“These are not our values. These are toxins. If you wish to live among civilised folk, be one of us. If not, we will help you to leave. It is that simple, or should be.”
Those who fled the Borough Market massacre with hands on heads were victims of our culture’s inherent decency and respect for laws and tolerance –prisoners, if you will, of an invasive strategy that exploits the oxymoronic commandment that we, as a society, must tolerate the intolerant.
It was a perfect summer Saturday, as far as London’s notoriously fickle weather goes – sunny, warm, even balmy if you wish to stretch the definition. Seldom spoiled by Nature’s generosity, relaxed Londoners took to the parks, the markets and open-air bars in their tens of thousands. The city’s heart was on display that day, generously opened to any and all wishing to enjoy it. Tourists and locals, young and old, men, women and children were everywhere, coming and going amid centuries of history. I was among them, as it happens, taking a drink with friends in a wine cellar that has been doing business since the Guy Fawkes trial, admiring the replica of Francis Drake’s Golden Hind in its ferocious livery of black and gold, plus the changing of Her Majesty’s guard, of course, and stopping in at Churchill’s bunker to be reminded of Britain’s magnificent obstinacy. There are not enough hours in a tourist’s day to enjoy all of London. Perhaps not even those who call this city their home can ever have enough time to fully appreciate the city on the Thames.
But please, forgive me as I cut short the reverie, for I write not a tourist brochure but an accounting of envy and hatred. I write, in other words, of Islamic killers’ implacable determination to destroy everything we love, to destroy our freedom and our children’s futures. None of us has a future in their ideal world.
My wife and I, our son and his fiancée just happened to have passed through Borough Market on that most recent of terrible days. That day — Saturday, June 3, 2017 — saw three murderers kill at random, stabbing passersby as they strolled or lingered to enjoy a beer of coffee, taking in the sights, smells and bonhomie that blossom when people are free of fear and can savour the fruits of liberty and prosperity. Those who died weren’t combatants in any political quarrel, not that they understood as much, at any rate. All were unarmed and unable to protect themselves, other than with plastic chairs and pint-handled beer glasses.
We four were never in immediate danger, and for that I must thank a quirk of fate and timing. Had we stayed at the market just a bit longer we would have been in the thick of it. Luckily, feeling the effects of a jet lag, we decided to call it a day and get an early sleep.
There was no sleep, though, not that night as we watched the TV in our Kensington hotel. Dumbfounded, we recognized the very places in Borough Market we had left not an hour before. We saw people, obviously terrified, walking fast and trying hard not to run. They held their hands atop their heads, as instructed by the armed police, looking for all the wold like newly captured prisoners of war. They were demonstrating for all to see that they were helpless and unarmed, no threat to anyone, least of all those whose goal it was to kill them.
We saw the faces of ordinary people contorted by fear. They came to London from all over the world, as we did, to enjoy the freedom of travel and were suddenly caught in the murderous self-deceit of suicidal losers. Their killers were manipulated by Koran-quoting puppeteers, those who told them it was a religious observation to spill blood by way of revenge for non-existent grievances, to kill in the name of the long-dead wretch who married a mere child. This desert warlord cheated those who believed him to be a conduit of Divine revelation, which ordained that all who did not share his views must die or, short of that, pay protection in order to keep themselves alive, their women safe and children not taken into slavery. This illiterate, rapacious warlord, the London Market killers believed, was the perfect man
We watched the scared humans who did not know what to do, nor how to protect themselves and their loved ones. We watched what was the second horrific assault on civilisation in as many weeks. We saw fear and confusion, the submission of the free to the violently deluded.
We watched the head of Special Branch declare the killers were exterminated within the eight minutes of the first call for help. To my eyes the policeman appeared to be taking pride in such a quick and effective response. Really? Eight minutes? Effective? I beg to differ.
Eight minutes was all it took to kill seven people and leave 48 grievously wounded. What was he proud of? That it took eight minutes to kill three specimens of animated scum? Can we really call it a quick response? In terms of action and reaction, of covering a specified distance, of cocking weapons and squeezing triggers, yes, I suppose you might say it was speedy. But it was no “quick response” to the long-festering and malignant tumour of radical Islam’s war on freedom and the UK’s fading, former way of life? There was no comfort in that policeman’s words.