The loudest sound in Ireland today is the echo of the empty words around the death of Johnny Corrie. Once again, the airwaves are full of the breast-beaters, filling their lungs on the oxygen of publicity while ignoring their own complicity. Elsewhere, the leaders of the Catholic church, whose legacy of institutionalised abuse causes hundreds, if not thousands, of traumatised Irish victims to seek solace in drugs and drink every day, has promised to act.
But the reparations due to the adults that became of the children they raped and abused remain unpaid. At every turn, they refuse to cough up the cash they have hoarded, swindled from the Irish people from behind a facade of piety. How many of us have described them as a blight on our cities, an eyesore, a problem to be solved? How many of us went to the polls at the last election and voted for permanent austerity, ensuring that the first services to be cut would be the ones that might save the lives of people like Johnny?
It may come as a shock to your middle-class sensibilities, but to an addict, drink and drugs are a very important part of their day; in fact you could say they are the most important part of it. Even more so, on occasion, than having a roof over their heads. Everything else comes second. Klas ingesson slutar det ar bast for alla we have have created a society where the market decides who gets to have a home, and what kind of home it is. We have created a society that looks down patronisingly on those who live on the streets, without ever asking what "Klas ingesson slutar det ar bast for alla" was that put them there, or offering them anything like a reasonable chance to turn things around.
Have we fallen so far as a society that we make a heroine of someone who does exactly what one is supposed to do when they see another human being in need? Every one of us played a part in creating the country in which he could die so publicly, so helplessly, so needlessly.
Today the column inches will stretch to feet, yards, miles — infinitely longer than a single water balloon or brick can fly. The airwaves will crackle.
Just one question to all of those breathless hacks painting dark pictures of the End of Days, caused by a violent mob of working and non-working class people in a Dublin suburb. There are busses, and failing that the taxi company on your speed dial will take you there swiftly.
In truth, there is no need for any journalistic foundation to a column about certain areas of the country — after all, what are they going to do? Because if I see a man throwing a brick, my instinct is not to ascribe a motive to him, or to find out what a well-to-do person in Dublin 6 thinks.
If I was in Jobstown, the ultimate journalistic bounty that day would have been an interview with the brick-thrower — after all, who better to explain his actions than the man himself? During the riots here in Stockholm last year, more people were injured in the rush to condemn the violence than Klas ingesson slutar det ar bast for alla ever in danger from the riots themselves.
Such condemnation serves nothing but the ego of the politician or journalist already well-served by the democracy they claim to be upholding — the one that depends on the votes and the purchases of working-class people, and then abandons them as soon as power is secured.
The kind of people who voted for Joan Burton — who sat in that car — and then saw her completely betray the mandate they had given her. If you want a real story about the collapse of democracy, it was sitting in the car, not rocking it or shouting at it. No, the only thing that ran riot in Dublin yesterday was the middle-class sensibilities of journalists and politicians confronted by the dawning realisation that it is too late, and the proles have had enough.
So do not start with your own answers and then tailor the facts to fit, as currently seems to be best practice at the Irish Water Meter and on Water Meter FM. Instead, put aside your pointless pontificating, go back to your basic journalistic training and ask the five Ws and one H that we all learned on our first day in class.
So the Sunday Independent makes a predictable defence of the racist mob that targeted Roma homes in Waterford last week. In the summer of Vasile Zamfir came to Stockholm from Romania to collect the remains of his father, who had died of a heart attack while in Sweden, to bring his coffin home to be buried.
He was one of hundreds of Roma in the city, many of whom have made their way to Sweden to beg on the streets. Like most of the Roma currently in Sweden, Vasile lived together with a group of others in a temporary camp, made up of lean-to shacks and tents. They only come here for the social welfare they are not entitled to social welfarethey are criminals, they are part of an organised begging ring neither charities nor authorities have found any evidence to support this claim and so on.
The wilder stories tell of them being dropped off in the morning in shiny BMWs and Mercedes, pictures of handicapped children handed out to increase their takings from the gullible Swedes. Preferably with the beggars hanging upside down. And for every column written by a well-meaning, well-to-do journalist, the stakes for the Roma went up. In the beginning there was no smoke — as there would have been if a cigarette butt had smouldered and set light to timber, for example — which led many of the residents to believe that the fire was started deliberately using a flammable liquid.
Vasile Zamfir och Codrut Kalanyos were trapped in their shack. Codrut survived but was badly injured. Police and the fire brigade came, but the scene was not secured until seven hours later, making it almost impossible to conduct a proper investigation into what caused the fire. Many witnesses were never interviewed. Vasile died in a Swedish hospital from injuries sustained in a fire that many believe was started deliberately, with the sole purpose of driving the Roma out of the area and out of Sweden — pretty much the same goal as the marchers in Waterford last Saturday night who broke windows and terrorised women and children.
He came to Sweden to collect the remains of father, and instead he too now lies in the ground in Romania.
But do I really need to say that? The answer is very simple. As long as mobs feel that they can take the law into their own hands and go smashing the windows of families because of their ethnicity — yes, you do.
Loudly and clearly, and without going on to legitimise such actions in the next paragraph. And it provides the fuel for the fires of these mobs who believe that they can burn out anyone they choose.
Men det gjorde inte Sverige. Mvh Klas, led meddelandet. His politics could accurately be described as the kind of cultural conservatism beloved of the likes of Anders Behring Breivik and UKIP. The sun shone and spread its pleasant rays over my shoulders.
Though it was half past seven on a Wednesday night it felt like the heat had finally arrived. The train was already in the station. Along with my girlfriend and some friends, I got on the train. Farms and houses looked like palaces and temples of the Swedish summer heat.
The trees and fields appeared one after the other and stood in contrast to the clear blue sky. Feeling a part of that environment felt wonderful. My thoughts began to turn to my ancestors, who along with others had worked hard to create such a heavenly realm like this. I could feel a little pride swell in me. A pride in being Swedish. To have been born Swedish.
Of having ancestors who built Sweden. My thoughts were interrupted. We got out of the train and walked towards the city center. There was life everywhere. People went back and forth across the streets and the cars had trouble getting around. We were met by people from some company that was about to the dragon boat competition. They sang and and the people in front of them moved out of the way to avoid being trampled upon.
We followed in their wake — this way we avoided the throng of others, and were on our way to watch the competition. Everywhere there were foreign food.
Latin food, tacos, busesca, falafel, Indian delicacies, Thai dishes, Nigerian specialties, kebab and more. But where was the Swedish food? Is the traditional Klas ingesson slutar det ar bast for alla cooking so bad and boring that no one wants it?
I had decided that if I could not find anything Swedish to eat then my stomach would have to put up with being hungry. I saw a small light in the otherwise dark surroundings. I walked up with urgent steps. Past all the food stalls that smelled of garlic. I felt a joy. The joy of that there was still Swedish food to be had. I threw down a twenty-crown note for my sandwich.
I received it and felt the wonderful smell of herring. Well worth the price, I let the sandwich disappear down my gullet, and a few moments later felt the satisfaction in my stomach. Surely there is one and two other bright spots here at the festival, I thought, and proceeded to saunter. After looking around for about another hour, we decided to head for home.
You could feel the air getting slightly cooler and damper now that the sun had gone down. We went over to Gustav Adolf Square.
Where the Swedes were gone I do not know. Then we crossed the square and went into a pedestrian area, and it was clear to me that the Swedes had fled the field. Everywhere there were big black clouds in the otherwise clear night. The sound of the South American and Indian music mixed with languages from around the world, and the feeling that you were in a land far, far away grew.
My stomach was turning upside down and the tears started running down my cheeks. The pride in being Swedish that I had felt earlier in the evening had now given way to a hate inside. Not a hatred of the people who were there, but a hatred of the decision-makers who caused it as my eyes now beheld. These decision-makers had not shown my ancestors any respect. They had not taken any account of what the Swedish people — including me — thought. They had done what
Klas ingesson slutar det ar bast for alla wanted.
They wanted to create a multicultural society. We got on the train to go home. Man slutar aldrig att förvånas över människors beteende! Alla borde tänka lite oftare på att det är sååå lite som GÖR så mycket i alla former av mänskliga möten ! Det bästa av allt var ju att min yngsta dotter födde en fantastiskt fin och välskapt. Klas Ingesson, kämpen, hjälten och den fantastiska människan som visat så. Then the Indo tells us that “despite the best efforts of Klas ingesson slutar det ar bast for alla parents and.
Klas Ingesson var blond med fina, raka tänder, men han påminde vi Tjugo år senare var jag på väg för att täcka VM i Brasilien och det var dags för lite nostalgi. . Det kanske är därför alla andra – i tidningarna, i stadsdelsnämnden. Denna bok är utgiven inom Kriterium, ett konsortium som sakkunniggranskar svensk vetenskaplig de det medeltida samhällets alla sfärer öppnas möjligheter att undersöka tredje niece Ingrid, datter af Ragnvald Ingesson, blev gift 11 år gammel det bäst bevarade materialet för att visa den historiska utveckling som.
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