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.
Dear Scott, this is the third message i write to you from The Netherlands, the country, for which I mourn.
My country, small and flat, not so long ago, free and strong, fertile and fruitful, once inhabiting a tough, stubborn and innovative folk, that mastered its marshes, the many rivers, the clays and sands and even conquered the seas. Not only the North Sea flooding our shores, but all seven of them.
With engines roaring, we crash at dizzying speed, through layers of ancient traditions, customs and laws forged in centuries of experience. Rocketing through a cumulus cloud of spray poo, with our pitot tubes blocked up by lies and betrayal.
If anything defines this day in time, it is the resurrection of evil.
The rot, which, like a tumor, after decades of slumber, springs back to life and decides to totally ravage the whole body in a feast of metastases and lumps. Finally breaking the slender backbone of goodness, beauty and innocence.
“Keep out!”, Georgina Verbaan, a Dutch micro celeb, curtly replied, when controversial Dutch politician Geert Wilders commemorated brilliant Jazz singer Amy Winehouse in a tweet.
In that one aggressive message she appropriated things that should be universal. Compassion, commemoration and comfort.
A person, shunned by the self proclaimed elite, should have no feelings. Let alone show compassion. A bogeyman should not show he can mourn a tragic fate, that he too likes music. Certainly if his taste overlaps with that of people like Georgina Verbaan, the good people, the anointed.
Monsters should remain monsters.
The rejected should not smile at children, not enjoy the scent of flowers or music. That’s for the good people.
Good people with good feelings.
In commemorating Amy Winehouse, Wilders tarnishes Georgina’s memories and excellent taste.
And distorts her binary vision, in which she represents Heaven and the other one Hell. The inhuman. The subhuman. The Untermensch.
What does that actually mean “to commemorate”?
For me, commemoration is nothing more than “actively reviving memories”. Again and again bringing to life what should never be forgotten. So that evil is kept at bay, less likely to be repeated. And If so, certainly not by me.
Every single day I commemorate the hell that lies closest to my heart. It is my duty to the hundred thousand Dutch Jews who, in a few years’ time, were send to their destruction. Painfully efficient and virtually without any civil resistance. Transported to the biomass factories of Treblinka and Sobibor.
The Netherlands, my country, my people, they stood by and looked away. Good people.
It was my good people that took away their houses, their art and possessions.
My good people sold them their yellow stars and train tickets to the camps. My good civil servants stamped their Ausweiss with a J, handed them over to the SD for a few Rijksdaalders.
Good people who were very able to strip other people of all that is human, without much ado. Good people, like Georgina Verbaan.
“Die Menschlichkeit gehort das Herrenvolk.”
I commemorate every day, through study and contemplation, out of respect and shame, but also so that I may recognise the telltale roadsigns that lead to iron-clad soles on trampled blood-soaked paths.
I commemorate every day. And thus, I can see that we have started to walk, not identical but similar paths once again.
Once again innocent groups of people are dismissed as pathogens, spreaders of disease. Once again we are being pitted against each other by screaming headlines in newspapers, and foaming politicians and talking heads on TV. Once again, groups of innocent people are being denied access to swimming pools and theatres, restaurants and beach chairs. Again there’s that hateful Ausweiss, now with a J that looks like a snowstorm. Once again, in Switzerland, people talk about a star to wear, now evolved to a sticker.
Once again, no mercy for small children and old people.
Even now there is the dehumanising, the sneering. Even now there are the false jokes, which are only funny until they become a bitter reality.
Once again many Dutch bow their heads in the slightest bit of headwind.
Once again cynical bastards capitalise on polarisation and hatred, in a time when love, brotherhood and mutual forgiveness are invaluable.
Once again there are concentration camps.
And still there are those who demand not to compare the then to the now!
Usually accompanied by horrible ad hominems and heart felt curses.
I don’t agree with those people.
To compare is to gauge.
To compare is to measure.
Comparing is learning.
To compare is to follow the tracks and see beyond to where they lead.
But comparing is different from equating.
I will never equate the hell of the Shoah to the mad hellscape being built at this moment; it is clear to me that this path to medical apartheid will end in a completely different hell than the one built 80 years ago.
Just as the icy hell of the Gulag was very different from the putrid inferno of Rwanda; far different to the hell of the witch hunts.
It is beyond rude that some people, out of impotence and blind frustration, misuse the Star of David to show their concern about what is happening to them right now.
That yellow star is sacred. It is a symbol of a hell that is not ours. A symbol we are not entitled to.
But in turn, others must recognize, that there is no exclusivity to immeasurable suffering.
And that a hell doesn’t necessarily have to take the same shape or form to be horrific.
Mark Twain spoke true words when he said. History never repeats itself, but she always rhymes.
And in the rhyme that lies under many notes, one can unerringly see what is about to go down at the end of the song.
Let’s hope the road to this new hell, meets its dead end soon.
Until then, I will continue to commemorate and compare, as if my life and everything I love depend on it.
Now that events succeed in an ever faster pace, the razor-sharp insight of yesterday is the wide open door of today. And every outlandish forecast of now is the blunt understatement of tomorrow.
The rabbit hole turned out to be deeper than fathomed. And in its darkness no rabbits seem to live. On the stage of this macabre world theater, the decors change at lightning speed, and only now and then, one catches a glimpse of the prima ballerinas leading this dizzying danse macabre.
In this chaos its hard to order my thoughts. But that does not dismiss me from my duty to try.
The day before yesterday the Netherlands commemorated the end of the Second World War, while in reality the First World War just begun only a year and a half ago.
From our positions of immeasurable prosperity, our perfectly safe and comfortable lives, a state of which we were even allowed to dream it would last forever, we were parachuted into a greasy, treacherous fog. A fog of of war, that for the first time in history, spans the whole world in its fatty shrouds.
It all started with a declaration of war, spoken from our own headquarters; “Your trusted normal will never ever return” our pale oncologist Prime Minister murmured, at us, shellshocked patients who a minute before, still thought we had our whole life ahead of us.
Today we‘re in the second year of this filthy war, from which no escape is possible by simply fleeing across borders. No more sailing the English Channel in a dinghy, no goat paths crossing the Pyrenees, leading to the highly prized freedom and a quenching jar of sangria.
No Switzerland. No Argentina or Uruguay. Yes. Again there is neutral Sweden, but also over there , the Pfizer and Moderna poisons are being injected in abundant quantities. The syringe as the infantry weapon of choice. Only in Afghanistan the jab is forbidden, but over there another war rages.
Wherever you look, wherever you listen, everywhere the same gory psychological war.
From the Philippines to Paris, from Austin Texas to Amsterdam. You find the same coercion, the same apartheid. The same invoked fear of death and artificial hate and confusion.
Everywhere the same infectious propaganda that drags sworn brothers and tribes, villages, families and churches right to the bottom of the bottomless pit, tears up whole communities and sets them up against each other, like red ants against black ants in a rattled jar.
The trenches of this war do not follow the neat lines in the open field, they cross living rooms, company restaurants, medical practices and sports clubs.
This is not a war in the classical sense, with bayonets, flying body parts, guts hanging from barbed wire and gusts of burning lead.
The roaring cannons that opened the offensive at Kursk and Normandy were replaced by a deep clean crystal silence, where one could “finally hear the singing birds again”.
No staff tables full of little flags. No bombings, not a mushroom cloud in the sky. Only empty freeways and oddly dancing nurses, with a side dish of purposely lit forest fires and engineered floods.
Nevertheless, also in this filthy war there are masses of innocent victims, though hidden from the cameras, swiped under bulging rugs. The thousands of elderly in New York, deliberately crammed on top of each other to be infected, who died like flies with plastic tubes down their throats. The untreated cancer patients, and many other silent dead of postponed and cancelled care, the young people and ruined entrepreneurs that saw their lives wasted and silently put an end to their misery. The millions of starving African children that were deprived from western help, because everything came to a standstill, including their lifelines. And the many many victims of the gene therapy, that never made the news. Perishing in the thousands with Guillain Barré, myocarditis, pericarditis, epilepsy or blood cloths in their lungs, brains and legs.
In this first ever world war, the fighting is done with seduction, deception and programming. The fear of death poked up to boiling point, curling through the streets like poisoned gas.
The trucks and tanks from before are the jab-vans of today. The once dark grey concentration camps, now a sterile stainless white. The foot soldiers from the past, now the masses of gullible citizens, turned insanely afraid by continuously raging fear porn. Armies of truly lost, addicted to terror, that find their only grip on the situation in the ever shifting sands of injections, pcr testing, QR codes and the many preposterous decrees, given out by leaders, who in another life, they wouldn’t trust for a second. These poor hypnotised souls, hovering in limbo, between hope and fear, who walked so far alongside the devil, they can’t find their way out of hell by themselves, in sheer desperation picking up their blazing torches, to drag the folk that chose differently, into their own putrid tar pits.
The elite troops whe know from earlier days, are intriguants now. The advertising guys and Public Relation machinators. Sitting behind their computerscreens, grinning satisfied at the morbid confusion they created. Laughing and joking about the increasingly heated tempers flaring up amongst good people; husbands, wives, friends, loved ones who now face each other with angry unforgiving heads from each side of the vaccin demarcation lines.
We are all involuntary participants in this World War, in which the enemy is not another nation, but the entire world population. Communities truncated. Peoples hopelessly divided, weakened and played off against each other. The billions poised to be numbered and chipped, enslaved by the new system, that is being installed by a powerful network of companies, families, cults and a cynical communist party from which the desired ruthless system of surveillance and repression has been copied.
A war of illusions and funhouse mirrors. Of magic tricks and blatant lies, coming from puppet masters that frantically try to drive us all crazy on the many fronts in this bullshit blitzkrieg Creating havoc like the Stuka pilots did with the maddening, deafening sirens that were mounted to their landing gears.
Now viruses, climate changes, CO2 and other invisible phenomena as the weapons of choice.
Still, this is a World War without real armies.
This is a war against us all. Man, woman and child. White, yellow and Black. Muslim, Christian and Buddhist. And this war against us is far from lost.
In France and all over the world. A growing crowd of many millions, do not take this crap any longer, taking to the streets peacefully en masse. While the terraces ” slegs vir vaccinated”, on the Champs Elysées remain desolate.
More and more of us are seeing the monster behind its painted smile.
Billions of people refuse their shot. And the frantic attempts to force them into doing so, are becoming increasingly desperate. Threats prove to be blunt weapons, in light of the growing pile of information about the destructive contents and effects of the shot that does not seem to protect, but only harms.
And then there is the creepy choice, to focus their vaccin efforts on the children, a choice which wakes up even the most docile parents, grandfathers and grandmothers. The elites, themselves mostly cold and barren, never having cut an umbilical cord, apparently do not understand the simplest of primal human instincts.
They never really understood the indestructible bond between people, a deficiency in which they eventually will find their demise.
Still… they seem to be the winners in this battle, but only by overfilling their mass media with strikingly uniform, increasingly grotesque propaganda, which is getting more and more easy to debunk.
Propaganda spread every night by the same scientists and farma blockheads, with their cold eyes and ditto messages, filling the seats at talkshow tables. Media omnipotence, that make it seem they still have the controls.
And still they hold our democracy hostage, creating new laws to hold up the appearance of legitimacy and popular power.
But outside the frame of the cameras, consciousness grows.
Consciousness is our weapon.
This is the first World War to be fought without steel and brass. A war in which violence has no solution and every shot ricochets.
This is the war in which sincere human agape love and a regained collective consciousness, subdued for years by Tik Tok and PornHub, by Wake propaganda and The Kardashians, are the true wonder weapons. It’s our human bond against a godless force that wants to enslave and harvest the world population, matrix-style and put us in a deep, preferably eternal sleep. With worthless fiat money, tranquillizers, gene therapy and VR glasses loaded with hardcore porn.
We know what you are doing.
We are the peaceful resistance that will bond again. That will forge new connections, roots and networks. Our force will grow and grow peacefully, as we fill the streets of the cities.
Worldwide. Day after day.
The resistance that never gives up and draws strength from forced exclusion, that does not fear the old to be taken away, but instead throws everything into battle and dares to rebuild from scratch.
The resistance that awakens every doubter and forgives and embraces every lost and misguided soul.
That helps them get rid of their uniform of fear. No matter how deeply entangled they were in the spiderweb of lies, that was spun for all of us.
The resistance of millions growing into billions, that welcome every brother and sister into the free legion of warm-blooded people who see right through what evil is happening here.
The resistance of the awakened.
The awakened who graciously reject this medical tyranny. The people who embrace each other as if we for the first time, can see each other for what we really are.
The human flock has a blind spot for evil. The sharp edge of a butcher’s knife, most of us can’t bear to see. When a force presents itself as too diabolical, a spiritual poison kicks in that paralyses us and pushes many of us to condone pure evil to the bitter end.
The masses voluntarily choose to put on their thick leather blinders, which are not torn off until the iron concentration camp gate has been passed.
The wasp injects us, unsuspecting caterpillars, with her eggs, after which her larvae eat away our fatty tissue and entrails, slowly but surely, until only a chitin shell remains of us, which is blown away in the wind.
During the Second World War, half of Amsterdam clapped and cheered when the Nazi occupiers in their Krupp Protzes, BMWs and Horches rolled triumphantly over the Damrak and the Rokin. Showered in Dutch flowers.
It could not become that bad, now could it?
About a hundred thousand deported Jews later, our own hunger winter began.
Now the Fourth Reich is being rolled out, we see exactly the same pattern evolving amongst the masses.
The New World Order and their contemporary “Heil Hitler” now gleefully called “Build Back Better” are being dismissed as a fantasy, a conspiracy theory of the mad, while speeches and writings, in which the perfidious plans of the new Herrenvolk, are openly discussed in minute detail pile up far into the blue sky and the first concentration camps are operational, yet again.
“You will own nothing and you will be happy.” You? That’s us, now.
Once again, dissidents are made fun of and demonised, by the masses, while dictatorship is rolled out covering our God given freedoms and rights under a thick tapestry of decrees, propaganda and ordinances. Hans and Sophie Scholl would yet again be delivered into the hands of the authorities by the good citizens. Cleaned up neatly.
These sheep still make up the vast majority, even in full vision or impending doom. The decent ones, who almost gleefully hop into the slaughterhouse truck, the umpteenth poison syringe that would “give them back their freedom”, still dangling from their wooly legs. Speeding away towards the soothing tranquility of the inky void.
The remaining herd, left behind, still allowed to nibble on dry pollen for a while, destitute, but happy in a mist of happy drugs and “vaccines”.
Now the Devil always tends to overplay her hand. Hubris is one of her weakest points. Fortunately she does not read Sun Tzu.
And in that fatal flaw, lies my last hope for a collective awakening. A possible ending to the silence of the lambs.
Because I’m curious how mom and dad react, now that Beelzebub’s lacquered claws openly reach out to their little lambs. The apples of their eyes. Their precious darlings.
And I’m not even talking about the jab, that so many parents still except as a safe prevention for a disease that never killed any healthy person under 30. Even after the almost deadly event that hit the Danish soccer player mid field and scores of myocarditis cases in young boys.
I’m talking about The San Francisco Gay Men Choir. Grown up blokes, who in eerily honey sweet singing voices, explain to us exactly what they intend to do with our children.
They’re coming to get them.
Like Adolf Hitler once did with the Jews, these guys make no secret of their intentions. Even though they don’t wear black or Feldgrau, but cheerful rainbow colors. Even though they don’t look evil and shout orders but sing sweet songs. It’s the same devil’s spawn.
“We are coming for them. We are coming for your children.”
The link could not be embedded. They clearly don’t want us to talk about this. But take a look anyway.
They have thought out everything to perfection and worked it out over many decades. Down to the smallest diabolical detail.
From 5G to surveillance drones, nanomachines and botswarms, from subcutaneous chips to police robots and all-monitoring apps. From thousands of detailed Covid protocols, which were ready for use in February 2020, to Sustainable Development Goals in deceptively fresh spring colors.
In secret , they created a brilliant panopticon for themselves; the rest of the world’s population, shivering in their cells, behind bars forged of fear for invisible particles.
Considering themselves all-powerful, they pontifically put themselfs in the spotlights, behind the controls, at the epicenter of prison planet Earth. Billions of souls, like teeming flies, to be followed on one handy monitor, from their control room, in which they regard themselves untouchable.
They worked so hard at this, their plan! How clever are their schedules. Their globally coordinated and perfectly timed fear campaigns, their warehouses packed with gene therapies, the press and media they bought, the stars and influencers they bribed.
Their worldwide elimination of parliamentary democracy and the silence of opinionated doctors, scientists and government leaders through blackmail, threats, concealment, bribery and accidents. It all deserves a devilish respect.
How brilliant, their villainous divide et impera, that debilitates social structures and paralyzes entire communities for fear of a simple virus.
They have thought of everything in their splendid isolation.
But they lost track of one tiny detail.
The elite, lauding themselves with gold and cash, developed a blind spot for the creativity, the militancy, the intelligence and the curiosity and the holy in every human being. In their infinite hubris, they simply could no longer see the devine power of the individual, let alone the masses. But instead they saw a flock of sheep, without the wisdom of the crowd, without the power of the herd.
Sheep, ready to be culled at will.
It is the same ignorant arrogance that cost Louis the Sixteenth and his Marie Antoinette their marble necks. They too simply couldn’t imagine the vulgus, the stupid plebs, the sans-culottes clumping together in sudden rage to destroy them in an orgy of revolutionary violence.
In their haughty autism, the elite forgot to assemble the neccessarry draconian apparatus, with carbines, clubs and bloodhounds, large enough to control the herds, the moment they would choose to rebel by the billions.
There is no Gestapo of significance, no Sicherheitsdienst or Grune Polizei. There are no millions of elite soldiers who have sworn a blood oath. No monsters in black uniforms, that make the city squares tremble under their spiked boots.
There are no executioners who can replace the constructed fear of a virus, for the real fear of torture or execution.
The relied too much on their blind belief in incantations, media lies and spells. On the power of systems, protocols, propaganda, science and technology.
In their confidential think tanks, Chatham House get-togethers and Bilderberg conference rooms, they thought they could get away with smoke and mirrors as weapons.
I trust, this won’t be enough. Because apart from the missing basball bats that keep a tyranny alive, they also forgot to use the Wunderwaffe, which is essential if you want to enslave or destroy a people.
And that is love.
There is no passion for their ideas. No enthusiastic crowds we saw at the party gatherings in Nuremberg or the Sportpalast in Berlin. Not one chicken stretches out its arm out to them in admiration. No “Meine Ehre heist Treue”. No soldier dies with a smile on his face for these horrific people.
They have indeed created an huge mass of people with a stiff right arm, but this stiffness is because of a forced injection and not out of enthusiasm for their ideas, let alone to heil their repulsive personalities.
Their champions and ambassadors have been bought, made complicit, were misled or blackmailed without exception, and those poor souls still rooting for them, look increasingly pale and unhappy.
The Third Reich already proved that an entire nation allows itself to be led to the slaughter, solely out of sincere love.
They forgot to charm us, before culling us.
That is their fatal mistake.
We see more and more cracks appearing in their silly stories, the truth seeping out mercilessly.
We are waiting for the moment when the people, still docile, legs clutched, in their cells, realise that their bars are not made of tungsten.
That they could escape their cells with impunity, despite the warnings that reverberate from the loudspeakers.
That there are in reality, only a few guards with chicken legs and spaghetti arms, eating cake.
I wouldn’t like to trade places with these elites.
They have not understood the main instruction in their handbook.
“But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother.”
To stifle a rebellion, unconditional love is essential.
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Are we not herded into the grandstand of a Colosseum, our eyes intently resting on two racing horses?
Can we not see these two mighty Arabs, a black fury and a white slender mare, galloping neck on neck in clouds of red dust, gasping for air, while whips crack incessantly on their striated flanks; clouds of steam and fire sprouting from their trembling nostrils, entangled in a flaming, final duel?
Which horse will emerge victorious, grasping the grand prize in n all-deciding zero sum game? The big blue marble cup.