A train journey through the geopolitics of Al Qaeda.  Or make that liberalism.

I don’t often travel to London these days.  I can’t feel the same for the place as I did in my childhood.  But it happened that last Thursday I was required to catch the 8.20 from Lewes to Victoria.  The previous evening a Portugeuse client had flown in to London to meet with me next day at 10.00am in a Bayswater hotel.  These guys pay the piper.  So a trip to town couldn’t be avoided.

Actually, it was a pleasant enough journey - quiet carriage, no twenty stone slab of lard sitting next to me.  The rush hour was mostly past.  The train didn’t fill until it reached multicultural East Croydon.  It got in to Victoria shortly before 9.30am.

The next two hours of my life were spent going nowhere very fast and being dragged to the inevitable conclusion that my Portugeuse client would have to lunch alone.  I learned from the station tannoy that the Underground was closed due to “incidents”.  Other travellers, no less frustrated than I, had come into possession of the knowledge that somewhere a bus had been bombed.  Then the tannoy confirmed it.  Bus services were also suspended.  Outside the station London’s amazingly ubiquitous black cabs had become as rare as hens’ teeth.  My mobile phone didn’t function.  I assumed that weight of call traffic was the cause (only later did I learn that the system was switched off for fear of remote detonation of terrorist bombs).

It was time to get out of town.

Back in the station more and more outbound trains were logged on the main display board as “Delayed”.  My next train home – the 11.47 - was one of them.  A Brighton-bound train was about to leave.  I ran for it and stepped thankfully into the second carriage from the back.

I took a seat, and the train rolled almost noiselessly out of the station.  Travel in and out of London is a thing of surpassing ordinariness and, although we all knew this could not be an ordinary day in the life of Londoners, nonetheless in that carriage there was an atmosphere of ineffably unremarkable routine.

After a few moments, however, a youngish, scarcely European male walked through from the rear carriageway and stood by the door, next to another male passenger.  Almost immediately the non-Euro struck up a conversation with the other man.  He was talkative, in fact unnervingly effusive.  His eyes were shining with happiness for no reason that I could comprehend.  He accent was French … a French Moslem, a Berber perhaps or a half-Tunisian?  Anyhow, he had a back-pack.

I looked around at my fellow passengers.  They were all engrossed in their own thoughts and conversations.  No one had noticed him.  But I had and I decided to be perfectly mean-spirited and put some distance between me and that pack on his back.

Three or four carriages further on I found a sweetly agreeable “English” environment and took a seat.  Opposite me, divided from me by a white table, was a small, casually dressed man of my age, I would say.  He was speaking on his mobile phone.  I tried mine.  Still dead, mysteriously.  I commented on it, half hoping he might let me use his phone to call home.  He said something I don’t now recall and we started to talk about our frustrated travelling plans.  Like me he had started out from Lewes that morning but got no further than Victoria.  Like me he had grabbed a ride on this train in case it was the only one heading out of Victoria in roughly the right direction.

My companion was plainly an educated man, middle-class, my age and balding like me but possessed of a much more impressive cranium.  I could quite see him delivering excruciatingly dull lectures on psychology at Sussex University.  Certainly they would be dull because he was a tight and cautious little fellow, not at all noisy and expansive as I confess I am sometimes too prone to be.  Still, I didn’t want us to be best buddies.  Our conversation, limping somewhat, moved on to the (largely rumoured) events of the morning.

“This sort of thing,” I said, “certainly concentrates the mind.”  And I told him of the young Arab with a back-pack and my very easily-taken decision to move carriages.”  I expected him to say something like, “Don’t blame you.  I’d have done exactly the same.”  But he didn’t.  “You’ve absolutely no reason to go around being paranoid,” he said baldly.

There was such an unmistakable distance and disdain in his voice, I was slightly taken aback.  It was as though he had discovered dog-shit on his favourite slippers.  He had intended to scold me, and had no compunction in doing so.  Obviously, I had offended against his moral code - probably twice, having not only rejected the Arab on racial grounds but committed the unpardonable crime of inviting his approval of it.  Well, I simply don’t make an obedient moral inferior to leftist academics.  Fuck you pal, I thought.  I know you now.

I said, “If paranoia keeps you alive it seems eminently reasonable to me,”

“What did you say?” he replied, as if no one could possibly defend racism on the grounds of not wishing to be blown up.  I turned my thought-crime into a question.  He did not answer but fished out a substantial paperback from his document case.  It was Donna Tartt’s “The Little Friend”.  Perhaps he imagined he had found himself sitting opposite a real-life racist of the Old South.  What a pity, then, he didn’t extend me the opportunity to fully confirm his suspicions.

I don’t suppose he gave a second thought to his encounter with a low and boorishly unintellectual example of white cultural recidivism.  But I find that little episodes like this are frequently more instructive than great events, even one as great as the London bombings.  I have been thinking on it.

At Gleneagles on the day of the attacks Our Great Leader said:-

It is important, however, that those engaged in terrorism realise that our determination to defend our values and our way of life is greater than their determination to cause death and destruction to innocent people in a desire to impose extremism on the world. Whatever they do, it is our determination that they will never succeed in destroying what we hold dear in this country, and in other civilised nations throughout the world.

It is quite amazing to me how many folk, great and small, leap to the conclusion that “our values and our way of life” and “what we hold dear” are under attack.  I hold my Englishness and my European cultural heritage dear.  So far as I know, Islamic fundamentalism isn’t remotely interested in either.  The fate laid in store by Allah the Great, Allah the Merciful for an irredeemably English infidel like me is one of pain.  It says so in that squiggly writing of theirs.  That is all fundamentalists need to know.

Scarcely more accurate than Blair, last Friday’s Telegraph leader informed us as follows:-

The bombers’ intention is to weaken Western support for moderate Muslim governments in Asia and to radicalise domestic opinion, whether through heightened Islamophobia or drastic curtailment of civil liberties.

It is really very depressing to see presumably intelligent, thoughtful and well-informed people parade such a limited, Euro-centric understanding.  Alright, there is Iraq.  Iraq has changed the language.  Iraq does beg the sort of question that Blair and the Telegraph leader writer attempt to answer.  We are, after all, America’s reliable ally – as was Spain at the time of the Madrid bombings.  And, in fact, not just Spain and Britain but all the twenty-three nations that have helped in the neocon War, reliable or not, have been “punished” in some cruel and disgusting way.  I see how Western journalists and policy-makers might conclude that “it’s all about Iraq” or even “it’s all about us”.  But they are completely, profoundly wrong.

The function of Islamic terrorism is not to attack us per se.  The blood on the tracks is but a vehicle.  The true function of Islamic terrorism is to unite the Ummah, the nation of the believers, behind the drive to purify Islamic lands of all Western influence and of the corruptions of the local ruling elite.

In a curious way that ought to ring a few bells with the right in Western politics since, if it is worthy of its name, it will want the great process of race replacement reversed in the West and the corruption of cultural Marxism expunged.  We ought to be believers in difference and in national sovereignty, others as well as our own.  If Moslem fanatics want to radicalise the Ummah that is their right.  We ought to be unconcerned except to ensure that, firstly, the Ummah does not extend to our lands and, secondly, we can do business with whoever emerges the victor in the oil-producing areas of the Middle East.  Beyond that we have no pressing interest in the matter.  Israel is not a pressing interest.

As it is, the true right is precluded from influence.  In America, a Jewish-globalist movement has seized the Republican helm.  Bush’s criminal, Israel-first plan to implant liberalism in the Islamic world is precisely what Al Qaeda sought from the West when it slammed those aircraft into the twin towers.  The more clumsy and heavy-handed the response the better because the Ummah is watching and will be swift to draw its conclusions.

Britons, especially, should have understood this at once.  For many long, bloody years we grieved the lives lost to Sinn Fein/IRA atrocities.  We buried the dead, repaired and rebuilt the damaged masonry and we wondered how the Catholics of Northern Ireland could lend their support to such base inhumanity.  But they did, that’s the thing.  Sinn Fein/IRA understood and relied upon this all along.  A “spectacular” equated directly to a heightening of support.  The leadership drew its strength and determination to continue “blattering away” at the hated Brits wholly from this.  And today, for all its continuing murderous thuggery and blatant duplicity on arms, it is the main party of opposition in Northern Ireland (or the north of the island of Ireland, as they insist on calling it).  Terrorist violence works, especially in a racially sundered OMOV democracy, because it forces the issue of loyalty.  When put to the test in this way, faith and blood are always stronger loyalties than liberal political inclinations or faux-humanitarianism.  Sinn Fein/IRA proved it.  Al Qaeda is in the process of proving it.

So where does that leave us?  Well, obviously, with a leader and an elite who, even as the bombs explode, espouse a subtle anti-racism (ie, racism against whites) and not so subtly embrace “moderate British Muslims”.  Islam is being commended to us yet again as the religion of peace.  But Islam is, basically, the peoples of Arabia, the Indian sub-continent and North and West Africa at prayer.  It is a cultural artefact of the people who created it and I am unconvinced that they are essentially peaceful.  It is as it is practised, and that is not necessarily as its leading “British” clerics and our own liberal elite would have us believe.  They have their own agenda, after all.  They must defeat Al Qaeda.  For, if they cannot succeed in that Al Qaeda will eventually destroy both their dominions.

So when Blair speaks of “our” precious CP values rather than our blood and our kinship, and the determination not to forfeit “our” way of life rather than the English way of life, he is not being entirely dishonest.  He is talking about the Multi-Cult, protecting the Multi-Cult, keeping us enslaved within the Multi-Cult.  He is exhibiting precisely the defensiveness of my interlocutor on the Brighton train, albeit carefully packaged for public consumption.  Nobody must cognise racial difference nor, of course, a different racial motivation.  That would be paranoid, racist, boorish and all the other sins fingered under those strangely violent emotions liberals suffer when confronted by a white person’s love of kind.

Our train didn’t get to Brighton.  The driver announced that a suspect package had been found at the terminus and we would be held at Hassocks.  Finally, my phone had a connection and I could ring home.  My wife answered and, yes, would drive to Hassocks station right away.

In a last gesture of goodwill I broke the silence and offered my little liberal friend a lift to Lewes.  He declined.  He would wait, he said, until the train arrived in Brighton and then catch another to Lewes from there.  I didn’t try persuasion.  I would like to think he’s still there, a moral suicide bomber targeting the racist English so to as drive them into the arms of the Multi-Cult.

Now, isn’t that a thing?  Of course the liberal would think that Al Qaeda is trying to bomb him into facing Mecca five times a day.  That’s his own methodology with us and the Multi-Cult.

Blair’s right.  It doesn’t work.

Posted by Guessedworker on Monday, July 11, 2005 at 08:41 AM in War on Terror
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