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* Professor Peter Stanley is a military historian at the University of NSW, Canberra. This article was first published in Eureka Street, a publication of the Australian Jesuits.
Friday, 25 December 2015.
NGOs in Greece: Balkan Recolonisation as a NWO Project?
The Greek Minister for Migration Mouzalas announced that Greece has spent 1.5 billion euros on migrant flows into the country using state and private providers ranging from the Navy to the commercial shipping fleet.
Monday, 14 December 2015.
Neo Liberal Globalisation and Mass Migration: The Example of Greece.
in Greece, a number which represents 20% of the total population, is a ‘conscious lie’! Whilst truth is that Europe closed its borders a long time ago, stopped immigration, became a Fortress. The simple Greek worker who believes in the opposite doesn’t have a consciousness of reality! As this reality isn’t one which is witnessed daily in their journeys on public transport, in factories, on.
ships, on building sites and public works, but that which exists in the realms of fantasy.
traditions of the Greek labor movement are broken with the replacement of the natural carriers of these traditions not by the 33% of the Greek TUC report but by 100%, with the support of the ‘leftist’ globalists.
standard of life of the hungry and dispossessed but to destroy whatever was achieved by struggle by Western workers and to globalize immiseration.
If Turkey does not accept repatriation Greece cannot be the EU’s reservoir of lost souls. This was the new common refrain. Without officially abolishing Dublin II, Germany gave the green light for millions to arrive in the EU. Syriza complied.
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Hope Remembered II – Fury.
Cassandra goes after the Horsemen.
where we’re going,
where’s the rhyme.
and where’s the reason.
The Eve of the Day of the Dead was a good day to hunt. It would be a good day to kill. It would even be a good day to die.
Cassandra was ready to do either. Usually, during the three thousand years which she had survived, usually she had been the hunted. But today—on this last day of the year, on this day when the wheel turned from the light to the dark, on this day sacred to the Dark Goddess—today on this day she was the Huntress, and her prey was near.
Cassandra had been hunting Kronos for four months, ever since June, when she had found out he was still alive. She had tracked him to Seacouver yesterday, and only a few moments ago she had seen him on the far side of the television studio’s back lot. He had smiled and waved, then disappeared into the rows of abandoned storehouses, a flattened barren space where only weeds grew.
She moved silently through the narrow alleys that ran between the buildings, the sand rough and grating under her feet. Even through her jacket, the mid-autumn breeze was damp and chill as it came from the water, bringing with it the sharp tang of fish and tar. Oily scum floated on the puddles left from the recent rain, and the water showed black from the darkness of the clouds.
It would be a good place to die. The hilt of her sword was smooth in her hand, the familiar weight both comforting and exhilarating. Soon.
Cassandra froze as the sensation of another Immortal crawled up her spine and lodged itself at the base of her skull, an angry, insistent ache. She gritted her teeth at the temporary pain and eased back silently into the shadows of the alley. She heard footsteps now, coming closer. It was a careful tread, quick but light, a slight hardness to the sound that meant boots, not rubber soles, a rhythm to the stride that meant man, not woman. Kronos.
He came closer, and she could hear the whisper of cloth against cloth. Cassandra shifted her grip on her sword. Closer still, and now she could hear the faintest hint of breathing, the rough scrape of shoes on concrete instead of on sand. Finally, after three thousand years, she did not have to wait anymore. She balanced over both feet, finding her center. Cassandra was ready to kill. She was eager to kill.
She was dying to kill.
A little closer. Just a bit more. and NOW!
She pivoted from her hiding place and swung her sword in one smooth motion, vengeance and bloodlust tracing fire through her veins. Cassandra felt the hammered shock of steel against steel surging from her hands to her shoulders with relief and hate and joy.
But it was not Kronos. It was Duncan MacLeod, the Highland Foundling.
“What are you doing?” Duncan demanded as he stepped back, his sword still blocking hers, his long tan coat swaying with the force of the impact.
“Trying to kill someone!” Cassandra shot back, wondering how he could ask such a stupid question. “What does it look like?”
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