Yesterday, I visited Maassluis. It is a town near Rotterdam, where the indigenous Dutch inhabitants have become the victims of immigrant youths of Moroccan descent.
Cars have been demolished, houses vandalized, people threatened. The Dutch no longer feel free and safe in their own city. When the local radio station interviewed some of the victims and referred to the perpetrators as Moroccans, it received an anonymous letter: “You are racists! Your time will come! I won’t take care of it because I am too old. But our boys are the new soldiers.”
Maassluis. It is just one of the many Dutch towns and neighborhoods terrorized by Moroccan or Turkish youth gangs. Others are Schilderswijk, Oosterwei, Kanaleneiland, Zaandam, Helmond. Not surprisingly, a poll shows that 43% of the Dutch people want fewer Moroccan immigrants in our country. These people are not racists; they are decent people, patriots who love their country and do not want to lose it.
The great Ronald Reagan once said that “Freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction.” These wise words are more true today than ever before. We are the free men and women of the West.
Freedom is our birthright. But if we fail to defend it, we are bound to lose it. And, sadly, that is exactly what is happening today.
2016’s Black Summer of Jihad, with terror attacks all over the free world, teaches us that the enemies of freedom are already among us. The ruling elites all over the Western world have accepted millions of people into our countries without demanding that they assimilate.
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Donald Trump has barely had the votes counted and has yet to even been elected officially into the office by the Electoral College, let alone been sworn in and the tests he will be facing from day-one onward are already manifesting themselves. In a fair and basically sane world an incoming President elect could expect the current administration to work with their transition team and address the most threatening and serious problems in order to maintain a smoother transition of power. That is very unlikely to be what we will be witnessing. President elect Trump can fully expect that in its final two and a half months in office that President Obama and his top cabinet officials and others in his administration will be want to raise a finger to remedy any situation. Instead we can expect inaction at best and complete failure to resist or hold any ground with…
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When I saw the reports of swastikas drawn outside dorm rooms at The New School this week, I shared in the disgust and disbelief that this could happen here in New York—in this city, at the school where I’m a student. Then I felt what I always feel whenever some coward uses a swastika to deface property or scare a population: anger. Anger that all it took was one lunatic to completely change the meaning of an ancient and pure symbol from my religion when he decided it would be the center of his hate campaign.
I was born in New York to Indian parents, and grew up in Rockland County. Ours was a diverse neighborhood with a predominantly Jewish population. I was lucky enough to learn about my Indian heritage and Hindu religion at home while also being exposed to Christianity and Judaism early on. My first knowledge of the swastika was like everyone else’s: synonymous with the world’s worst psychopath. When I visited India as a young child, I panicked. There it was, that terrible design, adorning homes, temples, and shops. Even my grandmother would draw it out after her daily prayers. Had I missed something about my people?
A Hindu child with a red Swastika painted on his shaven head as part of a Upanayana ceremony, a rite of passage marking the acceptance of an individual into a school of Hinduism. (Wikimedia)
“Mom,” I ventured nervously, “we don’t hate Jews, do we?”
“What!” she exclaimed. “Most of our friends are named Cohen and Weissman!”
“OK, then what about… those?”
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Twenty-six years ago, two brothers decided their native language needed a new alphabet. The scripts they’d been using to read and write their native Fulani, an African language spoken by at least 40 million people, weren’t working well.
Fulani’s sounds were rendered imprecisely by the Arabic alphabet, the script most often used to write it; the Latin alphabet presented similar problems. Neither the Arabic nor the Latin alphabets could accurately spell Fulani words that require producing a “b” or a “d” sound while gulping in air, for example, so Fulani speakers had modified both alphabets with new symbols—often in inconsistent ways.
“Why do Fulani people not have their own writing system?” Abdoulaye Barry remembers asking his father one day in elementary school. The variety of writing styles made it difficult for families and friends who lived in different countries to communicate easily. Abdoulaye’s father, who learned Arabic in Koranic schools, often helped friends and family in Nzérékoré—Guinea’s second-largest city—decipher letters they received, reading aloud the idiosyncratically modified Arabic scripts. As they grew older, Abdoulaye and his brother Ibrahima began to translate letters, too.
“Those letters were very difficult to read even if you were educated in Arabic,” Abdoulaye said. “You could hardly make out what was written.”
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