@o.ahmad6: #اللهم_امين #یارب_العالمیــــــــــن🤲🏻🥺

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Monday 03 November 2025 12:02:36 GMT

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عبودي الخطيب :

اللهم امين يارب العالمين

2025-11-03 17:36:46

0

AROUND 🇮🇶: :

اللهم امين يارب العالمين 🤲🤲🤲

2025-11-03 12:09:07

1

🌕👉 :

إمين يارب العالمين

2025-11-05 14:15:02

0

Yosef swini :

اللهم آمين يارب العالمين

2025-11-03 13:13:37

1

Al-Faydi ••🤍🔥 :

اللهم امين

2025-11-04 20:30:07

0

Rahil Saouli :

اللهم امين يا رب العالمين

2025-11-04 03:21:05

0

ابوعبده :

اللهم آمين يارب العالمين

2025-11-03 12:25:11

1

بنت الأكابر ✨😊 :

اللهم امين يارب العالمين 🤲🤲🤲

2025-11-04 13:55:04

0

مولاتي فاطمه :

يارب

2025-11-03 15:23:59

1

Moataz Abdelmaged :

اللهم امين يارب العالمين

2025-11-04 12:51:31

0

lm :

امين

2025-11-03 12:24:09

1

Ahmed omran :

اللهم امين يا رب 🤲

2025-11-04 07:47:13

0

🍂🖤🖤 الهاشمية🖤🖤🍂 :

اللهم لطفك بقلوبنا واحوالنا وايامنا اللهم تولنا بسعتك وعظيم فظلكم يارب العالمين 🤲 يا الله 🤲

2025-11-03 14:46:07

1

أبراهيم الحنين :

اللهم امين يارب العالمين

2025-11-03 20:15:58

0

حساب مغلق :

اللهم امين يارب العالمين

2025-11-03 14:31:47

1

rehamooap :

اللهم امين يارب العالمين حققلي امنتي في بالي وانت تعلم مافي قلبي ياالله🥰🥰🥰🤲🏻

2025-11-03 19:59:12

0

🖤 :

🤎🤲🏼

2025-11-03 12:21:01

2

Adam Goran815 :

🥰🥰🥰🥰

2025-11-03 13:18:36

1

Rashposh🖤 :

❤🥰

2025-11-03 12:09:48

1

Adam Goran815 :

🌺🥺

2025-11-03 19:59:35

0

Adam Goran815 :

😍💓🦋

2025-11-03 19:59:50

0

Adam Goran815 :

🙏💙

2025-11-03 19:59:25

0

Adam Goran815 :

🤲🏻❤🥰

2025-11-03 19:58:55

0

Adam Goran815 :

🥰🌹

2025-11-03 19:59:11

0

Adam Goran815 :

🤲🤲🤲

2025-11-03 18:26:59

0

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On the evening of 13 July 1793, a young woman in a plain dress and a tall hat knocked on a door in the Rue des Cordeliers in Paris. She had been turned away once already that day. This time she called out that she had news of traitors plotting in Normandy, and the man inside told his household to let her in. He was sitting in his bath. Twenty minutes later he was dead. Marie-Anne Charlotte de Corday d’Armont was born in July 1768 in Normandy, into a poor family of minor nobility. She was a great-great-granddaughter of the playwright Pierre Corneille. Her mother died when she was a girl, and she was raised partly in a convent in Caen, where she read everything she could find: Plutarch, Rousseau, the classical stories of tyrants and the people who brought them down. When the Revolution came, she welcomed it. What she could not accept was what it became. By 1793 the Revolution was tearing itself apart. The radical Montagnards had driven the more moderate Girondins out of the National Convention, and many of the Girondin deputies fled to Caen, where Charlotte heard them speak. To her, one man stood for everything that had gone wrong: Jean-Paul Marat. Marat was a doctor turned journalist whose newspaper, L’Ami du Peuple, demanded blood. He called for the heads of enemies of the Revolution by the hundred, then by the thousand. Many blamed him for stirring up the September Massacres of 1792, when mobs killed more than a thousand prisoners in the Paris jails. He was also very ill. A painful skin disease had covered him in sores, and he spent most of his days sitting in a copper bathtub filled with medicinal water, a cloth soaked in vinegar tied around his head. He worked from the tub, a wooden board laid across it as a desk. Charlotte made up her mind. In July she travelled alone to Paris by coach. On the morning of the 13th she went to the arcades of the Palais-Royal and bought a kitchen knife with a dark wooden handle. She hid it in her dress. THE HORROR: Marat’s partner, Simone Évrard, tried to keep her out. Marat, hearing the word “traitors”, overruled her. Charlotte sat down beside the bath and began reciting the names of the Girondins hiding in Caen. Marat wrote them down and promised they would all be guillotined within days. Charlotte stood, pulled the knife from her dress and drove it down into his chest, just under the right collarbone. A single blow. The blade cut through to a major artery and the bathwater turned red. He managed one cry for help. Within minutes he was dead. Charlotte made no attempt to escape. The household and the neighbours seized her, and one man struck her with a chair. She was nearly torn apart by the crowd before officials took her away. Her trial at the Revolutionary Tribunal lasted barely a day. She did not deny anything. Asked who had put her up to it, she said nobody had; she had done it herself. Then she gave the line that made her famous: that she had killed one man to save a hundred thousand. She was sentenced to death. Because she had killed a man hailed as a father of the people, the court ordered her to go to the scaffold in the red smock reserved for parricides. In her cell, she asked for a painter. A young National Guard officer and artist named Jean-Jacques Hauer came and sketched her portrait. When the executioner, Charles-Henri Sanson, arrived to cut her hair, she took the scissors herself and gave a lock to Hauer to remember her by. On the evening of 17 July 1793, she rode through Paris standing in an open cart, wearing the red smock. A summer thunderstorm broke over the city, and the rain soaked her through so the red cloth clung to her body. Crowds lined the streets and jeered. She kept her head up the whole way. At the Place de la Révolution, she climbed the scaffold and was strapped to the plank. The blade fell.

On the evening of 13 July 1793, a young woman in a plain dress and a tall hat knocked on a door in the Rue des Cordeliers in Paris. She had been turned away once already that day. This time she called out that she had news of traitors plotting in Normandy, and the man inside told his household to let her in. He was sitting in his bath. Twenty minutes later he was dead. Marie-Anne Charlotte de Corday d’Armont was born in July 1768 in Normandy, into a poor family of minor nobility. She was a great-great-granddaughter of the playwright Pierre Corneille. Her mother died when she was a girl, and she was raised partly in a convent in Caen, where she read everything she could find: Plutarch, Rousseau, the classical stories of tyrants and the people who brought them down. When the Revolution came, she welcomed it. What she could not accept was what it became. By 1793 the Revolution was tearing itself apart. The radical Montagnards had driven the more moderate Girondins out of the National Convention, and many of the Girondin deputies fled to Caen, where Charlotte heard them speak. To her, one man stood for everything that had gone wrong: Jean-Paul Marat. Marat was a doctor turned journalist whose newspaper, L’Ami du Peuple, demanded blood. He called for the heads of enemies of the Revolution by the hundred, then by the thousand. Many blamed him for stirring up the September Massacres of 1792, when mobs killed more than a thousand prisoners in the Paris jails. He was also very ill. A painful skin disease had covered him in sores, and he spent most of his days sitting in a copper bathtub filled with medicinal water, a cloth soaked in vinegar tied around his head. He worked from the tub, a wooden board laid across it as a desk. Charlotte made up her mind. In July she travelled alone to Paris by coach. On the morning of the 13th she went to the arcades of the Palais-Royal and bought a kitchen knife with a dark wooden handle. She hid it in her dress. THE HORROR: Marat’s partner, Simone Évrard, tried to keep her out. Marat, hearing the word “traitors”, overruled her. Charlotte sat down beside the bath and began reciting the names of the Girondins hiding in Caen. Marat wrote them down and promised they would all be guillotined within days. Charlotte stood, pulled the knife from her dress and drove it down into his chest, just under the right collarbone. A single blow. The blade cut through to a major artery and the bathwater turned red. He managed one cry for help. Within minutes he was dead. Charlotte made no attempt to escape. The household and the neighbours seized her, and one man struck her with a chair. She was nearly torn apart by the crowd before officials took her away. Her trial at the Revolutionary Tribunal lasted barely a day. She did not deny anything. Asked who had put her up to it, she said nobody had; she had done it herself. Then she gave the line that made her famous: that she had killed one man to save a hundred thousand. She was sentenced to death. Because she had killed a man hailed as a father of the people, the court ordered her to go to the scaffold in the red smock reserved for parricides. In her cell, she asked for a painter. A young National Guard officer and artist named Jean-Jacques Hauer came and sketched her portrait. When the executioner, Charles-Henri Sanson, arrived to cut her hair, she took the scissors herself and gave a lock to Hauer to remember her by. On the evening of 17 July 1793, she rode through Paris standing in an open cart, wearing the red smock. A summer thunderstorm broke over the city, and the rain soaked her through so the red cloth clung to her body. Crowds lined the streets and jeered. She kept her head up the whole way. At the Place de la Révolution, she climbed the scaffold and was strapped to the plank. The blade fell.

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