Our kids will be the sacrificial lambs to our bloody indifference.

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.

One fat prick of Hans Van Baalen’s index finger between our shoulder blades and “weeee!” there we went. 
First, almost without noticing it, we slid away from the Pax Europaea plateau, on which we thought we were infinitely safe.
And since then I have watched us, slowly but surely, accelerating down Moloch’s slippery slope, half asleep, oblivious to the dangers, twisting and turning, towards the muddy trenches at the Dnjepr, the haphazardly erected tank barriers around Kharkov, and the meat grinders that will be grinding at full speed somewhere near Cherkassy, by that time.

And the worst part is, we old guys, who at least held an Uzi or a FAL rifle, don’t have to go ourselves, to die in the yellow mud.

Our old flesh is too tough for mr. Moloch.

It is the naive “TikTok” generation, our sweet sacrificial lambs, who grew up on silly dances, skinny clothes, in cushioned children’s seats, wearing hockey bits to soccer practice and rubber helmets on th warning sign riddled, soft plastic swing, paddling around on their electric fat bikes, through their rubber tile paradise.

They are the ones on who Satan’s fire-spitting eyes now rest.

And yes, I know. I know!

Didn’t we Dutch already enthusiastically give our warm support? And billions of our hard earned money? Did we not enthusiastically paint Ukrainian flags on the cheeks of our toddlers?

Didn’t we clumsily but wholeheartedly sing their national anthem, didn’t our politicians clap their hands, like silly seals, to celebrate their quaint little leader in our House of Representatives? Didn’t we welcome so many of their refugees and prioritize them over our own youth, looking for a place to live?

Didn’t we hand out our warm olive drab gloves, our kevlar helmets, even more of our billions, our bandages and plaster, our prostheses and splints, our walkies and our talkies?

Didn’t we donate our pistols and mines, our armored vehicles, our YPR’ s and jeeps, even more of our billions, our MAG’s, SCAR-H’s and Diemaco’s, our grenades and munitions, our Leopard tanks, which we bought especially for them in Poland, won’t our F16 jets follow soon? Did we not already covertly sacrifice some of our green berets, the best chaps we had to offer?

Bloody Hell. Weren’t these huge sacrifices enough?

Unfortunately, Moloch’s slippery slide is extremely long and winding, but it only ends, like every slide, at the very bottom. In this case right in a pool of coagulated blood and perforated intestines.

And mr Moloch is hungrier than ever before.

You see, the Ukrainian children are all used up. And the meat grinder must keep on grinding.

We Dutch long cherished the idea that we would be perfectly safe here, behind our little dikes.

“Nothing bad ever happens in the Netherlands, or 50 years later like Heinrich Heine once said”

Dying in battle was reserved for brown people in Gaza, Rafah or Yemen or for white slaves in Luhansk or Donetsk. We shrugged our shoulders, occasionally donating a tenner, to put our conscience to rest and moved on.

The Grim Reaper did not gather big harvests in Sneek, Waalwijk or The Hague.
Dying under a hail of splintering bombs, was something for Ahmed or Dimitri, not for Sterre and Albert Jan.

Unfortunately.

The eery end of our slide is now definitively in sight.

An end I first saw coming, after the adapted military service letter for our 17-year-olds which, all of a sudden, explicitly mentioned Ukraine. And I really saw the writing on the wall, when Dutch Minister Wopke Hoekstra -conveniently on his way out- who was the first to lay the once unspeakable question on the table. “Shouldn’t we reintroduce obligatory military service?” After which the usual “Gekaufte Journalisten” we already knew so well, from the Covid period, followed in narrative lockstep. Taunting manipulated studies from Clingendael, the Atlantic Council and countless false polls about our military service willingness, our fighting spirit for the fatherland and finally our sudden “willingness to die” appearing in the Telegraaf, The Dutch newspaper the nazi’s once loved and vice versa.

In the meantime, we are bombarded with warmongering videos, featuring ominous paper tigers; clerks, pencil pushers who never fought or even served themselves, but who do have the power to make our kids do just that. Or aggressive speeches by pink berets like “Christian” politician Derk Boswijk, who even fled from his elderly female neighbor, who was criticizing him . A total coward, who will never see the frozen steppe light up by a Stalin organ himself, but who will send your son or daughter to die for the cause, without further thought.

Bureaucrats will soon set trains full of Dutch children in motion, towards the meat grinders in the east, to a war that no one wants except those bureaucrats themselves. While they, being “indispensable”, will coordinate everything from the bunker under the Binnenhof; sending tampons to the Dutch female and tranny soldiers, rainbow flags to fly from the Dutch bunkers, rainbow carpets to welcome gay warriors to the trench, CO2-neutral fire support, and fire crackers, to scare the Russians to their death.

They will continue to theorize about their just goals and present inspirational views on imaginative victories, awarding themselves with shiny medals, sipping champagne in their pristine white uniforms. While our defenseless children will be shot to smithereens, by Ramzan Kadirovs gobsmacked Achmat troops.

And we? Dutch parents? We still act like dodo’s, obliviously waddling towards the men with the feathered hats.
Like ostriches, sticking our stubborn heads in the sand, while this deadly threat to our children is slowly but surely becoming a reality.

Friends, I cannot and will not end this way!

Here almost at the bottom of Moloch’s slide,

between the sacrifices to our indifference.

There must be a way out.

But the only way out,

that’s us.

That’s why I call on all of you to attend the Demonstration for Peace on the Dam in Amsterdam at noon on June 30 and then walk to the Flash Mob on the Museumplein organized by Dutch actor George van Houts.

I will be there this time,

And maybe I will finally -I am scared shitless, talking to crowds- overcome my shyness and recite something.

No time for whimpering.

Courage is needed. Our courage.

If you want to support my work, you can do so here. Thanks to you, i can continue doing what I do best. Being a huge pain in the ass for the powers that be.