In Zionist Nations, There Is No Freedom !

June 3, 2008


Wherever Zionist Jews go, they terrorize thepeople. In Israel they use their military, In Europe and the West, they use the hijacked politicians and judiciary. They have turned the West Into a 1984 style police state. And have turned many a citizen that believes In free thought Into thought criminals. Now criticize Israel or the “Holocaust” and you may face prison.
I Want My Freedom Back

By Michael  James  in  Germany

6-3-8

Yesterday, I found my way to the Bad Homburg Polizeidirektion (police headquarters)
for what I believed would be a frank exchange of views with a certain Herr Müller, who
had been charged by the Central Council of Jews to read me the riot act and seek a
prosecution (I refer readers to the attached PDF below or included inline). I was a
week late in answering the summons because my post- box in Friedrichsdorf is
something I check irregularly.
In Germany (and five other member states of the European Soviet Socialist Union),
denial of the official “holocaust” ideology is punishable by up to five years in prison.
I have been accused by the Jews of such a crime, and now they are moving to put
me behind bars, empty my bank account and seize my assets.
At eight o’clock in the morning, I did indeed meet police officer Herr Müller, and we
sat together and joked in the foyer prior to his telling me that the case officer
assigned to my file was Frau Müller (no relation), not expected to arrive until later
in the morning. He advised me to go home and phone to arrange an appointment.
I’m just not up to that kind of thing, I told him, I’m here now. I shall either wait or
find a local café and buy myself some French fries and coffee. Herr Müller pointed
the way and apologised for not being able to take me there himself.
I got lost. The outskirts of Bad Homburg are a maze to those who don’t live there,
and I ended up miles from the police station, only to find that it took me almost
90 minutes to return on foot. Frau Müller was diligent in finding me quickly and
she officiously escorted me to the third floor, reminding me that I was a week late.
Herr Müller spied me from behind the coffee machine, grinned and asked me if I
had found the right café without getting lost. I laughed.
So here I was. Frau Müller, an efficient and very attentive lady asked me to make
myself comfortable while she sought my file. She resembled a social worker rather
than an officer of the law. I had the feeling that I was dealing with a computer
programmer with a very strong feminist bent. Although she was pleasant in her
demeanour, Frau Müller never smiled once during the course of what transpired
to be a very gruelling three-hour long interview. I tried. I’ve always been able to
make women laugh. It’s not a sexual thing. It happens naturally, because I
instinctively love women and I enjoy plying them with teasing jokes.
Frau Müller is an excellent police officer. She knows her stuff. She’s not in the
business of connecting with her fellow human beings. Her job is to secure prosecutions,
fines and terms of imprisonment. It took me less than a minute to grasp the fact.
(I longed for Herr Müller to make an appearance, coffee in hand. I had only spoken
to him for a few minutes, and yet I knew he was a regular guy with whom I could
shoot the breeze.)
She checked my passport and freelance journalist press card. She wanted to know
everything about me: my upbringing, formative years, experiences as a schoolboy,
university education, qualifications, former employers, average monthly income,
preference for books, favourite websites, current health status, my fight against the
German, British and Kenyan governments in the 1990s, my family, political views,
philosophical leanings, and my relationship to my former wife. There she is, typing,
recording, multitasking. Superwoman. She covered everything apart from religion
and spiritual beliefs. That did not interest her.
Then came the political questions thick and fast.
“Are you a denier of the holocaust.”
“Define ‘holocaust’,” I asked her.
“What do you mean? You know I’m referring to the Jewish holocaust. You even
mentioned it as an ‘allegation’ in this letter you sent to the Central Council of Jews.”
“In the Hebrew language, if you ever take the time to study the Old Testament, you
will learn that the word ‘holocaust’ is shorthand for ‘a burnt sacrificial offering to
Hashem (the god of the Jews) in return for certain favours.’ It’s neatly defined
as such in the Jewish encyclopaedia.”
“A holocaust is a mass burning?”
“No, it served a ritual purpose, often only involving the death of a teething ram
or a sheep. Modern Jewry no longer practises the ritual of sacrificial ‘holocaust’
offerings, at least not officially.”
Frau Müller was stunned. She had never heard this before. The disbelief in her
eyes was obvious, and yet she was dealing with a man who left school with an
A-plus in Religion, History and English. New territory.
“How do you define ‘holocaust’ in the context of the Third Reich and the
Second World War?” she asked. It was a trick question.
“The meaning of the word ‘holocaust’ does not change according to the Hebrew
scriptures and the Jewish Encyclopaedia. I have already defined it for you.”
I sensed her discomfort and moved to reassure her.
“Fundamentalist Christians also believe that Isaac was destined to be the first
human sacrificial lamb. Regardless, the Old Testament, despite its flaws, clearly
points to Our Lord Jesus Christ as the one who sacrificed his life for the love of
all men and women. The story concerning Isaac, whether true or not, served as
a narrative foreshadowing God’s ultimate love of mankind and the suffering he
was willing to endure to say, ‘Hey, guys, I’m your dad! And I love you.'”
This was well beyond Frau Müller’s understanding. She had stopped typing. My
statement was not included in her final report. Christians are insane, she seemed
to be thinking. There’s a man in my office who’s talking about Jesus. Time to
phone the shrinks, perhaps, and have this lunatic pumped full of Paxil.
“I’m sorry,” I declared. “I know that Jesus is hated in the European Union. I
probably offended you.”
Frau Müller gave me a dark look. This she did not want to hear. I had mentioned
the name of God Almighty, who lived amongst us as a man only to suffer a cruel
and torturous death at the hands of those who called themselves Jews. Frau Müller
shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“So you don’t deny the holocaust?”
“I deny the validity of all books written by men. I deny all officially recorded
history. I deny everything that I did not see with my own eyes as representing
for me a certain formative ‘truth’. The history books are written by those who win
wars and have the money to finance publishing houses. This was told to me by
my history teacher at King Edward VII Grammar School. Mr Hutchins, who was an
extremely competent scholar of history, told me that the so-called Jewish ‘holocaust’
was an ‘open question’. God told me to respect my parents and my teachers, and
I am bound to obey the laws of God, which, at that time, applied all to English
schoolchildren.”
“You cannot deny history! That’s impossible! You have read books! You have
seen films!”
“Frau Müller, I was born in 1959. I have no personal experience of anything
that happened prior to the development of my intellectual faculties. You are a
police officer. Following a crime, you need witnesses. You cannot rely upon unborn
children to be a witness to a crime that allegedly took place decades before they
were born. The judge would laugh you out of court and end your career overnight.
It is forbidden by God to bear false witness. If I testify to things of which I have
no personal experience, then I am bearing false witness, and for that my soul,
and yours, will be damned forever and eternity!”
This statement blew Frau Müller into another dimension. I tried to help her.
“Frau Müller, you approach me in the street and ask me what it’s like to be the
mother of twins. Would that not be a rather strange question to ask a man?”
“You must use your Vorstellungskraft (imagination). You must be able to imagine
what it’s like to be a mother. Plenty of books are available to help men understand
this!”
“But Frau Müller, you are implicitly suggesting that we use our ‘imagination’ in
regard to the scientific discipline of history, and for me, and most of those involved
in the science of data management pertinent to the historical record, that is absolutely unacceptable. History should be about facts and hard evidence, not what we ‘imagine’
to be the truth. Could it not be that a certain group of people have ‘imagined’ history
to be something other than the truth?”
Frau Müller did not answer. She almost smiled wanly. I had floored her with logic and
I felt an immediate sense of regret. I didn’t want to leave her feeling out-smarted,
because that is not my style. I hate those who practise arrogant one-upmanship: the
Satanic elites are dominated by them. However, the best I could do was wish her
farewell. I shook her hand and asked her to take care.
Frau Müller is an extremely intelligent woman who has, I suspect, spent years
dealing with “thought criminals”. There was something about her that I found irresistibly
attractive. Despite her hard- headed approach and failure to laugh at any of my jokes,
I found myself feeling quite fond of her. I offered to take her out for lunch. She refused
point blank. She found me long-winded and too intellectually absorbed and
introspective. I told her I wasn’t interested in anything other than a chat over a
coffee, completely divorced from the things we were discussing. No chance.
She at least gave me the opportunity to review my own statement and make any
changes I thought necessary. I was so tired and incredibly unfocused, I skimmed
through it. She had misunderstood much of what I had said. She reported: “Michael
James holds to the view that the two most important men to exist were the philosophers
Plato and Socrates, both of whom died to save humanity.” I had to correct this by
pointing out that Socrates, not Plato, chose to die in the truth by drinking hemlock
rather than live a life defined by the evil of lies. I also wrote a new and concluding
paragraph:
“Yet none of these men can be compared to the One who died, not only for the Truth,
but for all humanity: all men and all women everywhere. He is with us to this very day,
and his name is Jesus Christ. He is God.”
Frau Müller was not happy. Although I had referred to Jesus at least twenty times
during the course of our interview, she had not included his name in the report once.
This final paragraph was something she did not expect. She was deeply unnerved. I
know I shall hear from her again, and I expect the worst.
It was on my way back to the centre of Bad Homburg, walking along the
Saalburgstrasse in the intense heat of the day, that something awful began to
well up inside of me.
I felt, quite suddenly, as if I had just been hit in the pit of my stomach by a
sledgehammer. My mouth began to fill with saliva, which I desperately tried to
swallow. I spied a telephone box behind which, thankfully, was an empty trashcan.
Nobody was in sight. I simply unloaded most of the contents of my stomach into the
trashcan and felt as if I were about to die. Even during my drinking days, I had
never surrendered so much of my stomach in one single heave. I have never felt
so sick in my life and I doubt I shall ever be affected by such an overwhelming
urge to vomit again.
I made my way along the Urselerstrassse toward the main train station, but continued
to experience the feeling that I may gag at any moment. Then, completely out of the
blue, I was absolutely overwhelmed by an incredible sense of sadness. I did cry, but
nobody saw me. The street was practically deserted and I was wearing sunglasses. I
did not cry for myself or anyone else in particular. These tears came to me as an
expression of something I felt deep down inside of myself that I still cannot fully
explain; but I saw the world anew, and felt like a prisoner trapped in the matrix
of an incredibly evil, indefinable captivity.
A taxi passed by and I picked up, for a very brief spell, a track from Supertramp’s
“Breakfast in America”. It was one of my favourite albums growing up as a youngster
in England. In fact, I lost my innocence in the quadraphonic pitch of “Dreamer”. Her
name was Sarah, and she gave me glandular fever. She was an excellent pianist,
demonstrating her skills just seconds after I had felt the earth move off the Richter
scale and my very being transform itself from boyhood to pseudo manhood. She
looked across at me and laughed. This was nothing new for her, but there I lay in
Seventh Heaven. Supertramp, Sarah, pianos, strawberry wine and the faint aroma
of a late English summer evening.
For the first time in the 16 years I have lived in Germany, I suddenly felt awfully
homesick. I know that those times have passed and will never return. But a wave
of nostalgia washed over me. Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull, Pink Floyd, Mike Oldfield,
Gallagher and Lyle, Genesis, Uriah Heep. We were the generation sandwiched between
the hippies (whom we detested) and the punks (whom we distrusted). Those were the
days I went motorbike racing on an uninsured BSA 250 without a crash helmet. I used
to burn up the country lane between Lytham St. Annes and Wrea Green, playing cat
and mouse with the police who would tag me on their much more powerful Hondas. I
was caught only once and the police officer, having given me a very stern lecture
about riding without adequate protection, let me ride pillion on his bike all the way to
the nearest tavern, whereupon he declared himself “off duty” and allowed me to buy
him a beer.
That was England in the 1970s. We were free. I truly mean this. Regardless of
the loathsome class system, Englishmen enjoyed a quality of physical, spiritual
and intellectual freedom that may never be repeated in our time. We were free to
ask troublesome questions. If you disagreed with what was written in the history
books, no policeman would arrive on your doorstep and take you in for questioning.
Despite stagnation, a disastrous Labour government, water shortages, panic buying,
pubs that closed early because they had run out of ale, parents who (in our eyes)
transformed themselves from potato-gardening dullards into fascinating figures of
fun following our intake of three of four crafty tokes of Mary Jane, the addictive
fascination of the Twilight Zone enjoyed with friends in an attic strewn with banana
skins and Rizla papers, we were all self-elected rebels without any cause to complain.
I argued respectfully and coherently with my teachers. I laughed at jokes directed at
the Jews, the Scots, the Irish and the French, yet I was never arrested for a “hate
crime”. We ate high cholesterol fatty foods and remained as skinny as rakes. We
got drunk on home-brewed wine and beer, rolled our own cigarettes and worked with
strategic military precision to date the girls with whom we fell in love. It took weeks
of incessant charm, the dispatch of flowers and endless evenings of sweet nothings
running up massive telephone bills (thanks, dad) to get the girl. It was not about
sex, but romantic love: French-kissing in the long grass, staring into each other’s
eyes until the sun disappeared into the Irish Sea. It was, for me, a time of magic and
endless possibilities.
The England I loved no longer exists. The Germany I embraced in 1992 is now nothing
more than a parody of a petty, backbiting police state: a Zionist banana republic of
Christ-hating hypocrisy, fear, repression and growing poverty and hunger.
We Europeans have lost the plot. The show is almost over.
Yesterday I cried because I remembered what it is like to be free. I want my freedom
back. I want my freedom so badly, it is hurting me deep inside and I cannot stem
the tears.
————–
Michael James, an Englishman, is a former freelance journalist resident in Germany
since 1992 with additional long-haul stays in East Africa, Poland and Switzerland.

http://www.rense.com/general82/want.htm
Advertisements

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: