#still better than pol pot I imagine

[beardedmrbean]

Cambodia's government has increasingly been accused of targeting local and foreign journalists reporting on sensitive issues, raising the question of whether reporting in the Southeast Asian country is becoming riskier than ever.

In one of the most recent incidents, UK journalist Gerald Flynn was denied reentry into Cambodia at Siem Reap International Airport last month following a short vacation in neighboring Thailand.

Flynn said Cambodian immigration officials informed him that his visa was fake and that he was "permanently banned" from returning to Cambodia. He was then forced to board a flight back to Thailand.

Flynn, a staff writer at Mongabay, a US-based conservation news website, had recently contributed to a documentary from a French media outlet about Cambodia's environmental challenges — findings that the Cambodian government labeled as "fake news."

The dangers of reporting in Cambodia

Nathan Paul Southern, a journalist and operations director at the Eyewitness Project, an investigative journalism organization, has reported regularly in Cambodia in recent years. He warns that any reporting that embarrasses the state is dangerous.

"Inside Cambodia, pretty much everyone is self-censoring, quitting the profession or running away. Reporting on environmental issues is especially dangerous, but covering other crises that embarrass the government [is] getting people killed or arrested, too," he told DW. 

In December, Cambodian environmental journalist Chhoeung Chheng was shot while investigating illegal deforestation in the Siem Reap province. He later died from his wounds. Authorities claimed they had caught the shooter and the incident was a personal dispute.

Chhoeung's death echoes a similar case from a decade earlier when journalist Tiang Try was shot and killed while investigating illegal logging in Cambodia.

Cambodian authorities have also been accused of cracking down on environmental activists' advocacy with lengthy prison sentences.

In July 2024, 10 members of the activist group Mother Nature were sentenced to between six and eight years in prison for conspiring against the Cambodian state.

They had been investigating waste pollution in Phnom Penh's Tonle Sap River and had long campaigned against environmental destruction throughout Cambodia, alleging links to corruption.

"The Cambodian government has become increasingly aggressive towards any form of criticism, however mild, and for many people this leads to life-threatening or life-altering outcomes, whether they are brave and committed journalists like Gerry or just ordinary people posting concerns on Facebook," Southern said.

"Cambodian journalists, activists and NGO workers who can't choose to leave the country are bravely taking the biggest risks and getting the least amount of international support and attention."

Imprisoning journalists

In November, Mech Dara, a well-known Cambodian journalist, announced he was quitting the profession two months after being arrested and convicted for incitement following the publication of reports exposing online scams and corruption. Dara spent over 30 days in pre-trial detention and still faces up to two years in prison for the alleged offenses.

His charges are similar to those of Cambodian journalist Sok Oudom, who was sentenced to 20 months in prison for broadcasting false news with intent to cause incitement in 2020.

Since 2017, several Cambodian outlets have had their media licenses revoked, including the Voice of Democracy (VOD), one of Cambodia's last independent media outlets. 

As a result, more Cambodians are turning to social media for news. However, even posting on social media can be risky for journalists. 

In 2021, Khou Piseth was charged with incitement for criticizing officials on Facebook over COVID-19 measures, according to news reports. The same year, Youn Chhiv, who ran the Koh Kong Hot News website, was sentenced to a year in prison after he "posted comments to cause confusion" on Facebook, said Vey Phearom, deputy prosecutor at the provincial court in Koh Kong.

'Attack on journalism'

The Cambodian Journalist Alliance (CamboJA), a politically neutral, membership-based association of journalists, has recorded at least 14 cases of reporters being legally or physically targeted between July and September 2024.  

Nop Vy, CamboJA's executive director, said the Cambodian government is becoming intolerant of investigative journalism.

"We [have] found that [Cambodia's] criminal code has been [used] against journalists rather than [the] civil code or press law, which is creating [a] scarring environment for the press," he told DW via email.

"The Cambodian government's decision to deny British journalist Gerald Flynn reentry to Cambodia and ban him from the country is a blatant attack on journalism and serves as yet another example of the Cambodian authorities' intolerance of critical and investigative journalism."

In response to concerns about press freedom, Cambodia's Ministry of Information has emphasized its commitment to protecting journalists and ensuring a free press.

In a statement on the state of the media in Cambodia in 2024 reported by The Phnom Penh Post, a ministry spokesman pledged to continue creating a safe working environment for journalists in Cambodia, supporting their professional development, and upholding press freedom.

"We urge all journalists to work with honesty, integrity and impartiality, maintaining dignity and discipline while upholding public interest, adhering to ethical standards and respecting journalistic principles to enhance the value and quality of journalism and the sustainability of the media sector in Cambodia," the statement said.

A powerful ruling 'dynasty'

The Cambodian People's Party (CPP) has ruled the country since 1979.

Many critics call Cambodia's leaders the "Hun Dynasty." Former Prime Minister Hun Sen led Cambodia for nearly four decades before handing power to his son, current Prime Minister Hun Manet, in 2023.

Under their rule, the government has tightened its grip on power — banning political opponents, targeting independent media outlets, and cracking down on critics and dissidents at home and overseas.

Aleksandra Beilakowska, advocacy manager for Reporters Without Borders (RSF), warns that Cambodia is suppressing independent media to control public opinion and further consolidate its power.

"By repressing reporters, the Cambodian government is sending a chilling message and threatens those who are still trying to hold those in power accountable," she said.

Cambodia sits at 151st place in the latest RSF World Press Freedom Index rankings out of 180 countries and territories, having fallen nine places in the past two years. 

[fandom-puff]

hi i have a request! imagine for tommy he picked you up at the bar so he doesn’t know you very well but you guys ~do the nasty~ and later he overhears from your one friend telling lizzie that you faked your orgasm and he hunts you down determined to make you cum for real

HI! thanks so much for this request- I adored writing it!

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: SMUTSMUTSMUTSMUT also swearing bc... peaky blinders?

It was the grand opening of the Shelbys’ new bar, and naturally, almost all of Small Heath was crammed into the main room. The whiskey and gin (from Shelby Company Limited, of course) was flowing, and the Swing Band was playing loudly, much to the joy of the inebriated men and women dancing. You hummed to yourself, touching up your lipstick before calling for another round for you and your girlfriends, Ada and Lizzie. “You want another drink, Linda? Maybe just stout?” you asked, getting your coin purse out. 

“Don’t bother yourself. I won’t succumb to that temptation. Just tonic water for me,” you rolled your eyes and soon received your drinks. “So you won’t touch gin, but you’ll happily play in the snow, eh?” Ada smirked, winking at you as she sipped her drink. You spluttered into your own. 

“Come on, ladies,” you said, sensing the tension growing between sisters-in-law. “Let’s dance before the band starts playing that American rubbish,” 

Together, you joined in with the dancing, giggling and cheering each other on. “C’mon Lizzie! Spin me around! I wanna be twirled,” you squealed, and the taller woman happily complied. You were new to the company, and she wanted to make you feel welcome before the boys scared you off. Soon you left the dancefloor, leaving the girls, to get another drink. You arrived at the bar, giggling and breathless, and ordered your favourite drink.

 “Miss YLN,” a low voice rumbled next to you as the bartender poured your drink. “I don’t believe we’ve properly met. Been keeping the books, eh? My brother John says you’ve very neat handwriting, and hardly cross any number out,” You nodded as your eyes met Thomas Shelby’s.

 “Oh… yes, Mr Shelby,” you murmured. “I try to make them neat so you lot don’t get muddled up,” you said. He nodded. The bartender put your drink in front of you and you reached for your purse. Tommy stopped you and gestured to the bartender that your drink ought to be on the house. 

He soon took you into the side room, kicking Finn and Isiah out. “My secretary, Lizzie, recommended you to me,” he said as you perched opposite him. He lit a cigarette, rubbing it along his lip before taking a drag. “And I’ve been trying to figure you out. Couldn’t find anything,”

“I didn’t grow up ‘round here. When my mum died I took her maiden name. Most of her lot were killed. The Somme, I think,”

“And your dad?” he asked, watching you as you drank.

 “The bastard died in France too, as far as I know. But I left home after Mum died. That was before the war,” 

An hour later, you were still talking, although the pair of you had drained a bottle of whiskey. You were giggly and warm when drunk, but Tommy only closed in more. This didn’t bother you in the slightest. You leaned forward and smirked. “So, Mr Shelby, do I meet your approval, eh?”You were so close to him, and your pupils were dilated with what could only be described as a mixture of inebriation and desire. 

“Yes. Yes, you do. C’mere,” he grunted, dragging you into his lap. He pressed his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, his hand already running up your thigh. You groaned and wriggled, sucking his lip into your mouth, grinding your heat onto his tenting trousers. He growled, unbuckling his belt and shoving his trousers down, and tearing your knickers down. He stood up, bending you over the table, before rutting into you animalistically. You whimpered, crying out, pushing back into him. His thrusts soon became sloppy, and you reached to stroke your pulsing clit- but he grabbed your hand as soon as he saw you moving, pinning you down and shouting out his release. It was a good job the band had started playing a popular song, otherwise, the whole of Birmingham would have heard you. 

You panted, expecting him to carry on thrusting to bring you over the edge. Instead, you heard the sound of a belt buckle and the door slamming shut.

 The experience sobered you up slightly and you straightened your dress, fixing your lipstick and hair before slipping out of the side room. You bumped into Lizzie and told her you were going home, as you were working in the morning. She nodded and took in your dishevelled (despite your best efforts) appearance. “Get some rest,” she said knowingly, giving you a wink.

 The next day, you arrived at work despite your headache. You lit a lamp, as it was still a little dark out, and started on the books, flicking through the notes scribbled by various members of the Shelby clan. You worked in peace for ten minutes before Lizzie and Pol came into the room, chatting. 

“There she is. How’s your head?” Lizzie grinned, sliding you some aspirin. You smiled gratefully and took the tablets.

 “Holy shit,” Pol commented, staring at the bruise on your throat. You blushed deeply and tugged your collar closed. You hated wearing this blouse buttoned all the way up, but needs must. 

“Wild night, eh?” Lizzie asked, getting her own paperwork sorted as Pol went to fix tea. 

“Not really,” You sighed, looking down. You wanted to ground to swallow you whole. 

“Oh, piss off. You came out of that side room five minutes after Tommy, looking like you’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, and you show up to work with a dirty great love bite on your throat,” she grinned. “I’m not judging you, by the way. If anything I’m impressed. He’s been a right prick lately,” 

“And he was a right prick last night,” you hissed. “Moody bastard, and a lousy fuck as well. Didn’t even finish me off, I had to fake it in the end,” you glared down at your paperwork. Lizzie chuckled and rubbed your shoulder gently. Polly came back into the room with the cups and teapot, pouring for you all.

 “So who’s the man? Boyfriend we haven’t heard of?” She asked, smirking. 

“It was Tommy, Pol,” Lizzie explained. You kept your eyes down. “Apparently he’s a lousy fuck. Our poor YN was treated worse than the back alley whores by the sounds of it,” 

Prolly frowned and set your tea in front of you. “Wouldn’t think a lousy fuck would leave that mark,” she said slyly. “Use a cold spoon and some powder when you get home,” she advised. 

“And then tonight, go dancing and get a man who’ll treat you right, eh?” Said Lizzie. “You deserve better than someone rutting against you like a dog,”

The two women had cheered you up significantly and you smiled weakly until Arthur’s loud voice cut across your conversation.

 “Rutting like a dog? Was that what you and Tommy were up to last night?” He grinned, having overheard,  and you flushed angrily. 

“Hey, no need to be embarrassed, YN, you are a pretty little thing-” he said, his smile dropping when he saw that his banter wasn’t making you laugh like normal.

 “No. I’m not embarrassed. If anything, I’d be embarrassed for your brother. Who would’ve thought Thomas Shelby didn’t know his way around a woman, let alone how to properly please her!” You turned around. “Pol, I’m going home. My head is banging and I need to concentrate on these books. Arthur’s done all the adding up wrong. Dock my pay if need be,” You took the heavy leather-bound book and tucked it under your arm, before storming out of the betting shop, right past Tommy without even noticing. 

The peace of your home was what you needed. You brewed yourself a pot of tea with the nice teabags you had picked up from the market, and settled yourself at your rickety old desk, going through the books and copying them up neatly, and more importantly, precisely. You even hummed to yourself, soon letting the stress of the previous night slowly fade away. 

That was until there was a sharp knock on your door. You sighed, getting up. There was another knock. “Alright! I’m coming. Rent’s not due for another week, though!” You called, going to take the door off the latch. 

There in the doorway, in all his glory, was your boss. His cap was drawn over his face and he blew out a breath of smoke. “YN. Can I come in?”

 You wanted nothing more than to slam the door in his face and lock it, put the chain on and drown him out with your rusty gramophone.  But-

“Fine. But put that cigarette out before you step over my threshold. The last tenant was a bad smoker and I’ve only just got the smell out of the cushions,” when the door shut, you turned around, crossing your arms. “What do you want, Mr Shelby?” 

“Mr Shelby, is it now?” He asked, smirking. “That’s no way to greet a guest, is it. Are you going to offer me a drink?”

 “No, I’m not. You don’t take me as one for cold tea with no milk,” you quipped. “What do you want?”

 He arched his brow, looking you up and down as if you were a fresh cut from the butcher. You stood a little straighter, determined not to look small. “What I want, YN, is to know what your little fuss was about earlier on,” he said lowly. 

You scoffed. “Oh please. You know exactly what it was about, and even if you didn’t, I’m sure the boys would’ve informed you,” you said coldly. “If you must know, I was pissed. Still am. Because I let you… have me. And I’m pissed because you treated me like a common whore, and I’m pissed because everyone knows and will think less of me,” you said, flushing, brow furrowed. 

“And what’s all this about being a lousy fuck, eh?” He asked, face like stone. 

“Oh you heard that part well enough, didn’t you?” You suppressed an annoyed laugh. “It’s true. You are a lousy fuck. D’you bend all your women over and hump them like a dog in heat or am I just special?” 

“YN…,” he said, voice low, standing up and walking to you.

 “You know, I’ve had better shags when I was a teenager. At least the lads I used to go out with had the decency to finish me off once their balls were empty!” You ranted, unaware of him stalking closer and closer, like a panther on the prowl. 

He pushed you against the wall, arms braced either side of your head. You gulped. Had you pushed him too far? You looked up at him through your lashes, and couldn’t help but lick your lips, your breath already becoming shallow. “Finish you off, eh? Is that what you want?” He asked lowly, leaning to growl in your ear, sending a shiver that crawled all over your skin and made your eyelashes flutter. 

You bit your lip and nodded. “Y-yes…” you whispered.

 “Yes, what?” 

“Yes please, Mr Shelby,”

 That was all he needed. He gripped your hips and pulled them tight against his, kissing you ferociously, his hands gripping, squeezing, stroking every inch of you he could reach. You moaned against his mouth and scrabbled at his heavy coat and jacket, pushing them to the floor. You began fumbling with his belt when he grabbed your wrists, holding the, above your head.

 “Ah Ah Ah,” he said roughly. “I intend to make up for last night. And believe me, YN, I’m feeling particularly generous tonight,” He hoisted you up by the thighs and held you against him, carrying you to your bedroom and kicking the door shut. He deposited you onto the bed, before looking down at you. “Dress. Off.” He demanded, and you all too eagerly complied, much to his satisfaction, casting it aside, quickly followed by your slip, leaving you in your knickers and bra. He chuckled darkly at your eagerness, and when you went to undo your garter and stockings, he halted your hands, shaking his head. You nodded obediently and watched as he kneeled down in front of you. You pressed your knees together, but he tutted and caressed your legs, from ankle to thigh. 

“Don’t be shy, YN,” he murmured.

 “No one’s ever…” you whispered, shifting your thighs together. He cocked his brow up and smirked. 

“No one’s ever what, pet?” He asked, pushing your thighs apart and making quick work of your stockings. “Tasted you? Not even all those boys who knew how to please you, eh?” 

You nodded and bit your lip, gasping at the new sensation of his hot breath skittering across your core as he pressed filthy, open-mouthed kisses against your heat. He nipped the inside of your thighs to get you to spread them further and inhale your musk, shuddering at the scent of your arousal.

 “You won’t even remember your own fucking name once I’m through with you, love,” he promised, stroking his finger lazily up the seam of your underwear, pressing it against your clit. You clenched your fists into the sheets, thighs already trembling. This did not go unnoticed, and Tommy chuckled darkly at your desperation. “So responsive,” he murmured, dragging your underwear down torturously slowly, before burying his face between your legs. You whimpered as you felt his tongue running up your slit, gathering your arousal before he swallowed with a groan, gripping your thighs tightly and holding them apart. He traced your sopping folds with the very point of his tongue, his nose occasionally bumping your swollen clit, but giving it nowhere near enough attention for your liking. 

“Tommy please!” You whimpered after at least ten minutes of him scrubbing the flat of his tongue against your heat, nipping at your thighs, and even pushing his tongue into you. He pulled away and looked up at you with raised eyebrows, your slick glistening obscenely on his chin.

 “Please, what, YN? Use your words,” he demanded.

 “Please, touch me!” You cried, shifting your hips, trying to get some friction to your needy clit.  

“Touch you where YN? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me,” he said smirking cockily, pinning your hips down to still you.

 “On my… my… here!” You whimpered, reaching a hand down to flick at your throbbing nub. “Please, Tommy, please!” 

He growled and knocked your hand away, instantly attaching his lips to it, sucking like a man starved and flicking his tongue under the hood. You cried out and tipped your head back, gripping whatever handful of hair you could, swearing like a sailor. “Oi. Watch. Eyes on me.” He commanded, although slightly muffled by your writhing hips. You whined softly but nodded, focusing on watching the gorgeous man devouring you. Your eyes fluttered when you felt a familiar tension building up in the pit of your belly, your clit beginning to throb against his tongue. Your breath came in sharp gasps, and you bucked your hips up, desperate to tip over the edge, so close already-

Then… nothing.

 You groaned, glaring down at the man before you, who still held all the power despite being on his knees. You whined trying to grab him back. “What the fuck? Please, I was so close!” You said, intending to sound angry, but actually sounding needy and desperate. He grinned. 

“I know,” Bastard. He repeated this routine several times, bringing you right up to the edge, but dragging you away at the last moment, until you were practically sobbing with need. When he had taken his fill of your nectar, he worshipped your breasts, sucking and nipping and kissing and lathing his tongue over your nipples until you were writhing, arching your back, convinced you would cum from this stimulation alone. 

“Please, Tommy!” You whined, fingers tangled in his cropped hair as he sucked a dark mark on your breast. “Please, Tommy, you’ve proved your point, please!” You sounded pathetic, begging like a whore, but to be quite frank, you could give a bigger fuck if you tried. “Just… please, Tommy, I need you. Need to feel you,” you whispered, stroking his jaw as he resurfaced, his piercing eyes trained on yours. “Need you to fill me up, claim me… I’m yours, Tom. Don’t you want to feel me cumming all over your cock?” 

Your words were meant to rile Tommy up, but they made you shift and whimper and buck despite yourself. “Good girl,” he whispered. “I’m very impressed with you. I’m going to fuck you, YN, and I’m going to do it properly,” You nodded eagerly and watched with glazed eyes as he discarded his waistcoat, shirt and trousers. You licked your lips as he dropped his underwear, groaning at the sight of his long, thick cock bouncing free, already leaking.

 All for you. 

You whimpered as Tommy crawled up the mattress towards you, already spreading your legs for him. “Please,” you whispered, reaching for him. He nodded, slowly pushing himself into you, bracing his elbows either side of your head. You cried out at the stretch of him, arching your back to press into his warm chest. Already, you were digging your nails into his back, and he grunted at the feeling of your walls clenching onto him for dear life.

 “Fucking hell,” he groaned into your neck, drawing back almost completely, before driving back into you with slow, measured movements, his forehead pressed to yours as he fucked you slowly, yet each thrust was ended with a sharp snap of his hips. You whined out, throbbing around him, trying to meet his thrusts with faster, needier ones of your own.

 “More, Tommy, more!” you cried out, scrabbling your nails down his back, clinging to his shoulder blades. You raised your legs to wrap them around his waist, angling your hips up more, eyes rolling at the deeper penetration gained by the new angle. “Please, faster,” you begged, writhing eagerly beneath him. “Please?” you whimpered, practically sobbing with need. 

Tommy grunted and nodded, holding you tight to him as he fucked you harder, faster, more relentlessly, growling into your ear, before suckling dark marks down your throat and to your collarbone. Moaning, he pistoned his hips into you, each thrust bumping delicious pressure onto your aching clit. It was too much. 

You moaned wantonly, arching your back and biting his shoulder. “Fuck Tommy, I’m gonna cum,” you whined, clinging to him, not wanting him to pull away before your release again.

 “Good girl,” he groaned. “Cum around my cock, love, that’s what you want. That’s what I want,” he grunted, his thrusts sloppy and harsh. With his permission, you yelped out, crying his name as you came, seeing white spots, even when you clenched your eyes shut. Feeling you clench around him like a vice, he shouted his release, spurting into you, filling you with his hot cum. 

Panting, he pulled out, and for a moment you worried he would buckle up his belt and leave you like a whore again, but the mattress dipped beside you as he lay down. He drew you into his side, holding you close. 

“You alright?” he murmured, kissing the top of your head. “You okay, love?” you nodded, resting your head on his chest, breathing deeply. 

“I-I… more than alright,” you murmured, causing him to chuckle. He lit a cigarette and grinned, rubbing your side as you drew the covers around you both.

 “So, still think I’m a lousy fuck, eh?” he smirked. You grinned and looked up, reaching to kiss him.

 “Not sure,” you said cheekily. “That might have been a fluke. You’ll have to repeat that display a few more times so I know you didn’t just get lucky,”

 “Oh, I got lucky all right,” he smirked. “Sleep. We’ll take the day off work tomorrow, and I’ll show you that wasn’t a fluke, eh?”

[bibislut]

Merlot and Meddling

I present to you; a fic born from the inspiration at the bottom of a bottle of wine.

Synopsis: Maybe Pansy could be right for once, maybe this is the closure Draco needs. Or maybe they’ve both just had a little too much to drink. After all, nothing bad ever came from drunk advice, right?

Warnings: Swearing

Word Count: 2494

Find it on Ao3 

-----

Draco took a large swig of his wine, swilling it around his mouth as he thought over Pansy’s idea. The two had already finished their second bottle and were now well into their third. The blond was laying languidly on his best friend's sofa, the raven-haired witch in question haphazardly strewn across the neighbouring armchair.

“Not a chance.” Was he slurring?

“Why the fuck not?” Pansy’s high squeal of disbelief echoed in draco’s ears.

“Because it's a moronic idea.”

“No it's not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No. It. Is. Not.” Pansy enunciated each word harshly, pushing herself up. Draco flicked his eyes over to her, meeting her determined gaze. “This will be good for you, Draco. And even better for me, when I read it sober tomorrow.” She grinned.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose as he resigned himself to the whims of a stubborn, drunk heiress, with a loud groan. “Fine.”

Pansy squealed, a horrific noise that only Draco ever got to hear. Sometimes he wished that being her best friend was a bit quieter. She clapped her hands eagerly. “Wonderful. It’s about time you got some of this mess-” She waved her hands at him, “- out.” 

Draco sat up, enjoying the slight spin of the room as he downed the rest of his glass. “Top me up then, gorgeous. I’ll need my strength.” He drawled.

“In your dreams.” Pansy scoffed, placing her own empty glass on the coffee table. “I’m going to grab some parchment. Top me up too.” 

If Draco was lucky enough, he’d wake up before Pansy tomorrow, and could burn the blasted thing before she could bully him about it.

----

Harry yawned widely, scratching his head as he plonked himself down at the staff table. Neville nudged the pumpkin juice towards him, shooting him a sympathetic look.

“Remind me why I took this job again, Neville?”

“Because you’re good at teaching people and making them believe in themselves?” The herbology teacher took a bite of his jam-laden toast.

Harry huffed. “Well it certainly wasn’t to stay up all night grading mock exams.” He pulled a plate of pancakes towards him. “I had more than enough of my own bloody OWLs and NEWTs.” He grumbled. “Should’ve thought this through more.”

Neville hummed. “Do you want me to pour some cold water on you?”

“Don’t even try it.” Harry smirked. “You can’t just throw water on The Saviour of The Wizarding World.”

“Did you forget I’m the one who stood up to Voldemort?” Neville raised an eyebrow.

“What has happened to you?” Harry shook his head jokingly. “Where’s the shy boy I grew up with?”

“Still bloody here.” Neville chuckled. “Just a bit more comfortable now.”

“Teaching suits you.”

“It suits you too, most days.”

Both young men turned back to their food, Harry reaching for the pot of coffee he’d asked for. The noise in the hall rose, and he looked up just in time to catch the post before it hit his plate. Being a Hogwarts alumni and a seeker definitely helped during breakfast.

It was just the usual, a copy of the day’s Daily Prophet, a copy of The Quibbler, a letter addressed in Hermione’s writing, no doubt reminding him of the Weasley spring get-together, and...another letter. He didn’t recognise the handwriting. He pried open the seal curiously, unfolding the letter inside:

-Dear Mr Potter,

The most famous, most brilliant, most bravest man to ever exist. Who’s arse we must all kiss, and lick, and fondle, though that may be just me. It really is a nice arse you know. Have you ever looked in the mirror? A truly fine specimen. You wouldn’t think it spent so much time on a broomstick being a bloody show off, but here we are, you with a nice arse and me with a picture of it in my head. How delightful.

I have been told to write this letter to get my feelings out. And though I would usually deny these feelings, everything must end - including these ridiculous thoughts. “What thoughts?” You may ask. Well, let me tell you.

 I hold a rather large grudge, fuelled almost completely by my own damaged pride. Pride bruised by a lack of you in my life, and pride bruised whenever you are in my life. It is quite the conundrum, I tell you.

A lot of my feelings are unnecessary, some unscrupulous, some unwanted, unfounded, but most of them unreturned. For when have you ever looked into my eyes the way I do yours? When have you lain in the dark, retracing our encounters? Or remembering the colour of your eyes, or the pattern of your freckles, or the way you thin your lips in rage, or lick them with anxiety or when, perhaps, have you thought of me at all? Outside of your obligation to that is? Your obligation to hate me, despise me, distrust me. Please tell me that’s what it is; an obligation. Or at least tell me that you don’t anymore, don’t resent me, loathe me. That’s what I need to believe.

I certainly did you. I hated you, it's true. For many reasons. For stealing the limelight, for bettering me, for dismissing me. But I also admired you, envied you. Resented you, and myself, for my cowardice, for my choices, for having the family that I did, that I do. 

I could go on and on, but the point is this- you still plague my thoughts. You still fill my head. You’re in my dreams, my nightmares, my desires… 

And this is not healthy, it can’t be. Progress is healthy, moving on is healthy. And perhaps just imagining you reading this will contribute towards that.

So let me leave you with this, Potter: I feel so many things for you, and none of them can be resolved, or come to fruition. This is my attempt at goodbye. This is my attempt at starting anew. -

The writing is messy, the ink smeared in places, a stain of some kind in the bottom right corner. But Harry knows this handwriting, spent his teenage years seeing this writing, obsessing over it some nights. And he knows the writing on the front of the letter doesn’t match. 

Which means Draco Malfoy did not intend for Harry to see this.

---

“Fuckkk…” 

“My thoughts exactly.”

Draco’s eyes shot open, focusing on Pansy as she sat on the armchair, hair brushed, face washed, sitting in a fresh set of pyjamas. “Why the fuck are you okay?” He groaned, rubbing his face. 

Pansy shrugged. “I had a pint of water and a sandwich after you passed out. Woke up feeling perfectly fine.”

“You bitch. Why didn’t you make me one?”

“And wake the beast? No, thank you.” She motioned towards where a mug of steaming tea sat under a stasis charm. “Cuppa?”

Draco hummed thankfully, sitting up carefully so as not to anger his throbbing head further. “Less of a bitch.” He murmured. He sipped at it, the warmth of it easing a bit of the tension in his body. “What time is it?”

“Just past eight.”

“So, really-fucking-early.” 

“Yeah.” Pansy picked up her own mug. “I’m glad you’re awake though.” 

“And why is that?” Draco sat back against the cushions, easing his shoulders as he took another sip.

“What do you remember of last night, love?”

Draco offered an exhausted chuckle. “Some of it.” He tried to think back. “We finished the third bottle of merlot, right? Or was it the fourth? And your dancing, that was great.” He snorted. “Merlin. You do squeal when you’re drunk Pans, I thought my eardrums- OH FUCK!”

“And there it is.” Pansy smiled at him. 

“Oh Merlin, Pansy. Please tell me you burnt it. Please, Please.”

“I’d love to, Draco, I really would. It’s just…” She paused, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “I mean, I was drunk too.”

“Oh no, please tell me you didn’t send it to Blaise!”

“Okay, I didn’t send it to Blaise.”

“Pansy Bernadine Parkinson. What. Did. You. Do?!” 

“Don’t use my full name!” She whined. “You know how much I hate-” 

“Pansy!”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? It might go well, you never know. I do sometimes have good ideas, and honesty is always the best pol-”

“PANSY!” Draco lurched forwards, his stomach doing the same. Merlin, anxiety and alcohol did not mix well.

“I sent it to Potter.” She whispered, eyes wide.

“WHAT!” Draco stood up so quickly he spilt his tea.

“You never know-”

“At Hogwarts?!” The blond slammed his cup down on the coffee table, standing over his friend.

“Yes?”

“Merlin’s tits!” Draco’s hand flew to his hair, running them through nervously as he began pacing. “Merlin’s fucking tits!” 

“I mean, it's not so bad, right? You could still make it.”

“Make it?” Draco spun around to face her, his mind racing. What had he said? He didn’t even remember half of it. He was pretty sure he mentioned Potter’s arse, and maybe his father? The memories were returning slower than he’d like. Had he signed it?! “What time is it?”

Pansy cast a quick tempus. 8:11. 

“Maybe I can get there before the post does?”

“Not looking like that, you can’t.”

Draco dashed over to the mirror, taking himself in. His hair was knotted and sticking on end, his trousers wrinkled, his shirt untucked and half buttoned, and he probably smelled as bad as he felt. “Shit, right, okay." He bit at his lips nervously, his head racing. “I’m going to go back to mine and shower and change.” He turned to face her. “Can you send a message through firecall asking McGonagall if I can meet her at the end of breakfast? Say something about a tour of the new quidditch pitch.”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

“Wish me luck, Pans, or it’s gonna be you who’s in the shit.”

“Yeah, I get it, I’m dead to you.” Pansy waved her hand nonchalantly, as if she was already over the mess she'd created. “Just go and sort yourself out.”

-----

Harry read, and re-read the letter at least five times, barely even tasting his coffee. Was it true? Did Malfoy really care for him? He couldn’t deny that the slytherin had been his thoughts since the end of their eighth year, but to think he had been in his? That was insane, unbelievable. And yet, here he sat, holding the letter. 

Maybe he was wrong, maybe it wasn’t Malfoy. Sixth year had certainly proven that he wasn’t the best at handwriting. But it added up, the ‘limelight’ , the ‘cowardice’, the ‘family’. And who else had been close enough to him to comment on his freckles, or lips, or eyes, and still matched the things that had been said like Malfoy did?

Fuck, what was he going to do? 

“Come on Harry, you don’t want to be late.” He looked up at Neville. “You alright, mate?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just some unexpected news.”

“You sure? You look a bit frazzled.” Neville’s eyebrows drew together in concern.

Harry pulled on a smile. “All good. You alright?”

“I’m good. Got a whole day of first years today, you’d think they’d be better behaved this far into the year, but they can still be a bit tricky.”

“You’ll do well with them, you always do.” Harry clapped him on the shoulder.

“Thanks, Harry.”

The two men headed out of the Great Hall together. Harry was so distracted he almost didn’t recognise the head of white blond hair standing just outside the doors.

“Malfoy?” 

Draco Malfoy spun around, meeting Harry’s gaze with a look he couldn’t decipher. 

“Potter.” He nodded.

“What are you doing here?” Why was his heart beating so fast?

“I’m meeting Mcgonagall for a tour.” Malfoy wasn’t quite meeting his eyes. He looked good, his hair falling softly over his forehead, no longer slicked back. He was dressed in an all black suit, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket. He looked handsome and confident… except for his other hand, which was tensing and untensing over and over again.

“I’ll catch you later, Harry. Malfoy.” Neville waved goodbye, nodding at the Slytherin. 

“Why are you really here?” Harry asked, though he was sure he already knew the answer. 

“Well,” Malfoy’s voice caught and he cleared his throat. “I suppose I wanted to apologise, for the, um, letter.” He looked down, finally conceding his nervousness.

Harry nodded towards the doors. “The kids will be out soon, follow me.”

“Look, Potter. We don’t have to make this bigger than it needs to be. Let’s just agree to forget about it.”

Harry stopped, turning back to face him. “Why would I do that?” Malfoy finally looked at him. Harry lowered his voice, taking a step closer. “I don’t hate you, Draco.” He licked his lips, terrified of what he was about to say. “It was nice to know you’ve been thinking about me, too.”

Draco’s eyes lit up, before drawing together again. “I’m not in the mood for jokes, Potter.”

“I’m not joking.” Harry took another step forward, until they were only a few feet away from each other. He summoned his Gryffindor courage. “I’ve been thinking about your arse too.” 

Malfoy’s jaw dropped, and he shoved Harry in the chest. “That’s not funny.”

Harry laughed, catching his hands. “It kind of is.”

“Oh shove off, you great big git.” Draco gave a small smile, trying to pull his hands away.

“Make me.” Harry whispered, holding on tighter. If you had told him two hours ago that he would be flirting with Malfoy outside the Great Hall, he would have told you to go and get your head checked for wrackspurts. He felt almost giddy with excitement and disbelief, and most of all, anxiety. He was just riding on the wave of adrenaline at this point. 

Draco snorted. “Good idea, Potter. The hallway is about to flood with students.” The Slytherin didn’t look away though, his silver eyes holding Harry's with a hopeful look.

Harry finally let go of his hands, but neither man stepped away. “Take me to dinner then.”

“You’re asking me to ask you to dinner?” Draco shook his head in disbelief

“Yeah, why not?”

“Very romantic.” He drawled.

“Hey! I’m the one who had to decipher your horrific handwriting.” And read your half-lusty, half-sad ramblings on four hours sleep, he thought.

“Oh, Merlin.” Draco winced. “Fine. Do you want to come to dinner with me?”

“You could be a bit more enthusiastic.” Harry mock-pouted.

“I’ll bloody take the offer back if you’re not careful.”

“Alright, okay.” Harry looked over Draco’s shoulder to see students starting to pour out of the Great Hall. He grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Owl me the details.” 

And with that, Potter dashed off down the hallway, leaving Draco’s fingers tingling and his stomach fluttering with butterflies. They were both doomed, surely, so why were they both so excited about it?

[crimethinc]

Against the Logic of the Guillotine: Why the Paris Commune Burned the Guillotine—and We Should Too

148 years ago this week, on April 6, 1871, armed participants in the revolutionary Paris Commune seized the guillotine that was stored near the prison in Paris. They brought it to the foot of the statue of Voltaire, where they smashed it into pieces and burned it in a bonfire, to the applause of an immense crowd.1 This was a popular action arising from the grassroots, not a spectacle coordinated by politicians. At the time, the Commune controlled Paris, which was still inhabited by people of all classes; the French and Prussian armies surrounded the city and were preparing to invade it in order to impose the conservative Republican government of Adolphe Thiers. In these conditions, burning the guillotine was a brave gesture repudiating the Reign of Terror and the idea that positive social change can be achieved by slaughtering people.

“What?” you say, in shock, “The Communards burned the guillotine? Why on earth would they do that? I thought the guillotine was a symbol of liberation!”

Why indeed? If the guillotine is not a symbol of liberation, then why has it become such a standard motif for the radical left over the past few years? Why is the internet replete with guillotine memes? Why does The Coup sing “We got the guillotine, you better run”? The most popular socialist periodical is named Jacobin, after the original proponents of the guillotine. Surely this can’t all be just an ironic sendup of lingering right-wing anxieties about the original French Revolution.

The guillotine has come to occupy our collective imagination. In a time when the rifts in our society are widening towards civil war, it represents uncompromising bloody revenge.

Those who take their own powerlessness for granted assume that they can promote gruesome revenge fantasies without consequences. But if we are serious about changing the world, we owe it to ourselves to make sure that our proposals are not equally gruesome.

A poster in Seattle, Washington. The quotation is from Karl Marx.

Vengeance

It’s not surprising that people want bloody revenge today. Capitalist profiteering is rapidly rendering the planet uninhabitable. US Border Patrol is kidnapping, drugging, and imprisoning children. Individual acts of racist and misogynist violence occur regularly. For many people, daily life is increasingly humiliating and disempowering.

Those who don’t desire revenge because they are not compassionate enough to be outraged about injustice or because they are simply not paying attention deserve no credit for this. There is less virtue in apathy than in the worst excesses of vengefulness.

Do I want to take revenge on the police officers who murder people with impunity, on the billionaires who cash in on exploitation and gentrification, on the bigots who harass and dox people? Yes, of course I do. They have killed people I knew; they are trying to destroy everything I love. When I think about the harm that they are causing, I feel ready to break their bones, to kill them with my bare hands.

But that desire is distinct from my politics. I can want something without having to reverse-engineer a political justification for it. I can want something and choose not to pursue it, if I want something else even more—in this case, an anarchist revolution that is not based in revenge. I don’t judge other people for wanting revenge, especially if they have been through worse than I have. But I also don’t confuse that desire with a proposal for liberation.

If the sort of bloodlust I describe scares you, or if it simply seems unseemly, then you absolutely have no business joking about other people carrying out industrialized murder on your behalf.

For this is what distinguishes the fantasy of the guillotine: it is all about efficiency and distance. Those who fetishize the guillotine don’t want to kill people with their bare hands; they aren’t prepared to rend anyone’s flesh with their teeth. They want their revenge automated and carried out for them. They are like the consumers who blithely eat Chicken McNuggets but could never personally butcher a cow or cut down a rainforest. They prefer for bloodshed to take place in an orderly manner, with all the paperwork filled out properly, according to the example set by the Jacobins and the Bolsheviks in imitation of the impersonal functioning of the capitalist state.

And one more thing: they don’t want to have to take responsibility for it. They prefer to express their fantasy ironically, retaining plausible deniability. Yet anyone who has ever participated actively in social upheaval knows how narrow the line can be between fantasy and reality. Let’s look at the “revolutionary” role the guillotine has played in the past.

“But revenge is unworthy of an anarchist! The dawn, our dawn, claims no quarrels, no crimes, no lies; it affirms life, love, knowledge; we work to hasten that day.”

-Kurt Gustav Wilckens—anarchist, pacifist, and assassin of Colonel Héctor Varela, the Argentine official who had overseen the slaughter of approximately 1500 striking workers in Patagonia.

A Very Brief History of the Guillotine

The guillotine is associated with radical politics because it was used in the original French Revolution to behead monarch Louis XVI on January 21, 1793, several months after his arrest. But once you open the Pandora’s box of exterminatory force, it’s difficult to close it again.

Having gotten started using the guillotine as an instrument of social change, Maximilien de Robespierre, sometime President of the Jacobin Club, continued employing it to consolidate power for his faction of the Republican government. As is customary for demagogues, Robespierre, Georges Danton, and other radicals availed themselves of the assistance of the sans-culottes, the angry poor, to oust the more moderate faction, the Girondists, in June 1793. (The Girondists, too, were Jacobins; if you love a Jacobin, the best thing you can do for him is to prevent his party from coming to power, since he is certain to be next up against the wall after you.) After guillotining the Girondists en masse, Robespierre set about consolidating power at the expense of Danton, the sans-culottes, and everyone else.

“The revolutionary government has nothing in common with anarchy. On the contrary, its goal is to suppress it in order to ensure and solidify the reign of law.”

-Maximilien Robespierre, distinguishing his autocratic government from the more radical grassroots movements that helped to create the French Revolution.2

By early 1794, Robespierre and his allies had sent a great number of people at least as radical as themselves to the guillotine, including Anaxagoras Chaumette and the so-called Enragés, Jacques Hébert and the so-called Hébertists, proto-feminist and abolitionist Olympe de Gouges, Camille Desmoulins (who had had the gall to suggest to his childhood friend Robespierre that “love is stronger and more lasting than fear”)—and Desmoulins’s wife, for good measure, despite her sister having been Robespierre’s fiancée. They also arranged for the guillotining of Georges Danton and Danton’s supporters, alongside various other former allies. To celebrate all this bloodletting, Robespierre organized the Festival of the Supreme Being, a mandatory public ceremony inaugurating an invented state religion.3

“Here lies all of France,” reads the inscription on the tomb behind Robespierre in this political cartoon referencing all the executions he helped arrange.

After this, it was only a month and a half before Robespierre himself was guillotined, having exterminated too many of those who might have fought beside him against the counterrevolution. This set the stage for a period of reaction that culminated with Napoleon Bonaparte seizing power and crowning himself Emperor. According to the French Republican Calendar (an innovation that did not catch on, but was briefly reintroduced during the Paris Commune), Robespierre’s execution took place during the month of Thermidor. Consequently, the name Thermidor is forever associated with the onset of the counterrevolution.

“Robespierre killed the Revolution in three blows: the execution of Hébert, the execution of Danton, the Cult of the Supreme Being… The victory of Robespierre, far from saving it, would have meant only a more profound and irreparable fall.”

-Louis-Auguste Blanqui, himself hardly an opponent of authoritarian violence.

But it is a mistake to focus on Robespierre. Robespierre himself was not a superhuman tyrant. At best, he was a zealous apparatchik who filled a role that countless revolutionaries were vying for, a role that another man would have played if he had not. The issue was systemic—the competition for centralized dictatorial power—not a matter of individual wrongdoing.

The tragedy of 1793-1795 confirms that whatever tool you use to bring about a revolution will surely be used against you. But the problem is not just the tool, it’s the logic behind it. Rather than demonizing Robespierre—or Lenin, Stalin, or Pol Pot—we have to examine the logic of the guillotine.

To a certain extent, we can understand why Robespierre and his contemporaries ended up relying on mass murder as a political tool. They were threatened by foreign invasion, internal conspiracies, and counterrevolutionary uprisings; they were making decisions in an extremely high-stress environment. But if it is possible to understand how they came to embrace the guillotine, it is impossible to argue that all the killings were necessary to secure their position. Their own executions refute that argument eloquently enough.

Likewise, it is wrong to imagine that the guillotine was employed chiefly against the ruling class, even at the height of Jacobin rule. Being consummate bureaucrats, the Jacobins kept detailed records. Between June 1793 and the end of July 1794, 16,594 people were officially sentenced to death in France, including 2639 people in Paris. Of the formal death sentences passed under the Terror, only 8 percent were doled out to aristocrats and 6 percent to members of the clergy; the rest were divided between the middle class and the poor, with the vast majority of the victims coming from the lower classes.

The execution of Robespierre and his colleagues. Robespierre is identified by the number 10; sitting in the cart, he holds a handkerchief to his mouth, having been shot in the jaw during his capture.

The story that played out in the first French revolution was not a fluke. Half a century later, the French Revolution of 1848 followed a similar trajectory. In February, a revolution led by angry poor people gave Republican politicians state power; in June, when life under the new government turned out to be little better than life under the king, the people of Paris revolted once again and the politicians ordered the army to massacre them in the name of the revolution. This set the stage for the nephew of the original Napoleon to win the presidential election of December 1848, promising to “restore order.” Three years later, having exiled all the Republican politicians, Napoleon III abolished the Republic and crowned himself Emperor—prompting Marx’s famous quip that history repeats itself, “the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.”

Likewise, after the French revolution of 1870 put Adolphe Thiers in power, he ruthlessly butchered the Paris Commune, but this only paved the way for even more reactionary politicians to supplant him in 1873. In all three of these cases, we see how revolutionaries who are intent on wielding state power must embrace the logic of the guillotine to acquire it, and then, having brutally crushed other revolutionaries in hopes of consolidating control, are inevitably defeated by more reactionary forces.

In the 20th century, Lenin described Robespierre as a Bolshevik avant la lettre, affirming the Terror as an antecedent of the Bolshevik project. He was not the only person to draw that comparison.

“We’ll be our own Thermidor,” Bolshevik apologist Victor Serge recalls Lenin proclaiming as he prepared to butcher the rebels of Kronstadt. In other words, having crushed the anarchists and everyone else to the left of them, the Bolsheviks would survive the reaction by becoming the counterrevolution themselves. They had already reintroduced fixed hierarchies into the Red Army in order to recruit former Tsarist officers to join it; alongside their victory over the insurgents in Kronstadt, they reintroduced the free market and capitalism, albeit under state control. Eventually Stalin assumed the position once occupied by Napoleon.

So the guillotine is not an instrument of liberation. This was already clear in 1795, well over a century before the Bolsheviks initiated their own Terror, nearly two centuries before the Khmer Rouge exterminated almost a quarter of the population of Cambodia.

Why, then, has the guillotine come back into fashion as a symbol of resistance to tyranny? The answer to this will tell us something the psychology of our time.

Fetishizing the Violence of the State

It is shocking that even today, radicals would associate themselves with the Jacobins, a tendency that was reactionary by the end of 1793. But the explanation isn’t hard to work out. Then, as now, there are people who want to think of themselves as radical without having to actually make a radical break with the institutions and practices that are familiar to them. “The tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living,” as Marx said.

If—to use Max Weber’s famous definition—an aspiring government qualifies as representing the state by achieving a monopoly on the legitimate use of physical force within a given territory, then one of the most persuasive ways it can demonstrate its sovereignty is to wield lethal force with impunity. This explains the various reports to the effect that public beheadings were observed as festive or even religious occasions during the French Revolution. Before the Revolution, beheadings were affirmations of the sacred authority of the monarch; during the Revolution, when the representatives of the Republic presided over executions, this confirmed that they held sovereignty—in the name of The People, of course. “Louis must die so that the nation may live,” Robespierre had proclaimed, seeking to sanctify the birth of bourgeois nationalism by literally baptizing it in the blood of the previous social order. Once the Republic was inaugurated on these grounds, it required continuous sacrifices to affirm its authority.

Here we see the essence of the state: it can kill, but it cannot give life. As the concentration of political legitimacy and coercive force, it can do harm, but it cannot establish the kind of positive freedom that individuals experience when they are grounded in mutually supportive communities. It cannot create the kind of solidarity that gives rise to harmony between people. What we use the state to do to others, others can use the state to do to us—as Robespierre experienced—but no one can use the coercive apparatus of the state for the cause of liberation.

For radicals, fetishizing the guillotine is just like fetishizing the state: it means celebrating an instrument of murder that will always be used chiefly against us.

Those who have been stripped of a positive relationship to their own agency often look around for a surrogate to identify with—a leader whose violence can stand in for the revenge they desire as a consequence of their own powerlessness. In the Trump era, we are all well aware of what this looks like among disenfranchised proponents of far-right politics. But there are also people who feel powerless and angry on the left, people who desire revenge, people who want to see the state that has crushed them turned against their enemies.

Reminding “tankies” of the atrocities and betrayals state socialists perpetrated from 1917 on is like calling Trump racist and sexist. Publicizing the fact that Trump is a serial sexual assaulter only made him more popular with his misogynistic base; likewise, the blood-drenched history of authoritarian party socialism can only make it more appealing to those who are chiefly motivated by the desire to identify with something powerful.

-Anarchists in the Trump Era

Now that the Soviet Union has been defunct for almost 30 years—and owing to the difficulty of receiving firsthand perspectives from the exploited Chinese working class—many people in North America experience authoritarian socialism as an entirely abstract concept, as distant from their lived experience as mass executions by guillotine. Desiring not only revenge but also a deus ex machina to rescue them from both the nightmare of capitalism and the responsibility to create an alternative to it themselves, they imagine the authoritarian state as a champion that could fight on their behalf. Recall what George Orwell said of the comfortable British Stalinist writers of the 1930s in his essay “Inside the Whale”:

“To people of that kind such things as purges, secret police, summary executions, imprisonment without trial etc., etc., are too remote to be terrifying. They can swallow totalitarianism because they have no experience of anything except liberalism.”

Punishing the Guilty

“Trust visions that don’t feature buckets of blood.”

-Jenny Holzer

By and large, we tend to be more aware of the wrongs committed against us than we are of the wrongs we commit against others. We are most dangerous when we feel most wronged, because we feel most entitled to pass judgment, to be cruel. The more justified we feel, the more careful we ought to be not to replicate the patterns of the justice industry, the assumptions of the carceral state, the logic of the guillotine. Again, this does not justify inaction; it is simply to say that we must proceed most critically precisely when we feel most righteous, lest we assume the role of our oppressors.

When we see ourselves as fighting against specific human beings rather than social phenomena, it becomes more difficult to recognize the ways that we ourselves participate in those phenomena. We externalize the problem as something outside ourselves, personifying it as an enemy that can be sacrificed to symbolically cleanse ourselves. Yet what we do to the worst of us will eventually be done to the rest of us.

As a symbol of vengeance, the guillotine tempts us to imagine ourselves standing in judgment, anointed with the blood of the wicked. The Christian economics of righteousness and damnation is essential to this tableau. On the contrary, if we use it to symbolize anything, the guillotine should remind us of the danger of becoming what we hate. The best thing would be to be able to fight without hatred, out of an optimistic belief in the tremendous potential of humanity.

Often, all it takes to be able to cease to hate a person is to succeed in making it impossible for him to pose any kind of threat to you. When someone is already in your power, it is contemptible to kill him. This is the crucial moment for any revolution, the moment when the revolutionaries have the opportunity to take gratuitous revenge, to exterminate rather than simply to defeat. If they do not pass this test, their victory will be more ignominious than any failure.

The worst punishment anyone could inflict on those who govern and police us today would be to compel them to live in a society in which everything they’ve done is regarded as embarrassing—for them to have to sit in assemblies in which no one listens to them, to go on living among us without any special privileges in full awareness of the harm they have done. If we fantasize about anything, let us fantasize about making our movements so strong that we will hardly have to kill anyone to overthrow the state and abolish capitalism. This is more becoming of our dignity as partisans of liberation.

It is possible to be committed to revolutionary struggle by all means necessary without holding life cheap. It is possible to eschew the sanctimonious moralism of pacifism without thereby developing a cynical lust for blood. We need to develop the ability to wield force without ever mistaking power over others for our true objective, which is to collectively create the conditions for the freedom of all.

“That humanity might be redeemed from revenge: that is for me the bridge to the highest hope and a rainbow after lashing storms.”

-Friedrich Nietzsche (not himself a partisan of liberation, but one of the foremost theorists of the hazards of vengefulness)

Communards burning the guillotine as a “servile instrument of monarchist domination” at the foot of the statue of Voltaire in Paris on April 6, 1871.

Instead of the Guillotine

Of course, it’s pointless to appeal to the better nature of our oppressors until we have succeeded in making it impossible for them to benefit from oppressing us. The question is how to accomplish that.

Apologists for the Jacobins will protest that, under the circumstances, at least some bloodletting was necessary to advance the revolutionary cause. Practically all of the revolutionary massacres in history have been justified on the grounds of necessity—that’s how people always justify massacres. Even if some bloodletting were necessary, that it is still no excuse to cultivate bloodlust and entitlement as revolutionary values. If we wish to wield coercive force responsibly when there is no other choice, we should cultivate a distaste for it.

Have mass killings ever helped us advance our cause? Certainly, reactionaries throughout history have disingenuously held revolutionaries to a double standard, forgiving the state for murdering civilians by the million while taking insurgents to task for so much as breaking a window. But as we seek transformation rather than conquest, we should appraise our victories according to a different logic than the police and militaries we confront.

This is not an argument against the use of force. Rather, it is a question about how to employ it without creating new hierarchies, new forms of systematic oppression.

A taxonomy of revolutionary violence.

The image of the guillotine is propaganda for the kind of authoritarian organization that can avail itself of that particular tool. Every tool implies the forms of social organization that are necessary to employ it. In his memoir, Bash the Rich, Class War veteran Ian Bone quotes Angry Brigade member John Barker to the effect that “petrol bombs are far more democratic than dynamite,” suggesting that we should analyze every tool of resistance in terms of how it structures power. Critiquing the armed struggle model adopted by hierarchical authoritarian groups in Italy in the 1970s, Alfredo Bonanno and other insurrectionists emphasized that liberation could only be achieved via horizontal, decentralized, and participatory methods of resistance.

“It is impossible to make the revolution with the guillotine alone. Revenge is the antechamber of power. Anyone who wants to avenge themselves requires a leader. A leader to take them to victory and restore wounded justice.”

-Alfredo Bonanno, Armed Joy

Together, a rioting crowd can defend an autonomous zone or exert pressure on authorities without need of hierarchical centralized leadership. Where this becomes impossible—when society has broken up into two distinct sides that are fully prepared to slaughter each other via military means—one may no longer speak of revolution, but only of war. The premise of revolution is that subversion can spread across the lines of enmity, destabilizing fixed positions, undermining the allegiances and assumptions that underpin authority. We should never hurry to make the transition from revolutionary ferment to warfare. Doing so usually forecloses possibilities rather than expanding them.

As a tool, the guillotine takes for granted that it is impossible to transform one’s relations with the enemy, only to abolish them. What’s more, the guillotine assumes that the victim is already completely within the power of the people who employ it. By contrast with the feats of collective courage we have seen people achieve against tremendous odds in popular uprisings, the guillotine is a weapon for cowards.

By refusing to slaughter our enemies wholesale, we hold open the possibility that they might one day join us in our project of transforming the world. Self-defense is necessary, but wherever we can, we should take the risk of leaving our adversaries alive. Not doing so guarantees that we will be no better than the worst of them. From a military perspective, this is a handicap; but if we truly aspire to revolution, it is the only way.

Liberate, not Exterminate

“To give hope to the many oppressed and fear to the few oppressors, that is our business; if we do the first and give hope to the many, the few must be frightened by their hope. Otherwise, we do not want to frighten them; it is not revenge we want for poor people, but happiness; indeed, what revenge can be taken for all the thousands of years of the sufferings of the poor?”

-William Morris, “How We Live and How We Might Live”

So we repudiate the logic of the guillotine. We don’t want to exterminate our enemies. We don’t think the way to create harmony is to subtract everyone who does not share our ideology from the world. Our vision is a world in which many worlds fit, as Subcomandante Marcos put it��a world in which the only thing that is impossible is to dominate and oppress.

Anarchism is a proposal for everyone regarding how we might go about improving our lives—workers and unemployed people, people of all ethnicities and genders and nationalities or lack thereof, paupers and billionaires alike. The anarchist proposal is not in the interests of one currently existing group against another: it is not a way to enrich the poor at the expense of the rich, or to empower one ethnicity, nationality, or religion at others’ expense. That entire way of thinking is part of what we are trying to escape. All of the “interests” that supposedly characterize different categories of people are products of the prevailing order and must be transformed along with it, not preserved or pandered to.

From our perspective, even the topmost positions of wealth and power that are available in the existing order are worthless. Nothing that capitalism and the state have to offer are of any value to us. We propose anarchist revolution on the grounds that it could finally fulfill longings that the prevailing social order will never satisfy: the desire to be able to provide for oneself and one’s loved ones without doing so at anyone else’s expense, the wish to be valued for one’s creativity and character rather than for how much profit one can generate, the longing to structure one’s life around what is profoundly joyous rather than according to the imperatives of competition.

We propose that everyone now living could get along—if not well, then at least better—if we were not forced to compete for power and resources in the zero-sum games of politics and economics.

Leave it to anti-Semites and other bigots to describe the enemy as a type of people, to personify everything they fear as the Other. Our adversary is not a kind of human being, but the form of social relations that imposes antagonism between people as the fundamental model for politics and economics. Abolishing the ruling class does not mean guillotining everyone who currently owns a yacht or penthouse; it means making it impossible for anyone to systematically wield coercive power over anyone else. As soon as that is impossible, no yacht or penthouse will sit empty long.

As for our immediate adversaries—the specific human beings who are determined to maintain the prevailing order at all costs—we aspire to fight against them without seeking to exterminate them. However selfish and rapacious they appear, at least some of their values are similar to ours, and most of their errors—like our own—arise from their fears and weaknesses. In many cases, they oppose our proposals precisely because of what is internally inconsistent in them—for example, the idea of bringing about the fellowship of humanity by means of violent coercion. Were it not for the genuinely egregious things that have been done in the name of liberation, our enemies would have much weaker arguments against it.

Even when we are engaged in pitched physical struggles with our adversaries, we ought to maintain a profound faith in their potential, for we hope to live in different relations with them one day. As aspiring revolutionaries, this hope is our most precious resource, the foundation of everything we do. If revolutionary transformation is to spread throughout society and across the world, those we fight today will have to be fighting alongside us tomorrow. We do not preach conversion by the sword, nor do we imagine that we will persuade our adversaries in some abstract marketplace of ideas; rather, we aim to interrupt the ways that capitalism and the state currently reproduce themselves while demonstrating the virtues of our alternative inclusively and contagiously. There are no shortcuts when it comes to revolution.

Precisely because it is sometimes necessary to employ force in our conflicts with those who preserve the prevailing order, it is especially important that we never lose sight of our aspirations, our compassion, and our optimism. When we are compelled to use coercive force in the struggle, the only possible justification for doing so is that it is a necessary step towards creating a better world for everyone—including our enemies, or at least their children. Otherwise, we risk becoming the next ones to operate the guillotine.

“The only real revenge we could possibly have would be by our own efforts to bring ourselves to happiness.”

-William Morris, in response to calls for revenge for police attacks on demonstrations in Trafalgar Square

Voltaire applauding the burning the guillotine during the Paris Commune.

Appendix: The Beheaded

The guillotine did not end its career with the conclusion of the first French Revolution, nor when it was burned during the Paris Commune. In fact, it was used in France as a means for the state to carry out capital punishment right up to 1977. One of the last women guillotined in France was executed for providing abortions. The Nazis guillotined about 16,500 people between 1933 and 1945—the same number of people killed during the peak of the Terror in France.

A few victims of the guillotine:

Ravachol (born François Claudius Koenigstein), anarchist

Auguste Vaillant, anarchist

Emile Henry, anarchist

Sante Geronimo Caserio, anarchist

Raymond Caillemin, Étienne Monier and André Soudy, all anarchist participants in the so-called Bonnot Gang

Mécislas Charrier, anarchist

Felice Orsini, who attempted to assassinate Napoleon III

Hans and Sophie Scholl and Christoph Probst—members of Die Weisse Rose, an underground anti-Nazi youth organization active in Munich 1942-1943.

Emile Henry.

Sante Geronimo Caserio.

André Soudy, Edouard Carouy, Octave Garnier, Etienne Monier.

Hans and Sophie Scholl and Christoph Probst.

“I am an anarchist. We have been hanged in Chicago, electrocuted in New York, guillotined in Paris and strangled in Italy, and I will go with my comrades. I am opposed to your Government and to your authority. Down with them. Do your worst. Long live Anarchy.”

-Chummy Fleming

Further Reading

The Guillotine At Work, GP Maximoff

As reported in the official journal of the Paris Commune:

“On Thursday, at nine o’clock in the morning, the 137th battalion, belonging to the eleventh arrondissement, went to Rue Folie-Mericourt; they requisitioned and took the guillotine, broke the hideous machine into pieces, and burned it to the applause of an immense crowd.

“They burned it at the foot of the statue of the defender of Sirven and Calas, the apostle of humanity, the precursor of the French Revolution, at the foot of the statue of Voltaire.”

This had been announced earlier in the following proclamation:

“Citizens,

“We have been informed of the construction of a new type of guillotine that was commissioned by the odious government [i.e., the conservative Republican government under Adolphe Thiers]—one that it is easier to transport and speedier. The Sub-Committee of the 11th Arrondissement has ordered the seizure of these servile instruments of monarchist domination and has voted that they be destroyed once and forever. They will therefore be burned at 10 o’clock on April 6, 1871, on the Place de la Mairies, for the purification of the Arrondissement and the consecration of our new freedom.” ↩

As we have argued elsewhere, fetishizing “the rule of law” often serves to legitimize atrocities that would otherwise be perceived as ghastly and unjust. History shows again and again how centralized government can perpetrate violence on a much greater scale than anything that arises in “unorganized chaos.” ↩

Nauseatingly, at least one contributor to Jacobin magazine has even attempted to rehabilitate this precursor to the worst excesses of Stalinism, pretending that a state-mandated religion could be preferable to authoritarian atheism. The alternative to both authoritarian religions and authoritarian ideologies that promote Islamophobia and the like is not for an authoritarian state to impose a religion of its own, but to build grassroots solidarity across political and religious lines in defense of freedom of conscience. ↩

[prettieparker86]

In The Bleak Midwinter || Part 11

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6 Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,  Part 12 & Part 13

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warning: Mentions of assault, flashbacks, threats

Gif Credit: @shesnake, @streitenfeld @sikanapanele @50feetwoman Thank you for letting me use your beautiful gifs!

Tag: @lainey-lane​, @pindlemouse, @ thelastemzy, @helloandreabeth, @fandoms-broke-my-life,  @shelbysbushblog, @accio-witty-username, @iamtheonewhocares, @infinitelycharmed23, @kingsmanstories, @shelby-gin-limited, @taylxr0, @sympathyfortheblinderdevil, @neversleeping4am, @icebluegriffin  @johhnshelby, @ subhamamu @ unicorn-glitter-princess @thatsamegirl, @mafaldaz, @cafe-sabor-a-chocolate

Authors Note: This was a very tough chapter to write. As the previous one, but I tried to approach the topic with honesty. This chapter starts two weeks after the incident, Tommy and Fiona are having to deal with the aftermath. Tommy is a very tough character to write especially in these situations, but I felt he would feel a great deal of guilt for not protecting her and he would blame himself that it happened. And Fiona is battling her own mixed feelings of guilt and shame, while also trying so move past something that isn’t so easily overcome.

I want to thank everyone for all the support for last chapter! That was a really tough one to write and I’m sure read. So your support was amazing!

As always likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! 

Tommy’s different. And if you’re honest, you knew in your heart he would be. Al took something that was his and tried to break it, and perhaps in Tommy’s eyes, succeeded. This is a man’s world. You remember your mother telling you that when you were a young girl, after you were caught rolling around in the dirt of the front yard with your brother Finn and his friends while your sister looked on in a huff, telling you to stop. 

You didn’t know what she meant then, but you learned soon enough. What happened to you, what was done, that was a man’s price, and in their world, you as a woman pay it. Most men understand that, but few understand what it’s like. Some try, but unless it’s happened to you… Unless you’ve carried the burden of a woman… Walked in her shoes… it’s hard to imagine… Even harder when she said yes.  

A place this small, a family this close, people know what happened. You did what you did, but it didn’t break you. That’s what you want them to know. You take great care to ensure you don’t appear troubled or afflicted. You refuse to be seen as weaker or lesser for what’s been done. It’s only at night the truth finds you. It’s only at night you can’t pretend. The pain in your eyes, it scares Tommy. He doesn’t say it, but you can see it. What happened that night changed him too.

 Tommy never spent much time with you during the day. His lack of presence doesn’t appear out the ordinary. Only those who knew what you were up to in the dark notice the different. Only they would know Tommy no longer shares your bed, but hovers about you like a new mother waiting for you to fall. He won’t let you out of his sight and if he can’t be there, his most trusted blinders are, or Arthur, or Finn. But Tommy won’t touch you, not like before. And that’s the hardest part, because looking in his eyes, you can’t tell if it’s because he’s afraid he’ll make it worse, or because he doesn’t see you the way he did before.

 You’re sound asleep, caught in the fight of slumber that only finds you in the dark, when your eyes close and your mind tries to rest. You’re fine, you tell yourself. You’ve been through worse. 

Surely being disowned and sent away by your family in your youth, pregnant and grieving the loss of the only man you ever loved, must be far worse than this. That was months of pain, years of grief. This? This was one night. That’s what you tell yourself even as your dreams weave a different tale entirely.

He finds you in the dark. The musky scent of his pungent cologne and sweaty skin seep up your nose. The forceful grip of his hands on your compliant body, the weight of him pressing and pushing you as he pleased. He’s the one who finds you in the dark.

It’s been nearly two weeks and still he finds you. Your breath is heavy and rapidly, moving in and out of your chest at a breaking necking speed as your heart pounds with a fury and your eyes shoot open with a start in the dark.

You stare up at the old weathered ceiling, paint peeling and hanging above you as you try to catch your breath. You don’t know what you were dreaming, and yet you know exactly what was unfolding. Sometimes the details are murky once you wake. Brought on by any mundane reminder in your day.

You force your breath to blow out slower, heavier - thick and moist as it leaves your lips. You’re trying to calm yourself down before you wake Finn beside you in bed, but then there’s a shift in the shadows. A movement – a change of light. 

Someone’s in the room with you, and instantly you’re sent into a raging panic as adrenaline floods through your veins. Your heart is pounding uncontrollably, breath shallow and rapid as you snatch the knife you now keep in the drawer of the bedside table and shoot up in bed ready for a fight.

“Easy Fee, easy. It’s me.” The familiar voice fills the otherwise silent air, husky and thick from a lack of sleep. 

You’d know the sound of it anyway, even before you recognize his blue eyes as your trembling hand slowly lowers the knife back to the table.

It’s Tommy, you realize. You’re eyes squinting as you take the sight of him seated on an old wooden chair just a few short feet from your bed. The sight of him throws you off completely. He wasn’t there when you fell asleep. 

Perhaps that’s why in all your panic you forgot that’s where he sleeps now. No, Tommy never leaves your side these days, but he won’t share your bed either. Hardly touches you at all. It’s the deepest kind of loneliness, when someone’s right next to you and miles away.

“You were dreaming.” Tommy tells you, as he leans forward in the chair, drawing closer to you.

Dreaming – the word bounces in your head like the hairpin trigger on an easily fired gun and suddenly a firing squad of flashes rapidly assault your mind. The feel of Al on top of you. Choking back your tears as you refused to break. His hand tightening on your neck, the pressure as you gasp. 

The dangerous unforgiving look in his eyes as he squeezed tighter and thrust harder into you with no mercy. You swear you can still feel him there – around your neck, between your thighs, and suddenly your stomach is flipping violently, a wave of nausea hitting you as it all comes back to you in a crushing wave.

Covering your mouth, you push out of the bed and stumble past Tommy. Dropping hard on your knees against the unforgiving hardwood floors in front of the pot at the far wall Poll keeps in case the little ones have to go in the night. You lean over it just in time to feel a retch violently wrack through you. Shaking violently through your body as you cough and gag, emptying your stomach into the old brass pot.

You don’t hear Tommy move over the sound of yourself retching, but you feel him crouch down beside you in the dark. Feel his knuckles run hesitantly down the length of your arm as he whispers your name.

“Fee…” You can’t deny the concern on his breath. 

Your heart is breaking in the dark. You feel so vulnerable and exposed as your wounds rip back open that as Tommy’s hand starts to pull away, you frantically reach for it, clutching it tight, needing someone to hold onto. But as Tommy squeezes your hand in return you remember, remember that he’s held you at a distance since the incident and you quickly jerk your hand back from him before he can pull away first.

“Mum?” Finn’s groggy voice suddenly fills the room at your back. “Mum are you a’right?” He’s scared, you hear it in his voice, you’d know the pitch of your child’s cry anywhere.

“I’m fine, baby.” You manage to spit out. Lying as you try to comfort him as best you can, afraid if you move from this spot another wave of nausea will hit you. You catch sight of Tommy rising on his feet out of the corner of your eye, before his voice fills your ears.

“She’ll be alright Finn. Why don’ you go sleep with Charlie tonight, ya? I’ll look after her.” You hear Tommy instruct your son as the pad of Finn’s little feet against the old wood floors fills your ears.

“Feel better Mum.” You hear him say as he slips out the bedroom, worry still thick on his breath.

The old creak of the door tells you he’s gone as tears burn in your eyes. You’re an emotional mess and knowing you frightened your child only makes you feel worse. Tommy’s steps are strong, his stride long as you hear him move back toward you.

“Should I call Pol?” He asks as he crouches back down beside you and you can hear it on his breath, he’s unsure what the best course of action is here, but his pity is the last thing you need.

Your fine, you tell yourself. You aren’t about to wake Pol over nonsense, you wouldn’t dream of it. Wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand, you shake your head no and brace your hands on the wooden stabs below. Digging your palms in, you slowly push yourself back on your feet. You sway, a little lightheaded at first as your reach for the wall for perch.

“I gotcha.” Tommy tells you as you feel him take your elbow. 

Your eyes meet in the dark and the look on his face as he stares back at you is almost more than you can bear – Uncertainty. Tommy doesn’t know how to help you. He’s unsure of what to do. For a man who’s always so sure of his course of action, it’s almost startling to see such an emotion in his eyes. But for a man who has barely touched you in days, his sudden desire to help only irritates you tonight.

“I’m fine,” You insist, pulling from his grip. You’re fine, you tell yourself again as you move slowly to the basin of water on the desk by the window. Dipping and cupping your hands on the chilly water before you splash it across your face, trying to wash yourself clean. Clean of a stain you can’t quite see, but always seem to feel these days. You rinse your face and neck, splashing water into your mouth, before rising from the basin slowly. 

Your gaze drifts off out the window in front of you as water runs down and drips off your face. You stare out into the rainy night, listening as the heavy drops pelt the window, watching the way the rain cuts through the light on the street lamps below like shards of glass. 

Your mind wandering… just over two weeks ago you would have been tucked in bed beside him, safe in his arms. You don’t regret what you did for the family, but you blame yourself for the damage it’s done to you and Tommy, and your angry at Tommy for pulling away.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, before Tommy’s hands find your shoulders, rolling the muscle in his palms, and for a split second your body relaxes under his touch. Your tension melts away, the anxious tightness in your chest subsides as a quiet sigh eases off your breath, but then he stops as he starts to guide you away from the window and back toward the bed. Gone as quickly as you captured it, like a dream in the morning light.

“Let’s get ya back to bed now, ya?” Tommy directs on a low gritty breath, still thick and gravel from the night.

“I’ve got it.” You shrug off his grasp. 

His fleeting moments of tenderness doing nothing to quell the pain inside your heart. It only amplifies the anger that’s been simmering in your heart for days. He hasn’t left you alone since it happened and yet he’s always kept you at arm’s length. When all your want is a moment of peace, and the assurance he’ll be there, really be there when you need him. 

You move of your own accord, feeling Tommy at your back, but as you reach the bed that awaits you, the cold spaces that now fill it taunting you, you turn to him,

“You comin’ to bed?” You test him, already knowing the answer that awaits you. You’ve missed him so desperately, and you hate to admit that, but standing there, after another nightmare, feeling the distance he’s put between you, you find yourself so bloody angry with him for making things worse.

The faint hazy glow from the street lamp and light of the near full moon, illuminates the sharp features of Tommy’s face. He’s hesitant, resistant, you can see it in his eyes.

“You should get some rest.” He tells you, face set like stone and equally unyielding.

You can’t resist the sardonic laugh that spills past your lips in response as angry tears burn at the edges of your eyes. You’re exhausted, physically and emotionally, and his continued rejection is the final straw.

“That’s all ya wan’ me to do these days, aye Tom? Where was the concern for my rest when you were fuckin’ me nearly every night? Am I too broken for ya now? Too much damage for Thomas Shelby.” You raise your eyebrow in challenge at him as tears blur your vision and slowly begin to fall on their own accord. You try your best not to wake the others in the house as the venom building inside you for weeks finally spills free.

“Fiona…” Tommy breathes, his head shaking slowly, denying your claim. 

The deep dark pits of his eyes twisting. The intensity of their blue, transforming into something more tortured, more guilt riddled as he reaches for you, trying to pull you closer. You shove his arm away, fire still burning in your belly as you rapidly wipe at your tears, angry at yourself for even crying.

“You think I liked it Tommy? Think I wanted him to fuck me?” You fire back, but the tears continue to build in your eyes and as they do Tommy grabs you, pulling you against him, tight against his chest. You struggle against him, trying to push him away, but he only holds you tighter.

“No Fee. Come on… come on.” He breathes out heavily against your hair.

For a moment you relent, surrender to his arms, finally feeling comforted. The familiar scent of Tommy filling your lungs, the smell of leather, whiskey, and smoke breathing life back into you. This is the closest he’s gotten since the night you came home. 

Wrapped in his arms, pulled tight against him, you feel safer, but you’re too angry with him to be appeased so easily. Angry that he’s discarded you. Angry that you gave your body and part of your soul up to a monster, only to be treated like you have the plague afterward. Angry that you can’t even have peace in your dreams. Angry that you don’t feel the same inside yourself anymore. Shoving harder at him, Tommy finally lets you go and stumbles back as you push him away.

“I don’t want your pity, Tommy. I can take care of myself. I always have…. Get out.” You say crossly, but Tommy doesn’t budge. He stares boldly back into your eyes, shoulders growing tense, but he doesn’t move.

“No,” He tells you unequivocally.

“Get out!” You finally snap at him, your heart breaking, and Tommy snaps back at you just as quick.

“No! I’m not fuckin’ leaving!” Tommy erupts, his voice twice the volume of yours as he yells at you for the first time ever.

You stand frozen in place, your chest heaves, rising and falling heavily as you stare at him, Tommy’s deep tortured eyes staring back at you. You don’t know what to say as Tommy looks at you in almost disbelief before he drops down into the chair he’d slept on, lowering his face into his hands as he scrubs at his eyes in frustration. 

Pulling the case from his waistcoat, Tommy clears his throat as he plucks a cigarette and places it in the seam of his lips before flicking his lighter. The room is suddenly eerily silent, except for the sound of Tommy pulling away at his cigarette – the deep inhale and exhale of his lips, the quiet burn of the paper as the rain carries on outside.

You stand there, not backing down, not charging ahead as you cross your arms against your chest and watch him. He takes a few more long pulls of his cigarette before letting out a long sigh and rising from his seat. Tossing his cigarette into fireplace, he turns back to you, suddenly taking your face in his hands.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at ya, but I need ya to get some rest and feel better, a’right?” Tommy tells you. His palms are rough, but his tone and words are softer than before.

You look into his eyes, the endless blue depths staring back at you, and for the first time since that night you feel like you’re staring into the eyes of the man you love. The man you’ve grown to know over these past few years. The tortured and broken man, who doesn’t speak softly to anyone the way he is with you now.

“Yeah?” He nods slowly, trying to coax your compliance as his thumb drags across your cheek. He’s scared for you and what’s becoming of you, you can see it.

The sight of him, the man you love only stirs a deeper longing and loneliness as you stare back at him.

“Are we done, Tommy?” You ask, exhausted and beaten down by it all. A life that’s been long, and seems to only steal your happiness as soon as you grasp it, every glimmer, every time, except Finn.

“No,” He answers, without hesitation, before he leans in and you feel his soft full lips touch your forehead as his thumb strokes at your cheek.

You glance back at the bed, the lonely confines that await you. Accepting you fate, you nod in agreement as you look back to him. But that tenderness you felt in his lips a moment ago, you still see it in his eyes now, as Tommy holds your gaze for a moment before he begins to shuffle off his shoes.

“Come on,” He says quietly as he moves you to the bed. You smile at him gratefully as you climb into it and watch as Tommy follows behind you. You roll onto your side and feel Tommy’s arm hesitantly wrap around your body.

“Is this- is this good?” He asks unsure, it’s then you can see he’s still afraid to touch you. 

Unsure how to hold a woman another man has damaged. You reassure him quietly, wrapping your arm around his as your eyes close, but there’s still a nagging at the edge of your mind, an itch under your skin that never quite goes away. 

You pray to the only God you’ve ever known to let this feeling pass and just let you be whole again. But as you drift away, into that thick space, hovering between here and the place you go when you close your eyes, you know in your heart nothing will be as it was before, as surely as you did the day you learned Tony was never coming home.

 It was part of the deal, you knew that… But you had agreed to it before everything happened. And now you feel bound to follow through. Tommy is livid when he learns of the new clause in the contract.  As far he’s concerned you should never be the same room with Al or any member of his fuckin’ family again. 

His anger helps you focus, gives you something to think about and draw your attention to other than your own anxiety and fear. He wants you to break this part of the deal, call the whole thing off, but after everything that happened, you think it might be easier to just be done with it.

Maura, Tony’s mother – Al’s mother, she just wants to see her grandson again. She hasn’t seen Finn since he was just a baby and you were living destitute with your ‘aunt’ Brona. You know she misses him, misses what he represents, the last living piece of her dead son. As a mother, you don’t have the heart to rob her of that, so you agreed. To a meeting. To allow Maura to see her grandson. That’s it, that’s all it is you try to convince yourself and Tommy.

It’s Polly who brings sense to it all. A voice of clarity, she makes Tommy see there’s no reason to mix more bad blood into the business. This isn’t for Al, she tells him, but Tommy still hates it. 

He only agrees if he can arrange everything. The whole fucking thing must be on his terms, where he feels you and Finn are safest or it’s off. Tommy can’t leave Small Health without being shot, so he has the lunch booked at the Midland Hotel. It’s just you, Tommy and Finn that attend the lunch, and every Blinder Tommy can pull away from other jobs to fill the hotel.

Your nerves are on edge, anxiety racing, you haven’t seen Al since that night. It’s been nearly a month and your stomach has still been in knots the whole ride, but you don’t let it show. You bury it deep. 

After years of it only being you and Finn, your son has learned how to read you like a book. You know he’s nervous, meeting these people he doesn’t know, but if he senses any reservations in you too, it’ll only make matters worse. You stay strong for him as you always have.

Entering the Hotel lounge Tommy has reserved, you feel your fear and anxiety begin to peak. Your chest tightens, breath quickening, stomach tangling in knots, just a few more steps and you’ll be eye to eye with the man that terrorized you nearly a month ago, and yet it feels like just yesterday. 

But as Finn’s big nervous eyes shoot up to yours, you find your inner strength, and push your own fears down as you force a reassuring smile across your face. No experience in this life has made you stronger than becoming a mother. The instinctual drive to keep him safe, knowing his very life often depends upon you, that experience has created a reservoir of strength inside you you couldn’t have imagined before him.

The knots linger down deep in your belly, but you wrestle to keep them down below. You decide then and there, Al doesn’t get to have any more of you. You learned long ago people can only take your power if you let them, and you’re not handing yours out to that son of a bitch.

You’re steadfast in your conviction until you turn the corner and there he is, standing tall and erect beside his elderly mother, suit just as clean and pressed as you remember. He smiles at you as if your old friends and the sight of it sends shivers down your spine. 

Your feet stall for a moment, Finn’s eyes shooting back up to you when you abruptly stop walking. You will yourself to move, but god help you, it’s moments like these you’re painfully reminded… You’re only human.

Your feet are like lead on the plush carpet until you feel Tommy’s hand come to rest on your lower back, rubbing shapeless doodles into your spine, easing the tension. You feel his lips press lightly against the back of your head.

“Breathe,” Tommy instructs and you obey, slowly sucking in a deep breath, filling your lungs before you release it slowly back out. You glance up at him and he meets your gaze, reminded you’re not alone in this, you don’t have to be brave alone. His jaw is set, his face like stone, Tommy looks cold and uninviting, but you understand, that isn’t for you, it’s for Al and Maura.

He gives you a subtle nod and you begin to move again until you reach the table. You’d grown to care for Maura after Finn’s birth, but it’s been a long time and the air in the room feels thick and awkward as you try to start. The hotel is old and grand, held together by tall columns of mahogany and shiny marble floors. 

 The lounge is enormous with a beautifully hand painted ceiling, ornate crown molding along the trim and vast cream-colored walls cut apart by tall floor to ceiling windows that stream in light. You imagine this room is usually used for fine dining and important gala’s, but today it only holds your small group. Gangsters, mothers, a child and blinders at the door. The vast space seems to swallow you all up and only adds to the already palpable unease of the room.

Maura comes around the table slowly. It’s been so long and you sense she’s nervous too. She smiles at you kindly before her attention drops down to Finn.

“Hello Finn, I’m your nonna.” She says softly, reaching out her hand.

Finn’s giant blue eyes shoot up to you as you give him a nod of encouragement before he glances back down, extending his hand. “Hello,” He answers back, shaking her hand.

“Shall we sit?” Maura asks, motioning to the table.

You nod and begin to answer when Al suddenly clears his throat and sends your whole body filling with tension as your gaze involuntarily shoots his way.

“Mr. Shelby and I have a few things to discuss. Why don’t you ladies start. We’ll join you in a moment.” He suggests before he turns to Tommy.

“Mr. Shelby here doesn’t mind sharin’ his girl, am I right?” Al digs, like a screw turning just a little tighter. You can see it in Al’s eyes, that look – he loves playing games with people.

Your eyes shoot over your shoulder to Tommy. Your heart begins to race as you watch his jaw flex. He’s livid, but he’s trying to keep control. He knows just as well as you what Al is trying to do. His eyes meet yours and you plead with him silently not to take the bait.

Reaching into his jacket, Tommy promptly retrieves his cigarette case and has a smoke pressed tightly between his lips and sparked in seconds.

“Anything we need to discuss can be done in the back of the room.” Tommy finally answers, ignoring Al’s barb all together, but making it clear, he will not be leaving this room.

You take a seat at the table, motioning for Finn to take the one between you and Maura, as you glance over and watch Tommy and All walk steadily to the back corner of the large lounge. You heart begins to race, Tommy looks as calm as can be, slowly pulling away at his cigarette other hand in the pocket of his waistcoat, but he doesn’t know Al like you do. 

He doesn’t know how cruel and manipulative he can be. And the sinking feeling in your gut tells you Al isn’t done playing games. You turn back as Finn tugs on the sleeve of your shirt. His big blue eyes stare up at you with uncertainty as his hand slips into your own and squeezes it tight.

You notice Maura has placed a toy truck on the table, a gift for him surely. The look in her eyes is suspended, awaiting his response as she tries to win him over. You can see it in your little boy’s eyes, he doesn’t know what’s expected of him. He’s smart enough to know this lady wants his attention, but he doesn’t know her either.

 You explained to him the situation the night before, preparing him for who he would be meeting, but hearing it and fully understanding it are very different things to a seven-year-old boy who’s never really had a family before Tommy and Charlie. You smile down to your son, squeeze his hand in return, and give him a nod before he turns back to Maura and thanks her politely for the gift.

You gaze drifts back to the end of the lounge as you listen to Maura ask Finn about things he likes, trying to get to know the boy, but the conversation quickly fades away as your eyes zero in on Tommy and Al at the far end of the room. The tension on Tommy’s face is unmistakable even from across the room. Though you’re sure it’s not readable to anyone else. 

You can see he tries to ignore Al, his gaze set squarely on you, but his shoulders are held tight as he puffs away on another cigarette. You smile weakly over at him as your eyes meet. Silently urging him to behave, keep this pleasant for Finn’s sake, but you can only imagine what game Al must be trying to play. Having been held captive by his manipulation on a night you’ll never forget, you’re certain he’s still trying to play.

As the lunch wears on and the minutes pass, your attention continues to be torn, between your son as he tries to get to know the grandmother he doesn’t remember and Tommy. Maura tries to make conversation, telling you she thinks he has Tony’s smile, making note of your current inability to leave Small Heath, how unfortunate the circumstance is, and the questionable company you now keep, but you ignore most of it, you have no intention of explaining yourself to her. That’s not what this visit is for.

 She asks you about the boy’s schooling and you absently explain you’ve been teaching him at home yourself, when you notice Tommy’s muscles suddenly tighten, you see his jaw flex and fire ignite in his powerful blue eyes. Your stomach clenches, you can see this is about to go very bad and fast, as you quickly excuse yourself for a moment and rise from the table, moving toward him. It’s only when you grow near do you hear the conversation at hand, the taunts Al jabs and tries to provoke Tommy with.

“You see the key is you gotta grip her tight. Her eyes’ll water, mouth gasping like one of those fuckin’ guppy fish, but trust me, she fuckin loves it. Begging me to fuck her harder, till her eyes start to roll in the back of her head. Just before she’s about to pass out, that’s when you release her throat.”

His words sucker punch you in the gut as you suddenly think you might be sick on the lush carpet below. Your stomach flipping, but you have no time to focus on that as Tommy suddenly turns on Al. You find yourself having to push your way between them as you catch sight of Tommy reaching for his holstered gun.

“Tommy no!” You demand, the sound of your desperate voice calling his name breaks through his fury as his eyes drop down to yours.

“He’s not worth it. Please Finn is here.” You try to talk him down, your hand pressing against his arm that’s gripping his gun. Trying desperately to calm him down as the look in your eyes pleads with him. While your disgusted and revolted by what he said, your child’s in the room.

Tommy’s chest moves hard, the vein in his neck pulsing, but slowly his hand leaves his holster. Touching gently at your face as if to say – I hear you. His eyes shoot up pointedly to Al’s, the look in his gaze the kind of dark and deadly you’ve never seen him use before.

“You should watch your fuckin mouth. She’s the only reason your alive right now.” His voice low and gritty, but eerily calm in way you’ve never heard Tommy speak before. So foreign you hardly recognize it.

“An’ why do you think that is?” You hear Al jab, throwing one last knife at Tommy’s heart, but watching him slice at Tommy again is more than you can take as you finally snap. Hurting you is one thing, hurting the people you love is another beast entirely.

“Oh shut up!” You holler at him. 

Turning back to face Al, you don’t know what comes over you. Maybe it’s all the pain inside you, or the fact that he’s now trying to hurt your family after trying to break you, but suddenly you’re moving in on him, jabbing a finger violently at his chest as you boldly glare into his eyes unafraid.

“Tony despised you. He hated everything you were. Used to warn me about you, because even then he knew you were a monster.” You hiss out, seconds away from slapping him across the face when you feel Tommy’s hand on your shoulder.

“Let’s go.” He directs, the even tone of his voice stabilizing you, bringing you back down, calming you.

“Yes, lets.” You agree. Sucking in a sharp steadying breath as you pull yourself together and turn to your son watching you with big worried eyes from the table.

“Come on Finn.” You call, motioning for your son. “I’m sorry Maura. We have to go.”

The older woman looks frazzled and confused by what’s unfolded as she rises quickly from the table.

“Can I see him again?” She asks, an air of panic on her breath as Finn leaves the truck on the table and runs to you.

“We’ll be in touch.” You nod steely, your arm wrapped protectively around your son’s shoulders. 

But as you turn to go, you hear an ominous threat seep off Tommy’s lips, the low grit of his voice signaling these parting words are meant only for Al’s ears to catch.

“In business or in pleasure, one of these days I will kill you.”

[anthonybialy]

Anti-Social Media

Social media is great except for the social and media parts. It'd be fairly easy to cope with the anonymous dastards provoking reactions with maliciousness from behind the distant security of glowing screens if we were allowed to police ourselves.

But those who don't trust us with the right to bear arms oppose any other form of self-defense, too. The fey quasi-entrepreneurs behind our despised favorite time-sucking apps still can't decide if they run publishers or platforms. Bans will remain arbitrary while they ponder what sort of businesses they own.

Someone else saying something is an endorsement. Or not. Do you understand why your account was suspended now? Twitter can't even settle what a checkmark means, as a mess over who's verified embodies confusion about whether the New Coke of sites endorses content. Imagine Jim Beam taking responsibility for inflated self-esteem. The identity check should merely be way to determine if the message is authentic, even if it's from someone inauthentic.

Social media's whole appeal is controlling our own news feeds. At least, it was. Refreshing to see what's new in the last 15 seconds is like being hooked on heroin without the high anymore. I'm more ticked we can't see what we choose in chronological order than about the privacy violations, as our deepest secrets are pretty dull, anyway.

Let us run our feeds to take away concerns about mean things some of our fellow users post. Less meddling by Twitter's smugly oafish guardians means we'd get control of our timelines back, not to mention the companies who host our thoughts would get to dodge responsibility like they crave.

Grownups already cope with abuse. Curse out anyone who does the same to you first. Feel free to block at will, as denying some troglodytic schmuck access to your content is the closest thing online to a rubber stamp reading “NO.” I wonder how many accounts I've muted continue to rage without me ever encountering the invective. The silence sounds wonderful.

Social media minions can intervene for genuine threats. As for lesser craven invective transmitted through the ether, users can experience the closest thing possible to a pro athlete ignoring maniacal insults from losers jealous of the performance.

Let everyone have their say. The problem is often what's said. But we can sort it out better than any regulator, as the principle doesn't just apply to commerce. That's unless you don't trust people with their own judgment, which, if you're the sort of person who thinks the economy needs to be micromanaged by Elizabeth Warren, you are.

Forcing evil ideas underground is sure to keep them from festering. A ban allows Alex Jones to feel like he's persecuted, and that's as good for his brand as fluoridated water. Steven Crowder doesn't need any attention, much less any brought by acting like his lame jokes are worth creating commotion. Up yours to anyone who made me defend his rights.

Let lunatics rant like they're handing out pamphlets. The furor over online hosts allowing unpleasantly unpopular ideas to be expressed is often formulated as “Twitter bans <blank> but lets Nazis stay.” Enjoy the righteousness of condemning the worst people ever. But use awful humans as a test to demonstrate the ability to not overreact instead of pouting.

Shrug at those who've been allowed to show just what repulsive germs they are. If someone gets the chance to demonstrate their similarity to pond scum, let them. Those who think everyone to Pol Pot's right is a Nazi can work on calmness in a slightly different way.

Twitter stumbled upon something amazing which it has worked diligently to ruin since. It's the George Lucas of social media. Letting users post and discover others who do the same is far too unrestrained for those who feel the Wild West was a filthy time of icky guns and toxic masculinity.

Every online space is ultimately about letting others have their say, even if the said says are unpleasant. Users can sort it out as they add their own ingredients to the stew of ideas, even if they're as appalling as mushrooms.

The same people freaking out about unregulated society just happen to think you'll be seduced by unpalatable ideas. The panic is so severe that self-appointed censors can't decide if they must ban genuinely awful content that's easily dismissed or lump in everyone calling for a smaller government because wackos with fidelity to some Constitution are a danger to America.

I didn't even know how impressionable our species was, probably because I watched the wrong sorts of clips. YouTube should ban videos of lava because they tempt me by looking like delicious cherry sauce.

We apparently can't let the market work, including when ideas are for sale. Some are concerned they have nothing to peddle. Open forums might mean precious feelings get dented, and there really should be an asterisk attached to the First Amendment for the exception of when words make someone feel hurt inside.

Please guard us from cruel thoughts. Virtual hall monitors presume that others are so easily brainwashed by exposure to rotten notions that they need to intervene. Try to unsee nasty words. The presumption about everyone else's weak-mindedness is totally not projection.

Uninhibited social media is good for more than inadvertently expressing psychological issues. Creating one's own filter does more than show just how easy journalism is: it entrusts the same people granted free speech as a natural right with the ability to encounter and embrace or dismiss concepts uttered by others. Atrocious ideas poorly stated stand out on their own. Please don't ban them, as it's nice of idiots to self-identify.

[free-speech-network]

Suffering

Not that many people know what it's like to be angry in your soul. Everyone claims to understand at first. But eventually they want the angry person to do something he knows he can't do - move on. So eventually they stop understanding.

But if you think about it, this is the appropriate response when you have become half of a whole and you lose half of yourself. When you give your soul and your life to another and they take it away, you become half the person you were. When they walk out the door, a piece of you has died.

Most people don't know what it's like to be emotionally and psychologically dead. Most people don't understand what it's like to wake up, to take a shower, to eat, to go to bed, but be dead inside all the while. There's no point in living if you are emotionally and psychologically dead. You aren't living. Sure, in a strictly literal sense you're alive but this is just a technicality. Just because your heart is pumping and your brain is functioning doesn't mean you're alive.

Waking up every morning pissed off that you're still alive is frustrating. It's like in Terminator 2, when John Connor asks the Terminator what would happen if he dies. He says he would become useless. There would be no reason for his existence.

Every day I picture my own death. I imagine myself walking down the street, about 50 feet from Walgreens and someone sneaks up behind me and shoots me in the head. I die instantly. This is the perfect way to die. I pray for this death. This would be the perfect ending to my journey. 34 years on this earth was more than enough. I already missed the perfect moment for me to die. There was this perfect moment, and I let it pass me right by.

This perfect moment was the night of my sisters sweet 16. That was right before everything bad happened. I could have avoided every bad thing that ever happened in my life had I died that night. I deserved to die at that point, because I would have been spared my suffering. I don't deserve to suffer. Like Tony Soprano says to his psychiatrist, it's the Hitlers, the Pol Pots, the sick fucks who kill for pleasure and the psychos who torture children who deserve to go to Hell. I'm a good guy. I deserved a better fate.

Life is a meaningless journey that doesn't matter. You either luck out and have a good one or you don't. And my luck ran out many years ago. The good times are over. So my fate is to suffer in misery until God finally and mercifully decides to take me. I'm ready. I'm prepared to give account. I did everything right in my life so I have nothing to worry about.

When pain becomes constant, there's no such thing as a good day anymore, and most people don't understand that. People not understanding how I feel is frustrating. I was born a bad hand.

I was born in the shallow end of the gene pool. It was inevitable from birth that I would suffer and that I was never meant to be a happy, well adjusted individual. I was not given the tools needed to succeed in life. I was at a disadvantage from day one. We're born into this shit. We are what we are.

So as I impatiently wait for the end, I know I have nothing but dark days ahead. Everything good is behind me. There's no joy or happiness to be found in my future, just heartbreak and tragedy. This is true suffering. It's the absence not only of joy, but of a potential for happiness. There is no light ahead. Just endless black, much like what happens after someone sneaks up behind you and shoots you in the head.

[xtruss]

These Travel Restrictions Must End

Closed Borders Over a Virus That is Everywhere. Hilarious. And Tragic.

— By Jeffrey A. Tucker | September 15, 2021 | Brownstone Institute | Covid Pol Pots

On matters epidemiological, I’m a dedicated follower of Professor Sunetra Gupta of Oxford University, scientist and novelist. It was she who granted me a broad understanding of the relationship between society, freedom, and infectious disease.

She explained the urgency to get this right lest we recreate and institutionalize a caste system that delineates one group from another based on perceived cleanliness and thus harms everyone while setting back human rights and freedoms.

Looking at data only gets one so far. We all need deeper understanding. She gave me that.

Also, she is a wonderful person.

So of course I wanted to bring Sunetra to the United States for a Brownstone Institute event. She is a hero among many in the United States, and people deserve to meet her and get her thoughts. She lives in London. It’s a nice flight from there to here. Why not?

It cannot happen, at least not now. Since March 2020, UK citizens cannot travel to the US unless they have some special exemption granted by the US government. I’m not even sure I would know how to obtain that. I’m guessing that the Biden administration is not likely to grant an exception for her.

So we are stuck. She is stuck. Here is the map of the world from the point of view of UK travelers. Only Mexico and Columbia are fully open. The states in orange are restricted. The states in red are closed.

Hundreds of millions of people are stuck. Billions. We are all prisoners at some level and in some ways. We cannot have guests visit us from Europe. In retaliation, Europe is mostly closed to the US. The US has loosened restrictions for Australians but Australians are not allowed out. Or have a look at Sweden, one of the few states in the world that did not lock down. They are not allowed to travel much at all outside their own borders due to restrictions from other nations.

Why some nations are open, and others are not, is a mystery. There does not seem to be any rational reason except for vague claims of the need to be safe from Covid. Our governments did this to us. They intervened in a world of happy world travelers and smashed it, in the name of controlling a virus that is absolutely everywhere and has been for two years.

There is no precedent in modern history for such restrictions. There is also very little debate about this, which is shocking. The world spent decades in outrage about the closures between East and West Germany. Tear down this wall! When the Berlin Wall fell, the whole world celebrated. Now the world is filled with walls, not just to migration (though it’s bizarre that the US actually has huge immigration inflows from the Southern border) but even to normal travelers.

Much of this began January 31, 2020, when Trump banned travel for non-US citizens from China. It was a controversial decision within the administration, even among public-health experts, because it had long been conventional wisdom that such travel bans are harmful.

The virus was already here and spreading, though in those days the US had very little testing and so Trump believed that he could perhaps keep the virus out. He was wrong about that. Even so, I recall some people on the left objecting but the travel ban connected with many people’s intuition that the way to deal with a virus is to force some kind of separation.

That travel ban unleashed two habits of thought that ended up driving the rest of the lockdowns.

The first habit was to believe that the virus is over there but not here. It doesn’t matter where the “there” and the “here” is; it’s just a reflection of a primitive belief that “they” are dirty and “we” are clean, or that the virus is some kind of miasmic fog floating somewhere where we are not. If you live in the miasmic zone, some of the bad air might stick to you. This later came to be the driving impulse behind state-level quarantines and restrictions.

You probably noticed this yourself. No matter where you live, the people there always imagined that they were in some kind of disease-free bubble that could be easily penetrated by invaders. This attitude still persists. In the Northeast of the US, vast numbers of people are somehow convinced that Texas and the South are full of disease, such that if you travel there and come back, you are likely carrying this virus. And this isn’t just about the vaccination rates; this habit of mind was there from the beginning.

That connects directly with the second habit of mind: the belief that the way to control the virus was via human separation. One you start to think this way, the logic becomes unstoppable. It’s not just about the Chinese. It’s about everyone outside the border. Outside the state. Outside the county. Outside the neighborhood. Outside the home. Outside this room.

The implications of this view are profound. It impacts directly on the possibility of human freedom itself.

On March 12, 2020, Trump announced the next step, which shocked me but should not have. He blocked all travel from Europe. He said this would reduce the threat and ultimately defeat the virus – a statement that embodies his highly confused views on this matter from the beginning. He also garbled a sentence that ended up having a devastating economic result. He meant to say that the ban would exempt goods. Instead he said the following: “These prohibitions will not only apply to the tremendous amount of trade and cargo, but various other things as we get approval. Anything coming from Europe to the United States is what we are discussing.” The stock market immediately tanked.

I had no idea that the US president even had such power. I certainly never imagined he would use it. On the other hand, it made sense in a crazy way. If he could stop travel from China to keep the virus out, he could stop travel from anywhere. As a result of one man’s decision, world travel and vast amounts of normal commerce came to a halt.

The virus circulated anyway, not only in the US but everywhere in the world. These days the world makes fun of places like Australia and New Zealand where they imagined that they could somehow keep the virus out by controlling people’s movements in and out of the country. But that is precisely what Trump was doing too!

As a result of his edict, millions of Americans living abroad desperately bought tickets to get back to the US before the ban went into effect. They arrived at international airports that were wildly crowded at all the immigration and customs chokepoints. The waits in Los Angeles and Chicago were many hours, even up to 8 hours, standing shoulder to shoulder with people who had flown in from all over the world. This was happening the same day that Drs. Fauci and Birx were lecturing Americans to “socially distance” and stay away from other people in order to control the virus. The whole scene was emblematic of two years of policy chaos, with leaders ordering people around in ways that made the chaos worse rather than better.

During the remainder of the Trump term, between March and January, people inside the administration were trying their best to stop these preposterous rules. But there was always a problem. The danger was that opening up travel again could somehow be associated with increased cases and deaths from Covid, and that contract tracing would be deployed to show it. In that case, whomever was responsible for reopening would catch the blame. No one inside the Trump administration was willing to take the risk. So everything stayed shut.

The Biden administration could have opened also but the same problem presented itself. The borders were shut to the world, and no one wanted to take the risk of reopening, even though the virus was already here, there, and everywhere. Opening would not have made any difference. Would it have increased the “spread” of the virus or its prevalence? Not any more than was already the case.

Further, we know for sure that being exposed to the virus is the best means to obtain immunities from it, from which we get the counterintuitive conclusion that it would actually be safer for everyone to have people travel here from countries that had already dealt with the virus. After the vaccine came along, one might have supposed that there would be opening at least to those who took the jab, but there was another problem: the gradual realization that the vaccine doesn’t actually stop infection or spread. Thus are the borders still closed to this day.

There was no consensus in public health for the travel bans. On March 2, 2020, 800 public health experts signed a letter that recommended against them. “Travel restrictions also cause known harms, such as the disruption of supply chains for essential commodities,” they wrote, while citing a piece in Science Daily that reviewed thousands of studies on travel bans that was unable to come up with any conclusive evidence that they accomplish anything in terms of disease containment.

Already back in 2006, Donald Henderson had echoed the conventional wisdom, not only of his colleagues but also of the World Health Organization.

Travel restrictions, such as closing airports and screening travelers at borders, have historically been ineffective. The World Health Organization Writing Group concluded that “screening and quarantining entering travelers at international borders did not substantially delay virus introduction in past pandemics . . . and will likely be even less effective in the modern era.”

Similar conclusions were reached by public health authorities involved in the international efforts to control SARS. Canadian health authorities report that “available screening measures for SARS were limited in their effectiveness in detecting SARS among inbound or outbound passengers from SARS-affected areas.” A review by a WHO Working Group on SARS also concluded that “entry screening of travelers through health declarations or thermal scanning at international borders had little documented effect on detecting SARS cases.”…

It is reasonable to assume that the economic costs of shutting down air or train travel would be very high, and the societal costs involved in interrupting all air or train travel would be extreme.

The longer these restrictions exist to travelers from other countries, the more resentment that foreign nations feel. They are retaliating. Indeed, states all over Europe have removed the US from the list of countries to which it is considered safe to travel. Even Sweden is in on the act, banning nonessential travelers from the US. The restrictions are getting worse, not better.

The US could end this escalation of restrictions that have shut down the beautiful world of travel simply by reopening to the world, same as was true before the Trump administration embarked on this wild experiment. The emergence of global travel in the 20th century – its universal availability and practice – was one of the great triumphs of liberalism and modernity.

We rejected the isolation, parochialism, and local stagnation of the past and sought out knowledge and adventures all over the globe. We encountered new people, new places, new experiences. The world became open to all, thanks to commercialized flight. This also generated an incredible positive externality for public health. More exposure to the world improved immune systems for individuals the world over – a point first made to me by Professor Gupta.

Then in an instant it was closed. International tourist arrivals are down by 85% from 2019. A third of the world’s borders are shut. There seems to be no movement in the direction of reversing this disaster and reinstituting the wonderful world of 2019. In fact, there seems to be very little awareness that this has happened to us much less of the terrible consequences. Forget the freedom of movement; the Biden administration has only promised to open up “when it is safe to do so.”

Why is there so little controversy about this and no real political pressure from anyone to do something about it other than a handful of business lobbyists? It’s like many other aspects of lockdowns. Both parties and ideologies are implicated in them. If everyone’s hands are dirty, there is no one available to clean up.

Sunetra Gupta is one person among billions who cannot come to the United States by virtue of having the wrong citizenship identity and passport. She is locked out, in the name of virus control. There should be outrage, and would be if the restrictions on travel did not compete with so many other policies worthy of outrage.

— Jeffrey A. Tucker is Founder and President of the Brownstone Institute and the author of many thousands of articles in the scholarly and popular press and ten books in 5 languages, most recently Liberty or Lockdown. He is also the editor of The Best of Mises. He speaks widely on topics of economics, technology, social philosophy, and culture. tucker@brownstone.org

[whatisonthemoonarchive]

An open letter to In Jin Moon and the Unification Church (2012) by Thomas Cromwell

September 13, 2012

Dear In Jin Moon,

On September 11 this year, as Americans paused to remember the shock and horror of the terror attacks 11 years ago, my son, Tossa, was fired by HSA-UWC. Until a few days ago, you led HSA, and the staff members there are still your loyal followers. Tossa’s firing was accompanied by threats of legal action should he disclose any information about you, your family or your staff. He has also been subjected to blackmail. HSA staffers have threated to reveal ‘personal issues’ that he had shared confidentially and which would be embarrassing if made public unless he leave HSA without saying what he knows about the wrongdoing of your administration.

Tossa has been through many months of internal struggle and anguish over your situation. He has been trained to put his faith in central figures and to look for God’s Will behind Unification Church situations that have all the hallmarks of corruption and abuse. I have heard tapes of you praising him for his devotion and commitment as a staff member. But that was before your behavior became so outrageous that Tossa could no longer stand it and told you directly that he could not agree with your immoral course of action. He was sent home for a month before being fired because your staff closed ranks around you and pilloried him for speaking the truth, instead of joining him in confronting you.

I would imagine quite a few people know that Tossa was fired because he spoke up about his concerns for you and what you were doing. Confronting you was very difficult to do, and brave of him. For someone like Tossa with deep faith in God, TP and the Divine Principle, to confront you as a child of TP over your behavior required enormous courage. His firing was payback, and it speaks volumes about you and the organization you have created to protect yourself rather than to carry out its providential purpose.

Many members know Tossa as a translator for Father. He has often spent whole days doing simultaneous translation from Father’s difficult Korean into English. He has also worked in your office to translate speeches and other UC documents, to help with the education of blessed children, and other tasks.

But that is not the Tossa that I know. To me, he is a beautiful son. His suffering now is hard for me to bear. I find myself weeping for him and for God. I am enraged. I feel like Jacob when Joseph was abused by his brothers. What can a father do? It is not that Tossa has lost a job. (I have often warned him that his devotion to the UC would never be reciprocated, and his pay kept him in virtual poverty anyway.) My sadness and anger are because evil and abusive leadership have once more risen to dominate an organization I served most of my adult life, and people that I care about and love have been deeply hurt.

Let me tell you a few things about the Tossa that I know. His birth in Amman, Jordan seemed something of a miracle to me, at that time a missionary and regional director for the Middle East struggling endlessly to build a foundation for TP in the land of the Patriarchs, of Moses and Jesus. No father could want a better son. Of course he is not perfect, but he was obedient and good. As my missions evolved, he moved with us from Jordan to Cyprus and then Greece. He learned Greek during our first summer in Athens, at age 7. At 10, he came with me to a regional Principle workshop on a mountain in Turkey, where he presented the parallels of history.

At home he always cared for his younger siblings, first Anmar, born in Cyprus, then Alexander and Harmony, born in Athens. He cared for others too, especially children less fortunate than he in being able to learn at school. At 12 I took him to Korea to join the GOP program, designed to help Western BCs learn Korean. I remember sitting on the stairs of the GOP dorm before having to leave him there. I told him if he stayed in the top three of his GOP class that I thought it would be worth my effort to continue supporting him there. He never forgot, and never gave me a reason to bring him home. He finished High School in Korea and went to Sun Moon University.

But he has always been sensitive: caring for others has been an expression of his sensitive heart. (Anyone who has witnessed his infinite patience with his children, including a son with serious disabilities, will know what I mean.) Korean school kids can be mean and bullying, and Tossa always hated that. His treatment by Korean students at SM University became too much for him, so he came to live with me in the US. Later, work with the UC took him back to Korea where he tried to fit in with the Korean UC HQ staff. Eventually, he could not continue there either due to a culture obsessed with position rather than caring and love. He returned to the US, greatly discouraged. Then he went to work for you, In Jin, hopeful at the time that this would finally prove an environment in which TP and the Principle were actually the model and guiding light for work and relationships.

Tossa would never write a public letter like this to you. He is too humble and self-deprecating. He has also been your employee and a faithful UC member. I have no such constraints. You don’t know me, but I can tell you I don’t spend my time in basements writing anonymous blogs critical of the Unification Church. I was born into a strict Bruderhof Community, in England. I had my first encounter with God at age 13, and from that time committed myself to seeking His will for my life. I joined the UC in Washington, DC, in 1969, at age 21. After just a couple of months I moved to New Haven to pioneer the first center in New England. After the first speaking tour by TF, I was sent as a state pioneer to Oklahoma. In 1975 I was one of the 120 US missionaries sent out to the world. I went to Egypt, my first choice when asked. I studied Arabic and Islam, and started a language institute. I was deported twice and imprisoned once. In December 1979 I was appointed the first regional director of the Middle East, and soon after made Cyprus my base. In 1992, I was appointed first continental director for the Middle East and North Africa. In addition to leading the church in that difficult region (some 21 countries), I was founding publisher and editor of the Middle East Times (owned by News World Communications), I organized regional academic conferences for PWPA in the Middle East and for East-West European dialogue in the last years of the Cold War, organized inter-faith conferences with IRF-offshoot organizations, and carried out countless other missions in the region.

In 1999 I resigned my Unification Church responsibilities. I could not go on. What I was preaching and telling others about the Unification path had become too far removed from the reality of an organization riddled with corruption and dishonesty. I also could no longer present myself and my family as a model of what we believed. I came to believe that by staying active in the UC I would actually be contributing to the damage being done to TP’s rightful legacy.

In 2000 Mr. Joo fired me as publisher and editor of the Middle East Times, after 18 years of service. I had opposed the purchase of UPI (after conducting due diligence on its London operation for Mr. Joo) on the basis that I thought it was unjustified to ask members to contribute more money to a venture with such uncertain objectives and of such uncertain value to the providence. Mr. Joo offered to put me in charge of the UPI operation in London, and to combine that with the Middle East Times. It was tempting, but how could I accept a post to run an operation that I had advised against purchasing? Mr. Joo tried blackmail. He told me if I did not accept the UPI job, he would fire me from the Middle East Times. I refused to take the job, and he did fire me, ending all my formal ties with the UC and its projects.

I write all of this because I want you to know that I did not give the best 30 years of my life to an organization that would be run by a leadership as corrupt as yours. And I did not raise my children to live for God and TP so that they could be abused by self-centered and carnal UC leaders, as you and your staff have proved to be.

UC foreign missionaries typically had the benefit of living far from the center of action with its inevitable politics. Occasionally we would come to conferences and training seminars, and we would see changes taking place in the UC, good and bad. For me, my personal relationship with Father was deepened by living and working in very challenging circumstances, and often alone. I had had some difficulty connecting to him when I worked in the US, but I came to understand him better as my own mission overseas unfolded. My personal relationship with him was cemented in a jail cell in Cairo.

But I never understood you children of TP. You were so distant; elevated on pedestals. Sometimes I would hear how difficult your lives had been. That was hard to believe, but I tried. (After all, the lives of Moses and the people of God in the wilderness, of the tribes in Babylon, of Jesus and the early Christians in the Roman Empire, of the Jews in Nazi Germany, of the Cambodians under Pol Pot, of the Russians under Stalin, of Arabs under dictators… those were difficult lives.)

The truth as I see it today is that some of you children of TP, who have received blessings above all others in history, are in fact the most trenchant problem facing the future of the Unification Church. You should be the central people cementing the legacy of TP, but all I see from you is the selfishness and bickering of spoiled brats. You fight over UC assets as if you created them or as if they belonged to you or your family. You spend millions of precious dollars donated by members to fight your legal battles against one another. I had a front row seat as Hyun Jin systematically dismantled The Washington Times simply to spite his siblings and gain leverage for his own ambitions, and despite his knowing the great love and personal investment TP had made to build up that newspaper over decades. I see derisive, often petty, letters go back and forth from one sibling camp to another. It’s truly nauseating.

We are told of the evil Kwak group, as if Hyun Jin was a victim of the diabolical machinations of that once central disciple. But, no, Kwak is not the central problem. Hyun Jin is. Kwak was my central figure for some 20 years. It is clear to me that in the end he was seduced by the lure of wealth and financial security to go against TP. He had bet on Hyun Jin when that son was anointed the fourth Adam. He could not accept the change of providence. He is like your staff members, who now depend on salaries from HSA-UWC. Because of their lack of character and understanding, they go along with your perversion of the Principle and TP’s traditions. They are your enablers, as Kwak is the chief enabler of Hyun Jin.

The arrogance you display is sickening. Do you really think members are so dumb and ignorant of the truth to accept your weird polygamy as a new standard for Unificationism? Do you really think you can continue indefinitely to preach a life of living the Principle while hiding your life of adultery and deception?

The first priesthood God created was that of the Levite Aaron and his four sons. God instructed Moses in how to guide Aaron’s family in these serious responsibilities. Mistakes were to be punished by death, and were. When two of Aaron’s four sons lit incense without permission they were immediately killed by God. Through Moses, God pounded the law into the “stiff-necked” Israelites. Its main tenets are repeated in Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy, and were repeated again and again by other prophets and patriarchs in the centuries that followed. It is a blunt law. Sins of murder, adultery and homosexual relations are punishable by death. So too are violations of the Sabbath, and a host of other specific infractions of the law. God provided for the Levites through tithes made by members of the other tribes, and when the Israelites entered Canaan the Levites were given 48 cities to reside in but were not given a portion of the land to occupy. (Ephraim and Manassah, the sons of Joseph, were treated as separate tribes and each got land to occupy, bringing the total number of tribal territories to 12.) Meanwhile, the lineage of the messiah ran through the generations of Judah.

Jesus was of Judah, but as Hebrews explains, he was also of the order of Melchizedek. That is, although he was not a Levite, he was chosen by God to teach and save the people. His moral teaching went far beyond the Mosaic Law. He of course condemned sexual immorality, but he went further, warning that adultery of the heart was a sin. He stressed circumcision of the heart, even as Moses had taught the Israelites. TheLevitical class at the time of Jesus did not grasp, or want to obey, this law, as evidenced by their rejection of Jesus.

Paul also stressed the importance of purity to the early Christians. In fact he contradicted the Levites when he preached fervently that anyone who was circumcised in heart could be saved by Christ, whether Jew or Gentile. And he warned the new churches which he founded and nurtured that they should put out of their midst those with uncircumcised hearts who practiced idolatry, sexual immorality and other perversions of the Gospel.

The Unification standard is higher yet. It demands that we not only create within ourselves an uncircumcised heart, but that we cultivate a heart in the image of God’s own infinite heart of love. We are not complete simply by avoiding sin, but only through fulfilling our potential as children of God.

I don’t see this message in your behavior. You are blessed to be in the lineage of TP, but you have not qualified as a priest of the order of Melchizedek. This is because you have not treated your position of leadership as a sacred trust and responsibility, but rather as a birthright. It seems most of your siblings are in the same situation. We all sin, although we were taught that the true children would be sinless. To keep our hearts pure, we have to repent and change. It seems to me that you are unaware of your sin, and your enablers are complicit in maintaining that status quo by failing to challenge you. Instead they join you in the pretense that what you are doing is fine in the sight of God and TP. I don’t think I have ever heard one of you children repenting and asking for forgiveness from God and a membership that you have so often misused and abused. This is why God cannot use you for ultimate good, and for the growth of his church. It is why, too, you are ruining the Unification Church and the legacy of your parents.

It is not for me to judge your personal life, except as it intrudes on your mission as a UC leader, a role model for members, and someone with the power to hurt others, including my son. You should never have accepted the position you hold now, given the confusion in your personal life. And you certainly should have resigned as soon as you realized that your extra-marital affair would produce a child. You may believe that you have a perfectly valid basis for what you have done, but I can’t imagine any reasonable and moral person, let alone any true follower of TP and the Principle, accepting your behavior as consistent with the responsibilities of a UC leader.

I believe it is not entirely coincidental that this situation has blown up just as Father has ended his course on earth. I believe he will be able to do more in the spirit world. Clearly the state of his family was not improving despite all his prayers and efforts. If the central family is divided and corrupt, how will the providence ever advance? Yes, it is that serious.

This crisis has demonstrated that there is no robust, clear, circumcised and unified UC leadership. While an official memo went out announcing your resignation, ‘for health reasons’, unofficial communications explained the truth. What are members in Africa, Asia and Latin America, let alone in the US and America, to believe? Where is the guidance that all members deserve at a time like this?

Again, In Jin, the problem is you. Because you have not repented or apologized, because you have directed your staff to punish those who exposed your sin instead of telling the truth about it, because you and they have spun a webs of lies designed to confuse members about your sin in the name of some Oprahesque theory of love, you will now be responsible for the loss of faith by many good and faithful people, and especially young members trying to find their way in a confusing world of false idols and sin, members who looked up to you as their role model.

I don’t know the members who work with you. But they too have failed the rest of the membership and the institution of the UC itself. How can they stand before a congregation when they have been complicit in your unprincipled duplicity? How can they provide credible advice and guidance to members? How can they claim authority to represent God, TP and the Principle?

I don’t think I am alone among members and others who have dedicated long years to the UC cause who are now shocked and disgusted by what they witness. They too are concerned with the future for the children they raised in the faith and whose spiritual lives are at risk. Many have turned their backs on the UC because of the mismanagement, corruption and outright evil committed by its leaders.

Enough is enough. It is time for you and your errant siblings, along with your enablers and other unclean UC leaders, to step back and listen to the real word of God that can only come through the mouths of those circumcised in heart whom He chooses to be his messengers and representatives. Perhaps the most recently anointed son can save your family and the church. I don’t know. Judah was chosen by God, but when it failed to listen to His commandments, when it persisted in idolatry and corruption despite the warnings of the prophets, it was completely destroyed, as was the temple in Jerusalem. Times have changed but I believe if you do not step aside and allow the UC to be renewed and rebuilt as the real embodiment of God, TP and the Principle, it too will be destroyed and God will find other means, other institutions and other people to represent Him on earth.

May God’s Will be done.

Thomas Cromwell

[berlinner]

kitty projection (for Sofi who’s no longer of this earth)

my cat is neurotic. she will not to be picked up unless just before the pellets hit the bowl and then just behind her shoulders, legs stiff as drum sticks, a measly 3, 4 feet off the linoleum and not in arms, not hugged against chest. visitors oo and ah and reach out to pet her, but she flits away, fussy and paranoid. with visitors she hides in my closet on a shelf waiting impatiently for them to leave. if a dog barks she hibernates until it’s gone. on the other hand, with me, she’s awesome. she sleeps under the covers, in the crook of my arm, on her back, purring. she loves to have her belly rubbed when it’s cold out. her purr is so loud you can hear it a room away. her prized trick is to slip in and out of my bedroom through a pantry portal between the kitchen and my room, a miniature Swiss window she discovered when we moved in 10 years ago. she’s getting on, 10–12 years old. i worry that once she hit’s 17 she’ll be shitting herself and unable to jump, to access the glory hole. when she arrived at my apartment for the first time she hid behind a couch for two weeks until she got up the tits to emerge and stake out the territory. for years that territory has been this apartment, unshared with any other beast. a revolving door of room mates and friends until last week when a new kitty, an irresistibly cute, fluffy, Yoda-whiskered guy moved in, skin, bones and fur. his name is Mao after the Chinese dictator. my room mate thought he looked dictatorial with his tough guy stance and big paws. we went down the list: Hitler, Stalin, Idi, Pol Pot and chose Mao, because, ok, that’s the sound he makes: ‘Mao’. we love the little fella. how could we not? he’s irresistible. but Sofi is petrified. Mao scampers about the house on curiosity skates and Sofi hides on her shelf like a rejected glove. i don’t know what’s going on in her kitty brain, but i imagine all sorts of terrible thoughts. that i’m cheating on her, that i don’t love her anymore, even as i pat her more than ever. i’ve made my bedroom her sanctuary so she can eat in peace. once Mao’s big enough to leap through the hole, that’ll be the end of the quarantine. at first i blamed her. i thought, fuck, get over yourself, Sof, you weirdo. any other cat would have handled the kid no problem. but i call the vet and she tells me that this is normal. that it might take one to six months to a year for Sofi to adjust, if not longer. a friend of mine went through the same thing with her guy and that cat is still, two years down kitty lane, freaked. i did take one indulgent step. the vet suggested a product from France, a plug-in atomizer good for a month. it wafts oily feline fumes into the atmosphere that have a calming effect on an upset kitty. sometimes it works, sometimes not. but i bought the Eau de Chat and it seemed to do the job. Sofi acquired a sort of Xanax equilibrium. occasionally she peeks around the kitchen corner and stares down the hall at Mao who’s staring back from the far end. maybe when no one’s home they hang out and have a laugh over how worked up we humans get over all this. i love her. i need her to be ok. i tell her that. she purrs. i imagine she listens and is working on it with some invisible, screwball shrink. coda: things seem to be better of late. both creatures lie on the same bed blinking at each other, paws crossed.

This is an excerpt from my book, The Paragraphs — Cutlass Press

About The Paragraphs and how to order

Link to buy

Or here

[coleendeohanna]

Critical Analysis #1: Cambodia Through a Clearer Lens

In the most honest state that I can possibly imagine, I can tell you that I had known nothing about Cambodia and its history prior to traveling there last July 11. Sure, the Pol Pot regime was a familiar term, but nothing reached my knowledge beyond that name. It could be an ignored history, say, that no one really talks about these things as much as do for Europe. Could it be that it happened not too long ago? The possibility is quite high, now that I think about it, since Filipinos consider Marcos’ Martial Law Era a time that is still fresh to those just in their middle-aged times. 

 It was like a bad word, something you couldn’t say for fear that you’d be punished for it. The mere fact that the genocide that occurred is not being taught in schools already depicts hesitation; a particular hesitation that it quite eerie even during the sunniest of days. It makes me believe that the genocide is much more fresh than Marcos regime, even if both occurred around the same time. The notions are different for both. I think that Filipinos have evolved long enough to talk about Martial Law, and trolls and outspoken bashers are no strangers to social media when it comes to this. But for Cambodia, it is a different story. Social media is no less abundant and popular in their state, but it is the users that cannot freely post about in fear or distress to the reality of the Khmer Rouge past. Some leaders still roam their government, which does not benefit the healing process (if there ever was one). 

 I add that last part to my sentence because I cannot imagine healing to exist when the prison camps and killing fields are being utilized for tourist income. It does help with spreading awareness, but I felt a weird sensation in the pit of my stomach at the sight of two survivors selling their books at S-21 Genocide Museum, former prison camp. They were selling their stories, and for what? It is not just awareness at that point. It must be difficult for them to go to work everyday just to relive and see the rooms and buildings where they were famished and tortured. Then again, as a tour guide mentioned, they could also be numb by the thought, the sight, the sounds. Have Cambodians really reached a point where the feeling is no longer as a painful but still eats the deepest parts of their hearts? That would honestly be devastating. A history can disappear in a flash if even the feeling and sensitivity subsides, and I do not think Cambodia should risk losing such knowledge for their future generations. And I think that is where the Philippines went wrong with Martial Law, but I’d set that thought aside for another time. 

 The country looks better than before, and I can only say that with the images I’ve seen of the genocide. Roaming around the city, I would not have thought that such war and terror occurred a short time ago, around the time my parents were born. The city looks recovered, but the gap between the poor and the rich is quite large and evident. It is much like the Philippines, but we are a bit more Westernized in terms of culture, and that was evident in the language barrier that deemed difficult to put up with. At one end of the road, there would be a beat-up motorbike. At another end, there would be a brand new sports car sitting in a driveway. The houses were no different, and the countryside’s average rectangular structures were a far cry from the fancy and intricate architecture of some of the homes in the city. However, I understand that these homes around the freedom monument in Phnom Penh were homes of the diplomats, those with statuses that are merely dreams for some street children. The poor seen asking for money at the night market were the dark realities of poor institutions. There were even children who abused dogs just to add for money all evening. Some children did not even accept food from tourists; all they wanted was money. The currency itself in the country does not do society good, and the desire for American dollars already screams a poor economy.

[illuminatinwo]

The Illuminati NWO...is our main problem - Committee of 300 / Bilderberger

           The Illuminati NWO… is our main problem

                              Committee of 300 / Bilderberger

As the Bilderberg group has gotten a lot of attention in past years and their meetings have been in the spotlight of many so called “Conspiracy Theories” [ who in most cases should better be called “Conspiracy Realists” or “Conspiracy Disclosers” or to remain in the language of the conspirators “Conspiracy Illuminists” (in this case it would not be sarcasm though)], the Committee of 300 has almost been overlooked in comparison.  

As important as Bilderberg is and has been and some people who attended grew into substantial power afterwards (Bill Clinton became president shortly after attending etc.) and as prophetic as the matters discussed at Bilderberg were for the shaping of the future of world affairs, it might still be somewhat overrated when it is compared to the Committee of 300. Bilderberg could be seen as the more operational management arm of the Illuminati NWO… conspiracy with a short-term focus and a much more exchangeable membership crowd. The real power, the much more senior members, the owner class or the old, deeply rooted, initiator / aristocracy / billionaire class of the conspiracy seems to be at home at the Committee of 300 meetings.

Bilderberg gets the brunt of the protest and almost takes the focus completely away from the Committee of 300, where the kingpins of the Illuminati NWO… conspiracy are truly rooted, it seems. The so-called Illuminati bloodlines are there, possibly the bosses, the Rothschilds, the Rockefellers, the Warburgs…, the Black Nobility is there in numbers, especially the British nobility, but also the Dutch and the German and worldwide nobility, high degree masons and secret society grandmasters, the billionaire class / oligarchs, also the money wizards, the maintainers of the world monetary monopoly, especially central bankers, IMF, World Bankers and economists, as well as currently important people out of politics, UN, military, technology etc. (probably similar to Bilderberg much more interchangeable, single event or short term guests, not long term members) and mainstream-media in form of publishers / media moguls like Berlusconi, Murdoch etc., “spiritual” leaders like the Pope and last, but not least, the Illuminati strategists like Rockefeller, Kissinger, Bergsten, Brzezinski etc.

It’s certainly again, like always, strictly hierarchically structured, with real insight about the true happenings and future scenarios possibly again in few hands. It encompasses key figures / key positions within certain important countries, but also stretches out worldwide and has key members from all over the world.

It’s even much more difficult to obtain any information about it than it is with the Bilderberg meetings who were forced to reveal some information by an ever more intensely shining public spotlight and interest. Of course they don’t reveal anything really, but at least some of the participants who’s names had been leaked before anyway and are impossible to keep secret in todays’ world, it seems.

The following information is out of the book “Conspirators’ Hierarchy: The Story of the Committee of 300” by Dr. John Coleman. It contains some of the goals, again very sinister as one might imagine and a list of participants of a 2010 meeting I believe. In this way it’s not up-to-date, rather somewhat outdated, but still good enough to get a fairly accurate picture of the structure and goals. The list is merely in alphabetical order and does not reveal any hierarchy, functions, purpose of attendance or date of membership status etc. :

Editor’s Note:  I welcome reader’s comments on individual members, the composition of this group, and the role this committee plays.

by John Coleman The Committee of 300 is a product of the British East India Company’s Council of 300. The East India Company was chartered by the British royal family in 1600. It made vast fortunes in the opium drug trade with China and became the largest company on earth in its time. Today, through many powerful alliances, the Committee of 300 rules the world and is the driving force behind the criminal agenda to create a “New World Order”, under a “Totalitarian Global Government”. There is no need to use “they” or “the enemy” except as shorthand. We know who “they”, the enemy, is. The Committee of 300 with its “aristocracy”, its ownership of the U.S. Federal Reserve banking system, insurance companies, giant corporations, foundations, communications networks, presided over by a hierarchy of conspirators-this is the enemy. Secret societies exist by deception. Each is a hierarchy with an inner circle at the top, who deceives those below with lies, such as claiming a noble agenda; thus, duping them into following a web of compartmentalized complicity. The inner circle of the Committee of 300 is the Order of the Garter, headed by Queen Elizabeth Windsor II. It is interesting to note that the Windsor’s changed their name from the Germanic Saxe-Coburg-Gotha during WWI, because of anti-German sentiment. The enemy is clearly identifiable as the Committee of 300 and its front organizations, such as the Royal Institute for International Affairs (Chatham House), the Club of Rome, NATO, U.N., the Black Nobility, the Tavistock Institute, CFR and all its affiliated organizations, the think tanks and research institutions controlled by Stanford and the Tavistock Institute of Human Relations and last, but certainly not least, the military establishment. The Committee of 300 is the ultimate secret society made up of an untouchable ruling class, which includes the Queen of the United Kingdom (Elizabeth II), the Queen of the Netherlands, the Queen of Denmark and the royal families of Europe. These aristocrats decided at the death of Queen Victoria, the matriarch of the Venetian Black Guelphs that, in order to gain world-wide control, it would be necessary for its aristocratic members to “go into business” with the non-aristocratic but extremely powerful leaders of corporate business on a global scale, and so the doors to ultimate power were opened to what the Queen of England likes to refer to as “the commoners”. Through their illicit banking cartel, they own the stock of the Federal Reserve, which is a private for profit corporation that violates U.S. Constitution and is a root of the problem. The decadent American families of the unholy partnership, thoroughly corrupted and wallowing in tainted opium money, went on to become what we know today as the Eastern Liberal Establishment. Its members, under the careful guidance and direction of the British Crown, and subsequently, its foreign policy executive arm, the Royal Institute for International Affairs (RIIA), now known as Chatham House, located in England (across St. James’s Square from the Astors), ran the United States from top to bottom through their secret upper-level, parallel government, which is tightly meshed with the Committee of 300, the ultimate secret society. That secret, all-powerful government is now more in control of the United States than ever before.  Continued.. I assume this account is taken from John Coleman’s book “Conspirator’s Hierarchy- The Committee of 300.” Below, he is wrong about the date of the mass culling.   Ten Top Aims: 1. A One World Government-New World Order with a unified church and monetary system under their direction. Not many people are aware that the One World Government began setting up its “church” in the 1920’s/ 1930’s, for they realized the need for a religious belief inherent in mankind to have an outlet and, therefore, set up a “church” body to channel that belief in the direction they desired. 2. The utter destruction of all national identity and national pride. 3. The destruction of religion and more especially the Christian religion, with the one exception, their own creation mentioned above. 4. Control of each and every person through means of mind control and what Brzezinski call “technotronics” which would create human-like robots and a system of terror beside which Felix Dzerzinski’s Red Terror will look like children at play. 5. An end to all industrialization and the production of nuclear generated electric power in what they call “the post-industrial zero-growth society.” Exempted are the computer and service industries. United States industries that remain will be exported to countries such as Mexico where abundant slave labour is available. Unemployables in the wake of industrial destruction will either become opium-heroin and or cocaine addicts, or become statistics in the elimination process we know today as Global 2000. 6. Legalization of drugs and pornography. 7. Depopulation of large cities according to the trial run carried out by the Pol Pot regime in Cambodia. It is interesting to note that Pol Pot’s genocidal plans were drawn up here in the United States by one of the Club of Rome’s research foundations. It is also interesting that the Committee is presently seeking to reinstate the Pol Pot butchers in Cambodia. 8. Suppression of all scientific development except for those deemed beneficial by the Committee. Especially targeted is nuclear energy for peaceful purposes. Particularly hated are the fusion experiments presently being scorned and ridiculed by the Committee and its jackals of the press. Development of the fusion torch would blow the Committee’s conception of “limited natural resources” right out of the window. A fusion torch properly used could create unlimited untapped natural resources from the most ordinary substances. Fusion torch uses are legion and would benefit mankind in a manner which is as yet not even remotely comprehended by the public. 9. Cause by means of limited wars in the advanced countries, and by means of starvation and diseases in Third World countries, the death of 3 billion people by the year 2000, people they call “useless eaters.” The Committee of 300 commissioned Cyrus Vance to write a paper on this subject of how best to bring about such genocide. The paper was produced under the title the “Global 2000 Report” and was accepted and approved for action by President Carter, for and on behalf of the U.S. Government, and accepted by Edwin Muskie, then Secretary of State. Under the terms of the Global 2000 Report, the population of the United States is to be reduced by 100 million by the year 2050. 10. To weaken the moral fibre of the nation and to demoralize workers in the labour class by creating mass unemployment. As jobs dwindle due to the post industrial zero growth policies introduced by the Club of Rome, demoralized and discouraged workers will resort to alcohol and drugs. The youth of the land will be encouraged by means of rock music and drugs to rebel against the status quo, thus undermining and eventually destroying the family unit. In this regard The Committee of 300 commissioned Tavistock Institute to prepare a blueprint as to how this could be achieved. Tavistock directed Stanford Research to undertake the work under the direction of Professor Willis Harmon. This work later became known as “The Aquarian Conspiracy.” The Membership List (Type in Name at Wikipedia) Abdullah II King of Jordan

Roman Abramovich

Josef Ackermann

Edward Adeane

Marcus Agius

Martti Ahtisaari

Daniel Akerson

Albert II King of Belgium

Alexander Crown Prince of Yugoslavia

Giuliano Amato

Carl A. Anderson

Giulio Andreotti

Andrew Duke of York

Anne Princess Royal

Nick Anstee

Timothy Garton Ash

William Waldorf Astor

Pyotr Aven

Jan Peter Balkenende

Steve Ballmer

Ed Balls

Jose Manuel Barroso

Beatrix Queen of the Netherlands

Marek Belka

C. Fred Bergsten

Silvio Berlusconi

Ben Bernanke

Nils Bernstein

Donald Berwick

Carl Bildt

Sir Winfried Bischoff

Tony Blair

Lloyd Blankfein

Leonard Blavatnik

Michael Bloomberg

Frits Bolkestein

Hassanal Bolkiah

Michael C Bonello

Emma Bonino

David L. Boren

Borwin Duke of Mecklenburg

Charles Bronfman

Edgar Bronfman Jr.

John Bruton

Zbigniew Brzezinski

Robin Budenberg

Warren Buffett

George HW Bush

David Cameron

Camilla Duchess of Cornwall

Fernando Henrique Cardoso

Peter Carington

Carl XVI Gustaf King of Sweden

Carlos Duke of Parma

Mark Carney

Cynthia Carroll

Jaime Caruana

Sir William Castell

Anson Chan

Margaret Chan

Norman Chan

Charles Prince of Wales

Richard Chartres

Stefano Delle Chiaie

Dr John Chipman

Patokh Chodiev

Christoph Prince of Schleswig-Holstein

Fabrizio Cicchitto

Wesley Clark

Kenneth Clarke

Nick Clegg

Bill Clinton

Abby Joseph Cohen

Ronald Cohen

Gary Cohn

Marcantonio Colonna di Paliano Duke of Paliano

Constantijn Prince of the Netherlands

Constantine II King of Greece

David Cooksey

Brian Cowen

Sir John Craven

Andrew Crockett

Uri Dadush

Tony D'Aloisio

Alistair Darling

Sir Howard Davies

Etienne Davignon

David Davis

Benjamin de Rothschild

David Rene de Rothschild

Evelyn de Rothschild

Leopold de Rothschild

Joseph Deiss

Oleg Deripaska

Michael Dobson

Mario Draghi

Jan Du Plessis

William C. Dudley

Wim Duisenberg

Edward Duke of Kent

Edward Earl of Wessex

Elizabeth II Queen of the United Kingdom

John Elkann

Vittorio Emanuele Prince of Naples

Ernst August Prince of Hanover

Martin Feldstein

Matthew Festing

François Fillon

Heinz Fischer

Joschka Fischer

Stanley Fischer

Niall FitzGerald

Franz Duke of Bavaria

Mikhail Fridman

Friso Prince of Orange-Nassau

Bill Gates

Christopher Geidt

Timothy Geithner

Georg Friedrich Prince of Prussia

Dr Chris Gibson-Smith

Mikhail Gorbachev

Al Gore

Allan Gotlieb

Stephen Green

Alan Greenspan

Gerald Grosvenor 6th Duke of Westminster

Jose Angel Gurria

William Hague

Sir Philip Hampton

Hans-Adam II Prince of Liechtenstein

Harald V King of Norway

Stephen Harper

François Heisbourg

Henri Grand Duke of Luxembourg

Philipp Hildebrand

Carla Anderson Hills

Richard Holbrooke

Patrick Honohan

Alan Howard

Alijan Ibragimov

Stefan Ingves

Walter Isaacson

Juan Carlos King of Spain

Kenneth M. Jacobs

DeAnne Julius

Jean-Claude Juncker

Peter Kenen

John Kerry

Mervyn King

Glenys Kinnock

Henry Kissinger

Malcolm Knight

William H. Koon II

Paul Krugman

John Kufuor

Giovanni Lajolo

Anthony Lake

Richard Lambert

Pascal Lamy

Jean-Pierre Landau

Timothy Laurence

James Leigh-Pemberton

Leka Crown Prince of Albania

Mark Leonard

Peter Levene

Lev Leviev

Arthur Levitt

Michael Levy

Joe Lieberman

Ian Livingston

Lee Hsien Loong

Lorenz of Belgium Archduke of Austria-Este

Louis Alphonse Duke of Anjou

Gerard Louis-Dreyfus

Mabel Princess of Orange-Nassau

Peter Mandelson

Sir David Manning

Margherita Archduchess of Austria-Este

Margrethe II Queen of Denmark

Guillermo Ortiz Martinez

Alexander Mashkevitch

Stefano Massimo Prince of Roccasecca dei Volsci

Fabrizio Massimo-Brancaccio Prince of Arsoli and Triggiano - William Joseph McDonough

Mack McLarty

Yves Mersch

Michael Prince of Kent

Michael King of Romania

David Miliband

Ed Miliband

Lakshmi Mittal

Glen Moreno

Moritz Prince and Landgrave of Hesse-Kassel

Rupert Murdoch

Charles Napoleon

Jacques Nasser

Robin Niblett

Vincent Nichols

Adolfo Nicolas

Christian Noyer

Sammy Ofer

Alexandra Ogilvy Lady Ogilvy

David Ogilvy 13th Earl of Airlie

Jorma Ollila

Nicky Oppenheimer

George Osborne

Frederic Oudea

Sir John Parker

Chris Patten

Michel Pebereau

Gareth Penny

Shimon Peres

Philip Duke of Edinburgh

Dom Duarte Pio Duke of Braganza

Karl Otto Pohl

Colin Powell

Mikhail Prokhorov

Guy Quaden

Anders Fogh Rasmussen

Joseph Alois Ratzinger (Pope Benedict XVI)

David Reuben

Simon Reuben

William R. Rhodes

Susan Rice

Richard Duke of Gloucester

Sir Malcolm Rifkind

Sir John Ritblat

Stephen S. Roach

Mary Robinson

David Rockefeller Jr.

David Rockefeller Sr.

Nicholas Rockefeller

Javier Echevarria Rodriguez

Kenneth Rogoff

Jean-Pierre Roth

Jacob Rothschild

David Rubenstein

Robert Rubin

Francesco Ruspoli 10th Prince of Cerveteri

Joseph Safra

Moises Safra

Peter Sands

Nicolas Sarkozy

Isaac Sassoon

James Sassoon

Sir Robert John Sawers

Marjorie Scardino

Klaus Schwab

Karel Schwarzenberg

Stephen A. Schwarzman

Sidney Shapiro

Nigel Sheinwald

Sigismund Grand Duke of Tuscany Archduke of Austria

Simeon of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha

Olympia Snowe

Sofia Queen of Spain

George Soros

Arlen Specter

Ernest Stern

Dennis Stevenson

Tom Steyer

Joseph Stiglitz

Dominique Strauss-Kahn

Jack Straw

Peter Sutherland

Mary Tanner

Ettore Gotti Tedeschi

Mark Thompson

Dr. James Thomson

Hans Tietmeyer

Jean-Claude Trichet

Paul Tucker

Herman Van Rompuy

Alvaro Uribe Velez

Alfons Verplaetse

Kaspar Villiger

Maria Vladimirovna Grand Duchess of Russia

Paul Volcker

Otto von Habsburg

Hassanal Bolkiah Mu'izzaddin Waddaulah Sultan of Brunei

Sir David Walker

Jacob Wallenberg

John Walsh

Max Warburg

Axel Alfred Weber

Michael David Weill

Nout Wellink

Marina von Neumann Whitman

Willem-Alexander Prince of Orange

William Prince of Wales

Dr Rowan Williams

Shirley Williams

David Wilson

James Wolfensohn

Neal S. Wolin

Harry Woolf

R. James Jr. Woolsey

Sir Robert Worcester

Sarah Wu

Robert Zoellick

Know your enemy – Committee of 300 Membership List

The Rothschilds and their Go’fers

Here is the “Committee of 300” membership list  for 2010

https://www.henrymakow.com/committee_of_300.html

#Illuminati NWO NewWorldOrder CommitteeOf300 Bilderberg Bilderberger MembershipList Structure Strategies Goals History Functions

[marulikestea]

Indochina Trip: Cambodia (Part 2)

(WARNING MAJOR PHOTODUMP AHEAD)

EXIT FROM SIEM REAP

That very same night after our Angkor Wat tour (if you haven't read my Siem Reap post, click here), we left Blossoming Romduol Lodge before midnight via van that would take us directly to the night bus terminal. The van service also picked up other tourists who would be riding along us on the way before continuing on.

When we arrived at the terminal point, we waited for a few minutes outside with our luggage because the personnel couldn't wake up the driver inside the bus (lol). I think he got in a few good pounds on the bus’ exterior before the doors opened and let us in.

You remember from the previous post that this was our 2nd worst decision throughout our Indochina trip right? Well, let me explain to you why.

For starters, a night bus looks like an ordinary bus from the outside; except that once you go in, there are beds installed instead of chairs. Thus its name.

So here's the pickle: At one glance, you can pretty much conclude that everything inside the vehicle is of questionable sanitation.

From the pillows and blankets provided down to its very floorings, the thought of some creepy crawlers or unknown germs nicking off your skin was within the realms of possibility. What's even worse, some poor passengers who came in last were forced to sleep on the aisle, due to limited space. They sure got the short end of the stick.  

But that didn't stop there. During the middle of the night, we had a short stop over for the usual bathroom break. Arlyn and Denise decided to go outside to pee (I opted to stay to guard our stuff), but returned minutes after to tell me a rather funny ordeal.

Apparently, when both of them went down, they were welcomed by a vast surroundings of grass and trees. Confused as to where the C.R. was, they asked the driver about it. He just grunted and waved his arm at the left. So they went there. When there was nothing in sight (not even a small shack), they asked another person, prolly the conductor, where it was. This time he waved around the area. It finally dawned on them that the C.R. was practically nonexistent and that if they wanted to do their "business", they can just find a good spot and do it in the cover of the night's darkness.

Discouraged by doing something like that, they returned inside the bus and held it in.

We waited for the other passengers to return before resuming with our journey. I particularly remembered this female foreigner who went out and then got back barefooted.

Yes, barefooted.

Just imagine the dirty stuff she stepped on and brought inside the bus. Ugh, another set of germs added in the bus collection. DX

After x hours of travel and lack of good sleep, we finally reached Phnom Penh.

PHNOM PENH

Upon arriving at Cambodia's capital, we immediately hired a tuktuk driver (this time we were cautious and clear with our instructions) to get us to our hotel, as well as to our intended destinations based from our itinerary.

During the discussion of our terms and aggreement, the tuktuk driver suggested a much improved outline for us to better understand their culture, and also to utilize our time more efficiently by starting at the farthest point and ending at the location nearest to our hotel.

In the end, we closed the deal with him at 9 USD, to be paid at the end of the day.

When we arrived at Angkor International Hotel, we paid the rest of the booking amount at the reception area of the lobby. We also booked a Mekong bus (do it right this time!) to Ho Chi Min for tomorrow, since the hotel offered the service.

Our room at  Angkor International Hotel. Pretty neat and decent. 

We deposited our bags in our room afterwards, and went downstairs to our tuktuk driver once we were ready. 

CHOENG EK GENOCIDAL CENTER 

Initially not part of our itinerary, Choeng EK Genocidal Center, or also known as the Killing Fields, is the location where prisoners of the Khmer Rouge were taken for slave labor and execution during Polpot’s reign.

Entrance to the site.

My ticket entrance worth 6 USD.

Unlike other places where tour guides are available for hire, this site provides you a headset and a audio player (to be returned before exiting the premises) that narrates in place of a guide as you go from one stop to another.

The stops are numbered accordingly so the tour was very straightforward. To be honest I like this approach better because you have full control of your time as you explore around. You are also able to enjoy more and immerse in the experience better without needing to follow other people’s pacing.

Here's an image of the pamphlet given to us, with map and complete list of stops throughout the tour:

A total of 18 stops, with the memorial stupa as its last destination.

Though I’m not going to go into full detail of the things I saw and learned throughout the tour in this post, here are some of the scenes that I found notable: 

The memorial stupa at the heart of the vicinity. 

The truck stop. The starting point of the nightmare.

“Here is the place where trucks transporting victims to be exterminated from tuol sleng prison and other places in the country stopped. Trucks would arrive 2 or 3 times a month or every 3 weeks. Each truck held 20 to 30 frightened, blindfolded and silent prisoners.When the trucks arrived, the victims were led directly to be executed at the ditches and pits or were sent to be detained in the darken and gloomy prison nearby. After January 7, 1979, one truck remained but it has since been taken away.”

One of the Chinese graves scattered about inside the killing fields. I wonder who died here.

Remnants of clothes and teeth from unidentified victims.   

The killing tree is one out of the two trees that are notable in the killing fields for its morbid backstory. This tree was where executioners would kill the victims’ infants by holding them by the legs like chicken and swing them to the tree like a baseball bat, effectively killing them in the most horrid and inhumane way.

"The killing tree against which executioners beat children"

Just beside the killing tree is mass gravesite that served as the final resting place of the same murdered babies who were killed on the said tree, with their mothers’ bodies who soon followed them after their deaths.

The sign says, “Mass grave of more than 100 victims. Children and women whose majority were naked.”

The second infamous tree was called the Magic Tree, where loudspeakers were placed on its branches to drown out the sounds coming from the victims.

"The tree was used as a tool to hang a loudspeaker which make sound louder to avoid the moan of victims while they were being executed."

The final stop of the tour is the Memorial Stupa (as seen from a previous image), which contained a collection of retrieved skulls and bones of the diseased, with tools that were used to kill them.

Before entering the building, we bought a 1 USD worth of  flower and incense as offering to the souls of this place.

The skull of victims, marked with colored circle sticker to indicate the weapon that caused their death.  

When it was time to go, we returned the gadgets by the exit area and left the premises to have lunch just across the area.

My loklak lunch worth 4.5 - 5 USD.

We left not long after to our next location, which was very similar to the previous one we’ve recently visited. 

TUOL SLENG GENOCIDE MUSEUM

Previously known as Toul Svay Prey High School, Pol Pot's forces overran this place and turned it into a prison known as Security Prison 21 in 1975. It soon became the largest center of detention and torture in the country. After the war, it was converted into the museum that is today, to serve as evidence to atrocity of the Khmer Rouge.

Before advancing inside, we paid an entrance fee of 3 USD.

A shot of a building inside Tuol Sleng before hiding my camera to abide by the rules.

We were also forbidden to take any pictures or videos of the place beyond the entrance grounds.

So the following is a summary of what I heard and encountered inside the museum:

Gallows can be found outside the school grounds

Some rooms served as interrogation/torture chambers, with and old rusty bed  and a picture of the last state of the room placed on the wall as a remnants of the atrocity

Dried blood can still be spotted in some of the areas of the school.

Other classrooms were converted in to multiple small and cramped cell blocks with minimal to no light; There were also ammunition boxes inside that served as a toilet for the prisoners.

Victims were chained on the floor like animals, and were beaten and tortured whenever the made noises and didn't complied.

When the population inside Tuol Sleng became too much to handle, they shipped off some of the victims in trucks to be transported to the Killing Fields for extermination.

On one building, the second floor was blocked with barbed wires so that prisoners could not jump to their deaths.

During the end of Pol Pot’s reign, dead bodies of the victims were just left to rot when the Khmer Rouge made their retreat.

Upper floors of the building contained stories of survivors, like Chum Mey and Bou Meng. 

At the ground floor of the third building are collection of all images/portraits of the prisoners admitted in Tuol Sleng, from men, women to children. It also contains images of torture and death of other victims.

There was foreigner couple who couldn’t comply with no-pictures/videos policy and kept taking pictures in secret. I got annoyed and made a  "tsk tsk" sound at them, while saying how some people can’t just follow rules in English.

Also in the 3rd building, a room similar to the memorial stupa in killing fields, contained a collection of skulls, with a monk presiding over them and praying with incense for their souls. It also displayed a map of the country made of skulls.

Near the exit is a booth were you get to meet one of the survivors of Tuol Sleng and buy their memoirs.

After we’ve finished the tour, (Arlyn and Denise were already tired of walking and opted to skip the upper levels of the classrooms), we left with a rather heavy heart and new insight from the revelation we’ve learned here.

To shake off the depressing atmosphere, we went to the Russian Market next, to have a change of pace.

RUSSIAN MARKET

Russian market is one of the most popular markets (the other one being central market) among tourists and backpackers for its wide variety of cheap goods, and therefore one of the best places to get souvenirs.

With that said, we went straight here due to its close proximity from our previous location and bought souvenirs.

I purchased 10 USD worth of souvenirs, including 2 textile prints as shown below:

Elephant and tree textile prints in my fave colors~

For Arlyn, she bought a metal-looking art structure while Denise bought some colorful lights for her sister.

Once done, we stopped by our hotel to dump our goods and went back to go to our last destination for the day.

ROYAL PALACE

This was suppose to be our second to the last stop but since it was already 4pm at that time, we figured we wouldn’t have enough time to visit the National Museum of Cambodia so we opted to skip it, even if it was just next to the palace. 

Outside the vicinity, there’s a large area of land reminiscent of Manila’s Luneta park. A lot of people can be seen doing leisure activities, such as flying a kite, having a picnic, waiting for the sunrise or just enjoying other people’s company. 

A large signage of what I think is their emperor, with words that I cannot read, let alone understand.  

If we had time, we would have joined those people as well but alas, we only had an hour left before closing time so we had to make most out of it.

Lots of pigeons at the empty road beside the Royal Palace.

After locating the entrance to the premises, we paid a 6.5 USD entrance fee and continued to march on.

As seen on the map, the palace can be divided into 2 main sections (the north and south blocks), which was easier to explore due to the small area needed to cover (compared to the previous places we've been).

The first structure we went to is the Throne Hall at the northern block. A place were royal officials used to carried out their tasks in the past, this building is now used for religious and royal ceremonies, as well as a meeting area for foreign dignitaries. 

The Throne Hall at a distance. (Preah Tineang Tevea Vinichhay)

Naga and garuda guardian statues can be seen in this structure.

 Hor Samritvimean.

The Moonlight Pavilion. (Preah Tineang Chan Chhaya) 

A side of Phhochani Pavilion (Preah Tineang Phhochani) from afar.

Lots of buddha statues inside the Phhochani Pavilion.

Similar To Bangkok's Grand Palace, the Silver Pagoda at the south block also houses an Emerald Buddha, among other national treasures.

The Silver Pagoda (Wat Preah Keo)

His Majesty King Norodom’s statue.

Her Royal Highness Kantha Bopha’s Stupa, one of the many stupas inside the royal palace.

Kailassa Mountain

A lotus flower.

A fading wall mural of the Reamker under restoration.

An Angkor Wat model, with the silver pavilion at the background.

A gallery of royal howdahs at the Exhibition Hall area.

After returning to our hotel, we paid the rest of the fee to our tuktuk driver and bade him farewell. In return, he thanked us in their native language អរគុណ (orkun). I felt rather guilty for treating him a bit coldly because of my misplaced distrust (due to our previous experience). I wished he was the one we gave money for food and tip instead of our first tuktuk driver back in Siem Reap. Sigh, I will do better next time. >.<

Anyway, when it came dinner time, we just went downstairs at the hotel lobby and ate dinner provided by the in-house restaurant because we were too lazy and tired to think of some place else. I forgot what food I ordered but it was   worth around 7USD.   

When we were done eating, we retired to our beds early for our journey to Ho Chi Minh, Vietnam.

For me, the trip to Phnom Penh was probably the most emotionally draining experience out of our whole Indochina tour. Visiting all those sites has made me pensive with regards to life and how lucky and grateful I am for having a fate different from what these people have suffered genocide at the hands of such a leader.

This post is not enough to convey to others the things I've felt and witness, but I do believe that it's always best to have them face the rawness of its history firsthand by recommending them to go to the country themselves and feel the entirety of Cambodia's dark history, and everything else it can offer.

I'll end this post here and will continue on to the final leg of our Indochina tour. I hope my experience has shed some sort of light to random readers and stalkers alike.

[lindsaysheltongross]

Do you have dropsy? The grippe? Scofula? The vapors? Jungle rot? Dandy fever? Poor man's gout? Housemaid's knee? Climatic poopow? The staggers? Dum-dum fever?

Want to hear a disgusting story? I’ve talked about this before at length, but let’s revisit just for the fun of it: this is the tale of my never-ending vomiting.

I'm a puker. It's gross, I am very aware. There are a lot of explanations I’ve offered in the past, and more than one embarrassing social situation I cringe thinking about, but I've managed to mostly ignore the messiness for years. 

I've blamed it on foods, I've blamed it on pregnancy. Sometimes it's been funny, sometimes not. If you saw a car pulled over on the Beltway in the 80's, it was probably me: DC's Most Carsick Kid. Apologies to anyone who has ever had to sit next to me during a bumpy landing at National airport. I am almost always green, even in the best of situations.

I've heard it all: "Weak stomach." "Can't hold her liquor" (this one is semi-true,)" and my favorite: "Maybe it's psychological?" 

And then, a year or so ago, what I've mostly considered a minor character flaw escalated pretty quickly. For a healthy adult who has only been hospitalized for childbirth, it was surprising - and it sucked.  What I thought was the stomach flu lingered for weeks. I couldn't eat. I was exhausted all the time and suffered from a constant, sharp abdominal pain. I could barely get out of bed, let alone make it to the office comfortably or be present with my kids in any meaningful kind of way. I barfed ginger ale on every soccer field in Arlington County. 

Mom of the Year.

Doctors weren't sure what I had at first, so they threw out every option, hoping something would stick:  Pancreatitis! Gall bladder attack! Ectopic pregnancy! Non-standard appendicitis! Angina! (I got an EKG.) I had a very tiny and luckily brief mental breakdown at a mention of stomach cancer! (Terrific!) 

I ended up in Vegas last spring on a work trip, living on crossed fingers and massive doses of Prilosec, vomiting my guts out any time anything other than liquid hit my stomach lining. In total, I lost 25 pounds and generally looked like hell.  (I can't believe I even have to write this, but a hot tip: never compliment someone on how "great they are looking!” [that not-even-thinly veiled "thinner is better” party line] unless you know the backstory.)

At some point, someone in the medical community said the magic words:  "Hey.... maybe you should get an endoscopy." I finally got in to see a gastroenterologist.  A twenty-minute hospital procedure showed two ulcers, one of which was seriously nasty. I immediately named it after my best friend's ex-boyfriend, which was funny at the time. 

I am in a very small percentage of people where ulcers appear inexplicably - no bacterial infections, no alcoholism, fairly active, not morbidly obese, don't binge on spicy foods, non-smoker, not a heavy NSAID user. We’re an exclusive club, and we travel precariously through life. You’ll know us by the plastic bags in our pockets and our roving eyes, scanning for the nearest restroom or potted plant. 

The intersections of luck and privilege: I was prescribed and able to pay for premium meds, I watched my diet and consumed bland, healthy meals. I cut back on alcohol significantly and totally cut out Advil. For the most part, I was able to heal myself well before the situation intensified to the point of surgery.  I still have to watch certain foods and behaviors, but these days I am mostly back to... whatever normal was.  I'm not Catholic, but St. Charles Borromeo, the patron saint of ulcers has the best schnozz (why is he not the patron saint of noses?) so I'm on constant lookout for a tiny statue of him for my desk.

The point of all this is: the entire stupid experience cost a damn fortune, but I am literally basking in economic advantages. My (good, not great) insurance covered the majority of expenses. 

Imagine working this hard to ensure people's deaths, and not just of demonic diseases like cancer, but of uncomplicated and easily treatable conditions as well - like a crappy little ulcer. The ACA repeal isn’t about health care, it’s about wealth redistribution: more for the extremely rich, nothing for everyone else.  We humans are breakable, but we are also often fixable. The GOP doesn't want people fixed. The GOP wants people gone. 

More:

http://www.slate.com/blogs/moneybox/2017/03/23/republicans_may_eliminate_obamacare_s_essential_health_benefits.html

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/republican-obamacare-repeal-vote-overview_us_58d2ec22e4b0f838c62f4285?yk328qe7k5d0a4i

http://www.latimes.com/politics/la-na-pol-obamacare-trump-supporters-20170312-story.html

http://www.vox.com/2017/3/22/15031750/trumpcare-essential-health-benefits-consequences