…ain’t no antisemitism in the world no more, you know that . . . Jews in Israel, Jews in the White House, Jews with Kushner-Trump LLC and with their trillions, are fucking butchers
Jews are vultures: Images from Jewish books.
Watch Richard Medhurst this time!
The Fucking Jew York City and Saturday Night Jewish Jive and Mel Brooks and The Borscht Belt fucking directors of LIES getting it on in the Middle East (… Yiddish Alps, is a region which was noted for its summer resorts that catered to Jewish vacationers, especially residents of New York City).
British-Syrian journalist Richard Medhurst reports on the end of the Syrian Arab Republic as Al Qaeda takes over Damascus and helps Israel and NATO consolidate their stranglehold over Syria.
Richard Thomas Medhurst (1992) is an independent journalist, political commentator, and analyst from the United Kingdom with a focus on international affairs, US politics, and the Middle East.
Medhurst is known for his coverage of the Julian Assange extradition case in London, as one of the only journalists to report on the trial of the WikiLeaks founder from inside the court.
He has also covered the Iran nuclear deal talks on the ground in Vienna.
Medhurst was born in Damascus, Syria. His father is English and mother is Syrian. Both his parents served in United Nations Peacekeeping and Observer missions and were among the UN Peacekeepers awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1988.
Owing to his parents’ professional mobility, he has lived in Syria, Pakistan, Switzerland, and Austria. He speaks four languages fluently: English, Arabic, French, and German.
As an independent journalist, Medhurst regularly hosts live broadcasts and video reports on his YouTube channel. Previous guests include the Foreign Minister of Venezuela, the Dep Foreign Minister of Iran; the Palestinian, Russian and Cuban ambassadors to the United Nations in Vienna; the former British Ambassador to Syria; and various UN officials, journalists, and more.
Medhurst’s reports and analysis on Yemen, Ukraine, Syria, Niger, Lebanon, Iran, the Israeli occupation in Palestine and its genocide in Gaza have gone viral countless times, racking up millions of views.
Richard Medhurst has a combined following of roughly one million people online, and appears regularly on international news outlets including Al Jazeera, WikiLeaks, Black Agenda Report, Al Mayadeen, The Times, LBC, and others.
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Butchers’ feast.
Oh, this fucking Jewish rag, Mondoweiss, controlled or controlling opposition: “Assad falls in Syria and Israel sees an opportunity for expansion”
This week, we witnessed the extraordinary collapse of Bashar al-Assad’s brutal dictatorship in Syria. After nearly 14 years of civil war, rebel forces launched a stunning assault that overwhelmed Assad’s regime, culminating in their lightning advance on Damascus. Russian forces spirited Assad out of the country to a new life of exile in Moscow.
Cunts at Mondoweiss, calling the fucking head choppers rebel forces, and 14 years of hell created by AmeriKKKa and Israel and UK, a civil war!
Fucking warrants, in the wild wild wild scalping West?
Palestinian bodies are being shredded, evaporated, starved; hospital systematically destroyed; Israel is enabling famine, and on and on.
Biden, Bush, Obama, not butchers? And, the fucking regime of U$A, calls those spades black? Syria’s regime? What about Israel’s butcher regime?
Jews are fucking terrorists, fucking rotten killers, butchers, but not in the mouths of CNN or FOX News or Rachel Fucking Maddow.
Hussam Abu Safiya, the hospital’s director, said that Israeli forces had detonated remote-controlled robots rigged with explosives in places “alarmingly close” to the hospital on Friday night. The explosions blew out windows and doors in the facility and took out the majority of the little water supplies the hospital has left on its rooftop, Safiya said.
“Tonight was one of the most difficult nights we have faced,” said Safiya. Israel has been besieging the hospital for weeks now, evidently seeking to destroy it and the rest of the hospitals in northern Gaza as part of its ethnic cleansing campaign there.
Israeli forces have also continuously carried out drone strikes, with one killing a nurse near the hospital and another killing a doctor from Kamal Adwan who was en route to another hospital in the region on Thursday. Friday’s attacks injured three medical staff, Safiya said.
“As of now, heavy bombing persists throughout the night, accompanied by ongoing destruction of buildings. It is a catastrophic scene, with airstrikes and artillery shelling occurring with unprecedented intensity and frequency,” said the hospital director.
Jews: Screenshot from Al Jazeera footage showing an Israeli booby-trapped robot in a neighbourhood of Jabalia Camp, northern Gaza .]
[Jews and their hate of ambulances and medical personnel.]
Butchers of the bar and bat mitzvah KLAN: Israel Destroyed North Gaza Hospital’s Water Tanks With Remote-Controlled Robots
Every fucking Jew needs to be________________ . . . Well, fill in the fucking blank:
Israel wasted no time after Bashar al-Assad’s fall to bomb all the Syrian military assets it wanted to keep out of the rebels’ hands – striking nearly 500 targets, destroying the navy, and taking out, it claims, 90% of Syria’s known surface-to-air missiles.
But it is Israel’s capture of Syria’s highest peak, the Mount Hermon summit, that may prove among the most lasting prizes – though officials have insisted that its occupation is temporary.
“This is the highest place in the region, looking upon Lebanon, upon Syria, Israel,” said Efraim Inbar, director of the Jerusalem Institute for Strategy and Security (JISS). “It’s strategically extremely important. There is no substitute for mountains.”
Fucking blue Nazi symbol. Head fucking uSA Jew, Zyklon Blinken, having his hummus and HTS too. Fucking terrorists, thie Wailing Wall White House! The United States has made “direct contact” with the Syrian rebel group Hayat Tahrir al-Sham, U.S. Secretary of State Antony Blinken said during a press conference in Aqaba, Jordan on Saturday.
“We’ve been in contact with HTS and with other parties,” Blinken said, referring to the rebels who drove Syrian President Bashar al-Assad from power in a lightning offensive earlier this month.
Goddamn die, Zyklon Blinken. And his brethern. And his family line. And his people, his chosen fucking terrorist people?
Fucking Poison Penury Polluting Ivy League! In a recent paper published in Nature Humanities & Social Sciences Communications along with colleagues Stephen Anderson, Kaja Perina, Frank C. Worrell and Christopher Chabris, we examined a sample of over 26,000 Americans who came from 30 different groups of influential people, ranging from four-star admirals and generals, presidents and vice presidents, Pulitzer Prize-winners, billion dollar startup company founders, National Academy of Sciences members and Harvard faculty. Across the same set of 34 elite schools, we found that, overall, 54.2% of these individuals had attended one of these schools, and this ranged from 11.2% to 25.9% for the generals, admirals and House members and up to 78.9% to 80.9% for the Forbes most powerful men, Harvard faculty and members of the American Philosophical Society. Overall, 36.3% attended one of the Ivy League schools and 16% attended Harvard.
These findings are confirmed by a study of 6,900 by Steven Brint and colleagues published in Sociology of Education, showing that among U.S. cultural elites 1.97% attended Harvard, and among U.S. government and business leaders, 6.3% attended Harvard. These findings are also confirmed more broadly outside the U.S. For example, a recent study by Ricardo Salas-Diaz and Kevin Young published in Global Networks showed among roughly 6,000 global elites a Harvard-educated rate of 9.18% (among the U.S. sample, the rate was 16.19%). The Salas-Diaz and Young findings thus replicate our findings in the U.S. These findings also are aligned with prior work looking at global elites (sample of about 4,000) and the global wealthy (sample of about 18,000).
HARRISON BERGERON
by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General.
Some things about living still weren’t quite right, though. April for instance, still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron’s fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away.
It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn’t think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains.
George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel’s cheeks, but she’d forgotten for the moment what they were about.
On the television screen were ballerinas.
A buzzer sounded in George’s head. His thoughts fled in panic, like bandits from a burglar alarm.
“That was a real pretty dance, that dance they just did,” said Hazel.
“Huh” said George.
“That dance-it was nice,” said Hazel.
“Yup,” said George. He tried to think a little about the ballerinas. They weren’t really very good-no better than anybody else would have been, anyway. They were burdened with sashweights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that no one, seeing a free and graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something the cat drug in. George was toying with the vague notion that maybe dancers shouldn’t be handicapped. But he didn’t get very far with it before another noise in his ear radio scattered his thoughts.
George winced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas.
Hazel saw him wince. Having no mental handicap herself, she had to ask George what the latest sound had been.
“Sounded like somebody hitting a milk bottle with a ball peen hammer,” said George.
“I’d think it would be real interesting, hearing all the different sounds,” said Hazel a little envious. “All the things they think up.”
“Um,” said George.
“Only, if I was Handicapper General, you know what I would do?” said Hazel. Hazel, as a matter of fact, bore a strong resemblance to the Handicapper General, a woman named Diana Moon Glampers. “If I was Diana Moon Glampers,” said Hazel, “I’d have chimes on Sunday-just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion.”
“I could think, if it was just chimes,” said George.
“Well-maybe make ’em real loud,” said Hazel. “I think I’d make a good Handicapper General.”
“Good as anybody else,” said George.
“Who knows better than I do what normal is?” said Hazel.
“Right,” said George. He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who was now in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that.
“Boy!” said Hazel, “that was a doozy, wasn’t it?”
It was such a doozy that George was white and trembling, and tears stood on the rims of his red eyes. Two of of the eight ballerinas had collapsed to the studio floor, were holding their temples.
“All of a sudden you look so tired,” said Hazel. “Why don’t you stretch out on the sofa, so’s you can rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch.” She was referring to the forty-seven pounds of birdshot in a canvas bag, which was padlocked around George’s neck. “Go on and rest the bag for a little while,” she said. “I don’t care if you’re not equal to me for a while.”
George weighed the bag with his hands. “I don’t mind it,” he said. “I don’t notice it any more. It’s just a part of me.”
“You been so tired lately-kind of wore out,” said Hazel. “If there was just some way we could make a little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. Just a few.”
“Two years in prison and two thousand dollars fine for every ball I took out,” said George. “I don’t call that a bargain.”
“If you could just take a few out when you came home from work,” said Hazel. “I mean-you don’t compete with anybody around here. You just sit around.”
“If I tried to get away with it,” said George, “then other people’d get away with it-and pretty soon we’d be right back to the dark ages again, with everybody competing against everybody else. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”
“I’d hate it,” said Hazel.
“There you are,” said George. The minute people start cheating on laws, what do you think happens to society?”
If Hazel hadn’t been able to come up with an answer to this question, George couldn’t have supplied one. A siren was going off in his head.
“Reckon it’d fall all apart,” said Hazel.
“What would?” said George blankly.
“Society,” said Hazel uncertainly. “Wasn’t that what you just said?
“Who knows?” said George.
The television program was suddenly interrupted for a news bulletin. It wasn’t clear at first as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers, had a serious speech impediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say, “Ladies and Gentlemen.”
He finally gave up, handed the bulletin to a ballerina to read.
“That’s all right-” Hazel said of the announcer, “he tried. That’s the big thing. He tried to do the best he could with what God gave him. He should get a nice raise for trying so hard.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” said the ballerina, reading the bulletin. She must have been extraordinarily beautiful, because the mask she wore was hideous. And it was easy to see that she was the strongest and most graceful of all the dancers, for her handicap bags were as big as those worn by two-hundred pound men.
And she had to apologize at once for her voice, which was a very unfair voice for a woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. “Excuse me-” she said, and she began again, making her voice absolutely uncompetitive.
“Harrison Bergeron, age fourteen,” she said in a grackle squawk, “has just escaped from jail, where he was held on suspicion of plotting to overthrow the government. He is a genius and an athlete, is under-handicapped, and should be regarded as extremely dangerous.”
A police photograph of Harrison Bergeron was flashed on the screen-upside down, then sideways, upside down again, then right side up. The picture showed the full length of Harrison against a background calibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly seven feet tall.
The rest of Harrison’s appearance was Halloween and hardware. Nobody had ever born heavier handicaps. He had outgrown hindrances faster than the H-G men could think them up. Instead of a little ear radio for a mental handicap, he wore a tremendous pair of earphones, and spectacles with thick wavy lenses. The spectacles were intended to make him not only half blind, but to give him whanging headaches besides.
Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a military neatness to the handicaps issued to strong people, but Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds.
And to offset his good looks, the H-G men required that he wear at all times a red rubber ball for a nose, keep his eyebrows shaved off, and cover his even white teeth with black caps at snaggle-tooth random.
“If you see this boy,” said the ballerina, “do not – I repeat, do not – try to reason with him.”
There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges.
Screams and barking cries of consternation came from the television set. The photograph of Harrison Bergeron on the screen jumped again and again, as though dancing to the tune of an earthquake.
George Bergeron correctly identified the earthquake, and well he might have – for many was the time his own home had danced to the same crashing tune. “My God-” said George, “that must be Harrison!”
The realization was blasted from his mind instantly by the sound of an automobile collision in his head.
When George could open his eyes again, the photograph of Harrison was gone. A living, breathing Harrison filled the screen.
Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood – in the center of the studio. The knob of the uprooted studio door was still in his hand. Ballerinas, technicians, musicians, and announcers cowered on their knees before him, expecting to die.
“I am the Emperor!” cried Harrison. “Do you hear? I am the Emperor! Everybody must do what I say at once!” He stamped his foot and the studio shook.
“Even as I stand here” he bellowed, “crippled, hobbled, sickened – I am a greater ruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can become!”
Harrison tore the straps of his handicap harness like wet tissue paper, tore straps guaranteed to support five thousand pounds.
Harrison’s scrap-iron handicaps crashed to the floor.
Harrison thrust his thumbs under the bar of the padlock that secured his head harness. The bar snapped like celery. Harrison smashed his headphones and spectacles against the wall.
He flung away his rubber-ball nose, revealed a man that would have awed Thor, the god of thunder.
“I shall now select my Empress!” he said, looking down on the cowering people. “Let the first woman who dares rise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!”
A moment passed, and then a ballerina arose, swaying like a willow.
Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snapped off her physical handicaps with marvelous delicacy. Last of all he removed her mask.
She was blindingly beautiful.
“Now-” said Harrison, taking her hand, “shall we show the people the meaning of the word dance? Music!” he commanded.
The musicians scrambled back into their chairs, and Harrison stripped them of their handicaps, too. “Play your best,” he told them, “and I’ll make you barons and dukes and earls.”
The music began. It was normal at first-cheap, silly, false. But Harrison snatched two musicians from their chairs, waved them like batons as he sang the music as he wanted it played. He slammed them back into their chairs.
The music began again and was much improved.
Harrison and his Empress merely listened to the music for a while-listened gravely, as though synchronizing their heartbeats with it.
They shifted their weights to their toes.
Harrison placed his big hands on the girls tiny waist, letting her sense the weightlessness that would soon be hers.
And then, in an explosion of joy and grace, into the air they sprang!
Not only were the laws of the land abandoned, but the law of gravity and the laws of motion as well.
They reeled, whirled, swiveled, flounced, capered, gamboled, and spun.
They leaped like deer on the moon.
The studio ceiling was thirty feet high, but each leap brought the dancers nearer to it.
It became their obvious intention to kiss the ceiling. They kissed it.
And then, neutraling gravity with love and pure will, they remained suspended in air inches below the ceiling, and they kissed each other for a long, long time.
It was then that Diana Moon Glampers, the Handicapper General, came into the studio with a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun. She fired twice, and the Emperor and the Empress were dead before they hit the floor.
Diana Moon Glampers loaded the gun again. She aimed it at the musicians and told them they had ten seconds to get their handicaps back on.
It was then that the Bergerons’ television tube burned out.
Hazel turned to comment about the blackout to George. But George had gone out into the kitchen for a can of beer.
George came back in with the beer, paused while a handicap signal shook him up. And then he sat down again. “You been crying” he said to Hazel.
“Yup,” she said.
“What about?” he said.
“I forget,” she said. “Something real sad on television.”
“What was it?” he said.
“It’s all kind of mixed up in my mind,” said Hazel.
“Forget sad things,” said George.
“I always do,” said Hazel.
“That’s my girl,” said George. He winced. There was the sound of a rivetting gun in his head.
“Gee – I could tell that one was a doozy,” said Hazel.
“You can say that again,” said George.
“Gee-” said Hazel, “I could tell that one was a doozy.”
“Harrison Bergeron” is copyrighted by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., 1961.
This research documents the influence of elite schools, and in particular the Ivy League and Harvard University, among people who have great influence in our society. However, it does not mean that this is the way that things should be or could be. Michael Young wrote back in 1958 a fictional dystopian account of society that is connected to the arguments of Brooks. An older story by Kurt Vonnegut and more recent satire by Lionel Shriver both concern what can happen when society is deeply concerned over inequalities. Some possible solutions that are worth considering are put forth by Michael Sandel in The Tyranny of Merit: What’s Become of the Common Good?, and by David Goodhart in Head, Hand, Heart: Why Intelligence is Over-Rewarded, Manual Workers Matter, and Caregivers Deserve More Respect.
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Paul Haeder, Author 