Ah, what exhaustion, what a throbbing descent into the abyss. Nothing changes and everything gets worse. And they’d have us believe that it’s complicated, whereas elsewhere, when things go their way, it’s easy.

50 billion for the Ukraine, easy, decided on a corner of the table, so that brother peoples can go and kill each other. Arms dealers lick their lips, while our farmers die. Those who have made up their minds, their asses warm in their three-piece suits, coiffed and made-up, won’t be splashed with the guts of dying soldiers, not a drop of blood staining their make-up hiding their true colors. Nothing comes back to them from the Ukraine, neither the blood nor the tears of those who fought for nothing, except perhaps a few imported products found on their plates gilded on a tablecloth in a Michelin-starred restaurant. We sometimes wish we could snap our fingers and have our offspring teleported to Gaza, or watch farmers commit suicide on a daily basis… perhaps we’d see reality differently.

And the official collaborators, the stipendiated propagandists, feel the wind perhaps turning, and suddenly pretend to grasp the people’s anger, fearing no doubt that it will fall on them.

Have they suddenly become something else? No. A moment of mad lucidity? Perhaps. Either that, or they’ll go back to their media caves financed by the Bolloré gang and the others, well aware that they’re being paid for their silence.

Most clear-sighted people know that the media of power play a primordial role in the decay of the world and in the generalized impotence they maintain, never giving explanations on the mechanics of power, always confident in political promises. For them, peasant anger is summed up in the TV news as traffic jams and negotiations between two worlds that have nothing to do with each other: politicians in suits and ties, out of touch and on indecent salaries, and the peasants who feed them and who are dying of poverty and pesticides. These politicians remind me of those American children who believe that fishtick are caught as they are in the sea.

Union representatives met with Von Der Leyen, the woman who was exfiltrated from Germany for corruption and signed the biggest contract in the history of European institutions with Pfizer, and who refuses to reveal her SMS exchanges with the multinational pharmaceutical company’s boss, Albert Bourla. And they still want us to believe that these people are trustworthy. You can’t negotiate with the mafia. Although she still had a few principles, where politics lies all the time. George Orwell had it right when he said, « Political language is designed to make lies believable, murders respectable, and to give the appearance of solidity to what is only wind. »

And they keep you hoping.

Let’s hope, let’s hope, while the ground shifts beneath our feet. Hope, hope, one day there’ll be nothing left. Imagine the strike force: 1300 tractors in Brussels, just think what they could have done? This time, they confined the tractors to the Place du Luxembourg and adjacent streets, unable to move for four days, while the last day the European Council was held, while the Place Schuman was empty. Power won’t give you a blank cheque for revolution.

Hugues Falisse, FUGEA spokesman, with his tail between his legs, came to announce to the gathered farmers what they had obtained: the fact that at a forthcoming council meeting, a delegation from the farmers’ unions could be present.

Not much, then, to say « nothing ». The CAP, free trade agreements, the bureaucracy imposed on farmers… nothing.

Today, young people can no longer take over their parents’ farms, some of which have been in debt for decades, in some cases even since the United States invaded Europe and colonized it culturally and economically with the Marshall Plan.

Popular common sense, the kind we no longer hear, swept aside by the media-political caste, steeped in the ideology that today is necessarily better than yesterday and worse than tomorrow.

Ah, it was a party. We applauded the farmers. Remember, we also used to clap our hands at the windows for the carers, most of whom were willing for a moment to get up from the armchair where they were watching the news or some other lie on TV, and stick their heads outside. A few months later, they were forgotten. While they were being fired, or worse « suspended », with no right to anything, for refusing to be injected with an experimental product, the silence was total. Some were killing themselves. Like farmers. Even back then, tractors should have been on the streets to support the carers’ cause, carers should have been out in solidarity with teachers, teachers with firefighters…

The party smells like a funeral, with smoking tires and a sound system blasting mind-numbing music. The times are a crying shame. Citizens are guided by representatives and spokesmen who whisper in the ears of the powerful. Slaves waiting for a gesture from their master.

And you speak of optimism? Leave these words to the RTBF presenters. We’ll talk about optimism when there’s organization. Don’t cry, tomorrow everything will be better, tomorrow it will be the maid, tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow…

Support the free press. On the other hand, they want us to disappear. Just as they want to see caregivers, teachers and farmers disappear.

Unity is not an empty slogan in the mouth of a Prime Minister who wants to see executioners and victims united. It is a vital necessity.

See you soon.

Espace membre

Member area