“Gaza is uninhabitable and it will remain that way. We will wipe the smile from the Palestinians, but the screaming will remain.”Bezalel Smotrich, Minister of Finance Israel.
Something in me broke yesterday.
I saw a petite figure, behind a broken window. A mouse trapped in raging flames that consumed the building where in she slept an hour earlier.
A Terrible Ghost (detail). Boris Nikolaevich Shirokorad.
With “the second coming of Donald Trump,” a political pole shift has swept the world.
And while I expect plenty of outrageous moves from this orange “Mensiah,” like pushing transhumanism, uncompromising Zionism and robotization, some good things are also happening.
Jacobus Schoemaker Doyer – Jan van Speijk steekt de lont in het kruit.
Yesterday was a historical day.
We saw a magnificent double climax in US political powerplay, that would make John Holmes proud.
A political knockout, which was preluded by the blistering words of the imposing Christian commando Pete Hegseth, the US Secretary of Defense, who, a week or so ago, dryly informed a stunned Brussels elite that they could no longer count on the USA. No more troops, no weapons, no dollars, and no security guarantees.
John Michael Wright. The Coronation Portrait of Charles II
After watching the second inauguration of Donald Trump, a confusing mix of optimism, jealousy, suspicion and dread twirls around in “Western European me”.
A multiply split opinion about a multiply split king phenomenon.
How fitting to have such confusing thoughts in January, the month named after “Janus” the two faced god. The Roman Alpha and Omega.
Quite a few Dutch fools thought that after fourteen years of lies and destruction, we finally got rid of Mark Rutte, our national gravedigger, the apple-chomping caricature, the cardboard grinner, swaying on his Gazelle bike.
Markie Mark’s moving box, complete with his panda bear and WEF tote bag, stood on his desk in the Torentje half a year ago, ready for that lonely journey to the SS rune shaped offices in Brussels.
And all the people answered, “His blood be on us and on our children!” Then he released for them Barab′bas, and having scourged Jesus, delivered him to be crucified.
Suppose the break up of the USA as a nation, was always the main target of these 2024 Presidential elections. A plan carefully thought out and implemented by the Chinese, the Globalist cabal, internal destructive powers or some other better-cloaked actors, over many years.
The Angel Binding Satan. Philip James de Loutherbourg.
Attention. Advanced Complonautica.
If anything typifies these bizarre times, it is that more and more people are searching for an explanation of what is happening to us, the story behind the tepid waves of insanity that flood us daily.
We Western European parents need to wake up! And we need to do it now. Because we are currently sleepwalking right into the bloody abyss. Or actually, it is more like we are sliding down a huge and intricate slide, in the middle of a giant morbid Lunapark.
Unelected bureaucratic ghouls from the Brussels towers of Babel and repulsive psychopaths from The Washington and Geneva autocrats clique, gave us the very first push long ago, somewhere on a stage in a bonfire-lit Square in Kiev.
Even before there was darkness or light God created the Heavens and the Earth. Genesis 1: 1.
Thus, He began his creation that promptly ended in the biggest and most beautiful blunder ever; woman.
The Garden of Eden, man, created in the image of God, the rib, the tree of Wisdom, the apple, the serpent, the temptation, the fall. The shock of nudity, pain and death. Cain, Abel, Seth, in short, the “shitheap clusterfuck of murder, filth and manslaughter” that we are in now.
“Once every year, all our eyes are fixed on Davos. The enclave of Neu Schwabenland in the stony heart of Europe. In awe we see the thousands of call girls and lollyboys, the caterers with their Wagyu beef and Blanquette de Veau, the refrigerated trucks full of Beluga caviar and condemned lobsters, their scissors tied with gaffer tape.
Once a year we witness the thousands of grim-looking mercenaries restricting public Swiss soil. The Soldiers of Fortune, with their machine guns and bulky bodyguards with their little microphones and earphones in.
The barren field stretches as far as the sharpest eyes can see, to a horizon so straight, you could hold a ruler against it.
This landscape that til mid-September still mirrored the Ukrainian flag, with its upper half of azure sky and lower half of waving grain, now forms a desolate grey above exhausted grass and brown clumps full of stumps and stalks.
The rasputitsa, or распутица, has just begun. That leaden-grey rainy period between summer dust and winter ice, which turns the fertile clay into a sticky mush in which horses drown and tanks sink, hangs like a veil over the endless land.
An interminable swamp of bone glue that has previously caused so many reputations of German generals and French commanders to perish, swallowing their ambitions in its quicksand.
Now we look down on an arrow-straight road that cuts through this desolate landscape, as rainwater fills its potholes and cracks in its asphalt.
A road like so many others in these parts, running straight through the endless fertile farmlands that in better times make Ukraine the breadbasket of Europe. A lifeline along which, in four years of fratricidal war, everything on wheels limped, rattled, and roared past.
From dirt bikes and pickup trucks full of deathly tired and gravely wounded soldiers, to crusty Lada’s with shattered windows, far too pristine NATO equipment, completely unsuited for this hell of dust and mud, and bizarre contraptions that —with their steel nets, iron spikes, and welded rusty plates— look more like the menacing wheeled monsters from Mad Max than actual tanks or armored vehicles.
Steampunk abominations, protected as best they can by their crews, against the insane tricks and killing jokes, of a postmodern war which resembles the battle of Passchendaele as well as John Connor’s war against the Terminators.
Thousands of men raced along this point, at full speed, with the devil on their heels and true contempt for death. To and from the erratic, ever-shifting front around Kupiansk in Kharkiv Oblast, kicking up suffocating clouds of beige dust, mixed with sooty exhaust fumes, slaloming around the many charred wrecks, strewn around like toys—the black mirrors of fate for every soldier who dares to ventures onto these desolate roads.
A cynical fate with little propellers, hovering like a hawk, patiently waiting for prey in the silver-grey autumn sky. “Ptitsa,” as the soldiers cynically call the FPV drone. A word that sounds like a friendly chirp and indeed means “bird” in Russian.
But these ptitsi—or ptakh in Ukrainian—do not sing cheerful songs.
These are not blackbirds or nightingales, but vicious buzzing hornets packed with explosives that identify anything that moves. And once it turns out that targets are hostile, these ptitsi relentlessly pursue them into their holes and basements, into their cabs and cargo holds, to blow them up without mercy.
A fate, left to the mercy of a drone operator who holds power over life and death from miles away.
Now it is the third of November. And we look down again on this utterly forsaken road near Kruglyakovka, Completely baren, except for two elderly men. And a little white mongrel dog.
Clearly non combattant. On foot. Civilian coats, woolen caps.
One of them is 87-year-old Sergey, who once worked for the Ukrainian railway workers’ union. Walking beside him is his 67-year-old neighbor; together they frantically wave a sheet that serves as a white flag.
For seven months the old men hid together in a damp basement; for seven months they kept each other alive and dragged each other on through the war, but their food supplies had run out. So when it seemed like the grey zone around Kruglyakovka had fallen into Russian hands, they risked the perilous journey on foot, through no-man’s-land to be evacuated to safer ground.
We now see from the air how Sergey’s neighbor suddenly disappears in a cloud of dirty-grey smoke and collapses on the muddy road like a ragged heap of rags.
Then Sergey sinks to his old knees and makes the sign of the cross. And again. And again. The little dog, not understanding, stays silent by his side.
We now see a drone approaching old Sergey. The contraption turns, flies off, then swiftly dives back towards the old man, and mockingly starts circling old Sergey, like a giant mosquito getting ready to sting, before veering upwards again, as if the operator is granting him his mercy.
Then we see the drone drifting, drifting, excruciatingly slow, toward Sergey and finally we see it explode right in his face.
It is Tuesday, 16 December.
And we look down on a hall, filled to the brink with well-fed men and women. All dressed up. 143 men and women who govern a country.
My country.
I watch them as they give a standing ovation. Some openly and enthusiastically, others timidly and ashamed, wary of the cameras and the judgment of the public.
I see these 143 people, clapping their little fat hands, till they are red, like seals in a circus, as they applaud the murder of Sergey, his neighbor and a mongrel puppy that wanted nothing more than a warm basket, a cuddle and perhaps a juicy bone.
Things will never be right again in the Netherlands.
My country.
My guilty country.
Writing this piece has taken me days and nights. And tears of shame. If you find it beautiful or important, please support me .
Vind je mijn werk goed, mooi of zelfs belangrijk? Deel deze post dan zoveel mogelijk! Ook kun je mijn werk ondersteunen met een donatie!
This piece was adapted and translated into English, because i understand now, that the massive desertion of the political elite is not something beholden to the Netherlands.In England and Belgium we also see flocks of politicians, leaving the horror bus, just in time.
Still the men in the high towers in Brussels, The Hague, Washington and Davos are planning their plans and scheming their schemes; 15 minute cities, mosquitoes that spread malaria in Florida, aerosols that obscure the sun, pandemics and subsequent injections, unbridled power for the WHO, CBDCs and “an EU digital Ausweis”.
The old Netherlands, to be frank, they do no longer exist.
Our sovereignty was recently, definitely ceded to the WEF and the WHO. Our elections bought and paid for. Our king a pathetic clown. Our members of parliament the best example of deliberately selected paladins for a “polder kakistocracy”.
Our beautiful farmlands quickly being turned into fields of grey data- and distribution centers and shanty towns for military aged male immigrants, that hate us and everything we stand for.
This Christmas, more than ever, I felt the need to celebrate with all my heart, the birth of the one who single-handedly made centurions kneel, brought high priests to despair and forced empires to bow.
Jesus Christ, the Redeemer.
The one man army, the revolutionary fighter against corruption and hypocrisy.
Jesus who sought and found his followers in sinners, who saw goodness in criminals, tax collectors and outcasts. Who healed the possessed and lepers and drove the perfumed elites of his day into a frenzy, marinating them in their own delusions, corruption and hypocrisy.
The child who grew up to be a strong young man, never using his rough workman’s hands to fight, but exclusively his thoughts, prayers and words, to settle his many battles.
Jesus the child refugee, threatened with execution from the time of his very birth, who nevertheless returned to his country, because that was the place he was destined to go preach and die, to rise again after three days.
Not this soft, effeminate rainbow flag waving crossdresser, like the churches would have us believe, but a fearless guerrilla, who confronted the devil and spurned his temptations. A one-man army, armed to the teeth with God’s wisdom, who solely confronted a mob of murderous men as they were about to stone a defenseless woman.
Jesus, the punisher, who overturned the heavy tables of the moneychangers and pigeon sellers, who confronted the conceited Sanhedrin and swept the filth from the Temple. Who in the end, soaked in his own blood, betrayed by his nearest and mocked by his own people, dragged his own wooden cross up the mountain and sought his own excruciating death to give us redemption.
The man who had no need for a golden carriage to show that he was king, but instead entered Jerusalem on a donkey.
Jesus to me is living proof that one single child can save this world, even if his crib sits in a stable.
Living proof that the power of change lies not in the masses of the crowd, but in that one little spark that can ignite the sacred light.
That the eyes of every newborn reflect the face of God.
And their immaculate innocence has the primordial power to overcome all evil.
That evil is terrified of this. Because the dark will never understand the light and therefore cannot harness itself against it.
Is it a coincidence that today’s rulers have openly declared war on children, like Herod who, at the first rumor of the birth of the Christ, had Bethlehem’s firstborn sons murdered, for fear of a greater King than himself?
I don’t think its just by chance, that the high priests of today prefer to see children die in their mothers womb, before they can utter their first cry; that on Boxing Day it was bloody business as usual in the Dutch abortion clinics, under the guise of freedom of choice and the liberation of woman. That in the Netherlands the term for allowing abortion is being widened further and further, while the excuse for it, simply remains the same; that no living child is killed, but only a “lump of cells”.
No coincidence that the sanctity of the unborn child is violated, sanctified by Dutch law, bluntly declaring their tissues to be raw materials, to be used in pharmaceuticals, expensive ointments and vaccines.
That in Holland unborn children are even fabricated in laboratories, like soulless products, less than lab rats, for testing and experimenting, to harvest human spare parts and fabricate monsters in an insane attempt to imitate God’s work by creating chimeras; deplorable creatures, crossovers between beast and man.
No coincidence that so many young teenagers are encouraged to willingly render themselves infertile, convincing them, that they were born in a wrong body and can be transformed into something they will never be.
It is no coincidence that the once undisputed love between men and women, is replaced as much as possible, by a dry lust for porn and fruitless perversion.
And that for those who do try to be parents, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to conceive a baby, because their bodies have been poisoned by chemicals in foods and drinks, in plasticizers, shampoos and the mRNA in poison the authorities call vaccines.
It is no coincidence that a healthy baby born in spite of all this horror, gets buried under a rainbow-colored avalanche of drag queen story hours, kindergarten classes in masturbation, LGBTi propaganda and Disney movies and Netflix series steeped in violence, satanic pedo dog whistles, as soon as possible.
The monsters that rule this world have openly declared God dead.
They already crowned themselves to be Kings of the Earth and the rulers of creation. Building a world in which they can dominate, abuse and enslave humanity to their heart’s content.
And for this they can do without the little ones. Except maybe to satisfy their pitch black lusts, for their perverse rejuvenation therapies, satanic rituals and an occasional sacrifice to appease their gods.
But most of all, they fear that ONE, nameless child, who may well be born right now. Somewhere in a shed in Kampala or a barn in Vilnius.
Their greatest fear is for that one holy child, who can make them squirm and wriggle, who can blind them in his light, who shrivels and blows away their omnipotence with a single gesture of his righteous hand.
Just like two thousand years ago.
The high priests and kings of this world, know all too well what Christmas stands for.
That is just why they try so hard to abolish it.
Forget “The Great Reset”. It’s time for the Great J Set.
