Why do they pretend Left Wing Terrorism doesn't exist?

Because 'they' are part of it

For Ann

Who did what was right - not what was popular

It was Thursday evening when I heard the news. One of my former Brexit Party colleagues had passed away.

A mutual friend alerted me that I ought to brace myself for morning headlines, but wouldn’t disclose who. They had learned of the tragic death but had been asked to not make anything public before an official statement was released.

There are many unwritten protocols in journalism. Often we find things out long before other people, and it is a privilege and duty to respect boundaries set by those affected by a story. To not forget compassion and humanity. I begged to know, on promise of silence, but was politely refused by my ever decent friend.

I was heading out to dinner and couldn’t shake the information from my mind. A Brexit Party MEP was dead. That meant that this person was a friend.

When we 29 were elected to the European Parliament, marking the largest return of any party in any country, we were something quite extraordinary on top of that. A cohort of very different people from all backgrounds, ages, ideologies, all sacrificing and fighting for a shared belief. Unlike most political parties, we had genuine friendship. Not just camradery, or warm collegiate relations. No. We were a group of genuine friends. We cheered eachother on in the often otherwise empty hemicycle, convened in the MEP bar by the chamber, dined together, drank at our adopted pub, supported one another, shared ideas, staff, jokes, a vision. Even after leaving the EU, we stayed together, showing the same support to one another during Covid, exchanging ideas in our whatsapp group (which still goes strong today), meeting up when we could. When it was time to encourage everyone back to the frontline by joining Reform UK, it was not that difficult to persuade the band of unlikely friends back into battle.

I had been at a meeting called by Ben Habib at his company offices where a group of former MEPs had convened to discuss next steps. Ben wanted to set up and lead a campaign group to continue to push for Brexit. Ann had enthusiastically helped corral the troops, never far from the frontline, always ready for battle. Especially when that battle was Brrreggzit.

I made the case that we needed a political party, not a talking shop. That our country’s issues at this point were so broad and so deep we had to fight on multiple fronts in a way that the public could be given back power. That meant the ballot box. That meant Reform UK which at that point was Richard Tice and David Bull and a small handful of staff and not much else.

Ann was firmly behind the idea (a pleasing feeling, I remember, as we often waited for Ann’s forthright interjections like an Emperor’s thumbs up or down at the Gladiatorial arena). She decided it. We would all get back into the fray.

And she did. More than all of us put together, frankly. Every zoom meeting, every TV or radio interview, every event no matter how big or small in those early days, anywhere in the country. She was there. Our diminuitive little Boudica. Leading the charge.

Not Ann. Surely not Ann, I thought.

Naturally it was my suspicion, as our Elder Stateswoman.

During dinner I got a call from Nigel who confirmed what I suspected. I felt winded, my brain rushing as to how I should pay tribute when the news came out before my show tomorrow. What words to use. How to pay homage to this unique character that had been part of political life long before I knew how to tie my shoelaces.

On Friday morning, Reform UK were asked to break the news. This is significant - the accusation that the party are doing anything against ‘the family’s’ wishes is grotesque and cruel. We were her family.

Already something else murmured below the surface as tributes poured in. Something was not as it seemed. Something didn’t fit. There was no report of a medical tragedy. In fact, Ann, despite being a septuagenarian, had more energy and vim than most. She also had unerring candour. Someone would have known if she had been fighting illness. She would have lackadaisically pronounced it with a shoo of the hand and a dagger glare at anyone who looked as though they were about to emote. She was fine. She had very recently whipped up a storm on Talk. Although the producers were having trouble getting in touch, which was alarming.

Yet the circumstances in which she was found seemed inexplicable. Messages were already being exchanged doubting the scant information we had received.

Friday’s and Saturday’s shows were tough. When you have to face a camera and talk in heartfelt ways about someone you knew for three hours without breaking down, the physicality of that supprrssion cannot be understated. It manifests as a deep pain in the gullet, a constricted throat, swallowing down hard on a wave of raw emotion to force it below surface level. My throat feels in a permanent state of spasm. But it’s a physical feeling I have gotten used to.

After Saturday’s show I gave Nigel a call, checking in on how he was doing. A great deal of the responsibility of how to manage the news had been placed on his shoulders. The Chief Inspector of the police gave him updates first. He had been liaising with some of Ann’s remaining relatives and her beloved agent. He was being asked to manage the choreography - despite what graceless hacks tell you. Vile, despicable twisting of the truth.

‘How are you?’ - I asked when he answered.

‘Not good’ - a pregnant pause. An unusual thing for a man that usually speaks a handful of words before cutting a call within moments, always due to the sheer volume of things he often has to deal with.

Uh oh.

‘She’s been murdered. We all need security.’

I was sat having lunch in the sunshine with Will Kingston. All of a sudden the sunlight on the River Thames, the glass of wine in front of me, the array of food, all distorted into a howling whirlpool. I can’t remember much else, as I gripped Will’s elbow as he escorted me back to the offices of News UK where I seemed to walk in a fugue state to be among my broadcast colleagues and await a news update.

The next few hours were a blur. My phone was lit up constantly, press conferences were pushed back, producers and presenters sat either in urgent chatter or stunned silence as we waited for the official televised update.

The thing is, we knew.

Somehow, we all knew already, by gut, by instinct, by logic and rationale even. This was a politically motivated murder.

We knew because it was inevitable.

Because in our quiet moments, in our chat groups, at the pub, backstage at events, in green rooms at TV studios, we had been saying it for too long now.

We are scared. We have been scared for a long time.

It is a fear so rooted, we have learned to carry it as armour. It tastes like sanity in a boiling maelstrom of madness. It is the only real thing in this inverted, messed up world of gaslighting and truth flipping. We are hated - and we are at risk. Of that, we can be certain.

Fear they will demonise, cancel, expose, bully. Find something on you so they can put you in the public stocks for. and let a frenzied pile on do the rest. A post from 2006. A photo with someone deemed toxic or unacceptable. A mad confection or artificially concocted charge to spread far and wide, however untrue. The fear that tomorrow could be the day they come after you in a way that would be final.

Fear for our livelihoods. Fear we would lose basic rights such as having a bank account. Fear for the wellbeing of family and friends as we selfishly determine to continue to vocally and publically join the chorus of Untouchables clamouring for change - despite the dire consequences. On us. On our loved ones.

Fear we will say something wrong. Fear someone will shove a phone in our face waiting to capture on camera the moment you lose it as someone bellows words like ‘fascist’ and ‘Nazi’ at you in front of either stunned or jeering onlookers

Fear that we may be spat on, grabbed at, shoved.

Fear that the police will knock the door and drag us into custody for something undisclosed to us, that someone else has maliciously reported.

Fear that at some point, having been called dangerous, extreme, divisive, hateful, far right and fascist by the actual Prime Minister and most of the cabinet, that someone, somewhere would wound up attacked, killed, by a caterwauling brainwashed banshee, the likes of which have taken over the streets and TV studios and timelines through Palestine Marches, BLM riots, climate crisis stunts. The spittle flecked standing army of purity police being radicalised, wound up and unleashed upon us by our own Government.

The constant tight fist of anxiety in the sternum. The racing heartbeat and raging brain. Even in sleep the fear reminds you of its presence. A jolt. A gasp. A sudden wave of crepuscular panic.

We live in terror. We are being terrorised.

Which in my mind means that Left Wing Terror is a very real thing.

Bigger, brawnier, beastlier than anything else. It looms above all. It runs what you can say and do. It is the Sword of Damacles over the nation. It decides whar the definition of terrorism is. It decides everything.

And so when consequence occurs as a result of this Stochastic Terror under which the establishment has mired all of public and private life, the scramble is to cut the connection. Not only refute culpability, but go to extremes to smack down, smother or silence any indication that the state has played the largest part in this, lest the machine is exposed and the people call time on tyranny.

Because that is what this now is.

But unlike other forms of terrorism, this one is state authored.

Much like Islamism, where deranged and internet-obsessed individuals are radicalised by religious propaganda until one is driven to commit a lone wolf act of barbarism, we now have as a result of hard left demonisation, a substrata in society ready to assassinate someone for their politics.

Thomas Crooks, the high school shooter who attempted to assassinate Trump. Tyler Robinson who murdered Charlie Kirk. Mentally unstable young men, probably pumped full of artificial hormones be they SRIs or gender change cocktails, being neurologically rewired in real time through reels of online dross, and finally given the green light to act upon their addled urges by the highest authorities in the land.

If the Prime Minister instructs you from behind a podium that these people are dangerous and must be stopped, then the justification is clear. This is an existential battle for the salvation of humanity. Heads must roll. The Government has given you express permission.

Did you know that 15% of Brits think violence in politics is necessary?

Especially among the Activist Left.

I have written about this extensively.

Doing an audit of my Substack content I have been taken aback at how often I have researched and scribed on what I can now put a word to: Left Wing Terrorism.

In fact, it’s the most dominant theme.

From exhibiting the traits of brainwashing and personality disorder, parallels to 1930s Germany, the acceleration of the police state, time and again I have come to this platform to let it out. To try to loosen the white knuckled stranglehold in my throat. The pathologised symptom of oppression. To make sense of my fear through words.

This, from April, where I argue that Left Wing Radicalism is everywhere. And it is getting increasingly violent.

https://www.thatalexwoman.com/p/no-other-dangerous-ideology-would

This, from last December, where I state that the Left’s new game is demeaning and discrediting anyone who reports a crime in their open door dystopia

https://www.thatalexwoman.com/p/being-on-trial-for-crimes-committed

This from last October when they stripped Nigel of security

https://www.thatalexwoman.com/p/worrying-for-nigels-safety-isnt-snowflake?r=222ubk

This from September about the alarming number of unexplained deaths in Germany of AfD candidates

https://www.thatalexwoman.com/p/surely-they-arent-killing-right-wing

This, where I disclose psychological research that shows a correlation between Leftism and Narcissism.

https://www.thatalexwoman.com/p/our-media-class-are-narcissists

This, where I cover harrowing academic research in a shock report that found evidence of links between people who have had diversity training and a tendency towards authoritarianism

https://www.thatalexwoman.com/p/the-harrowing-overlaps-between-dei?r=222ubk

It has become abundantly clear we live in a terror state.

I am convinced, as will many of you will be, that the state will be working overtime to conceal any facts about Ann’s murder that will stir the masses from their collective, terrorised somnambulism.

But it’s too late. The scales have already fallen from my eyes.

Now I face a choice.

Try to fight. Get 24hr surveillance, secure my home, double down, despite the opposing might of the machine, the David and Golliath dimension of the battle. Lose more hair, more sleep, more sanity. Lose my right to live normally, privately and peacefully. Ignore the cruel words, vile slurs, spiteful memes, lies, attacks and public admonishments from total strangers. Wake up every day to that now familiar physical pain of feeling garrotted. Lay it all down for a battle that increasingly feels unwinnable.

Or

Retreat. Delete my entire social media footprint. Stage a fake recanting, denounce my politics publicly to feel the protection of the system I long to rid the nation of. Get more money, better jobs, public forgiveness. Drink from the cup of corrupt prosperity, the left wing money fountain of reward for saying the right things. A scalp like mine would be highly treasured. The ransom would be rich. If I gave up my ideals under the media spotlight I’d fast become a darling of the legacy media. I would be on Strictly, I’d flog women’s vitamins on tube ads, I’d have a privileged and prosperous life of peace and praise. The trappings of conversion would indeed be many. I could sleep at night, forge a proper relationship, eat where I want, lap up the mawkish adoration from luvvies. Be transmogrified into a mainstream treasure. Get a cooking show. Sell some books. Get the fairytale ending.

I think you know what I have chosen.

Like Ann, I am a believer.

2 Timothy 3:12:

"Indeed, all who desire to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted"