By Ray Wilson
It’s Saturday, November 4th, and the annual fireworks display is being held in my dad’s village.
Me and the missus had been invited to meet up with family there; it has been a while—maybe half a century ago—since I was last there. The venue is packed; huge electronic displays flash up messages; the bonfire starts at 6.30; and fireworks begin at 7.00 p.m. The local radio DJ of yesteryear is not in attendance. The running commentary on crackly a sound system-cheesy musical interludes is banished to distant history.
“Hi, you made it,” my son’s partner shouts to be heard above the music of fairground rides—the aroma of food cooking at numerous mobile vendors mingles with a hint of diesel from the generators. Our granddaughter sits proudly on my son’s shoulders, waving.
In 1970, my brother Steve had a firework explode in his face and was rushed to the hospital. When I went to visit him, I walked straight past his bed. I hadn’t recognised him; he was swollen,his face blackened, and his hair was gone. At that time, conflicts raged around the world. We understood little of the toll of war and of the injury and suffering inflicted on the innocent. The Middle East was a powder keg, then as now. During his recovery after reconstructive surgery, he watched television and read newspapers. There were various conflicts; footage flashed up on television screens, and the human toll now seemed more real to us, having seen the devastation caused by a mere firework. Plans to arm and train civilians in southern Lebanon to protect against Israeli raids, avoiding military action due to religious polarisation and increased Palestinian guerrilla activity in the region, This decision, however, only added fuel to the already volatile situation.
The bonfire was lit in a far corner; the enormous pyre burned brightly in the far distance, cordoned off for our safety; we couldn’t smell its smoke and far less feel its warmth. No effigies of Boris Johnson with banners emblazoned with his famous statement saying that COVID was “nature’s way of dealing with the elderly.” No, Midazolam Matt perched on top of the flaming bonfire, spontaneously combusting and scaring the pants off of everybody. none of that. Children walked around holding colourful flashing LED wands, unlike the sparklers of old. The pyrotechnics were a spectacular display of computer-sequenced fireworks. Something was missing from the upturned faces; there was a vacancy in their stares. No whoops of excitement, oohs and aahs, or gasps of joy. The absence of laughter and cheers hinted at a collective unease that hung in the air. It was as if the orchestrated “pandemic” had cast a shadow over the once-jubilant atmosphere, reminding everyone of the lingering uncertainties and losses that had befallen the world. No bangers or fire crackers, Catherine wheels, or ground-based displays, and no shadowy figures running around with lighted tapers lighting the blue touch papers.
And yet there is joy, and the bond of family is strong despite the efforts of governments to sever them apart.
We drive home, and our spirits are lifted and remain elevated, although our week was punctuated by sadness.
A colleague called early in the week and told me about the sudden death of a lifelong friend from his school days, and he was going to attend the funeral that day.
“You won’t agree, Ray, but I have spoken to friends in Israel; they are committed to fighting the war against Palestine and their right to justly defend themselves.”
“Every country has that right,” I answer, “but nobody can condone actions on any side that result in the death, maiming, or injury of innocent civilians, especially children.”
I think about the white phosphorus used by Israel in Gaza and about the depleted uranium supplied by the USA to Ukraine.
“Its the privileged men in expensive suits instigating these actions—no threat to them—who profit from the industrial military complex either directly or indirectly—their justification—a small price to pay to keep their territories safe. Keeping us safe, I wonder?”
The Israeli government deployed “vaccines” on its own population, perhaps the most highly vaccinated region on the planet. Eran Segal of the Weizmann Institute of Science, who advises the Israeli government on COVID-19, warns that a large portion of the population is suffering due to unvaccinated individuals, fuelling the virus’s rapid spread while the country remains open with minimal restrictions. When history gets rewritten, will the harms of bioweapon “vaccines” be conveniently disguised as part of the “COVID-19” pandemic?
Another colleague called out of the blue; he had been off the radar for months.
“Sorry, I haven’t been in touch. I had to go to Australia urgently on family business due to the sudden death of a family member. To cap it all, my wife’s sister is now on an “end of life” pathway.”
As we drive, the rain obliterates my vision, and the windscreen wipers struggle to cope; slowly, it eases off.
“It was well attended, and the concessions made good money,” my missus says.
“And the weather was kind, blustery, you might say; at least the rain didn’t spoil play, and the family had a great time,” I say.
It was a much-needed break from the stress and uncertainty that have been plaguing us all.
We drove home in relative silence, deep in our own thoughts.
I thought about the scar my missus sustained on her leg from a firework accident when she was eleven. Third-degree burns: hospital treatment and the weeks it took for her wound to heal completely, and I couldn’t help but reflect on the resilience my wife had shown throughout her life. Despite the challenges she faced, she always managed to stay strong and carry on.
Thoughts about all the shenanigans enacted by governments around the world swirled like fragmented particles in the kaleidoscope of my mind. We are already, and have been for many years, controlled by globalists but mesmerised into believing we have autonomy, but the sleeping masses have been slowly awakening; we have been comatose for far too long. We must finally act, and we are.
The ULEZ and net zero nonsense—the removal of diesel and petrol—the transition to all electric vehicles on the journey to the final destination—zero vehicles The nonsense of no bonfires—indeed, no home fires—on pain of death, fines, or imprisonment And yet, has anyone actually calculated the energy expended on the manufacture of weapons and armaments for the military machine? Setting aside the wholesale evisceration of humanity, what about the catastrophic damage to the environment? To the all-important climate. What would those men in expensive suits say to that? Would they say it’s a price worth paying for the common good? What about all those noxious chemicals bellowing into the atmosphere from constructed conflicts raging around our world?
The environmental consequences of warfare are indeed alarming. The release of toxic chemicals and pollutants during conflicts not only poses immediate risks to human health but also contributes to long-term damage to ecosystems and the delicate balance of our planet. It is crucial for decision-makers to consider these detrimental effects when evaluating the true cost of military actions and prioritise sustainable alternatives for the well-being of both humanity and the environment. When all alternative reasons are considered and you are left with only one unpalatable answer, no matter how unlikely or ridiculed, it must at least be considered. The only logical answer to the conundrum is that our governments are intent on culling us by any and every means possible. Those who are wilfully blind because of menaces or financial inducements, those who know and do not speak out, are complicit in the destruction of humanity.
Now is the time to speak out. If we all do this collectively—do what we know to be right—this stops now. The megalomaniac leaders whom purport to be leaders of the free democratic world are supposed to act on behalf of the people—for the benefit of the people—and are following a script written by so-called philanthropic conglomerates—the psychopaths who wield power but only with our consent.
It is time to withdraw that consent.
My brother Steve turned up at my dad’s place early on Saturday morning to take him shopping.
“Are you going to the firework display tonight?” I ask him.
“Not really sure yet,” he says thoughtfully.
Steve was lucky, and you can’t see the vaguest sign of physical deformity from his accident, but he is still as bald as a coot. I would say he is more like Telly Savalas than a coot.
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