Latest news with #LatinNight
Yahoo
13-06-2025
- Yahoo
Survivors, families tour Pulse, but questions persist
Laly Santiago-Leon sat on the floor inside the Pulse nightclub, the exact spot where her close cousin died with his partner in one of the nation's worst mass shootings nine years ago. 'It helped with closure,' she said with tears on the ninth anniversary of the massacre. 'But there will never be closure, but an understanding.' Santiago-Leon was among more than 90 survivors and family members who visited the Pulse nightclub this week before it is torn down and replaced with a permanent memorial. Until this week, few people, other than the investigators, had gotten a chance to go inside the shuttered LGBTQ-friendly nightclub where a gunman killed 49 people and wounded 53 others on June 12, 2016. Orlando city officials invited survivors and the families of victims to see the building if they wanted, saying some thought it would help them in their 'journey of grief.' Some visited Pulse on the ninth anniversary of the massacre Thursday but chose not to go inside. Others visited the building looking for answers, as questions still persist — about law enforcement's handling of the case, the club's compliance with building codes and a private foundation's failed fundraising efforts to build a permanent memorial. How onePulse broke Orlando's heart On Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, groups arrived via a shuttle bus. Black privacy screens and umbrellas shielded them from onlookers. They got to spend about 30 minutes inside the club and then were driven back to a hotel. The visits wrap up Saturday. Santiago-Leon called it a 'sacred space' that she wanted to touch before the building is demolished. Her cousin whom she considered as a brother — Daniel Wilson-Leon — died there with his partner, Jean Mendez Perez. She was told the couple were found on the dance floor 'in each other's arms.' 'It was hard,' she said about visiting the site. 'All the memories just came through. …But it was something that I wanted to do. … It was a way to say goodbye to that space.' Christine Leinonen walked around the dance floor where her son Christopher 'Drew' Leinonen and 19 others died in a hail of gunfire. 'I needed to see where my son took his last breath,' she said. 'It's as simple as that, and as painful as it is, it's nowhere near as painful as what my son experienced that night.' Pulse nightclub shooting in Orlando: Remembering the victims of June 12, 2016 The gunman, Omar Mateen, opened fire during the club's Latin Night. Police shot and killed Mateen, who pledged allegiance to an Islamic State militant group, after a three-hour standoff. FBI investigators deemed the massacre a terrorist attack, the deadliest in the United States since 9/11. At the time, the rampage was the worst mass shooting in modern U.S. history. The death toll was surpassed the following year when a gunman killed 60 people and injured 850 more in Las Vegas. The shuttered Pulse building has been cleaned, and the furniture removed. A makeshift memorial surrounds the former club with pictures of the victims and mourners, flowers and Puerto Rican and American flags. Handwritten messages are scrawled on the Pulse sign. One reads, 'Love wins.' Another says, 'Do Not Forget.' For some, it was too painful to go inside the building. Jorshua Hernandez, 31, was shot twice and still has a bullet lodged inside of him. As the horror unfolded, he waited for three hours on a bathroom floor bleeding from the gunshot wounds, along with other hostages, until police arrived. He said he didn't want to relive that day. 'It's for my mental health,' he said after lifting his T-shirt to show the long scar across his stomach and chest. 'I don't want to see the restroom. I don't want to see the bullet holes. I don't want to walk in and see where I was laying… I want to end this chapter of my life.' Hernandez said he wants new investigations, examining the city's code enforcement at Pulse and whether limited pathways to escape contributed to the death toll. City officials and the club owner said the building complied with code requirements and had sufficient exits. But Hernandez said windows and doors were blocked, preventing people from fleeing. The FBI met with families ahead of the visits, but Leinonen left dissatisfied with the agency, saying it didn't adequately answer questions. She said she's upset the FBI is closing the investigation and questioned whether the agency could have kept a closer eye on Mateen before the shooting. 'The 49 people are directly a result of the FBI failure,' she said. The FBI twice investigated the gunman before the attack but closed the case finding no criminal charges to pursue. Agents first scrutinized Mateen in 2013 after he boasted of connections to terrorists. He was questioned again in 2014 as part of a separate probe into a suicide bomber who attended his mosque and was a casual acquaintance. Mateen was put on a terrorist watchlist during the investigation, but he was removed when no criminal charges were filed as outlined by the agency's rules. In 2018, it was revealed that Mateen's father was a secret FBI informant for over a decade. U.S. Rep. Darren Soto said he'd like to see most of the FBI's files made public when the investigation is closed, with the exception of victim images and top-secret information related to national security. 'This tragedy remains in our hearts and our minds,' said Soto, a Democrat who represents Osceola County. 'We can continue to learn from it.' An FBI spokeswoman did not respond to questions about the status of the investigation and whether the agency's files will eventually be made public. Efforts to build a permanent memorial have been plagued with infighting. The onePulse Foundation, the nonprofit initially leading those efforts, dissolved in late 2023 without achieving its goal of building a remembrance and museum. The group planned a $45 million project that swelled to a price tag of $100 million. One of the group's founders was Barbara Poma, an owner of the Pulse nightclub. The foundation's failure to build a memorial outraged some victim families who questioned its spending decisions and operations. After onePulse collapsed, the city of Orlando purchased the property for $2 million and took over efforts to build a memorial. The city is planning a less ambitious $12 million memorial on the site. The nightclub building is expected to be razed later this year, and construction will start in the summer of 2026. The city hopes to complete the project by 2027. Early plans show a reflection pool where the club's dance floor stood. It also will include a pavilion, tribute wall and a garden. As families and survivors saw the inside of the club this week, a steady stream of people left flowers outside or just stood silently and reflected near the makeshift memorials. Some wiped tears from their eyes. Some wore Orlando United T-shirts. Jakob Strawn, 25, of Orlando, said he visits the Pulse club each year out of respect for the victims, still with a pain in his heart. The shooting happened when he was a high school student in Tampa, hitting him and others in his school's LGBTQ community hard. 'People do still remember,' he said, standing near a wall of flowers and memorials. 'I'm 25. When I look around here, I'm now older than some of these people were when they died. Nine years is not a very long time, and as long as I live in Orlando, I'll keep coming out here every year.'
Yahoo
12-06-2025
- Yahoo
9 Years Since the Pulse Nightclub Shooting What Comes Next?
José Luís, a close friend of Pulse nightclub shooting victim Edward Sotomayor, Jr., wipes tears while visiting the site in Orlando, Florida, on the eve of the mass shooting's 9th anniversary, Wednesday, June 11, 2025. Credit - Joe Burbank—Orlando Sentinel/TribuneOn the morning of June 12, 2016, a Sunday, I woke up in my Manhattan apartment to see several missed calls and voice messages from my mother. 'I need to know where you are,' her first message started out. 'I saw on the news what happened. Please call me back.' When I called her back, she picked up and sighed deeply. 'Oh, thank god. I know you just like to pick up and leave without giving anyone notice. I thought you could have been there. In Orlando. At Pulse.' My mother seemed to think she was breaking the news to me, but I already knew. I had still been up in the wee hours the night before, when social media accounts began to report the massacre, when concerned texts from friends started coming in. At around 2 a.m., just after last call, twenty-nine-year-old Omar Mateen had entered Pulse Nightclub on 'Latin Night' with a semiautomatic rifle. He killed 49 people and wounded 53. He shot people who had traveled to Orlando from Haiti, Puerto Rico, Cuba, Mexico, the Dominican Republic, and more. He shot a mother who would perish protecting her queer child with her body. He shot singers, hairdressers, nurses and photographers and literature students. He fired bullets into the flesh of people who wanted, for an evening, a few hours, a moment, to be free—to move their bodies joyously to the rhythms of Latin Night. As the news of the massacre was breaking, I didn't know the details of their lives. I just knew, at the deepest of levels, that many were just like me: Queer, Latinx, and fighting to survive. These were queer people composed of diasporic rhythms, queers moving across the globe, queers who have had to reckon with worlds hostile and cruel to their being. I found myself already haunted by their deaths, awestruck at how soon I felt that loss. Haunted by the body counts, the names, the stories and histories attached to those names—just like I am haunted by the many thousands of queer people, both named and unnamed, whom we have lost to AIDS. What does it mean to be "after' loss? What does it mean to continue after the Pulse Massacre or after the AIDS Crisis? How can we heal when we are always in a cruel and devastating after? I am not alone in asking these questions. 'Yesterday we saw ourselves die again // Fifty times we died in Orlando,' mourns the narrator of Christopher Soto's poem, 'All the Dead Boys Look Like Us.' The 'we' Soto describes in its plural subaltern voice is of young, queer people of color hailing from colonized countries. Many of the Pulse shooting victims were in their twenties, some in their late teens, just babies. Richard Blanco, in his own tribute to the Pulse victims, 'One Pulse—One Poem,' writes: 'picture the choir of their invisible spirits / rising with the smoke toward disco lights, imagine / ourselves dancing with them until the very end.' Forty-nine people were killed at Pulse. They were friends, lovers, mothers, siblings, partners and so much more. 'Restored Mural for Orlando' by Roy G. Guzmán focuses on the importance of a city like Orlando for queer community. Yet, he writes,'I am afraid of attending places / that celebrate our bodies because that's also where our bodies // have been cancelled / when you're brown and gay you're always dying / twice.' The 49 people who were killed at Pulse each had a name: Darryl Roman Burt II, Deonka Deidra Drayton, Antonio Davon Brown, Mercedez Marisol Flores... Their names of the 49 lives lost go on, as do the details of their lives. Jerry Wright worked at Disney World, one of Orlando's biggest employers. Juan Ramon Guerrero and Christopher 'Drew' Leinonen were boyfriends, and took their final breaths together. Jonathan Camuy worked as a producer at the popular Spanish broadcasting company Telemundo. Names do not necessarily tell the story of a life, and neither does a number. Yet, when brought together, compiled, and compacted, they speak to vast contexts and histories. Forty-nine people were killed at Pulse. Seven hundred thousand dead—disproportionately poor, unhoused, and people of color—from HIV/AIDS. Sadly, there remain many other queer names we may never know because history did not record them. Yet, despite their incompleteness, we need these names and numbers in order to have a sense of who we have lost, to feel the weight of the tally—not as a burden but as part of our fight for a different past, present, and future. My mother called me after the Pulse Nightclub shooting because she knew something of tragedy, mourning, and fear. But in truth, she was scared for me long before that terrible morning, ever since I elected to move to New York City when I was eighteen. For years, she experienced the cocktail of emotions that comes with loving a queer child—fear of our early passing from some disease, some mental illness, some lover's quarrel, some brutal attack by a stranger on a street. I want Pulse not to be solely a tragedy, a massacre, a mass shooting. I want it to signify more than pain, suffering, and unending mourning. I want after Pulse to be about the patchwork of joys, contradictions, mundanities, hopes, differences, and freedom projects that define queer life. The many ways of reaching out with all of our senses to other bodies, other places, other histories. Our after should include shaking a**, gossiping with friends, drinking cocktails, lip-syncing to a favorite song—staring into the strobe lights, feeling alive, fully bodied, transcendent. After Pulse is where I want to be. Contact us at letters@
Time Magazine
12-06-2025
- Time Magazine
9 Years Since the Pulse Nightclub Shooting What Comes Next?
On the morning of June 12, 2016, a Sunday, I woke up in my Manhattan apartment to see several missed calls and voice messages from my mother. 'I need to know where you are,' her first message started out. 'I saw on the news what happened. Please call me back.' When I called her back, she picked up and sighed deeply. 'Oh, thank god. I know you just like to pick up and leave without giving anyone notice. I thought you could have been there. In Orlando. At Pulse.' My mother seemed to think she was breaking the news to me, but I already knew. I had still been up in the wee hours the night before, when social media accounts began to report the massacre, when concerned texts from friends started coming in. At around 2 a.m., just after last call, twenty-nine-year-old Omar Mateen had entered Pulse Nightclub on 'Latin Night' with a semiautomatic rifle. He killed 49 people and wounded 53. He shot people who had traveled to Orlando from Haiti, Puerto Rico, Cuba, Mexico, the Dominican Republic, and more. He shot a mother who would perish protecting her queer child with her body. He shot singers, hairdressers, nurses and photographers and literature students. He fired bullets into the flesh of people who wanted, for an evening, a few hours, a moment, to be free—to move their bodies joyously to the rhythms of Latin Night. As the news of the massacre was breaking, I didn't know the details of their lives. I just knew, at the deepest of levels, that many were just like me: Queer, Latinx, and fighting to survive. These were queer people composed of diasporic rhythms, queers moving across the globe, queers who have had to reckon with worlds hostile and cruel to their being. I found myself already haunted by their deaths, awestruck at how soon I felt that loss. Haunted by the body counts, the names, the stories and histories attached to those names—just like I am haunted by the many thousands of queer people, both named and unnamed, whom we have lost to AIDS. What does it mean to be "after' loss? What does it mean to continue after the Pulse Massacre or after the AIDS Crisis? How can we heal when we are always in a cruel and devastating after? I am not alone in asking these questions. 'Yesterday we saw ourselves die again // Fifty times we died in Orlando,' mourns the narrator of Christopher Soto's poem, ' All the Dead Boys Look Like Us.' The 'we' Soto describes in its plural subaltern voice is of young, queer people of color hailing from colonized countries. Many of the Pulse shooting victims were in their twenties, some in their late teens, just babies. Richard Blanco, in his own tribute to the Pulse victims, ' One Pulse—One Poem,' writes: 'picture the choir of their invisible spirits / rising with the smoke toward disco lights, imagine / ourselves dancing with them until the very end.' Forty-nine people were killed at Pulse. They were friends, lovers, mothers, siblings, partners and so much more. ' Restored Mural for Orlando ' by Roy G. Guzmán focuses on the importance of a city like Orlando for queer community. Yet, he writes,'I am afraid of attending places / that celebrate our bodies because that's also where our bodies // have been cancelled / when you're brown and gay you're always dying / twice.' The 49 people who were killed at Pulse each had a name: Darryl Roman Burt II, Deonka Deidra Drayton, Antonio Davon Brown, Mercedez Marisol Flores... Their names of the 49 lives lost go on, as do the details of their lives. Jerry Wright worked at Disney World, one of Orlando's biggest employers. Juan Ramon Guerrero and Christopher 'Drew' Leinonen were boyfriends, and took their final breaths together. Jonathan Camuy worked as a producer at the popular Spanish broadcasting company Telemundo. Names do not necessarily tell the story of a life, and neither does a number. Yet, when brought together, compiled, and compacted, they speak to vast contexts and histories. Forty-nine people were killed at Pulse. Seven hundred thousand dead—disproportionately poor, unhoused, and people of color—from HIV/AIDS. Sadly, there remain many other queer names we may never know because history did not record them. Yet, despite their incompleteness, we need these names and numbers in order to have a sense of who we have lost, to feel the weight of the tally—not as a burden but as part of our fight for a different past, present, and future. My mother called me after the Pulse Nightclub shooting because she knew something of tragedy, mourning, and fear. But in truth, she was scared for me long before that terrible morning, ever since I elected to move to New York City when I was eighteen. For years, she experienced the cocktail of emotions that comes with loving a queer child—fear of our early passing from some disease, some mental illness, some lover's quarrel, some brutal attack by a stranger on a street. I want Pulse not to be solely a tragedy, a massacre, a mass shooting. I want it to signify more than pain, suffering, and unending mourning. I want after Pulse to be about the patchwork of joys, contradictions, mundanities, hopes, differences, and freedom projects that define queer life. The many ways of reaching out with all of our senses to other bodies, other places, other histories. Our after should include shaking a**, gossiping with friends, drinking cocktails, lip-syncing to a favorite song—staring into the strobe lights, feeling alive, fully bodied, transcendent. After Pulse is where I want to be.
Yahoo
12-06-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
In Pulse remembrance, DeSantis leaves out LGBTQ, Hispanic communities that were targets of massacre
After years of acknowledging the targets of the 2016 Pulse nightclub massacre — the LGBTQ and Hispanic communities — Gov. Ron DeSantis has omitted them from his official state description of Pulse Remembrance Day. This year's omission is notable largely because of what DeSantis did in 2019, his first year as governor, when he also didn't include the LGBTQ and Hispanic communities. That year, DeSantis shifted course less than 24 hours later. His office issued a statement that it said corrected the omission, blamed the staff, and said DeSantis himself directed that the LGBTQ and Hispanic communities be added. In intervening years, his annual memorandum directing flags be flown at half staff in commemoration of Pulse Remembrance Day include the LGBTQ and Hispanic communities. Thursday is Pulse Remembrance Day marking the anniversary of the June 12, 2016, massacre that took place on Latin Night at the LGBTQ club in Orlando. The gunman killed 49 people and wounded 53. DeSantis' office did not immediately respond to a request for comment Thursday about why this year's memorandum from the governor, 'Flags at Half-Staff in Honor of Pulse Remembrance Day' left out the wording 'against the LGBTQ and Hispanic communities' that has been used since. State Sen. Carlos Guillermo Smith D-Orlando, the state's first openly LGBTQ Hispanic senator, said there is no way it was accidental. 'The omission was as intentional as it was a slight against the impacted LGBTQ and Hispanic communities. The governor's lack of consistency here shows he cares more about scoring political points in the moment than authentic solidarity with his own constituents,' Smith said. The senator said he didn't want to 'focus on the governor's bigotry and exclusion. That's already known.' Instead, he said, Thursday should be 'about remembering the 49 lives taken by gun violence' and their families. State Sen. Shevrin Jones, a Miami Gardens Democrat and the first openly LGBTQ member of the Florida Senate, said the omission was 'deeply disappointing, but unfortunately not surprising. Governor DeSantis continues to erase or attempt to erase the very communities most impacted by the Pulse tragedy. To remember Pulse without naming the LGBTQ+ and Hispanic lives lost is to rewrite history.' This year's change comes as the national political environment has changed rapidly since President Donald Trump was elected to a second term in November and took office in January. Trump has instituted a nationwide pullback of efforts to acknowledge or promote, diversity, equity and inclusion, which includes the LGBTQ and Hispanic communities. Trump and his MAGA movement view DEI efforts as discriminatory against white people. Unlike DeSantis, U.S. Sen. Rick Scott, R-Fla., included both communities in his statement on Thursday. 'It's been nine years since the tragic attack at Pulse Nightclub, where 49 innocent lives were taken in an act of terror targeting Orlando's LGBTQ and Hispanic communities,' Scott began. Corporations pull back from LGBTQ Pride sponsorships, affecting South Florida events In marking Pulse massacre anniversary, some politicians downplay LGBT community David Jolly launches campaign for Florida governor. Focus is on affordability, broadening Democratic base. Broward Democrats urged to summon all their energy to combat Trump and look for 2026 wins Visibility, acceptance, influence have soared in 40 years since Broward activists founded Dolphin Democrats LGBTQ political club Now the state's senior senator, Scott was governor at the time of the Pulse massacre. 'I still remember the days and weeks that followed, sitting with grieving families and loved ones, feeling the heartbreak and loss that will never fully heal. That horrible night was meant to spread fear and hatred, but instead, it united Floridians.' A formal Senate resolution, introduced by Scott and joined by U.S. Sen. Ashley Moody, R-Fla., referred to it as an 'attack on the LGBTQ community, the Hispanic community, the City of Orlando, the State of Florida, and the United States.' But Moody, who DeSantis appointed to fill a Senate vacancy this year, was closer to the governor than Scott in her statement, which referred to the '49 innocent victims killed in the despicable attack at Pulse nightclub in Orlando.' Smith and Jones both pointed to Senate President Ben Albritton, a Republican. Albritton reposted Smith's social media post, as did the official social media account of the Republican-controlled Florida Senate, that marked '9 years since 49 angels were taken at Pulse nightclub and Orlando's LGBTQ and Latino community were shattered by grief.' The 2025 DeSantis memorandum ordering lags at half staff to commemorate Pulse Remembrance Day was virtually identical to what he issued almost every year since he took office, with one exception. Last year's memorandum begins: 'Eight years ago, on June 12, 2016, a shooter claiming alliance to the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant committed a horrific act of terrorism against the LGBTQ and Hispanic communities at Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Florida.' This year's memorandum begins: 'Nine years ago, on June 12, 2016, a shooter claiming alliance to the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant committed a horrific act of terrorism at Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Florida.' After the 2019 omission, the governor's office announced that, 'Governor Ron DeSantis has issued a corrected version of today's proclamation (see attached). Staff made an error in the previous version. The Governor has directed that the proclamation be re-issued, including a direct reference to our LGBTQ and Hispanic communities.' Anthony Man can be reached at aman@ and can be found @browardpolitics on Bluesky, Threads, Facebook and Mastodon.
Yahoo
12-06-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Gov. DeSantis deletes ‘LGBTQ and Hispanic communities' from Pulse anniversary statement
Gov. Ron DeSantis' annual statement on the Pulse shooting anniversary released Thursday makes no mention of the LGBTQ and Hispanic communities — the two groups most devastated by the massacre that left 49 dead. DeSantis mentioned those communities last year and in other previous statements recognizing the shooting on June 12, 2016. Those anniversary statements called it a 'a horrific act of terrorism against the LGBTQ and Hispanic communities.' In his first year in office, however, the two-term governor faced blowback when an initial statement also failed to note who was most impacted by the shooting. The deletion this year seems in line with efforts by both the DeSantis and Trump administrations to purge what it calls 'diversity, equity and inclusion' from the government, which has included similar deletions that reference sexual orientation and race from the National Park Service website and others. 'Gov. DeSantis' erasure of the LGBTQ+ and Latino communities today may say a lot about what kind of person he is, but it doesn't change the fact that those were the communities most directly impacted at Pulse,' said Brandon Wolf, a Pulse survivor from Orlando who serves as spokesman for the Human Rights Campaign. The memorandum from the governor's office ordering flags to be at half-staff on Thursday states, 'Nine years ago, on June 12, 2016, a shooter claiming alliance to the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant committed a horrific act of terrorism at Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Florida.' Pulse nightclub shooting in Orlando: Remembering the victims of June 12, 2016 Spokespersons for the governor did not respond to a request for comment. The governor's memorandum from last year, and for at least the last four years, included the reference to the terrorism 'against the LGBTQ and Hispanic communities.' Wolf said in an email that DeSantis' statement cannot rewrite what happened. 'His erasure doesn't change the fact that families have empty seats at dinner tables, friends have missing faces at birthday parties, and our communities still bear the scars,' Wolf wrote in an email. 'Today, rather than letting the governor's petty political cowardice write our story, I hope people choose to remember those stolen and impacted, reflect on the costs of violent hate, and recommit to honoring those we loved and lost with action.' DeSantis' previous removal of language citing the impact of the Pulse shooting on the LGBTQ and Hispanic communities, who made up the majority of the victims at what was Latin Night at the popular gay nightclub, led to an uproar in his first year in office in 2019. The Tampa Bay Times reported at the time that DeSantis' office prepared two proclamations to commemorate the 3-year anniversary of Pulse, one that mentioned the Hispanic and LGBTQ communities and one that didn't. DeSantis initially opted for the one that didn't, but then released a different version the next day that made reference to the community before visiting the Pulse site. 'The state of Florida will not tolerate hatred towards the LGBTQ and Hispanic communities and we will stand boldly with Orlando and the Central Florida community against terrorism and hate,' one of the drafts stated. The version that was initially released stated 'the entire state of Florida has come together to stand boldly.' DeSantis' spokeswoman at the time, Helen Ferre, blamed the mishap on a staffer, but didn't identify who it was. While DeSantis had been at the forefront of opposing 'critical race theory' and DEI, the new Trump administration has taken those efforts to the extreme in its removal of language about minorities. The park service website for Stonewall National Monument, which commemorates the birth of the gay rights movement in June 1969 and led to June being declared Pride Month, removed mention of 'transgender' people despite their being at the forefront of the historic confrontation with police. A webpage on Harriet Tubman was also altered to remove mention of 'the resistance to enslavement through escape and flight' and a prominent photo of Tubman. A Trump order also called for removal of Park Service language with 'improper' ideology and called for visitors to report any instances of language that 'inappropriately disparages Americans past or living.' The Department of Defense got into hot water earlier this year when it removed a webpage about civil rights icon Jackie Robinson's military career, with the letters 'dei' inserted into their web address. The page was later restored. But the DOD did announce this month it would change the name of a Navy ship bearing the name of assassinated LGBTQ politician Harvey Milk, who was a Navy vet, and also recommended renaming ships named after Tubman, African American Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, labor leaders Dolores Huerta and Cesar Chavez, women's rights suffragist Lucy Stone, and civil rights leader Medgar Evers, according to CBS News.
