Three years later: Willkommenskultur revisited

Guardian Council, Going Postal
Welcome column at a refugee residence in Bremen-Osterholz, Corradox
Corradox [CC BY-SA 4.0], via Wikimedia Commons
It’s been over three years now that Frau Dr. Angela Merkel, German chancellor, tried to turn Germany into a Willkommensrepublik (welcoming republic). At the height of the Syrian refugee crisis, the Islamic State’s (ISIS) multinational combatants conquered huge swathes of Syria and Iraq. They ruled with all the terrors of Sharia law. Thousands of eager young Muslims from Western countries went to war against the unbelievers and joined their Islamic brethren in stoning, crucifying, flaying, beheading and burning people.

Quite how this was possible, I have no idea. But it was. And there’s no doubt in my mind just how this reflects on the education these young Western Muslimas & Muslims acquired in their home countries.

Frau Dr. Merkel’s lonely decision, imposed against all the “rules” of EU law-making on its member states, was decreed in authoritarian fashion, just like in the old Kaiser’s days: everybody was welcome in Germany and “Europe” (meaning of course the EU) while the manifold intricacies of housing, feeding and providing social services from health to education for millions on the march through the Levante, Asia Minor and the Balkans, would be sorted out at a then (and now) undefined later date.

There was no mention of the mammoth task of vetting these refugees for the known security risks (let alone the unknown ones) and it was conveniently assumed that everybody was innocent. Unless this proved to be not the case when a series of Islamist terror attacks were executed by and/or with the help of “refugees” hitting civilian targets in Paris, Berlin, Nice, Manchester and London; to name only the most prominent cases.

It is against this background that the decision to make more refugees welcome in a small village on the undulating plains of Northwest Germany must be seen. A village which had until then been largely bypassed by the enrichment. Though some of its nasty side effects had already been seen in a close-by market town, such as a school where pupils were so unruly that no teacher lasted the year and a church which just happened to catch fire. Surely, there were reasons for this. But of course, they were all off a socioeconomical, not a cultural or – God forbid! – religious nature.

And it all did get better when a new principal was installed. Of Turkish origin, who seemed to have the right touch for his “problematic” pupils. His being built like a ton of bricks and being largely uninfected by postmodern subtleties and sentimentalities might have helped too. But don’t tell the social justice brigade.

So, let’s resume with our tale. As the millions on the march started piling up in welcoming centres across the country, the architects of the welcoming culture decided that they were to be spread thinly and evenly across the whole nation – probably so that nobody could complain that they weren’t being enriched enough. Non-stop media coverage of the welcoming culture waving its teddy bears and banners at train stations accompanied proceedings. The bills for this happy-clappy rent-a-mob were never to be seen, though we now know that at least some of the “activists” got paid quite handsomely for their efforts.

Though it was hard not to realise that these people weren’t marching all the way from the Levante to Middle Europe for our old T-Shirts and sneakers, but for our new laptops and smartphones, quite a few gullible souls managed to fool themselves sufficiently to fall for the official propaganda. Which had by now managed to make it look like these millions on the march were six million victims of the Holocaust returning to Germany. And by deciding to help these supposedly poor and downtrodden souls, in that hitherto hideously unenriched village, a small circle of friends set out to make refugees welcome here.

They started by taking to the closest welcoming centre, there getting to know its inhabitants. There were about 600 of them, housed in stalls in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the market town. Not exactly Club Med style, but still better than a tent on the windswept plains of Little Asia, one must assume. And with one of the country’s bigger cities only half an hour away on public transportation, there wasn’t to be too much to be missed out on in terms of amenities and entertainment either.

Talking of which, the next step, “housing”, was mastered by our welcoming friends with a masterstroke of efficiency. As it happened, an acquaintance had inherited a property that was rather too large for him. Particularly, there was an unused basement flat in it large enough for up to four people. Unused, because it was a bit damp and smelled rather musty.

Not to worry. The town council, considering that all refugees were to be spread thinly and evenly, and realising that as of then there were no immigrants settled in the village (because rents tended to be a bit pricey), decided to reimburse the would-be landlord the full cost of turning his mouldy cellar into a nice little flat where three or four refugees of yet unspecified origin (“are we racist or what?”) would then be housed at the taxpayers’ expense.

After the ink was dry, it was all renovated to a very nice standard, thank you ever so much. Meanwhile, part of the aforementioned circle of friends had decided on who would make the grade for the first-class treatment in the newly refurbished basement apartment, which now briefly comprised of a generous outside sitting area in the garden (old trees), a bright and airy living room with an up-dated, built-in kitchen (branded appliances), a bathroom with hot tub and American shower, an extra guest WC and two medium sized bedrooms. Nice for the price. Even better for “free”.

Four people from a mass of 600 refugees, “refugees”, chancers and migrants had been selected. To make one thing clear: I don’t hold a grudge against any of these people, except those who come here to blow up kids at an Ariana Grande concert or chase tourists down Westminster bridge of course. If my country had been put through a civil war, then occupied by a stone-age death cult, I would have gotten the hell out of there as well. I’d also get on a dinghy to seek a better life as an economic migrant. I’d just try to do all this in a way that minimises the risk of other people having to pick up the bill for me.

Of the four people our circle of friends had chosen for life in the village, three turned up. One had done a runner by moving day because he had better things to do with his life. This didn’t bother the council one bit: they still paid the price for four. Of the three that moved in, one was from Southern Syria, one was from Kurdistan and it’s still a bit unclear where the third came from. They were in their late twenties when they moved in, two of them had left their families behind in Iraq and Syria, and none of them spoke a word of German, although they were enrolled in their compulsory language and integration classes.

After the year was over, the family guys started to miss their families. Not to the extent that they wanted to return to their old countries, mind. So, their friends in the village filled out all the paperwork and had it arranged for the Kurdish guy’s wife and kids to join him here. And his dearest (but not yet nearest) got on a chartered flight from somewhere in the Middle East to Germany (authorities don’t want to talk about it, but these flights must depart from either Turkey, Jordan or Cyprus, I suppose).

And whilst they were at it, someone filled out the paperwork for the Syrian guy too, thus making his three kids, his wife and his mother-in-law appear in the promised land.

Realising that eleven people couldn’t possibly be housed in a space designed for four (and housed by three) the circle of friends saw to it that alternative accommodation was made available by the council: the Syrian family was to be moved to the city, because that’s what they liked best. While the Kurdish family wanted to move to another village. Something adequate but not quite as nice was found a few miles away. All of this at the public’s expense, because as of now, the refugees were busy with their language and integration classes, and in no position to “Earn Our Pensions” or “Care for Us in Our Dotage”.

Not to be outdone by his flatmates, the remaining single man of hitherto unspecified extraction set about finding a wife for himself and soon enough got her pregnant. With the head count now up to three again, the council was in no position to remove him from his freshly renovated, humble abode on the grounds of his taxpayer funded settlement not being sufficiently occupied: there were three people living in that flat, and that was all that mattered.

So where are they now, three years later? The remaining occupant is still living in the village, perambulating his son about in his publicly funded push car while his wife remains nowhere to be seen. Rumour has it that another sprog is on the way, to make for even numbers and perhaps to be on the safe side too: if things go wrong (as they sometimes do) there’d still be three people living in the apartment and they’d still be entitled to their lovely little council flat.

The Kurdish family has moved to another village where they’re apparently not having it quite as nice as before. When someone from their small circle of friends in the village last visited them, their kids were doing alright and had picked up the language with astonishing ease and to a very good level of proficiency. For their old folk, no such luck: their father was – for all his language and integration classes – still out of work. Being in a rather niche industry as the security detail for one of the big wigs in his old country probably didn’t help his employment chances here. While his wife simply fancied life as a housewife and wouldn’t think of looking for a job. After all, what’s the point if the money just keeps coming in regardless?

The Syrian family had moved to an ethnic area in the bigger city. Upon her arrival from Syria, the lady of the house had firmly locked herself up in a bin bag and categorically refused to set foot outside the apartment for two years. Her kids – who have picked up the language to a very good level – were taking care of all the dealings with the council and the benefit office for her. After two years inside, she could finally be persuaded to make the trip to the nearest mosque (two hundred yards down the road) where she now is teaching Arabic. Some integration indeed.

Her husband still is enrolled in all the language and integration classes which are required to retain his settled status. It is well known that these courses are a scam and that after the initial two or three classes, most students tend to get lost in the closest teashop for the remainder of the term.

Their kids are three very bubbly, smart and lively teenage girls. But after so many trips to the benefit office, they were now dreaming of claiming benefits for themselves and simply moving out. It is a possibility after all when the eldest turns eighteen and her younger sister turns sixteen. Their parents are understandably shocked at the prospect. Not only would they lose their personal go-between with authorities, they would also lose their daughters to the lifestyle of a foreign country.

For a while, it looked like their eldest daughter was being groomed by a flashy Turkish guy from the city. She has ended the affair but is now dreaming of a modelling career. So, it’s become a case of family honour too and perhaps, not only “white slags” get pimped in ethnic circles.

To sum it up: it took about for people a lot of time, good-will and effort to give three young men from the Middle East the full-on first-class welcoming treatment. The small circle of friends from the village involved themselves in most aspects of these refugees’ lives, often at the expense of their own family and career, seeing to it their refugees were housed, fed and kept in the comforts they felt they were entitled to. They even got a flat renovated for them – at taxpayers’ expense. Because virtue signalling just feels so much better when it’s done with other peoples’ money.

The results so far: through family reunification, three refugees turned into 13 refugees – with all the related costs for housing, schooling, health care and generally providing for their living. One of them works – the Syrian lady giving Arabic classes at the mosque. Though I find it highly doubtful that this provides indeed enough of an income for her family. It’s probably not even enough for herself. None of the men work: one is busy pushing a pram around, the Syrian guy spends his time with “language & integration” (probably in a teashop) while the Kurdish guy is still out of work and only here “because of the children”.

Their kids aren’t doing too bad: they are getting along with the language and are making plans in terms of apprenticeships or (perhaps unrealistic) dreams of the future. Still, that small circle of friends who’ve brought the refugees to the village (and it took only a year before three of four had escaped) is malcontent: they find there’s too little exchange between the cultures as the ethnics prefer to stick to themselves and don’t mingle enough with the natives – those ingrates just don’t provide us with enough virtue signalling opportunities, or what.

All this is being lavishly financed by the taxpayer, who can barely afford to have one kid, let alone two or three. One could almost think there was method to this madness

Featured Image. IthmusLicence CC BY 2.0

© Guardian Council 2019