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The Coming European Civil War

Part 7:  'Eric'

       The Old Man leaned back in his chair, and placed the tips of his fingers thoughtfully together.  His thumbs touched, and he closed his eyes.  An observer might perhaps have thought he was sunk in prayer. In fact, his mind was pondering an article he had just finished reading. He had come across it on a website named 'European Civil War.com'  which he followed regularly. Which in turn linked to 'the local.se'   A touchy-feely European publication, with some Left Wing editorial staff seemingly totally dedicated to enabling and facilitating the submersion and inevitable submission of the Swedish culture to the specter of Islam . Dressed up -predictably-  in the most idealistic gloss possible, positively serenading a Left Wing, Liberal, soaring virtuousness, the article was adorned with rainbow photos that triumphed hugs and love for all.
      It was about a young Swedish idealist named 'Eric'.  A poster child for those wishing to welcome unlimited amounts of refugees. Feeling, emotional, intense, almost Messianic in his zeal, a young  'reverse crusader' was pictured hugging refugee children, and smiling.

I completed high school at the start of the refugee influx. I'd been working and saving money but didn't have any real commitments. And I had always wanted to volunteer and help. So in September 2015 when I saw that refugees were suffering from the long journey across Europe, and agonizing in the very same spots where I used to go on holiday, I couldn't not react. I had to do something. The first thing I did is donate ‎500 Euros of my own savings; I started offering what I had on hand. Then a friend of mine who was volunteering with a Swedish humanitarian organization told me that people were in need for blankets in Hungary. I could mobilize people in our municipality to collect blankets for refugees – and so that's what we did. But that wasn't enough for me, I wanted to be more involved. It was obvious that many people were not doing anything to help. And then came calls for the borders to be closed. I and three friends of mine took a different stance. We managed to raise 3,000 Euros in donations from family, friends, and people in our hometown that allowed us fly to Hungary to aid refugees en route to Austria in September 2015. Trains carrying 1,500 people transported refugees closer to Austrian borders every hour. Nonetheless, refugees still had to walk for two to three hours to reach the closest Austrian customs checkpoint. It was a tough journey on foot. So, we decided to walk part of the way with the refugees and did our best to offer them what they needed along the way. We gave them information to guide them throughout their march to their final destinations.

The Old Man sighed.  Through the maelstrom of piercing memories, images spun, advanced and receded. Sound bytes echoed through his mind. He saw himself, as he often did, as a small child, running down a corridor, with the sound of children playing, and distant adults coldly giving orders. There was the old playground, with the rusty swing set, and here was the University library, peaceful, seemingly an endless oasis of knowledge and learning. Then there came, explosively, scenes from the Bogside Massacre -Bloody Sunday-, and Father Edward Daly, waving a bloody handkerchief, stooped, trying to clear a safe passage for a dying man.

And here, rushing through his psyche, came again that helpless feeling. That bewildered, stunned, impotent, utter loss of faith in an institution, that a man never forgets. In this case, the British Government, and their handling of the so-called 'investigation' into the extraordinary circumstances of  the violent deaths of fourteen people. The report from the Widgery Tribunal (http://cain.ulst.ac.uk/hmso/widgery.htm)   had left him shocked and saddened. Even the language used screamed 'Whitewash' from every carefully measured syllable.

The Army case is that each of these shots was an aimed shot fired at a civilian holding or using a bomb or firearm. On the other side it was argued that none of the deceased was using a bomb or firearm and that the soldiers fired without justification and either deliberately or recklessly.
11. There was no general breakdown in discipline. For the most part the soldiers acted as they did because they thought their orders required it. No order and no training can ensure that a soldier will always act wisely, as well as bravely and with initiative. The individual soldier ought not to have to bear the burden of deciding whether to open fire in confusion such as prevailed on 30 January. In the conditions prevailing in Northern Ireland, however, this is often inescapable.

1972…  It seemed like a life time ago. And yet, the memories were sharp. The loss of faith in the Government line was absolute. An abrupt loss of faith. Overnight. An embittering experience.

We offered water, food, and helped carry their kids or bags. Many of them were about to faint from the journey since they had already suffered through harsh conditions before arriving in Hungary. In October we were back in Sweden and found many refugees were arriving to our hometown of Ingarp, part of Eksjö municipality in Småland in southern Sweden.Here again, my friends and I created a small initiative called Medmänniskor Hjälper to prop up newcomers among us. Locals in our town donated clothes and other household items that we later distributed to newcomers. We organized more activities such as sports and movie nights. Refugees needed a warm welcome…

The Old Man smiled sadly.  The Government Line triumphant. That pure faith of the young. That shining belief that Government knows best. That Government can always be trusted. Oh, the joy of being firmly and nobly entrenched on the side of the chivalrous, the virtuous, the harbingers of a better future!

Refugees needed a warm welcome…

Somewhere, was there a voice crying in the wilderness? Even in young Erik's obviously highly self satisfied mind?  Whoever said that most were fighting age young males? Lies, obviously.  Unworthy of comment by noble Erik. Whoever commented on the stunning lack of women and children amongst these 'refugees'…? Lies, obviously. Unworthy of comment by noble Erik. Whoever complained that the Swedish rape statistics were through the roof? Lies, obviously. Unworthy of comment by noble Erik. Whoever wrote that Islam trampled on the rights of women and minorities, and had 1400 years' worth of experience of infiltrating, breeding, overtaking, conquering, subjugating and annihilating? Genocide on steroids? Lies, obviously. Unworthy of comment by noble Erik.  Whoever suggested that Erik was a dupe, easily spoon fed a national, voluntary, self- suicidal party line for innocents and sheep? Lies, obviously. Unworthy of comment by noble Erik.

Refugees needed a warm welcome…

Next stop: Greece   The scenes from Lesbos in Greece saddened me indeed. I still can't get the terrible images out of my head showing hundreds of people sleeping on the ground without a roof. It was December 2015 when I saw countless refugees shivering in despair in the freezing winter on that island. There weren't enough places in camps to shelter everyone. I joined a group of volunteers at the notorious camp Moria on Lesbos. A few months later, in March 2016, I joined volunteers with another Greek NGO called Emergency Response Centre International (ERCI). It was very frustrating as we wanted to share the burden with others, but it felt like we really weren't able to help much at all.However, we helped as many families as we could among those suffering most from the freezing temperatures. They were cold, wet, and soaked to their bones. We gave them clothes and hot food, and a small taste of relief.
Heart-breaking moments In 2016, hundreds of refugees were still arriving to the Greek shores. In March I moved to Lesbos and joined ERCI there also to patrol the coastline and help refugees who might struggle to make it ashore in the rough and unpredictable seas. We basically worked as lifeguards, spotting boats and helping prevent people from drowning.Throughout the time of my volunteering I came across both hopeful and heart-breaking moments. Some boats arrived with everyone healthy and alive and smiles on their faces; others arrived with people crying and moaning out of fear, or from losing their loved ones.
One time a boat arrived with two corpses aboard. That shocked me. However, there wasn't time to think much; only to act, and that's what usually happens in such moments. My colleagues and I pushed the bodies off the boat and continued to help the other lucky ones who survived.
Emotional recovery usually came during rare moments of rest, and talking to each other helped us volunteers 'heal' and get over the trauma. Spending the day aiding people and making sure I could stand by every refugee that needed my help was actually the best medicine against emotional deterioration.
A message to Swedes and other Europeans I'm always ready to go anywhere; wherever there are people on the run in need of help. I think it's a shame most European countries have shut their borders in the faces of refugees. Just ask yourselves how you would react if you were in these refugees' situation! How would you like to be treated? Would you favour being shunned and rejected by other capable societies? I don't think so. European states are using resources to deploy soldiers, tighten borders, install walls and fences, and use tear gas, rather than using those resources to help vulnerable fellow humans.   
A message to refugees of the Syrian war You need to know that despite all the misery in your lives, there are lots of great people out there doing their best to help.We hear you and feel your pain. I know it feels like the whole world has failed to end your suffering, but I hope that you hear me and know that I'm standing by you, and that you are not alone.

The Old Man smiled, sadly. It was strange to sense an element of deja-vue. It was strange to be torn between different emotions on the subject of young Erik, and the young fellow's hectoring-lecturing, supremely moralizing, ringing call for opening the borders, helping all those 'vulnerable fellow humans', without seemingly any other boring consideration impinging on the simple purity of his morally (far) superior stance. If the adults in the room wouldn't help, then he, Erik, would step gloriously up to the plate. Roll the credits! Emotional music! Tears! Hugs! Erik is here!

The Old Man chuckled. His own conflict in emotions dryly amused him. The urge to slap the shit out of Erik was very strong. But Victor knew if he ever met the young man, he would probably hug him.

And THEN…

Slap the shit out of him.

(to be ctd)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on January 27, 2017, 11:17 pm