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| Recent Publications by New English Review Authors |
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In Praise of Prejudice: The Necessity of Preconceived Ideas by Theodore Dalrymple |
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Defending The West: by Ibn Warraq |
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Nations, Language and Citizenship: by Norman Berdichevsky |
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Romancing Opiates by Theodore Dalrymple |
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Which Koran? by Ibn Warraq |
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Our Culture, What's Left of It
by Theodore Dalrymple |
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What The Koran Really Says by Ibn Warraq |
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Life at the Bottom by Theodore Dalrymple |
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The Origins of the Koran by Ibn Warraq |
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Why I Am Not Muslim by Ibn Warraq |
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Spanish Vignettes: An Offbeat Look Into Spain's Culture, Society & History by Norman Berdichevsky |
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Leaving Islam Edited by Ibn Warraq |
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These are all the Blogs posted on Monday, 18, 2008.
Monday, 18 August 2008
A Man, A Plan, Trepan!

Excerpt from "Eccentric Lives and Peculiar Notions" by John Michell:
Amanda Feilding lives in a charming flat looking over London's river with her companion, Joey Mellen, and their infant son, Rock. She is a successful painter, and she and Joey have an art gallery in a fashionable street of the King's Road. Another of her talents is for politics. At the last two General Elections she stood for Parliament in Chelsea, more than doubling her vote on the second occasion from 49 to 139. It does not sound much, but the cause for which she stands is unfamiliar and lacks obvious appeal. Feilding and her voters demand that trepanning operations be made freely available on the National Health. Trepanation means cutting a hole in your skull.
The founder of the trepanation movement is a Dutch savant, Dr Bart Hughes. In 1962 he made a discovery which his followers proclaim as the most significant in modern times. One's state and degree of consciousness, he realized, are related to the volume of blood in the brain. According to his theory of evolution, the adoption of an upright stance brought certain benefits to the human race, but it caused the flow of blood through the head to be limited by gravity, thus reducing the range of human consciousness. Certain parts of the brain ceased or reduced their functions while others, particularly those parts relating to speech and reasoning, became emphasized in compensation. One can redress the balance by a number of methods, such as standing on one's head, jumping from a hot bath into a cold one, or the use of drugs; but the wider consciousness thus obtained is only temporary. Bart Hughes shared the common goal of mystics and poets in all ages: he wanted to achieve permanently the higher level of vision, which he associated with an increased volume of blood in the capillaries of the brain.
The higher state of mind he sought was that of childhood. Babies are born with skulls unsealed, and it is not until one is an adult that the bony carapace is formed which completely encloses the membranes surrounding the brain and inhibits their pulsations in repsonse to heart-beats. In consequence, the adult loses touch with the dreams, imagination and intense perceptions of the child. His mental balance becomes upset by egoism and neuroses. To cure these problems, first in himself and then for the whole world, Dr Huges returned his cranium to something like the condition of infancy by cutting out a small disc of bone with an electric drill. Experiencing immediate beneficial effects from this operation, he began preaching to anyone who would listen to the doctrine of trepanation. By liberating his brain from its total imprisonment in his skull, he claimed to have restored its pulsations, increased the volume of blood in it and acquired a more complete, satisfying state of consciousness than grown-up people normally enjoy. The medical and legal authorities reacted to Huges's discovery with horror and rewarded him with a spell in a Dutch lunatic asylum.
Joseph Mellen met Bart Huges in 1965 in Ibiza and quickly became his leading, or rather one and only, disciple. Years later he wrote a book called Bore Hole, the contents of which are summarized in its opening sentence: 'This is the story of how I came to drill a hole in my skullto get permanently high.'
[A few paragraphs that detail Joseph Mellen's early experiments with LSD, and how he finds out about Bart Huges have been removed for brevity.]
The time came when Joey felt he had preached enough and that he now had to act. He did not agree with Holingshead that the third eye was merely a figure of speech, believing in its physical attainment through self-trepanation. Support for this can be found in archaeology. Skulls of ancient people all over the world give evidence that their owners were skillfully trepanned during their lifetimes, and many of these appear to have been of noble or priestly castes. The medical practice of trepanation was continued up to the present century in treatment of madness, the hole in the skull being seen as a way of relieving pressure on the brain or letting out the devils that possessed it. By his scientific explanation of the reasons for the operation, Bart Huges had removed it from the area of superstition, and Joey Mellen proposed to be the second person to perform it on himself in the interest of enlightenment.
Bart had become a close friend of Amanda Feilding, and they went off to Amsterdam together while Joey took care of Amanda's flat. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for to bore a hole in his head.
The most gripping passages in Bore Hole describe his various attempts to complete the operation. They are also extremely gruesome, and those who lack medical curiosity would do well to read no further. Yet to those who might contemplate trepanation for and by themselves, Joey's experiences are a salutary warning. It should be empahasized that neither he, Bart nor Amanda has ever recommended people to follow their example by performing their own operations. For years they have been looking for doctors who would understand their theories and would agree to trepan volunteer patients as a form of therapy Strangely enough, not one member of the medical profession has been converted.
In a surgical store Joey found a trepan instrument, a kind of auger or cork- screw designed to be worked by hand. It was much cheaper and, Joey felt, more sensitive than an electric drill. Its main feature was a metal spike, surrounded by a ring of saw-teeth. The spike was meant to be driven into the skull, holding the trepan steady until the revolving saw made a groove, after which it could be retracted. If all went well, the saw-band should remove a disc of bone and expose the brain.
Joey's first attempt at self-trepanation was a fiasco. He had no previous medical experience, and the needles he had bought for administering a local anaesthetic to the crown of his head proved to be too thin and crumpled up or broke. Next day he obtained some stouted needles, took a tab of LSD to steady his nerves and set to in earnest. First he made an incision to the bone, and then applied the trepan to his bared skull. But the first part of the operation, driving the spike into the bone, was impossible to accomplish. Joey described it as like trying to uncork a bottle from the inside. He realized he needed help and telephoned Bart in Amsterdam, who promised he would come over and assist at the next operation. This plan was frustrated by the Home Office, which listed Dr Huges as an undesirable visitor to Britain and barred his entry.
Amanda agreed to take his place. Soon after her return to London she helped Joey re-open the wound in his head and, by pressing the trepan with all her might against his skull, managed to get the spike to take hold and the saw- teeth to bite. Joey then took over at cranking the saw. Once again he had swallowed some LSD. After a long period of sawing, just as he was about to break through, he suddenly fainted. Amanda called an ambulance and he was taken to hospital, where horrified doctors told him that he was lucky to be alive and that if he had drilled a fraction of an inch further he would have killed himself.
The psychiatrists took a particular interest in his case, and a group of them arranged to examine him. Before this could be done, he had to appear in court on a charge of possessing a small amount of cannabis. The magistrate demanded another psychiatrist's report and demanded him for a week in prison.
There followed a period of embarrassment as the rumour went round London that Joey Mellen had trepanned himself, whereas in fact he had failed to do so. As soon as possible, therefore, he prepared for a third attempt. Proceeding as before, but now with the benefit of experience, he soon found the groove from the previous operation and began to saw through the sliver of bone separating him from enlightenment or, as the doctors had predicted, instant death. What followed is best quoted from Bore Hole.
'After some time there was an ominous sounding schlurp and the sound of bubbling. I drew the trepan out and the gurgling continued. It sounded like air bubbles running under the skull as they were pressed out. I looked at the trepan and there was a bit of bone in it. At last! On closer inspection I saw that the disc of bone was much deeper on one side than on the other. Obviously the trepan had not been straight and had gone through at one point only, then the piece of bone had snapped off and come out. I was reluctant to start drilling again for fear of damaging the brain membranes with the deeper part while I was cutting through the rest or of breaking off a splinter. If only I had an electric drill it would have been so much simpler. Amanda was sure I was through. There seemed no other explanation for the schlurping noises I decided to call it a day. At the time I thought that any hole would do, no matter what size. I bandaged up my head and cleared away the mess.'
There was still doubt in his mind as to whether he had really broken through and, if so, whether the hole was big enough to restore pulsation to his brain. The operation had left him with a feeling of wellbeing, but he realized that it could simply be from relief at having ended it. To put the matter beyond doubt, he decided to bore another hole at a new spot just above the hairline, this time using an electric drill. In the spring of 1970, Amanda was in America and Joey did the operation alone. He applied the drill to his forehead, but after half and hour's work the electric cable burnt out. Once again he was frustrated. An engineer in the flat below him was able to repair the instrument and next day he set out to finish the job. 'This time I was not in any doubt. The drill head went at least an inch deep through the hole. A great gush of blood followed my withdrawal of the drill. In the mirror I could see the blood in the hole rising and falling with the pulsation of the brain.'
The result was all he had hoped for. During the next four hours he felt his spirits rising higher until he reached a state of freedom and serenity which he claims, has been with him ever since.
For some time now he had been sharing a flat with Amanda, and when she came back from America she immediately noticed the change in him. This encouraged her to join him on the mental plane by doing her own trepanation. The operation was carefully recorded. She had obtained a cine-camera, and Joey stood by, filming, as she attacked her head with an electric drill. The film shows her carefully at work, dressed in a blood-spattered white robe. She shaves her head, makes an incision in her head with a scalpel and calmly starts drilling. Blood spurts as she penetrates the skull. She lays aside the drill and with a triumphant smile advances towards Joey and the camera.
Ever since, Joey and Amanda have lived and worked together in harmony. From the business of buying old prints to colour and resell, they have progressed to ownership of the Pigeonhole Gallery and seem reasonably prosperous. They have also started a family. There is nothing apparently abnormal about them, and many of their old friends agree in finding them even more pleasant and contented since their operations. There is plenty of leisure in their lives, mingled with the kind of activities they most enjoy. These of course include talking and writing about trepanation. They have lectured widely in Europe and America to groups of doctors and other interested people, showing the film of Amanda's self-operation, entitled Heartbeat in the Brain. It is generally received with awe, the sight of blood often causing people to faint. At one showing in London a film critic described the audience 'dropping off their seats one by one like ripe plums'. Yet it was not designed to be gruesome. The soundtrack is of soothing music, and the surgical scenes alternate with some delightful motion studies of Amanda's pet pigeon, Birdie, as a symbol of peace and wisdom."

Posted on 12:19 AM by Artemis Gordon Glidden

Monday, 18 August 2008
Contract or con trick?
It is claimed that a proposed Muslim wedding contract gives women equal rights with men. At Pajamas Media today I express scepticism.
Islam can only be reformed by confronting the Koran itself. Anything less must be viewed with suspicion.
Chick below for more:

Posted on 4:40 AM by Mary Jackson
Monday, 18 August 2008
Remember When

Do you remember when the world was younger? Do you remember when we were younger than we are now? Do you, like me, remember growing up in more innocent times – in times less fraught and difficult than they seem to us to be now? Well, you are probably wrong, but if you do remember things that way then you, like me, had a wonderful growing up.
I remember one long year in particular: a year which for me is now redolent with all the sights and smells of youth and innocence and discovery and love. It was the year I grew up; the year in which I began to comprehend what it must mean to be an adult, to accept responsibility.
I was seventeen going on eighteen and we were in Rome. For reasons which I won’t bore you with my parents led a peripatetic life. We had a home in England, a good solid, large house and home lost in the somnolent depths of one of the mostly rural Home shires of England, but my parents were still, in 1967, engaged in that great post-war task – the rebuilding of our world after the Second World War. I grant you, the task was mostly completed by then and, really, they, and others, were just tidying up a few, but important, loose ends and setting our world on course for what has turned out to be an unprecedented increase in human wealth, creativity, invention and discovery.
Need I remind you all that the great reconstruction of the post-war period would have been impossible without the help of the United States of America. The financial aid was colossal and the practical help provided by hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of young Americans made possible this modern and wonderful Europe in which I now live. It wasn’t just in Europe that the power house of the American economy, and the willingness for hard work of those young and happy Americans, effected the rebuilding of our shattered world. Scarcely a country on Earth was untouched by that unstinting selflessness, and by those bright-eyed, level headed and happy American youngsters. I came to know some of them in my wonderful year in Rome. I still know many of them today and I still think that they were, and are, great and selfless people.
However, the great contribution of the USA to our world throughout those years is not the purpose of this piece, so let me move on. I am in Rome with my parents and siblings in 1967. My parents had rented a two-floored flat – a duplex I think you Americans would call it – in the centro historico, just off the Corso – from a slightly impoverished aristocratic friend. From the roof terrace one could see across most of the old city and that view was punctuated by some great landmarks. The dome of St. Peters stood out with, in the evenings, the red, flashing lights of the, then, triple masts of the Vatican Radio Station peeping up behind it. If I turned almost right round I could see the top of the dome of the Pantheon and just a little further round and I could see the roofs of the Palazzo del Quirinale almost atop the hill. Most of Rome lay at my feet and it was a dizzying prospect for a youngster brought up on the classics and well educated about the rinascemento (why do we say ‘renaissance’ when, really, it all began in Italy?).
I shared my life in Rome in that year with my best friend. His name was James MacFarlane Stevenson. He ran tame in our home because my mother had a certain sympathy for him. He was an orphan, you see, and a year older than I. His parents had been killed in a quite dreadful accident when he was fourteen. They had left him well off, but, because of the war, with no close family. We had been at school together and we had many, many shared interests. He died some few years ago now of that wasting disease which we now call AIDS and which way back then nobody could identify. No, he wasn’t gay; he probably contracted it in one of his numerous liaisons with a lady of negotiable virtue in some sleazy African port city. Such satisfactions were his one weakness. He never talked about sex, but I honestly think that he couldn’t help himself – he was looking for something which I don’t think he ever found. Not love, precisely, but some close contact which always eluded him. Something, perhaps, about being orphaned precisely in his life when he was had somehow unsettled some part of his make-up and rendered him witless about his maleness. Who knows? That’s just me looking back over the years and trying to make sense of things which, perhaps, have never had any sense to them anyway.
All that was, back then, in the future. We had our wonderful year – our gap year, perhaps – and enjoyed it thoroughly, as I remember. Jamie had bought an Hispano-Suiza H6C – the same one which I now own (he left it to me) - and we had restored it together. In that great car we explored our world. We criss-crossed that ancient city seeking out the silly and the commonplace, the great and the stunning. We spent so many Saturday evenings on the Capitoline in the Museums – they’re free on Saturday evenings – that the guards and the Curators knew us by name. ‘The Dying Gaul’ was a familiar friend and the coloured marble heads of forgotten imperial Romans entranced us. Back then, Marcus Aurelius was still a horseback on the plinth in the piazza between the museums.
I still remember our quite audible gasps, the first Saturday e’en that we went there, as we came upon that wonderful Caravaggio St. John the Baptist, and the quiet smile on the face of the gallery attendant as he registered our awe. He allowed us to reach out and touch the frame just a scant foot or so in front of us, but not the canvas, no, never that precious canvas – and quite right, to. I treasure that memory. For the privilege we tried to tip him but he laughed at we two youngsters and waved us on our way saying, in heavily American accented English, that he never took tips from those who knew what they were looking at. I felt, I’m sure we both felt then, that I was, we were, a man, men, of the world – cognoscienti and recognised as such. What a wise man that gallery attendant, whose name and face I can scarcely remember, must have been. A father, I have no doubt, and a clever one at that!
We drove out of town fairly often, too. In June, on the night of the full moon, we took a pique-nique and drove up to Tivoli. We broke into the grounds of the Villa d’Este , that great seicento villa in the hills, and laid out our feast on the flat topped, low wall in front of Le Cento Fontane. Hardly any waters ran, but that didn’t matter, for the fountains were turned off at night to conserve the precious fluid. It was being there that mattered to us, being part of our world, part of our history, part of something we two youngsters couldn’t yet identify, but something we felt, viscerally, was important to us. I have no doubt but that we fancied ourselves to be erudite and learned men sampling the best that our world had to offer – such poses were what we adopted, that which we used to justify our rather, in hindsight, gauche stupidities. (Gosh, how embarrassed I am to recall our callow behaviour – our youthful certainties.) Naturally, and as you would expect, we were caught – not a consideration at the planning stage, as I recall – by five burly security men.
As they approached us, fully recognisable under that warm, pale gold, full moon, I distinctly recall Jamie, with great presence of mind, offering them a glass of the wine which we had brought with us. A tall, slim man in the uniform of a Lazio Carabinieri (La Benemerita) officer stepped forward and picked up one of our bottles. He shone his torch on it and laughed. There followed a quick exchange in the local dialect – far too quick and thick for either of us to follow – and much laughter from the security detail. In short order we, and our pique-nique, were gathered up and bundled down through the moonlit gardens to the security post. Just as we expected to be arrested and charged, all our food was laid out on the big table in the office under the glare of a single overhead bulb and much more food seemed to appear out of nowhere – in some strange way it was like the parable of the loaves and fishes – and suddenly we were invited to sit and feast with our captors. There was, however, one important difference from our pique-nique – the wine served was Frascati: the golden white and the much, much rarer, delicately scented, rose pink.
That’s why the Officer had laughed at us – our wine was the rubbish which young men bought. That night, that warm, scented, civilised night amongst real men in a guard post in Tivoli, Jamie and I learnt several important lessons: good wine and good food should not be taken lightly; good wine, and the good men who make it with pride, often go together; it takes a Carabinieri officer and five good Frascati men to run start a damp Hispano-Suiza in an early Roman dawn; decent English boys take their telling off in good heart and know that the Officer is right and that they are in the wrong, despite the twinkle in his eye; decent English boys, like us, also know what that Officer, and the guards, showed them that dawn – that there is something just a little magical in those gardens as the Aniene stream and the Rivellese spring, chuckling as they go, refill the cisterns for yet another day of giochi d’acqua – a rare and privileged view of the inner workings of a great monument. May God bless those tolerant adult men who did nothing worse than laugh at two, romantically inclined, young English idiots!
Much later that same day, back in our apartment, I came across my mother in floods of tears. Clutched in her hand was a piece of telegraph paper. As I started forward to console her, with no idea as to why she was crying, my father overtook me and sat down beside her. Through her tears she saw him and offered the telegram to him. He scanned it quickly, looked at her, threw his arms around her and howled and cried with her. I didn’t know what to do. My parents, the centres of my world, were deeply, obviously very deeply, distressed right in front of me, and I didn’t know why and didn’t know what to do. Instinct took over and I went to them, the most important people in my juvenile world, and I put my arms around them. I think that I was trying desperately to make them stop crying – to stop that awful sound, to blot out, if I could, the signs of weakness which I couldn’t cope with. I was completely unprepared for their reactions. They hugged me so tightly that I could hardly breathe; they almost smothered me with their kisses. Crying, almost keening in grief, they kept on repeating, time after time, ‘never again, never again’.
It took an hour or so for them to calm down, to release me from their fervent embraces, and to explain why they were so upset. One of ours, one whom they had hoped against hope might just still be alive somewhere, had, after twenty-five years of searching, just been confirmed amongst the dead at Flossenburg concentration camp. Surviving eye-witnesses had finally confirmed her death for the recorders of such things in Vienna and in Israel. It was a bitter blow for both of them. Then I wept – not just for my parents and their pain, but for the person, the people, whom I would never know – that part of me, my family – which had been extinguished utterly by those mad, bad men.
So, as we face another war in Europe, as we line up so, so bravely against the might of Russia and consider its might to be of little worth, as we decide, stupidly, that Georgia is worth dying for, let me ask you this – do you honestly think that I and mine can go through that again? Let me honestly answer you – we cannot! It’s not worth it for the simple foolish pride which is all that seems to be on offer here.
No, no my friends. Georgia is a lost cause as is your much vaunted missile shield. Just remember this, if you exchange weapons fire with the enemy today you won’t just be fighting a war in Europe – the war will be global, for Russia, today, is playing to win. There won’t be fresh-faced, bright-eyed volunteers to put Humpty-Dumpty back together again for they’ll all be dead, or dying, in America. Europe will be a blasted nuclear wasteland incapable of recovery.
Tell me, is Georgia worth that? Is that what my parents wanted you to come to? I think not. Back down now! This time, I sense, MAD ain’t going to work! MAD only works if people believe it’s the worst outcome. Moscow no longer does. Don’t kid yourselves. It’s over. They will fire, first, if necessary. Don’t push them to it -------please, not over Georgia and Poland. It’s not worth it!
This is the wrong fight at the wrong time against the wrong people. Stop now!
You’re not doing this for people, you’re doing this for a stupid sense of pride. Stand off and stand down. For God’s sake, stop this madness!

Posted on 8:03 AM by John Joyce

Monday, 18 August 2008
A Musical Interlude: Nobody's Fault But Your Own (Eldon's Novelty Band)
Posted on 8:46 AM by Hugh Fitzgerald
Monday, 18 August 2008
Britain's Youngest Terrorist

Sky News: Hammaad Munshi, who was 16 when police found a guide to death and explosives at his home, was convicted at Blackfriars Crown Court.
The guide contained instructions for making napalm, other high explosives, detonators, grenades and "how to kill".
Co-defendants Aabid Khan and Sultan Muhammad were also found guilty of possessing terror-related documents.
A spokeswoman for the Crown Prosecution Service said afterwards: "I can confirm Munshi is Britain's youngest terrorist."
Munshi, who is now 18, was part of a cell of 'cyber-groomers' that set out to brainwash the vulnerable to kill "non-believers".
The teen's grandfather is Sheikh Yakub Munshi, president of the Islamic Research Institute of Great Britain at the Markazi Mosque, Dewsbury.
Munshi was recruited at 15 by Khan, 23 - who was described as a "key player" in radicalising the impressionable and vulnerable, both in Britian and abroad, with his message of "violent jihad".
The court was told that Khan wanted to help the teen with his wish to go overseas and "fight jihad".
In one internet exchange, the pair discussed how the schoolboy might smuggle a sword through airport security.
Authorities found al Qaeda propaganda and videos promoting "murder and destruction" on Munshi's computer.
Notes on martyrdom were also found under his bed.
More from the Daily Mail (with thanks to Alan).

Posted on 11:01 AM by Rebecca Bynum

Monday, 18 August 2008
Today in the "Religion of Peace™"

On this day, August 18th, in 1979, Ayatollah Khomeini declared jihad against the Kurds in Iran, leading to the deaths of 40,000 of his fellow Muslims.
From sarbazan.com:
In April of 1979, Khomeini denounced the Democratic Party of Iranian Kurdistan as an anti-Islamic Party, issued a fatwa, and thus declared a holy war on the Kurds of Iran. On August 18, 1979, two days after Khomeini assumed powers as commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, he sent the army to attack and occupy Paveh, Sanandaj and Saghez. Having defeated the Kurds in the cities, Khomeini appointed Khalkhali, as head of security for Kurdistan, who proceeded with a series of summary trials and executions. The following is an example of such a trial:
Khalkahli: Where were you born?
Defendant: I was born in Orumiyeh.
Khalkhali: What happened to your hand?
Defendant: During the Tehran uprisings [the Islamic Revolution] a grenade exploded in my hand.
Khalkhali: Very good! Very good! What are you doing here?
Defendant: I came here as a guest, to take part in a social get-togethering.
Khalkhali: That is good! Born in Orumiyeh, took part in the Tehran uprising, executed in Saghez. It all goes very well together. Kill him! Next!
Khalkhali's Assistant: This fellow's father is a usurer.
Defendant: My father is a usurer. What does that have to do with me?
Khalkhali: Usury is haram, and so is the seed of usury. Kill him! Next...
On that same day, at least 24 other young Kurds were tried by Khalkhali, in the same manner, and executed in the city of Saghez. Similar trials and executions took place during the days that followed, in other cities. On another day, for example, in the city of Mahabad, 59 other Kurdish men were tried and executed by the same revolutionary court. In response to the question as to whether the people that had been executed were guilty or not, Khalkhali claimed: "If they were guilty they will go to hell and if they were innocent they will go to heaven." And thus, the Islamic Republic continued to fight and to prosecute the Kurds of Iran, resulting in the death of over 40,000 Kurds and the destruction of at least 350 of their villages.
The majority of Kurds are Sunni, specifically of the Shafi'i madhab. While Muslims in Russia, Thailand, Philippines, China, Cyprus, India, Israel, and Pakistan cannot abide to live under non-Muslim rule (per the holy, holy Qur'an) and maintain perpetual wars (ibid.) to create an "independent" Muslim homeland, they will not allow their fellow Muslim Kurds to have a homeland. Kurds have been, and continue to be, killed by the tens of thousands by fellow peaceful followers of the Religion of Peace™ in Turkey, Iran, Iraq, and Syria.
Previous Days in the "Religion of Peace™":
Aug 17: Mass Murder in Lahore
Aug 16: Taliban Bans Bakeries
Aug 9: Pseudo Coup in Mauritania
Aug 8: Fall of Mazar-i Sharif
Aug 7: Gallipoli: Chunuk Bair

Posted on 11:28 AM by Artemis Gordon Glidden

Monday, 18 August 2008
Terror Suspects Remain in Britain Despite Deportation Pledge

The Telegraph (with thanks to Alan): The group of Libyan, Algerian and other foreign-born terror suspects includes the radical cleric Abu Qatada and a relative of the ringleader of the Madrid bombings.
All have all been identified by the police or intelligence services as posing a threat to national security.
In November, while updating the House of Common on the security outlook following the terrorist attacks in London and Glasgow a few days after he became Prime Minister last July, Mr Brown told MPs that the group were in the process of being deported.
Eight months on, none of the 24 has left the country - and the majority are not even in detention.
(...)
With the exception of Abu Qatada, the Palestinian-Jordanian "preacher of hate," all of the group have been granted guaranteed anonymity.
Once described as Osama bin Laden's main operative in Europe, Qatada was released from jail in June after the Government failed to deport him to Jordan, where he is wanted on terrorist offences, and confined to his house while awaiting the results of a House of Lords appeal.
He has been photographed strolling around his neighbourhood during the two hours a day he is allowed out under the terms of his bail conditions.
The Qatada family claim an estimated £47,000-a-year in benefits and have been provided with a council house worth around £800,000.
The ruling last April that the Libyans could not be deported undermined Mr Brown's promise to MPs that the Government would obtain agreements with other countries to accept foreign-born terror suspects.
At the time, David Cameron, the Conservative leader, warned the Prime Minister that the deportations might never happen if the suspects brought successful cases under the Human Rights Act, but his concerns were brushed aside....

Posted on 12:09 PM by Rebecca Bynum

Monday, 18 August 2008
Childhood’s End

Britain is the worst country in the Western world in which to be a child, according to a recent UNICEF report. Ordinarily, I would not set much store by such a report; but in this case, I think it must be right—not because I know so much about childhood in all the other 20 countries examined but because the childhood that many British parents give to their offspring is so awful that it is hard to conceive of worse, at least on a mass scale. The two poles of contemporary British child rearing are neglect and overindulgence.
Consider one British parent, Fiona MacKeown, who in November 2007 went on a six-month vacation to Goa, India, with her boyfriend and eight of her nine children by five different fathers, none of whom ever contributed financially for long to the children’s upkeep. (The child left behind—her eldest, at 19—was a drug addict.) She received $50,000 in welfare benefits a year, and doubtless decided—quite rationally, under the circumstances—that the money would go further, and that life would thus be more agreeable, in Goa than in her native Devon.
The rest is here.

Posted on 1:27 PM by Theodore Dalrymple

Monday, 18 August 2008
The Higher Learning In America
Posted on 1:44 PM by Hugh Fitzgerald
Monday, 18 August 2008
A Question Of Privacy

Eric Trager writes about his Muslim landlord in Egypt who fully expected his American renters to abide by Islam whether they were Muslims or not. (Thanks to del.)
Of all the Muslims I met during my nine months in Egypt who had visited Mecca, only my landlord insisted on being called “haggi,” or “one who has made the pilgrimage.” Haggi Mustafa, as even his teenage son called him, was a deeply devout man. Given the healthy respect for religion that had brought me to Cairo to study Islam in the first place, this is a characteristic I would have normally appreciated. But I quickly learned that Mustafa expected comparable devoutness from his tenants — a task that his three American rent-payers had no intention of fulfilling.
It was an issue I should have anticipated from the moment I signed the contract in September 2006. As I finished reading through the poor English translation of the Arabic document, Mustafa demanded my attention. “No girls, and no whiskey,” he said. It seemed like the kind of thing a residential adviser tells incoming college freshmen — a rule that one states out of obligation, rather than the expectation that it will be followed. Without hesitation, I nodded.
Yet Mustafa’s wife, clad head-to-toe in black with only her eyes visible through the niqab face covering, knew better. “Are they Muslims?” she asked. “I believe in God,” I replied to Mustafa’s giddy nod, delivering the line I had been taught for these uncomfortable situations and neglecting to mention my Jewish heritage. Still, Mustafa’s wife pressed on. “You must become Muslim,” she said. “Maybe,” I responded, naïvely believing that Mustafa and his wife couldn’t possibly be serious.
I was profoundly mistaken....

Posted on 1:45 PM by Rebecca Bynum

Monday, 18 August 2008
Iraqi Election Officials Killed

The Iraqi "Light Unto the Islamic Nations" experiment with democracy continues.
From AP:
"Gunmen ambush electoral officials in southern Iraq"
BAGHDAD - Masked gunmen ambushed a bus carrying election workers in southern Iraq on Monday, killing two of them including an official known for resisting interference by Shiite religious extremists, authorities said.
A third election employee was wounded in the attack, which occurred when gunmen opened fire as their car passed the bus in the Abu al-Khasib area south of Basra, police and election officials said.
The dead included the head of a local government committee preparing for provincial elections, Maath Wahab, and his deputy, Jassim Mohammed, according to Hazim al-Rubaie, director of Basra electoral committee.
No group claimed responsibility and no arrests have been made. But local officials said Wahab was known for resisting interference in the electoral process by Shiite religious extremists.
The officials spoke on condition of anonymity because they feared for their own safety.

Posted on 2:45 PM by Artemis Gordon Glidden

Monday, 18 August 2008
A Musical Interlude: Puisque Vous Partez En Voyage (Mireille, Jean Sablon)
Posted on 4:27 PM by Hugh Fitzgerald
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