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Friday, 31 July 2015

France is drowning, not waving.

Yes, there ARE still some courageous French people, fighting for their country, for their freedoms, against a government fully submissive to Islamic terrorism financing countries like  Qatar, Saudi Arabia and the rest, while being defamed or ignored by  an "islamically correct" media.  One of them is Christine Tasin who runs Resistance Republicaine. She is one of the most courageous French women I know. Recently she received a desperate cry for help from a reader - one of many - which I translate below.

Where to take refuge in one's own country?

This could happen in Montreuil. Nights from Hell  during  Ramadan until 2 or 3 am in the district of La Noue-Clos-Français. 

The code of silence and complicity or the powerlessness of the municipality, the police, the silence of the media. 

This (forced) "living together".  This is a low noise civil war  which takes place in France in these neighbourhoods. And we are bound hand and foot, delivered by our elected officials and the media.

Flee, but where to? (my bolds)

Not rich enough to buy a house or a loft to be safe in the trendy neighbourhoods of the  "bobos" which are  inaccessible to the popular classes; live in one of the villages in province that are  still untouched?  but how  find work? 

Is this togetherness they  impose on  us? We are despised, our suffering is dismissed as  paranoia. Just like in  the USSR under Stalinism, our unhappiness is medicalized or referred to psychiatry.

A neighbourhood given up  to extremists who impose their way of life on us by noise, by physical and verbal abuse, by  intimidation and threats, and the complicity of institutions, who, powerless, impose a  "living together" on you without giving you a choice.

Henry Laborit wrote in praise of flight, but flee where, how, with what means? Where take refuge in our own country?
We are abandoned and sacrificed.


In my darker hours I think that this little poem below is a metaphor for France: 

Not Waving but Drowning

Stevie Smith1902 - 1971

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

1 comment:

  1. Thank you. !
    Solidarité entre nous !
    Vive la résistance !