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RECKLESS LIVES OF HUMANITARIAN AID WORKERS

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RECKLESS LIVES OF HUMANITARIAN AID WORKERS

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We wrongly believe that aid-workers and those in the humanitarian industries have the best interests of vulnerable people at heart. The following interview is with a woman who grew up being moved from country to country by her parents who seemed oblivious to their own children’s needs.  That kind of upbringing has left a mark on this woman and it impacts upon her adult life to this day.

  1. Hi Isabel, please tell our readers a little about yourself and your background.

 I am 43 years old and I have a 6-year-old daughter.  I live in London and have done so for most of my adult life, except for a brief stint spent in Jerusalem.

My father worked for the UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees), while my mother worked for a variety of local and international NGOs (Non-Governmental Organisations) as well as UN agencies – the best known of which would be UNICEF (United Nations Children’s Fund) and Save the Children. She was a child psychologist who worked with child soldiers, developing programmes to demobilize them and assist with their psychological rehabilitation.

We moved country every three or four years. First Botswana then Zimbabwe before moving on to France/Switzerland – I hyphen the two as we lived in France but went to work/school in Switzerland every day (many of the UN’s key humanitarian agencies are in Geneva).  From there we went to America and Turkey before finally returning to France/Switzerland. My parents then went on to Moscow before finally retiring to Geneva. They also made many short-term trips to areas of front-line humanitarian disasters – most famously the Rwandan genocide from which both of them returned shell-shocked. Mum also worked in Liberia and Sierra Leone during the civil wars in the 1990s, among other places.”

 

  1. How did your childhood and upbringing affect you as a child and what impact did that have on your life as an adult?

Isolated. Rootless. No identity of my own.

I was always the new person, always the ‘other’.  I was repeatedly saying goodbye to friends, schools, pets, houses and hobbies, the entirety of my young life and having to start again in a completely alien environment. This is bad enough if you are an adult, but it is a chaotic state for a child to be in.  I also feel a constant uprooting is an abusive thing to do to a child that needs routine, structure and stability in order to develop a sense of who they are and where they come from.

When I was 14 I was sent to a boarding school in the UK.  This is when I finally understood that I was British, but I had no idea what being British meant.

I became a chameleon, adept at adapting myself to the outer trappings of the culture I found myself in, but only in a shallow way, just enough to pass myself off without attracting too much attention and ridicule. I also felt internally empty as I had no solid core, no culture to fall back on – I was a creature that adapted to its surroundings.  The onus is always on this type of child to adapt because he or she is the ‘other’. The implicit message this type of child takes on, especially as each move compounds the confusion and chaos, is that he or she are the ones who are and strange and thus they must change.

I didn’t have the chance to develop any solid sense of self. My first breakdown happened at 19 because of my situation. I had moved to London to study at university. It was one move too many and it was then, the first time I was consistently around British people (my boarding school had been very international), that it hit me that I didn’t even belong in the country that I supposedly came from, that I may look and sound British but wasn’t.  I was an immigrant from nowhere, a permanent outsider – contrary to what the tedious ‘Citizen of Nowhere’ promoters believe.

 

I had repeated breakdowns throughout my twenty’s as a result of the childhood chaos and my parents disarray.

Recovering from this prompted a root and branch re-evaluation of everyone and everything in my life, and the result is the red-pilled person I am today.

I experienced bullying and xenophobia from a variety of quarters depending on the culture I happened to be in.  For instance, in Zimbabwe white Rhodesian kids bullied us because we were ‘terrorist-sympathising, kaffir lovers’. And in France I was bullied because I was English, even though I didn’t know what this meant. By far the worst experiences I had were in Turkey where girls were subjected to jaw-dropping and deeply perverted harassment from the men every single time we left our houses because we were white-skinned, blonde-haired children and teenagers. I have never met anyone who has encountered racism like this before. It is this experience that fuels my deep concerns about Islam in Europe and my support for the work that people like you and Tommy Robinson do in trying to raise awareness of it

The harassment from the Muslim men has left a permanent mark on me, akin to a form of mild PTSD, and I have rarely been able to engage in intimate relationships with men because of this.

All of the above was compounded by my parents being oblivious to or choosing to ignore all the signs of their children struggling, focusing only on their work and their own problems.

 

  1. Would you tell me a little more about the harassment from Muslim men and how that affected you so badly? 

I was 17 – my sisters were 12, 11 and 2 – when we arrived in Turkey. Only the two year old escaped the harassment.

We were leered at, hissed at, groped, mocked and laughed at everywhere we went, every time we left the house. I had a huge dog at the time and Turks were scared of dogs so I was sure to take him everywhere with me as protection.

I started taking notes and I noticed that the men did not do this to expatriate women with dark hair or to Turkish women despite that the fact that at the time, in the early 90s, in the hell-healed parts of Ankara I lived in, Turkish women wore mini-skirts, low cut tops etc., items of clothing way more revealing than that which my very shy sisters and I would wear.

The men did it because we were blonde and it is this that makes the abuse directed towards us racially motivated. I have had the same experiences with Muslim men in the West and every other Muslim country I have ever visited. There was an utter contempt directed towards me because of the colour of my skin and hair, yet I was never allowed to call it for what it was – racism towards Caucasian women and girls. It was for this reason that I knew that a mass migration of Muslims straight from the Muslim world into Germany, Sweden, and Northern Europe in general was going to result in disaster for European women.

I’ve read that the police have taken to telling Swedish and German women to dye their hair. I was also told this by human rights’ workers. These ‘humanitarians’ would come out of ‘racism’ seminars and give me that advice whilst telling me that I should be more tolerant and understanding. I wonder what would happen if they told black people to bleach their skin or Muslim women that they should take off their hijabs?

My little sisters would get obscene phone calls almost everyday when they came home from school. These phone calls were perfectly timed and I can only imagine that it had to be a neighbour or someone watching us as we came home, sitting by their phones. I also wonder how they were able to obtain our phone number?

Local boys would follow us home from the bus stop everyday, walking right behind us, singing loudly and mockingly into our faces, all the way up to our front door.  My sisters were between the ages of 11 and 14 at the time.

Waiters at the restaurant next to our house had a workers’ quarter that looked onto our house and they used to perv on us from there, so we had to be on guard even in our own home. Sometimes these men would masturbate in front of my sisters. I’ll never forget the day that my toddler sister asked me what that ‘pink thing’ was.

One of these waiters threw semen on one of my sisters as she was on her way to school.  It hit her.  She was too young to know what it was.

Also one of the neighbourhood boys found one of my sisters on Facebook about15 years later. He knew her name, after all those years. How? She didn’t know who he was. He kept contacting her. Eventually he sent her pornography. That is the level of obsession they had with us.

It’s all a (much, much) lesser version of the hell meted out to the girls in Rotherham, Rochdale, Oxford etc.  Infidel girls deemed easy meat and acceptable prey, and the white ones the most contemptible because of the freedoms they are allowed. Turkish women saw everything that happened to us and many were made happy by it. Some joined in. They shared the men’s racial contempt.

I mention this because my sisters agree that it is important to emphasis the extent to which the Turkish women went along with this abuse directed towards us.  They cheered alongside the abusive men.

Postmodernists like to talk about ‘othering’. This was way beyond that. We were entirely dehumanised, viewed purely as objects of disposable, sexual contempt.

  1. What made you want to share your experience and were you surprised by people’s reactions when you shared your story?

I thought the thread would be of interest. A few twitter followers had asked me to share my experience but I didn’t expect it to go viral. I wish I’d paid better attention to my grammar now.

I’m not surprised by how shocked people are, or that they had never considered these things before. Why would they? The aid agencies are promoted like secular-age saints and people are fantastically naïve about psychology and personal motivation. It’s rarely more complex than the equation of helping someone in need = automatic good person. Well, everyone from Jimmy Saville down has hid behind that fallacy and I’m not saying aid workers are as bad as that demonic entity.

Similarly, people project their ideas about holidays in far-flung destinations onto a constantly uprooted childhood. I’ve lost count of the number of people who have told me they would love to have ‘travelled’ too. Glamour, privilege and jet setting are also common misconceptions about the children of aid workers.

I’ve wanted to write about my upbringing, aid agencies in particular, but also more generally about my international/rootless upbringing for a while.  I approached some MSM outlets and book agents with no success.  So Twitter and blogging are great platforms are great forums if you can’t get past the opinion ‘gatekeepers’.

Initially, I was motivated by wanting to draw attention to a few unknown areas of my type of upbringing, especially as I was so fed up with people thinking it was noble and glamorous, etc.  But my motivation changed after the summer of 2015 that saw the mass Islamic movement into Europe.

I also knew all the excuses and arguments the aid agencies used to divert attention away from the fact that the overwhelming majority of these ‘refugees’ were single, fighting-age Muslim men. I knew it would be bad for European woman, and even though I can be a bit cynical at times, even I couldn’t have foreseen things like the 2016 Cologne attacks and, worse, the media and the left’s attempts to downplay them.  Not to mention the pandering of returning ISIS fighters.

I started to understand how reckless the aid and human rights’ industry is. It may have started well intentioned, and I do still think it has some validity.  For example, I do think we should cater to refuges, but in camps as close to their own countries as possible, to which they should be returned as soon as possible.

These agencies are over-reaching and have become reckless, and they are partaking in the destabilisation of an entire continent and civilisation.  Ironically, they are destroying the culture that created the human rights sectors – both are fundamentally the cultural creation of the white, European, Christian men of the Enlightenment.

I connected the agencies’ behaviour to other wider social changes that I don’t like – cultural Marxism, post-modernism, the far-left, the over-reach of feminism, and felt I had to go public and start contributing to the debate.  As I said, I became red-pilled.

Becoming a mother also had a huge impact upon me wanting to use my voice.  I now have a vested interested in the outcome of Europe but I also understood what it means to be a parent, a responsible one.  And I am now acutely aware of how obscene much of my parents’ behaviour towards me was.

 

 

 

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