When it comes to black crime, most journalists are professional deceivers similar to the journalists in Jean Raspail’s apocalyptic novel The Camp of the Saints. They do not think. They throb. Steve Chapman of The Chicago Tribune throbs when asked why the newspaper routinely refuses to tell the race of flash mob attackers, whose primary aim is not to rob, which might imply something other than pure sadism, but to harm and intimidate.
The journalists in The Camp similarly do everything to avoid the facts as the terrible flotilla approaches Europe to beseige its native population. From Chapter 17:
And so, into the pressroom of the Élysée Palace, amid five hundred reporters all concerned more with rhetoric than truth, slipped the battering ram’s most recent recruit: the starving passenger of the pathetic fleet. The question was very well put. Not the principle question, to be sure. No frontal attack that might frighten off the faint of heart. But a question that checked the big issues at the door, and subtly aimed at the hidden, the most vulnerable spot: “…may I ask if the government has any plans to ease the plight of these poor, suffering souls? It’s reaching a point where we can’t sit idly by…” True, the West can’t sit idly by anymore. [Transl., Norman Shapiro]
— Comments —
Since you brought up the issue of the black intifada against whites (actually, non-blacks) I thought to share an incident that happened to me but a few days ago.
I’ve already written to you that I was attacked on the subway during the high crime wave of the early 1980s by two “teens” — yes, both black. That’s a story for another time. Suffice it to say I was traumatized for years, even though it wasn’t the worst of subway attacks. I calmed down eventually and with the massive drop in crime rates, I thought I’d put it all behind me.
But recently, reading about these horrible attacks on whites and Asians, I’ve had a few flashbacks. One of the really bad effects of this attack was that I refused to help other whites when I saw that they were being pestered or harassed by blacks. I once witnessed a middle-aged white woman being verbally assaulted by a young black woman and I didn’t help her. If it were now, I’d give the older woman my seat, because I’ve conquered my fear to a degree, and because I reached the moral understanding with MYSELF that I was willing to risk bodily injury if I felt that the situation called for it. But I don’t recommend that course. (I can supply other examples where I was a coward, but not now.)
Something happened the other day that called all of this into focus. I was in the midtown Manhattan library, taking the opportunity to check email on my netbook. The plurality of people using the facilities is unemployed black men, and of them, not a few are downright scary looking. I made my way towards the back of the 4th floor, which is quite large, and usually has open places. Opposite me, was a muscular, black man in his mid-20s, wearing two telling items of clothing: a “wife-beater” shirt, and a do-rag. I glanced at him and went about connecting my laptop to an outlet, which took a bit of doing as the outlet was slightly shaky. I then turned back to my laptop and noticed the black man in the doo-rag and the wife-beater staring at me intently.
Anyone with experience in black street culture is aware of how aggressive it is, and that staring is the beginning of an exchange, which could turn violent at any moment. I believe that the man was telling me that I’d “dissed” him by even so much as looking at him before I hooked up my computer. I ALWAYS give in to these overtures by not engaging. It’s not worth it. I don’t want to be a hero…. But this time, I don’t know why, I didn’t give in. Something about his unbelievable gall — his unmitigated cheek – aroused something correspondingly deep in me. I stared back. He retreated. For the rest of my time in the library, I’d very subtly check, and he stayed huddled behind his computer. I don’t recommend this. I just did it. There are times you cannot back down. I think the body knows when not to give in. I didn’t do this – my body did.