applications. The WORA (write once, run anywhere) mantra that coders associated with the language means that it's designed to be portable and run across multiple software platforms.

There's quite a bit that goes on under the covers allowing this to happen. Once a Java developer writes a program, he or she uses different software tools, such as those found in the Java Development Kit or those supplied as part of the developer’s IDE (Integrated Development Environment), to compile that source code into a special kind of machine language known as bytecodes, which can run software known as the Java Virtual Machine or JVM.

Java got its start in the early 1990s when James Gosling from Sun Microsystems and a small team of developers known as the Green Team designed the first version of Java aimed at programming home appliances, which at the time were controlled by a wide variety of computer processors. This was the genesis of the WORA concept. In 1994, Gosling realized that such a language would be ideal for use with web browsers, which led to the 1995 release of a version of the Netscape browser that was capable of running Java programs.

BIG PLAYER IN BIG DATA

Twenty years later, Java is everywhere, including in games, smart cards, embedded systems, and robotics, and has been used to build millions of mobile, desktop, web, standalone, and enterprise applications. The language is the big player in big data, the computer technology used to computationally analyze extremely large data sets that reveal patterns, trends, and associations, especially those relating to human behavior and interactions.

.NET (pronounced dot net) is a cross-platform software environment that competes with Java.  .NET was developed in the late 1990s by Microsoft and uses its own Common Language Runtime (CLR) virtual machine. But .NET never captured developer mindshare the way that Java has. Fifteen long years after first being introduced, .NET still runs primarily on Microsoft Windows.

One of the main reasons for Java's popularity is the Java Community Process (JCP), which is the mechanism for developing standard technical specifications for Java technology. The JCP allows any Java developer to review and provide feedback for hundreds of different Java specification requests, as well as participate as a member of a Java Expert Group. Organizations and commercial entities have to pay annual membership dues to JCP, but individuals can join for free.

Thanks to the JCP, the Java language has been extensively revised to address all kinds of different programming problems.

JAVA'S EVOLUTION

At the recent JavaOne 2015 keynote, Mark Reinhold, chief architect of Oracle's Java Platform Group, explained how Java has evolved over the years by tackling pain points that Java developers complain about through the JCP. "In Java 5, we introduced new features like generics; in Java 8, we introduced lambda expressions; and in our next Java 9 release, due in 2016, we'll be introducing modularity to create a scalable and more secure platform."

He also mentioned projects currently in the works for future releases beyond Java 9, such as Valhalla and Panama, which will provide more efficient access to data and better control over data layout in computer memory to achieve higher performance, which are current pain points that big data developers face.

To illustrate the commitment to collaboration among this community, conference organizers are now seeking feedback from community members on where Java should go next, including in the Java’s Twenty Years of Innovation interactive display at the Parc 55 hotel in San Francisco. The display allows developers to attach sticky notes to request features and offer suggestions on what the future of Java will be. As _Star Trek_’s Scotty might have said, “Paper-form communications. How quaint.”

_Roger Smith is a veteran journalist specializing in enterprise technology._

Find more about Java on Oracle.com:

-   JavaOne 2015: Video On Demand
-   JavaOne4Kids
-   Preview Java Magazine

question: Summarize the author's view on digital personal assistants.

answer: The writer seems keen to expose the fact that these virtual personal assistants serve as gateways for data gathering services. Basically, because they utilize voice to identify as well as to direct you, they also funnel that information to larger companies for various purposes. The writer seems to be on board with this technology.

question: Summarize the programming background of virtual assistants.

answer: Virtual assistants are largely built utilizing Java. A programmer uses different tools in the Java development kit. It is an ideal language to write one set of course code that can run across myriad different platforms.

question: Describe the future of programming these virtual assistants (Siri, Alexa, Google, etc.).


text:
STONO MOUNTAIN is a summit in St. Francois County in the U.S. state of Missouri.[1] The mountain rises to an elevation of .[2] Mineral City lies along the headwaters of Doe Run Creek just to the east on Missouri Route W and Little Stono Mountain lies to the north.[3]

Stono Mountain possibly takes its name from the Stono River in South Carolina, although folk etymology maintains stones in the area caused the name to be selected.[4]

[1]

[2] _Iron Mountain Lake, Missouri,_ 7.5 Minute Topographic Quadrangle, USGS, 1968

[3]

[4]

title: Stono Mountain

question: Where is Stono Mountain located?

answer: St. Francois County in Missouri, United States.

question: How tall is Stono Mountain?

answer: That information can't be found [seems to have been omitted somehow]

question: How does Stono Mountain get its name?

answer: It is possibly named after the Stono River in South Carolina, although folk etymology claims it gets its name from the stones in the area.

question: Describe Stono Mountain.

answer: That information can't be found.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: Stono Mountain is a summit located in St. Francois County in Missouri, United States.


text:
[Neville Lumb logo] [Art nouveau style stained glass at The Queens public house, Crouch End, c. 1900.] [1907 advertising for Cakebread Robey.] NEVILLE LUMB are a supplier of commercial sanitaryware, part of the Saint-Gobain group.[1]

History

The business was founded in 1882 by George H. Cakebread and Arthur E. Robey as CAKEBREAD ROBEY & COMPANY[2] and became an important supplier of engraved and stained glass to public houses and hotels in England, such as The Queen's Hotel (now The Queens pub)[3] in Crouch End, The Salisbury in Harringay, and St Andrew's church, Chase Side, in Southgate. They were based at Stoke Newington and from around 1914 at Caroba Works, Wood Green, north London. The supply of sanitary fittings was also an important part of their business, and now their principal activity.

[1] About Us. Neville Lumb. Retrieved 25 December 2016.

[2] Neville Lumb. reed.co.uk Retrieved 25 December 2016.

[3]

title: Neville Lumb

question: How long was Neville Lumb located at Stoke Newington?

answer: From its founding in 1882 until 1914 when it moved to Caroba Works, that translates to 33 years.

question: Summarize all the information relating to the formation of Neville Lumb.

answer: Neville Lumb was founded in 1882 by George H. Cakebread and Arthur E. Robey as Cakebread, Robey & Company. It became an important supplier of engraved stained glass to public houses and hotels in England.

question: What is The Queen's Hotel currently known as?

answer: The Queen's Hotel is now The Queen's Pub.

question: How did Neville Lumb's business evolve?

answer: It was an important supplier of engraved and stained glass to public houses and hotels. The supply of sanitary fittings is now their primary business.

question: List the places to which Neville Lumb supplied engraved and stained glass?

answer: When it was known as Cakebread, Robey and Company, it supplied engraved and stained glass to the Queen's Hotel in Crouch End, The Salisbury in Harringray and St. Andrew's Church in Southgate.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: Neville Lumb are a supplier of commercial sanitary ware and part of the Saint-Gobain group


text:
804 NAVAL AIR SQUADRON (804 NAS) was a Naval Air Squadron of the Royal Navy, formed in November 1939 from part of 769 NAS Sea Gladiators which had been detached to RNAS Hatston. The squadron was merged into 800 NAS in June 1944 and subsequently reformed in September.[1]

World War II

During World War II, she was equipped with various aircraft types in differing roles. When formed at Hatston, 804 used Gloster Sea Gladiators in defence of the naval base at Scapa Flow, but was transferred in April 1940 to to provide air cover for the ferrying of 269 Squadron RAF's Gladiators to Norway after the German invasion. This was a brief assignment and in early May the squadron was transferred to at Campbeltown, thus missing _Glorious_{{'}}s sinking. Between May and September 1940 804 squadron returned to Hatston, and was subsequently recognised as one of the two FAA squadrons that operated with RAF Fighter Command in the Battle of Britain.[2]

[The last picture of _Glorious_ before her final battle, escorted by ] In October 1940 804 Squadron was re-equipped with Martlet I fighters, and first operated the new fighters out of RNAS Skaebrae in the Orkney Islands in October 1940. On 25 December 1940, two of the squadron{{'}}s Martlets shot down a Junkers Ju 88 off Scapa Flow, thus scoring the first aerial victory in Europe by any variant of the Grumman F4F Wildcat.[3] Further re-equipping occurred in February 1941 at RNAS Yeovilton with Fulmar IIs and Sea Hurricanes.[4]

In April 1941 the squadron was assigned to operate from catapult-armed ships (CAM ships and fighter catapult ships) until this role was taken over by the RAF's Merchant Ship Fighter Unit in May 1942. During this assignment, the squadron had aircraft on , (until sunk on 27 September 1940), , and (until sunk on 2 June 1941).[5] In August 1941, an 804 Squadron Sea Hurricane from HMS _Maplin_, piloted by Robert Everett, shot down an Fw 200 Condor, the first such victory for a catapult launched aircraft.[6]

In July 1942, the squadron escorted Gibraltar convoys on board and later, in October, now equipped with the Sea Hurricane IIc, joined for the North African landings. The squadron was re-equipped yet again in August 1943 Hellcat Is and in October joined No 7 Naval Fighter Wing. Two months later they embarked on and accompanied a US-bound convoy.[7]

[A Fleet Air Arm Hellcat F.I] The squadron participated in the successful attack on 3 April 1944 on the German battleship Tirpitz (Operation Tungsten) in Altafjord, northern Norway. Fleet Air Arm Barracuda dive-bombers from and were covered by the 7th Naval Fighter Wing, including 804 NAS.[8]

In June 1944, 804 was absorbed into 800 squadron.[9] The squadron reformed in September 1944 at Wingfield airfield, South Africa with 24 Hellcat IIs and in January 1945, they embarked on to provide cover during the landings on Ramree Island, and subsequently missions over Sumatra and Malaya. In April 1945 the squadron embarked on and also for attacks on the Andaman Islands and the coast of Burma, returning to HMS _Ameer_ in June for attacks on Sumatran airfields and Phuket Island, only returning to the United Kingdom after VJ Day in November 1945.[10]

Post-war

She participated in the Korean War, flying off HMS _Glory_.[11] She was recommissioned at RNAS Lossiemouth on 1 March 1960. The squadron was equipped with 6 Supermarine Scimitar F MK1 aircraft under the command of Lieutenant Commander T. Binney RN. The 800 Series of Naval Air Squadrons were allocated to carrier and land based operational squadrons of the Fleet Air Arm. After a four-month work up period the Squadron embarked in . Other than for two periods ashore at Lossiemouth, the squadron operated from _Hermes_ until the unit disbanded in September 1961. The squadron took part in both the Farnborough Airshow and the Paris Air Show in 1961, operating from the deck of _Hermes_ rather than a shore base and flying directly to and from the shows.

[1]

[2]

[3] Angelucci, pp. 226-227.

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

title: 804 Naval Air Squadron

question: Summarize everything that happened in 1940.

answer: In April 1940, the squadron was  transferred to provide air cover for the ferrying of 269 Squadron RAF's Gladiators to Norway after the German invasion. In May, it was transferred to Campbelltown, which caused it to miss Glorious's sinking. Between May and September, the squadron returned to Halston and was recognized as one of the two FAA squadrons that operated with RAF Fighter Command in the Battle of Britain. In October, they were re-equipped with Martlet I fighters, and operated them in the Orkney Islands. In December, two of their Martlets shot down a Junkers Ju 88 off Scapa Flow, which scored them the first aerial victory in Europe by any variant of the Grumman F4F Wildcat.

question: Summarize everything that took place on an island.

answer: The 804 squadron operated its new fighters out of RNAs Skaebrae in the Orkney Islands in October 1940. In January 1945, the squadron did landings on Ramree Island, Sumatra, and Malaya. In 1945, the squadron was there for attacks on  Andaman Islands,  the Sumatran airfields, and Phuket Island.

question: What does the text say about 1961?

answer: The squadron mainly operated from Hermes until the unit disbanded in 1961. In the same year, the squadron took part in both the Farnborough Airshow and the Paris Air Show. It did so while operating from the deck of Hermes rather than a shore base and flying directly to and from the shows.

question: What does the text say about prime ministers?


text:
The last two days had been very strange for me. I killed a man on a psycho’s lawn, and the next day, the psycho came into my office and asked if I would like to eat lunch with him. He seemed to be acting perfectly normal. I noticed his speech pattern had changed as well. He wasn’t saying “ya” or swearing anymore. Something was off. Or maybe Noah had just realized how messed what we had done was.
I put it out of my mind, and started to enjoy myself. Noah was actually very intelligent and funny. He must have been intelligent from the start, I concluded, he is a lawyer after all. He was probably just drunk for the last week. I chuckled at the thought.
We finished up our lunch, and headed out to my car. Noah said he had left his phone at my office, so I offered to take him there before I took him home. He thanked me in an uncharacteristically gratuitous way. However, I didn’t sense anything was amiss, and we got in.
Big mistake. The minute I got in the car, Noah pulled out what looked like an ingot, and bashed me across the head with it.
I woke up in a small, cramped room that I recognized as the interior of Noah’s shed.
“Took you long enough,” said Noah in a cold voice. “What the fuck?” I demanded.
“I can’t have another murderer taking advantage of Noah, now can I,” he said in that cold voice, “No, I’m going to have to kill you I suppose.”
“What? No! Noah, you don’t have to do this. I’m not going to tell anybody, you can let me go.” I knew he wasn’t going to.
“Noah’s not here right now. If you’d like to leave a message, please don’t. I screen his calls.”
Noah had finally snapped. The bastard was crazy.
I tried to reason with him, “C’mon Noah. You know you don’t have to do this!”
“I TOLD YOU I’M NOT NOAH!”
“If you’re not Noah, who are you then?”
“BELLUA.”
No. It couldn’t be. Noah had talked about Bellua so much, but always acted as Bellua was a friend or something. I finally put the pieces together.
“Yes, I can see the truth has finally dawned on you,” Noah/Bellua drawled, “Frankly, I don’t see how an idiot like you became a neurosurgeon. Let me explain it to you. I’m the original Noah. The Noah you know is simply a second personality of mine. Noah was born after I was caught in an explosion. That’s why he is so fixated on fire. I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember, but now that I have the Other Noah, it is so much easier for me to cleanse this disgusting society. The Other Noah agrees. He doesn’t have my capacity, so he uses fire as his tool. It’s crude but it works. Why, just recently he managed to rid society of a bartender who was a serial rapist. I’m much more dedicated however. I take out the real sickos. Like you. And Other Noah will dispose of your body. You pretend to kill only bad people, but what about the little girl who you kidnapped and did unspeakable things to? What about the man you decapitated for fun? ANSWER ME? Why’d did you do it? Did you have any reason? NO! I may be a monster, but I know that! People like you, who pretend to be infallible, make me sick!”
My cheeks were so cold. I couldn’t believe it. How did he know all this?
I knew I was going to die. I began to say an Our Father.
“YES. This reaction. I love it!” Noah/Bellua bellowed, “The ‘prayer,’ as if pretending to repent to an entity you’ve never believed in will make it all better. Using religion as a fair-weather friendship with God, I love it! But why bother praying to God now? I control your life now: I am your God. Pray to me!”
I said nothing. Noah/Bellua began to pace, muttering something under his breath.
“What?” I said.
“Squares!” He murmured a little louder,
I realized what he was doing: getting ready to kill me. Finally, I closed my eyes, went limp,  and gave up.
But he wouldn’t let me do that. He yanked up into a sitting position forcefully, and suddenly I felt metal being pressed down, then a sharp pain in the back of my neck. He wouldn’t stop. It felt like he was cutting something out. When he finished, he showed me what he had done. The square piece of my skin he had cut out was dripping with my blood.
“And now, I must bid you adieu,” Noah/Bellua whispered into my ear. And all was dark.

title: Bellua (Original Short Story by Me) p.3 Rust (Final Part)

question: What does the text say about the narrator?

answer: The narrator is a neurosurgeon who has killed someone. Noah claims that the narrator also kidnapped and hurt a little girl and decapitated a man for fun, but it's unclear how much we can trust what he says.

question: What does the text say about Noah?

answer: Noah is a lawyer. The narrator describes him as a "psycho," but also intelligent and funny. Noah reveals that he has another personality named Bellua. Bellua claims he is actually the original personality, and that Noah was created after they were caught in an explosion, which also made Noah fixated on fire. Bellua apparently believes that he and Noah must "cleanse" society, and acknowledges that they are monsters.

question: Summarize what happens to the narrator at the end of the story.

answer: Noah hits the narrator on the head with something, and they wake up in Noah's shed. Noah then cuts a square of skin from the back of the narrator's neck and leaves them.

question: Summarize how the narrator and Noah met.