Banking on De Nile... in this, our midwinter (Arab) Spring...

A recent Jihad Watch story included this statement:

“Some Copts practice FGM as a matter of assimilation to the Muslim majority. This must stop.”

I think it’s more than “some”.

This highlights, with acutely grotesque focus, an important subsidiary problem of the Problem of Islam—the problem of Dhimmitude and its multifarious ways of enabling Islam and of inhibiting the fight of the free world against it.

As we veteran Counter-Jihadists know, from our memory of the days when Jihad Watch was split into a second branch, “Dhimmi Watch”, and from there along the meandering garden paths of our Unsentimental Education, leading to Bat Ye'or's useful coinage of the term, Dhimmitude is not merely a river in Egypt, but also a river that runs through the entire world, broader than a thousand Niles and a million Mississippis run together, providing lovely, spacious, distracting banks throughout the West on which the vast majority of free worlders may lounge about on picnic blankets enjoying the pointillistic play of sunlight on the water, the leaves, the flowers, our dotted parasols and our overweight mistresses, alternately in De Nile or rolling up the cuffs of our pantaloons or the hems of our dresses to wade, in-Seine... while our collective Lethe of Islamnesia courses on through the plains of a planet desperately yet pleasantly in denial, refusing to notice that the ground has shifted under our feet, with a bang after the nine-eleven rupture of the fin du siècle, iinto a 21st century that could eventually see the end of Islam.  Or the end of us.

But surely not the prolongation of this Fukuyamish daydream we persist in indulging, dizzying our distractions through a technopathic galaxy of Pascalian divertissements, our worldwide web where the spider is caught, while the ants are not.

The only question we canaries in the coalmine, we gadflies at the picnic, ask is whether we will connect all the pointillistic dots of our Brave Bourgeois World and wake up in time to save millions of people from being massacred, mangled and tortured by Muslims, so many army ants, or jihad ants, swarming our unwitting yellow-green sward, before we finally rouse ourselves to suspend our picnic vacation, furl our parasols, gather up our blankets, our nappes, our baskets of fruit & bottles of wine, and rid our precious, free greenery at last of this formidable formication by expelling it, and its millions of Mohammedan nits, back to the wastes whence they pullulated.

Before we do that, however, we must remove the rose-colored glasses and pinces-nez of our politically correct naivety that, by fostering a pleasant blur of multiculuralist pointillism, has screened out the myriad dots whose complex connections would have alarmed us long ago, had we done it, to bolt upright from our picnic blankets in a panic at the infestation that had grown incrementally over the decades at our feet and under our noses while we continued recklessly to play host to this teeming host in our midst.