تخيّل أن اليوم يحمل لك مفاجأة واحدة فقط، وكل ما عليك هو أن تختار نوعها! وش تختار؟ راحة البال، تحقيق أمنية، عودة غائب، أو رزق يغيّر حياتك؟ 🤍👇

📢 Dedesinden kalan arazisinin belediye tarafından habersizce park yapılmasına isyan eden bir vatandaş: 🔸 "Dedemden kalan büyük parseli belediye gitmiş park yapmış; bize hiç sormadan, haber vermeden böyle bir şey yapmaya hakları var mı?" 🔸 "İnsanların mülkünü, tapulu malını mülk sahibine sormadan, hiçbir tebligat göndermeden el koyup park yapmak hangi kanunda yazıyor?"

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Have you ever lived with someone, shared your food, your jokes, your worst days… and still discovered years later that you never truly knew what they were carrying? When I was in university, I shared a small off campus apartment with a friend named Samuel. We weren't just roommates, We were brothers. Our room had two narrow beds, one broken standing fan, a wooden table that shook whenever you wrote on it, and a tiny kitchen where we somehow managed to burn almost everything we cooked. We were broke together. We laughed together. Sometimes we had enough money for only one proper meal. I'd say, “You eat.” Samuel would shake his head. “I'm not hungry.” I'd look at him. “You said that yesterday.” He'd smile. “Maybe I've discovered a new lifestyle.” I'd laugh. “Idiot.” And we'd split the food anyway. There was one thing about Samuel that always bothered me. He never asked for help. If his money finished, he'd disappear for a few hours and come back smiling. If school fees were due, he'd somehow figure something out. If he was sick, he'd say: “It's malaria. I'll be fine.” If something was bothering him, he'd say: “Nothing serious.” One night, around 1:30 a.m., I woke up and saw him sitting on the edge of his bed. The room was completely dark except for the light from his phone. He wasn't scrolling. He was staring at one message. I asked, “Bro, you okay?” He quickly locked the phone. “Yeah.” “You're crying?” “No.” “You are.” He wiped his face. “Go back to sleep.” I sat up. “Samuel, what's wrong?” He was quiet for a long time. Then he said: “Do you ever get tired of pretending everything is okay?” That question changed the room. I said, “Sometimes.” He looked at the floor. “My mother called today.” “What happened?” “She asked me if I'm eating.” I smiled. “So?” He looked at me. “I lied.” I stopped smiling. “Why?” He swallowed. “Because if I tell her the truth, she'll worry.” “What truth?” He looked at me and whispered: “I haven't eaten since yesterday morning.” I immediately reached for my wallet. He grabbed my hand. “No.” “Bro, take it.” “No.” “Samuel—” “I said no.” “Why?” He looked away. “Because I don't want you to start seeing me as someone you have to save.” I didn't know what to say. Then he said something I'll never forget: “When you're poor for long enough, asking for help starts feeling like admitting you failed.” That night, we shared the last noodles we had. But something had changed. I realized Samuel wasn't refusing help because he didn't need it. He was refusing because somewhere along the way, he had learned that needing someone was dangerous. I didn't know then how deep that wound went. I would find out two years later. And when I did, I wished I had asked one more question that night.