In Catalonia, there’s a summer drink that combines beer with lemon soda. In Barcelona, it’s called “clara.” Further South, it’s dubbed, most charmingly, a “champu,” as in Head and Shoulders. Champu is quite good at eliminating the dandruff inside your skull.
© Linh Dinh
It is late summer, and I’m in Cambrils, drinking my second champu in Hawaii, a beach bar. The tables around me are mostly empty. I face the ocean. There are few bodies on the sand, and fewer in the water. It is peaceful here.
In 2001, Mohammed Atta and Ramzi bin al-Shibh, of 9/11 fame, were in Cambrils, however, and just 2 1/2 weeks ago, five Muslim “terrorists” were killed by police a few hundred feet from where I’m sitting.
It is said that at 1:15AM on August 18th, these Muslims drove their car through a police checkpoint outside the yacht club, then ran over six people, three of whom were cops. The three civilians were an old couple, and the woman’s sister. The wife, 61-year-old Ana Maria Suarez, died.
Exiting their car with knives and an ax, four Muslims were killed immediately by police, while the fifth was gunned down 270 meters away, but not before he had stabbed a civilian and taunted the cops, it is claimed.
A cellphone video shows an unarmed Moussa Oukabir, 17-years-old, acting rather hysterical, but you would be too if you had just witnessed four of your friends murdered. Shooting him many times, a cop executed Moussa.
Interestingly, Moussa was located by a helicopter. El Pais, “El quinto terrorista ha sido abatido poco después cuando ha sido localizado desde un helicóptero por los policías.” It was already in the air, get it? It seems they had tracked these five Muslim youths to Cambrils and killed them. That evening, these kids were caught on a service station’s camera. Buying snacks and sodas, they appeared quite relaxed because they had no idea what awaited them.
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After Trotsky’s skull was cracked by an ice pick, the 60-year-old still had enough sense to order his bodyguards to not silence his assassin, “No, he must not be killed. He must talk.” When it comes to Muslims these days, the running order seems to be, “Kill them all so they can’t talk and contradict our bullshit charges against them.”
How many Muslims are needed to drive one suicide car? Five, of course. What’s the best, most lethal vehicle for the purpose? The compact Audi A3, naturally. What’s the best time to stage such an attack? 1:15AM, grasshopper, when there is almost nobody on the Paseo Maritimo. Finally, what should you wear for such a momentous and self-defining occasion? Fake suicide vests, stupid, because they serve no purpose besides giving cops an excuse to perforate you immediately.
I go to the spot where Moussa Oukabir was murdered to find women pushing strollers and kids on bikes. Life is back to normal. Outside the yacht club, there’s a cop with a submachine gun, however, with two toddlers within four feet of him. Seeing the armed man, the girl points. They create a false problem, then bring the solution, which you welcome because you don’t realize that it will be used to solve you.
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Astonishingly moronic, the five Muslims in Cambrils made all the worst choices possible, but the rest of their “terrorist cell” weren’t any smarter, it is said.
Eight hours earlier, a van had killed 14 people and injured 130+ more in Barcelona, and the purported driver of that van, 22-year-old Younes Aboyaaqoub, had rented the vehicle with his own credit card. Very stupid. He also left his IDs in a second van, meant as a get-away car.
From 9/11, Charlie Hebdo, Paris’ Bataclan Concert Hall, Berlin’s Christmas Market to Barcelona, etc., Muslim mass murderers seem expert at leaving behind their identity papers. Otherwise, the official narrative can’t be broadcast immediately. Wait a week or a month for a proper investigation, and the public won’t have any idea what you’re talking about, fixated as they are on a Kardashian pumped up buttocks or Messi goal.
In the Catalan incidents, a Muslim who was neither in Barcelona nor Cambrils still managed to leave his identity papers in an incriminating van, it is said. Driss Ukabir had the wits to turn himself in, however, before he was gunned down in the street. Similarly framed, could you be that decisive?
Roberto, a 42-year-old Cambrils resident, reflected, “People are saying how stupid these guys are, because once you drive onto the Paseo Maritimo, you can’t get out! It’s also strange how all five of them were killed, because Spanish cops aren’t like that. You almost never hear about a cop killing anyone here.”
He paused to sip from his glass of Rioja Reserva, pronounced it excellent, leaned back, “All along that street, people were kept inside restaurants and stores until five in the morning.”
“On Las Ramblas in Barcelona, people were kept inside until nearly midnight,” I added.
Jonathan Revusky, “That’s probably because they need all that time to clean up the moulage. Imagine someone tripping over some moulage kit, from the Acme Corporation. That would be some major fuckup, wouldn’t it?”
Trained as an engineer, Roberto has traveled to Iraq and Cuba on business, and now makes most of his money as a musician and singer of bolero classics. “People talk of Europe being overrun by Muslims, but Europe has always been multicultural. Look at the Austro-Hungarian Empire and how many nationalities it had. What Merkel has done in Germany is incredible. She took in a million, a million and a half refugees, and there has been no major problem. It has been a great success, a miracle.”
Roberto’s father is Castillian and his mother, German, so he grew up speaking German also. His maternal grandfather, a Nazi, was killed during the last days of World War II.
On another night, I talked to Francisco, a 69-year-old retired professor of philosophy and English. The Padres resident said, “The new slogan is ‘no tengo miedo,’ but of course, I’m afraid, and many of ex-students are also afraid. When I was teaching, I could see the anger in my Arabic students’ eyes. Feeling socially excluded, of course they’re angry. To tell you the truth, I don’t much like Arab culture, how they treat their women. There are too many psychopaths among them, but of course, there are Spanish psychopaths also.”
Francisco’s favorite country is the United States, “When I came to New York the first time, I was jumping up and down, out of joy! I went to Florida, California. I overstayed my visa, got a job everywhere I went. I was a waiter at a Jewish fraternity. I did drugs with them. It was the 60’s, man. We need another counterculture revolution! There is too much corruption these days. Your average Spanish politician makes 7,000 Euros a month. That should be the minimum income, for everybody!”
Every so often, Francisco would grab his right side, “Oh, it’s my liver,” or his left knee. Two chicas at the next table drew his too naked glances. The restaurant owners are a couple whose husband is Spanish, and the wife, Chinese. One of the waiters is from Venezuela.
Three days after the Cambrils incident, Jon and I drove to Ripoll, where most of the Catalan “terrorists” were from. At a checkpoint, we passed cops with submachine guns. The town of 11,000 was crawling with journalists, most of whom could not investigate anything simply because they had no Spanish, and no interpreters.
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We found a Russian crew in front of the apartment building were the local imam had stayed. Abdelbaki es Satty is the mastermind behind the attacks, it is said, and he blew himself up while trying to make bombs. Speaking Russian, Revusky said to the reporter, “You must know this is a fairy tale, no?”
“No, no, no, it’s all true. It has all been confirmed by the police.”
Two blocks away, we ran into two Chinese journalists based in Brussels. With less Spanish than your Chihuahua, they just wanted some convincing backdrops to authenticate their regurgitation of the official story. Revusky chatted with them in Mandarin.
Soon after, we ran into three people whom Revusky greeted in Spanish. When one answered in French, Jon used that language to find out they’re from BFMTV, France’s most watched news channel. In town for two days, they had unearthed plenty, they claimed. We peruse their reports later to discover nothing new, however. Amplified and confirmed in hundreds of languages, it’s still the official fable.
Though so evil, the young Muslim “terrorists” of Ripoll seemed perfectly normal to their neighbors. One was quoted by El Espanol on August 18th, “Of course we knew who they were; in this town we knew everyone. They were always together and hung out each afternoon at the indoor soccer pitch. They did not wear long beards, dress oddly nor go often to the mosque. Nothing. They were all very young. A bunch of kids. We saw them together and thought they were just playing and talking about sports […]”
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Eight percent of Ripoll are Muslims. We chanced upon a halal butcher shop on Barcelona Street to find its proprietor very weary, understandably. “I’m not Moroccan,” he joked without smiling. “I’m Senegalese.”
At the signless mosque, there’s a hastily written Catalan note taped to the door: “The attack at the rambla of Barcelona / The annour islamic community of ripoll expresses its strongest condemnation and rejection of the terrorist attack that occurred on thursday in barcelona, the catalan muslims express our condolence to the families of the victims, wish for the full recovery of the injured and convey our solidarity to the people of barcelona, catalan and spain. Before this criminal act, the annour islamic community of ripoll reiterates its committment in the fight against any sort of terrorism, and hopes that those responsible for these attacks will be brought to justice as soon as possible / annour islamic Community Of ripoll.”
On the poorer side of town, we spotted some old guys sitting outside the Jose Franquesa Vila bar, so we walked in to find a jovial drunk who laughed at everything we said, and a serious barista who complained of “ten to fifteen more Muslims who show up every day,” an impossible figure.
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The next morning, we had coffee at Bar Alesia in the center of town. Opening Diari di Girona, we learnt that Younes Abouyaaqoub had just been killed by cops. The 22-year-old’s last words were, you guessed it, “Allahu Akbar!”
Though this Spanish and Catalan speaking young man had a good job, many Spanish friends and no previous run ins with the laws, he just had to kill a bunch of innocents and destroy his own life because, well, Muslims are like that, so goes the by now all-too-familiar narrative.
At a nearby table, a bald, bespectacled gent was bent over the news, so we asked what he thought of Abouyaaqoub’s death. Barely raising his head, he barked, “They should all be killed!”
A few days later, someone spray painted “Fora Islamo” on a Ripoll wall, “Out with Islam,” but then someone quickly appended “fobia,” so it became “Out with Islamophobia.”
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In Tarragona, Jon’s home, a similar graffiti appeared near the train station, “STOP ISLAM. ARRIBA ESPANA [VIVA SPAIN].” Near his apartment, however, there’s a new sign in English strung from a balcony, “REFUGEES / MY EUROPE / IS YOUR HOME.” Above the message is an X over a barbwire.
On August 23rd, El Pais quoted a Ripoll resident, “They insulted me on the street yesterday. ‘Shitty Moor! We will kill you.’ I was with my three-year-old daughter.” She recognized her harassers, for they’re her neighbors.
A beautiful town at the foothill of the Pyrenees and near the French border, Ripoll attracts tourists and has long been comfortable with the foreign. Many locals speak French, on top of Catalan and Spanish. On the menu at La Taverneta, there’s a Vietnamese-inspired fried rice-vermicelli with shrimps, and as I tried to chew through my plate of horse meat, a local specialty, a Vietnamese pop song actually came on, right after Bob Marley. With the Catalan terror incidents, Ripoll has become known as a place that spawned a dozen cold-blooded killers, however. Poisoned and divided, it will never be the same.
So it’s all going according to plans. The American Israel empire attacks one Muslim nation after another, causing millions of refugees to stream into Europe. Naturally, this causes social tensions which are further exacerbated by false flags and fake news, resulting in increasing acceptance of the police state, growing hatred of Muslims and exploding anger between the political left and right, with both always jerked around by the American Israel Empire. You’re being played, in short.
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In Tarragona, Salou and other Catalan towns, blue concrete barriers have been placed on promenades to prevent cars from plowing into people and, more insidiously, to remind each person, daily, that he’s living in a constantly threatened and occupied land.
Wearing his stars-and-stripes T-shirt, your average Jose Pacquete de Seis will look suspiciously at his local kebab takeout, and not know that the Kosher Nostra has gotten him by the cojones.
In Ara, a Catalan daily, there’s this recent headline, “Els docents rebran formació per detectar alumnes radicalitzats” [“Teachers will receive training to detect radicalized students”]. Into this tranquil province, they spread fear, distrust and lies.
Remember when you still believed in innocent-until-proven-guilty, with each accused entitled to his day in court, and not shot on sight, with his purported crime broadcast immediately? Remember when you still had the faculty to detect an enormous, world-class mound of bullshit?
Swallowing nonsense nonstop, you become another empire idiot, for believing in cartoon narratives, you become a caricature yourself, with exaggerated, buffoonish emotions, unseemly in a civilized man, which you no longer are.
A moronic cartoon, you’re conned by empty sound bites from two-dimensional “leaders,” Clinton, Bush, Obama, Trump. Betrayed every four years, you can’t wait for the next joke election.
How stupid must you be to not see that the American Israel Empire has rigged every aspect of your reality?
By now, only a cretin can fail to see that the American Israel Empire is working nonstop to deform the Middle East, North Africa, Europe and, frankly, the rest of the world. Until it implodes, we can neither see straight nor even be ourselves.
Finishing this article, I have only a few hours left in Europe. I’ve been here a month. While in Spain, I got news from Philly that a former bartender at the Friendly Lounge, my local haunt, had just overdosed on Fentanyl-laced heroin. Andrea was no older than 45. Another Friendly regular, 69-year-old Felix, got into an online political argument with someone half his age, then challenged this man to a playground fight. Drugged and inflamed define the America I’m returning to.
About the author
Linh Dinh’s latest books are Postcards from the End of America (non-fiction) and A Mere Rica (poetry). He maintains a regularly updated photo blog.