Please
|

About the Author
Default Group
Location:Texas, USA Naturalized US Citizen of Irish extract -   Fixed Wing and Helo trucker.Interests: "The Absurdity of Man". I am a proud supporter of Blarney, Nonsense, and Hooey. I enjoy being a chopper jockey, and trying to figure the world, people and belief systems out. I'm just not very good at it, so it keeps me real busy. I scribble, blog, run this website, mess with rental houses, ride motorbikes, and read as much as I can. I went solo 44 years ago, and I like to say I'm gonna get me a real job one day. When I grow up. ("but not just yet, Lord, not just yet") For my aviation scribbles see www.chopperstories.com.... enjoy! I wish you Peace in your Life. May you always walk with the sun on your face, and a breeze ruffling your hair. And may you cherish a quiet wonder for our awesome Universe. Life isn't always good. But it is always fascinating. Never quit.
Rating
0%
 (0 votes)

Click on an image below to link to other sections...
Visitor Number:
3,147,383
  • Chopper Stories
  • Writers Harbor
  • Writers Harbor
  • God-in-a-Box
  • Steps On My Road
Follow us on:
View Work
Be the first person to like this story !!
The Coming European Civil War (14) - Rogue Cops


Men of Europe - do NOT look away

The Coming European Civil War

Part 14:  Rogue Cops

       He had taken to staring out the window for long hours.
Silent, uncommunicative. Brooding. Worrying.
Staring into the distance. Seeing not the optical reflection of physical items within his range. Neat Swedish houses, white painted fences and neatly parked Volvo cars. Streetlamps, and the odd pedestrian. Seeing not the sky, the struggling pale blue and the dominant grey of a typical Swedish winter's day. But seeing far, nonetheless. Very far.
       She... observed him, and, loving him deeply, more than life itself, tiptoed around the house. She ached to not see him like this. She longed to be happy again, truly happy, as they had been when they had first been married, almost forty-six years earlier. For many years their lives had been blissful. They had raised children, made many friends, and he had achieved a very meritorious career in Law Enforcement. He had made promotions, and he would always come home bouncy. Serious crime had been rare in those days. Even then, he had absorbed the inevitable encounter with Great Ugliness with a stoic, career Police Officer's composure. He might come home quieter than normal, seemingly preoccupied, but always those rare excursions into the Twilight Zone of exposure to Man's inhumanity to Man, were rare events. Sunshine outweighed by far the Night. Their lives had been happy. His career, fulfilling. Their love, unquestioned.

And then...

Fifteen years earlier? No, more like twenty. He had started to come home more tired. His face drawn. Gaunt. His mouth hardened. His voice strained. He would sink into a chair, exhausted. She remembered it like a Great Shadow.  Creeping in, furtively, stealthily encroaching on their normally sunny meadows. At first he would talk about it. The immigrants. From Eritrea, from Somalia, from Niger, from Morocco, from Afghanistan. Welcomed by the Swedish Government. Welcomed by The Mass Media. Welcomed by Academia. Welcomed - at first - by most ordinary Swedes.

Then...

The uptick in crime. Violent crime. Especially, rapes. What was it about these immigrants that they were so eager and willing to viciously abuse the womenfolk of their unbelievably generous host country? He would come home, shocked, and angry, and describe, in hushed tones, as if the walls might have ears, some truly astonishing outrage. A young mother, dragged off the street into a car, amazingly in broad daylight, and taken away to be raped by a dozen men for days on end. It was, at first, so shocking that ordinary Swedes couldn't wrap their minds about it. Then there was that poor woman in a wheelchair, who gave a refugee a lift home. Back to the refugee reception center. Then asked to use the restroom. They had taken her wheel chair away, and a dozen men had viciously gangraped her in the restroom. Laughing. Joking. Three at a time. It was the stuff of nightmares, and it didn't make sense. How could flesh and blood men do this? He would come home angry, indignant, and tell her about it. He would be upset, indignant, shocked to his very core. And then, one day...

He had simply stopped talking about it.


She loved him so much. It was hard to know what hurt her more. Hearing the terrible tales of violent crime, hearing about lives destroyed, women -and children- left with horrendous physical wounds, even worse mental scars, or... simply knowing that he was bottling all that horror up inside him.
It hurt her to know how he wrestled with all that terrible knowledge.

She thought about the many distinct factors that upset him so much, and on some level burned him. Before, when he still talked about it, he had frequently marvelled at how impossible his task had become. The introduction, so quickly, of so many tens of thousands of men of foreign extraction, of no fixed abode, unable to speak or understand the Swedish language, and often enough unwilling to even try, had upended the traditional job of Police work. Rendered the hard almost impossible. Wrapped each offender and law breaker in an almost impenetrable mantle of anonymity, with the additional benefit of poor documentation, easily forged, and even more easily 'lost'. No fixed abode. And the considerable fringe benefit of being able to speak together in a whispered language nobody else had the faintest hope of understanding.

"Name...!"
       "Mohommad!"
"Papers!"
       "No papers!"
"Where are you from?"
       "Somalia!"
"Where are you staying?"
       "No understand!"
"WHERE - YOU -STAY...?"
      "Oh... errr.... THERE." (pointing vaguely)
"WHERE - YOU - LIVE...?"
       "Oh...errr..... REFUGEE CENTER."

"Name...!"
      "Mohammad!"
"Papers!"
       "No have papers!"
"Where are you from?"
       "Sweden!"
"No, where are you from before?"
      "Errr.... Syria!"
"You speak Arabic?"
      "No!"
"How can you be from Syria and not speak Arabic?"
       "No understand!"
"Where you stay?"
       "Errr.... there!" (pointing vaguely)
"Where you live?"
       "Errr..... Refugee center!"
"Which one? There are FOUR."
      "Errr.... no understand!"

He would come home, affecting nonchalance. But she who loved her husband knew his eyes. And she recognized pain there, and soul searing frustration.
When he started to write of his feelings on Social Media, they almost had an argument.
She had protested feebly:
      "Hjalmar, Sweetheart, you only have three years ago before your retirement. Why risk everything? Why speak up now? Why make waves? Maybe they will fire you, and what will happen to your pension? What will become of us? And you will make us a target. Our family will be in the crosshairs..."
      "I have been silenced for fifteen years. Bludgeoned by the higher ups into a fearful, cowed, non-commentary. On pain of disciplinary proceedings. What sort of country am I leaving our children? Our grandchildren? How long can this descent into darkness, this spiralling out-of-control go on before we suffer a complete collapse of Order? And still the fools in Government appease and placate, pontificate and judge, about things such as Law Enforcement about which they have simply not got the foggiest clue. The ideologues are running mad. The University professors with their PH.D.'s in bullcrap. The academics in their heavily guarded, safe Ivory Towers. The young, the naive, the Social Justice types, living in La-la Dreamland, flaunting their virtue for all to see and mutually admire, with NO FRICKIN' CLUE about REALITY, until it sneaks up behind them and robs or vicously rapes them. At knifepoint. And even THEN they are pressured into keeping silent, for fear of 'upsetting the refugees', and jeopardizing their chances of asylum. What kind of lunatic asylum are we living in, where we voters consistently return into power those who openly seek to dilute our heritage. Dilute? Submerge! Kill! Exterminate!"
His voice had risen -uncharacteristically-in both volume and indignation. She had been stunned into silence, and had felt, for the first time, his anger. She had also tasted, more disquieteningly, an emotion that tasted very much like fear.  

His Social Media posts had provoked -unsurprisingly- an immediate storm of condemnation.

"Here we go; this is what I've handled from Monday-Friday this week: rape, rape, robbery, aggravated assault, rape-assault and rape, extortion, blackmail, assault, violence against police, threats to police, drug crime, drugs, crime, felony, attempted murder, Rape again, extortion again and ill-treatment."

"Suspected perpetrators; Ali Mohammed, Mahmod, Mohammed, Mohammed Ali, again, again, again. Christopher... what, is it true? Yes, a Swedish name snuck in on the edges of a drug crime. Mohammed, Mahmod Ali, again and again."

"Countries representing all the crimes this week: Iraq, Iraq, Turkey, Syria, Afghanistan, Somalia, Somalia, Syria again, Somalia, unknown, unknown country, Sweden. Half of the suspects, we can't be sure because they don't have any valid papers. Which in itself usually means that they're lying about their nationality and identity."


He had been accused of racism, dereliction of duty, bringing the Police Force into disrepute, and the Lady Mayoress had personally called, furious.

No surprise.

It wasn't even a surprise when he was notified to report to a Police tribunal.

She locked herself in the bedroom, and wept.

After more than four decades of dedicated Police Work.

They were instituting disciplinary proceedings.



     


References:   

Gatestone Institute:   Swedish-cop-tells-truth about Migrant crime, is vilified immediately

Gatestone Institute:   Second Swedish cop opens up about migrants destroying his country




Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 15, 2017, 5:47 am
We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
comments powered by Disqus
Copyright © 2007-2015 Writers Harbor
Visitor Number:
3,147,383