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  • Writer's pictureNikko Norte

Do we see sharper through our tears?

A quarter past four. The rising sun announces a beautiful day. Rolling cornfields as far as I can see. Wooden poles with electric wires lining the narrow road I drive on, white road signs with black lettering at intersections and junctions. Wonderful details for an immigrant. The sleeping villages I pass through. Half-timbered houses with thatched roofs. Pubs with names like Dog & Duck and George & Dragon. Having fled the vaccine mandates in Austria a few months ago, Heidi and I ended up in this part of England, where time seems to have come to a standstill in the 1960s or thereabouts, which eh… which feels rather good, and … a siren. Flashing lights behind me. As close as I dare, I steer past the hedgerow to my left. An ambulance speeds past.


Three letters we found on our doormat yesterday. The first letter Heidi opened taught us that my visa is waiting to be collected in London. Not my merit. Call the toll free number when you are from Ukraine. When you are not from Ukraine, keep your credit card ready, on the website of the British government, was where I threw in the towel. Heidi then immersed herself in that visa application. The other two letters, one addressed to Heidi, one to me, taught us that the National Health Service urges us to visit a GP soonest in order to get vaccinated against covid …


July 2022. Data from the British government itself leave no doubt that covid variant omicron is an almost exclusive affair for people vaccinated against covid. Not only are those people at greater risk of getting infected with omicron, of ending up in a hospital because of it, and of dying of it, but according to a study recently published in the New England Journal of Medicine and ignored by the mainstream media, vaccinated people, compared to unvaccinated people, are also more contagious after being infected with omicron, their contagiousness lasting longer.


Whoever doubts the effectiveness and safety of the vaccines against covid denies science. No study or data to support that allegation and dozens of studies, published in medical journals, ignored by the mainstream media, that should have halted the covid vaccination program, but … man, that ambulance siren keeps echoing in my head, and maybe I understand why. No sound of traffic in the house in a small village Heidi and I recently moved into, which is why the sound of ambulance sirens startles us time and again. One ambulance every hour at least. Nights are quiet; come dawn, the sirens are on.


Two days ago, a paramedic leaned against his ambulance in the center of the village. Mid-thirties, sportive, and a crew cut, like me, his colleague probably in the Kings Arms for some coffees to go. I brought my Cannondale to an abrupt halt in front of him, he looked at me in surprise, and I asked him, ‘Helmand?’

‘How’d you know?’

‘Tattoo on your right calf reads Mar Karadad. That puts you in Musa Qala in December 2007.’ He looked at his legs, shook his head, and said, ‘I’m wearing … bugger! I know you from the gym. You been over?’

‘Uruzgan.’

‘The lucky Dutch …’

‘Cowardly Dutch, I’d say.’

‘You were one of them ...’

‘True. End of 2007, for weeks on end and for no reason, we shelled LNs in Deh Rawod with mortars and 500-pounders. A lot of them fled to Musa Qala, contributed to your problems there.’

‘I remember that. Just after Musa Qala, you came out of your compounds for the first time, killed each other.’

‘We did. But eh… what’s up here? Dawn till dusk, sirens blazing. That normal?’

‘Is the next pandemic.’

‘Next pandemic?’

‘Is ABV.’

‘ABV?’

‘Anything But the Vaccine. Is worse than covid …’


Driving out of a village, I come upon the ambulance that just passed me, now halted in front of a stationary car, its siren silent. A woman walks up and down the road, a cell phone to her ear, despair in her posture, two paramedics busy with a lifeless man behind the wheel of the stationary car. As I slowly pass the scene, I remember driving into a similar scene in Cambridge last week. Just as I got out of my car to make myself useful, an ambulance arrived. Without ado, paramedics shoved me aside.


Anything But the Vaccine? Sudden Adult Death Syndrome? Rising pregnancy losses? Is it related to a previous covid infection, to the stress Western governments recently and unnecessarily imposed on us, to the amount of pizza we eat and our lack of exercise in the fresh air, or do our vegetarian and vegan diets take their toll sooner than expected? One possible causal relationship cannot be discussed. A pity, for it’s the one possible causation easily ruled out by checking the vaccination status of the victims of ABV and SADS and that of women whose pregnancy come to a sad end, three phenomena that are now causing more misery in the Western world than covid did and does, especially since more and more studies show that covid claimed far less victims than our governments make us believe, and ... I brake, reverse, and turn into an unpaved road. The morning sun on my face, I take the kettle from our gas burner and pour boiling water into the filter on the rim of our Stanley thermos. Surrounded by red poppy flowers, I sit on the elevated shoulder of a unpaved road that meanders through freshly mowed fields, James Holland’s last book next to me in the grass. For some days now, I travel with the Nottinghamshire Sherman Rangers Yeomanry from El Alamein, in Egypt, via a short period of rest in England and an amphibious landing on the Normandy invasion beach Gold, to Bremen, in Germany. Young English boys living and dying in their Sherman tanks. Last night, March 4, 1945, we settled in Issum, just across the Dutch-German border.


Sipping coffee, I read until Henry Hutchinson climbs out of his Sherman tank and steps on a mine. A tear lands on page 475 of Holland’s book, and before my emotions cast a shadow over this beautiful day, I gather my coffee tools, stash them in the car, and take my Cannondale out of it. Not before nine o’clock will I be able to collect my visa in London. Ample time for some exercise in the fresh air. I click the car closed, put the key in the exhaust, cycle into the sun, and ignore the pain in my groin.


Since I realized that it’s likely my psoas muscle causing the pain in my groin, that pain is waning. A visit to a doctor would have been an option, but whoever is not her or his own doctor is a fool, according to Hippocrates, whose oath too many doctors have lately renounced, which makes me think of doctors in Canada, who seem to succumb to SADS in cohorts of late. Entrusting the first name on the list of suddenly deceased Canadian doctors to a search engine – whoever is not her or his own journalist these days is a fool also – the search engine came back – oh, black swan – with a young, suddenly deceased, Icelandic musician with the same name as the good doctor I searched for, who, I learned an instant later, had suddenly died indeed. Twice as many doctors have this year suddenly died in Canada than they did prior to 2021, and the average age of death of Canadian doctors is plummeting …


My groin warmed up, I enjoy my surroundings, and to make the image fade of Reverend (Capt.) Leslie Skinner, him digging graves next to burned-out Sherman tanks at the crossroads I pass, I uncharacteristically think of how I’ll spent the rest of this day. After picking up my visa in London, I’ll journey to the school where I once took my first flight lessons, and with some luck, I’ll fly a small aircraft back and forth to the Isle of Wight for a lunch of crab and asparagus, sea view and all.


Being a child, I never dreamed of being a pilot. I dreamed of being a tramp, wandering from adventure to adventure, enjoying sunrises, birdsong, sunsets, and the howling of wolves at night, something like that. My dream came true – minus the wolves – and I decided long ago I would be a more effective tramp if I could fly. I would start flying flexwing ultralights, mainly because I convinced myself that learning to fly those machines would be an autodidactic feat. Only after having become proficient on flexwings, would I look for a flight school to learn to fly real aircraft.


Flexwings were not for sale in the Netherlands, where I was born and raised and lived back then, but I found one in France. A go-kart with three wheels. A propeller on the back, a triangular wing on top of it. Rickety machine, perfect for training purposes. I drove to France with a friend, and something came loose from the trailer we towed. After I had paid for my flexwing, next to an abandoned hangar on an abandoned grass strip, and after my friend and the previous owner had headed for a repair shop in search for a welder able to fix our trailer, I took the flexwing’s seat. I started its engine by pulling a cord hanging down from the frame, as the previous owner had demonstrated, revved the engine by pushing a lever, and moved forward. Steering I accomplished by pushing the front wheel sideways with my feet, and proudly, I taxied up and down the grass strip. Then, I was flying. Pulling in the bar connected to the wing kept my ascend at bay. Moving that bar sideways made my flying machine turn the opposite direction. Brilliant! My flying machine, however, did not survive the landing that followed my observation that the amount of petrol in the transparent jerry can above my head rapidly dwindled. To become a proficient pilot on either real aircraft or flexwing ultralights, I decided, upside down in a ditch, flight lessons were crucial, and I found a school in the UK.


Up hill, down hill. Fresh summer air in my face. No traffic and no idea where exactly I cycle. Goldfinches accompany me, flying from branch to branch in the few trees aligning the road. Man, I feel alive, and … my heart skips a beat. A huge dead deer stares at me from the side of the road, and in my mind’s eye, I see the lifeless body of a woman Moos our German shepherd drew my attention to a few days ago. Amid poison ivy, she lay on her stomach at the foot of the village rampart on which our house in 1960s England has been built some two hundred years ago.


Before Heidi could see what I saw, I grabbed her by the shoulders, turned her around, and sent her after the woman who just walked toward and past us, engrossed in the screen of a cell phone. ‘Make her dial the emergency number. May not be 911 in England. Ambulance. Now.’ Heidi sprinted away, and sick to my stomach, I clambered down the rampart.


Slim. Sandal-like hiking shoes over greyish socks. Green, short floral dress. Curly, medium length, graying hair, loose. One arm moved. Not dead.

‘I’m here to help you. Do you hear me?’

A moan.

‘What’s your name? Could you tell me what happened?’

‘I’m Joë,’ from under the bush of hair, Joë’s face still toward the ground, her head motionless, ‘but my real name is Josephine. My mother was Australian.’ Nonsensical information, my relief massive.

‘Are you in pain, Joë?’ scratches and tiny, lightly bleeding wounds on her hands and forearms.

‘No, but I’m dizzy.’

‘Okay, Joë, don’t move. I’ll help you. Give me twenty seconds,’ and I climbed up to where Moos divided her attention between Joë and me and Heidi, who, as luck would have it, looked in my direction. I crossed my forearms, waited for a confirmation, and again clambered down the rampart to Joë, who, when I helped her to her feet, turned out to be petite and sportive looking. I estimated her slightly older than I am.

‘Please hold my arm, Joë, let’s take some steps.’

‘You’re kind. I’m all right. I’m seventy-five.’ Oops. ‘I walk every day, but sometimes I get dizzy. Could you call my husband? His name is Neil Young, like the singer, but he is more handsome.’


Her movements uncoordinated, Joë took her cell phone from her bag, which I’d picked up. But Joë, in her fall, had lost her glasses, and I’m helpless when it comes to cell phones. Heidi found Joë’s glasses, I spoke to Neil Young, and ten minutes later a stout man trotted toward us through the long since dried out moat we were standing in. He thanked us and added, ‘Joë makes a habit of falling since she took the jab.’

‘And you didn’t?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m only seventy-eight. Still teach them youngsters at the boxing gym. Whole country is out for the count because of those jabs …’


Up hill, down hill. A black squirrel hops toward me. With only a meter separating us, the animal alters course and heads for the shrubs that here border the road, and ... blackberries. I brake, put down my Cannondale, and pick and eat the blackest blackberries, thinking again of the Sherman Rangers I left behind in Dixperlo, in the Netherlands. When their war ended, on May 8, 1945, a small group of people continued to dream of a Thousand Year Reich …

Whatever recently happened to us and will happen to us in the nearby future is orchestrated, and whoever insists that the great reset is a conspiracy theory is terminally short-sighted. The West is deliberately being reduced to ashes, in order for it to one day soon, out for the count, its peoples sobbing with gratitude, embrace that great reset. After an agreement has been reached between Ukraine and Russia, Ukraine will be the first country to be organized according to the constitutional insights of the small group of people still dreaming of a Thousand Year Reich. One by one, other countries will be forced to submit to those constitutional insights, say, to slavery.


No American, British, or Canadian army will come to the rescue this time. Ranks have been depleted by ABV and SADS, and most equipment has been left behind in Afghanistan or is, right now, being shipped to Ukraine. Yet, the West still has a chance to cleanse its schwabinets of politicians crying wef, to abolish clubs like the EU, and to rebuild and reorganize individual countries as has been done after 1945. But the window of opportunity to just build back narrows. Picking a last blackberry, I think of Hippocrates. Whenever a doctor cannot do good, he must be kept from doing harm. The same goes, I’m afraid, for journalists and politicians …

 

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in the name of Nikko Norte

 

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