>The final push was witnessing the state of French cities and towns. For many years I had been hearing and reading of the invasion of France by non-whites, many of these rumours and stories I believed to be exaggerations, created to push a political narrative.
>But once I arrived in France, I found the stories to not only be true, but profoundly understated.
>In every french city, in every french town the invaders were there.
>No matter where I travelled, no matter how small or rural the community I visited, the invaders were there.
>The french people were often in a minority themselves, and the french that were in the streets were often alone, childless or of advanced age.
>Whilst the immigrants were young, energized and with large families and many children.
>I remember pulling into a shopping centre car park to buy groceries in some moderate sized town in Eastern France, of roughly 15-25 thousand people. As I sat there in the parking lot, in my rental car, I watched a stream of the invaders walk through the shopping centre’s front doors.
>For every french man or woman there was double the number of invaders.
>I had seen enough, and in anger, drove out of the the town, refusing to stay any longer in the cursed place and headed on to the next town.
>Driving toward the next french town on my itinerary, knowing that inevitably the invaders would also been there, I found my emotions swinging between fuming rage and suffocating despair at the indignity of the invasion of France, the pessimism of the french people, the loss of culture and identity and the farce of the political solutions offered.
>I came upon a cemetery, one of the many mass cemeteries created to bury the French and other European soldiers lost in the Wars that crippled Europe.
>I had seen many pictures and heard many people discuss the cemeteries, but even knowing about these cemeteries in advance, I was still not prepared for the sight.
>Simple, white, wooden crosses stretching from the fields beside the roadway, seemingly without end, into the horizon. Their number uncountable, the representation of their loss unfathomable. I pulled my rental car over, and sat, staring at these crosses and contemplating how it was that despite these men and womens sacrifice, despite their bravery, we had still fallen so far.I broke into tears, sobbing alone in the car, staring at the crosses, at the forgotten dead.
>Why were we allowing these soldiers deaths to be in vain? Why were we allowing the invaders to conquer us? Overcome us? Without a single shot fired in response?
>WHY WON’T SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING?
>In front of those endless crosses, in front of those dead soldiers lost in forgotten wars, my despair turned to shame,my shame to guilt,my guilt to anger and my anger to rage.
>WHY WON’T SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING?
>WHY WON’T SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING?
>WHY DON’T I DO SOMETHING?
>The spell broke, why don’t I do something?
>Why not me?
>If not me, then who?
>Why them when I could do it myself?
>It was there I decided to do something, it was there I decided to take action, to commit to force.To commit to violence.
>To take the fight to the invaders myself.
