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هذا رجل اطفاء ما كان يؤدي عمله بشكل جيد فقررت إعدامه ليكون عبره للآخرين :)
وأحب أشكر أبو ناصر على المعاونة العظيمة في الورشة شكرا جزيلا لك .
ift.tt/2gcamcR #A German soldier ties the hands of a captured Slovenian partisan prior to his execution on Mala Poljana mountain, 1942 [1186x1800] #history #retro #vintage #dh #HistoryPorn ift.tt/2gPCa6R via Histolines
Executioner's Hood Melbourne Cut poem
In a land of salutary terror
Instruments of violence were employed
To inflict class suppression
Onto the poor by the rich
For acts of rebellion against owners
Putting the fear of death into them
Terrifying and teaching them a lesson
Employing execution for pacification
The tactics of imperial rule
Resistance is demonstratively not tolerated
Settler violence is reasoned
Public executions are legitimized
Violent acts are defended by the dominant participant
When power is in jeopardy
Protect the exclusive class
By
Building prosperity in the enemy's land
By
Assigning blame onto the victim
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January 2023.
Visit to Museum of London Docklands to see the 'Executions' exhibition. The first publicly recorded executions at Tyburn was in 1196; the last public execution in 1868. By the end of the 18th century over 200 crimes were punishable by death.
The Rieme-Oostakker Place of Execution is the place in the Ghent district of Oostakker where 66 resistance fighters were executed by the Naxi occupation force between February 8, 1943 and August 24, 1944.
This memory is also kept alive the 20 resistance fighters who were killed on the execution site at Rieme . That site was destroyed in 1998 during the construction of the Kluizendok of Ghent Port.
The executions were carried out in secret and the victims were buried anonymously. Some of the resistance fighters killed in Rieme was found in a mass grave in Hechtel.
Moreover, there were German soldiers and Belgian criminals also shot. Because of these circumstances, it is still unclear how many people were killed. After the Liberation the mass grave was uncovered in Oostakker. The victims were identified and buried in their hometowns.
The crosses on the ground thus have a symbolic meaning. Nevertheless, the execution place is a cemetery since in 1952 the remains of 15 decapitated West Flemish political prisoners were moved here from their graves in Munich.
On the grounds is a railway carriage which carried hundreds of Belgians to concentration camps in Germany and Poland. In 1966 the execution place gained the status of a protected landscape.
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Who could ever have foretold that Ronnie Davies, a gambling man by necessity and nature, a downbeat, backstreet alley cat with morals and ideals lower than a racing snakes belly and never one to shy away from unseemly odds and form that pummelled his girder-like cranium and screamed out loud at the blunt tool of his uneducated brain to simply turn around and walk away, would end up as yesterday's garbage on this mornings urban street. Dusted with episodes of anger and spite, doused with oodles of latent psychosis and viciousness rife, dumped in a London alleyway with a view over an establishment that in life at least had afforded him some comfort and pleasure. You've got to see the delicious irony in the big man's downfall, you have to smile wryly at the poetic justice in the manner of his undoing. .
His demise was anything other than pleasurable at the hands of notorious henchman, Mac 'The knife' Henderson, one time bare knuckle street hoodlum and latter day right hand man to notorious London gangland boss Jay Reynolds. Stripped unceremoniously to his birthday suit and icy cold flesh gaffa taped to a bright metal and rosewood utility chair with stainless steel fixings and neat domed caps purchased for a not too unreasonable price from the Ikea store in Kensington, poor Ronnie's last moments were peppered with acts of well conceived and perfectly executed violence, suffered and endured in vicious bouts between blackouts brought on by his own body's defence mechanism. Funny how a bucket of water can bring a man round despite the best intentions of his nervous system in saving him from the conscious agony of the onslaught. A well timed hypodermic administered by the wayward hands of a medically trained cohort is a powerful tool in preventing the bodies lifeblood from coagulating, clotting and oozing, and the mind from switching off from the onslaught. How poor Ronnie suffered for their 'art'.
Roll forwards from the wee small hours this very morning to the squalid confines of a secretive and dimly lit hideaway in down town suburbia to the here and now, nine o'Clock or thereabouts as the morning hordes of bored and frustrated commuters streamed into the centre of town on route to another day of monotonous corporate bullshit, and there we find Ronnie in a most undignified and unsavoury manner. Bloodstains adorning the asphalt alley way from the drag and drop placement of the neatly secured and double bagged black bin liner, oozing along the somewhat downhill trajectory of the alleyway, a mixture of body fluids, chemical inducements and once rich ruby red life-force that now seeps like the volcanic magma of a violent eruption into the cracks and crevices, leaving a trail like a beautiful and abstract mosaic on some fancy pants London gallery wall. Ah, but Ronnie would so have loved the delicious irony of his final resting place, his ghost no doubt already waiting at the locked doors to Ladbrokes, nicotine stained right thumb and forefinger nervously pulling on the stub of a bummed cigarette off some passer by flagged down and accommodating in providing a free smoke to the scary looking man with the wolf like piercing grey eyes.
Ronnie had seen it all. Once a man mountain, built like wardrobe, though decidedly more substantial than any of those purchased at said Ikea store, that's for sure. A bully boy thug with psychotic tendencies and shaking hands from time spent and sights seen during three tours of Northern Ireland in the bloody days of the eighties. He spoke of the SAS, though few believed a man who's lies were matched only by his craving for the betting shops and cock fighting dens of inequity that had sprung up in the London underground scene. From bouncer at the Hippodrome and the Café de Paris near London's Trocadero centre, tossing out the drunken inhabitants who let the alcohol fuel false bravado that soon succumbed to the fists of fury at Ronnie's disposal, he knew the places, met the faces, and soon became part of the posse of up and coming hoodlum Jay Reynolds. Diminutive in stature, and with small man hangups like a tiny mutt that felt the need to bare his teeth and nip at the heels of enemies and peers, Reynolds surrounded himself with the toughest and tallest hired hands he could assemble, like Caesar himself and his Praetorian Guard . In his prime, fitness at it's peak, Ronnie was an obvious choice in he days when his eyes little needed the aid of thick spectacles and his front teeth were in tact and less stained through abuse than at his end of reign.
Looking at that scene now, bin liners and body parts within littering the streets, one could almost feel sorry for the old guy. Hey, I did say almost. Strapped to that Ikea chair, Ronnie's addle mind from years of alcohol abuse and ravaged body from his sixty a day, sixty year habit, must have seen the irony in his own demise, in similar fashion to several executions of his own planning back in the day when he was the man. Mac 'The knife' Henderson was not a man to cross in any sense of the word. Spill your overpriced and watered down seedy nightclub Martini over the guy and you'd better buy him a new wardrobe of clothes or else such your food through a tube in Guy's hospital for the rest of your days. An artiste of sorts with any sharp bladed object in those banana-like digits, he took a pride in his work and left no stone unturned in the pursuit of confessional mutterings from his hapless victims. And Ronnie was to be no exception as the serrated blades of assorted size and form cut with surgical precision, Ronnie's eyes registering the agony and pain that his gaffa taped mouth simply could not. Only later when the pieces of Ronnie's body would be placed and reassembled in some semblance of normality on the stark and cold pathologists table would the facts suggesting that the limbs were severed whilst the blood still flowed through very much alive and kicking veins, be established.
A man cannot forever dine on the fairy tales of his illicit youth, nor curry favour from the new order when a conflict of issue sees the establishment in an entirely different light. Out with the old and in with the new as sweeping changes fell those not quick enough to move with the times. Shades of Brando's immortal lines, ' I coulda been a contender, I coulda been somebody ', like echoes in the faltering corridors of Ronnie's memory, chapters closing in the library of his soul as ageing limbs now saggy of flesh where once there were muscles of stone and rippling biceps. Falling from grace is never easy and I guess some folk handle and adapt better than others. Ronnie failed to grasp the concept, clouded judgement gleaned from viewing the world continuously through the bottom of an empty whiskey glass, empty pockets through his gambling addiction. Feed the need, satiate the thirst to win, snuff out your raison d'etre. Poor Ronnie never saw his own demise coming until the glint of the blades matched the glint in Henderson's own eyes. It's amazing just how strong and sticky a roll of gaffa tape from B&Q can be.
There is a lesson to be learned from this sordid tale, this violent occurrence, this grisly and unpalatable story of wanton retribution and the extreme and damning lack of judgement that caused such action, a positive to come from the darkness and depravity of this yarn. A pity then that poor Ronnie could not face his addictions and curb his inner needs prior to falling prey to rival gangland hoodlums like a chicken in a coup falls prey to a wily fox, trapped and bewildered as the fox circles and moves in for the kill, Ronnie bad mouthing the hand that fed him, turning sides in an effort to secure funding for his gambling as his days for Reynolds came to an end. The message? ..... why yes, of course. It is better to live and tell the tales of your glory days in person than have others spin the yarns in your absence. Better not to bite the hand that feeds you, because one day, as dear old Ronnie himself found out, that hand may just serve up your own ones to dine upon as a condemned man's final meal. It is better to fall naturally from grace and favour than unnaturally from the top of a twenty story building in down town London. And far better to grow old disgracefully with failing eyesight, thinning hairs, a failed gambling slip crumpled in your sweaty and disappointed palms and memories of the life you once led, than to simply wake up dead!
Alas dear Ronnie, you were always a nobody, and you could never have been a contender, as dear Marlon himself will tell you if ever the two of you meet......
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Written March 23rd 2011 Photograph taken On March 17th 2011 in central London just off the main drag in Leicester Square at 0927am.
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Nikon D700 28mm 1/10s f/6.3 iso200 Nikkor AF-S 28-300mm f/3.5-6.3G ED IF VRII. UV filter
The Execution Premium: Linking Strategy to Operations for Competitive Advantage
Authors: Robert S. Kaplan and David P. Norton
Publication Date: August 4, 2008
Description: Senior executives love to plan strategies. They believe this puts them in the exalted company of Napoleon, Sun-Tzu and Clausewitz. Indeed, for CEOs and their corporate colleagues, developing strategy is the heart of executive leadership. Unfortunately, most companies end up with strategies that are not linked to their actual operations. The result? Strategy that is not strategic, since companies are unable to implement it.
Strategy experts Robert S. Kaplan and David P. Norton created the Balanced Scorecard and Strategy Maps, and have now developed a versatile, six-stage program your corporation can use to mesh its strategy with its operations. This process will help you: develop the strategy; plan the strategy; align the organization with the strategy; plan operations; monitor and learn; and test and adapt the strategy.
Author Bios: Robert S. Kaplan is the Marvin Bower Professor of Leadership Development at Harvard Business School and chairman of the Balanced Scorecard Collaborative.
Other works by these authors:
The Balanced Scorecard
The Strategy-Focused Organization
Strategy Maps
Alignment
Time-Driven Activity-Based Costing
Cost & Effect
Relevance Lost
Contact: publicity@hbr.org
This room contains 131 nooses hanging from the ceiling, representing the 131 government opponents who were executed under apartheid South Africa's antiterrorism laws.
The government claimed that many other political prisoners had committed suicide. It is well known and accepted now that many were tortured to death.
Site of the pawpaw tree incident where three McCoy brothers were tied to the trees and shot in 1882. This was just on the Kentucky side of the river outside of Matewan, WV.
The historical marker at the site reads: "Pawpaw Tree Incident: This episode is result of 1882 election-day fight. Tolbert, a son of Randolph McCoy, exchanged heated words with Ellison Hatfield, which started a fight. Tolbert, Pharmer and Randolph McCoy Jr. stabbed Ellison to death. Later the three brothers were captured by Hatfield clan, tied to the pawpaw trees, and shot in retaliation."
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