Why?

About a week ago (how time flies) I asked my followers on Twitter and others I know, on and off the Internet, quite a few of them fairly aware people usually standing by their convictions, why atheists or radicals or anti-consumers and similar celebrate Christmas. I did it for obvious reasons, since it most certainly flies in the face of everything they stand for, and because I was indeed curious, and I have always seen it as an irreconcilable contradiction.

I got quite a few replies and answers, all very polite. The reasons I was given were pretty much what I expected, family and tradition and habit, and a few prejudiced questions in return. There is no need to be specific, using names or aliases here. All and any response I got was pretty similar, except one, saying it appealed to his sense of irony, which was different, at least.

At least no one brought up Scrooge from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol this time. Thank the goddess for small favors. But there were people that insisted on claiming that I had had a bad experience of Christmas as a child, even if I repeatedly told them the opposite several times. Why should there necessarily be a bad childhood experience? There are plenty of reasons to loathe Christmas without it, on its own «merit».

One important factor was that my laidback, even polite question received far more replies and called far more attention to itself than my heart-wrenching story from Copenhagen, which says a lot about even the fairly radical and independent followers I keep on Twitter and friends I have on the Internet in general, and the world at large.

Is this a grave matter, you may ask. In my opinion it is. Sorry, guys, in my opinion celebrating Christmas, in any form, anything even resembling the Christian way or the consumer insanity or as a glue for society or encouragement for nationalism and an even longer list of additional negative factors is just plain wrong, a way of appeasing all the bad forces driving the «celebration». It is far more than an innocent get-together with family and friends. Some of you were clearly embarrassed, and you should be, and more. Christmas can never be reformed, can never be anything else, can never be justifiably defended. It’s just a bad thing.

The fact that most of you hadn't even been asked the question or didn't seem to have considered it before should tell a lot.

Habits are a thousand strands of a spider’s web later to become chains. Christmas is a dangerous and oppressive tradition that should be broken. It’s justifying so many bad things, and cementing both religion and consumerism in current society, and almost more important: It’s a part of the treacherous ongoing process pulling people back into an oppressive society they want little or no part of. It is training children, ruining them, if you like, to accept and even be excited about many things in life they should shun like a plague.

Say no to Christmas, now, and for all time, and crucially: to what it represents.

Gitmo Copenhagen

I sit here, in a friend’s house, writing this down in a fairly relaxed manner. They're rounding up a lot of my friends, right now, in Liberty City, attacking them and dragging them off to The Cage, but I am fairly safe, since my friend isn’t on Gestapo’s list over my friends or even acquaintances (I hope). My arm is in a sling. It hurts, and the painkillers cloud my mind, but I am pleased to say that the Burning inside is still there, stronger than ever.

I can say, with confidence that I have lots of first hand knowledge of the events I’m about to describe to you. During the last week I’ve spent so much time in the cages in the «temporary» prison in Valby that it almost feels like home.

There is so much to share about my experiences the last few days and nights that I could write a book about it (and perhaps I will), but let me give you all a little taste, a few facts, a brief look into government terror against its own population.

This is a selection of what the police, the current Gestapo in Copenhagen has done to us and other protesters in the last few days.


They are bugging us, always harassing us. They have done that for years, and also increased the level of harassment weeks before the summit began.

When they attacked the protests they did so completely without provocation. They striped us (modern «handcuffs» made of plastic), took a random selection of the 100 000 people big protest rally and made people sit on the cold sidewalk, not allowing us to pee or shit or anything, and many of the inexperienced victims did it in their pants. We didn’t, having some idea what to expect. It was below zero, and we quickly felt like ice pickles, hardly able to move or feel our arms. Some of us tried to get up and walk away, but we were pushed back down. A boy hit his head and lay still for minutes. We screamed at them to help him, to get a doctor, anything, but they ignored us. When he woke up he looked totally out of it. We were separated from him later and never saw him again. The pee and shit in people’s pants froze. A girl was beaten harshly by a club. She had been screaming, or rather howling with an almost gone voice for minutes. They took her away eventually. We kept quiet. When you are threatened with brutal violence, unable to defend yourself you stay quiet.

Then they finally took us to The Cage, a number of cages actually in what they call an interim prison in Valby. It is basically a storage facility that would make a butcher proud. We were stored, like sardines in a box. People in my cage began throwing up. Several of them showed telling and dangerous signs of extreme fatigue and brain damage, the blood in their faces and the diluted pupils among them. I’m not a doctor, but you don’t need a crystal ball to see the obvious. It’s beside the point anyway, as I hope you will understand.

Twelve hours can be incredibly long. All sense of time disappears. This is the very essence of torture. You take victims to a place, both real and imagined where all safety is gone and the inconceivable becomes commonplace. Then, after a while you can make them do whatever you want. I’m somewhat hardened, in the sense that I have experienced a lot of this shit through the years, but I’m not ashamed to say that this was the worst I have ever experienced.

And it has happened every day since Thursday. I have had the pleasure of spending two nights at the hotel facilities in Valby. And if you didn’t realize that this was sarcasm there is no hope for you.

Others have spent at least three.

This is no longer a question of only Climate Change, and in truth it never was. Society must change dramatically, not only releasing a little bit less greenhouse gases to an overtaxed atmosphere.

They lie to us, lie to you, making you believe anything, while you sit safely in your chair, in front of your television set, and are deceived 24/7. Do you think you are safe in your ignorance and fear and non-participation? Many of those passing by the last four days believed that, too.

And you aren’t safe in your living room either. The tenet of a tyranny is that no one is safe. Everybody is living with the Damocles sword above their head, whether they acknowledge that or not.

Is it random, you say? That is the point. It’s supposed to be random. People are trained to police themselves, out of fear, because they are conditioned to do it, or quite simply because they want to avoid even considering the implied threat of violence.

Tonight they went after those independents still protesting, charged into Liberty City like a hot knife through butter. They have wanted to shut down Liberty City from its very start, and made an effort out of it the last twenty years. Tonight they are making another effort.

A nice man out of uniform

Wednesday wasn’t that funny, not compared to the rest of the week and weekend:

We were standing by the globe, «the new symbol of unity» in Copenhagen the other day. The place has been filled with cops for days. We treat them like flies and basically ignore them. They want their presence to be intimidating, but it isn’t, not to us, not when we are used to seeing these nice people with clubs and shields in their hands, and their heads covered by a huge protective helmet.

The uniformed thugs, the current Gestapo is visible. They have a presence in the streets, as they like to call it.

But that isn’t enough for them. A lot of the tyranny’s soldiers trail us out of uniform as well. If they aren’t intelligence or something they are usually easy to spot, though. They aren’t very bright, and they are lousy actors. We don’t allow ourselves to be bothered by those flies either, unless they become really troublesome.

And sometimes we have a lot of fun with them, and on rare occasions, such as this one, we get the opportunity to really enjoy ourselves.

He called himself Karl. Karl wasn’t new. He had stuck around for weeks, and we could almost feel his excitement, his bold desire to take the next step, and be the hero of all his Gestapo comrades.

After he had barked against his comrades in arms for some minutes to impress us he asked if he could join us at our squatted house. We shrugged and told him our home was open to everybody, playing along.

These encounters usually go like this: They know that we know that they know that we know it’s them.

Or something to that effect.

I noticed that he paid me a lot of attention out of the corner of his eyes. He seemed very determined today. I felt a little queasy, but I was a little bored, and decided to play along, to give him rope.

He stuck to me like glue, eager in his condemnation of his secret pals, like he would always be one of the first to throw stones at protests. As I said he isn’t that much of an actor and doesn’t really want to be either. Like all members of Gestapo he enjoys his power, and without the ability to exercise it he is nothing.

The two of us slowed down, walking a little behind the others. They would soon disappear ahead if we didn’t pick up speed. I felt alone, just for a moment.

- You aren’t doing anything special tonight, are you?

- I guess not, I shrugged.

The others turned a corner. The two of us couldn’t see them anymore.

We walked through a dark alley. He grabbed me and pushed himself at me.

- What are you doing? I chuckled.

- Just stand still, he breathed in my ear. – Stand still, goddamnit. You would want to be a good girl, now.

I tried to pull free, but he held me hard.

He tried to kiss me on the lips. I turned my face away from him. He grabbed my head and made a serious attempt at keeping it in correct position from his point of view.

I heard steps. He did, too, when he saw me look behind him.

- He wants you to be nice to him, Lotte said, her voice thick with sarcasm.

The poor guy suddenly seemed to get it, to notice everybody else standing around. I don’t want to think too much about what would have happened if they hadn’t been here.

- I think it’s about time to put a stop to this, now, I told the scowling man calmly. – Don’t you agree?

It ended quickly, almost before it began. His scowl changed to a snarl and he pulled away, walked off, and faded into the city night. «Karl» stopped existing there and then, and we wouldn’t see him again, except behind a helmet visor and shield and a raised club.


This is only one of many encounters between us and the Gestapo in the Copenhagen streets. Day in and day out they do their best to entertain us, to keep us on our toes.

The same old false song

Radio Baghdad from Copenhagen today:

I'm scribbling this in haste, before returning to the streets of fire.

We see it every time. There is a man with a bomb or a suspicious suitcase somewhere (as if a suitcase can be suspicious). Protesters are planning sinister acts. Terrorists are gathered in the community house where protesters are gathered. And so on. Pure bullshit and lies and deceit are filling the headlines and the subsequent text. All of it to justify BAD treatment of the dangerous protesters. It's quite okay to knock their heads bloody and their bodies blue and black.

Everything the government says about their true opponents is passed on by established media, their loyal, yapping dogs. The true protesters are never given a voice, except as a beaten-to-a-pulp (and dangerous) villain behind bars.

And the power-loyal «protester» is defending Gestapo's action, like his kind always is.

And the adoring public is eating it up, like the stupid, mindless slaves and zoombies they are.

When the local branch of the modern Gestapo is charging us with bloody clubs we defend ourselves. it is as plain as that. The sheep bow their heads and take whatever the pigs dish out, but we don't.

And the men and women behind the fences, in their palaces are let off the hook, relieved of any true criticism.

Clear like the purest of water.