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  • Writer's pictureNikko Norte

Who doesn’t read …

Through the steam from a mug of coffee I hold with both hands, my elbows on my desk, I stare at a framed poster of Lieutenant Blueberry on a brick wall in the basement of our home in England. Dense fog when I strolled the fields around our village with Moos the German shepherd an hour ago. Too early for a pub to be open for a coffee near the fire in the hearth, and with some melancholy, I thought of the years that my house was an army tent among ancient olive trees in the mountains of Andalusia, in Spain. Many an early morning, I strolled fields and orchards to end up in a venta in a nearby village, writing my diary under dried hams that hang from the ceiling, carteles that announced corridas on the walls, ordering my first americano of the day, which went over the counter for 80 pesetas, a counter at which farmers and construction workers drank their cafe solo and Anis del Mono and loudly discussed politics.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with England, and I’m glad Heidi and I ended up here after we fled the compulsory covid vaccination in Austria, where we, though being Dutch, still lived at the start of this year, but I eh... I’m afraid we’ll be heading yonder after Christmas. I mean, a nation that accepts that men who insist on using ladies’ rooms threaten women who regard ladies’ rooms the exclusive domain of women and that accepts that women are being arrested when they publicly declare to regard ladies’ rooms the exclusive domain of women is not a nation with enough cohones to successfully stand up against what our democracies are truly subjected to these days, and … Blueberry on his horse in the Arizona desert. Too often of late, I realize, I brood over a life in the desert around Tabernas, back in Andalusia. More than 35 percent excess mortality in Spain. Would that be enough to shake people out of the psychosis they live in for almost three years now? Spexit! Far-fetched, I know, but separatism is about the only weapon we have left to prevent ourselves from suffering under the yoke of a globally operating, totalitarian regime one day soon, although a separation turns into joke when after that separation a WEF vassal gets to hold sway over a country, as is currently the case in the United Kingdom.

In Little Hollywood, near Tabernas, there are plenty of opportunities for Heidi to be busy with horses, and I myself don’t dislike the desert, I hear myself think as my mind wanders to the phone call from a friend I received those days I still lived in my army tent. My friend had discovered to no longer be welcome to the United States, which was a pain because his wife and child lived in Miami. My friend had asked me to meet him in Monterrey, in Mexico, after I had driven there from the States. That afternoon, an Iberia airliner carried me from Madrid to Dallas, in Texas.

Two checkpoints we had to pass, my friend explained as we sipped coffee in a café in Monterrey. The first was right on the border, the second about twenty miles inland. Just after sunset, we would sneak past the first checkpoint together. On American soil, we would look for a recognizable spot along the road. My friend would hide there while I crossed the border back into Mexico to pick up the Avis rental in which I had driven from Dallas to Monterrey. After having entered America legally, I would pick up my friend, and he would get out of the car just before the second checkpoint. He would sneak past that checkpoint alone; I would drive through it, passport in hand. About a kilometer up the road from that second checkpoint, my friend would become my passenger again. No what-if scenarios, no plan B. Brilliant.

Apart from wading a river, the execution of plan A involved a new moon, cacti, and rattlesnakes. We saw none of the last three, which made sense with regard to the moon, was painful with regard to the cacti, and was frightening with regard to the rattlesnakes. When the sun came up the next morning, like two teenagers having pulled a mischievous stunt, we had breakfast in a diner some hundred miles from Houston, another three days to go to Miami. And pondering on the criminal extend of my role in that border crossing, my thoughts drift to a journalist who once interviewed me in my army tent among ancient olive trees in the epoch that mainstream media were not an outlet for state propaganda and were still open to dissent, regardless the subject. That journalist and I kept in touch after the interview, and one evening in a restaurant in Amsterdam – I was in the Netherlands for a few days – he remarked that a friend is the person he would call if he would be allowed one phone call after unexpectedly and innocently having been arrested in some obscure country. Should the occasion arise, he added, he would call me. Flattered, I realized that by his definition, I had quite a few friends already …

Is it the coffee I drink, or is it that adventure in the Texas desert I think about? More likely, it’s just today, November 23, 2022, that makes me feel tense. Today, a court in The Hague rules in the case against the Dutch government brought to court by Liesbeth Zegveld, a Dutch lawyer, on behalf of an Afghan family. A relatively simple case. In 2007, the Dutch armed forces bombed a densely populated valley in Afghanistan. Aerial bombs, howitzer grenades, and mortars found their way to unknown targets on a night as moonless as it was when I once sneaked past a border checkpoint near Nuevo Laredo. Seven bombs hit the house of the family that, for that reason, sued the Dutch government.

A part of my book Unpredictable Past relates my encounters with the people living in the valley that was in 2007 the target of such an insane Dutch bombardment that the Dutch would be wise to exercise some restraint when making statements about the current actions of the Russian army in Ukraine. A journalist from a Dutch newspaper put lawyer Liesbeth Zegveld and me in touch, and for months, we labored on preparing the case that we brought to court in March 2021. Last October, we again reported in court. Verdict today.

It’s 07.15 hours in the morning. On one of the screens on my desk, I have opened the last proof of The Caveman Code, my book on health, due to be published in two weeks’ time. The publisher was clear in the email he sent me yesterday: last proof, manuscript goes to print tomorrow afternoon! Man, I have to concentrate on that proof, but instead, I stare at Lieutenant Blueberry, and knowing that the sun will by now be burning through the fog in the fields, I feel like I felt those long six years at primary school, staring at a poster of the behouden huys on the isle of Nova Zembla – a historical event that likely only the Dutch know about.

What a disappointment, primary school. I didn’t learn a thing I didn’t already know or couldn’t read and remember in a fraction of the time spent on it at school. Teachers wholesaled easily refutable certainties, and certainties, easily refutable or not, disquieted me even then. I had more affinity with doubt, but when I tried to bring any doubt to bear, teachers cut me short with quite some verbal, oftentimes physical violence. And that, at least in my perception, was weird because those same teachers went to lengths to point out to my classmates and me that freedom of speech is the showpiece of that most beautiful democracy in which we happily lived.

But it was a fine piece of indoctrination for which my yesteryear teachers were responsible, and it could easily have been that one sad day in 2032, I had woken up a slave of a social credit system. It is only because the people behind the implementation of that system are trying to take advantage of the leak of covid-19 from a gain-of-function laboratory in China – hard to keep doubting that – and now try to accelerate that implementation. Should those people have stuck to their original agenda, I would have been sufficiently indoctrinated to have kept a minimum of faith in our democratic governments – David Icke’s warnings despite. Unsuspectingly, I would have been sucked into that social credit system, and … today’s first ambulance siren. My pondering brusquely ruptured, I open my email as the thought assails me that England would have been in deep mourning if only twenty percent of the excess deaths this week had been the result of a fire in an apartment building. The BBC’s account of the visit of King WEF the first to the scene of the disaster, his head bowed …

Subscribers to my blogs have been emailing me for a few days now about an article in The Atlantic, an American magazine. In that article, its author calls for an amnesty for the people who raged against those unwilling to participate in a vaccination experiment that would stop the spread of covid and would prevent hospital overloads as well as stress among funeral directors. Vaccinated people, the writer argues, didn’t know any better, which justifies their rage against unvaccinated people. Not a strong argument, if my opinion counts, and once again, I realize that it’s true that people who don’t read have no advantage over people who can’t read. Still, I don’t feel like putting dog poop wrapped in burning newspapers on the doorstep of vaccinated people as I did, so long ago, on the doorstep of those teachers who systematically restricted my freedom of speech. Vaccinated people have shot themselves in the foot — no more doubt on that front — shortsightedly acting upon easily refutable certainties, and I happily leave it at that. What I do doubt, however, is whether we have learned anything those past two years. Maybe, the word antivaxxer no longer has the connotation it had for two years, but although nothing of what I lately stated in my blogs ever backfired, I have been promoted from conspiracy theorist to conspiracy terrorist. In addition, I am a denier of climate change because I attach more value to doubt and science than to smooth talk that is to disguise a pursuit of profit, I am a Putin lover because I know the history of Ukraine, have been in contact with people in Ukraine for years on end, and therefore do not succumb to the easily refutable certainty that Putin is evil and responsible for all misery most of our democracies are subjected to today, and … oh man.

I open a folder on a screen in front of me, find a blog I published a year ago, and read the paragraph that resulted in a flood of emails containing the words conspiracy theorist.

Unsafe, negatively effective vaccines against covid, fiat money and hyperinflation, small and medium-sized businesses that can no longer repay government aid given to them during the so-called covid crisis, refugees, prices of consumer goods and energy that are skyrocketing, scarcity, and rising interest rates. Orchestrated chaos. But fear not. While the mainstream media keep our attention focused on what is our attention unworthy, a new world order is being shaped, and on the day that orchestrated chaos reaches an all-time low, the politicians who collaborate with the oligarchs behind the revolution that’s taking place will take us by the hand to guide us via digital, biometric passports and digital money into that new world order. We will own nothing but will not necessarily be happy because the first condition to validate our digital passport – more conditions will follow – is that we at least yearly take a jab of mRNA without our informed consent, with which a social credit system has effectively been introduced. And digital money? Super convenient, but it is good to realize that computers determine where, on what, and when we spend our digital money …

Most of my vaccinated friends and acquaintances embrace the certainty that cash payments are the solution in case I am proven right and CBDC will one day soon enslave humanity. But, they usually add, if the introduction of CBDC endangers our happy lives, our democracies will block that introduction, and I understand why the name Bonhoeffer comes to my mind.

A German who, some ninety years ago, stood where many unvaccinated people stand today. Gegen die Dummheit sind wir wehrlos. That was Bonhoeffer, and my mind wanders to an Italian, Ci… Cipote, something like that, who wrote that there are far more stupid people than non-stupid people think there are. The stupidity of stupid people is not linked to other character traits, so we find stupid people in all layers of society. Stupid people harm third parties and themselves without benefiting from the harm they do, and the extent of that harm is usually underestimated by non-stupid people. According to Bonhoeffer, stupidity is more dangerous than evil, and eh... I agree. It was not Hitler’s evil that turned the world to ashes; it was, as it is today, the stupidity of people who refuse to see beyond their noses, who shout ich habe es nicht gewusst when the tide turns against them, and who … ‘You’ve left your phone on airplane mode,’ Heidi calls from the living room. ‘I don’t think Liesbeth is happy with you.’

Two steps at a time, I run up the spiral staircase, hitting my head against the ancient lintel above the cellar door. Three missed calls from Liesbeth Zegveld on my phone, one message: pick up your phone! Nervously, I tap the horn icon above her message. The phone rings four times, five times. ‘We’ve won!’ sounds Liesbeth’s voice. I want to say a thousand things, but my voice refuses duty like it did when I was given the floor in court in The Hague in 2021. I fight to suppress my tears and gratefully realize there are three judges in The Hague who do read …


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