If You Don’t Know Who Sarah Halimi Is, You Should

Alex Grass Freelance Writer
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Everyone knows Charlie Hebdo. Everyone knows the Bataclan and Hyper Cacher. Many still remember Theo van Gogh, and it will be a long time before anyone forgets Orlando. All of those were Black Swan events—catastrophes beyond the scope of exact prediction, even if the general idea of a Salafist bloodbath occurring is a somewhere-sometime-likelihood.

Using Black Swan events to measure Islamization is a mistake. Instead, it’s the slow changes—Islam’s growth to the second-largest religion in France, pandering hymns to Islamophobia (including in institutions located in Manchester, situs of barbarian bloodshed), the West’s unwillingness to save itself—and society’s complicit acceptance of those damaging changes that evidences the deadly conceit of the self-hating Westerner: willful blindness.

Instead of pondering brutalizers and Black Swans, consider this more reliable indicator of decline: France’s see-no-evil response to the heinous, inhuman, and merciless torture and murder of a 67-year-old woman named Sarah Halimi.

Halimi’s grim reaper—“Kobili T,” as he’s referred to in the stories recounting his brutality—is a Muslim North African. North Africa, of course, is the land where Bedouins kidnap Christians and then hold them for ransom; if the ransom isn’t paid, adherents to Christ are tortured by fire to the body. It’s the land where Christians crowd into bagnios—hot, densely packed, inhumane dungeons. It’s the land of sexual slavery for non-Muslims.

Now, let me ask you, between the torture, the prisons, and the sexual slavery, which do you think is still happening now, and which was the product of the 17th century (and earlier)? You’d have to have me tell you the answer, wouldn’t you? You couldn’t say for sure.

But back to Kobili the intruder, the barbarian, Kobili of North Africa’s primitive environs and cave-dweller customs. I can hear him intoning that deathly Islamic incantation—Allahu akbar! But France can’t hear Kobili’s incantation. France doesn’t want to hear Kobili’s incantation.

Sarah Halimi is—no, was—an elderly Jewish woman. Kabili transported Halimi into the past tense when he beat the life out of her, screaming at the old Jew like she was a cur. He screamed at her—Sheitan!—devil. I can hear that too.

[S]he seem[ed] to suffer a lot…” Or so it was said by a witness. A “bestial” beating… Or so it was said by a witness. And the French media covered it up. Or so anyone with half a brain and a pair of eyes can tell you.

The way the media responds to these incidents is a barometer of the floor and ceiling of cultural feeling—will France save itself, will the West save itself? No. No to the first (rhetorical) question, at least. I don’t think so, not today. Unless you think Emmanuel Macron is a closet crusader. (Well, he’s a closet something.)

How many times has this happened? A Jew is beaten on the Paris Metro, the knuckledraggers belching “Jew, we are going to lay into you, you have no country!”; a teacher’s nose is broken and a swastika scrawled on his sternum; a mother’s baby’s carriage is rattled, shook by hoodlums with the infant still inside the carriage’s cradle—“Dirty Jewess, enough with your children already, you Jews have too many children, screw you!” Islamophobia in France is clearly out of control.

Who cares about the Jews? I say no one should! No, not as Jews separate, not for Jews as the isolate tribe, not for Jews as financiers and scientists—stereotypes of alternatingly devious and glorious differentia, sometimes true, sometimes not. Instead, care for yourself. Care for the West. Because if the inclination is for French prosecutors and media to cover up the Islamist bent of unprovoked murders, it’ll only be so long before the West adapts, changes, accepts, and ignores the existentially threatening nature of Islamic sadism.

After twenty years of brainwashing, there will be a dwindling pool of Jim Mattises to choose from. (Blessed be the Mad Dog in his campaign to “annihilate” ISIS.) The Salman Rushdies will be silenced as the cresting wave of accusation—Islamophobe!—batters the hulls of their spirits. Then, all will be quiet on the Eurabian front.

Of course, Muslims also do to their own women what was done to Halimi. It’s not just in the beating, but in the build. Oppression overlays Islamic fashion. And I mean real oppression, not oppression as referred to by university-educated, faux-intellectual jargonistas.

Donning the hijab isn’t like choosing a wool three-button sport-jacket instead of a summertime linen blazer—comfort being relegated to second-tier status for the sake of style. It’s more like your parents admonishing you to wear your puffy-pants and snow-booties while frolicking in winter wonderland during Snow Day—it’s all well and good to say you like your snow boots, but you know that if you don’t wear them, Mom and Dad ain’t letting you outside.

Well, it’s a little different, I suppose. My mother neglected to honor-kill me when I barefooted it in the ’96 blizzard. Mother has always been so lenient. Mother doesn’t understand feminism. After all, the hijab is all about feminism—the Mohammedan Woman’s agency to choose modesty, to choose discretion, to choose to be covered. Yes, feminism, that’s it. With the West’s eyes and ears covered and whispering self-assuredly in a mantra echoing safely in the dark conscience: feminism—Allahu akbar!—feminism—Sheitan!—feminism.

Mother never understood that. I guess Sarah Halimi didn’t either.

Which do you hear about more? Islamophobia—surely the label any obedient progressive would use to characterize my totally correct analysis above—and the hijab, or the constant beating and murder of non-Muslims by Muslims? Turn to CNN. I’d be shocked if you watched for a few hours without hearing any mention of anti-Muslim animus. I’d be equally shocked if you heard about the daily torture that women and Jews live under because of Islamic tyranny.