Podcasts about hamoud

Vi i podkasten ønsker å fortelle dere hvor fantastisk Mounir var som person, minneordet Ola Niemann skrev i Drammens tidende gir et godt bilde av nettopp det. Ola Niemann, tidligere journalist og nyhetsleder i Drammens tidende hadde æren av å intervjue Mounir Hamoud ved flere anledninger. Lenke til spleis: https://www.spleis.no/project/362175 foto Mounir: Nils Harald Strøm

ماهي الهوية البصرية للشركات؟ وماهي أهميتها اليوم في عالم الشبكات الاجتماعية؟ كيف يتم تصميم الخطوط؟ وما أهمية الفنون في تطور الحضارات؟ كل هاته الأسئلة يجيبنا عنها في الحلقة 74 لـ #بودكاست

Weather forecaster, Hamoud al Naabi, from Oman Met Office explains more rains are expected on Saturday and Sunday and why we should expect flash floods.

From her tent, Bashil el-Ahmad can see the Syrian border — a mountain range about a mile into the distance — sloping down to the informal camp in the Lebanese town of Majdal Anjar where she lives with about 70 other Syrian families.Kids play on the dirt roads between the tents. A few try out a makeshift seesaw made from a wooden beam balanced over cinder blocks. Most children here are too young to remember their country. Others were born in Lebanon and have never even been to Syria.A decade after protesters took to the streets to oppose the Assad family’s rule, President Bashar al-Assad has retaken control of most of the country. But that doesn’t make it any easier to return. Related: Nine years since Syria's revolution began, country still in crisis Kids play on a makeshift seesaw in an informal camp where 70 Syrian refugee families live near the Syrian border. The mountains behind mark the border with Syria. Credit: Rebecca Collard/The World  Ahmad escaped seven years ago after a rocket hit her neighbor’s house, killing him.More than 11 million people have been forced to flee their homes due to conflict in Syria, and more than a million have been pushed out of the country. “I fled the bullets. ... We couldn’t bring anything."Bashil el-Ahmad, Syrian refugee living just over the border in Lebanon“I fled the bullets,” said Ahmad, who described them as “falling like rain” on her village.She escaped with her husband and seven daughters. They first went to the Syrian city of Aleppo, and then to the Lebanese border.“We couldn’t bring anything,” she said. Like most Syrian refugees, Ahmad thought she would just escape the fighting for a few months, or maybe a year, but seven years later, she remains in Lebanon. She can see the Syrian border — but she can’t return home.Related: Syrian refugees in Turkey are there to stay, at least for now Instead, she lives in a home made of plastic sheets stretched over wooden beams. Old car tires help hold down the roof.Ahmad lit up as she described her house in Syria, with several bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen and two bathrooms. It was made of concrete, she said. Her husband had a job and her daughters went to school.Related: Syrian war scatters these 6 siblings across 6 different countries Bashil el-Ahmad in front of her tent with her family. The mountains behind mark the Syrian border.  Credit: Rebecca Collard/The World Not long after she left Syria, her sister sent her a photo of their home. “There was nothing left,” she said.Even the olive trees had been cut down.A few tents away, Ali Hamoud describes his own escape from Syria. He, his wife and their seven children were smuggled over the mountain range under the cover of darkness. Like Ahmad, his house was destroyed, and he came with nothing to Lebanon. Related: Lebanon: The lynchpin in Syria's conflict“When things settle down I will go back."Ali Hamoud, Syrian refugee living just over the border in Lebanon“When things settle down I will go back,” Hamoud said.  Ali Hamoud stands in front of his tent with his family. The mountains behind mark the Syrian border. Credit: Rebecca Collard/The World  The fighting in Syria has settled down — including in Hamoud’s village. But Hamoud said militias still run rampant, and his oldest son could be conscripted into the Syrian army if they return. Also, his home is still in ruins, and he doesn’t know how he would get the funds to rebuild it.“There are some people that are living for the hope they will go back to Syria and there are people who say, ‘No way I will go back to my home.'"Khaled Abou Haykal,  project manager, Basmeh and Zeitooneh nongovernmental aid organization “There are some people that are living for the hope they will go back to Syria, and there are people who say, ‘No way I will go back to my home,’” said Khaled Abou Haykal, a project manager with Basmeh and Zeitooneh, an organization that provides food, shelter and other assistance both to Syrian refugees and the local Lebanese community. Khaled Abou Haykal, a project manager with Basmeh and Zeitooneh, in an informal refugee camp near the Syrian border.  Credit: Rebecca Collard/The World  “In 2011, the people here welcomed Syrian refugees. But now, there is a lot of tension between Syrians and Lebanese,” Abou Haykal said.Those tensions are in part because Lebanon is suffering its own economic crisis. The country has seen mass inflation and a sharp increase in poverty and unemployment.“There is a big competition for job opportunities.”Related: Lebanon protests called out corruption. Now it's about survival.In some places, like Majdal Anjar, Syrian refugees outnumber the local population. Here, there are 25,000 Lebanese residents and 40,000 Syrian refugees.Hamoud lost his job as the crisis hit Lebanon, and the cost of everything is going up. He doesn’t know how much longer he can afford to stay. He said despite his fears, he might decide to return to his land in Syria.“I’ll put a tent until I fix the house,” Hamoud said. An informal camp in Lebanon, where 70 Syrian refugee families live near the Syrian border. Credit: Rebecca Collard/The World  Ahmad is less desperate to go back.“I saw death with my own eyes," she said.Now, she says she needs to know her daughters will be safe if they go back. In the meantime, Ahmad is literally putting down roots. Outside her tent, she planted a small herb garden, vegetables and beans to supplement the aid her family receives as well as flowers that remind her of the garden she once had in Syria. Hassan Harfoush contributed to this report.

KA i NFF Buskerud, Mounir Hamoud, er gjest i dagens podcast. Han hadde aldri spilt organisert fotball før han kom til Norge som 13-åring. I løpet av få år var han på u-landslaget og i eliteserien. Startet i Skeid. Spilte også i Lyn, Bodø/Glimt, Strømsgodset. Er nå i Stoppen SK. Fin rekke med klubber. Avsluttet toppfotballkarrieren som enorm helt for Godsetunionen.

In the narrow streets of Beirut’s Bourj al-Hammoud neighborhood, Baruyr Solakian sits outside a small shop. On a small portable radio, he listens to the local news — and it’s not good.“No one is working and there is no money, no food. ... Many families go to sleep without eating.”Baruyr Solakian, Beirut, Lebanon“No one is working and there is no money, no food,” said Solakian. “Many families go to sleep without eating.”Neighborhoods like this one have been hit the hardest in Lebanon's crisis. Like many in the country, Solakian was just scraping by. His work as a security guard earned him enough money to pay rent and feed his family of five.  Baruyr Solakian sits outside a shop in Beirut's Bourj al-Hammoud neighborhood.  Credit: Rebecca Collard/The World  As the financial crisis hit in the fall —sparking the first wave of protests — things got harder, but he managed. Now, Lebanon’s currency is in freefall. That means inflation is rising so quickly that the prices of some goods change overnight. The Lebanese currency was pegged to the US dollar at 1,500 lira for decades, but earlier this year it doubled to 3,000 on the black market. Related: Hezbollah's latest front line? The fight against coronavirus.Then came the novel coronavirus pandemic. In March, experts warned that an outbreak in Lebanon would be a disaster. The country locked down fast and the infection curve flatted quickly — but inflation did not. “I bought milk for 5,000 lira. After one week I bought it for 10,000,” Solakian said. Prices are going up but salaries for most Lebanese are not. “If they didn’t shut down there would be much more illness, that is for sure,” said Solakian. “But the people are poor.” Late last month, just as the country announced it would be easing the lockdown, the Lebanese lira jumped to over 4,000 lira to the US dollar, and the prices of food and other goods also jumped. Those who were just scraping by could no longer sustain their lives. And people took to the streets again.Related: Lebanon's 'two crises': coronavirus and financial collapse Lebanese citizens have been on the streets since October demanding an end to corruption and a new, non-sectarian political system. But now the protests are about survival for the most vulnerable. In the northern city of Tripoli, protesters smashed and burned banks and clashed with security forces. Before the pandemic, the World Bank estimated that 45% of Lebanese could soon be below the poverty line. Now the Lebanese government has put that prediction over 70%. Related: Foreign domestic workers stuck in Lebanon as economy spiralsAt a protest in Beirut last week, a crowd blocked the main road. “Some people are dying because they don’t have a shelter to live in, food to eat,” said Mohamed Kaadan, a medical technician among the protesters. He said, of course, he’s worried about COVID-19, but that the situation is becoming too desperate to stay silent. His salary as a medical technician has been slashed by more than two-thirds because of out-of-control inflation. “So that’s it,” Kaadan said. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”Some protesters were wearing masks, trying to keep a safe social distance between them. Others were clearly not. They shouted in the faces of a row of police officers in riot gear as smoke rose from a nearby garbage pile, set on fire by the demonstrators. Another group of police officers handed out medical masks to protesters, some of whom are carrying gas masks — in case the police fired tear gas to disperse the crowd.On a quiet day this week in Martyrs Square, which has held some of Beirut’s biggest demonstrations, Ghazi Alam al-Din sat chatting with a friend on the curb.A year ago, he explained, he was making about 50-60,000 Lebanese pounds per day. Then, that was about $35 or $40. It wasn’t great, but it was enough to pay his rent, feed his family and even take them out once in a while. As the crisis hit in the fall and inflation rose, things got tougher. Then came COVID-19, and his work stopped completely.“I’m not receiving any money from anywhere,” he said. He pulled out his pockets to show nothing but a singular key, explaining that his wife and children now must stay with his in-law because he can not put food on the table. Thankfully, because of the holy Islamic month of Ramadan, a mosque near his house offers free meals in the evening, he said. “Some days I go there to take food from them,” Alam al-Din said. “Sometimes people are nice and they give me food.” Ghazi Alam al-Din standing near Martyrs' Square in Beirut, Lebanon.  Credit: Rebecca Collard/The World  Alam al-Din’s face is pained as he tries to fight back the tears. He said the situation is tough for everyone now,  and that means friends and relatives can’t help. He said that he heard that Syrian refugees are even trying to flee Lebanon back into the war zone next door.“Lebanon is a beautiful place. I want Lebanon to stand up on its two feet again,” he said. “I want it to go back to where it was in the past.” But it’s hard to be optimistic. Back in Bourj al-Hamoud, Solakian said the government has done almost nothing to help those suffering the double whammy of the financial crisis and Covid-19. Instead, he received a box of food from a local church — rice, oil and milk. He never thought he’d be taking handouts. “When corona[virus] came, Canada, the United States, Europe, all the governments helped their people. They say ‘stay at home’ but they paid them,” Solakian said. “But here, there is no money.  No one helps us.”

Link to bioRxiv paper: http://biorxiv.org/cgi/content/short/2020.04.24.060392v1?rss=1 Authors: Shukla, R., Henkel, N., Alganem, K., Hamoud, A.-r., Reigle, J., Alnafisah, R. S., Eby, H. M., Imami, A. S., Creeden, J., Miruzzi, S. A., Meller, J., Mccullumsmith, R. E. Abstract: The treatment of CNS disorders, and in particular psychiatric illnesses, lacks disease-altering therapeutics for many conditions. This is likely due to regulatory challenges involving the high cost and slow-pace of drug development for CNS disorders as well as due to limited understanding of disease causality. Repurposing drugs for new indications have lower cost and shorter development timeline compared to that of de novo drug development. Historically, empirical drug-repurposing is a standard practice in psychiatry; however, recent advances in characterizing molecules with their structural and transcriptomic signatures along with ensemble of data analysis approaches, provides informed and cost-effective repurposing strategies that ameliorate the regulatory challenges. In addition, the potential to incorporate ontological approaches along with signature-based repurposing techniques addresses the various knowledge-based challenges associated with CNS drug development. In this review we primarily discuss signature-based in silico approaches to drug repurposing, and its integration with data science platforms for evidence-based drug repurposing. We contrast various in silico and empirical approaches and discuss possible avenues to improve the clinical relevance. These concepts provide a promising new translational avenue for developing new therapies for difficult to treat disorders, and offer the possibility of connecting drug discovery platforms and big data analytics with personalized disease signatures. Copy rights belong to original authors. Visit the link for more info

Stance met up with elusive French artist, JR, known for creating huge black-and-white photographic images as murals in public places all over the world. We spoke to the exciting new award-winning director, Maysaloun Hamoud, to find out more about her first feature film, In Between, set in Israel telling the story of three Palestinian women. Lastly, we explore the future of centrism. What hope is there for the middle in the current extreme UK and US political climate? @stancepodcast

Meet Maysaloun Hamoud, whose debut feature ‘In Between’ tells the story of three women in Tel Aviv enjoying their independence. It’s won acclaim since its premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival but also provoked fury in Israel, where Hamoud was issued with the first fatwa since 1948.

When Liz Nord spoke with first time Palestinian filmmaker Maysaloun Hamoud back at the Toronto International Film Festival last year, her narrative feature In Between (or Bar Bahar in Arabic) was just about to premiere. As with any new director, she had no idea what the response would be or what the coming year would bring. But her film’s path has been particularly unpredictable, leading to three awards in San Sebastian, Hamoud being hand-chosen by Isabelle Huppert to receive the Young Talents Award at Cannes, and being issued the first religious Fatwa in Palestinian history. In their fascinating conversation, Hamoud shares her methods for trying to make audiences see themselves in her characters, working with non-actors, and what it was like to make the first film of its kind in her community.