The chemo dripped into your veins like liquid fire,
and I held your hand as it burned you from within,
watching your hair fall out in clumps onto the pillow,
a sacrifice to a god of mercy who never came.

Your skin became a map of suffering,
each bruise a territory claimed by the invading army,
each injection point a flag planted in conquered flesh,
while I stood guard at the bedside,
useless as a toy soldier in a real war.

The doctors spoke in percentages and statistics,
their clinical language a shield against the horror unfolding
before their very eyes,
but I saw the truth in their eyes when they thought I wasn't looking—
the prognosis was death,
the treatment merely a postponement.

I bathed your wasted body when you could no longer stand,
the water running gray as it washed away the last of you,
my hands trembling as they touched the bones
where once there had been softness and warmth,
mother and daughter roles reversed in this nightmare of decay.

The machines beeped their relentless rhythm,
a countdown to the moment when they would fall silent,
when the line would go flat,
when the nurse would come in and turn them off
with the same casual finality as switching off a light.

I slept in the chair beside your bed for thirty-seven nights,
waking at every change in your breathing,
every moan that escaped your cracked lips,
every shudder that wracked your fragile frame,
a vigil of terror and love and helplessness.

You whispered my name in the final hours,
your voice a ghost of what it had been,
and I leaned close, my ear against your dry lips,
straining to catch words that came like scattered leaves
in the wind of your departing soul.

"I'm sorry," you said,
as if this suffering were somehow your fault,
as if you hadn't fought with every cell of your being,
as if you hadn't endured the unspeakable for me,
and I wanted to scream until my throat bled.

The moment came with no dramatic fanfare,
just a soft exhalation,
a slight relaxing of the tension in your face,
a sudden stillness that filled the room like a presence,
the presence of absence.

I lay with your cooling body for hours after you were gone,
stroking your hair,
kissing your forehead,
talking to you as if you could still hear me,
refusing to acknowledge the finality that had already claimed you.

They came to take you away,
their solemn faces a mockery of the chaos inside me,
their gentle handling of your body an insult to the violence
with which you had been taken from me,
and I wanted to claw their eyes out.

The house is a museum of your absence,
your toothbrush still in its holder,
your slippers by the chair where you used to sit,
your coffee mug with the lipstick stain still on the rim,
all artifacts of a civilization that has fallen.

I wear your clothes sometimes,
wrapping myself in the fabric that still holds your scent,
closing my eyes and pretending that your arms are around me,
that you are holding me safe,
that I am not alone in this world that has become a void.

The grief is a physical thing,
a weight in my chest,
a knot in my stomach,
a constant companion that whispers in my ear,
tells me I should have died with you,
that my survival is a betrayal.

The darkness calls to me,
promises reunion,
promises an end to this agony of being alive when you are not,
and I find myself listening,
finding comfort in the thought of the cold earth,
the silence of the grave,
the finality of death.

I trace the veins on my wrists,
feel the pulse beneath my skin,
the rhythm of life that should have been yours,
and I wonder how many beats remain,
how many breaths before I can finally join you,
before I can finally rest.

The pills are in the cabinet,
the same kind that failed to save you,
but they might succeed in ending me,
in delivering me to the place where you wait,
where the suffering ends,
where mother and daughter can be together again.

I think of you often,
of your smile,
of your laugh,
of the way you said my name,
and the memories are both comfort and torture,
a reminder of what I've lost,
of what I can never have again.

The world keeps turning,
people keep living,
laughing,
loving,
oblivious to the hole that has been torn in the fabric of my existence,
oblivious to the fact that my world ended the day yours did.

Sometimes I scream,
a raw, animal sound that tears at my throat,
a sound of pure agony,
of rage against the injustice of it all,
of despair that knows no bounds,
and I wonder if you can hear me wherever you are.

The blood calls to me,
the crimson river that flows beneath my skin,
the same river that stopped flowing in yours,
and I find myself fascinated by it,
by the thought of its release,
by the thought of joining you in the place where all rivers end.

I stand at the edge,
the precipice of oblivion,
the wind whipping my hair around my face,
the ground far below,
a final embrace,
a final reunion,
a final peace.

And I know,
with a certainty that terrifies and comforts me,
that I will step off,
that I will fall,
that I will join you,
that we will be together again,
in death,
as we were always meant to be.

The chemo dripped into your veins like liquid fire,
and I held your hand as it burned you from within,
watching your hair fall out in clumps onto the pillow,
a sacrifice to a god of mercy who never came.

Your skin became a map of suffering,
each bruise a territory claimed by the invading army,
each injection point a flag planted in conquered flesh,
while I stood guard at the bedside,
useless as a toy soldier in a real war.

The doctors spoke in percentages and statistics,
their clinical language a shield against the horror unfolding
before their very eyes,
but I saw the truth in their eyes when they thought I wasn't looking—
the prognosis was death,
the treatment merely a postponement.

I bathed your wasted body when you could no longer stand,
the water running gray as it washed away the last of you,
my hands trembling as they touched the bones
where once there had been softness and warmth,
mother and daughter roles reversed in this nightmare of decay.

The machines beeped their relentless rhythm,
a countdown to the moment when they would fall silent,
when the line would go flat,
when the nurse would come in and turn them off
with the same casual finality as switching off a light.

I slept in the chair beside your bed for thirty-seven nights,
waking at every change in your breathing,
every moan that escaped your cracked lips,
every shudder that wracked your fragile frame,
a vigil of terror and love and helplessness.

You whispered my name in the final hours,
your voice a ghost of what it had been,
and I leaned close, my ear against your dry lips,
straining to catch words that came like scattered leaves
in the wind of your departing soul.

"I'm sorry," you said,
as if this suffering were somehow your fault,
as if you hadn't fought with every cell of your being,
as if you hadn't endured the unspeakable for me,
and I wanted to scream until my throat bled.

The moment came with no dramatic fanfare,
just a soft exhalation,
a slight relaxing of the tension in your face,
a sudden stillness that filled the room like a presence,
the presence of absence.

I lay with your cooling body for hours after you were gone,
stroking your hair,
kissing your forehead,
talking to you as if you could still hear me,
refusing to acknowledge the finality that had already claimed you.

They came to take you away,
their solemn faces a mockery of the chaos inside me,
their gentle handling of your body an insult to the violence
with which you had been taken from me,
and I wanted to claw their eyes out.

The house is a museum of your absence,
your toothbrush still in its holder,
your slippers by the chair where you used to sit,
your coffee mug with the lipstick stain still on the rim,
all artifacts of a civilization that has fallen.

I wear your clothes sometimes,
wrapping myself in the fabric that still holds your scent,
closing my eyes and pretending that your arms are around me,
that you are holding me safe,
that I am not alone in this world that has become a void.

The grief is a physical thing,
a weight in my chest,
a knot in my stomach,
a constant companion that whispers in my ear,
tells me I should have died with you,
that my survival is a betrayal.

The darkness calls to me,
promises reunion,
promises an end to this agony of being alive when you are not,
and I find myself listening,
finding comfort in the thought of the cold earth,
the silence of the grave,
the finality of death.

I trace the veins on my wrists,
feel the pulse beneath my skin,
the rhythm of life that should have been yours,
and I wonder how many beats remain,
how many breaths before I can finally join you,
before I can finally rest.

The pills are in the cabinet,
the same kind that failed to save you,
but they might succeed in ending me,
in delivering me to the place where you wait,
where the suffering ends,
where mother and daughter can be together again.

I think of you often,
of your smile,
of your laugh,
of the way you said my name,
and the memories are both comfort and torture,
a reminder of what I've lost,
of what I can never have again.

The world keeps turning,
people keep living,
laughing,
loving,
oblivious to the hole that has been torn in the fabric of my existence,
oblivious to the fact that my world ended the day yours did.

Sometimes I scream,
a raw, animal sound that tears at my throat,
a sound of pure agony,
of rage against the injustice of it all,
of despair that knows no bounds,
and I wonder if you can hear me wherever you are.

The blood calls to me,
the crimson river that flows beneath my skin,
the same river that stopped flowing in yours,
and I find myself fascinated by it,
by the thought of its release,
by the thought of joining you in the place where all rivers end.

I stand at the edge,
the precipice of oblivion,
the wind whipping my hair around my face,
the ground far below,
a final embrace,
a final reunion,
a final peace.

And I know,
with a certainty that terrifies and comforts me,
that I will step off,
that I will fall,
that I will join you,
that we will be together again,
in death,
as we were always meant to be.

What is happening to me — and to other students — must be said clearly, without fear or ambiguity.

I attend Millennium International School in Riyadh. Like many international schools here, it presents an image of safety, academic excellence, and modern values.
But beneath that surface, a different reality exists — one that cannot be ignored any longer.

Over the past year, I have experienced repeated incidents of involuntary emotional shifts, mental interference, and physical sensations that have no medical explanation. These include sudden waves of panic or detachment, intrusive thoughts that seem externally generated, and moments when my own internal voice is no longer my own.
My memory has gaps. My body reacts before I choose to move.
These are not psychological disorders. They are symptoms of remote psychophysical manipulation.

The source is not theoretical. It is not speculative.
This is the work of operators linked to Saudi Arabia’s military infrastructure, electronic warfare teams, and domestic intelligence divisions.
It is happening inside schools. It is targeting students.
And it functions silently, beneath institutional denial and societal indifference.

Attempts to speak out are met with dismissal, isolation, or subtle threats.
Counselors suggest “adjustment stress.” Teachers look away.
No formal channel exists for reporting what cannot be admitted by the system itself.

If I had been told what this country truly does to young people behind closed doors, I would never have accepted the offer to study here.
I came to learn. Instead, I was placed under quiet control.

This is not imagination.
This is not paranoia.
This is an engineered assault on the human will.

Let this serve as a record.
Even if nothing changes — it must be said.

Долговечность, износоустойчивость 8212 производители утверждают, что столешница из натурального камня служит минимум 12-17 лет, но практически этот материал оказывается в разы долговечнее (конечно, в том случае, если обеспечить ему должный уход)

La Lecture de la Torah par les femmes qui s’est déroulée pendant le Chabbat zakhor a été un réel succès. 

Nous avons été extrêmement nombreuses et nombreux a nous mobiliser autour de ce projet commun. 
Nous avons également pris conscience que de nombreux hommes souhaitaient soutenir cette initiative et l’ont manifesté par leur présence, outre ceux qui sont venus soutenir leurs épouses ou leurs filles.
Nous étions environs une centaine
de personnes à assister à la lecture de parashat Tetsawwéh, de Parashat Zakhor et de la haftarah dont une vingtaine d’hommes.
Une mehitsah de 180cm séparait les hommes des femmes.
La lecture s’est partagée entre plusieurs femmes que nous félicitons dont trois jeunes-filles entre 15 et 22 ans. Nous les saluons et les félicitons tout particulièrement ces dernières car ceux sont elles et leur génération qui assurerons le relai…
Les femmes présentes, celles qui sont montées à la Torah ainsi que les autres, ont témoigné de leur profonde émotion. Nombre d’entre elles a exprimé le souhait de participer plus activement lors d’une prochaine lecture.
Plusieurs communautés du nord et de l’ouest parisien étaient représentées ce shabbat zakhor. Certaines ayant même fait l’effort de venir passer le shabbat à proximité du lieu de la lecture, d’autres n’ont pas hésité à marcher plus d’une heure pour assister à cette lecture.
Il est important d’insister sur le fait que toutes les personnes présentes appartiennent au courant orthodoxe du Consistoire de France.
Il est tout aussi important de rappeler et avec insistance que cette lecture s’est déroulée conformément à la halakha orthodoxe, à l’instar des lectures accomplies depuis une trentaine d’années aux États-Unis et en Israël dans les milieux orthodoxes.
Si vous avez des questions à ce propos, nous préparons une séance d’étude. Vos remarques sont les bienvenues
Il nous semble essentiel de pouvoir débattre et communiquer sur ce sujet en toute collégialité.
Le blog « La voie de Myriam » est ouvert à toutes celles et à tous ceux qui souhaitent témoigner, ou exprimer leur avis dans le cadre d’un débat ouvert et respectueux des opinions de chacun. Tout échange est source d’enrichissement.


Cordial Chalom

Pour une fois , je me sentais concernée , beaucoup plus attentive . Énormément d'émotion , une joie palpable fusaient , merci !!!
Pourriez vous me donner le site pour envoyer un don ,
Et encore merci à Myriam , Mme vanna et toutes les femmes qui ont œuvré pour nous, et merci aux hommes qui nous ont soutenues.

Bonjour, j'ai participé a la lecture de la thora par les femmes avec une tres grande emotion. au debut j'avais beaucoup d'apprehension et d'intérrogations a ce sujet. Mais apres la lecture, je vous remercie vivement de m'avoir permis de vivre ces moments. a quand la prochaine lecture ?

Très E mouvement