Featured Postcards: Melissa the Iraqi Refugee; Rudy Dent a 9-11 First Responder; West Scranton; Helen the Writer and Aspiring Prepper; Pennsport; Back to the USA; Dak Lak; Empire Idiots and On Nationalism.
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Sunday, August 14, 2016
Though each life is rich, some are staggeringly so. Over four days in July, I had a series of conversations with Rudy List at his house in Dexter, Michigan. A 74-year-old retired math professor, Rudy introduced me to Hua Luogeng, Zitang Zhang and Terence Tao. In return, I told him about Otto Dix, Cindy Sherman, Honey Boo Boo and Jerry Springer. It was certainly not fair trade.
In Rudy’s kitchen, an aging, sick dove cooed. Across the road, field corn grew. No sounds of cars, crickets or cicadas wafted through the open windows, only late summer weather. Darkness came. As we talked for hours, Rudy’s Hong Kong-born wife pretty much left us alone. A realtor, she had enough on her mind.
How can you tell if a mathematician is extroverted? As he’s talking to you, he’ll look at your shoes instead of his shoes!
My father started out plastering houses, but he was not a very big man, so when he was 30, he decided he wouldn’t last as a plasterer, the work was just so heavy. He became a machinist.
My father worked at Bay City Power Shovels for 25 years until the company fell apart. He spent a couple of years unemployed, then got hired by a place that made molds for casting.
When my mother got engaged to my father, she said, “I don’t want an engagement ring. I want a house,” so they built a house. I’ve lived in many houses and several countries, but this house we had in Bay City will always be home.
In elementary school, I learnt of Pythagoras' Theorem. I was so fascinated by it that I drew a chalk drawing of its diagram on the basement wall of this house. It was still there 40 years later, in 1994.
Neither one of my parents went to a university. My mother never even went to high school. Her parents were illiterate. My mother was so poor growing up, she often ate bread with lard. She had 11 brothers and sisters.
From the age of 16, my mother was a hairdresser. She ultimately started her own business and had a very loyal following. I think her customers came for the conversations as much as anything else. My mother very forcefully supported her political views.
My father’s first language was German. He didn’t learn English until he went to school. When I was a child, we would all go to my grandparents’ house at Christmas to sing carols in German and eat traditional German food. My mother also spoke some German.
When I was about six or seven, I remember my grandmother cautioning my grandfather that he should speak English outside the house. It was two or three years after the war, and there was a lot of sentiment, still, against the Germans.
When I was in 5th or 6th grade, I wanted to learn how to read and write German. Since I went to a German Lutheran school, all the teachers knew German. A couple of other kids and I asked Mr. Ring if he would teach German to us after school. Mr. Ring was overjoyed.
I went home and told my mom, “We’re going to learn German in school.”
“Das ist gut!”
Within three weeks, a petition went around that said, “This is America. We speak English,” so our German lessons were shut down.
I got my master’s in mathematics from the University of Michigan, then my PhD from the University of Birmingham, where I also taught. I spent 19 years in England altogether. I also taught for a year in Iraq.
Before I started at the University of Mosul, I went to Iran to see a British friend, John. Shortly before I arrived, John’s wife was raped by an Iranian employee, a guy who came by each day to clean up.
The Iranians take things like that very seriously. They locked the rapist in a small cage that was just tall enough for him to stand in, and they didn’t give him food or water. His family came by to feed him, of course, but he was kept in the sun as it got up to 120 degrees. Only John could spare him.
His family went to John’s house each day to plead, but John would just spit at them. After several days in the hot sun, the man died. I didn’t like anything about that situation. I wouldn’t have let the guy die.
John is a complex person. Working in the oil industry, he was in Peru and on the Red Sea with a bunch of American rednecks. He got to know them pretty well. One night, they showed home movies of themselves hunting Indians. They killed the indigenous people, and had movies of themselves doing it.
The guy sitting here showing the movie is the guy in the movie, shooting the person.
I said, “So John, what did you do?!”
He said, “I didn’t do anything. We were on an oil platform, in the middle of the Red Sea.”
This is the sort of shit we don’t know about. You’ll never read it anywhere, but John had all kinds of stories. It’s almost like a government cover-up. You just don’t say anything.
Leaving Iran, I hitchhiked from Ahvaz to the Iraqi border. After I showed my papers at the Iranian checkpoint, I walked across the no man’s land separating Iran from Iraq. There were machine guns on either side trained on each other. It was the loneliest two hundred yards I’ve ever walked. Either side could have shot me and blamed it on the other.
The guy on the Iraqi side stamped my passport, then went back to fingering his worry beads. There were two taxis nearby, I don’t know why, because there were no travelers. A driver approached and quoted a price, but it was way too high, so I kept walking. I didn’t know how to bargain. Basra was only 15 miles away, but it was 105, and in the desert. After I had walked about 50 yards, the driver ran after me and gave me a fairer price. He even bought me lunch.
The Basra bus station was just a big, unpaved lot with various sorts of vehicles. Some of them looked like school buses here, but they’re all beat up, and they carried anything, including goats and chickens. After half an hour or so, I found one that was going to Baghdad. I also learned the words for “this” and “that” in the process.
The first thing that happens when you get on a bus is they offer you water. They know you need water. Everybody needs water.
They had this big cistern, right near the front of the bus, with a big dipper. The driver offered me water, so I drank it then sat down. While waiting, I watched others board. After drinking, each said “shukran,” so, belatedly, I said “shukran” to the driver.
I got along fine in Iraq. There was never any problem, except for one time. I was walking down the street, smoking, and this guy just started yelling. He pointed at me and looked really angry, so I thought, Oh, he wants a cigarette!
I took out my pack and offered him one, but this only made him angrier. He yanked the cigarette from my mouth, threw it on the ground then stomped on it. That’s when I realized, It’s Ramadan! You’re not supposed to smoke during Ramadan.
It remains the most memorable year of my life. I learnt more in Iraq than anywhere else. It was just a fascinating place, with very old things everywhere. I saw so much that has been destroyed.
Living among Muslims, I knew it wasn’t a good idea to say you didn’t believe in God. The first time someone asked me about my religion, I said I don’t believe in God, I don’t think there is a God. This made them very upset. They were frightened. Like, how can that be? No, no!
Some of my students asked what religion I was? They asked if I believed in the Messiah? I just said, “Yeah, that’s what I believe.”
I lived with an American in an apartment we rented from a goldsmith. My roommate, Alan, also taught at the university. He was a writer of some sort. I can’t remember what the occasion was, but Alan went to Iran for a week, and when he came back, I found him lying on my bed.
Alan always slept stark naked, so there he was, stark naked, on my cot. He said, “Oh, you’ve got to help me.”
Alan had stitches in his face, arms, chest and back, all over. I said, “What happened to you?”
He said, “While I was over there, I had a nightmare. I saw two men in my room, and they were going to attack me, so I jumped through the window.”
Alan was on the second floor. After he landed, he just started running, all bloody and naked. He had no idea where he was.
When the cops came, they couldn’t understand Alan, so they made him jog alongside them, all bloody and naked, back to the police station. They didn’t want to get blood in their car.
At the station, there was someone who understood English, so they took Alan to the hospital, finally. There, they put all these stitches on him, but without anesthesia.
A month later, I heard this terrible rampage coming from his room. I jumped out of bed.
“What’s going on?”
“There are two men in my room!”
I switched on the light, looked around. Alan had knocked over his table. A bottle of ink had splashed all over. His bed was upside down. His books were everywhere.
I didn’t like this situation very much, so I moved, and that’s when I met this Iraqi family. The government was building these cement houses that looked like bunkers, and people from the villages were paid to watch the construction sites. They lived in these tents.
There was an old woman and her two children, Fatih and Aziza, and there was Najma, Aziza’s six-year-old daughter. Najma means “star” in Arabic.
I started to talk to them a bit, then I started to eat dinner with them.
Kids, they’ll repeat a word as many times as you want, so I taught Najma English, and I learnt Arabic from her.
One day, I asked Aziza, “Where do you get your food?”
“Ah, the people around, they have leftovers, so they give them to us.”
By this time, I was speaking Arabic fairly well. You know how to learn a language. Just learn the nouns, nouns, nouns. The connectors will come. They’ll tell you when you’re using them wrong.
I told Aziza, “Look, how about this, I’ll buy you the food, you cook it, and we all eat it together?”
I became Abu Lahm, The Father of Meat. I’d go with Aziza, or sometimes just Najma, to the market, and we’d say, “We want this, and we want that.” Quite often there was a shortage of things, but we always came back with something to eat.
Once, I went with Najma to get some kebabs, and as we were talking to the kebab seller, some guy came up and said to Najma, “Who is this? What is he doing with you?”
She said, “He’s my uncle.”
I felt slightly threatened, because it could have gone the wrong way. I did make a note, not to go to town alone with Najma ever again.
I noticed Aziza’s eyes were slightly bulging, so I looked at her throat, and it was bulging, so I thought, Goiter!
Iraq had a national health service, and it was totally free, so we went to the hospital. It’s nothing like a hospital here. People were sitting on the floor, and some of them were even cooking. It might not have been very hygienic but, Jesus, it was sure comfortable in terms of social interactions. They all got to know each other. We can learn from this.
We went into this office where there was a doctor sitting behind a desk, looking important. He spoke to me in English, “What are you here for?”
“I think she’s got goiter.”
“What is she to you?”
“She’s my friend.”
“She’s an ignorant peasant.”
“Well, she’s my friend!”
When I was in university, I lived in a co-op, and we had people from all over the world. Indians, Arabs, Chinese, Africans. I loved it, I absolutely loved it. One of the guys, Afif, was a Palestinian from Lebanon. He told me how Arabs interact. He said, “Every Arab thinks of himself as an independent country! If he yells, you shouldn’t worry, but when an Arab gets really quiet, that’s when you should worry.
In the doctor’s office, I raised my voice a bit, so the guy raised his voice. I pounded my fist on the table and said, “I think she has goiter! She needs treatment! She needs to be looked at!”
He looked at me, “OK,” then he said, “We don’t have enough blood. If we’re going to work on her, we need somebody to contribute a pint of blood.”
So I gave a pint that day. I had never done this before. Watching this thing fill up, I thought, Jesus, I hope they remember to pull out the needle!
Done, I walked out. Aziza asked me, “Did you do it?” I said, “Yeah.” There were all these people milling about, conversing. Aziza announced to everybody at the top of her voice, “He gave blood for me! He gave blood for me!” They all looked and clapped. Whoaaah! I became an instant hero!
There was a solar eclipse that year and Aziza got really, really scared. She had no idea what was going on. I tried to explain what was happening, but Aziza wasn’t having any of it. She had no idea there were planets. Aziza knew there was the sun, and it came up each morning. She was back before Copernicus’ time.
After the sun came back out, Aziza started smiling again after a while.
I had friends up and down the scale. I knew a guy who worked at the Iraqi Atomic Energy Commission. I had met Imad Khadduri in Ann Arbor. When I taught at the University of Birmingham, Imad was there for his PhD in nuclear engineering. For his last six months there, he stayed at my house. Imad is retired now. He has a website that keeps tracks of what’s going on in Palestine.
In Baghdad, I stayed at Imad’s dad’s house and, later, after he got married, at his house.
Arabs give things away. I actually found out I had to be careful, because if I said something was nice, they would offer it to me. It’s really true.
I asked my old landlord to help me buy a coat. He said, “OK, I’ll take you,” so we went out, and he pulled his gate down halfway. He had a bunch of gold in there.
As he walked off, I said, “What about that? It’s open.”
“Oh, no worries, the others will watch it for me.”
Around Christmas of 1974, I visited Lebanon with my friend, Stanley Hoo. Beirut was absolutely beautiful then. We stayed with a friend of ours in Sabra, one of those places that was destroyed in one of those wars in the 80’s. Shatila Massacre, I know exactly where that is.
Once, as we were walking from central Beirut back to Sabra, Stan said to me, “We’re being followed.”
I looked back and there were these two young guys, maybe 18, 19, and they were just walking behind us. They got closer and closer, then they got right up to us and said, “Where are you going?”
We showed them the address. They said, “Follow us.”
They took us down this little street. Stan said to me, “I don’t think this is going to work out too well.”
They took us into this garage. There was a jeep with a heavy caliber machine gun on the back of it. They opened a door to this office. There was a guy sitting behind a desk, and a guy standing by the wall with a machine gun. There was just one light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
They said, “We would like to ask you some questions.”
“First, where are your passports?”
We show them our passports. Stan’s Chinese. He was carrying an American passport.
“Where are you coming from?”
They interrogated us for a while. We explained that we were visiting our friend, Mohammad. Finally, I said, “Please, call this number. Call him up, and he’ll explain.”
The guy finally did that. I said to Stan, “Should we just make a run for it?”
“We’d get killed for sure.”
They brought Mohammad to the garage. His wife was actually an assistant to Yasser Arafat and in the PLO. After everything was cleared up, the guy behind the desk said, “I’m sorry we gave you any trouble, but we have to be careful.”
These were your terrorists! That’s not true. They’re not terrorists! They were just trying to defend their land and get their property back. It’s what anybody would do.
I also visited a refugee camp in Tyre. It had been shelled by ships, probably Israeli, but using American weapons. Somewhere around here I have a piece of shrapnel, about that long, that I picked up in Tyre. It killed somebody.
In 1980, I went to Zambia to teach for six month. Three weeks after my arrival, the university shut down because of political turmoil, so I had nothing to do.
What I saw was not all that distinctive from the United States. Lusaka is a big city. You have people driving around, people going to work, people going to medical school, people working in the university. What I saw was not that different than what I saw here.
But I saw, in addition, people who were still living in a traditional lifestyle, out in the bush. They live in these grass huts. They lock their door by putting a branch or a twig across it. They brew beer out there, and it gets pretty strong, and it’s not clear, like the beer here. They don’t filter it. It has a lot of yeast in it.
You see women walking down the road, with a stack that high on their heads, and it doesn’t move. I heard a guy say, “Well, women’s heads are made for carrying things, but men’s shoulders are.” It wasn’t like men’s heads are made for thinking or anything.
I got a bit enamored of a secretary in the mathematics department, so I visited her at her house. The next day, she said, “You should not come again.” She explained that such and such a guy, a Zambian, was after her, so he would cast a spell on me and I would die.
I told my friend, Ben, about this, and he said that if he went to work and saw a dead chicken on his desk, he would just go home.
“Nobody should be expected to work if he finds a dead chicken on his desk.”
So you have primitive people and non-primitive people in Zambia. It’s a funny mix. The people at the university were not primitive in a sense that, at least on a rational plane, they were mostly like me, but the dean of the faculty of science, the first time he ever wore shoes was at his graduation from college.
For the most part, the people at the highest strata were posing as sophisticated Europeans. They had all studied there.
I went to Ben’s house for lunch. There was a huge, empty field across from it. Two kids came in, they were maybe ten. They said there was a dead woman out in the field.
It was raining. We walked out and saw this woman, dead, obviously raped and murdered the night before, and left in the field. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
We took my Land Rover to the police station to give a report. The guy said, “Well, we have no car available to go and look.”
I said, “There has been a murder there. You’re supposed to investigate.”
“Well, you know, we can’t get anybody to go.”
“Give me somebody, and I’ll take him there!”
They found a photographer to come with us. We watched him daintily, daintily tread across the wet ground, so he could take a picture. That’s it. I don’t know how long she lay there.
This astonished me. I didn’t know this kind of thing could happen.
After I had returned to England, Ben wrote to say hi, and he said, “By the way, two months later, I found another dead person.”
Apparently, these women had taken buses from the villages to Lusaka. After they had hired a taxi at the bus station, the driver just raped and murdered them.
By 2001, I was back in Michigan and working for Lockwood Financial, a company I co-founded. On 9/11, I called Paul, a coworker, and he said, “Do you know what’s going on?”
“What’s going on?”
“Go watch a TV.”
I told him I didn’t have a TV, so he said, “Go find one.”
I went to this co-op not far from where I lived. There were about ten guys watching one of the World Trade towers burning. I looked at it. Then the fuckin’ thing collapsed! What the fuck is this?!
Bin Laden, fuckin’ Bin Laden, I wanted to kill Arabs now. What the fuck is going on?! I wanted to go and kill the people who did this.
Later, I heard about the beheading of a guy from Hillsdale, Michigan, not far from here, so I found a YouTube of it. I watched this guy cut the head off, then put it on the man’s back, and I just got sick. I was so overcome by feelings of hate, despair, anxiety, I had to leave the house. How do you process this?
In early 2003, Lockwood Financial had been sold, and I got some money, so I met with a banker. After we talked for a while, we went to lunch. I brought up 9/11 and said some hateful things about the Afghans and Bin Laden, so he said, “You know, three buildings collapsed at the World Trade Center that day.”
I said, “Why don’t I know that?”
He said, “It’s because nobody will say anything. They don’t want you to know.”
At home, I got on the internet and saw Building 7 falling down. I had seen controlled demolitions, and this was controlled demolition. Everybody in the world who sees this will say that it is controlled demolition, so we must do something, but it doesn’t work that way.
I started doing research. In 2005, Loose Change came out. I looked at that and thought, OK, this is going to convince anybody, so I phoned my brother. I said, “Paul, 9/11 was an inside job.”
He’s like, “What?!”
“It’s not what you think it is.”
“I can’t believe that. They wouldn’t do that to their own people.” Standard argument.
“Look, I’m sending you this video. Watch it and make up your own mind.”
Next day Paul called and said, “We’re all fucked.”
There is no way the official story is true. We’re all fucked.
I became obsessed by 9/11. I watched and read everything I could. Everything that has happened since 9/11 appeals to that, and it’s all false.
After I looked at Building 7, I went back and looked at the other two towers, and I thought, Of course, they’re not collapsing! They’re exploding! What’s wrong with me?! Look at that shit flying out!
I’m going to get a bit technical here. Bear with me. During an unassisted gravitational collapse of a structure, the loss of gravitational potential energy is equal to the gain in kinetic energy. After the collapse has finished, all the potential energy the structure had before the collapse has been converted to kinetic energy, and a re-organization of a part of the universe has taken place. The assumption that destruction of the towers was simply a gravitational collapse implies that the totality of the driving force causing the collapse was pointing down. Since a massive amount of debris was thrown in trajectories arcing up and out at up to 70mph, the question arises: What potential energy was the source of that kinetic energy?
In 2010, Architects and Engineers for 9/11 Truth had reached a thousand signatures, so they scheduled a press conference in San Francisco. I flew there to attend it. I wanted to see what would happen when the press get there, what would they do? Well, the press didn’t show up!
I did get to meet Richard Gage and David Ray Griffin.
By 2008, I had discovered Christopher Bollyn. He had written about 9/11 from the beginning, and Bollyn pointed to Israel. I thought, What does Israel have to do with this? I kept denying this for about a year, but what Bollyn was talking about, I was able to verify from many other sources. Bollyn was telling the truth.
I don’t want to be anti-Semitic, I thought. I don’t want to be thought of as anti-Semitic. You go through these stages, you know. Here I am trying to find out the truth, and I’m worried about being anti-Semitic?! It doesn’t make sense! The evidence points there, so that’s where I have to go.
It is the Israelis, with complicit elements in our government, which by that time I realized was run by Jews. I got onto the Zionist project. I thought, It has got to be Israeli intelligence, and American intelligence, together, running this operation. There’s no way around it.
In 2010, I met Henry Herskovitz at a protest against the bombing of Iran. I had read about Henry, the most vilified and hated person in Ann Arbor. Each Saturday for 13 years now, Henry leads a vigil outside the Beth Israel Synagogue. I joined him, and the more I went, the more I realized that what he was doing was very courageous and the right thing to do.
Muslims are bound together by strict obeisance to a religion. This is pretty much the only binding thing, so they really protect that well. They don’t want anything to touch the boundaries. Jews are bound together by identity politics. Henry is no longer a Jew.
Gilad Atzmon has come to Ann Arbor a couple of times. He actually interviewed me in front of the synagogue. He asked me, “Why are you here?” I said, “The rabbi has said that the congregation unanimously supports Israel. I’m opposed to people who support Israel, because I’m against genocide.”
No Jewish organization will call for the dismantling of Israel, so they’re all Zionist organizations.
The Holocaust is the core element in the foundation of Jewish power, of Zionism. Without that, the whole thing collapses. The same with 9/11. Once 9/11 goes, everything goes.
The Jews are unique in the way that they’ve suffered throughout history, there is no other suffering like that, and the Holocaust is the culmination of the suffering of the Jews. We’re still suffering, but you can’t ever erase that. That’s the worst thing that has ever happened in the history of the world, OK? That’s pure evil manifest. You rip that away, and they’re no different than anybody else. Jews have suffered, but so has everybody else.
The British could decode the Enigma machine, so they knew what the Germans were doing. There’s no mention of gas chambers. The Red Cross inspected the concentration camps, and there’s no mention of it. If there’s anything to the official narrative, there must be some documentation about gas chambers in the German archives, but nobody has found anything about it, and there’s nothing in the Russian archives.
Jews declared economic war on Germany, and they were having an effect. The Jews controlled higher education, media and the entertainment industry in Germany in the 30’s. They controlled much of the banking sector. Jews were fighting tooth and nail, economically, with whatever means they could, and Hitler said, “We’ve got to sort out this country, for the Germans,” and Germans supported him. Hitler revived the economy. He started Volkswagen and gave people jobs. Most Germans were elated.
The vigil has become the focal point of my week. I look forward to it. Sometimes people give me the finger. Sometimes they beep the horn and give me a thumb up.
My wife sometimes says, “Ummm, you’re always angry. Why?”
“It’s because of the state of the world. It’s the unconscious people of the world. I don’t understand why they don’t understand anything.”
She says, “Well, you just have to think about something else.”
Everything now is propaganda, even football games, and the intention of it all is to make us afraid. They’ve generated this fear that’s inside everybody, and it’s just there, ready. When they say you should be afraid of this, it hooks onto it, the fear is already there, they don’t have to generate it any more. It’s just incredible.
And the anger, all of the cops are angry now, all the time.
I know a survivalist in northern Michigan. He’s got a degree in chemical engineering. He does consulting one day a week and lives on almost nothing. He said, “People like me are going to take back the country when the revolution comes.”
I said, “You’re not going to do anything. You’ve got a gun, and they have all these huge weapons. They’re trained murderers.”
“They’re not going to shoot their own people.”
“You’re not their people! They’ll shoot at whoever they’re told to. This is what they’ve been trained to do.”
That’s what all the first person shooter video games are about. It’s the training vehicle, and the recruiting vehicle for the guys who go do that, especially the drone operators that sit in these places and kill people with drone rockets. They’ve never been on a battle field, but they’ve played a lot of video games.
I don’t want to fly anywhere in the United States. If I have to go to the West Coast, I’ll drive there. I can’t stand the TSA. I don’t understand why people put up with them. Later this year, I’ll go to England to visit my daughter, so I’ll fly from Toronto.
Australian airports are OK. Hong Kong airport is OK. Leaving Heathrow once, I was pulled aside because they wanted to check my bag. There was a man and a woman. As the lady took things out, I asked her, “What are you looking for?”
“We don’t know.” They both spoke with a non-British accent, so they were immigrants. “We’re just looking for something dangerous.”
“Do you ever find anything?”
“Do you know why you’re doing this?” She looked at me, and I said, “It’s because the United States government tells you you have to. They’re setting the rules. It’s because of 9/11, but 9/11 was an inside job.”
She said, “I know.”
They found nothing. We shook hands. As I was trying to figure out where to go next, which gate, a guy who was on his break came over and said, “I want to hear more about this.”
So I told him about Building 7. He didn’t know about it. It was 576 feet tall, with 47 stories, and it fell at about 20 past five in the afternoon. BBC News reported this 23 minutes before it happened. I told him about Architects and Engineers for 9/11 Truth. He was really keen.
Chomsky is a smart guy, but I also think he’s a liar. He’s too smart to really believe what he said about 9/11.
I look up at the sky on a clear day and I see the chemtrails, and I think, Why are they doing that? Then I read about the various false flags, Sandy Hook, Boston Marathon, Orlando, etc., and it becomes clear to me pretty quickly that this is all bullshit.
Three weeks ago, Newsweek put out a special edition on Hitler. On the cover, there’s a picture of Hitler, with the caption, “CAN HIS EVIL LEGACY EVER BE DEFEATED?” Henry bought it. What he was looking for were gas chambers, because that’s the most evil thing in the world that has ever happened, because the most evil thing in history is the gassing of the Jews.
Henry said to me, “Will you read through this for me? I’m not sure I read it carefully enough. I don’t see any mention of gas chambers in there.”
I read it, cover to cover, all 98 pages. There are two pages, each half covered by pictures, about the concentration camps. There is no mention of any gas chamber. At the bottom of the first page, there is something about using “gas trucks” and firearms to kill Jews.
Henry said, “What are they doing? I think they’re starting to back away from the myth of the gas chambers.”
If the official narrative was accurate, they would certainly concentrate on that. Henry reckons maybe the revisionists are starting to have an effect. On scientific and historic terms, the argument is finished. The revisionists have won. There were no gas chambers.
Recently in Michigan, it became law that the official version of the Holocaust must be taught in all public schools. The Jews still have this myth going.
The gas chambers are the central part of the official narrative, just like the 19 hijackers are the central part of 9/11. Each of which is false.
Henry thinks we’re going to see a change in emphasis pretty soon. The Jews are going to change the story. They’re going to say, “Nah, nah, we really didn’t mean gas chambers.”
Recently, a woman in her mid-60’s showed up at our vigil, and she had a sign, “GOD BLESS ISRAEL.” In response, we now have a sign, “GOD BLESS AMERICA. DELIVER US FROM ISRAEL.” We’ve also made these bumper stickers, “AMERICA FIRST. NOT ISRAEL.”
A long time ago, I bought into the open border argument. Why should we have boundaries? They’re just political constructs. Gradually, I figured out that people want these boundaries because they’ve developed a social system which works for them.
In 2003, I visited my daughter in Reading, England. I walked around and saw all these Muslims, just sort of taking over. In the 80’s, I was already aware of the Muslim problem. There were lots of Chinese in Reading as well, but they assimilated. They spoke Chinese among each other, but English to everybody else, and the second-generation Chinese were just English. The Muslims tried to remake the social rules, and even the laws, to accommodate them.
The destruction of nationalism is a part of the Zionist program. It’s very subversive. They support diversity, every group just doing its own thing. The Zionist own thing, though, is to take over the world. They’re already dominating a huge chunk of it.
- Linh Dinh
- Born in Vietnam in 1963, I came to the US in 1975, and have also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I'm the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), six of poems, All Around What Empties Out (2003), American Tatts (2005), Borderless Bodies (2006), Jam Alerts (2007), Some Kind of Cheese Orgy (2009) and A Mere Rica (2017), and a novel, Love Like Hate (2010). I've been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I'm also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Japanese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic and Finnish, and I've been invited to read in London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I've also published widely in Vietnamese.