Medium.com..
23 November '15..
While the blood of innocents was being mopped up off a theatre floor in France, a video titled, “A father and son have the most precious conversation,” goes viral. In the clip the boy tells his father, “We should leave Paris because Les Mechants (the villains) have guns and they will come to shoot us.” The father reassures his son that although the villains have guns, they (the French) have flowers and candles. “Do the flowers and candles protect us?” asks the son. When the father answers in the affirmative, the boy protests, “but flowers don’t do anything!” He is given a reassuring hug by his father and the clip is concluded by the interviewer asking the child if he “feels better,” to which the boy nods and breaks into a smile.
This video was “shared” and “liked” millions of times. Indeed, who can fail to be moved by Western virtues of life over death, culture over barbarity and goodness over evil? In an act of defiance, civilised people who refuse to hate, expel the stench of murder and savagery with fragrant flowers and scented candles, because civilised people believe that hate “will give the terrorists what they want.”
No it won’t.
A psychopath has no capacity to feel, so he is unable to care whether you hate him or not.
When a psychopath Islamist butchered me with his machete, he did it with such force that his blows snapped my ribs and shattered over thirty bones. His only emotion was exasperation: he was “peeved” that a serrated blade was not the ideal tool, because it kept wedging itself into bone, making it “tricky” to tug it out without my blood spurting out over his clothes. They hacked without fury. Murder was a nonchalant, every-day affair, as mundane as the cigarette they smoked after wiping our blood from their knives.
These cold-blooded Palestinian psychopaths who held a machete in one hand and a Malboro in the other, are exactly the same sort of Islamist maniacs who murdered the innocents in Paris. They are sons of Evil, dead in their souls and unreceptive and impervious to the noble morals of Westerners who refuse to hate.
Following the Paris attack, live on British television, someone “photobombed” the shoot and cursed ISIS. Immediately the broadcast returned to the anchor who shuffled in her seat while apologising profusely for the “unexpected bad language.” Given the backdrop of slaughtered corpses piled up on the floor, I would be surprised if anyone with any decency, would actually be offended by hearing someone rage at ISIS by telling them to “fuck off.”
Repression of rage in the name of culture, and sanitising language in response to savagery, is an inverted, delusional, trivial, misplaced and dangerous morality — if clean speech is the dominating virtue.
Rage is not a dirty word, it is not a moral failure. It is a moral necessity and it is a virtue.
We must rage at those who try to murder us and our children, because murder is the most cosmic and irreparable violation known to both man and mankind. Murder steals from families and plunders the unborn generations. Murder grieves friends. Murder rips out souls from communities. Murder wounds a nation and murder irreparably damages our world.
After the murder I too, had no hate. Barren of rage, fury, contempt or disgust, I was wrapped in a protective and balmy dressing of indifference that covered the deep, dark, psychological lesions. I could reel off details of Kristine’s execution with the same passion as reading a bus timetable. And most horrifying of all, I knew that if I ever again had to have the “misfortune” of witnessing a human being chopped up before my eyes, I would be able to watch it happen while smoking a cigarette.
Like any dressing though, leaving it in place would result in infection, gangrene and ultimately death. I had at some point to remove it by owning my right to rage.
And it happened.
The nights were never-ending and even the days felt like night. I clawed my pillow and drenched it with tears. Rage came, rage went and rage came again. It appeared unexpectedly in verbal outbursts on innocent bystanders, or as unleashed fury on unsuspecting walls.
Yet despite the long night, the sun did rise again. It shone its light in the form of those mature and brave enough who validated my rage and simultaneously did all that they could to engage me with the mundane and all that life has to offer.
And thus I embarked on The Rage Less Travelled.
On The Rage Less Travelled, I am compelled to make our world a better place, because once again I have tasted goodness.
On The Rage Less Travelled, I am compelled to act against evil. I make it my business to write letters and lobby governments, to do what I can to ensure that the cold-blooded, Palestinian, psychopaths who tried to murder me, will no longer receive a monthly salary of American and European tax-payers money.
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