A White family brutalized by feral negroes after stopping to get gas.
Compilation of black ON white crime..
A White family brutalized by feral negroes after stopping to get gas.
Compilation of black ON white crime..
A White family brutalized by feral negroes after stopping to get gas.
Compilation of black ON white crime..
A black kid asks his mother, “What’s a Democracy?”
“Well, son, that’s when white folks works every day so we can gets all our benefits, you knows like Free cell phones for each family member, Rent voucher, Food stamps-EBT Card, WIC, Free healthcare, Utility subsidy, the list goes on and on, you knows”.
“But mama, don’t the white people get mad about that?
“Sure they do, that’s called racism.”
Keep Working America. Millions on welfare depend on you!
Nationwide, raw per-pupil spending is similar across racial and ethnic groups. The small differences that do exist favor non-white students.
After breaking down the data by region, the non-white funding advantage becomes more pronounced. In the Northeast, for example, blacks receive over $2,000 more than whites in per-pupil funding per year. The region with the smallest differences is the South, where spending on black and Hispanic students is only slightly higher than on whites.
Our Zionist Govt lies about the race of crime perps, under reporting blacks and mulattoes by calling them white, notice this offender is classified as white?
It already began a long time ago…
Above is a pictorial of the innocent white people who have been victimized by Eric Holder’s people/Obamas’ Sons since Congress, per Zionist Israeli Emmanuel Celler who sponsored the Hart-Celler Immigration Act, forced integration on the white population on July 2, 1964 i.e. Civil Rights Act.
Note: In 2005, the Justice Dept. – in one of only two cases that I can find – released a report regarding crimes that crossed racial lines. More than 90% of all the violence in these types of crimes came from African-Americans.. And almost ALL of their victims – 580,000 of them – were white. SOURCE (bottom of pg)
Prior to 1964, whites and blacks lived separately. When there was a rare flare-up of inter-racial violence back then, it was almost always provoked by blacks –usually a rape or a murder of a white person.
Black on white crime though, was virtually statically immeasurable prior to 1964. Then came the forced integration law (Civil Rights Act 1964). Black on white crime exploded. Black racism and hateful violence against white people has continued to get progressively worse.
However, white on black violence post 1964, like pre 1964, it has continued to be very rare – statistically immeasurable.
Comment: The media has created an illusion that blacks are the ones who will return your lost dog, hand you your wallet when you drop it, and are so cool compared to nerdy White people. It is on about every commercial now, in case you have not noticed. It is NOT the “All-State” man you will find in Americas’ ruins.
As important as not playing with fire or looking both ways to cross the street; parents should be teaching their children to ALWAYS stay away from African Americans.
Keeping your kids alive is far more important than being told you’re a racist, bigot or not Christian for avoiding multicultural enrichment.
Innocent, unsuspecting, and hopelessly naive Whites are mugged, raped and murdered each day. The African Americans are becoming much more violent each year. Law Enforcement seems to insure the criminals’ rights are upheld far more than arresting obvious criminals. Think about your loved ones; Death is a high price to pay for an incorrect assessment of Black Crime.
Look at the shot above. Just think about it for a minute or two after you read what happened to the guy and White people below the “continue reading” button.
One of the black teen punks who killed JP. Looks like the little bastard has gold grillwork on his teeth — I guess the “oppressed” black needed “mo money” to support his budding gangsta lifestyle.
On October 4th, 2013, John Palmer Shelly, a Memphis, Tennessee, contractor and father of two, affectionately known among his family and friends as “J. P.,” was working on a house (building and fixing things like us White men tend to do) when two black teens broke into the house to do a “lick.” The feral savages then just shot the guy, and he died a couple of days later at the hospital.
They rob, rape and murder us White people all the time. Then I read about a professional bass fisherman, James “Jimmy” Johnson, whom the filthy blacks also shot and killed just the other day. Or the popular coed, Kim Kilgore, where a carload of black women followed her home after some kind of road rage incident and shot the girl dead. Can you believe this, and yet it is not ever making National Kosher News like Zimmerman?
Folks, this is one days worth of local news, buried on the last page. It happens daily in America..
And wheres the Kosher Media on this story?
Absent and silent as usual as the victim is white. The media has again buried this story just like the Nashville Murders by these feral criminals….
It is a silent Genocide on whites that is happening all across America.
1 million Interracial crimes are committed annually, and 90% of them are Black ON White. This will continue unabated until it met with vengeful and extreme resistance.
The Internet is reaching people. They will be held accountable, they will meet justice, they will pay.
Justice will reign.
Share this story on Facebook, Twitter, Reddit, Pinterest, and every other site you know. Post it on Craigslist, Internet forums, and anywhere else you can thing of.
From Council of Conservative Citizens
The trial is underway right now for Mona Yevette Nelson. She is a black woman who allegedly kidnapped a white child and tortured him to death with a blowtorch in Houston. There has never been any serious media coverage of this case.
The trial started this week, and it has only registered a tiny blip in the local news. Only one local media affiliate, KTRK Houston Channel 13, even appears to be covering the trial. Other Houston media outlets only published tiny blurbs that the trial has started, but none of them even mentioned how the boy died.
If the races had been reversed, this would be the biggest media event in the Western world. People in Finland would be hearing about the “racially motivated torture murder” in every gruesome detail. Scores of media vans would be lined up and down the street in front of the courthouse.
If you follow this website, you know that hundreds of media outlets now openly admit to having a policy of censoring black crime. The media bosses no longer deny that they manipulate the news to promote a political agenda. They are desperate to keep this crime a secret. It has received about one millionth of one percent of the coverage that Trayvon Martin received. If you think America should know what happened to Jonathon Foster on Christmas Eve 2010, then you need to help us get the word out.
Homicide investigators said a welding torch is the likely weapon used in 12-year-old Jonathan Foster’s death. “We’re talking crematorium-type of hot,” said one Houston Police Department Homicide Squad officer assigned to the investigation.
Jonathan’s mother, Angela (with stepdad David Davis) at his funeral. Some brainwashed multicults have even tried to say she killed her son, because they can’t face up to the sadistic nature of the black race. (INCOG)
Police said they confiscated a badly burned section of carpet from the home of Mona Yvette Nelson, 44, who stands charged with capital murder.
She had a welding background and police found welding equipment in her home on Allwood Street in the Fifth Ward area of Northeast Houston. Police said a section of carpet was badly burned and the smell of a human body filled the area around that carpet.
One investigator assigned to the case said it now appears Foster was killed at that spot in Nelson’s home within hours of being kidnapped from his family’s home near Shepherd Drive and 43rd Street in Northwest Houston.
One officer said on Friday that the autopsy has ruled out any trauma on the child’s body. There were no broken bones or any signs of strangulation or head wounds, so officers said it now appears the child was killed with a welding torch that could be capable of 6,000-degree flames.
“I’ve never seen burns like this,” said one officer who viewed the boy’s body after it was found in a ditch off the Hardy Toll Road on Tuesday.’
Isolated incident you say?..hardly.
Note from Me: If you dont own a gun, you NEED to get one. If you have one, you best carry it. It could save your life or that of a Samaritan.
I recommend a Smith & Wesson 38 Subbie in +P. They are reliable as the day is long, will fit in your pocket, and are idiot proof ie point and click. If you prefer Semi autos, then a Glock 26. If you have concerns about a legal battle using a gun in self defense, take a CCW class, consult with a legal advisor, and wipe down your bullets before loading your pistol and plan to exit expeditiously if necessary.
I also suggest forming Neighborhood Watch groups to prevent these types of horrific incidents from ever happening. Lastly, we make sure the judges do their jobs as well and hold them accountable.
Enough is bloody enough.
A Dutch settlement, under the United East India Company, began in the Cape of Good Hope (present-day Cape Town) in 1652, making it the oldest Western-based culture in Sub-Saharan Africa. The first Hollanders to set foot on this shoreline had neither the initial desire nor the intention to subjugate the native inhabitants, preferring instead to focus on establishing a refreshment station for ships carrying goods from the Orient to Europe’s busy ports via the Cape of Good Hope.
Some of these early Afrikaners became “free burghers”, and set about clearing and cultivating the almost uninhabited country. Joined by French Huguenots, they permanently settled an area of 170,000 square kilometers; about six times the area of the Netherlands.
As the Cape colony expanded, Dutch farmers (Boers) pushed outward, carving more homesteads from the vast wilderness. By the late 19th century, some had even crossed the Limpopo river into Mashonaland, now part of Zimbabwe.
In subsequent decades, South Africa’s Afrikaner population (the largest white minority on the continent) increased dramatically. They comprise about 10% of the Population of once well advanced and cultured South Africa.
A Summary of South Africa
Rhodesia and Zimbabwe are the same place. Rhodesia was founded by Cecil John Rhodes and is North of South Africa. When Bob Mugarbage took over, the name changed to Zimbabwe. As regards South Africa. The Dutch landed in 1652, in Cape Town. He (Jan Van Riebeeck) was an employee of the Dutch East India Company. The Cape area was sparsely populated by Hottentots. They, ah, disappeared mysteriously. The black Africans were to the north east of the Cape.
The current blacks have no historical claim to the Cape (The southern area). Fuck knows why we didn’t negotiate secession of the Cape. I guess it would have become another Israel. There is a political party that is calling for secession. What are the chances that this will happen, or that the UN or USA will support this idea? Zero. There are two major tribes, the Xhosa and the Zulu.
The Zulu are a warring tribe that are responsible for the eradication of approximately 150 smaller tribes. The tribes never really settled the land. There was constant rivalry, and nothing honourable or noble about them. This rivalry was around cattle, food and women. There were no wheels, no pyramids, no buildings, nothing but pure savagery. The land was sparsely populated.
Along came whitey. There was some conflict, although surprisingly little, largely because there was sufficient land. Whitey was the strongest tribe and settled the land, made it productive and brought peace to the tribes. Suddenly the blacks saw all this wealth, got educated on white tax money and decided, hey, they stole our land. If we hadn’t been oppressed and lost our land, we would have been the United States of Africa, and we would have flown to Mars by now, so fuck whitey, we want compensation.
After 19 years of Black Communist ANC rule, Food now had to be imported for the first time in 300 years.
South Africa has achieved the dubious distinction of being 140th on a world list of 144 countries for our education department.
South Africa is now the Rape capital of the world
South Africa is officially the Car-jacking capital of the world..
South Africa is also on the Top 10 list for the most Murders.
In 19 years the rand/dollar has (devalued) gone from R3.41 to R10.00
During ANC rule the petrol price has gone from R1.73 to R12.83 per litre
In 19 years, the South African defense force has gone from being the iron fist of Africa to a laughing stock that can’t defend Disneyland from an invasion of fluffy toys.
On the list of most corrupt governments, they have given us a special place right at the top, right alongside the United States.
In 19 years South Africa has ten times more people in squatter camps and 1,000% more illegal immigrants. Seems like the United States is following South Africa’s lead in all departments.
In 19 years South Africa’s roads, railways, military, police, municipal services, old age homes, hospitals, orphanages have literally fallen apart and are worth nothing anymore.
No other country on the planet has more convicted criminals in their parliament than us!!
25% of all South African school girls have HIV+. South African school girls had 100,000 abortions last year.
South Africa has one of the highest unemployment rates in the world. 19 years of Black Communist ANC rule, unemployment in South Africa has gone up by 60% !!
Wheres U2’s Jewish Bono to protest now?
See Keith Richburg’s book, Out of America: A Black Man Confronts Africa.
The American Enterprise
AN AMERICAN IN AFRICA
by Keith B. Richburg
(Keith B. Richburg is currently the Hong Kong bureau chief for the Washington Post. This is adapted from his book Out of America: A Black Man Confronts Africa, just published by Basic Books.)
I watched the dead float down a river in Tanzania. It’s one of those apocryphal stories you always hear coming out of Africa, meant to demonstrate the savagery of “the natives.” Babies being pulled off their mothers’ backs and tossed onto spears. Pregnant women being disemboweled. Bodies being tossed into the river and floating downstream. You heard them all, but never really believed.
And yet there I was, drenched with sweat under the blistering sun, standing at the Rusumo Falls bridge, watching the bodies float past me. Sometimes they came one by one. Sometimes two or three together. They were bloated now, horribly discolored. Most were naked, or stripped down to their underpants. Sometimes the hands and feet were bound together. Some were missing limbs. And as they went over the falls, a few got stuck together on a little crag, and stayed there flapping against the current, as though they were trying to break free. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the body of a baby.
We timed them: a body or two every minute. The Tanzanian border guards told us it had been like that for a couple of days now. These were the victims of the ethnic genocide going on across the border in Rwanda.
For the three long years that I spent covering Africa as a reporter for the Washington Post I had to live with images–countless images–like this one. Three years of watching pretty much the worst that human beings can do to one another. Revulsion. Sorrow. Pity at the monumental waste of human life. These sentiments began nagging me soon after I first set foot in Africa in late 1991. It’s a gnawing feeling that I was really unable to express out loud until the end, as I was packing my bags to leave, a feeling I felt pained to admit, a sentiment that, when uttered aloud, might come across as callous, even racist.
And yet I know exactly this feeling that haunts me; I’ve just been too embarrassed to say it. So let me drop the charade and put it as simply as I know how: There but for the grace of God go I.
You see, I was seeing all of this horror a bit differently because of the color of my skin. I am an American, but a black man, a descendant of slaves brought from Africa. When I see these nameless, faceless, anonymous bodies washing over a waterfall or piled up on the back of trucks, what I see most is that they look like me.
Maybe 400 or so years ago, one of my ancestors was taken from his village, probably by a local chieftain. He was shackled in leg irons, kept in a holding pen or a dark pit, possibly at Goree Island off the coast of Senegal. And then he was put in the crowded, filthy cargo hold of a ship for the long and treacherous voyage across the Atlantic to the New World.
Many of the slaves died on that voyage. But not my ancestor. Maybe it was because he was strong, maybe just stubborn, or maybe he had an irrepressible will to live. But he survived, and ended up in slavery working on plantations in the Caribbean. Generations on down the line, one of his descendants was taken to South Carolina. Finally, a more recent descendant, my father, moved to Detroit to find a job in an auto plant during the Second World War.
And so it was that I came to be born in Detroit and that 35 years later, a black man born in white America, I was in Africa, birthplace of my ancestors, standing at the edge of a river not as an African but as an American journalist–a mere spectator watching the bloated bodies of black Africans cascading over a waterfall. And that’s when I thought about how, if things had been different, I might have been one of them–or might have met some similar fate in one of the countless ongoing civil wars or tribal clashes on this brutal continent.
We are told by some supposedly enlightened black leaders that white America owes us something because they brought our ancestors over as slaves. And Africa–Mother Africa–is often held up as a black Valhalla, where the descendants of slaves would be welcomed back and where black men and women can walk in true dignity.
Sorry, but I’ve been there. I’ve had an AK47 rammed up my nose. I’ve seen a cholera epidemic in Zaire, a famine in Somalia, a civil war in Liberia. I’ve seen cities bombed to near rubble, and other cities reduced to rubble because their leaders let them rot and decay while they spirited away billions of dollars–yes, billions–into overseas bank accounts.
I’ve also seen heroism, honor, and dignity in Africa, particularly in the stories of ordinary people–brave Africans battling insurmountable odds to publish an independent newspaper, to organize a political party, to teach kids in some rural bush school, and usually just to survive. But even with all the good, my perceptions have been hopelessly skewed by the bad. My tour in Africa coincided with two of the world’s worst tragedies–Somalia and Rwanda. I’ve had friends and colleagues shot, stabbed, beaten to death by mobs, left to bleed to death on a Mogadishu street–one of them beaten so badly in the face that his friends could recognize him only by his hair and his clothes.
So excuse me if I sound cynical, jaded. I’m beaten down, and I’ll admit it. And it’s Africa that has made me this way. I feel for her suffering, I empathize with her pain, and now, from afar, I still recoil in horror whenever I see yet another television picture of another tribal slaughter, another refugee crisis. But most of all I think: Thank God my ancestor got out, because, now, I am not one of them. In short, thank God that I am an American.
THE YOUNG MEN with the machetes and the pistols had beer on their breath and murder in their eyes. But it was the dried bloodstains splattered across their filthy T-shirts that sent a cold shiver of fear slicing straight through my gut. It was the blood of their last victims.
We were at a Hutu militia checkpoint in southwestern Rwanda at the height of a campaign of genocide that had already claimed untold hundreds of thousands of lives. Most of the victims were from the Tutsi tribe, but the bodies piling up by the roadsides and on the riverbanks also included a fair number of Hutu tribesmen considered Tutsi “sympathizers.” For a Hutu, simply sheltering a frightened Tutsi neighbor from the rampaging mobs and militiamen was enough to warrant a machete blow to the head. The other victims were Belgians, hated chiefly because Belgium was the former colonial power here. And that’s what these crazed young men at the checkpoint were on the lookout for that day–Tutsi, Tutsi sympathizers, and Belgians.
These were hard-looking young men, and though they had a dazed, faraway look in their eyes, they conducted their search of our car with deadly efficiency–opening backpacks, checking under the seats, even peering inside the gasoline tank. One wore a red, black, and green beret, affixed at the top with a small button bearing the smiling likeness of Juvenal Habyarimana, the Hutu president who had organized these young killers and whose plane, days earlier, had mysteriously exploded in the night sky over the capital city, Kigali. I looked around while our car was being stripped, and I found Habyarimana’s likeness everywhere–on buttons, and on the dirty T-shirts splashed with blood.
What I also noticed were the weapons–crude farming tools, really. Machetes and long panga knives, more typically used for clearing brush and chopping firewood than for severing human limbs. There were also big, flat, wooden clubs, smaller at the handle end and rounded at the top. They reminded me of the all-purpose clubs Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble used to carry. But with one small difference: to make the clubs more deadly on impact, the Hutu militiamen drove long nails into the end. That’s what Rwanda has become, I thought. The country has reverted to prehistoric times, to a sick version of Bedrock. Could these be fully evolved humans, carrying clubs and machetes and panga knives and smashing in their neighbors’ skulls and chopping off their limbs, and piling up the legs in one pile, and the arms in another, and lumping the bodies all together and sometimes forcing new victims to sit atop the heap while they clubbed them to death, too? No, these must be cavemen.
Nobody knows how many were killed and wounded in Rwanda’s bloodbath. Estimates range as high as a million dead. The Khmer Rouge killed more perhaps, but it took them three and a half years, and most of their victims died from starvation, disease, and forced labor. The Hutu militia accomplished almost as much in three months, using decidedly more low-tech methods of extermination.
As I watched the eerie procession of bodies floating down the Kagera River I asked myself, “Who are these people? What are their names? Do they have families? What were they thinking as they were killed?” I remember when I was a summer intern in a U.S. city, covering the night police beat. If a body–a single body–was discovered in the city, the police would find a name, contact a family, determine a cause of death. I remember one murder victim whose corpse was discovered with a severed arm; I got a call from the night editor shouting at me, “Which arm was severed? Right or left?” I went back to the police and found out, because it mattered. But that was in America where every murder victim had a name, an identity, and it mattered how they died. These are just bodies dumped into a river. No one will try to check an identity, contact a family, find out which limb was severed. Because this is Africa, and they don’t count the bodies in Africa.
TRIBE REMAINS THE DEFINING FEATURE of almost every African society. Even in the supposedly more sophisticated or developed countries like Kenya, 30 years of independence and “nation building” failed to create any real sense of national identity that could transcend the tribe. In Kenya, the Kikuyu still think the Luo are inferior. The Luo don’t trust the Kikuyu, who they think look down on them. And both tribes look down on the Luhya. It goes on and on.
In Kenya I also saw the devastating effects of what can happen when politicians, like Daniel arap Moi and his cronies, are willing to play the “tribal card” and stoke the flames of ethnic animosity for political advantage. I walked through the burned-out town of Enoupukio, after it was raided by Masai warriors driving out Kikuyu who they believed had settled on traditional Masai grazing land. It looked like a war zone after a major battle, which, in a way, I suppose it was. Not a single house or shop was left standing. Even two churches were stripped of everything except a few pews. Kikuyu refugees who had fled the town told me how the Masai who had once been their neighbors suddenly swooped down on the town with guns and machetes and spears. One woman named Loyce Majiru told me how she had to flee with her nine children, and how she looked back and saw the body of a neighbor on the side of the road, naked, with his head chopped off.
And this was Kenya, a major tourist destination and a country long considered one of the more “stable” in Africa.
These things are not discussed outside of Africa, particularly among the Africanists and Western academics for whom the very term “tribe” is anathema. The preferred term is “ethnic group” because it’s considered less racially laden. But Africans themselves talk of their “tribes,” and they warn of the potential for tribal explosion.
In Byumba, Rwanda, behind the Tutsi rebel lines, there is a hospital where we met some survivors of the massacre. One is a woman named Rose Kayumba.
She is very tall and thin, a quite striking woman. She tells me about ethnic attitudes and about growing up as a Tutsi in Rwanda. With their narrow noses and sharp features, the Tutsi were considered the physically attractive tribe, though they had lost political power to the Hutus. Even with growing wealth and power, what the Hutu really aspired to was to look like a Tutsi, to actually become a Tutsi. An old Rwandan joke asks, What’s the first thing a Hutu gets when he becomes wealthy? A Mercedes-Benz. What’s the second thing? A Tutsi wife.
Rose, who is about my age, remembers her elderly grandmother admonishing her as a child never to play with the small, dark, and flat-nosed Hutu children in the neighborhood because they were beneath her. When the killing started in Rwanda, it was orchestrated by militia cells in the villages that systematically went door to door. But many Hutu did not need to be egged on to pick up their machetes. They would cross the road and slash to death the Tutsi family living in the hut nearby.
As Rose explains all this to me in a remote town in northern Rwanda, I am taken back to a place very different but eerily familiar. I am no longer in Byumba but in Detroit. I am the small child, and it is not a grandmother but my own father and my relatives I am hearing.
“Don’t you go out there playing with those black kids down the street. They’re no good.” They were “no good” because they didn’t own their home; they rented. Because they stayed out on their porch until all hours of the night playing the radio too loud and disturbing the peace of the neighborhood. Because when they walked down the block, they wore worn-out house shoes and curlers in their hair. Because the boys shouted “Yo’, motherf*****” at each other, and you could hear them a block away. Because they were black-dark black, just-up-from-the-South black, backwoods black, and no good.
Black people in Detroit described each other in subtle gradations of complexion–there were “high yellow niggers” and “redbones.” These distinctions mattered. Those were the days when, as my father recently recalled, “If you called somebody black, you had to be ready to fight him.” Good black people in those days called themselves “colored.”
And so my parents drummed it into me, much the same way Rose’s parents and grandparents drummed it into her, that black people like us–we were the South Carolina, westside blacks–were different from the blacks over on the east side. Don’t go across Woodward Avenue, we were warned. The blacks over there are Alabama blacks, hard and bitter. They cuss loud in public. They let their places go down. They eat pigs’ feet and more often than not have a dozen relatives all “just up from Alabama” packed into a few tiny rooms.
Sure, these were all stereotypes, based not on reality but on the psyches of those who told the stories. But for me, a black man growing up in America, these divisions were once very, very real–as real as the tribal divisions Rose Kayumba described for me there in that abandoned church complex under the moonlight in Byumba.
SIERRA LEONE IS WRACKED BY CHRONIC INSTABILITY. A long-running civil war has made parts of the country impassable, and in 1992, a cocky, 20something army captain, Valentine Strasser, toppled the incumbent president and became Africa’s latest, youngest dictator.
I got to see Strasser about a year later in Libreville, the capital of the small, oil-rich central African state of Gabon. The occasion was a summit meeting between Africans and African Americans organized by the Reverend Louis Sullivan, the veteran civil-rights campaigner and anti-apartheid activist who had authored the “Sullivan Principles” outlining fair employment practices for U.S. firms doing business in apartheid-era South Africa. The summit brought together some of the most prominent luminaries from the American civil-rights establishment–including Coretta Scott King, Andrew Young, Jesse Jackson, Louis Farrakhan, and Douglas Wilder.
When Strasser entered the meeting hall, sporting his now-trademark sunglasses and his camouflage battle fatigues, the crowd of mostly middle and upper-class black Americans went wild with cheering, swooning from the women, some hoots, and frenzied applause. Sitting in that hall, you might be forgiven for thinking Strasser was a music celebrity instead of a puny boy-dictator. These black Americans were obviously more impressed with the macho military image Strasser cut than with the fact that he represents all that is wrong with Africa–military thugs who take power and thwart the continent’s fledgling efforts to move toward democracy. The chanting and hooting was a disgusting display, and to me it highlighted the complete ignorance about Africa among America’s so-called black elite.
Weird things happen to a lot of American black leaders when they venture into Africa. They go through a bizarre metamorphosis when they set foot on the continent of their ancestors. Some of the most prominent veterans of America’s civil-rights wars–articulate advocates for human rights and basic freedoms for black people in America–enter a moral and intellectual black box when they get to Africa. Dictators are hailed as statesmen, unrepresentative governments are deemed democratic, corrupt regimes are praised for having fought off colonialism and brought about “development.” Black Americans who called vocally for immediate democratic reform in South Africa become defensive, nervous, and inarticulate when the subject turns to the lack of democracy and human rights elsewhere in Africa.
It’s as if repression comes only in white.
I asked Doug Wilder, Virginia’s first black governor since Reconstruction, about democracy in black Africa. “We cannot and should not force them to undergo a metamorphosis in seconds,” he replied. “Our job is not to interfere, and to understand that there is a difference from what they are accustomed to.”
Interesting. Imagine a conversation about South Africa around 1980, where a white governor of a southern state says of the apartheid regime, “We cannot and should not force them to undergo a metamorphosis in seconds…. Our job is not to interfere.” That white politician would immediately be branded a racist, and probably by no less a personage than Doug Wilder.
ONCE, WHILE ON A TRIP TO SENEGAL, I took the ferry boat over to Goree Island, just off the Atlantic coast. In the 17th and 18th centuries, Goree was the main transit point for African slaves heading to America. They were brought there from the African interior and held in small, cave-like, eight-by-six-foot cement cells, 15 or 20 per cell. And there they stayed until the cargo ships were ready for loading, and then some 20 million able-bodied Africans, chained at the neck and at the ankles, made their final passage into slavery through a small door, down a wooden plank, and on to the New World.
Joseph Ndiaye, the director of the slave house museum at Goree, keeps an inscription book for visitors to write their impressions. I spent more than an hour there, flipping through the book, jotting down some of the comments in my notebook.
“Yes, mother, I have returned–440 years-plus later,” wrote a black woman who came here from Sacramento. “I felt the presence of my ancestors and I know why we are a strong people. Black I will always be. Mother Africa I love you.”
“I have come home, and I pledge to myself, this will never happen again,” wrote another.
“I’m just a born-again African,” said a Brooklyn native.
And from this angry black woman, who left no home address: “The only language white people understand is the gun. I will supply the weapons for revolution. It is the only way black people will be free.”
It went on and on. Some of the tributes were moving, some poetic, some angry. For many black Americans who had come across the Atlantic, this trip was a near-religious pilgrimage.
I felt disturbed as I stood there. I shuddered slightly, reading the various comments in the inscription book. I, too, had come to Goree hoping to feel that same kind of spiritual connection, to find some emotional frame of reference. And I tried to make myself feel something that simply wouldn’t come.
I felt distant, apart. I felt revulsion at the horrendous crime of slavery–sort of the same feeling I had experienced years earlier, as a student backpacker in Europe, when I visited the Auschwitz concentration camp. It was just like that, really; a reminder of a past atrocity, and one that must not be forgotten. But as I stood there I thought about all the other evils I had seen around Africa. And then I thought: Would I have been better off if this great tragedy, this crime of slavery, had not occurred? What would my life be like now? Would I be standing here now as a journalist with my notebook in hand and a camera slung over my shoulder?
And then I stopped, because I started hating myself for what I was thinking, what I was about to think. Those questions cut straight to the heart of what had been troubling me ever since I had set foot here in the land of my ancestors. But the answers were so unspeakable, so unthinkable, really, that I closed my eyes and literally forced the entire train of thought out of my head. I didn’t want to think my own thoughts.
I should have come to Goree long ago, I decided then. Yes, that was my problem. Back in my youth, that is when I should have come. Because then I would likely have come from the other direction, from across the Atlantic, from America, and my head would have been empty of the sights and sounds now swirling around there. Then I, too, would have added my inscription to the book, paid my own moving tribute to those who had passed here before me. And I would have gone back home, to America, and my soul would have been left pure.
But it was too late now. I had come to Goree from the East, from the darkness, and I had already seen way too much of Mother Africa, and what I had seen had already made me sick.
And I left there that day wondering how I could ever be whole again.
AFRICA. BIRTHPLACE OF CIVILIZATION. My ancestral homeland. I came here thinking I might find a little bit of that missing piece of myself. But Africa chewed me up and spit me back out again. It took out a machete and slashed into my brain the images that have become my nightmares. I close my eyes now and I am staring at a young woman atop a pile of corpses. I see an old man on the side of the road imploring me for a last drop of water before he dies in the dirt. I see my friends surrounded by an angry mob as they try to fend off the stones that rain down to crush their skulls. I see the grotesquely charred body of a young man set on fire. I see a church altar desecrated by the blood of the dead, and bullet holes forming a halo around Christ’s likeness on the cross. There is a child, smiling at me, while he aims his loaded grenade launcher at my passing car.
My eyes snap open, but I remain frightened of these ghosts that I know are out there, in the darkness, in Africa. I tried my best to get to know this place, to know the people. But instead I am sitting here alone in my house in Nairobi, frightened, staring into the blackness of the African night. It’s quiet outside and I’m feeling scared and lonely. I am surrounded by a high fence and protected by two large dogs. I have a paid security guard patrolling the perimeter, a silent alarm system, and a large metal door with a sliding bolt that I keep firmly closed, all to prevent Africa from sneaking across my front yard and bashing in my brains with a panga knife for the 200 dollars and change I keep in my top desk drawer.
It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. I really did come here with an open mind, wanting to love the place, love the people. I would love to end this journey now on a high note, to see hope amid the chaos. I’d love to talk about the smiles of the African people, their generosity and perseverance, their love of life, their music and dance, their respect for elders, their sense of family and community. I could point out the seeds of democracy, the formation of a “civil society,” the emergence of an urban middle class, the establishment of independent institutions, and the rule of law. I wish I could end my story this way, but it would all be a lie.
How can anyone talk about democracy and constitutions and the rule of law in places where paramilitary security forces firebomb the offices of opposition newspapers? Where entire villages get burned down and thousands of people made homeless because of competing political loyalties? Where whole chunks of countries are under the sway of armed guerrillas? Where superstition runs so deep a politician can be arrested and charged with casting magic spells over poor villagers?
Maybe if I had never set foot here, I could celebrate my own blackness, my “Africanness.” But while “Afrocentrism” has become fashionable for many black Americans searching for identity, I know it cannot work for me. I have been here, I have lived here and seen Africa in all its horror. I know now that I am a stranger here. I am an American, a black American, and I feel no connection to this strange and violent place.
You see? I just wrote “black American.” I couldn’t even bring myself to write “African-American.” It’s a phrase that, for me, doesn’t roll naturally off the tongue: “African-American.” Is that what we really are? Is there anything really “African” left in the descendants of those original slaves who made that torturous journey across the Atlantic? Are white Americans whose ancestors sailed west across the same ocean as long ago as the slaves still considered “English-Americans” or “Dutch-Americans”?
I do not hate Africa or the Africans. What I hate is the senseless brutality, the waste of human life. I hate the unfairness, the injustice, the way repressive systems strip decent people of their dignity. I hate the way my driver in Somalia passes a starving woman on the roadside and will not stop to let me give her a bottle of water. I hate the kids swaggering outside the gates of the feeding center with machine guns on their shoulders, thrashing the old people waiting in line for a handful of gruel. I hate the Big Man who forces the entire government, the entire diplomatic community, to line up on a red carpet at the airport tarmac under a scorching sun to see him off on a foreign trip. I hate the dictator’s information officer, sitting in his hot, airless office with no electricity, lecturing me about how “the whites” have brought his country to ruin. I hate the immigration clerk at the dusty border outpost who is officiously studying my passport he’s holding in one hand while the other hand is stretched out, waiting for a bribe.
Perhaps more than all that, I hate this maddening propensity of Africans to wallow in their own suffering, to simply roll over when kicked, and to express unswerving faith that some outside force, some divine intervention, will bring deliverance from their misery.
I know now that while I can walk anonymously down the streets of Nairobi or Lagos or Kinshasa or Khartoum, while I can pass through the sea of black faces and remain unnoticed, I am not one of them. I see the people, but I cannot see what lies beyond their blank stares. True, my ancestors came from this place, and these are my distant cousins. But a chasm has opened up, a chasm of 400 years and 10,000 miles. Nothing in my own past, nothing in my upbringing, has instilled in me any sense of what it must be like to be an African. Malcolm X said we black people in America are more African than American, but I don’t feel it.
There is more, something far deeper, something that I am ashamed to admit: I don’t want to be from this place. There are some photographs I have kept, clipped out of one of the local English-language newspapers, saved for a possible story that I never got around to writing. One, taken in a Nairobi slum not far from my home, shows a boy lying flat on his back, being held down by a mob, screaming with terror. One of his hands has been chopped off. An older man is standing over him, gleefully holding what looks like a giant meat cleaver. The older man with the weapon is smiling, preparing to drop down hard and chop off the other hand. The caption explains that this boy has been caught stealing, and the crowd is now imposing street justice. I became fixated first on the boy’s screaming face, but then on the faces of the crowd in the background; they are all laughing and smiling. And I ask myself, what on earth could these people possibly be thinking?
How could anyone stand by and laugh at such torture? How can a human being find glee in another person’s agony? And this was not Rwanda or Somalia or Liberia, where I might have expected such callous inhumanity. This was Nairobi, supposedly one of the most modern capitals of black Africa. And these scenes were happening within walking distance of my own home.
How could I possibly relate to these Africans, when we are separated by such a wide gulf of culture and background and emotion and sensitivity? How could I ever understand what is going through the minds of the people, average people, who would stand in the background and smile in the face of such suffering?
And what frightens me most of all is that these smiling people in the photographs look just like me. Had my ancestor not made it out of here, I might have ended up there in that crowd, smiling gleefully, while a man with a cleaver cuts off the hands of a thief. Or maybe I would have been one of those bodies, arms and legs bound together, washing over the waterfall in Tanzania. Or maybe my son would have been set ablaze by soldiers. Or I would be limping now from the torture I received in some rancid police cell.
And then maybe I would be thinking: How lucky those black Americans are! And so, In my darkest heart here on this pitch black African night, I am quietly celebrating the passage of my ancestor who made it out.
It’s been said time and again that nothing makes you appreciate your own country like traveling away from it, and America has been like that for me. I see the flaws, I curse the intolerance, I recoil from the racial and ethnic tensions. And I become infuriated at the often mindless political debate that never seems to cut deeper than the crispest sound bite. But even with all that–maybe because of it–I recognize that it’s the only place I truly belong. It’s home.
(Note: The White victims in the above photo montage were brutally murdered by blacks just in the last year. But it’s only a sliver of how many Whites fall victim to this brutal race on a daily basis. They don’t want White people to ‘get it’ and have long worked hard to censor or obfuscate as much as possible the races involved in black-on-White crimes — including black mobs attacking White people in the streets.)
Every picture in the above photo montage of White victims has a story and each of them had loved ones just like you do.
Not only do these criminal blacks kill us dead all the time, but also mob attack us in the streets for fun. The black race is increasingly out-of-control and could care less about victimizing innocent White people, who the anti-White, brainwashing Kosher Jewish media has taught blacks to hate for decades now.
Blacks are obviously a sadistic race collectively and the “powers that be” have long understood this simple fact – but don’t want whites to get it and freely talk among ourselves about the situation, leading to other inconvenient (for them) realizations.
They basically want to keep Whites and blacks at each other’s throats and continually confused with change, scam us with Federal Reserve FIAT money and get us to fight wars against the Muslims for Israel’s hegemony in the Mideast, while also slowly, steadily, disinherit the White European, Gentile race from our very own lands.
Jewish Pedophile Leo Frank Hanged by White Community
This same stuff is going on in most of the White countries in the West, and is really behind what is called the “New World Order.” Folks, they’ve planned this whole “agenda” from the very beginning. No doubt about it.
If you think it out and connect the dots, you will come to the exact same conclusion that the White race is under attack and has been for a long time.
I implore you new visitors to my site to awaken to the non-stop brainwashing and manipulations by the Jew-controlled media. These devious, globalist mothers want us to hate the Muslims so our soldiers go over there and kill, but at the same time ignore what is being done to our race back home.
It’s time for you to openly, rightfully and forcefully tell all those around you what’s going on here.
1 Million INTERRACIAL Crimes are committed annually and close to 90% are black ON White. That is a war.
CREEPY ASS CRACKERS
The War on Whites – A Creepy Cracker’s Perspective
August 10, 2013
The first shot was fired long ago but the war has really heated up recently. While the implementation of the civil rights act of 1967 may have been well intentioned and it probably served a purpose in helping to correct an unjust system, the pendulum soon began swinging the other way. It quickly became a vehicle for abuse, and that abuse has been built upon, layer by layer ever since.
Racial tensions continue to build. The media is awash with community organizer type blabber mouths, government hacks and outsiders, all with a racist slant. They claim to represent the interests of the poor, beleaguered blacks with attacks on the evil white people, now derisively dubbed as crackers. Some of these attacks come from on air media mouthpieces, some from self declared experts, some from attorneys; others represent activist racial advocacy groups. They offer a similar message; all of the problems of every black person have been in some way caused by a white person either living now or at some time in America’s history. That seems a bit overly broad to me. I’ve been good to all of my slaves.
The intensity and visibility of the barrage oscillates as needed by the radicals, but the march towards preferred citizen status is unwavering.
While the present occupant of the White House cannot be assigned all of the blame for past events he certainly has played the part of role model in his position of highest profile black community activist. He continues to work to divide America by race and social economics. He gives speeches supporting special rights for black Americans and inferring that the system is bigoted and unfair.
We’ve become conditioned to accept racially specific benefit and entitlement groups as legitimate when they favor blacks or Latinos, and to decry similar groups as racist when they favor white Americans. No censorship is needed when whites are called “crackers” but I am required to spell out the equivalent black racial slur.
Charlie Rangel, who is supposedly a representative of white Americans as well, calls us crackers with no repercussions, yet a cooking show host is crucified for the reverse. We are conditioned to think nothing of racial preference groups such as the Congressional Black Caucus, NAACP, United Negro College Fund, Miss Black America, Affirmative Action, the list is virtually endless. Substitute the word white in the appropriate place on any of those or other organizations and you are branded as a KKK throwback. This is the ultimate in double standards, but white Americans prefer to take the easy, less adversarial path of acceptance and tolerance. Ultimately, to do so is foolish. There is no limit to the number of concessions which will be required, no end to the unrest which is generated in order to set the table for the never-ending appeasements.
There are similar groups which strive for Latino preferential treatment. And many of those Latinos represented by those groups are not even U.S. citizens, at least not yet. They are just as adamant and just as determined to garner the sweet deal for their race as are the militant blacks.
Not all of the blacks and Latinos in America subscribe to the tenants of these organizations or lobbyists. Some want simply to have a fair shot and don’t feel compelled to join in the efforts of the race first crowd. It doesn’t matter; they still receive the benefits of their racial collective bargainers.
The important questions to ask are who is behind this and how will they profit by these actions. I believe it is much bigger than simply one race trying to manipulate our system for their advantage. While racial groups are different in characteristics, it is not impossible for us to get along, have friends of other races and enjoy the cultural mixture that is America. Those trying to create dissent don’t want us to get along. They need an agitated, restless citizenry willing to accept the radical change that they are trying to impose by virtue of the relief from chaos it will provide. Most people think that the cold war ended with the fall of the Soviet Union. That probably is not the case.
In 1958, Cleon Skousen wrote The Naked Communist, portions of which were read into the Congressional Record in 1963. It details the plans of the communist party for world domination and the acts and situations which they will facilitate in order to take down America.
I have included five points relevant to this discussion below;
15. Capture one or both of the political parties in the United States.
16. Use technical decisions of the courts to weaken basic American institutions by claiming their activities violate civil rights.
19. Use student riots to foment public protests against programs or organizations which are under Communist attack.
32. Support any socialist movement to give centralized control over any part of the culture–education, social agencies, welfare programs, mental health clinics, etc.
42. Create the impression that violence and insurrection are legitimate aspects of the American tradition; that students and special-interest groups should rise up and use “united force” to solve economic, political or social problems.
So let’s assume for a moment that the former Soviet Union is secretly behind the civil unrest in America. Let’s say that they didn’t suddenly fold up their ideology and fade into the history books in 1991. It’s obvious the communists or fascists have taken over the Democrat party and probably an influential portion of the Republicans. Those two parties have made it very difficult for opposition parties to have any success in fielding candidates. So what do we do? If this is truly what is going on, how do we correct the problem? How does America survive? Racial infighting is a distraction and one of the worst things we could be doing.
What about our press? Why doesn’t anybody raise the issues and ask the questions? Three reasons, two of which are also from The Naked Communist and seem to have been effectively accomplished;
20. Infiltrate the press. Get control of book-review assignments, editorial writing, and policy-making positions.
21. Gain control of key positions in radio, TV, and motion pictures.
They control the press and without a free press, there is little coordination of efforts to expose and take action against what is taking place.
The third reason is that anyone taking such a position will be railed against as a racist by the subversives as well as the media which is controlled by the subversives. This article and myself could well be labeled as racist simply because I dare to ask the question of whether Americans are being manipulated through racial strife, and if so by whom. Freedom in the land of freedom of speech and freedom of the press is in serious jeopardy.
The media labels any non-mainstream, and therefore, uncontrolled investigative journalism as conspiracy theory in order to marginalize and discredit anybody outside of the state-sponsored position. Simply put, if you aren’t controlled by the system, you aren’t credible. If you raise concerns regarding the behavior of the government, they will work to discredit you in any manner possible.
There definitely seems to be a coordinated effort underway to bring strife, division, dissent and ultimately social upheaval to main street America. This effort does not appear to be random, isolated individuals but rather the partial fruition of the warning given back in 1958. If it’s not the relocated communists, then who could it be?
Is Chuckie Cheese a violent place by serving pizza and games to young children, OR is it the black demographic that frequents there, bringing their collective baggage with them?
It is not an exaggeration to say that blacks absolutely ruin white society on every conceivable level.
If there’s a situation that used to be pleasant and innocent, and something which generated great memories for white families and white people to reflect back on later in life… add blacks, and it becomes something to be dreaded and avoided and cautious.
White people have a naturally higher preference for calm and quiet and peaceful environments, gardens and parks and hushed marble halls of libraries, great universities, and awe-inspired reverence for the past achievements of our forefathers. Whether we’re looking up at Mt. Rushmore or in any of our state capitol buildings, or at a memorial in DC… there is a reverence we have.
Those pleasant environments I mentioned, are disrupted and destroyed by blacks being present in them. Whites can’t relax, can’t be themselves if they aren’t with other whites exclusively.
Gun Pulled by Woman at Chuckie Cheese