5. The Camp of the Saints

Invasion of the boat people! Don’t worry, the Carlyle Club will hold them off before they overrun the Camp of the Saints.

Table of Contents

  1. Bipartisan Treason
  2. The Camp of the Saints
  3. “It Is Later Than You Think…”
  4. Where It All Began
  5. Traitors at the Belgian Consulate
  6. The Fleet Sets Sail
  7. Colonization in Progress
  8. Meet Clément Dio
    1. Now Meet Touré
  9. Transmission, plus:
    1. The Tampa Boys
    2. “Teaching Tolerance”
    3. Chin and Miller
  10. The South African Threat, plus:
    1. “Better Off under Colonialism”
    2. “Hacked to Death”
    3. “Just for Fun”
  11. Dio’s Revenge
  12. Dio’s End
  13. White Guilt Singularity
  14. Pure Theater, plus:
    1. Know Your Left from Right
  15. Happy Valentine’s Day from Radish
  16. Recommended Reading
  17. Letters to the Editor

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Bipartisan Treason

Above: Mesoamerican colonization in progress.

This soil of Britain, these Saxon men have cleared it, made it arable, fertile and a home for them; they and their fathers have done that. Under the sky there exists no force of men who with arms in their hands could drive them out of it; all force of men with arms these Saxons would seize, in their grim way, and fling (Heaven’s justice and their own Saxon humour aiding them) swiftly into the sea. But behold, a force of men armed only with rags, ignorance and nakedness; and the Saxon owners, paralysed by invisible magic of paper formula, have to fly far, and hide themselves in Transatlantic forests.

— Thomas Carlyle, Chartism (1839)

High treason and colonization, better known as amnesty and immigration (Radish 1.2), are in the news again as progressives of both parties, — ruling class Democrats and fake opposition Republicans, — set aside superficial differences and formally join forces to complete the process of national suicide begun by the loathsome traitor (now, thankfully, rotting corpse) Ted Kennedy in 1965, flooding the country with tens of millions of foreign invadersmost of them on welfare, few of them loyal to or even particularly fond of their new home. As if America needed another dysfunctional, resentful underclass.

No, Mayor Bloomberg, you other loathsome traitor, “national suicide” doesn’t refer to a lack of immigrants. America does not require additional college students. No, not even STEM. We have a surfeit of STEM, are fairly brimming with STEM. It is therefore unnecessary to ransack the Third World for software developers, let alone unskilled laborers, and in the process reduce European Americans (90% of the population in 1960) to a minority in their own country by 2043.

Let Mexico keep its DREAMers. Let Haiti keep its doctors. For God’s sake, let Africa keep its Einsteins.

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Bipartisan treason in 2007 and 2013

Obviously, I’m not really addressing the ruling class, who are beyond all hope and reason, but rather the basically decent albeit perennially confused country class Americans (Canadians, Swiss, Australians…) who’ve been watching the country as it goes so horribly wrong in such obvious ways, but have also been so worn down by decade after decade of progressivism’s preposterous lies about ‘proposition nations,’ ‘human rights’ and ‘racial equality,’ — “paralysed,” that is, “by invisible magic of paper formula,” uncontested by an utterly useless and stupid ‘conservatism’ that never manages to conserve anything, — that they need to be reminded: yes, a nation must control its borders (a task, by the way, which could easily be accomplished with some barbed wire and a few armed patriots to patrol it, neither of which are in short supply, though for some reason most of your armed patriots seem to be wandering around Muslim countries getting shot at for no good reason); no, it is not your responsibility to feed and clothe all the Haitians, Ethiopians, Cambodians, and anyone else whose adaptive strategy has basically been to outbreed the malaria and the crocodiles; and most of all, no, there is nothing wrong with wanting to preserve your cultural and biological heritage.

In the simplest possible terms: to hell with “equality,” “diversity,” and “opportunity.” This is our country, and you can’t have it. “Under the sky there exists no force of men who with arms in their hands could drive them out of it; all force of men with arms these Saxons would seize, in their grim way, and fling swiftly into the sea.” Because it’s difficult to whine about the ‘Native Americans’ from the bottom of the Atlantic, as Carlyle pointed out (Chartism):

Whose land was this of Britain? God’s who made it, His and no other’s it was and is. Who of God’s creatures had right to live in it? The wolves and bisons? Yes they; till one with a better right showed himself. The Celt, “aboriginal savage of Europe,” as a snarling antiquary names him, arrived, pretending to have a better right; and did accordingly, not without pain to the bisons, make good the same. He had a better right to that piece of God’s land; namely a better might to turn it to use; — a might to settle himself there, at least, and try what use he could turn it to. The bisons disappeared; the Celts took possession, and tilled. … Why does that hyssop grow there, in the chink of the wall? Because the whole universe, sufficiently occupied otherwise, could not hitherto prevent its growing! It has the might and the right.

In this issue of Radish, we’ll be adding up the terrible cost of forgetting this elementary principle.

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The Camp of the Saints

Above: Jean Raspail’s 1973 novel predicted the ongoing Third World colonization of the West, also known as “immigration.”

France has produced some of the best reactionary thinkers of the past half-century, including Guillaume Faye, subject of Radish 1.2. This week, we introduce another, Jean Raspail, through his prophetic 1973 novel The Camp of the Saints, available free of charge (with a few typos) at the Internet Archive.

“A perfervid racist diatribe,” shrieked The New York Times on the occasion of the first English translation (cited in The Social Contract). Time magazine declared it “a bilious tirade,” not to mention “harangue,” which merited a review only because it had arrived “trailing clouds of praise from French savants,” including the famous dramatist Jean Anouilh, who called it “a haunting book of irresistible force and calm logic.” More recently, the Southern Poverty Law Center (which we’ll see again a little later) smeared it as a “racist fantasy.” The idea is to make you dismiss the book without ever reading it — but haven’t they made you just a bit curious to see what Raspail actually wrote? (How does a “bilious tirade” maintain “calm logic?” Isn’t every novel a kind of “fantasy?”)

If not, we can turn to more favorable assessments. “remarkable” and “riveting” (Publisher’s Weekly); “sensational” (The Wall Street Journal); “audacious and imaginative fiction” (San Francisco Chronicle); “worthy of careful consideration” (The Houston Post). “His plot is both simple and brilliant” (National Review). “Seizes the imagination” (Choice). “Will succeed in shocking and challenging the complacent contemporary mind” (Library Journal). “No reader will remain unaffected by the questions it raises” (The Baltimore Sun). “Raspail has made an eloquent statement about world conditions, the class society, modern politics and about the hearts and minds of people” (Sunday Peninsula Herald). “A generation ago Orwell and Huxley set ominous problems before us; and we still grapple with them. Now there is Jean Raspail. … No reader can remain unaffected by the questions raised in this compelling novel” (St. Louis Globe Democrat). “A nightmare as frightening as it is probable. Jean Raspail’s novel is a major contribution to the swirling discussion of human survival, and it may very well change some minds” (The Weekender). “I cannot recall when, if ever, I have read a book of such stunning force and disturbing content” (Peninsula Living). “A brilliant novel… one of the most chilling books of this generation” (The Boston Globe). “Powerful, almost stunning… Whatever your political orientation, it’s an exciting, superbly written book” (Pacific Sun Literary Quarterly). Not too shabby.

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French and English cover art for The Camp of the Saints

Near the start of that curious period of relative (relative, mind you) racial realism which Peter Brimelow (below) calls the “post-Cold War 1990s interglacial, after the discrediting of Marxism proper but before the onset of Cultural Marxism,” — think Paved with Good Intentions (1993) by Jared Taylor (also below), Brimelow’s Alien Nation (1994), the infamous Bell Curve (1994), and Arthur Jensen’s g Factor (1998), — historians Matthew Connelly and Paul Kennedy unleashed Camp-based ‘Must It Be the Rest Against the West?’ (The Atlantic, 1994):

Welcome to the 300-page narrative of Jean Raspail’s disturbing, chilling, futuristic novel The Camp of the Saints, first published in Paris twenty-one years ago and translated into English a short while later. …

Why revisit this controversial and nowadays hard-to-obtain novel? The recovery of this neglected work helps us to call attention to the key global problem of the final years of the twentieth century: unbalanced wealth and resources, unbalanced demographic trends, and the relationship between the two. Many members of the more prosperous economies are beginning to agree with Raspail’s vision: a world of two “camps,” North and South, separate and unequal, in which the rich will have to fight and the poor will have to die if mass migration is not to overwhelm us all. Migration is the third part of the problem. If we do not act now to counteract tendencies toward global apartheid, they will only hurry the day when we may indeed see Raspail’s vision made real.

Segregation is the first principle of civilization: if you want to live better than a wild animal, — that is, enjoy “unbalanced wealth and resources,” — then you have to stop the barbarians from scaling the city walls. Or I suppose you could open the gates, invite them in, and hope for the best

For the remainder of this century, we suspect, the debate will rage over what and how much should be done to improve the condition of humankind in the face of the mounting pressures described here and in other analyses. One thing seems to us fairly certain. However the debate unfolds, it is, alas, likely that a large part of it — on issues of population, migration, rich versus poor, race against race — will have advanced little beyond the considerations and themes that are at the heart of one of the most disturbing novels of the late twentieth century, Jean Raspail’s The Camp of the Saints. It will take more than talk to prove the prophet wrong.

Now that has to make you at least a little curious! Fortunately, The Camp of Saints is no longer hard to obtain. We’re also fortunate that “one of the most disturbing novels of the late twentieth century” happens to be exciting, suspenseful, and surprisingly funny. (Unfortunately, the interglacial ended, and the “debate” was canceled on account of being way too racist.) If you’re still not convinced, read on, my civilized friends, and we’ll see how much of Jean Raspail’s dark vision has already come to pass.

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“It Is Later Than You Think…”

Above: UN “Refugee” Agency (UNHCR) photo of Libyan colonizers at the sea in the Mediterranean.

From the author’s introduction to the 1985 French edition of The Camp of the Saints:

Published for the first time in 1973, Camp of the Saints is a novel that anticipates a situation which seems plausible today and foresees a threat that no longer seems unbelievable to anyone: it describes the peaceful invasion of France, and then of the West, by a third world burgeoned into multitudes. At all levels — global consciousness, governments, societies, and especially every person within himself — the question is asked belatedly: what’s to be done?

What’s to be done, since no one would wish to renounce his own human dignity by acquiescing to racism? What’s to be done since, simultaneously, all persons and all nations have the sacred right to preserve their differences and identities, in the name of their own future and their own past?

Our world was shaped within an extraordinary variety of cultures and races, that could only develop to their ultimate and singular perfection through a necessary segregation. The confrontations that flow (and have always flowed) from this, are not racist, nor even racial. They are simply part of the permanent flow of opposing forces that shape the history of the world. The weak fade and disappear, the strong multiply and triumph.

For example, since the time of the Crusades and the great land and sea discoveries, and up to the colonial period and its last-ditch battles, Western expansionism responded to diverse motivations — ethical, political, or economic — but racism had no part and played no role in it, except perhaps in the soul of evil people. The relative strength of forces was in our favor, that’s all. That these were applied most often at the expense of other races — though some were thereby saved from their state of mortal torpor — was merely a consequence of our appetite for conquest and was not driven by or a cover for ideology. Now that the relationship between the forces has been diametrically reversed, and our ancient West — tragically now in a minority status on this earth — retreats behind its dismantled fortifications while it already loses the battles on its own soil, it begins to behold, in astonishment, the dull roar of the huge tide that threatens to engulf it. One must remember the saying on ancient solar calendars: ‘It is later than you think…’ The above reference did not come from my pen. It was written by Thierry Maulnier, in connection with Camp of the Saints, as it happens. [...]

But, to go back to the action in Camp of the Saints — if it is a symbol, it doesn’t arise from any utopia; it no longer arises from any utopia. If it is a prophecy, we live its beginnings today. Simply, in Camp of the Saints, it is treated as a classic tragedy, according to the literary principles of unity of time, place and action everything takes place within three days along the shores of Southern France, and it is there that the destiny of white people is sealed. Though the action was then already well developed along the lines described in Camp of the Saints (boat people, the radicalization of the North African community and of other foreign groups in France, the strong psychological impact of human rights organizations, the inflamed evangelism of the religious leadership, a hypocritical purity of consciences, refusal to look the truth in the face, etc.) in actuality the unraveling will not take place in three days but, almost certainly, after many convulsions, during the first decades of the third millennium, barely the time of one or two generations. [...] It’s enough to go back to the scary demographic predictions for the next thirty years, and those I will cite are the most favorable ones: encircled by seven billion people, only seven hundred million of them white, hardly a third of them in our little Europe, and those no longer in bloom but quite old. They face a vanguard of four hundred million North Africans and Muslims, fifty percent of them less than twenty years old, those on the opposite shores of the Mediterranean arriving ahead of the rest of the world! Can one imagine for a second, in the name of whatever ostrich-like blindness, that such a disequilibrium can endure? [...]

For the West is empty, even if it has not yet become really aware of it. An extraordinarily inventive civilization, surely the only one capable of meeting the challenges of the third millennium, the West has no soul left. At every level — nations, races, cultures, as well as individuals — it is always the soul that wins the decisive battles. It is only the soul that forms the weave of gold and brass from which the shields that save the strong are fashioned. I can hardly discern any soul in us. [...] They are content to just endure. Mechanically, they ensure their survival from week to week, ever more feebly. Under the flag of an illusory internal solidarity and security, they are no longer in solidarity with anything, or even cognizant of anything that would constitute the essential commonalities of a people. In the area of the practical and materialistic, which alone can still light a spark of interest in their eyes, they form a nation of petty bourgeois which, in the name of the riches it inherited and is less and less deserving of, rewards itself — and continues to reward itself in the middle of crisis — with millions of domestic servants: immigrants. Ah! How they will shudder! The domestics have innumerable relatives on this side and beyond the seas, a single starving family that populates all the earth. [...]

But the petty bourgeois, deaf and blind, continues to play the buffoon without knowing it. Still miraculously comfortable in his lush fields, he cries out while glancing toward his nearest neighbor ‘Make the rich pay!’ Does he know, does he finally know that it is he who is the rich guy, and that the cry for justice, that cry of all revolutions, projected by millions of voices, is rising soon against him, and only against him. That’s the whole theme of Camp of the Saints.

So, what to do?

I am a novelist. I have no theory, no system nor ideology to propose or defend. It just seems to me that we are facing a unique alternative either learn the resigned courage of being poor or find again the inflexible courage to be rich. In both cases, so-called Christian charity will prove itself powerless. The times will be cruel.

— J.R.

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Where It All Began

Above: Photos from the aptly named travelogue India Is Filthy. Note the body in the street. Yes, that man is urinating in public. The interested reader with an iron stomach can peruse the horrifying Filthy India Photos.

Where did it all begin? From Chapter 5 of The Camp of the Saints:

If any logic at all can be found in the way a popular myth gets its start, then we have to go back to Calcutta, to the Consulate General of Belgium, to look for the beginnings of the one we can call, for the moment, “the myth of the newfound paradise.” A shabby little consulate, set up in an old colonial villa on the edge of the diplomatic quarter, waking one morning to find a silent throng milling around outside its doors. At daybreak the Sikh guard had chained the front gate shut. From time to time he would point the barrel of his antique rifle between the bars, to urge back the ones who had pushed their way up front. But since he was a decent sort, and since there was really no threat to himself or the gate he was guarding, he would tell them now and again, nicely as he could:

“Look, maybe in a little while you can have some rice. But then you’ll have to go. It’s no use standing around. See the announcement? It’s signed by the Consul himself.”

“What does it say?” the crowd would yell, since none of them could read. “Tell us… Read it out loud…”

As a matter of fact, it was hard to make out much of anything now on the notice posted on the gate, smudged as it was with the prints of the thousand hands that had pawed it over, never quite believing the bad news it proclaimed. But the guard knew the text by heart. He had had to recite it now for a week, day in day out, and he droned it through, word for word, from beginning to end:

“Pursuant to the royal decree of such-and-such date, the government of Belgium has decided to terminate until further notice all adoption procedures presently under way. Henceforth no new requests for adoption will be accepted. Similarly, no Belgian entry visas will be granted for those children currently being processed for departure, even in those cases where a legal adoption and dates the present decree.”

A long moan ran through the crowd. Judging by its length and volume, and by the fact that it welled up out of the silence each time it seemed about to die, the Sikh guard — a master at gauging mass distress — guessed that their number had doubled, at least, since the day before.

“Come on, now. Move back!” he shouted, shaking his gun. “Let’s all quiet down! You’ll get your rice, then you’ll have to go back where you came from. And you’d better stay there from now on, too. You heard the announcement.”

Up front, a woman stepped out of the crowd and started to speak. All the rest stopped to listen, as if she were speaking for each and every one. She was holding a child in her outstretched arms, a little boy, maybe two years old, thrusting his face so close to the gate that it made him cross his big, gaping eyes.

“Look at my son,” she cried. “Isn’t he pretty? Isn’t he solid and strong for his age, with his plump little thighs, and his arms, and his nice straight legs? … See? Look at his mouth. See how white and even his teeth are? … And his face. Not a scab, not a fly. And his eyes, never any pus, wide open all the time… And his hair. You could grab it and pull it, and he wouldn’t lose a one. … Look between his legs, see how clean it all is? Even his little bottom… And his belly, nice and flat, not swollen like some babies his age… I could show you what comes out when he goes, and you wouldn’t see a worm, not even a speck of blood. No, he’s a good, healthy child. Like the papers said he had to be. Because we fed him the best, we fattened him up just for that. From the day he was born. We saw how pretty he was, and we made up our minds we would send him. So he could grow up there, and be rich, and happy… And we fed him more and more, just like the clinic told us. … Then his sisters died. The two of them. They were older than he was, but such sickly little things, and he was so hungry, and prettier every day. He could eat enough for three, God bless him! … And now you’re trying to tell me that we fattened him up for nothing, that his poor father slaved in the ricefields and worked himself to death, all for nothing, and that I’m going to have him on my hands for good, and keep him, and feed him? … No, it’s my turn to eat! And I’m hungry, you hear? Yes, it’s my turn now, because he’s big and strong. … And besides, he’s not mine now, he’s not even mine. He’s got a new family, halfway around the world, and they’re waiting to take him and give him their name. See? It says so on this medal they sent us. The one around his neck. See? I’m not lying! He’s theirs now. Take him, he’s theirs. I’m through. They promised. I did what they told me, and now… No, now I’m too tired…”

A hundred women pushed forward, each one with a child in her outstretched arms. And they cried out things like: “He’s theirs now, he’s theirs!,” or “They promised to take him…” Pretty babies, mostly, all looking as if they had fed themselves plump on the flesh of their mothers. Poor haggard souls, those mothers, drained dry, as if the umbilical cords were still intact. And the crowd howled, “Take them, take them! They’re theirs now! Take them!,” while hundreds of others pressed forward behind the ones up front, with armfuls of babes by the hundreds, and hundreds of bigger ones too, all ripe for adoption, pushing them up to the brink, to take the giant leap to paradise. The Belgian decree, far from stemming the human flood, had increased it tenfold. When man has nothing left, he looks askance at certainty. Experience has taught that it’s not meant for him. As likelihood fades, myth looms up in its place. The dimmer the chance, the brighter the hope. And so, there they were, thousands of wretched creatures, hoping, crowding against the consulate gates, like the piles of fruit a crafty merchant heaps on his stand, afraid it might spoil: the best ones up front, all shiny and tempting; the next best right behind, still in plain sight, and not too bad if you don’t look too close; then the ones barely visible, the damaged ones, starting to rot, all wormy inside, or turned so you can’t see the mold. … Milling about, way back in the crowd, the women with the monsters, the horrors that no one would take off their hands. And they moaned and groaned louder than all the rest, since their hope knew no bounds. [...] They had come close, and that was enough to nurture their hope, enough to make it spring to life with extravagant visions of milk and honey flowing untapped into rivers thick with fish, whose waters washed fields fairly bursting with crops, far as the eye could see, growing wild for the taking, where little monster children could roll about to their hearts’ content. … The simpler the folk, the stronger the myth. Soon everyone heard their babble, believed their fantasies, and dreamed the same wild dreams of life in the West. The problem is that, in famine-racked Calcutta, “everyone” means quite a few. Could that be one explanation? …

Way back, behind the backmost women in the crowd, a giant of a man stood stripped to the waist, holding something over his head and waving it like a flag. Untouchable pariah, this dealer in droppings, dung roller by trade, molder of manure briquettes, turd eater in time of famine, and holding high in his stinking hands a mass of human flesh.

At the bottom, two stumps; then an enormous trunk, all hunched and twisted and bent out of shape; no neck, but a kind of extra stump, a third one in place of a head, and a bald little skull, with two holes for eyes and a hole for a mouth, but a mouth that was no mouth at all — no throat, no teeth — just a flap of skin over his gullet. The monster’s eyes were alive, and they stared straight ahead, high over the crowd, frozen forward in a relentless gaze — except, that is, when his pariah father would wave him bodily back and forth. It was just that lidless gaze that flashed through the bars of the gate and caught the eye of the Consul himself, staring in spellbound horror. He had stepped outside for a look at the crowd, to see what was going on. But it wasn’t the crowd he saw. And all at once he closed his eyes and began to shout:

“No rice! No visas! No anything! You won’t get another thing, do you hear? Now get out! Get out! Every one of you! Out!”

As he turned to rush off, a sharp little stone hit him square on the forehead and left a gash. The monster’s eyes lit up. The quiver that ran through his frame was his way of thanking his father. And that was all. No other act of violence. Yet suddenly the keeper of the milk and honey, stumbling back to his consulate, head in hands, struck the crowd as a rather weak defender of the sacred portals of the Western World. So weak, in fact, that if only they could wait, sooner or later he was bound to drop the keys. Could that be one explanation? …

The Sikh took aim. The hint was enough. They all squatted down on their haunches, hushed and still, like waters ebbing before the flood.

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Traitors at the Belgian Consulate

Above: More from India Is Filthy.

“You’ve gone too far! And on purpose!” From Chapter 6:

“You and your pity!” the Consul shouted. “Your damned, obnoxious, detestable pity! Call it what you please: world brotherhood, charity, conscience… I take one look at you, each and every one of you, and all I see is contempt for yourselves and all you stand for. Do you know what it means? Can’t you see where it’s leading? You’ve got to be crazy. Crazy or desperate. You’ve got to be out of your minds just to sit back and let it all happen, little by little. All because of your pity. Your insipid, insufferable pity!”

The Consul was sitting behind his desk, a bandage on his forehead. Across from him, some ten or so figures sat rooted to wooden chairs, like apostles carved in stone on a church façade. Each of the statues had the same white skin, the same gaunt face, the same simple dress — long duck pants or shorts, half-sleeve khaki shirt, open sandals — and most of all the same deep, unsettling gaze that shines in the eyes of prophets, philanthropists, seers, fanatics, criminal geniuses, martyrs — weird and wondrous folk of every stripe — those split-personality creatures who feel out of place in the flesh they were born with. One was a bishop, but unless you already knew, it was quite impossible to tell him apart from the missionary doctor or the starry-eyed layman by his side. Just as impossible to single out the atheist philosopher and the renegade Catholic writer, convert to Buddhism, both spiritual leaders of the little band… They all just sat there without a word.

“The trouble is,” the Consul continued, “you’ve gone too far! And on purpose! Because you’re so convinced it’s the right thing to do. Have you any idea how many children from the Ganges here have been shipped off to Belgium? Not to mention the rest of Europe, and those other sane countries that closed their borders off before we did! Forty thousand, that’s how many! Forty thousand in five years! And all of you, so sure you could count on our people. Playing on their sentiments, their sympathy. Perverting their minds with vague feelings of self-reproach, to twist their Christian charity to your own bizarre ends. Weighing our good, solid burghers down with a sense of shame and guilt. … Forty thousand! Why, there weren’t even that many French in Canada back in the seventeen-hundreds. … And in two-faced times like these, you can bet the government won’t admit what’s really behind that racist decree. … Yes, racist, that’s what I called it. You loathe the word, don’t you? You’ve gone and worked up a race problem out of whole cloth, right in the heart of the white world, just to destroy it. That’s what you’re after. You want to destroy our world, our whole way of life. There’s not one of you proud of his skin, and all that it stands for…”

“Not proud, or aware of it, either,” one of the statues corrected. “That’s the price we have to pay for the brotherhood of man. We’re happy to pay it.”

“Yes, well, we’ve gone beyond that now,” said the Consul. “Adoption isn’t the issue anymore, discontinued or otherwise. I’ve been on the phone with my colleagues in all the Western consulates. They tell me it’s just the same. Great crowds outside, milling around, quiet, as if they’re waiting for something to happen. And mind you, none of the others have decrees on their gates. Besides, look at the English. Their visas were like hens’ teeth, but that hasn’t kept ten thousand people from squatting in the gardens outside their consulate. It’s the same all over the city. Wherever a Western flag is flying, there’s a crowd out there, waiting. Just waiting. And that’s not all. I’ve just heard that back in the hinterlands whole villages are swarming out onto the roads to Calcutta.”

“Very true,” said another of the statues, his face trimmed with long blond whiskers. “They’re the villages we’ve been working with, mainly.”

“Well, if you know them, what on earth do they want? What are they waiting for?” “Frankly, we’re not quite sure.”

“Do you have an idea?”

“Perhaps.”

The bearded statue’s lips broke out in a curious smile. Was it the bishop? The renegade writer?

“You mean you had the nerve…” the Consul began, leaving his question and thought in the air. “No! I don’t believe it! You wouldn’t go that far!”

“Quite so,” said a third statue — the bishop this time, in the flesh — “I wouldn’t have gone that far myself.”

“Are you saying you’ve lost control?”

“I’m afraid we have. But it doesn’t matter. Most of us are glad to go along. You’re right. There is something brewing, and it’s going to be tremendous. The crowds can feel it, even if they have no notion what it’s all about. Myself, I have one explanation. Instead of the piecemeal adoptions that these poor folk have hoped for and lived for, perhaps now they’re hoping and living for something much bigger, something wild and impossible, like a kind of adoption en masse. …”

“Nice work, Your Grace,” the Consul retorted, simply. “A lovely job for a bishop of the Roman Catholic Church! Mercenary, hireling to the pagans, all of a sudden! What is this, the Crusades in reverse? Judas leaping up on Peter the Hermit’s nag, and crying, ‘Down with Jerusalem!’? … Well, you chose a good time. There’s no shortage of poor. There are millions and millions! The year isn’t three months old, and already half of this province alone is starving. And the government won’t do a thing. They’ve had it. Whatever happens now, they’re going to wash their hands. That’s what every consul in the city heard this morning. And what have you all been doing in the meantime? You’ve been ‘bearing witness.’ Isn’t that what you call it? … Bearing witness to what? To your faith? Your religion? To your Christian civilization? Oh no, none of that! Bearing witness against yourselves, like the anti-Western cynics you’ve all become. Do you think the poor devils that flock to your side aren’t any the wiser? Nonsense! They see right through you. For them, white skin means weak convictions. They know how weak yours are, they know you’ve given in. You can thank yourselves for that. The one thing your struggle for their souls has left them is the knowledge that the West — your West — is rich. To them, you’re the symbols of abundance. By your presence alone, they see that it does exist somewhere, and they see that your conscience hurts you for keeping it all to yourselves. You can dress up in rags and pretend to be poor, eat handfuls of curry to your hearts’ content. You can spread your acolytes far and wide, let them live like the peasants and dispense their wise advice. … It’s no use, they’ll always envy you, no matter how you try. You knew I’m right. After all your help — all the seeds, and drugs, and technology — they found it so much simpler just to say, ‘Here’s my son, here’s my daughter. Take them. Take me. Take us all to your country.’ And the idea caught on. You thought it was fine. You encouraged it, organized it. But now it’s too big, now it’s out of your hands. It’s a flood. A deluge. And it’s out of control… Well, thank God we still have an ocean between us!”

“Yes, an ocean. We do have an ocean,” a fourth statue observed, lost in reflection at the obvious thought.

“You know,” the Consul went on, “there’s a very old word that describes the kind of men you are. It’s ‘traitor.’ That’s all, you’re nothing new. There have been all kinds. We’ve had bishop traitors, knight traitors, general traitors, statesman traitors, scholar traitors, and just plain traitors. It’s a species the West abounds in, and it seems to get richer and richer the smaller it grows. Funny, you would think it should be the other way around. But the mind decays, the spirit warps. And the traitors keep coming. Since that day in 1522, the twelfth of October, when that noble knight Andrea d’Amaral, your patron saint, threw open the gates of Rhodes to the Turks… Well, that’s how it is, and no one can change it. I can’t, I’m sure. But I can tell you this: I may be wrong about your results, but I find your actions beneath contempt. Gentlemen, your passports will not be renewed. That’s the one official way I can still show you how I feel. And my Western colleagues are doing the same with any of their nationals involved.”

One of the statues stood up. The one who had mused about the ocean. He was, in fact, the atheist philosopher, known in the West by the name of Ballan.

“Passports, countries, religions, ideals, races, borders, oceans…” Ballan shouted. “What bloody rubbish!”

And he left the room without another word. [...]

Outside the consulate gates, Ballan elbowed his way through the crowd, through the crush of monster children — the most monstrous of the lot clinging to his legs, drooling on his trousers. Ballan held a strange fascination for the monsters, the same fascination they held for him. He reached into his pockets, always filled with sticky sweets, and stuffed their shapeless mouths. Then he noticed the giant, the turd eater, standing there still topped with his hideous totem. And Ballan called out:

“What are you doing here, dung man? What do you want?”

“Please, take us with you. Please…”

“Today’s the day, my friend. We’ll both be in paradise, you and I.”

“Today?” the poor man repeated, bewildered.

And Ballan smiled a compassionate smile.

Could that be one explanation?…

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The Fleet Sets Sail

Above: The Ganges is filled with industrial waste, sewage, and human and animal corpses. To illustrate, I’ve chosen, I promise you, some of the least disgusting photos available. Once again, the interested reader with an iron stomach can peruse the horrifying Filthy India Photos.

“We won’t be coming back.” From Chapter 9:

The India Star, moored at her berth for over a year, was a sixty-year-old steamer, veteran of the India mail run back under the British. Old as she was, she had stood up fairly well to the early rigors of independence. But all too soon she had found herself consigned to hauling human wrecks displaced by the partition; and later, worst of all, wretched pilgrims on their way to Mecca. Of her five stacks, straight up, like pipes, four were lopped off at different levels, by time, by rust, by lack of care, by chance. … In such a state she hardly seemed fit for anything but one final act of heroic desperation. Perhaps that was what the captain had in mind when he ordered his tattered crew to put the rotting gangplanks down again, the same ones he had had them pull in just three days before, when the crowd seemed about to swell to precarious size.

Actually, the captain’s action would be quite hard to fathom, were it not for the strong likelihood that someone had put the idea in his head. As a matter of fact, Ballan had managed to steal on board the night before, with no particular end in mind, but just for a first-hand look at the strangely fortuitous conditions and the chain of inexorable events that seemed to be forming. And he wasn’t alone. Several others had had the same idea: to wit, a group of nameless Indians, whites, and a Chinaman, experts one and all in mob psychology. They were the movers, the undercover force. Acting on pure intuition, they knew precisely what to do. One of them stationed himself on the bridge, persuasive grenade in hand, while the others proceeded to question the captain. Just how much would it take — coal, water, supplies, the barest essentials — to make the trip to Europe?

“And back?” the captain had asked. “That is, if she’ll make it…”

“We won’t be coming back,” the one with the grenade had replied.

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And here’s all of Chapter 10:

The turd eater went on board before all the rest. As the monster totem’s rigid head traced its wake through the crowd, like a periscope poking up out of the water, they all fell still. The silence spread out from the dock in a wave, rolling on past the harbor, as far as the innermost streets of the quarter, where the hordes kept coming to join the swelling numbers. First the monster’s head stood out against the side of the ship. Then his father’s. And everyone could gaze at the symbolic pair slowly climbing up the gangplank. For the ones on the edge of the swarm — and those, even farther away, who couldn’t see a thing, but who heard the description passed back to the outer reaches from mouth to mouth — the prophet’s ascent became a god’s ascension. Now no one could doubt that the enterprise must be divine. No one, that is, but the little commando bands, instigators all, who at that very moment were visiting the other ships in port, as well as every other port along the Ganges. Atheist though he was, Ballan himself began to have some second thoughts as he heard the sudden clamor rise out of the crowd. Up on the bridge of the India Star, the turd eater lifted his hands toward the sky. He grasped his son by his two twisted stumps, and when he raised him high in the air with a signal-like flourish, each soul in the numberless mass thought he heard himself summoned by name.

The rush that followed was peaceful enough, but it took its toll of dead: expendable dross on the fringe of the surging tide … The monster children had no trouble boarding. They were passed from hand to hand, over the heads of the crowd. But time and again the narrow, teeming gangplanks spilled over like brimming gutters into the pitch-black water between ship and pier. And many a soul sank down beneath the wooden pilings, to join those others who had gone before, the first to win the newfound paradise. Ballan was one. As the milling crowd picked up the monsters thronging about him, mouths still sticky from gorging on his sweets, he had tried to follow. But he kept falling farther and farther behind. And as he did, a link seemed to snap, that bond of flesh that had bound them to him. Now, suddenly, Ballan was just another white, spurned on all sides by those who knew him and those who didn’t. He struggled to force his way into the torrent of bodies streaming up one of the gangplanks. But the torrent became a wall, a glass-chipped wall bristling with arms, and fists, and claws, and menacing teeth. … Ballan grasped at saris, clung to legs, felt his grip shaken loose. A pounding fist shut one of his eyes. Blood streamed down his mangled face and into his mouth. And all at once he clearly heard his lips pronounce these words:

“Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do.”

So saying, he opened his fingers, let go of the soft, smooth calf he was clutching, and fell from the gangplank, halfway up, carrying off in his hand the feel of an alien flesh. His end was quick. As he sank down into the murky water, he realized how much he loved and missed the West. And that last awareness, that utter rejection of all he had stood for, so pained and distressed him, that he opened a willing mouth and took himself a healthy gulp of death.

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Colonization in Progress

Meanwhile, in the real world, Raspail’s dark vision unfolds, from France to Italy, Canada to Australia. These aren’t “refugees” or “asylum seekers” or even “migrants.” They’re invaders, armed with a single, deadly weapon: weakness.

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Note the Camp-like language, not to mention pervasive bias (Radish 1.2), in these articles. From left to right:

1. To France from Iraq in 2001

AP: “An aging freighter that ran aground early Saturday near France’s ritzy Riviera was carrying more than 900 people, most of them Iraqi Kurds, in what French authorities say was a scheme to smuggle immigrants into Western Europe. … ‘It’s a miracle that these people are here,’ said Dr. Jean-Jacques Raymond.”

AP: “Patrick Devedjian, spokesman for the conservative [!] Rally for the Republic party of President Jacques Chirac, said the refugees should be given a humanitarian welcome. … A number of Frejus residents were moved by the refugees’ plight, and started showing up Sunday with donations of clothing and toys.”

2. To Greece from Everywhere in 2008

The New York Times: “A rash of refugees from Africa, southern Asia and the Middle East has been crossing the Aegean Sea and besieging a cluster of craggy Greek islands. … The authorities in Greece detained 112,364 illegal immigrants in 2007. … Concerned islanders and church officials have offered to aid the children…”

CafeBabel: “Most of the clandestine immigrants are given temporary lodging at the hotel. According to estimations by the Greek authorities, thousands of migrants wait like this on the Turkish coast for an opportunity to cross the short distance by sea that separates them from Europe. … The Greek coast guards and police do not have enough staff in the hospitals. The situation not only raises humanitarian questions but public health problems.”

Russia Today: “Greece fails to provide a proper treatment for refugees and respect their rights, violating international and EU laws, according to an Amnesty International investigation. … Due to its position, Greece remains one [of] ‘the gates’ to the EU for tens of thousands of irregular migrants and asylum-seekers, who try to cross the border looking for shelter and better life within the union.”

3. To Canada from Sri Lanka in 2010

CTV: “Preparations are being made to feed and house an unknown number of women and children onboard the Sri Lankan migrant ship approaching B.C.’s shores. … ‘Think of a child who’s just fled a refugee camp… who’s suffered so much,’ Harsha Walia of No One is Illegal told CTV News. Canada’s former high commissioner to Sri Lanka believes that bringing women and children could be a calculated decision on the part of the people organizing the Sun Sea’s voyage. ‘They probably deliberately brought a lot of women and children along to elicit sympathy. …’”

4. To Italy from Libya in 2011

AP: “The U.N. refugee agency said Tuesday that Libyan authorities appear to be encouraging African migrants to board unseaworthy boats bound for Europe.” Yes, it’s a lot easier to trick Europeans into believing foreign invaders are really refugees if their boats can barely float. “A spokeswoman for the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees [UNHCR] said the conflict in the North African country has opened up a route for migrants that was closed for two years because of an agreement between Libya and Italy. Already some 14,000 people mostly from sub-Saharan Africa have used Libya as a springboard to reach Europe… The U.N. refugee agency has asked countries to consider permanently taking in up to 6,000 migrants.” I’m sure they’ll stop at 6,000.

5. To Australia from Everywhere in 2012

AP: “Four people are believed to have died and 130 others were rescued after a crowded boat carrying asylum seekers to Australia capsized and sank Wednesday.”

Los Angeles Times: “the country is agonizing again over how to handle asylum seekers who come pleading for help.”

AFP: “Canberra clinched a deal last year to send 800 boat people to Malaysia in exchange for 4,000 of that country’s registered refugees… But [the] fragile coalition government was unable to pass the required legislation through parliament and asylum-seekers have continued to risk the voyage, mostly via Indonesia.”

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Meet Clément Dio

We first encounter this popular young political commentator in Chapter 17, when Jean Orelle, France’s official spokesman, holds a press conference about the fleet, still quite far off:

“Monsieur Orelle, without jumping to conclusions as to their final destination, may I ask if the government has any plans to ease the plight of these poor, suffering souls? It’s reaching a point where we can’t sit idly by…”

The speaker was one Ben Suad, alias Clément Dio, one of the monster’s most faithful minions, concoctor in chief of the poisonous slops poured piping hot each Monday into the feeble, comatose brains of the six hundred thousand readers of his weekly rag, served up in its fancy sauces.

Citizen of France, North African by blood, with an elegant crop of kinky hair and swarthy skin — doubtless passed down from a certain black harem slavegirl, sold to a brothel for French officers in Rabat (as he learned from the bill of sale in his family papers) — married to a Eurasian woman officially declared Chinese and author of several best-selling novels, Dio possessed a belligerent intellect that thrived on springs of racial hatred barely below the surface, and far more intense than anyone imagined. Like a spider deep in the midst of French public opinion, he had webbed it over so thick with fine gossamer strands that it scarcely clung to life. A cordial type all the same, given to great informative bursts if he chose, though always one-way, sincere enough to put his convictions on the line and draw the occasional fire of intelligent colleagues — of whom there were fewer and fewer, alas!, and whom people had all long since stopped reading. In those topsy-turvy days the Left sprawled out in abundance, while the rightist press, in a hopeless muddle, languished alone in its trenches, deserted. The home front, meanwhile, true to form, fraternized high and low, unabashed and unrestrained. Politically, Dio’s columns were something of a hash, whipped up with a proper dose of utopian pap. But most dangerous of all was his very special talent — unrivaled, in fact — for planting his mines through the waters of current French life, far and wide, just surface-deep, always finding those areas still intact, and larding them through with the deadly devices, spewed mass-produced from his prolific brain.

Citizen of the World

Jean Orelle, we should note, was one of his most devout readers, never missing the weekly pause in the journey along his ageing imagination, and confiding to his intimates, with a chuckle, that “this Dio chap” reminded him so of the fearless reformer he himself used to be, “Lots of nerve! Plenty of new ideas! And a real, burning passion for the everyday man, the citizen of the world!” Yes, this Dio chap’s citizen of the world, in all his glory! Ah, what a dismal, repulsive creature! The journalist’s pen gave him many a size and shape, but one thing never changed: his contempt for tradition, his scorn for Western Man per se, and above all the patriotic Frenchman. Like a kind of anti-Joan of Arc, charged by King Dio with a thousandfold mission. To wit, to crush with the weight of shame and remorse the common, foot-slogging soldier of the Western World, lord of its ancient battles, deserted by all his generals to a man, but a powerful force all the same. In column after column, the anti-Joan became, by turns, an Arab workman, snubbed and insulted; a publisher of smut, hauled into court; a black bricklayer, exploited by his boss; a theater director with a censored play; a young Madonna from some leftist slum; a rioter, beaten for ripping up the streets; a café tough, shot in his tracks; a student terrorist; a schoolgirl on the pill; the head of a people’s culture center, summarily fired; a marijuana prophet; a rebel leader dispensing guerrilla justice; a married priest; an adolescent lecher; an incestuous author; a guru of pop; a female dead from an overdose of love; a pummeled Egyptian, a poisoned Greek, a Spaniard, gunned down; a reporter, attacked and beaten; a protester crapping on the Unknown Soldier; a hunger striker, soft in the head; a Vietnam deserter; a big-chief thug from the wrong side of town; a faggot with a medical excuse; a sadistic schoolboy tormenting his teacher; a rapist, mind twisted by racks of hard-core porn; a kidnapper, sure of his righteous cause; an incurable delinquent, victim of his genes or society’s pressures; an abortionist butcher, screaming for his human rights; a Brazilian backwoods wench, sold into São Paulo salons; an Indian dying from a tourist’s measles; a murderer calling for prison reform; a bishop spouting Marx in his pastoral letters; a car thief, mad for speed; a bank thief, mad for publicity’s easy life; a maidenhead thief, mad for free and easy sex; a Bengali dead of starvation… And so many more. So many crusading heroes, skillfully chosen to please and persuade. Which they usually did. And why not? When the heart gives way, it’s a Turkish bazaar. Freedom is all or nothing. With the likes of this would-be heartrending rabble, these pseudopathetic peons beating his battering rams against the gates, Dio knew that, in time, he was sure to smash them down. When freedom expands to mean freedom of instinct and social destruction, then freedom is dead. And all the slimy Dio-larvae teem on its corpse, ready to burst into great black moths, heralding angels of the antiworld.

Swimming in Saint-Favier

To appreciate the scope of Dio’s power, we could look to a hundred examples. One will suffice: the Saint-Favier swimming-pool scandal. Saint-Favier is a dull, sleepy town stuck away in the Jura, that decided one day to indulge its wild fancy and present itself with a gift sure to rouse an industrious populace lulled by the pipemaker’s lathes. Namely, a swimming pool. Olympic, Hiltonesque, covered in the winter, basking in mountain sun in the summer, a billionaire’s pool on a communal scale, a fabulous toy for the people, democratic to a fault, and always jam-packed (God knows how those French love the water!)… Well, it just so happened that, in one of the weekly analyses required by law, a lab technician discovered a troop of bacteria — gonococci, to be precise — living on a corner of the metal plate marked “Saint-Favier Municipal Swimming Pool,” happy as could be with their new surroundings, and, in a word, thriving. So well, in fact, that the hospital, much to the doctors’ disbelief and indignation, found itself treating three youngsters with ophthalmic gonorrhea: two girls and a boy — not even related — and one of whom, it should be noted, was a pupil with the Sisters of Perpetual Help. Now, in France, no schooltot does anything much with her eyes but open them wide, agog at the wonders of the world. There had to be an explanation. And it soon came to light in the files of the hospital, the national health plan, and the factory infirmary, where the records showed that a thousand Arabs — first-rate workers notwithstanding, and socially accepted if not socially absorbed — had been showing up time after time, to the tune of some ten percent, with the aftermaths of a stubborn case of North African clap. To be utterly fair and unbiased, the authorities proceeded to check through the files of all the Jura natives too. A time-consuming task, but one which the West, personified there in Saint-Favier, felt obliged to perform in the worthy effort to subdue its prejudices. The result, unhappily, merely confirmed them. They turned up a total of two rich young brats, both terribly spoiled, who wouldn’t have dreamed of using the public pool, and one dirty old derelict, who never bathed and didn’t know how to swim. What a blow for the poor town fathers! Such fine folk, too, these laborers, pensioners, railroaders, politicized peasants, placing their leftist ballots in the box, like Eucharists laid on the communion plate, and scratching their chins, deep in thought… One of them, a delegate from the Communist trade-union party, in a highly emotional search through his papers, brought out a mimeographed document proving that the Arabs were essential to the economic well-being of the nation, and that the sudden resurgence of racism had to be nipped in the bud. Of course, they all agreed. The point was well taken. They were all for the worldwide solidarity of the masses. But still! If their kids’ eyes were going to catch the clap, after all — and in their nice new pool, to boot, that they scrimped their pennies together to pay for — and a dose like you wouldn’t pick up from some army-camp whore, well, Arabs or not, they couldn’t just let the thing get out of hand, and besides, doesn’t everyone know it’s an Arab disease?… The fine folk believed it was only common sense to vote as they did, and to reach their unanimous decision: namely, that thereafter the only Arabs to use the municipal swimming pool at Saint-Favier would be those with a medical certificate proving that they had no contagious diseases that might be spread by water. The decree was posted at the entrance to the pool, and in all the Arab cafés and haunts in town. It was, in fact, rather clumsily worded. But that’s hardly a surprise. In times when a spade has ceased to be called a spade, it’s no wonder that thirty-two town fathers — each one a family man, but none with an excess of schooling — should let themselves be trapped by the subtleties of language. …

Minefield

Dio rubbed his hands with glee, and proceeded to use the Saint-Favier edict as his cover of the week, spread over the newsstands in all its glory (by ultracapitalist distributors, no less), with a big title splashed across, proclaiming: “Anti-Arab Racism Alive and Well!” Six hundred thousand copies. Rather hard to miss! … In Paris, His Excellency the Algerian ambassador demanded an audience and got it on the spot. The North African press let loose volleys of hate, and the French press picked up the tune, albeit in a minor key. Somewhere there was even the observation that plenty of Frenchwomen jumped into bed with those poor, slandered Arabs, without once insisting to see their bill of health. … Retaliation took many forms. Oil, for example, was an issue again, as three tankers returned bone dry. And a hundred nice French girls, teaching school in Algeria, were suddenly hauled into the hospital and spread on the stirrups to be plumbed and explored by a squad of medical student commandos, whipped up to a frenzy. Two of them died as a result, but the inquest didn’t last. On his minister’s orders, the prefect of the Jura quickly reversed the Saint-Favier decree, first for certain technical flaws, and also for its breach of human rights. Dio was exultant, crowing his triumph in one of his best editorials. Because, when all was said and done, he was right. And any time that man was right — which he often was, since he chose his pretexts with diabolical skill — the walls of the ancient citadel were sure to crumble. So the Arabs of Saint-Favier returned en masse to the pool, victorious. And they had it all to themselves. No townsfolk were seen there again. There wasn’t even talk about building another one, separate from the first. What would be the sense? … And all at once whole sections of New York are deserted, a score of American cities watch the flight to the suburbs — and half the historic Paris pavement too — American tots in their integrated schools fall five years behind, tubercular Gauls flee in droves from our open-air clinics. … Tally-ho! Tally-ho! Just listen to that battering ram smash at the southern gate!

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Now Meet Touré

On an unrelated note, meet popular young political commentator Touré Neblett. (Note the “elegant crop of kinky hair,” not to mention that “swarthy skin”…) Here he is discussing the Republican Party:

It’s an all-white Party. If you just have a bunch of white people, you’re gonna come up with alternate realities that don’t make any sense.

And here he is on Romney’s describing Obama’s campaign as “angry” (Radish 1.2):

You notice he said anger twice. He’s really trying to use racial coding and access some really deep stereotypes about the angry black man. This is part of the playbook against Obama, the otherization, he’s not like us. … this is niggerization.

On other ordinary words, like “welfare” and “crime”:

These code words are ancient racial stereotypes… sliding in covertly, aiming to kill black political viability … Do Democrats use racial code? No. The Democratic party is a racially diverse coalition. There would be no value to playing this game.

On why Americans must vote for Obama despite any perceived first-term failings:

Anyone would vote for a superhero… But… to embrace a nonmagical black person who cannot promise anything but hope, intelligence, sweat and experience, now that comes closer to equality.

On Romney’s addressing the black-supremacist NAACP (‘Romney Plays The Race Card’):

Mitt Romney went to the NAACP’s National Convention planning to get booed. … He wanted to be booed by that black audience so that white conservatives [and] undecideds would see that he’s unafraid to talk down to black people…

On why racial preferences (to which, judging from the quality of his writing, Mr. Neblett owes his livelihood) must continue:

I cannot be seen through a color-blind lens and do not wish to be. Race is an important factor of who I am… [M]any white people have somehow come to view their race as the object of discrimination. … how many black and Hispanic students will it take to satisfy the goal of diversity? … we are nowhere near that point.

On being “racist” against black people (which makes you “bad or evil”), without actually hating black people:

… not hating all [black people] may serve as a valuable safety valve, releasing pressure and proving to the mind itself that it is not racist.

Does any of this sound familiar?

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Transmission

Above: Let’s talk about the spread of progressivism. Are your children at risk? (Yes.)

Albert Durfort takes to the airwaves to sell out the West in Chapter 18:

Albert Durfort was full of the milk of human kindness. [...] Constant crusader, he would gallop through radioland to the rescue, looking for supposedly desperate causes, barely taking the time to change horses between two campaigns, always panting for breath as he came on the scene just in time to deliver the downtrodden victim, expose a scandal, and lash out at injustice. A Zorro of the airwaves. And the public adored it. So much so, in fact, that some — the most obtuse — saw each nightly editorial as a serial installment: Durfort on skid row, Durfort and the Arabs, Durfort vs. the racists, Durfort and the police, Durfort against brutality, Durfort for prison reform, Durfort and capital punishment, etc., etc. But no one, not even Durfort himself, could see that our Zorro was flogging dead horses, flying off to the rescue of issues long since won. Something else, strange but true: he was looked on as the model of the free, objective thinker. He would have been shocked and surprised to learn that he was, in fact, a captive of fashion, bound by all the new taboos, conditioned by thirty years of intellectual terrorism; and that, if the owner and general manager of the station that employed him entrusted ten million good Frenchmen to his care each night, it certainly wasn’t to use his talents to tell them the opposite of what they supposed they believed in. As for the plush publicity that surrounded Durfort and flanked his little gems of moral indignation, it brought truly awesome results, though no one was awed in the slightest anymore, so long had the public soul steeped in this system of self-contradiction, like a turd in a toilet bowl, rotting away. All the press, or almost, played this curious poker, and won every hand. And Dio’s paper led the pack, with its glossy, full-color spreads. [...]

[...] And so, as he spoke of the armada, sitting astride his branch already sawed more than halfway through, Durfort was his most convincing self, finding just the right words to hit home, to sink into the muck of each heart with a soft little plop. With appropriate variations, he played out the same master hands that had made him famous: the case of the Greek deportees, and the more recent one of the Algerian laborer accused of the rape and murder of a little girl, and victim — perhaps — of a miscarriage of justice. With relish and talent, Durfort reenlisted his Greeks, and pressed the miscarriage of justice back into active service. And he made no bones about it:

“You, my faithful supporters and listeners, know that I never mince words. There’s no compromise with despair. There’s no compromise with evil. So I’m sure you won’t mind if my talk gets rough. Don’t forget, if I did my bit, with your help, to change the fate of the Greek deportees, and if I saved us all from putting an innocent man to death — the most odious crime a society can commit — it’s only because I talked rough when I had to. Well, friends, the time has come now for me to bring into your homes, with the sound of my voice, a million more deported, exiled souls, exiled this time of their own free will, but victims no less of the worst, most heinous miscarriage of justice since the world began. So I’m going to talk straight from the shoulder again, and let the chips fall where they may. If you want to eat supper in peace, good friends, I suggest you turn your radios off for the next five minutes!”

“Hear that, Marcel? Durfort is onto something else!” “Josiane, tell the kid to keep quiet!” In the low-rent flats a quick shot of red wine washed down the news, since the heart’s mawkish pleasure goes sliding down better with something to chase it. It was washed down with Scotch in the salon nooks of the patio suites, but ever so more subtly; that is, instead of a few quick gulps to help swill down the food for thought, the glass will be poised with a well-planned gesture, long enough to listen, holding back to let the tastebuds build to exquisite heights of thirst, then letting go all at once in a crowning orgasmic burst between mind and event. … Three thousand two hundred sixty-seven priests started frantically scribbling with an eye toward the following Sunday — ready-made sermon, delivered to the door, nothing to do with the gospel for the day, but who worries anymore about such minor details? [...]

At the very same moment thirty-two thousand seven hundred forty-two schoolteachers hit on the subject for the next day’s theme: “Describe the life of the poor, suffering souls on board the ships, and express your feelings toward their plight in detail, by imagining, for example, that one of the desperate families comes to your home and asks you to take them in.” Irresistible, really! And the dear little angel — all simple, childish soul and tender heart — will spread four pages’ worth of infantile pathos, enough to melt a concierge to tears, and his paper will be the best, the teacher will read it in class, and all his little friends will kick themselves for having been much too stingy with their whines and whimpers. That’s how we mold our men nowadays. Because even the tough, hardhearted little brat, the one with all he needs to succeed in this life, is forced to take part, since children abhor standing out from the crowd. So he’ll have to play along too, and work himself into a hypocritical sweat over the same philanthropic rubbish. And he’ll probably write just as brilliant a theme, clever child that he is, and he may even wind up believing what he writes, because youngsters like this are never really bad, just different, that’s all, just untapped potential. Then he’ll go home, like his classmate, both of them proud of their fine compositions. And father, who knows what life is all about, will read the A-plus masterpiece, terrified (if he has the slightest imagination) at the notion of that foreign family of eight coming to live in his three rooms and kitchen, but he’ll sit back and keep his big mouth shut. Mustn’t frustrate the little angels, mustn’t shock them, mustn’t sully their innocent thoughts and risk turning them later into hopeless prigs. No, he’ll wallow, ensnared, in his gutless affection, and chuck his little angel on a cheek flushed with pleasure, telling himself that he’s really a dear, and besides, “out of the mouths of babes,” isn’t that what they say?… The mother will snivel in her handkerchief, eye moist with maternal affection rewarded. But let the famished Ganges horde show up some morning at their door — assuming, of course, that such a thing could happen — and there’s one damn family that’s bloody well had it! Perhaps instead of an open-armed welcome, despite the prophetic prose of the little remote-controlled angel, they’ll take to their heels. The Western heart, down deep, is all sham. In any event, they’ll have lost the strength and the will to say no! Now, multiply that by a million mindless themes, applauded by a million milksop fathers, and you get some idea of the climate of total decay. Could that be one explanation?…

At the very same instant, some seven thousand two hundred and twelve lycée professors decided to begin their next day’s classes with a discussion of racism. It didn’t make the slightest difference what they taught: math, English, chemistry, geography, even Latin. After all, whatever his field, isn’t the professor’s role to develop his students’ minds and force them to think? And so, they would have them speak their piece. The subject was there, ideal, made to order, too good to pass up: the fleet and its mission to cleanse and redeem the capitalist West! A fine topic, politically charged, with something for everyone, a limitless script in that ongoing cinema of the masses, spontaneous and unrehearsed, whose feeble and trite ideas, hashed over again and again, swallowed up any sense of reality, any notion of personal obligation. [...] Well, there’s no need to go through and count up the millions and millions of Durfort’s faithful listeners. The whole of France gulped down the narcotic: when the time would come to cut off her legs, she was sure to be ready for the operation.

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The Tampa Boys

Our old friend the UN “Refugee” Agency (UNHCR) offers a unit plan for geography students aged 9–11. How considerate of them. Under “Unit Objectives” we find the following (their emphasis):

Values

  • To encourage in the students empathy for children similar to themselves, who have lost their homes and homelands
  • To foster open-mindedness and respect for others

Since when it is a geography teacher’s job to encourage children to empathize with foreign invaders? Anyway, the first image from the unit plan, above, is captioned:

A perilous journey ends in New Zealand citizenship. The Tampa Boys, rescued from the Norwegian freighter off the Australian coast in 2001, at the ceremony in Manukau, NZ.

Very open-minded, respectful, and empathetic. This next photo, which was not included in the lesson plan, shows the other hundreds of less photogenic colonists New Zealand would receive:

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The Guardian offers a revealing footnote to the “perilous journey” narrative:

Once on board the MV Tampa the refugees told [60-year-old Captain Arne] Rinnan, one of Norway’s most respected seamen, to change direction. “A delegation of five men came up to the bridge. They behaved aggressively and told us to go to Australia. They said they had nothing to lose,” Rinnan said. …

Some people would call that a hijacking, but of course those people are just racist. Here is Captain Rinnan himself, in an interview with Lateline:

“… they were behaving in a very aggravated, highly excited manner. Then the body language was kind of threatening and was all up in my face.”

Not to worry. According to a UN press briefing, the “refugees” are adjusting well, in some unspecified way:

Speaking at the citizenship ceremony in Manukau City, New Zealand Prime Minister Helen Clark praised the way the Tampa teenagers had adjusted to life in their new land. She said she had followed the progress of the Tampa Boys over the past three and half years, and noted how they embraced the New Zealand way of life. She said they were already making a positive contribution to New Zealand life, and that the lives of New Zealanders had been enriched by having them here.

Isn’t that nice. Who knows how much richer their lives would be if they opened their borders to the entire Third World.

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“Teaching Tolerance”

The Southern Poverty Law Center publishes a magazine, Teaching Tolerance, in which you’ll find instructions on how to brainwash American children into supporting a Third World invasion:

“So,” Mindi Rappaport asks the eighth-graders in her English class, “What’s going on these days with immigration? How do you feel about it?”

The students, in the leafy and historic town of Ridgefield, Conn., jump in eagerly to talk about what they know and what they’ve heard. It’s not long before their consensus is clear: Legal immigrants are good, model residents; “illegals” are very bad. …

“It’s a pretty white-washed world,” Rappoport says of the small city of Ridgefield. “I try to confront students’ limited perspectives.” The big challenge, she adds, “is that they don’t realize they have a limited perspective.”

In other words, criticizing the invasion is unacceptable in this eighth-grade English class, because it’s the wrong “perspective.”

… Students in this district are challenged to ask, “What are our values and beliefs?” and “How does diversity influence us?” Rappoport’s students also grapple with stereotypes and examine “how they affect our ability to learn the truth.”

“If you ask if they have stereotypes, they’re not aware of them,” Rappoport explains. Her job, she feels, is to develop habits of self-examination.

I thought her job was to teach them English.

… Some of the students will mention that their housekeeper, landscaper or gas station attendant is from another place. Others will talk about the day laborers, mainly Mexican and Central American, who congregate on certain corners in the early morning hoping to snag some manual labor.

“Then the received notions start coming out,” Rappoport says, as students begin to repeat what they’ve heard.

“They’re taking jobs.”

“They’re terrorists.”

“They bring crime and a lot of them belong to gangs.” …

Rappoport says it’s important not to correct students or shout them down when they make these kinds of statements. Instead Rappoport challenges students calmly. “How do you know that?” she asks.

Picture it: an eighth-grade English teacher who has to remind herself not to shout down her students, but rather to intimidate them by demanding they cite sources whenever they express an opinion on “immigration” she doesn’t agree with. Is it fair to put 13-year-olds on the spot like this? Can we really expect them to recite that “immigrants have seen job growth but native-born workers have continued to lose jobs” (Christian Science Monitor, 2010), or that “one in six illegal immigrants is re-arrested on criminal charges within three years of release” (Fox News, 2012)?

Before class ends, Rappoport gives students a journal assignment to write at least three pages about their feelings, thoughts and ideas on immigration.

“Describe the life of the poor, suffering souls on board the ships, and express your feelings toward their plight in detail, by imagining, for example, that one of the desperate families comes to your home and asks you to take them in.” Irresistible, really! And the dear little angel — all simple, childish soul and tender heart — will spread four pages’ worth of infantile pathos…

The next day, students share some of their entries. Few have changed their minds. That’s when Rappoport shows them an episode from the Morgan Spurlock reality show 30 Days.

In the episode, Frank is strongly opposed to illegal immigration. And even though he comes to like the immigrant family with whom he’s staying, he remains adamant about his political views. The turning point comes when he visits the father’s brother in Mexico and sees firsthand the squalid conditions under which the family lived.

It’s a revealing scene for students, too, that “brings understanding and empathy,” according to Rappoport. She tells them to write another journal entry that night and revisit their feelings and thoughts.

Maybe they’ll have the right feelings this time. Because even the tough, hardhearted little brat, the one with all he needs to succeed in this life, is forced to take part, since children abhor standing out from the crowd. So he’ll have to play along too, and work himself into a hypocritical sweat over the same philanthropic rubbish.

The next day, she says, it’s clear that “the factual experience has enlightened them.”

No, Mindi, a factual experience would involve facts. The proper term for what you’re doing to your students is emotional battery.

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Chin and Miller

Pro-colonization propaganda isn’t just for little kids. You never know when a young white person is going to start thinking terribly racist thoughts about ‘preserving her cultural heritage’ or some other Nazi thing. We must be vigilant! Thankfully, we have college professors like Gabriel Chin and Marc Miller to remind us, in a charmingly ahistorical way, that anti-racism, properly defined (Radish 1.2), demands the global replacement of white populations (San Francisco Chronicle, 2012):

Opposition to immigration today is inseparable from immigration’s contribution to the racial transformation of the United States. Michael M. Hethmon, the head of the influential Immigration Law Reform Institute, which has opposed any form of comprehensive immigration reform and helped draft Arizona’s now-weakened SB1070 and other state-level immigration laws, noted that immigration was “on track to change the demographic makeup of the entire country. You know, what they call ‘minority-majority.’”

It is the demographics of the future rather than the jurisprudence of the past that fuels hostility toward undocumented immigrants and the wisdom of occasional amnesty.

At its best, U.S. immigration policy has honored the rule of law through pragmatism, rejection of racial discrimination, and a recognition that all immigrants are members of the human family. A wise and carefully constructed amnesty based on this history is not a dirty word, but a crown jewel.

In other words, yes, obviously colonization is going to reduce white Americans to a minority in a couple of decades. If you question the “wisdom” of this unprecedented “transformation,” — heralded by such feeble and trite ideas as “all immigrants are members of the human family,” — you must be filled with “hostility” and “racial discrimination.” Just like Hitler. You don’t want to be like Hitler, do you? No, of course you don’t. So listen closely to your Asian and Jewish professors:

Japan is 99 percent Japanese, and it’s getting along fine without a “racial transformation.” Korea is 98 percent Korean, but that doesn’t reflect “hostility,” because they’re not white. Israel, of course, is for Jews, and keenly interested in “the demographics of the future.” All of those people get to have a country to themselves. But America and Europe are for everybody, so let’s reject “racial discrimination” by reducing white people — and only white people — to a minority in their own countries. Hurray for ‘anti-racism!’ Hurray!

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The South African Threat

Above: Cape Town, South Africa. “Shame of the human race!”

What happens when the Last Chance Armada meets the country everyone loves to hate? From Chapter 23:

The fleet was crossing the Tropic of Capricorn, into the waters off the Republic of South Africa, when certain moderate Western papers, most likely at the instigation of their respective governments — in France, it was a well-known evening daily — came up with an observation of geographic and economic import hitherto unnoticed. The Ganges fleet had been looking for a paradise. Fine! We were waiting with open arms, ready and willing to help. We weren’t heartless, after all! But why should they take such risks, why bear the martyr’s cross from sea to sea, with torments untold, when, after all, just one look at the map would show that paradise was a stone’s throw away: South Africa, of course! here ensued a round of unctuous mouthings in praise of South Africa’s numerous advantages: her area (almost three times that of France), her small population (one-third that of France), a climate made to order, a high level of technical and economic life, a huge store of untapped resources… Such being the case, why ask poor old Europe, far away as she was, to come to the aid of the armada, when certain basic climatic and demographic problems — not insurmountable, perhaps, but no less real — might very well prevent her, despite her best intentions, from offering adequate assistance? [...] Then came the flood of figures, assessments, statistics, plans of all kinds: the computers can answer whatever we ask them. Financing? No problem. Europe would foot the bill. We would send them money, machines, technicians, entrepreneurs, doctors, teachers — whatever the South Africans thought they would need! (Notice: the first signs of panic. “Whatever you want, only keep them away! Away from us!” But panic isn’t the same as that good, healthy fear. It turns you to jelly, it melts you to nothing, as we’ll see before long…) At the end of his column, our editor had dispatched utopia southward, with a few flicks of the pen. A plausible hypothesis. Reasonable, humane, full of hope for the future. Of course, the first thing was to consult the South African government, and put out some feelers to the leaders of the fleet. Perhaps the International Ganges Refugee Commission…

What a hue and cry!

The servants of the beast flew into a rage. Apartheid! Blacks with passes! Racist dictatorship! Shame of the human race! The whole verbal barrage. With South Africa, that limitless scapegoat, that convenient target for the self-righteous conscience, the world had stopped wearing kid gloves long since. Entrust a million poor dark-skinned devils to protectors like that! Slavery, no less! Avast, you wishy-washy moderates! The Ganges rose up of its own free will, of its own free will it’s going to choose its fate! … There was only one danger: that the constant cries of welcome to our shores might frighten public opinion, and force it to take sides too soon. Better to do what was done in the past, get it softened up slowly, little by little, for its ultimate, fatal surrender. The prima-donna pros had sensed the danger. Following Clément Dio’s example, they shut their mouths, calmed down their rash and overanxious troops — another feeble chance that the Western World missed! — and bet on a violent South African reaction that had to pay off in their favor. Which is just what happened. Like the Australians and their Immigration Act, only magnified a hundredfold, and served up by the whites on a platter, this time with no mincing of words!

Question and Answer with the South African President

Under siege in their rightful homeland, the Afrikaners had turned their backs on Britain and the Commonwealth, and burned all their bridges behind them. With the buffer state of Rhodesia washed away in a sea of blood, with the weight of Africa pressing against their gates and the weight of world scorn bearing down on their conscience, sapped from within by armies of pastors and priests, singers and writers, the Afrikaners had stopped wearing kid gloves too. As the twentieth century wore itself out in an unremitting hatred of white supremacy, they persisted in offering up one atrocity after another. And they did it on purpose. They seemed to enjoy it. As long as they were going to be heaped with insults, they might as well deserve them! A planet apart, no question! … As for their reaction to the plan, no official communiqué was forthcoming, but the President did hold a brief news conference in person. We can only quote the highlights of it here. From the outset he was plainly on the offensive, as he spoke to the tightly packed crowd of foreign correspondents from the Western press:

“As always, gentlemen, I know that you’ve come here as enemies. In a few moments our telephones and teletypes will be at your disposal to let you spout your usual loathing of us to the rest of the world. Just let me make one thing clear: the Republic of South Africa is a white nation with eighty percent blacks, and not — as the world would like to think of us, in the name of some mythical equality — a black nation with twenty percent whites. That’s the subtle difference. And it’s one that we insist on. It’s a question of background, of outlook. You’ll never understand… But let’s get to the point. At this very moment there’s a fleet of Third World invaders heading for the Cape, a hundred miles off our shores. Just off Durban, to be exact, according to last reports. Its only arms are weakness, misery, a faculty for inspiring pity, and its strength as a symbol in the eyes of the world. A symbol of revenge. What puzzles us Afrikaners is the masochistic way the white world seems bent on taking revenge against itself. … No, I take that back, we’re not puzzled at all. It’s only too clear. That’s why we reject this symbol out of hand, because that’s all it is: a symbol… Gentlemen, not a single refugee from the Ganges will set foot alive on South African soil, under any pretext whatever. Now I’ll take your questions…”

Q. — “Are you suggesting, Mister President, that you won’t hesitate to open fire on defenseless women and children?”

A. — “I expected that question. No, of course we won’t hesitate. We’ll shoot without giving it a second thought. In this high-minded racial war, all the rage these days, nonviolence is the weapon of the masses. Violence is all the attacked minority has to fight back with. Yes, we’ll defend ourselves. And yes, we’ll use violence.”

As the great Carlylean reactionary Mencius Moldbug has noted, “the weapons of ‘activism’ are not weapons which the weak can use against the strong. They are weapons the strong can use against the weak.” In particular, so-called civil disobedience “is no more than a way for the overdog to say to the underdog: I am so strong that you cannot enforce your ‘laws’ upon me. I am strong and might makes right — I give you the law, not you me.” But let’s get back to question and answer with the South African president:

Q. — “Supposing the fleet has decided, in fact, to land en masse on the shores of your country. Will you give orders to have it blown up?”

A. — “I think that the threat will discourage an invasion. Frankly, gentlemen, it’s my impression that the fleet is heading for Europe, and that you’ll have to be asking yourselves that question in just a few weeks. But I’m willing to answer in principle, since I’m sure that’s what you want. … Yes, if need be, we would bomb the fleet out of the water. Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Dresden, Hamburg… Think of all the cities razed to the ground back then. … Who cared what it cost to pry victory loose? Who worried then about the price, the millions of unarmed civilians — yes, women and children then, too — burned, dismembered, buried in the rubble! War was war! I was only a baby, but I remember. Everyone cheered! … Well, today it’s still war, just a different kind! All I can say is, if we have to do it, we won’t enjoy it, believe me…”

The “International Community” Responds

That last was probably the one spontaneous comment the President let slip, once his temper had cooled. And he meant it sincerely. Like the sensitive man complaining that he’s going to have to kill his rabid dog. The phrase circled the globe. Clunch, the satirical English weekly — especially nasty — published its best cartoon in years. It pictured a dungeon cell, and in the middle, the President, butcher knife in hand, bending over a naked Hindu, all skin and bones, stretched out on the rack. On the walls of the cell, an array of giant pincers, cat-o’-nine-tails, spiked collars, thumb-screws, an electrical device, and a soldering iron. On the ground, a tub, a wheel, and an iron cage crawling with rats. The prisoner, dripping with blood, his one good eye staring in terror at the knife-wielding white. Tears streaming down the President’s face. And underneath, the caption: “Tsk, tsk, poor thing! War is war! Now I’ve got to kill you, but believe me, I won’t enjoy it…” Reprinted in color, the Clunch cartoon spent a week spread over every newsstand in France, on the cover of La Pensée Nouvelle.

1-5 EU vs Islam cartoon v2

La Grenouille went one better, with a cartoon plastered across page one. The President appeared as a jaunty, bearded peasant, in a Boer general’s uniform, potbelly spangled with cartridges and loaded down with guns, pipe between his lips, brimmed hat turned up on one side. Sitting by the ocean, looking out at the water. All around, behind him, the landscape strewn with corpses. Bodies hanging from gallows galore. Black figures huddled behind barbed-wire fences. The President, big and fat, sitting on a mound of living creatures, smothering them under his bulk. In the background, off in the distance, the Ganges fleet sailing by, caricatures of ships, with human arms stretching toward the shore. And the caption: “So sorry we can’t let you in. But we already have our share of happy blacks!”

Enlarged and put on posters, the two cartoons made the rounds of the South African embassies in all the capitals of the Western World, draped in black crepe and held up by demonstrators who, this time, added silence to their nonviolent arsenal. No slogans, no shouts. Just long lines, filing past, slowly, without a word. Some had even tied up their arms and legs, like the chaingangs of years gone by. In Paris, at an official reception, Jean Orelle refused to shake hands with the South African ambassador, and made quite a point of turning his back. What a shame,” murmured the ambassador, who spoke our language like a native, “that the minister from France should be such a deadly boor!” The quip was picked up, and it soon spread through Paris, blown out of proportion by the media. It had already begun to set off a diplomatic row, when Albert Durfort saw fit to reply, “And what a shame, Mister Ambassador, that the Boer from South Africa should be so deadly too!” Boris Vilsberg, of course, tossed in his two cents’ worth: “Our faces will always be white with shame!” (“White?” Marcel objected. “He means red! Doesn’t that guy know how to talk?” “No, no,” Josiane explained a moment later, “that’s what he means. White with shame. Because after a terrible thing like this, we should all be ashamed that we’re white!” And that’s that…)

Clément Dio Returns

Even old Esther Bacouba [think Toni Morrison] sprang up fully armed from the depths of her bygone vogue. By now she no longer sang, only warbled, her golden voice cracking with age. But her head of tight white ringlets, and her handsome, stately face worked miracles. At the Palais des Sports people came in droves to hear her. Just for her, Clément Dio came out of artistic retirement. Known once upon a time for his lyrics of a certain social bent, he had written such popular ditties as “Paris, You’re a Bitch!” or “I’m the Guy They Call Dirty Old Ahmed,” not to mention the lilting little samba “My Milk-White Breasts, Your Coffee-Brown Thighs”… For Esther Bacouba’s return, he penned “The Ballad of Man’s Last Chance,” set to a three-note melody by a certain Indian sitarist. Twenty-five verses. A good fifteen minutes, beginning to end… A Palais des Sports gripped in silence, stock-still with emotion, plunged in darkness. And, standing alone on the platform, as if suspended in a thin beam of light, the aged black singer, eyes closed, hands joined together, warbling:

Buddha and Allah went off to visit

The nice little god of the Christians

Pulled out the nails

Took him down from his cross

Mopped his disappointed brow

Sat him in their midst.
‘You owe us your life, you nice little god

What will you give us in return?’

‘In return I’ll give you my kingdom

For now the thousand years are ended

Yes, the thousand years are ended now…’ [...]

The Beginning of the End

And so the thousand years ended, and the Ganges armada wafted its way on the hoarse three-note twang of a sitar, and a broken, breathy, once-great voice, through a hundred thousand jukeboxes, prize-winning song, number-one record all over the world, ingenious (and infamous) hit, sailing out in the neon glare of supermarket drugstores and over the hi-fi’s of weary bourgeois, chanted in vaulted cathedrals by choirs of guitar-strumming pagans (as the old priest looks up at the band of young toughs, resignation in his eye), danced to the nighttime rhythms of melancholy love, smoked to the puffs of hashish and pot, droned by young beggars haunting streets and subways, floating the airwaves’ prevailing winds ten times a day, and at night hummed along on the lips of long-distance truckers, of children about to fall asleep, of couples undressing without a glance: “Yes, the thousand years are ended now…” Ah! The power of a beautiful song! Lyrics by the Great Unknown, as set down by the inspired pen of our own Clément Dio. That could be one explanation…

What chance, after that, of ferreting out from some inner recess of the self, from the deep maze of ready-made thoughts and emotions, some hateful remnant of a dauntless courage to throw against pity? No need to rehearse all the pastoral letters, the newspaper columns, the group petitions, the students’ themes, the professors’ sermons, the moral stands of every description, the panels of blithering fools, the parlor chitchat, the salon clichés, the weeping and wailing: it’s all there, in one giant swell, even more than after the Australian affair or the case of Captain Notaras. But the beast is careful to keep hands off, and not jostle public opinion unduly. Just let it go on, content with itself, in passive acceptance. If it grows too active and lets itself think, who knows how it might be shocked into panic? The South African affair has played its role, doctored up and deformed like the ones before it, wrenched out of its context. The monster’s minions gloat behind the scenes. Now everything is ready for the final act…

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Another sunny day in the Rainbow Nation

And yet, well oiled though it was, the machine did misfire. But only once, and with no real damage. Which shows how clever the beast can be when nasty little obstacles spring up in its path. After their President’s violent declarations, what on earth made those same Afrikaners, a few days later, try to pass for Sisters of Charity, out of a clear blue sky? The fleet was rounding the Cape of Good Hope, heading north-northwest up into the Atlantic, leaving the coast behind, when all of a sudden it was peacefully intercepted by a flotilla of barges from the South African navy. At the government’s invitation, reporters and photographers were watching the maneuver. It lasted no more than a quarter of an hour. On strictest orders from the South African admiral, not a soul set foot on the ships of the armada, not a word was exchanged. (And besides, the apathy of the refugees, and their unbending silence, would have doomed any contact from the start.) No, South Africa, quite simply, was furnishing the Ganges fleet with provisions! The operation had been worked out to the letter: sacks of rice hoisted up in great loads, giant tanks of fresh water, crates full of medical supplies — all placed on board in record time. After which each side proceeded on its way, the armada out to sea and heading toward Senegal, the South African craft back to port on the Cape… And then the incredible happened. It took every officer, every reporter, training all their binoculars on the Ganges fleet, to admit the impossible: the armada was dumping everything into the water! The anthill, suddenly roused, had been stirred up to almost a frenzy. On deck the crowds formed human chains. Sacks of rice passed down the line, from hand to hand, and plunged into the sea, one after another. Groups of men by the dozens pitted shoulders and crowbars against the huge tanks, and toppled them overboard, one by one. And everything sank to the bottom, except for the crates of medicines, lighter than the rest, bobbing along on the waves like a dotted line marking the wake of the fleet. Then the dotted line stopped. There was nothing left to dump. … On board the South African craft, jaws dropped and hung agape in disbelief. Was that any way for a starving mob to act? Of all the explanations offered on the spot, the South African admiral’s probably made the most sense. Landing at the Cape, surrounded by a pack of reporters bombarding him with questions, the admiral, hands in pockets, could only shrug his shoulders with a look of profound disgust…

But you have to give the beast credit. You have to admire its cleverness and skill! All at once it gets wind of something unpleasant, something barring its route. An act of charity, of all things! Conscience money? Long overdue? Ulterior motives? Say what you like, it was still a humane gesture. With some kind of contact, or at least an attempt. A helping hand held out, in the flesh. Enough to risk making those Afrikaner types seem like downright nice people to a flabby world opinion! … Those racists, nice people? Careful now! Enough is enough! After fifty-odd years of flimflam and claptrap, the West could slide back to its racist past, throw up new defenses against the present peril… The beast smells disaster, sees its prey escaping! … The whites could wake up, surprised and relieved to find themselves drawn to those once loathsome racists, so much like themselves! … Oh no, not a chance! Wouldn’t that be just lovely! … But the West is no phoenix rising from its ashes. Hardly more than a fragile fly, buzzing on the loose. With one flick of its claw, the beast catches it, crushes it to death. South Africans? Nice people? … Just enough for one gulp! …

The Western press, at its eloquent best, makes sure we get the word. No need to read through all the small print. The headlines will suffice: “South African Generosity, True or False? Five Questions and Answers” (moderate, London). “Bon Voyage, Pretoria! Goodbye and Good Riddance!” (moderate, Paris). “Blackmail in Human Despair” (left of center, The Hague). “Was Poison Their Real Motive?” (lurid left, Paris). “Handouts Won’t Help” (moderate, Turin). “Charity South African Style: A Slap in the Face” (far left, Paris). “Go Peddle Your Stuff Somewhere Else!” (left of center, Frankfurt). “Armada: Poison Plot Fails” (far left, Rome). “Lunch à la Pontius Pilate” (moderate, Brussels). “Armada Dumps South African Rice, Keeps Self Respect” 
(moderate, New York). “No Compromise for the Ganges Refugees” (Paris, far left)…

The last was the headline over Clément Dio’s column. Not a word in his paper about the poison nonsense. That wasn’t his cup of tea. But he didn’t mind a bit if, through no fault of his own, it sent shockwaves through the low-rent flats. As usual, he hewed pretty close to the truth. (Though, of course, not too close. The unvarnished truth isn’t something you publish. Just enough to keep his reporter’s conscience all in one piece. A delicate balance that he played really well, and that made him so deadly whenever he turned his sincerity loose…) He had hit on the truth. He alone, or almost. He had flushed it out with no trouble at all, since it sprang from the very same source as his hatred. Yes, that was it. The Last Chance Armada, en route to the West, was feeding on hatred. A hatred of almost philosophical proportions, so utter, so absolute, that it had no thoughts of revenge, or blood, or death, but merely consigned its objects to the ultimate void. In this case, the whites. For the Ganges refugees, on their way to Europe, the whites had simply ceased to be. They no longer existed. Paradise had already changed hands, and hatred made faith all the stronger. Which was what Clément Dio was trying to suggest, without showing his colors or theirs: “No Compromise for the Ganges Refugees…”

1-5 South Africa, apartheid sign v2

“Better Off under Colonialism”

From economist Walter E. Williams’s ‘South Africa After Apartheid’ (2002):

Moral crusaders have the habit of heading off to their next crusade without bothering to see whether anything went wrong on their last one. … There’s no longer apartheid and there’s black rule in South Africa but what’s the story there now? …

Each South African day sees an average of 59 murders, 145 rapes and 752 serious assaults out of its 42 million population. The new crime is the rape of babies; some AIDS-infected African men believe that having sex with a virgin is a cure. Twelve percent of South Africa’s population is HIV-positive but President Mbeki says that HIV cannot cause AIDS. In response to growing violence, South Africa’s minister of safety and security, Steve Tshwete says, “We can’t police this; there’s nothing more we can do.” South Africa’s currency, the rand, has fallen about 70 percent since the African National Congress (ANC) came to power in 1994. Emigration from South Africa (mainly of skilled people) is now at its highest level ever. …

The tragic fact of business is that ordinary Africans were better off under colonialism. Colonial masters never committed anything near the murder and genocide seen under black rule in Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda, Nigeria, Mozambique, Somalia and other countries where millions of blacks have been slaughtered in unspeakable ways that included: hacking to death, boiling in oil, setting on fire and dismemberment. …

Andrew Kenny says that whites treat blacks like animals. When a dog misbehaves, we don’t blame the dog; we blame the owner for improper training. In Africa, when blacks behave badly, Kenny says colonialism, imperialism, apartheid, globalization or multi-nationalism is blamed for not bringing up blacks properly. Liberals saw South Africa’s, apartheid and other human rights abuses as unjust because blacks were suffering at the hands of whites. They hold whites accountable to civilized standards of behavior. Blacks are not held to civilized standards of behavior. From the liberal’s point of view it might even be racist to expect blacks to adhere to civilized standards of behavior.

1-5 South Africa, murder victim v2

“Hacked to Death”

The usual from South Africa: ‘British Engineer Hacked to Death on His South African Farm’ (The Telegraph, 2012).

Christopher Preece was stabbed to death in his kitchen by men with machetes who left with just a few mobile phones and a small amount of cash. The 54-year-old’s wife Felicity was also seriously injured in Saturday night’s attack, which happened on a farm the couple were turning into a nature reserve. Mr Preece’s daughter-in-law has told how a gang of three robbers poisoned the couple’s large pack of guard dogs before breaking into the house. …

Mr Preece’s death is the latest in an alarming trend of brutal murders on remote farmsteads in post apartheid South Africa. Since the country’s first fully democratic elections in 1994, more than 3,000 white, mainly Afrikaans, farmers have been killed in their homes. The so-called “farm attacks” are part of the wave of criminality that has engulfed the country in recent years, something criminologist blame of a number of factors, including inept policing and widening social inequality. But in the case of “farm attacks” — which occur far from the crime-ravaged townships — academics also blame a breakdown in the traditional social contract between employer and employee.

Which was, of course, white supremacy: historically, the most effective form of government in Africa.

Police research shows that the murders are normally carried out by drug-addicted, unemployed black men. Often they have some connection with the targeted farmstead. Local police said the attack at Mr Preece’s farm — called Fleur de Lys — is the fifth such attack, and the second murder, in the district over the past month. Yesterday Jeanne Preece told the local Volksblad newspaper how Mr Preece had moved to South Africa in 1995 for work, after which he had “fallen in love” with the country.

1-5 South Africa, Mpumalanga province v2

“Just for Fun”

other things amanzi is the journal of a surgeon in Mpumalanga Province, South Africa. (Forbes has called it “the best doctor blog on the internet.”) The victims in this 2008 account are white:

i recently watched the movie capote. i enjoyed it. but, being south african, i was interested in the reaction… of the american community… their reaction was shock and dismay. …

but in south africa there is a similar incident every day. i don’t read the newspaper because it depresses me too much. you might wonder why i, a surgeon, am posting on this. one reason may be because i often deal with the survivors (two previous posts found here and here). at the moment i have three patients who are victims of violent crime. one is the victim of a farm attack. an old man who had his head caved in with a spade. why? just for fun, it seems. but maybe the reason i’m writing this post is because i’m south african. this is my country and i’m gatvol.

just three recent stories. some guys broke into a house. they gagged the man. it seemed that whatever they shoved into his mouth was shoved in too deep, because as they lay on the bed violating his wife, he fought for breath and finally died of asphyxiation.

then there is a woman alone at home. some thugs broke in and asked where the safe was. they were looking for guns. she told them she had no safe and no guns. they then took a poker, heated it to red hot and proceeded to torture her with it so that she would tell them what they wanted to hear. because she could not, the torture went on for a number of hours.

then there is the story of a group of thugs that broke in to a house. they shot the man and cut the fingers of the woman off with a pair of garden shears. while the man lay on the floor dying, the criminals took some time off to lounge on the bed eating some snacks they had found in the fridge and watch a bit of television.

these are only three stories, but, if you do read the papers, you can hear about similar stories on a daily basis. and our great and mighty president, the eminently blind thabo mbeki, believes there is no problem with crime here.

yes, you americans were right to be horrified by the story upon which capote is based. we south africans, through the leadership of possibly the worst leader of a country in the world today, well we just get used to it.

1-5 France, Pointe du van v2

Dio’s Revenge

Above: Pointe du van, France.

The fleet is about to make landfall, and Dio wants to be there to witness his final revenge against the hated West. From Chapter 32:

Hurtling southward goes Clément Dio, fast as his powerful car will take him. He speeds past long infantry convoys, truck after truck, their canvas flaps open in back, and sitting inside, young soldiers lined up on benches. The army has certainly changed. It reeks of gloom. The soldiers don’t even lean out to admire his magnificent, sleek red bomb, with its endless hood. And Iris Nan-Chan, that beautiful lady… Why, they don’t even blow her kisses, or laugh to catch her eye, or slap their thighs in a flurry of off-color comments. Not so much as one dawdling private flashing an obscene gesture, as that strictly untouchable ivory flesh passes close to his truck. “The army looks good!” says Dio. “Not exactly singing their way to the front!” He’s delighted. His handiwork, partly. How well he remembers his noble battle, dragging the army through the courts, forcing it to lift its ban on publications of a certain persuasion. And winning the case, hands down! For ten years now La Pensée Nouvelle, La Grenouille, and the rest, had been read in the barracks of every French regiment under the sun. Prisons, too, for that matter. They had taken advantage and gotten into the act. Our friend Ben Suad, alias Dio, had had his revenge. Revenge for that bill of sale, found in his family papers. The one that showed his grandmother, a black harem slavegirl, sold to a brothel for French officers in Rabat. Why on earth had his Moroccan father, mild-mannered civil servant under the French, held on to that odious proof of his past? To keep his hatred alive, that’s why! …

At the tollbooths, squadrons of security police in black, helmeted and massive, and not in too good a mood either: “I wouldn’t go south if I were you.” “You wouldn’t? What do you mean, Lieutenant?” “Just what I said!” growls the bemedaled lieutenant, eyeing the long red hood, the beautiful Eurasian, the driver’s swarthy skin and elegant crop of kinky hair. “Back where you came from, and on the double!” “You wouldn’t be a racist, would you, Lieutenant?” “Me? A racist? You’ve got to be kidding!” No, no one is a racist today anymore. That’s the official word, everyone agrees. The police even less so than the rest. They’re paid to remember… A glimpse of the press card, and open sesame: “Go ahead, monsieur. Sorry for the trouble!” [...]

On the outskirts of Lyon, Dio takes the boulevard circling the city — deserted in these wee, small hours, while convoys of army trucks rattle along the river, through the heart of town — and turns left on the road to Grenoble. Via the “Tourist Route,” as a sign announces. Toward Nice, on the road Napoleon took when he came back from Elba, and marched up to Paris. Iris Nan-Chan finds it rather amusing, and drawls out a long, exultant laugh. “Napoleon Dio! My own little eagle! Flying in triumph from steeple to steeple. Only we’re going to land in the plush Negresco towers!” When they reach Grenoble, one of the suburbs by the banks of the Isère is aglow with flames. “Press!” declares Iris Nan-Chan’s little eagle. “What’s up?” A captain of the security police is standing in the highway, in front of a roadblock of trucks, lined up zigzag. “The prison. It’s on fire.” “And the prisoners?” “Escaped, every damn one. At least two thousand. If you folks are driving farther down, watch out. From Grenoble on we can’t be responsible.” [...]

At the La Faye Pass, another stop. More trucks blocking the road. The army this time. Dio recognizes the insignia of the marine commandos. A unit never seen in France, but one that the reporters of La Pensée Nouvelle follow step by step all over the world, like a dung beetle sticking to the bull that feeds it. An uprising to put down in Chad, or Guiana, or Djibouti, or Madagascar? They’re the spearhead sent on loan overseas, to those presidents beset by the hatred of their people… An officer steps forward. Elegant and polite. [...] “Your press card, please,” the officer asks. “Well, well!” he exclaims, “Monsieur Clément Dio! After loathing you all these years, I finally get to meet you in the flesh!” Some paratroopers come over. They surround the red car and stare silently at Dio. They haven’t forgotten that such creatures still exist, but off on their distant campaigns they’ve never seen one in person, that’s all. “Take a good look, men,” the officer tells them. “If you’ve never seen a swine close up, here’s your chance. Now maybe you can see why we’re crawling with assholes.” His voice is so matter-of-fact and calm, that Dio, past master himself at composure, wonders if this is the end of the road. “Impossible!” he thinks, stifling the urge to laugh at the thought. “Not here! It would be too stupid!” Meanwhile, Iris Nan-Chan has turned toward the officer, trying to taunt him in her most honeyed tones: “Why, Monsieur Brontosaurus! We thought your breed died out eons ago, and now here you are. And you can even talk! My, my!” But the confrontation doesn’t last long. Strangely enough, it’s the soldiers who lose interest, like a living organism that begins to reject a foreign body. “You see?” says the officer. “They don’t give a damn about you. All right, you can go. I have no orders to do anything with you. In fact, I have no orders at all, and that’s how I like it. My unit is all alone in the world, and that suits us fine. Just one word of advice. From here south the country is dead. The people who should have stayed, left. And the ones who did stay, or the ones who are coming, shouldn’t be here at all. You’ll find plenty of friends in Saint-Vallier, down over the pass. But I’m not too sure you’ll like them. Especially Madame Nan-Chan. There’s a little bit of everything. The whole of the Draguignan prison, in fact. Sex criminals and baby-killers included. [...] You can’t miss them all. They’ve taken over the Hotel Préjoly—forty rooms, baths and toilets, bar, elevator, grill, phone in every room, heated pool, tennis courts. At least, that’s what it says in the Guide Michelin. Of course, now…” (He gives a doubtful shrug.) “Well, at least I can tell you that your friends are nice and clean. With my glasses it’s easy to see the pool. They’ve all been bathing, and the water is filthy. I should really go in there and clear them out, so my men can move on. … Oh yes, I forgot to tell you: they all have sawed-off shotguns. There isn’t a gun store for miles around that hasn’t been broken into. … But I’d rather wait until they’re all dead drunk. It won’t take long. You can hear them from here. … Well, my friends — monsieur, madame — so much for our chat. I hope you have a delightful trip!”

And what do you do after that, when your name is Clément Dio?

Shift into gear and drive off, resolutely, to Saint-Vallier. Which is just what he did…

Plenty of Friends in Saint-Vallier

From Chapter 36:

Clément Dio looked at his watch for the hundredth time. Ten minutes to midnight. It was five hours now since the last drunken songs had died down, petering out to the frequent thump of a body laid low by liquor and fatigue. But one of the thugs must have held out much longer, because at ten o’clock, or thereabouts, Iris Nan-Chan had uttered another feeble groan. At first, when it all began, she had let out a few quick screams, moments after her husband had been locked in that fourth-floor toilet where he lay now for more than a day and a half, in a state of exhaustion bordering on stupor. Then she had cried out again and again, but her cries couldn’t cover the raucous guffaws of the men ganging round her, downstairs in the bar. Then she had begged, and snatches of her pleas had reached Dio’s ears whenever the chorus of vile, drunken voices would stop for a moment. As time went by, she had started to laugh — no doubt they had forced her to drink — and the strange, unearthly sound of her laughter had stabbed Dio square in the heart, transfixed him, all but lifeless, on the cold toilet floor, eyes dry, no tears left. During the last few hours of the nightmare, her laughter had died away, gasp by gasp, and had turned to that low, plaintive groan that Dio could hear so clearly once the din had subsided. Like a hurricane, blown out, at last, from its savage excesses. And no other sound had troubled that deathly silence. Except for a column of trucks, rumbling by toward eleven, speeding down to the sea. (Most likely those marine commandos from the La Faye Pass, heading south to take up their positions…) Ten minutes to midnight. Dio heard footsteps on the stairs, then in the corridor leading to his prison…

And yet, things had all started out so well, despite the sarcastic warnings of that commando captain. To be sure, in Saint-Vallier their car had been stopped in front of the hotel. But only because it was red and shiny, covered with chrome, all studded with lights and bristling with antennas, and upholstered in leather. An elegant object, something the poor unfortunate prisoners could feast their hands on, too long deprived of all contact with refinement. Dio had introduced himself. Many knew who he was. His radical penal reform campaigns, waged with so much success, had made him a rather well-known figure in most prison circles. They had even recalled his famous editorial, the one that had shaken penology to the roots:

“From my point of view, our civil offenders are really no more than political prisoners, innocent victims of a social system that first destroys them, then refuses to save them, turning its back as they languish in disgrace. No one of us can be sure that he won’t land in prison. Today more than ever, as the police web tightens its hold on our lives. We’re told that the prisons are all overcrowded. But isn’t the worst prison really our life outside?” After cheers and hurrahs, they had offered him a drink, a toast to their freedom. He and his wife had played right along. It was all quite amusing. Of course, a few of the men had already drunk too much, especially some of the Arabs and blacks, and the bar was a mass of puddles and stains, strewn with broken glass and bottles. But the mood was good-natured, like a Bastille Day of sorts, only this time a Bastille had really been taken. “Tell me,” Dio had asked, glass of rum in hand, “how did you manage to take the place over?” It was easy to explain. The Ganges fleet was the why and the how behind the operation. It was all they had talked about while they were in prison. They had read every line. They had stuck their pin in the map every night. And sometimes the chaplain would join them, and lead the discussion, which was part of his job. For him the fleet was something of a symbol, “a kind of mass messiah with a million heads,” he called it. A symbol the prisoners could readily accept, set apart as they were, and easily moved. In time, the atmosphere seemed almost devout. So strange, in fact, that the poor, confused guards, superstitious at best, hardly stirred from their lairs, skulking out like frightened shadows to tend to the barest essentials. It was then that it happened. And all terribly simply. At the end of the Good Friday vigil, while the guards were still sleeping in their quarters, letting their worthy charges do likewise, none other than the chaplain had flung open the gates, with the comment that Christ may have died for all men, but for thieves first and foremost… “He always said he would do it some day, but it still sure was a surprise! God knows where he is right now! I’ll tell you one thing though. If that crowd ever lands, there won’t be one prisoner behind bars, believe me…” Then they had chatted. About this and that. About society, for instance, and how “fucked up it all is.” About “filthy rich bourgeois pigs,” and workers brutalized by their machines. And the more the men drank, the louder they got. But why not? They had been reborn, and a little excitement seemed perfectly in order. “Take me, for instance,” one fellow explained. “I had to make a choice. Either bust my balls on some job for forty more years, or take a chance on three minutes in the big time, and maybe hit the jackpot. Well, I gave it a try and I lost, so I got put away. Damn right society’s all fucked up!” And the same one, an hour later, drunk and ugly:

“Come on, guys, what do you say! This is no goddamn fun. Too damn much talk. Let’s have a ball. You know what I mean, guys? Let’s have a ball! Like, first we’re going to dance!” He leered at Iris Nan-Chan. “Right, baby?” It was hardly the moment to beat a retreat. She was caught in the middle, with pairs of groping hands all fighting for her favors. They tugged her between them. Her dress was ripped to shreds. Dio struggled to reach her, tried to elbow through the pack. “Listen, you!” one of them shouted. “Talk about filthy bourgeois pigs! Did you guys see the car this bastard was driving? You think he gave a damn about us? Bullshit, he did! He was selling his goddamn paper, that’s all. Just using us to fill his pockets. Now it’s our turn, right? Come on, baby, one at a time!” A few of the men tried to stem the tide. But the rest of them beat the “revisionists” back. Maybe because there weren’t very many. At which point Dio was kicked up four flights, and dragged into the toilet…

The footsteps stopped in front of the door. Dio heard the key turning. The man standing there still seemed drunk, but at least he was awake. “You can come out of there,” he mumbled, none too sure of himself. “The party’s over.” Then he thought for a moment, and added: “I guess maybe I should say we’re sorry. We shouldn’t have locked you up like that. Not guys like us, I mean, who know what it’s like. But you’ve got to understand. When the shoe’s on the other foot, like they say… Anyway, your wife’s downstairs. I guess maybe we were kind of rough at the beginning. But she’s still in one piece, don’t worry. She’s sleeping. We gave her a good stiff drink. After that things calmed down… Well I mean, I never touched her myself…” And he left.

The hotel reeked of wine and tobacco, and stank of stale vomit. Most of the windows were smashed, no doubt by the bottles thrown through them. In the rooms, doors flung wide, men were flopped on the beds, on top of the covers, snoring, dead to the world. Dio picked his way over the landing, over bodies lying asleep where they had fallen. A radio still blared out a concerto. The last drunkard to fall hadn’t thought to turn it off before biting the dust. Dio found Iris Nan-Chan at the bar, just where he had left her. She was sleeping, naked, stretched out on a bench. Someone had thrown up all over her chest. Someone else must have covered her, waist down, with a cloth from a dining-room table. She was sleeping very soundly. As if she had swallowed a whole bottle of pills. Which, in fact, was just what she had done. The vial of barbiturates lay empty at her feet… All of a sudden, the concerto stopped short. In the studios no one cared much anymore about smooth transitions. Then a voice:

“We bring you now an address by the President of the Republic …”

Midnight. And that was how, on Easter evening, Clément Dio found himself listening to the message that the whole world was waiting to hear.

1-5 France, lavender field v2

Dio’s End

Above: A lavender field in France.

The wages of sin is death. From Chapter 43:

Clément Dio, too, died the morning of the landing. But all by himself. After the address by the President of the Republic, he had left the Hotel Préjoly, in Saint-Vallier, and wandered off into the night, like a man in a trance. Somehow his feet led him down to the coast. But his eyes saw only one endless image, burned into his brain: his wife, Iris Nan-Chan, and his fruitless attempts to wake her, lying there suddenly limp in his arms, very dead. Sitting on the beach close by Dragasès’s villa, he had witnessed, in his daze, a whole series of scenes that, just the day before, would have thrilled him through and through. He had thrived, after all, on always being right, and had spent his whole life avenging one Ben Suad, alias Clément Dio. But today, as his vengeance was about to triumph, he felt nothing whatever. Even the French army’s wholesale defection — that army he had loathed, and locked horns with, and slandered — left him utterly indifferent. He looked on, apathetic, as the last twelve remnants got into their truck and beat their retreat. And it didn’t even seem to cross his mind that much of the handiwork, in fact, was his. As the Ganges refugees stormed ashore, he wavered for a moment, as if he were wondering why he was there, and what he was doing. Then he got up, and all at once something came back to him. Something important. Bits and snatches of things he had said once before: “Monsieur Orelle… Do you think they have a chance?… It’s the Last Chance Armada…” He broke into a smile. “Damn good!” he thought. “I really told it straight! Now here they are, and they’ve got me to thank!” That realization set his blood atingle. “Look, it’s me! It’s me! Dio!” And he waved his arms wildly, called out to the horde: “Let’s tear down this mess! Let’s begin all over!” But being rather small and swarthy — with his elegant crop of kinky hair, and a shifty look in his baggy eyes — and wearing a much too elegant jacket, he looked for all the world like one of those doormen who hang outside nightclubs to huckster the tourists. Death came in the form of a gigantic black, carrying a monster child on his shoulders, with a huge throng following after him, singing. He stopped in front of Dio, grabbed him off the ground, lifted him bodily so the twisted dwarf could see him. The creature, cap on head, took one look and gave a cry. For the third time ever. Our friend Dio, or Ben Suad, knew that he was done for, though he had no time to comprehend the verdict. The turd eater’s fingers tightened around his throat, and his body was flung out over the sand like a limp rag doll. In no time, the trampling feet of the mob made it look like one of those mangled, bloody goats, swatted hither and yon in a game of Afghan polo… If, indeed, we can speak of a verdict, we can look for the reasons behind it. Here are two men, each in his own way an instrument of fate. One crosses the oceans, finds the other, and kills him, in a flash of inspiration, as if he knew precisely who he was. The one deliberate act of murder that the horde was to commit. Utterly senseless, by all logical standards. But if we choose, rather, to swim in a sea of symbols, deep and profound, a kind of logic begins to take shape. Namely, the Third World’s staunch refusal to admit any debts, to dilute the radical meaning of its triumph by sharing its glory with alien beings. To thank them, or even accept their existence, would merely prolong a form of subjection. The turd eater settled things once and for all. Take it for what it’s worth. Or perhaps there’s another, more natural, explanation, and one that, frankly, we find easier to accept. To wit, that the monster couldn’t stand Dio’s looks. No, he simply couldn’t stand them! …

1-5 Climate change banner

White Guilt Singularity

In 2009, progressives in Bangladesh succeeded in fusing “refugees” to “climate change” with the power of fake science, creating an inescapable black hole of white guilt.

Above: The Himalayan glaciers remain unmelted.

‘UK Should Open Borders to Climate Refugees, Says Bangladeshi Minister’ (The Guardian, 2009):

Up to 20 million Bangladeshis may be forced to leave the country in the next 40 years because of climate change, one of the country’s most senior politicians has said. Abul Maal Abdul Muhith, Bangladesh’s finance minister, called on Britain and other wealthy countries to accept millions of displaced people. … “We are asking all our development partners to honour the natural right of persons to migrate. We can’t accommodate all these people — this is already the densest [populated] country in the world,” he said.

He called on the UN to redefine international law to give climate refugees the same protection as people fleeing political repression. “The convention on refugees could be revised to protect people. It’s been through other revisions, so this should be possible,” he said. …

Oh, I’m sure the UNHCR will oblige. Anything to increase the flow of “refugees” into the West.

… The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), the scientific [sic] body that assesses the impact of climate change, has said there could be 200 million climate change migrants by 2050.

There is mounting evidence in India and Bangladesh and other low-lying countries that sea levels are rising faster than the global average of 1.2mm a year. Islands and coastal communities in the Ganges delta and the Bay of Bengal have recorded rises of up to 5mm a year. In Bangladesh hundreds of coastal villagers are forced to drink salty water as tides continue to rise and the sea intrudes on fresh water aquifers. …

The mind recoils in horror.

Rajendra Pachauri, chairman of the IPCC, said the Bangladeshi migration proposal should be taken seriously. “This is clearly a warning signal from Bangladesh and similar countries to the developed countries. And I think it has to be taken very seriously. If you accept that those countries that have really not been responsible for causing the problem, and have a legitimate basis for help from the developed countries, then one form of help would certainly be facilitation of immigration from these countries to the developed world,” he said.

“If you had 30 or 40 million migrating to other parts of the world, that’s a sizable problem for which we have to prepare. And if it requires changes to immigration laws and facilitating people settling down and working in the developed countries, then I suppose this will require legislative action in the developed world,” he said.

Rajendra Pachauri… Now where have I heard that name before? Oh, that’s right: lying about “climate change” for power and profit (Quadrant, 2012). From The Telegraph (2010):

Last week, the IPCC, led by its increasingly controversial chairman, Dr. Rajendra Pachauri, was forced to issue an unprecedented admission: the statement in its 2007 report that Himalayan glaciers could disappear by 2035 had no scientific basis, and its inclusion in the report reflected a “poor application” of IPCC procedures.

What has now come to light, however, is that the scientist from whom this claim originated, Dr Syed Hasnain, has for the past two years been working as a senior employee of The Energy and Resources Institute (TERI), the Delhi-based company of which Dr. Pachauri is director-general. Furthermore, the claim — now disowned by Dr Pachauri as chairman of the IPCC — has helped TERI to win a substantial share of a $500,000 grant from one of America’s leading charities, along with a share in a three million euro research study funded by the EU.

At the same time, Dr. Pachauri has personally been drawn into a major row with the Indian government, previously among his leading supporters, after he described as “voodoo science” an official report by the country’s leading glaciologist, Dr. Vijay Raina, which dismissed Dr. Hasnain’s claims as baseless. Now that the IPCC has disowned the prediction made by his employee, Dr. Pachauri has been castigated by India’s environment minister, Jairam Ramesh, and called on by Dr. Raina to apologize for his “voodoo science” charge. At a stormy Delhi press conference on Thursday, Dr. Pachauri was asked whether he intended to resign as chairman of the IPCC — on whose behalf he collected a Nobel Peace Prize two years ago, alongside Al Gore — but he refused to answer questions on this fast-escalating row.

To understand why the future of Himalayan glaciers should arouse such peculiar passion, one must recall why they have long been a central icon in global warming campaigners’ propaganda. Everything that polar bears have been to the West, the ice of the Himalayas has been — and more — to the East. This is because, as Mr Gore emphasized in his Oscar-winning film An Inconvenient Truth, the vast Himalayan ice sheet feeds seven of the world’s major river systems, thus helping to provide water to 40 per cent of the world’s population. …

Dr. Pachauri’s first response to these revelations was to claim that he had “absolutely no responsibility” for the blunder, that it was “the work of independent authors — they’re responsible.”

Bear in mind, this isn’t about climate science per se. It’s about $500,000 grants; fancy titles; Nobel Peace Prizes. It’s about “influence,” which is a nice word for power. And now it’s about twenty million Bangladeshi colonizers waiting for a spot on their country’s version of the India Star.

Calling yourself a “climate scientist” doesn’t mean you do science for a living. Rajendra Pachauri, for instance, actually gets paid to promote a political doctrine called Climate Change. Not climate change, as in: “the climate is changing,” or “human beings are changing the climate,” or even “human beings are making the climate worse.” With those, we are still plausibly talking about science. I’m talking about Climate Change, as in: “the cost of inaction… is the extinction of the human race. Period” (The New York Times). That is not science. As The American Interest put it:

The lack of judgment is staggering; the careless disregard for the truth, the intellectual incompetence and the cavalier disregard for basic fact checking before making the wildest predictions of horrifically impending catastrophe are quite simply breathtaking.

1-5 Occupy Wall Street v2

Pure Theater

Above we see some very serious-minded “Occupy Wall Street” protesters doing their part to put “people before profit” and make education and healthcare “free” (presumably by enslaving teachers and doctors) and explain how “9/11 was an inside job” and also many other great and noble things, while normal people (ugh!) are at work, no doubt building bombs to blow up starving African children or pacifist abortionists. A key part of this “social justice” process is the “progressive stack,” a system in which women always speak before men, white people yield the floor to non-white people, heterosexuals go after the full assortment of LGBT-XYZ-HIV-LMNOP, and so on. This principle is called equality, for reasons that elude me. So “step up, step back,” and let these poor, powerless people speak — or else…

But let’s get back to the action in The Camp of the Saints. In this scene from Chapter 39, Colonel Dragasès, commander of the French military forces on the beach where “refugees” from the Last Chance Armada will soon be disembarking, has just ordered a round of music for the few soldiers who haven’t yet deserted:

They stood by the five tanks of the Second Hussars, Chamborant Regiment, lined up in the garden outside the villa, under the pines. Two drummers, two buglers. Not much of a band. But there in the darkness they were loud as an army. Picture the scene. Moments after midnight, taps blaring out by the light of the moon. Pure theater! “Oh, that tugs at the heart!” moaned Undersecretary Perret, half in jest. The colonel was smiling too. A big, broad grin. Jubilation all around. The ones who truly love their traditions don’t take them too seriously. They march to get their heads shot off with a joke on their lips. And the reason is that they know they’re going to die for something intangible, something sprung from their fancy, half humor, half humbug. Or perhaps it’s a little more subtle. Perhaps hidden away in their fancy is that pride of the blueblood, who refuses to look foolish by fighting for an idea, and so he cloaks it with bugle calls that tug at the heart, with empty mottoes and useless gold trim, and allows himself the supreme delight of giving his life for an utter masquerade. That’s something the Left has never understood, and that’s why its contempt is so heavy with hate. When it spits on the flag, or tries to piss out the eternal flame, when it hoots at the old farts loping by in their berets, or yells “Women’s Lib!” outside the church, at an old-fashioned wedding (to cite just some basic examples), it does so in such a grim, serious manner — like such “pompous assholes,” as the Left would put it, if only it could judge. The true Right is never so grim. That’s why the Left hates its guts, the way a hangman must hate the victim who laughs and jokes on his way to the gallows. The Left is a conflagration. It devours and consumes in deadly dull earnest. (Even its revels, appearances notwithstanding, are as grisly an affair as one of those puppet parades out of Peking or Nuremberg.)

The Right is different. It’s a flickering flame, a will-o’-the-wisp in the petrified forest, flitting through the darkness…

1-5 Conflagration v2

Know Your Left from Right

“The Left is a conflagration,” Raspail wrote. “It devours and consumes in deadly dull earnest.” The true Right, on the other hand, is “a flickering flame, a will-o’-the-wisp in the petrified forest, flitting through the darkness.” (Read Moldbug’s take here and here.) Let’s test that theory with a few side-by-side comparisons.

1-5 Beirich and Taylor v2

SPLC vs Jared Taylor

Jared Taylor explains how the Southern Poverty Law Center (above), represented here by Heidi Beirich, operates:

For years, I have been one of the SPLC’s “haters.” If it learns that I have been on a radio or television program, it calls the producers to berate them. If it learns I am to speak at a university or civic group, it contacts the organizers to tell them I should be denied a podium. It never argues that my facts are wrong or that my conclusions are illogical. … It simply wants to gag me. … The SPLC tries to have “haters” fired from their jobs. This goes beyond suppression of dissident views. Trying to ruin someone financially is not “politics” or “advocacy,” however thuggish. The SPLC wants to hurt people.

Since I am not part of an organization like theirs, with $216,000,000 in the bank and $400,000-a-year salaries, I sometimes work as an interpreter of Japanese. For more than 10 years, a US State Department website has advertised my services. The SPLC recently found out about this and warned the department that I was a vicious “hater,” and that it should take my name off its website.

Interpreting Japanese does not help spread one word of whatever “hate” the SPLC thinks I serve up. It helps feed my family. Nothing more. The SPLC wants to starve my family, just as it wanted to starve Kevin Lamb, Kevin MacDonald, and others it attacks. This is not principled disagreement or political debate. It is pure aggression.

1-5 Pareene and Brimelow v2

Alex Pareene vs Peter Brimelow

Alex Pareene slanders Peter Brimelow, editor of the excellent anti-colonization website VDARE (Salon):

CPAC is here, so it’s time for everyone’s annual look at the psychos invited… The National Review’s John Derbyshire, a stock “pervert Tory” character from a Martin Amis novel sprung to life…, is hosting a panel on “multiculturalism” (boo hiss) featuring two of America’s most detestable sacks of shit: Peter Brimelow, founder of white supremacist site VDARE, and Robert Vandervoort… the fact that these panelists are all well-compensated members in good standing of the conservative movement instead of shrieking their “defense of Western Civilization” nonsense for free from a bench outside a subway station does suggest that something has gone wrong with the American experiment.

So Mr. Brimelow rebukes the vile thing Pareene (VDARE):

John Derbyshire’s recent Takimag column eviscerating Salon’s Alex Pareene, for his obscene echo-chambering of the various cultural Marxist pre-emptive strikes on the CPAC ProEnglish breakout session at which Derbyshire and I both appeared, is a polemical model. … Of course, it’s all part of the current intensified crackdown on any expression of the Right Opposition dissent, above all on topics like immigration… Much of the Takimag comment thread is taken up with rude speculation about Pareene’s rather depressing appearance: [see above]

1-5 Lowry and Derbyshire v2

Mainstream Journalists vs John Derbyshire

Speaking of John Derbyshire, in April 2012, he sparked a fair amount of controversy with ‘The Talk: Nonblack Version’ (TakiMag), leading to his dismissal from the conservative and therefore irrelevant National Review. Here’s a representative sampling of rebuttals from journalists spanning the mainstream political spectrum, — that is, the official press, — from progressive to super-progressive:

“shockingly racist… tired racist stereotyping… horrifying diatribe” (Gawker), “dated racial stereotypes” (The Atlantic), “if NRO doesn’t fire Derbyshire a blot beyond measure” (Mother Jones), “the hideous monstrosity that is John Derbyshire’s deeply racist mind” (Gawker), “a racist” (The Atlantic), “Please, Lord, tell me that this is a joke” (New York Daily News), “a perfect example of why Australia needs racial vilification laws” 
(Australian Broadcasting Corporation), “racist nonsense” (Forbes), “National Review must fire John Derbyshire” (Forbes), “a bizarre and offensive piece… disturbing advice… downright crazy talk” (Twitchy), “National Review needs to fire John Derbyshire. Immediately” (RB of The Right Sphere), “fundamentally indefensible and offensive” (former National Review colleague Jonah Goldberg), “racist trash” (former NR colleague Ramesh Ponnuru), “nasty and indefensible… constitutes a kind of letter of resignation” (former NR colleague Rich Lowry, pictured)

Here, for comparison, is John Derbyshire, writing one year earlier:

The dissident temperament has been present in all times and places, though only ever among a small minority of citizens. Its characteristic, speaking broadly, is a cast of mind that, presented with a proposition about the world, has little interest in where that proposition originated, or how popular it is, or how many powerful and credentialed persons have assented to it, or what might be lost in the way of property, status, or even life, in denying it. To the dissident, the only thing worth pondering about the proposition is, is it true? If it is, then no king’s command can falsify it; and if it is not, then not even the assent of a hundred million will make it true.

1-5 Valentine's Day wish v2

Happy Valentine’s Day from Radish

Above: Let’s not lose sight of what’s really important.

Thank you for reading Radish, the world’s first free weekly newsletter for sexy reactionaries. Our readership is certified 100% sexy, so first of all, let me say: well done. I trust you’ve seen enough to know that Jean Raspail’s The Camp of the Saints is well worth a read. Why not buy two copies and share it with that special someone? It might arouse some interest in preserving Western civilization. At the very least, you’re in for a stimulating intercourse on the problem of plunging European birth rates. (Hint, hint.)

On a totally unrelated note, Valentine’s Day is coming up! On this special occasion, and in light of the popular theory that Western countries are all “racist” and “discriminatory” and “hate crime” and… “Hitler,” or whatever, for not welcoming the population overflow from the entire Third World, I think we’ll close on a short poem by the Carlyle Club’s very own, rarely seen Official Poetry Correspondent & Poet:

If Western civilization

Has so much discrimination,

Here’s a plan to help these “refugees” survive:

Line them up, in any order;

Send them south, across the border.

The Third World can’t be racist, so they’ll thrive.

I think I’m beginning to recall why it is we so rarely call upon the Official Poetry Correspondent & Poet. Well, on that note, from everyone here at Radish: Happy Valentine’s Day!

Recommended Reading

Want to learn more about the topics covered in this issue of Radish? We recommend the following resources. (We do not, however, necessarily endorse all opinions expressed in them: some are not nearly extreme enough.)

The Camp of the Saints

Reviews, analysis, mindless condemnation:

Plus:

Novels Similar to Camp

Colonization in Progress

More colonization news:

Colonization Commentary

Assorted, tangential & miscellaneous

Lothrop Stoddard:

Science fiction-related:

Outstanding essayist B.R. Myers:

2 thoughts on “5. The Camp of the Saints

  1. How much treason do you want with your globalist racketeering?

    The thorough slipperiness of multicultural rhetoric is classic deception. So seamlessly does it exchange fiction for reality that it’s hard to notice the difference. The device tricks Aussies into believing that plague immigration is inevitable. From the globalist centre of insane greed came multiculturalism and the plague immigration war weapon. It’s useful to stand back and survey the damage. Western nations are in meltdown, with the rich even richer. Inherit the wind, you filthy bastards. For those Aussies who “embrace” mass immigration and cultural diversity, does it ever occur to them that in moving closer to the edge of a precipice to admire the view, they risk toppling into oblivion?

    Multicultural beliefs that are neither sane nor cheap

    It was claimed that plague immigration would maximize the economic benefits and quality of life in Australia, yet it has done the opposite for most Australians. Even a halfwit could have seen that coming. If you want to believe there is such a thing as sustainable population growth, Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy must tuck you into your cot at night. Why face facts when your brain can take a holiday in ignorance and globalist propaganda? Under the fundamentalist religion of multiculturalism, the drooling faithful receive hysteria lessons instead of history lessons. They are then dry roasted over a medium heat until they thicken. Multiculturalism is not a science.

    Multiculturalism is just like any other Ponzi scheme or “free” energy scam

    Ross Gittens on the Rudd government plague immigration idiocy: Part of Kevin Rudd’s plan to fight inflation is to “tackle chronic skills shortages,” through mass immigration. Rudd believed mass immigration fills vacancies and curbs wage rises. Inner sadism expresses itself in the physical world. Those infected with globalist plague are at the helm. They are steering bovine humanity toward a mass immigration, overpopulation cliff. If you go over the edge, don’t blame gravity. I suggest that the poofterist defenders of political correctness be immediately deported to the third world pestholes they wish Australia to emulate. They would be in a third world ethnic Heaven according to their own bullshit.

    Aussie suckers finding themselves made strangers in their own “enriched” multicultural country

    The media drones have partnered with big business and try to convince the public that people who oppose rapid population growth in Australia must be racist. The media drones never give space to people who oppose pandemic immigration. Scams where overloaded infrastructure is repeatedly torn up and replaced at great cost to the public, adds insult to the housing scarcity that plague immigration and property racketeering are creating. Fight back before it’s too late. Cargo-cultist politicians plan to add many more people to Sydney that lacks housing, and to Melbourne that lacks water. Overloaded cities. These quisling politicians couldn’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag. They have less sense than chooks.

    Only dimwits pay for globalist white elephant infrastructure projects

    Politicians and media drones like to confabulate that plague immigration ameliorates the adverse effects of an aging population by generating stronger growth and a deeper revenue base. Over time it does the opposite. It reduces per capita wealth. An inconvenient truth about the pervert revolution. Feminist misfits (lesbian perverts) elevated their man-hating neurotic hysteria to the bogus status of moral excellence. They now push hard for a plague immigration tsunami to wash our nation away. “Experts” insist that Aussies workers be kept running till they drop. How else can they be swept aside for the polyglot hordes of imported scab labour? Trouble is, the plague immigration sewer burst, and Aussies can smell the foul third world stench.

    Installed by pathological globalist dogma

    Mass immigration and cultural diversity (cultural genocide) are presented by globalist change agents, as overwhelming reasons why Australian workers should be forced to accept the third world spectrum of wages and work conditions. The rate of population increase is in slight decline, but population growth is catastrophically high, with 77 million new blobs of unsustainable wailing misery popped onto the planet annually. War, famine and disease will dominate humanity. In a grotesque hate-attack on Australians, multiculturalism was introduced by the criminal Mafia-connected immigration minister Al Grassby during the Whitlam government. If that fact won’t make you abandon multiculturalism, nothing will.

    Plague immigration is worse than the traditional water torture

    The new globalist economics is an excursion into the world of black magic and human sacrifice. All effort and capital must be diverted to the goal of making rich parasites even richer. We must grovel before the awesome majesty of the globalist elite. Of course, those who view plague immigration as the enemy, may begin a new political party, to escape from the globalist-poofterist quisling parties. Remember the deliberate mass media “hatchet jobs” upon Pauline Hanson and her new One Nation party. When a government allows real estate sales to foreigners, it has betrayed its citizenry and must be removed. Australian governments advanced the logical progression of betraying the Australian people for a long time.

    Don’t be deceived — their “love” for immigrants is based on their greedy desire for cheap scab labour and real estate profits

    Multiculturalism is a genuine weapon of mass destruction. The bloated globalist parasites have clearly prospered in their new era, as obedient sovereign populations allow themselves to be invaded and replaced by more desperate imported scab labour. Globalist corruption must be absorbed through the dirty skins of dedicated multicultural cock-gobblers. It certainly oozes out of the mouths of globalist mass media drones. The so-called “level playing field” is a graveyard for sovereign nations. The primitive superstition or cargo-cult of multiculturalism facilitates society’s degeneration back to savagery. There is undeniably a serious difference between sustainability rhetoric and government plague immigration policy.

    Plague immigration and the creation and maintenance of scarcity

    Australia needs more tenants about as much as we need more diabetes or congested roads. If there are good reasons for mass immigration, the fear of a shortage of desperate people to drive rents through the roof is not one of them. I’m trying to keep an unlimited number of ethnic criminals, gang members, drug dealers and social welfare parasites from pouring into this land. I’m trying to preserve opportunities for Aussie workers while preserving the environment. The Australian sheeple are mostly ruled and “guided” by the quislings and media drones of a politically correct master race. Globalist “reform” and multicultural bullshit wrote a horror story of Australian enslavement.

    Don’t waste time arguing with mindless multicultural muppets

    If you are very trusting, you might imagine that plague immigration does not necessarily mean doom or a change for the worse. It may get much harder for you to maintain that ignorance as Australia’s third world future takes root. Muammar Gaddafi: “There are signs that Allah will grant victory to Islam in Europe without sword, without gun, without conquest. We don’t need terrorists; we don’t need homicide bombers.” He meant his breeding locusts will over-run the continent. If you look at any massively overpopulated country like China, India, Great Britain, Mexico, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Indonesia, etc., you can see the quickening of the “tragedy of the commons”. You will also see millions in denial of their catastrophe.

    Bring common sense to the situation and focus on the corruption and irresponsibility of plague immigration

    Claiming that you can’t object to current immigration policy because your forebears were immigrants is a bit like saying that, because you were once a foetus, you must always support massive levels of reproduction. Despite globalism and multiculturalism imploding, the globalist mass media drones act as if nothing has been said, as if nothing’s changed, and the multicultural idea was still intact. They haven’t noticed the sand shifting under their feet. This is why we “need” imported scab labour? Someone has to eat the rats? Homeless Poles in north London were barbecuing rats. It had to be explained to them that unlike the rats back home, in London they would be full of poison.

    Revealing the breakdown of social cohesion

    China’s one child policy does more to protect the climate than the rest of the world combined. Australia must stop further nett immigration and enforce a two child policy for a stable population, with no religious group exempted. Don’t support Israel. Jewish agents are major organizers of Muslim immigration to Anglophone countries, mainly through their influence in the mass media. They actively defame, intimidate, prosecute, and silence opponents of brute-force immigration. People fighting against massive mortgage debt, is a well-intended legacy of the third world scab labour invasion. Invertebrates of low human stature now rule the national roost for globalists, and it is not a happy situation.

    Correcting the multicultural error

    To court national destruction with plague immigration is true insanity. The multicultural muppets and elected globalist quislings can be defeated, and there is no reason why good cannot triumph as often as evil. The ordinary test of a philosophy is whether it makes people better and happier, whether it results in prosperity, cooperation and peace. Multiculturalism fails this test on all points. The freedom that once marked Australian society is replaced by a dull “multicultural” conformity spiced with gossip, drugs and scandal to make everyone think they’re still alive. But really, the culture is dying, replaced by a plastic caricature.

    Coercive mass immigration condemns more Australians to homelessness

    The real terror that is being fought against tooth and nail, is affordable housing. We cannot allow the robots to have too much freedom, lest their minds wander and they stumble upon the awful truth about their “society” some frightening day. Plague immigrationists like to make their specious economic arguments sound hard-nosed and realistic. They spew out pre-digested vomit about massively “needing” imported scab labour, that must be suitably ethnic, multicultural and non-white. They all like to splash around in the plague immigration sewer, even the so-called conservatives! But it takes a cynical breed of quisling to stay in power by financially accommodating the immigrant hordes with our tax money.

    The ethnic “community leaders” and our political quislings must be held responsible for this awful state of affairs

    We are hamstrung by guilt-ridden multicultural muppets and psychopaths that control them. Their plague immigrationist ideas are tools of demographic suicide. Jean Raspail wrote a generation ago, “because they are weapons of self-annihilation.” Growth-mad politicians are fond of croaking that Australia is a nation of immigrants, and weirdly that means we must accept mass immigration forever. That old cliche confuses facts with wisdom. It doesn’t care if Australia is already overpopulated. The multicultural feeding frenzy rages almost unopposed in Australia. The mad anti-racist hysteria shrieked by Jewish cuckoos and gay perverts effectively silenced Pauline Hanson and everyone else. The globalist cultural diversity apocalypse is here.

    Plague immigration, thanks for ruining my country

    Government policy guidance becomes rubbery and its “logic” becomes fuzzy when the generous bribes coming from wealthy plutocrats or globalist cabals exceed certain thresholds. Immigration policy usually has property parasites holding its reins. The patchwork nature of the Australian labour market is the result of quisling governments imposing globalist “reforms” against the working class and the industries that once employed them. How can our workers compete with third world slave labour? Wealthy parasites believe that growing poverty is good, if it makes the rich richer. They are agents of globalism and urgers for the plague immigration invasion of cheap ethnic scab labour. Poverty is never too high in a globalist one-world economy.

    The only way to live or die with dignity in a filthy globalist age is to always fight against invasion

    With plague immigration at current levels the result will be a disaster for working class Australians and the environment. Australia will not muddle through with even more cultural diversity and population in a violent, third world pesthole. Neurotic women often see themselves as castrated males, and vengefully seek to psychologically castrate men. This spawned feminism (dykeism) and is a significant force behind mass homosexual perversion, plague immigration and multiculturalism. Plague immigrationists see overpopulation and plague immigration as producing economic expansion for wealthy parasites and land price Ponzi schemes. According to the globalist propagandists, this disaster is a desirable national outcome.

    A morbid multicultural barrier against sanity

    We were not persuaded to “embrace” the multiculturalism scam, we were bullied, deceived and tricked into it — intimidation instead of consultation. Elected quislings will do almost anything contrary to what we desire or require of them. Stupid people do not like to admit that their past decisions were incorrect, and often try to reaffirm the “correctness” of those earlier stupid decisions. Plague immigration is catastrophic, but it won’t ever be halted by our quisling leaders. When a resentful ethnic hates you, that conveniently defines you as a racist or xenophobe. Merely not wanting plague immigration puts you beyond the pale as some kind of genocidal nazi. There is no simple way to clear such baseless defamation.

    Patriotism was replaced by an anti-Australian hate paradigm

    Australians are threatened by the growth lobby’s push for more plague immigration, two Melbourne academics warned. Sociologists Bob Birrell and Katharine Betts say that calls for the population to reach fifty million terrify normal people. What I am totally against is plague immigration, imported scab labour, our unsustainable overpopulation, scarce housing, property racketeering, and the catastrophic impact all this has on our social cohesion and environmental health. In essence, the globalist architecture is an elaborate maze of crime and deceit, meant to obscure the real agenda to ensnare most people into a life of cramped “Stack and Pack” housing, insane mandated duties, and harsh personal restrictions.

    Plague immigration: The real cause of crowding

    The social disruption caused by plague immigration and crowding is well known. I cannot believe that our elected quislings are totally unaware of the consequences. We must plan and work for something better than a parasitic real estate Ponzi scheme. Obeying globalist urgings, governments have increasingly turned on their poorest citizens in orgies of scapegoating. Typically, the victims of plague immigration policy are being blamed for what wealthy criminal parasites have done to their lives. The business of developers, builders and architects is pushing growth. But growth doesn’t pay for itself at the community level or national level. The more you grow, the greater your debts. Decades of irresponsible growth has left states bankrupt.

    The black ethnic sewers of Australia’s “Stack and Pack” multicultural slums

    Globalist civil engineering? Crumbling, overloaded infrastructure and plague immigration make a lethal combination. But you don’t care, because you are a trained moron and believe all the soothing vomit the globalist quislings spew at you. The multicultural nightmare began in the human rights movement, which still sees progress as blocked by intolerance. They see new heights of human progress achievable when “intolerance” is no longer tolerated and is violently eliminated. The pitiful drivel that elected quislings and globalist media drones expect us to swallow is so piss-weak that it’s laughable, although the globalist takeover of our nation is no laughing matter. What is happening is merciless and ruthless.

    Was there really a debate on immigration and, if so, where and when was it held?

    It is usual for ethnics to have no feeling for being Australian, and many work against anything they perceive to be Australian. Some Jews consider themselves a multicultural elite, and work hysterically against the Australian culture. Festering foreign enclaves swarming with ethnic gangsters may appeal to politicians, but Aussies must reject all this pro-growth multicultural tripe that represents big business before people. Don’t get comfortable with national destruction. The true nature of State Power in Australia is that of a traitor Establishment, which has always been anti-Australian (in various guises — whether subordinating Australia’s culture, independence, and destiny to that of Britain, the USA, or Asia).

    In the pay of globalist parasites, immigrationist politicians and media drones openly oppose Australians and put shit on them

    A great deal of Australia’s soil has blown or washed away. Within 50 years, the Murray Basin, Australia’s main breadbasket, will be a salt desert. There is abundant expert evidence that Australia is overpopulated for such a dry, fragile land. Economic inequality is part of the globalist plague immigration agenda. No prizes for guessing that it makes the rich, richer, and the poor, poorer. No price is too high for you to pay for the mass immigration takeover of your country. How many maniacs believe that globalist “reforms” are needed to replace national cohesion? Too many is my guess. The weak and greedy minds of elected quislings and media drones seen poised to murder our national solidarity. Overpaid maniacs run wild.

    You look into multiculturalist eyes, and you get the impression that someone turned off the lights

    Increased traffic congestion is just one unsustainable cost of population growth — usually regarded by simple minds as beneficial for the economy — but actually incurring unpayable costs for the society as a whole. The ominous, divergent trends of an increasing population and declining arable land and depleting fossil fuels, point to a rapid die-off of human population within this century. In the absence of Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, humans are stuffed. This quote has some relevance to the muffled feral immigration debate in Australia: “If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” — George Orwell.

    Importing hatred for real humans from primitive cultures

    If being dissatisfied with overpopulation is pathological and plague immigration is sacred, then we can easily infer that sanity or happiness is evil. Increased poverty and emotional distress from crowding is the price of real estate Ponzi schemes. The conformist morons allow wealthy parasites to blood-suck, and wealthy parasites allow morons to breed like locusts. We can switch on the light-bulbs in the intelligent heads, but with drooling morons, there are no light-bulbs to switch on. The rotten bulk of the plague immigration Ponzi scheme will soon topple onto the trivial lives of many bovine Aussie dullards. With their mass-media damaged minds, they cannot possibly conceive of such a catastrophe. Their greed has made them stupid.

    Boundless flood plains, bushfires and desolation to share with ethnic imports

    What politicians and media drones are doing to Australians, is treason. Politicians offered their throats to globalist vampires, and they are now among the bloodsucking undead. The new Australian reality is a nightmare of real estate Ponzi schemes. The grinding down of vital infrastructure into a horrific and crumbling future nightmare is another way to avoid facing the costs of a grotesque process of wealth transfer and looting of national wealth. So you want to grow our population? Soon enough we will be drinking parasite-infested and toxic sewage effluent. It will spew from hospitals, industry, homes and abattoirs, to then be indirectly or directly inserted into public drinking water.

    A nation can survive natural calamities and dissent, but it will always be defeated by mass immigration

    With population growth, we cannot ever hope to cure mass unemployment, because the dynamic of modern industry is toward ever more machine labour replacing human labour. Technology won’t stop, and it naturally makes production ever more efficient. You will discover the attributes of criminality in our globalist governments. If you look a little more closely, you will find that globalism is itself a source of crime. The lying tongues of elected quislings speak criminality. Pandemic immigration is leading inexorably to the impoverishment of the working class, and the creation of an underclass. The parasite landlords could face the dilemma of exterminating the tenant class that they leech.

    Millions of diseased ethnic chickens come here to lay their eggs of cultural disintegration

    A majestic, steady, forward movement of progressive subservience to globalism carries Aussies into the dark barren lands of national death. For decades, the puppet creatures have embraced mental lethargy while eating the vomit of plague immigration. As a nation, if we don’t understand the impact of globalist plague immigration and what it is going to do to most of us, it will soon be too late. That’s right — legal immigration is just as bad as illegal immigration. The main equation: Plague immigration = more damaged environment + poorer quality of life. Most people realize that there are no overall benefits from plague immigration, but they hope to cash-in personally before the Ponzi scheme implodes.

    Those who feed into, or feed off, this pathetic plague immigration property Ponzi scheme must be sidelined or executed

    I see no evidence that multicultural or third world societies are harmonious and prosperous. All the evidence points the other way. Plague immigration delivers the greatest misery for the greatest number. It is the opposite of utilitarianism. The multicultural plague immigration cargo-cult has harmful side-effects that adversely affect a political muppet’s ability to make sound judgments. It also weakens their resistance to same-sex perversion and other diseases of the disordered mind. Multiculturalism needs taxpayers to fund it, otherwise it will wither and die, but taxpayers never needed multiculturalism for anything. If you destroy the parasite, its host thrives, but if you kill the host, the useless parasite must starve.

    The outsourcing of national suicide

    Even though Pauline Hanson may have forgiven Tony Abbott whose “Australians For Honest Politics” conspiracy put her behind bars, we don’t have to forgive this neo-fascist Papal stooge. Like his evil mentor Howard, Abbott is a plague immigrationist. Strong, cohesive communities are not possible under a globalist regime of enforced multiculturalism and cultural diversity propaganda. This is no accident. The globalists want Australia very badly, and will do anything to have it. In promoting free trade, the wealthy parasite elite knew that it would increase their riches. They also knew that the real prices of necessities would rise to unaffordability for most workers, while their real wages would fall.

    To many invading aliens, the infantile ideology of multiculturalism is viewed as a sign of our weakness

    Pretending any longer that the bought and paid for political prostitutes who misgovern Australia, represent you or anyone you know is to submit to idiocy or spinelessness. Submission and conformity will not save you, your family, or your nation. Much of what Australia imports is produced or processed by people who work for food only. This is what our quislings call “free trade” while saying they are confident that Aussies can compete. Globalist “free trade” is in reality “slave trade.” How many extra people can Australia sustain? Short answer: not many! Anyone with a three digit IQ asks: What’s the point of more population growth in Australia when you see what it did to China, India, Indonesia and other third world pestholes?

    With full bipartisan support, Australia was looted, raped, pillaged and plundered by parasite speculators turbocharged by mass immigration

    Despite insane globalist propaganda, the hard fact is that societies facing severe economic and ecological challenges cannot be unlocked candy stores to the poor and huddled masses of the world. There are fiscal limits to compassion. The immoral and filth-encrusted nostrums of multiculturalism are truly the harvested arse-squeezings of poofterism, plague immigration, gangster capitalism and globalist treason. Comfortable globalist whores have no problems with any of that. There is no widespread benefit from mass immigration. It is mainly a vehicle for change, but of a change which brings destruction, and replaces what was already there, so there is nothing and nobody left to oppose corruption and crime.

    Self-serving anti-Australian Jews led the effort to dismantle the “white Australia” policy

    Multiculturalism sets out not to clean, but to cleanse Australia. Cleanse implies an impure moral condition at the start, and more to do, than clean. In any case, the sin or impurity that is to be cleansed away, is Australians themselves. I hope the multicultural muppets humbly submit and applaud their own annihilation and extinction when the globalists finally deem it necessary. As we all know, the muppets lie about their motives when justifying plague immigration. “Sustainable growth” in anything is impossible. If you have any understanding of mathematics, the impossibility of indefinite growth of human populations should be clear. Crowding is known to cause an increase in violent behaviour.

    Our elected quislings decided that mass immigration driven property speculation is more important than housing affordability

    When your children and grandchildren inherit an overpopulated, polluted and depleted land, they won’t thank you. It’s hard to find words to describe the full horror. A day of reckoning is coming that is going to shock Australia to the core. Lost they shall wander from sewer to cesspit, as they soil themselves in intimacies with imported ethnic plague-lice. However, after making normal people suffer enough, the multicultural muppets might reconsider their destructive idiocies. Monash University population expert Dr Bob Birrell said the huge influx of people with few or no English skills had created social problems in Melbourne suburbs such as Dandenong, Sunshine and Broadmeadows. “This is not a pretty picture,” he said.

    The globalists are pissing on your heads

    Future generations struggling to survive among the ruined “Stack and Pack” slums of post-apocalypse Australia will wonder “Why did they do it? Couldn’t they see it coming?” Hopefully the plague immigrationists will have suffered terribly. The ABC reduces Australian history to victimization episodes, to weaken resistance to brute-force immigration. The ABC implies that Australians must be perpetual penitents — wearing national sackcloth, and exercising cultural self-flagellation. Mass immigration fundamentalists never have much respect for democracy at either the national or community level. Public discourse is held in contempt.

    Canada’s gibbering multicultural ratbaggery

    Our services, housing and infrastructure — stretched thin and overloaded — are being swamped by an endless tide of imported scab labour immigrants. Do you really believe that our elected quislings cannot see this, or are powerless to stop it? The precarious systems of title whereby Australians hold their nation, their land and its assets by a thread, were designed by wealthy parasites for the benefit of their own alien kind. The parasites became globalists — now watch the thread break. For some strange reason, a few depraved Aussies still want to import the parasites and arse-bacteria that thrive in third world ethnic sewage. At least the microbes are more decent than our elected quislings who stink even worse than ethnic shit.

    A vibrant multicultural “Stack and Pack” slum

    Unable to provide properly for our own citizens, with infrastructure, industries and services on the verge of collapse, can we still afford to allow the over-breeding problem creatures from the third world to pour into our country? It’s hard to imagine any group more fundamentally opposed to multiculturalism than the Islamics, yet under the flag of multiculturalism they are pumped into our country. Worse, it is claimed as an example of multicultural success. Plague immigration is the ultimate means for the spread of third world poverty, crime and disease into developed nations. Multiculturalism is the political ideology of a global disease epidemic that will lead us to a glorious globalist future.

    Plague immigration: Feel the raw naked power of multicultural hysteria

    Multicultural muppets are idealists: They don’t have a clue where they are going, but they are marching there anyway. If you are normal, you might just laugh at them, but it is all too serious for that. I cannot give any comforting assurances. Before they “embrace” the globalist feral immigration cargo-cult, ordinary Australians should ask themselves whether they want their kids and grandchildren to have clean food and water and somewhere decent to live. At no point do mass immigrationists advise that Australians should look at the enormous costs of mass immigration and multiculturalism. By abolishing plague immigration and multiculturalism, we would save billions of dollars for a sustainable future.

    Plague immigration is cruel, inhumane and degrading treatment

    Most countries in transition to multicultural disintegration go through a period of hysteria and denial, where gibbering lunatics “celebrate” and “embrace” the apocalyptic changes that are destroying their minds and their nations. A perverse kind of slavery is actually promoted and sustained by globalist economics, not by some divine moral law. Globalist gangsters invented multiculturalism and the plague immigration cargo-cult of unearned real estate profits. Previous immigrants are seeing their wages and working conditions eroded by new immigrants who bid down their wages. This growing resentment among earlier immigrants about plague immigration is a hopeful sign.

    Moulding mindless multicultural muppets

    Are you from the upper middle class with a degree and no brains? If so, you are likely to be a poofterist or a feminist pervert. You will also suffer with painful urges to “embrace” plague immigrants — because you have no brains. When you let alien people invade your country, sooner or later your country will lose its culture and its identity. Those who continue to defend their country will find themselves vilified by the politically correct quislings who sold them out. The planned and scheduled demolition of Australia’s sovereignty, is being implemented through plague immigration, the downgrading of citizenship status, and the undermining of material security across the social spectrum. Ignore this at your peril.

    Will brain-dead immigrants continue to move to Australia now that a house costs twice as much as in the USA?

    In the new globalist Australia, mad dogs, murderers and fornicators run wild with risk-free real estate profits guaranteed by the plague immigration Ponzi scheme. In this awful spectacle, multicultural hysteria is also running wild. Globalism is death by the multicultural (Jewish-Zionist-Stalinist) workings of an elite band of haters and corporate gangsters. We must fight genocidal globalist policies or be defeated. There really aren’t many choices left open to us. The latest confabulated and insane nonsense from the Big Australia = Huge Profits lobby is that big populations mean LOWER interest rates. Just like expanding demand LOWERS prices? Give us a break, you fucking greed-crazed idiots.

    Any expression of unhappiness with plague immigration can easily be construed as racism, the most shameful of all sins

    The multicultural dogma is designed to bring upon us, by contrast with the alien ethnic hordes, a sense of cultural unworthiness or inferiority. We must grovel before the divine majesty of cheap imported scab labour from the third world. The results of plague immigration, claim globalist quislings, have been overwhelmingly beneficial. The increased flow of unearned wealth to wealthy criminal parasites is a remarkable achievement by any corrupt standard. For citizens to support national ideals, they must first understand what that means. For citizens to act against plague immigration, they must grasp how it works ferociously against national ideals. Insofar as people are oblivious, they are helpless.

    Australia was murdered, plague immigration was the instrument of death

    Under globalist fascism and the multicultural scab labour invasion, Aussie workers will be driven to work and produce exclusively for wealthy parasites. Unearned profits must grow and flow continuously to international blood-sucking elites. This multicultural project of national suicide through plague immigration draws some kind of bogus legitimacy from Anglophobia and impacted ethnic resentments, and it has gone much further than a mere weakening of the national fabric. Ordinary Australians were sprayed with the hellfire juice of globalist economic stimulus, and it burnt them to the bone. It’s funny how “reform” only benefits the criminal parasite elite who push it. Keep crawling, my little grubs.

    Is Canadian immigration way too high? Do ducks quack?

    Our retarded quisling political elite like feeding their imported multicultural pigeons with taxpayer funded bread. There is a problem with that — many of the “pigeons” are actually infected killer vampire bats, who are hungry for Aussie blood. The UN’s Agenda 21 for a third world future, replaces suburbs with Soviet-style “Stack and Pack” slums: Zoning laws to disallow single residences; no cars, and mandatory public transport with high density slums located near railroad or bus depots. The glowing promises of plague immigration will leave Aussies with an enormous surplus population, a depleted land, and an epic debt. Why let these globalist weasel politicians sell you a smouldering ruin like the collapsed and imploded WTC towers.

    Multiculturalism is the greatest thing since they invented the atom bomb

    I sometimes pity those who “embrace” multiculturalism, because I know they will suffer, but I also know that their idiocy will make others suffer. This “vibrant multicultural tapestry” is nothing but an imported rag of foreign failure and filth. The globalist assault on nationhood is so evil and so sneaky that people cannot admit the awful reality of what is happening. Multicultural rhetoric and an awful globalist version of “human rights” displaced justice and citizenship. The light of freedom and civilization stands in the way of globalist tyranny — and tyranny through forcible multicultural invasion is the endgame of the quislings of both the political Left and the political Right.

    Violence delivered by high density “Stack and Pack” slum developments

    A flood of cheap imported scab labour and third world chaos sweeps across Australia like brown waste from a burst sewer. Multicultural hysteria and an alien growth ideology infects the feeble minds of mass media drones and dullard citizens. How did we believe that patently unsustainable practices could form the basis of any kind of sustainable society? How did we allow the plague immigration scam to take root like a cancerous tumour? Face facts honestly while you still have time. Plague immigration has reset Australian workers’ expectations to the new globalist third world norm. Desperation is an ugly source of incentive. Bipartisan globalist governments don’t truly want to generate full employment.

    Wastewater treatment plants often pump sewage into the drinking water supply

    Ordinary Aussies do not consider the decline of social cohesion, the rise of ethnic crime, and the transformation of their old neighborhoods into Asian-style “Stack and Pack” slums, to be the sort of cultural “enrichment” they want. I realize that reality isn’t for everyone. It’s mostly for people who want to live honestly, and who also realize that the truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it. It is necessary for us to learn from the mistakes of others. Our elected quislings love mass immigration because they are treacherous well-bribed lumps of stinking dog-shit. The media drones are useless multicultural muppets. I can hardly wait for the treason trials and the public executions.

    Anyone with a three-digit IQ is convinced Australia won’t cope with further plague immigration

    Be aware of the bloated globalist vampire’s hungry ability to remain hidden and to carry on a parasitic existence hostile to its host by parasitic necessity. Its ability to soil, degrade, plunder and destroy sovereign nations is massive. Messianic mass immigration has displaced democracy. Real issues have been effectively kept out of politics by the unhealthy bipartisan feral immigration consensus. We know that in an increasingly third world workforce, the breaking down of Australian conciliation and arbitration law and the state award system, the mass-influx of ever more imported scab labour, inevitably pushes wages downwards.

    The Anglophobic nature of mass immigration policies

    Stalin would have loved Australia’s new Chinese-style “Stack and Pack” slums. It is amazing how many globalist horrors the multicultural hate-zombies try to unleash against Aussies. It seems we can’t escape the globalist war for Australia’s assets. It is for ordinary Australians to decide whether they want to “share” their country with third world ethnics. It must not be elected quislings and property gangsters, who decide that we will “share” our assets on behalf of wealthy parasites. Greasy property developers help to rip up national heritage and history, while moulding Australia into the globalist third world Utopia. Megalomaniacal politicians behave like gangsters, or whores, as Australia’s resources are seized and plundered.

    We are out-gunned and cornered by our globalist quisling “leaders”

    If a labour shortage is remedied by importing ready-trained workers, then the wage level never rises, and indeed, may fall. At the same time, the shortage will continue because there will be no financial incentive for locals to train in that field. Aussie cities are “Stack and Pack” shit-holes. Aussie workers will pay the costs of plague immigration’s massive infrastructure burden. Queensland sold-off state assets to pay huge financial costs associated with population growth. Each new gang of elected quislings becomes more savage than its predecessor at enforcing globalism and plague immigration against the wishes of a sceptical public. “Getting tough” on democracy and nationhood is the new style.

    Aussies appalled by multicultural wrongness

    I believe we elect governments to preserve and improve our way of life. We do not have the means to “save” the world, and our elected globalist quislings and screeching multicultural media drones need not urge us to try. It is important to observe the insane pathology of multiculturalism that persecutes dissenters like Pauline Hanson, and to realize that it was in a hysterically deranged period of cultural history that the witch hunts flourished. Nothing is ever done to strip wealthy parasites of their ill-gotten gains, because our “leaders” protect them. Why are the elected quislings not held accountable? In China, perpetrators of crimes against society are routinely executed.

    Plague immigration pushes our country ever deeper into ecological deficit

    Australia is being re-colonized under the supervision of Jewish billionaires, the parasitic landed gentry and slimy financial classes. By the multicultural magic of the “Yellow Australia” plague immigration regime, Aussies will vanish in decades. A failure of the national immune system, and mass multicultural idiocy is leading to the plague immigration invasion destruction of Australia. The tyranny of Stalinist multiculturalism and its vicious Anglophobia are the antithesis of patriotism. Because people migrate from the third world to enjoy increased consumption, it’s a safe bet they would emit vastly more CO2 while resident in growth-mad, consumerist Australia.

    Multiculturalism’s gay rainbow metaphor is complete and utter bullshit

    Disgust is an honest response to multiculturalism, but to uproot and kill this globalist weed is even more appropriate. Stupid people shouldn’t breed, and we don’t need them flooding our country. We have enough stupid people. It’s a brutal fact that globalism kills. Suicides among 20-34 year-old men in the most disadvantaged one-fifth of the Australian population rose %8 between 1999 and 2003. Nearly double the rate for young men from the most affluent one-fifth. Cyanide is poison, everybody knows that, but how many globalist socio-economic poisons do Aussies ingest, believing them to be nationally nourishing? The sheeple are useful idiots, because of their bovine culture defined by conformism and trust.

    The awful fact of imported ethnic criminality

    Aussies don’t know the purpose of immigration in the scheme of things. Plague immigration policy is seen as a foreign aid project. How many Aussies know that foreign aid is a gift from working Aussies to wealthy parasites in poor countries? The availability of low interest loans, coupled with plague immigration and intense speculation in the property market, sent housing prices to dizzy heights. As a result, working people desperate to buy a home, took out huge mortgages. The globalist project to bring overpopulation, violence and poverty to Australia is well advanced. Aussies can fight back, but many are too stupid. The mindless multicultural muppets are important members of the immigrationist screeching choir.

    Using globalist systems, economists are able to produce massive amounts of poverty and misery

    Australian cities and suburbs are being trashed and their communities scattered in the name of “Stack and Pack” slum densification to pump bloated billionaire arses with even more unearned profit. Bring it to an end. Third world countries are dysfunctional and dangerous places, anxious to export their problems to the developed world, thereby dragging others down towards ruin and chaos. As globalist darkness threatens to engulf us, I say we stand and fight. Not everyone sees the flood of surplus third world flesh being a benefit. Many Australians have been effectively locked into poverty by bulk immigration.

    An important plank of the globalist (Jewish billionaire) plan for world dominance, is the plague immigration replacement of whole nations

    Destroying honest efforts of citizens is an important part of the globalist takeover of Australia, as is the continuous intimidation of those who try to access the “free market” or natural assets privatized and alienated against their birthrights. I wonder if our elected quislings care that high property prices don’t bring prosperity. This nation is run as a plague immigration boosted casino where the insiders and well-positioned always win, and the losers aren’t ever counted. When a few of the imported ethnic hordes adopt some of worst Aussie idiocies, the multicultural muppets bleat about the “success” of the plague immigration policy. Muppets have difficulties with thinking. Maybe they think we are all stupid.

    Fight for sane and sustainable levels of immigration (population reduction)

    Multicultural muppets strive after a fantasy that is altogether inauthentic. The multicultural journey takes their weak minds for a ride into a fairyland of delusion, as the mirage of a gay globalist paradise draws these idiot lemmings to destruction. If plague immigration is so good for the economy, why is the economy in crisis? If large populations were so good for the economy, third world governments would be fighting hard to keep all their people — wouldn’t they? Every nation has the right to decide who can move there and who can’t, and I stand by that truth. I won’t let the plague-immigrationist quislings render me silent, as history teaches that silence mostly protects the corrupt.

    Australia competes with third world failed states, in a desperate globalist race to the piss-stinking multicultural bottom

    As globalism spreads its slimy tentacles across the world, patriotic citizens will learn that being suddenly detained without charge will be “required for their own protection” or for multicultural re-education in a poofterist labour camp. Fertile lands become poisonous deserts, free people become disposable robots called human resources, and free societies become forced-labour death-camps or “Stack and Pack” slums. This is what the globalist apocalypse delivers to the innocent. Bloated globalist hypocrites are the very diseases they lecture us about. They aid the malignant spread in Australia of every exotic pathogenic disease they can force on to us. We don’t need their plague immigration or infantile multicultural drivel.

    The putrid plague immigration surge is not a glorious river of sustainable prosperity. It is a bursting sewer of human wastes

    As long as as our governments run plague immigration programs, conservatism is doomed. Too bad that our quisling leaders won’t understand that plague immigration and taxpayer-funded breeding programs are destroying Australia. The easiest and best way to make housing more affordable, is to kill plague immigration. Demand now runs vastly higher than supply. Our elected quislings know this very well, because they are the gangsters running this dirty Ponzi scheme. If the Jewish Eastern Suburbs of Sydney became a refugee camp for the ethnic asylum shoppers swarming into Sydney, I wonder if those wealthy immigrationist Jews who find all “refugees” so lovable, would still love them at a financial loss.

    There will never be a better time than now to do something about the failed plague immigration and “Yellow Australia” policies

    To change is to make a thing other than it has been, to distort it or to put something else in its place. In our case it will be imported scab labour replacing our own citizens. Do we need our golden nation transmuted to lead by globalists? Globalist elites push for a one-world government, but if it did not promise wealthy parasites a windfall of unearned profits, it would be silently and immediately dropped. Ordinary citizens pay for the losing bets of gangster elites. Faith in multiculturalism must be assigned not to intelligence, but to pure idiocy. Wise people understand the need to discard as vomit, multiculturalism, diversity rhetoric and same-sex perversion. People become disillusioned with bullshit.

    Through relentless demographic arithmetic, multiculturalism will remorselessly dissolve our nation

    Please note that Jewish organizations are strong proponents of multi-ethnic plague immigration into countries like Australia, while supporting its prevention in Israel. Jewish idealism goes hand in hand with extreme cultural cynicism. Quislings have to be amputated eventually — working Australians cannot afford to carry these awful parasites or any well-bribed creatures who work for the enemy. Must Australia become a burned-out shell rotten with Asian-style “Stack and Pack” slums? The globalist quislings often give collaborators privileges over the oppressed citizens. They also made use of traditional ethnic rivalries and resentments. It’s divide and rule. Australians are being disarmed in very many devious ways.

    The actual disadvantages of a larger population usually exceed the confabulated advantages by a massive margin

    Australia might be a land abundant with Jewish billionaires, but it is not abundant with decent incomes and affordable housing. So plague immigration forces Aussies to feed their futures into the ultimate Ponzi scheme of death. Globalist propaganda cannot always soothe away the disagreeable experience of seeing your own nation paved over with imported scab labour. Politically correct camouflage cannot hide unaffordable housing and entrenched unemployment forever. The idea that you can move away if things get too bad, must be a powerful reason why Aussies are not prepared to fight for their communities as imported ethnics are pumped in. But spineless worms cannot slither away forever.

    Plague Immigration: More homeless Aussies in every street

    What do you call the attempts to destroy your nation from the inside? Does the word “treason” come to mind? What needs to be appreciated is that there is a huge problem. You never voted for plague immigration and ethnic cleansing, but you got them. Desperation is energized despair, vigorous in action, reckless of consequences — that is where globalism takes nations. Disease often denotes deviation from health, or some definite morbid condition — multiculturalism is a disease. Decades of probing into the compact frontal lobes of trusting Aussie jellyfish, gave globalists the confidence they needed to launch a full plague immigration invasion on the witless nation of Australia. Multicultural mind-staining techniques work.

    All the quislings and criminal parasites implicated in the multicultural ruination of Australia, will be arrested and charged, then tried and executed

    The collapse of the property market bubble is providing the growth-mad immigrationist politicians and media drones a convenient smokescreen over the planned next wave of the third world invasion. You have been warned, now do something! The trusting little Aussie lambs are too lazy to discover the arguments against plague immigration, and the mindless multicultural muppets are too stupid and brainwashed. Screeching mass hysteria is what we get instead of public debate. Our useless media drones could ask why resentful ethnics bother moving all the way here from their third world cesspits, if they are just going to make Australia as corrupt, impoverished and violent as their old pest-holes.

    Vote for an Australian government, because we haven’t had one yet

    A profound overpopulation problem, is the conflict between the priorities of the Pope, his Church, his hierarchy and the desperate need of humanity to control its fertility. Uncontrolled breeding is how the Vatican expects to control the world. Fear is a powerful motivator in enforcing conformity and making people submit to authority. Plague immigration creates a sense of desperation or even terror in any worker facing the increased probability of losing both livelihood and shelter. Aussie sheeple have strictly average minds, which means they cannot repudiate bullshit like “Australia has boundless plains to share” or tackle how disposable imported scab labour is taking over their country and culture. Globalism means eating shit.

    Blood-sucked to death by plague immigration vampires

    Kevin Rudd was “bold and brave” before they dragged him away with a hook. The Minister for Species Extinction, Wildlife Habitat Destruction, Land Clearing, Imported Scab Labour and Housing Price Bubbles is not scared of a “Big Australia” either. The Great Wave of plague immigration is planned to continue at least until Australia’s national back is broken. Then the vampires’ feast begins — the raping and plundering of Australia’s assets. Globalist “reform” is never painless. Globalists (Jewish billionaires) demand that all White countries (that includes USA, Canada, and Australia) accept non-White plague immigration into their countries (Yellow Australia Policy) — yet Japan is allowed to remain 98.5% Japanese.

    “Embrace” imported scab labour and demonstrate your confidence in a totally failed system

    Globalist war is waged against we the Australian people, with few political leaders ready to defend us. In fact, most are working for the invading forces. Overt and covert multicultural infiltrations by globalist parasites, subvert our institutions. It is more comforting for the mindless multicultural muppets to ignore or “celebrate” population growth rather than confront overpopulation and an inevitable future of extreme resource depletion and collapse. Good luck, weaklings and cocksuckers. The wealthy parasite elite encourages plague immigration in order to create pools of cheap imported scab labour, desperate tenants, and hungry consumers. A surplus of cheap scab labour lowers the price of labour and workplace safety.

    Are you another multicultural religious nut case? I bet you would enjoy being nailed to a cross

    The globalist bulk immigration adventure has overloaded Australia with rapidly aging immigrants. Many of them are ill with exotic third world diseases, and represent an unsustainable burden on hospital, medical and welfare services. Australia is caught in an unaffordable housing death-vortex. The big crash and burn is overdue, and the rotten plague immigration Ponzi scheme will collapse and implode like the WTC towers which were also overdue for demolition. As a political process, multiculturalism means something very sinister. It describes a set of policies that replace the dominant culture with a billionaire friendly regime, by promoting ethnic rivalry and resentment against the host culture.

    The poor little real estate junkies got themselves hooked on low interest rates and plague immigration

    I will let the muppets eat their multicultural turd with a good squirt of ethnic diversity sauce from some third world arse-hole. I don’t want any — it’s far too rich for my simple Aussie tastes. Plague immigration offers me nothing I want. When the idiotic claim that bulk immigration boosts Australia’s wealth, is decoded by reality, we find that bulk immigration mostly causes debt, poverty, unaffordable housing, social violence, environmental degradation and chaos. I can see how globalists overcome patriotism and its negative impacts on their mountains of unearned wealth, by flooding our land with waves of imported scab labour while promoting poofterism and multiculturalism in our schools.

    Plague immigration makes winners and losers. Strangely, most of the losers are Aussies

    It’s odd that multiculturalism (plague immigration) which is violent and extremist can somehow present itself as reasonable and moderate. Keep alive and available so that politically impossible national patriotism becomes politically inevitable. How moronic and corrupt is the baby-bonus? Stupid humans either make the cut or they don’t. Either live within the planet’s carrying capacity or die badly. Something must reduce human overpopulation rapidly and radically. Everything else is trivial. I wonder when our globalist quisling government is going to have another go at stamping-out community dissent. We know they are intolerant of intolerance directed against their intolerable multicultural plague immigration racket.

    A weak or damaged mind is within every hysterical multicultural ratbag

    The modern religious nut is more inclined to venerate a globalist supernatural force or a plague-immigration cargo-cult than to worship a traditional fetish. Shrieking insanity still sacrifices the living to the blood-lust of a false god. It’s obvious that one of the quickest and easiest ways to reduce the growth in our emissions — and make our efforts to cut emissions more effective overall — would be to reduce immigration. That won’t happen, and the emissions will ever rise. The power to report and describe reality is now in the hands of a privileged group of globalist cocksuckers. The power to control information is the power to control how people think. Memories and national certainties can be blown away into oblivion.

    The first enemy is plague immigration, the second enemy is apathy

    Why do media drones consider a government program “a success” if it does not achieve the exact opposite of its stated goal? Whatever a globalist quisling government does “achieve” comes at a terrible cost to the ordinary citizens. If all wealthy parasites were exterminated, new parasites would soon rule, because the masses would remain unintelligent. If you try to inform morons, they simply stare at you in pathetic and bovine incomprehension. Only the wise can be helped. Many people made sizeable capital gains on their homes which they did nothing to earn, apart from being in the right place at the right time, and it is untaxed. Plague immigration sure helped them to climb on top of their fellow Aussies.

    Buried by plague immigration’s pollution, excrement and decay

    “Embracing” imported scab labour, is like eating a brain tumor for breakfast every day — you become your own worst enemy. It’s not enough that Aussies are expected to dig their own graves, they must pay all the funeral costs as well. We must bring on the population debate, for currently, only developers and property racketeers get the attention of politicians. Must we sacrifice everything so these greedy bastards can get richer? The immigration Ponzi scheme is beyond absurd. The globalist shit will soon hit the fan of economic reality when the lies run out. You can keep playing multicultural music as long as the globalist Titanic is still sinking, but then what? Some of us are awake and ready.

    Ruining tomorrow with plague immigration

    A deadly threat to state and federal finances posed by a growing population of elderly and infirm ethnics looms on the horizon. It’s the result of a “Yellow Australia” plague immigration policy implemented to dilute the Australian majority. Mass immigration is a political weapon of conquest used against ordinary Aussies and Australia’s status as a sovereign nation. I have no hesitation in branding our elected quislings as the well-bribed and corrupt criminals they truly are. Wage slaves do not do well when globalist parasites and elected quislings cause times to get hard through the magic of plague immigration and real estate Ponzi schemes. We won’t be able to rely on the kindness of ethnic strangers.

    A vibrant multicultural pattern of unearned profits

    The political establishment, globalist whip in hand, drove the poor dimwitted Aussie lemmings back to a condition of mass penal servitude. Yet the job is not done — next comes their ethnic cleansing, and replacement by imported scab labour. Do you consider ethnic ghettos and white flight to be very positive social and cultural impacts? What about ethnic gang politics? Or how about barbaric Third World traditions such as female genital mutilation or ritual cruelty toward animals? The screeching multicultural faggots regularly raise alarms that the Nazis will became part of Aussie mainstream politics unless we all “embrace” plague immigration and homosexuality. Pure globalist hysteria and dishonest confabulation.

    The plague immigration sacred caw is never examined in the context of the environment, quality of life, or unearned real estate profits

    The cult of alien ethnicity is a powerful globalist guilt tool used to lubricate the ethnic cleansing of those hated Anglophone natives of Australia who have something that many resentful imported ethnics feel entitled to have. You can drink the multicultural turd-water and eat globalist peanuts, and receive no nutritional benefit. You can believe all the globalist spin, plague immigration propaganda, and cultural diversity myths, but reality will hunt you down. When did Aussies grant their “leaders” a mandate to dissolve the nation with plague immigration, cultural diversity growth rackets, and real estate Ponzi schemes? Have Aussies morphed into nutless wonders, mindless robots, or multicultural suckholes?

    Displacing Australians: The globalist game plan

    To any Aussie resident faced with seeing their suburb ruined with Stalinist “Stack and Pack” slums, it would seem that the Department of Immigration, State Government, and property developers are little more than a corrupt triad from the third world. Affordable housing is a great idea, but the bloodsucking property bed-bugs hate it. Luckily for them, our political quislings are also implicated in real estate Ponzi schemes, and will protect plague immigration with Aussie lives if necessary. In the weeks leading up to being deposed by angry citizens, governments quickly give greasy developers all the corrupt deals they ask for — pushed through for maximum impact on real estate Ponzi schemes. How can we stop this dirty business?

    Wealthy parasites are continually elevated by the plague immigration Ponzi scheme

    If frenzied politicians and mass media drones relentlessly pursue issues of race, gender, and diversity in preference to real national issues, there will be an increasing division of society along the same lines. Which is what the globalists want. It’s easy to flush out the parasites who feast on immigration scams. Just suggest a slight reduction in the intake of imported scab labour and fake refugees and we soon hear our multicultural “friends” screeching, moaning and threatening us. It looks bleak for Australia, but I believe we still have a bit of time. Join with people that wish to fight back. Don’t be resigned to national genocide. Educate others around you. Help end the plague immigration invasion.

    Wealthy parasites unleash the profit potential of globalist poverty with “Stack and Pack” slum city Ponzi schemes

    Mass extinctions are coming, along with denial, breeding, and coprophilia. How much longer can globalist psychopaths exponentially expand their demands for sex and perversion? How much longer can they run with decreased levels of decency? Globalist cocksuckers cannot be trusted, yet we let them impose disastrous plague immigration on us. The globalist takeover of Australia is an act of treason. Be sceptical of any politician who claims to be working for both Australians and globalism. Australia’s resources are not unlimited, and overloading them will make our quality of life unpleasant. Consider the rolling disasters of health, education, housing supply and transport. This insane craving for population growth is killing Australia.

    Multiculturalists abuse the power of media, law, and indoctrination

    A notorious Canberra plague landlord, from the Chinese community, who faces civil and possible criminal proceedings, collected huge rents from large numbers of desperate imported scab labour Indians squeezed into his filthy vermin-infested shitholes. This state of mass immigration denial has led politicians and media drones to develop an ostrich attitude to the damaging consequences of an open-borders immigration policy, and they are psychologically incapable of being honest about it. Will Aussie lemmings conveniently allow the “Yellow Australia” policy to exterminate them to make way for the third world’s breeding billions? The deconstruction of Australia is an important globalist project that promises massive unearned profits.

    The multicultural hate-attack on Australians generates economic benefits

    Crazed by hedonistic desires, and alien ideologies, multicultural perverts set out to deceive an Australia soon to be flooded with imported scab labour. The real estate gangsters and corporate pigs were not threatened by this arrangement. How much longer must we listen to hand-wringing multicultural lemmings sobbing their emotional “We’re a nation of immigrants!” mantra and similar spew-making globalist propaganda?

    Plague immigration delivers the greatest misery for the greatest number. It is the opposite of utilitarianism

    The bipartisan conspiracy sees most politicians turn their backs on Australians as they sell them out to alien billionaires to re-populate Australia with imported scab labour. Never in Australia’s history has there been a worse act of treason. Multiculturalism is a disease. I don’t wish for that disease to persist. Once society is cured, most citizens will return to solidarity. Understand properly what we once had — and lost — so that there will be no room for a multicultural future. As our useless elected quislings cite “global factors beyond our control” for everything wrong with their globalist Ponzi scheme, why not sack them and dump all their plague immigration and multicultural schemes which have failed us for decades?

    Growing our stupid nation toward third-world crowding, strife and poverty

    Sometimes, a multicultural loon tells me that I should “embrace” the plague immigration invasion — but I’m not that coprophagic or masochistic. It might astonish them to learn how many things that I “should” want, I truly don’t want, or hate. Help us in this struggle which puts national survival a

  2. Pingback: Denver Public Schools Hire Illegal Immigrants as Teachers | Theden | Thedening the West

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