Saturday, 19 August 2017

Goodbye America, thanks for the ride

When it comes to Americans, most Europeans are snobs.
It may be jealousy, but lots of reasons are cited. I have heard that Americans are, among other things, brash, shallow, ignorant, flashy, loud, cultural philistines and gun-toting maniacs.  

The US has some pretty good wines, yet nobody I know buys them. No, they will say, they are not snobs. There are some very good Chilean and Argentinian wines that they do buy. It does not have to be French. It is just they cannot imagine that Coca-Cola drinking Americans can make good wine.

My Dutch acquaintances prefer a French film to an American one. Even though they usually speak good English and hardly any French.
It is a question of style. I think that is the most important reason for the European feeling of superiority: Americans have no style.

I used to speak up for Americans. You see, I liked America. I am an old-style social justice warrior weaned on "Shane"  and "The Lone Ranger".
I admired that wonderful constitution, drawn up by some of the greatest minds the world has ever seen. I identified with the cowboy, the individual who stood up against evil. I thought American literature and art were the best in the world. “Nighthawks” is my favourite painting.

Most of all, I loved film noir.
As a teenager I used to watch film noir on BBC 2. I admired everything about the films: the atmosphere, dialogue, actors, actresses, and music. 
Humphrey Bogart, James Cagney, Edward G. Robinson and all those mysterious and seductive leading ladies. I fell in love with Rita Hayworth when I saw her in “Gilda”.
It was one long cultural joyride for me.

I got over Rita Hayworth and I have gotten over America.
It is now the land of psychic epidemics, mob media, zealots and social justice bigots. It has become an intellectual desert.

Goodbye America, thanks for the ride.

Thursday, 17 August 2017

A Dirty English Jew

A Swiss hotel put up a notice telling their “Jewish guests” to use the (cold) showers before and after swimming in the pool. This created some consternation.
It also triggered a few old memories of mine.

When I was seventeen I decided to go to Israel and live on a kibbutz.
I had two major problems: No money and nowhere to go in Israel.
I solved both problems by tagging on to a Hashomer Hatzair youth group ("garin") from continental Europe that was going to kibbutz Magen. I was the only member from the British Isles.
Hashomer Hatzair paid my train and ship fare and I even received some pocket money.

I had to spend a few weeks on a “training” farm near Bishop's Stortford in Hertfordshire. The caretakers of the farm were a young Israeli couple who had a baby daughter.
All I can remember about them is that they were nondescript and short, he had a moustache and she was plumpish and wore tight jeans.
Hashomer Hatzair had few members in England so I was the only trainee there. I slept in a dormitory near the chickens. The caretakers had a small house.

All I did was shovel chicken shit.
Sometimes there were visitors. One who turned up for a few days, was a Dutch member of my European group. He was the first person I met from the group. We later became good friends in Israel and worked together with the sheep.
He was tall and blond. The Israeli wife used to get all bleary-eyed in his presence. Coquettish grins and constantly stroking her hair.
He confided in me that he was banging her up on the side, which was the real reason he was passing through.

Sometimes the couple would invite me around to watch television in the evening. The wife had one rule that I had to comply with. I was not allowed to use their toilet.
She thought that the English were very dirty, especially teenage English males. She was worried about getting diseases from the dirty English, who wallowed in befouled water when taking a bath and never took showers.

For this Israeli woman I was a dirty English Jew.

Sunday, 23 July 2017

The media: feeders of genocide

The headlines of the mainstream media equate the deliberate stabbing murders of the Salomon family in Halamish with the deaths of violent rioters in clashes with Israeli forces. Three dead on both sides, a draw.
They do this all the time. Palestinians on suicide missions get killed before they can kill Israelis and the media sees this as disproportionate violence by Israel.

The media's use of disingenuous language, biased selection of facts, prejudiced choice of interviews, misleading, partial contexts and shallow analysis in order to comply with a preconceived narrative, is having an effect. It is feeding the dehumanization and demonization of Israelis.

Demonization by the media was a major prerequisite for the genocide of both the Armenians and the Jews.
Nazis could love their own babies and brutally kill Jewish babies without any problems because, for them, the Jewish babies were not human like their own.
They were not born with these demonization ideas. They had to learn them and the media were some of the most important teachers.

It is quite common to hear calls for the genocide of 6.4 million Israeli Jews in Muslim countries. In fact, Muslims who only call for the genocide of Israeli Jews are considered "moderate" in the west.
What is new and the result of the cumulative media demonization, is the acceptance and even endorsement in mainstream western society of the call for the genocide of Israeli Jews.
This is often accompanied with a "reason" that blames the victims.

Take the example of the slitting of the throat of the Fogel baby in Itamar. The justification for this wanton murder is usually, "the parents should not have been there". 
Which is also a justification for the killing of all Israeli Jewish babies.

The blaming of the victims for genocide is not new. 
Alex Haak, the octogenarian Dutch Strasserite I have written about, maintains that if the Jews had not tried to take over the world, Hitler would not have had to kill them.

This is the moral dividing line between people. On the one side those who oppose genocide unless it is their enemies who are being massacred.
On the other side those who oppose all genocides.
It makes for strange bedfellows.

Wednesday, 5 July 2017

The Lietūkis Garage Massacre

"Excerpt from testimony given by Colonel L. Von Bischoffshausen:
I arrived in Kovno on the afternoon of June 27 1941. 
Whilst patrolling the city I came across a crowd of people that had gathered alongside a gas station to watch what was happening in the adjacent yard. There were women in the crowd and many of them clambered onto chairs and crates so that they and their children could get a better view of the “spectacle” taking place in the yard below. 

At first I thought this must be a victory celebration or some type of sporting event because of the cheering, clapping and laughter that kept breaking out.
However, when I asked what was happening I was told the “death dealer of Kovno” is at work and he would make sure that all “traitors and collaborators” received a fitting punishment for their “treachery.” 
When I drew closer I witnessed a display of brutality that was unparalleled by anything I saw in combat during two world wars.

Standing on the tarmac in the yard was a fair haired young man of around 25. He leaned on a long iron bar as thick as human arm and around his feet lay between fifteen to twenty people who were either dying or already dead. A few feet away from him stood another group of individuals who were guarded by armed men. 
Every few minutes he signaled with his hand and another person quietly stepped forward and had his skull shattered with one blow from the huge iron bar the killer held in his hand. 
Each blow he struck drew another round of clapping and cheering from the enthralled crowd."

"Laimonas Noreika, a resident of Kaunus:
I can’t remember whether we left work early that day (my elder brother Albertas and I) or whether we went home at our usual time. Opposite the Kovno cemetery at the corner of Greenwald St and Vytautas Boulevard there was a small garage, which serviced light vehicles. 
A large crowd had gathered alongside the perimeter fence of the garage yard. So we also went over to see what was happening. 
I keep asking myself whether I just imagined it all but I know I did not.

Those horrific events have been burned onto my memory and will remain there until my dying day. 
In the middle of the yard, in broad daylight and in full view of the assembled crowd, a group of well dressed, spruce intelligent looking people held iron bars which they used to viciously beat another group of similarly well dressed, spruce, intelligent people. It was obvious the yard also served as a horse stable as animal droppings were littered everywhere.

The assailants yelled the word “norma” (move it) repeatedly as they relentlessly battered the Jews until they fell to the ground and began gathering feces. They kept hitting them until finally they lay inert. 
Then, using a hosepipe for washing cars, they doused them with water until they came round following which the abuse would start all over again. And so it went on and on until the hapless victims lay dead. Bodies began to pile up everywhere. 
I stood next to the fence and watched it all until finally, my brother Albertas pulled me away…"

The above murders are known as the Lietūkis Garage Massacre. It was the most infamous incident of the Kaunas pogrom: the slaughter of Jewish people living in Slobodka (Vilijampolė), the Jewish suburb of Kaunas, Lithuania. It took place between June 25 and 29, 1941.

After the murders at the garage, they moved to Slobodka to continue the slaughter.
According to "Annihilation of Lithuanian Jewry" by Ephraim Oshry (1995), the rabbi of Slobodka, Rav Zalman Osovsky, was tied hand and foot to a chair and his head was laid upon an open volume of the Gemara (part of the Talmud). Then they sawed his head off. 
After that they murdered his wife and son.
His head was placed in a window of his house, bearing a sign: "This is what we'll do to all the Jews."

My grandparents came from Kaunus (Kovno/Kovne).

Sunday, 11 June 2017

Look on the bright side

In the western parliamentary political system the democratic process is more important than winning. After an election the party or combination of parties who have majority support in parliament form a government.
This process guarantees a peaceful transition of power and a continuation of the democratic system.

In a mobocracy (or mob democracy) only winning is important.  The democratic process is followed if it leads to victory. If the process does not lead to victory, the mob is unleashed to bring down the majority party or coalition.

Mobocracies and psychic epidemics (Carl Jung) are intertwined. The mob is so mesmerized by a leader or an ideology that anything is permitted to gain and retain power.
In the interbellum years the mob was unleashed to kill, abuse and intimidate in violent street demonstrations.
The images of the Nazis marching in Germany are nowadays chilling, because we know what happened afterwards. The German mobocracy led to Auschwitz.
At the time, tens of millions cheered. The Nazis were seen as idealists who were going to change the world for the better.

The mob is stupid, it has to be led, told what to think and do. There are no individuals in the mob. There is no real discussion. The mobbies just bleat in chorus: platitudes and one liners that they have memorized.

Nowadays the mob still uses violent street demonstrations to intimidate. See the black bloc Antifa in California.
However, it also has two new weapons: abuse and intimidation on social media and the perpetual hysteria of the mainstream media that needs titillating stories 24/7.

Jeremy Corbyn is trying to turn the UK into a mobocracy. I read that Jews are worried.
I say, look on the bright side. You have somewhere to go.

The other future victims of Corbyn and his thugs have nowhere to go.

Wednesday, 24 May 2017

Children are our future

It is the mid-1980s. The couple who were our two best friends bought a house in a cheap neighbourhood in the east of Amsterdam. Like us they had two young daughters.
The man was already an important figure in the local Labour party. He was instrumental in having a small playground built not far from their house.
At the invitation of our friends, we went with them and their daughters to have a look at the playground on the Sunday after it was finished. It looked impressive but it was empty.
The two daughters, who were 8 and 6 years old, stayed there to play when we adults returned to the house.
After about a quarter of an hour the girls came running back, crying. Their faces were very red. A group of immigrant children had come into the playground and had started to slap them.
Our friends consoled them and were very caring. However, they also "understood" how difficult it was for immigrant children, being a minority and poor. So they did not take any further action.
They did tell their daughters that in the future they should immediately come home if they saw those children in the playground again.
Since then the neighbourhood has gone through a lot. Much of the indigenous population left and their places were taken by migrant families. There was a period with drug-related problems.
Now, thirty years later, Amsterdam is in the midst of a housing boom. The well-off are moving back into the city and buying, not renting, flats and houses.

The local paper has just run a story about a new problem in the neighbourhood. The indigenous children of the well-off, who are now the minority, do not dare to play on the streets and in the playgrounds. They are scared of the migrant children.

A youth worker blamed the problem on the indigenous children. He said they were not streetwise enough.

Monday, 8 May 2017

He pronounced my name correctly

I have had different kinds of jobs during my work career in the Netherlands.
The lowest in status was cleaner of sex shows and sex cinemas in the Amsterdam Red Light district. One level above that was bouncer and projectionist in sex cinemas. These jobs paid for my university study of Politics.

You cannot keep a good man down and I clawed my way up the career ladder to become a part-time porter/concierge at a music school for children.
The teachers at the school were either professional teachers or beginning musicians. They were all very friendly.
The music school was in the same building as the Sweelinck Conservatory (of music) who had a real concierge. Our “offices” were next to each other near the entrance of the building.
We got on well. He had been an active member of the resistance in “the war” and he told me a lot about Amsterdam in that period. He liked to tell me the stories and I liked listening.
I used to stand in for him. Then I had more interaction with the often famous musicians who taught at the Sweelinck. 
Some were just as friendly as my music school teachers. Others were not. They were arrogant and condescending to the lesser mortals who worked in the building.
As they were famous, this behavior was considered acceptable.

I have always found it strange how much “famous” people can get away with.
Two girls in my group of friends were communists who worked in the communist bookshop, Pegasus, in the Leidsestraat
Of course, they were also feminists. In the summer they dressed airily and wore miniskirts. That was the fashion then.
Harry Mulisch was a famous Dutch writer.
Every now and then he would come into their bookshop. Sometimes he would ask one of the girls to get a book that was in the shop window. To get the book the girl had to bend over and he could look up her skirt from behind.
They knew what he was doing but still bent over. It was one of the quirks of a famous writer.

Getting back to my music school. The director was an organist. Nice chap.
There was one problem. He could never pronounce my name correctly. I told him many times how it was pronounced, but he just kept on forgetting it. In his world I was at the bottom of the hierarchy.

The music school was for 100% subsidized by the city of Amsterdam. The civil servant who processed the subsidy was a young lady of my age. She always came for meetings with the director in the morning. As I only started work in the afternoon, I never met her.
I do remember that the director was very agitated before her visits.

I left the music school to become a policy adviser for the city council. I started work for a department that subsidized all social and a lot of cultural activities in Amsterdam, including the music school.
My fellow policy advisers were amazingly creative. This is the department that started Paradiso, Fantasio, the Melkweg, the Sleep-In and the Vondel park project.

I confess, I had nothing to do with any of these projects. They dumped me in the city renewal.
I was the department’s representative in a number of deprived neighbourhoods.  I wrote the overall policy about where the subsidy should go and was supported by colleagues who advised on how much subsidy an individual organization “needed”.
Coincidentally, the young lady I mentioned who processed the subsidy for the music school was also a colleague.
One day she said that she had an upcoming meeting there and asked if I would like to tag along. See the place again. I thought it was a good idea.
Her meeting was in the morning. She had to change it to the afternoon to comply with my agenda.
After all, I was senior to her.

The director was waiting for us at the entrance. He greeted me heartily and he pronounced my name correctly.