NATO ATTACKS IRAQ

Iraq is under attack by the US, France and Saudi Arabia, according to the Voltaire Network. ‎

The government of Iraq is being attacked by ISIS "which is led by Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi on behalf of Prince Abdul Rahman al-Faisal, the brother of the current Saudi Foreign Minister and of the Saudi ambassador in Washington.

"He is funded and supervised jointly by U.S., French and Saudi officers.

"Over the past month, he has received new weapons from Ukraine, where Saudi Arabia has acquired a weapons factory, and via Turkey, which has created a special rail line alongside a military airport to supply ISIS."

ISIS is run by the CIA and its friends.

ISIS (aka ISIL) is the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria.

ISIS is linked to al Qaeda.

ISIS is fighting the governments of Iraq and Syria.

ISIS controls the important cities of Mosul and Tikrit in Iraq.


The CIA-run ISIS crucifies its opponents.

From whom does ISIS gets its finance, training and weapons?

The answer is the USA, NATO, and certain Arab countries.

Therearenosunglasses reports that Qatar and Saudi Arabia are reportedly funding and sponsoring ISIS

The CIA and Mossad always support the Islamic extremists who are attacking more moderate Moslem governments.

The Arab Spring was all about using Islamic extremists to destroy Moslem governments that were making economic progress.

The CIA-run ISIS crucifies its opponents. The CIA and NATO have Nazi origins.

Maher: They're going to 'poison' Pope Francis.

The Path To Now

“Try to perceive the sequence of interests, important friends, coincidences that have occurred in your life. Weren’t they leading you somewhere?” 

The Celestine Prophecy. 

I often believe now, unknown to my younger self, that the path I was on decades ago was one leading me to a life abroad. There were signs, hints and indications in my youth that I was preparing for a life beyond my birth country, that my later life would involve speaking a second language.

The allure of the sights and smells of a foreign land
Photo: Sergi Montaner

My first trip abroad was a family holiday to Tangiers in Morocco. The sound of an unfamiliar language spoken all around me, the rich vivid colours of the North African wedding attire sparkling in the hot evening sun, the enchantment of a music so different to Western pop, the smells of exotic food cooking in the streets all served to pique my curiosity about life beyond the borders of my home land.

At the end of my first year in secondary school I went on my first school trip abroad to La Rochelle. It began my love affair with France. I homed in on French and German for my GCSEs and continued French to A-Level. My love of the French language went beyond the allure of my Liverpudlian French teacher. A school trip to Berlin a year after the wall fell enticed me to be a part of something bigger. Foreign languages were a part of who I was.

When I started looking for a university course I centred my search on a French degree. I eventually picked a European Studies course in Bradford, which led to me studying in Toulouse for a year. I use the term studying lightly. I loved the smell and bustling of the local bakery every morning, loved watching the old man in a beret that shuffled to the local supermarket in his slippers, loved browsing at the snails in the freezer compartment as I did my grocery shop - trying to pluck up the courage to actually try them.

After graduation jobs with companies like Michelin kept me speaking French but as I later settled on a career in Human Resources the need to speak a second language soon dissipated.

Fascinated by the French language at an early age
Photo: Amanda van Mulligen

Did I lean towards foreign languages from an early age because I would eventually need to live my life in a language not my own? Did the family holidays abroad as a teenager to countries like Turkey, Bulgaria, America, Greece and Cyprus ignite a spark for a life abroad, a yearning to see other cultures, how others live?

As a teenager I’d envisioned a life abroad, in France, where I spoke the language and loved the culture. Somewhere along the way I got distracted and forgot where I had been headed. My linguistic mind stayed with me, unused but patiently waiting in the background whilst I strayed from the path I should have been on.

And then one day my brother met an American girl, online, in a chat room. I was clueless. I had no computer of my own and had no idea how you could ‘meet’ someone in a chat room. After what seemed like no time at all he announced he was moving to Long Island and was getting married. One family globetrotter had fled the nest. But my own path kept me firmly rooted in England.

I was finishing my Post Graduate Diploma in Human Resources and needed to write a dissertation. The absence of a computer at home made it hard to make any real progress so I asked Santa Claus for a PC. And lo and behold Santa obliged (disguised as my father) and I became the proud owner of a personal computer. It became an indispensable companion.

One evening, for a reason I can’t remember or can’t imagine when I think back, my brother’s once uttered words, “go try a chat room. It’s fun” popped into my head. I did a search and ended in a chat room talking to a Mexican. I was getting bored when a pop up appeared from another chatter. This time it was a Dutchman. My boredom vanished.

Christmas was approaching, the millennium was closing in and my days were filled with MSN Messenger and emails. After our initial meeting I never entered a chat room again. Online chatting turned into a phone call on New Year’s Eve. Talking on the telephone turned in to visits to each other’s homes.

Seven months later my boss changed at work. She had a reputation of bringing in her own people wherever she went. My business trips planned months ahead were suddenly superfluous and I whispered to my dad that something was afoot. Something bad was looming. He told me I was being paranoid.

Then one evening, sure enough, I was summoned to the dragon’s den. She informed me that my position would end in two months. Walking home with tears streaming down my face I made a call to the Netherlands with my mobile phone. I shared the lowlights of my evening and told my Dutch partner that I needed to find a job fast so that my mortgage didn’t become a problem.

“Or instead of finding a new job there, you could move to the Netherlands…” he said and I could hear the smile on his face.

And suddenly I was back on the path I was destined to walk on.

A Service Station, But Not As You Know It

As I mentioned in my last post I just popped over to England for a week and during the journey through the Netherlands, Belgium and France ideas for blog posts came flooding in (writing them down whilst travelling on Belgian roads was a challenge in itself - but more about that in another post). One thing that came to mind was service stations.

Stopping off to fill up and stretch your legs - service stations
(c) The Writing Well

Coming from the UK, I grew up with long road trips broken by toilet breaks and lunches or suppers in service stations. The quality of the facilities was reasonable and there was always a fair bit to occupy a curious child during a stop off. The most exciting type of service station was one on the other side of the motorway - we needed to walk across an enclosed bridge stretching across the motorway. Trust me, as a child it was exciting...... really, how often do you walk over a motorway?

Nowadays, motorway services in the UK are more and more commercial and seem to resemble mini shopping centres, contain an array of eating options from the big fast food chains and beverage choices from the major coffee house companies as well as a petrol station to fill up at. They also contain arcade amusements, WIFI areas, picnic areas and some even have a hotel to rest your weary head in. Oh, and there always seems to be a man trying to sell you breakdown cover or a credit card.

In the Netherlands a service station seems to comprise a petrol station selling sandwiches and coffee, a toilet you have to pay for and in essence a car park that is a cross between a lorry park and a giant dustbin. This pretty much sums up service stations in Belgium too, though in my experience the toilet facilities in Belgium are generally not great (and maybe explains why you see so many Belgians using the car park as a public toilet) and many places also have a baffling voucher/turnstile system for the toilet. In essence you pay 50 cents and you get a voucher. With this voucher you gain entry to the toilet facilities and then use the voucher in the shop as credit towards a purchase. So if you were going to buy something anyway, you essentially wee for free.

And that brings me to France. There are two types of service areas in France - one fit for humans, the other less so. The "toilet block in the middle of nowhere" aires de repos areas are common and easy to find along the motorway. You can usually smell the toilets before you leave your car and my best tip is to watch the faces of others leaving the toilet block before you venture in. You need to supply your own toilet paper (the French know this but us tourists are often caught out) and a torch certainly comes in handy. There is generally nothing else there, except for maybe a child's play area and a bit of grass or a bench to picnic on. The second type are service areas (aires de service) as are common elsewhere in Europe with fit -for-use toilets, a petrol station, eating facilities and a shop.

Bon voyage!

What are service stations like in your home country? What are your experiences like of stop offs during road trips from the Netherlands?

Country Hopping from the Netherlands

One of the many things I love about living in the Netherlands is the fact that we can jump in the car and drive to any number of countries - we can be "abroad" without the use of an aeroplane or ferry in no time at all. Given that I am a Brit this is a big thing!

Our latest venture to foreign lands was a two week vacation in Lower Normandy in France. We jumped in the car and off we drove.... well, when I say jumped in the car..

What I actually mean is we spent days accumulating the essentials for a family of four to take with us, had a last minute panicked scramble around at 6 a.m. on the morning of our departure to gather the real essentials such as favourite toys, musical Pooh Bear sleeping aid for my 4 year old, sandwiches, drinks and DVDs......., spent 90 minutes packing the car up, bundled two sleepy, grumpy children in to the car and then hit the road. After ten minutes we stopped to sort the car DVD player out..... an hour later we stopped for a toilet break after hearing "ik moet plassen" fifty times....... you get the picture.



Eight hours after we left our home in Zuid-Holland we arrived tired but relieved at our gite in Longues Sur Mer on the Normandy coast.

The Beach at Longues Sur Mer (c) The Writing Well 2011

Normandy Shop Front (c) The Writing Well 2011

Shell Covered Beach at Port-en-Bessin (c) The Writing Well 2011

View from the Gites in Longues sur Mer (c) Lars van Mulligen

Two weeks later, after a fantastic break, we did the same journey in reverse...... and it was worth every minute in the car.

The Effect of WW2 on The Netherlands: History Helping Expats?

World War II Graves in Normandy, France
Photo: (c) The Writing Well

Heinrich Boere is a former member of the Waffen SS who stood trial in October 2009 in Achen for war crimes and was convicted to life in prison in for his crimes. At the age of 89 he is likely the last Dutch war criminal who will stand trial for crimes committed in World War II against Dutch citizens.

Born to a Dutch father and a German mother, Heinrich was born in Germany but moved to the Netherlands when he was two years old. He volunteered to join the Waffen SS not long after the occupation began.

Between September 1943 and September 1944 he was allegedly part of the Waffen SS death squad (Sonderkommando) responsible for killing around fifty Dutch citizens as reprisal for resistance actions, and in particular Boere was accused of executing three Dutch men: Fritz Bicknese from Breda and Frans Kusters and Teun de Groot from Voorschoten.

Boere escaped from a Limburg prison in 1947 and fled to Germany, claiming German citizenship thanks to his mother’s German heritage. Germany does not hand over wanted criminals to other countries, hence he escaped conviction by the Dutch authorities for many years.

In 2000, the German and Dutch Justice System became once more interested in Boere when he was tracked down and interviewed for a Dutch documentary. He showed no remorse. Years later, he was captured in an interview for the AD saying,

“Orders were orders, otherwise it would have meant my skin. Later it began to bother me. Now I’m sorry.”

In January 2009, it was ruled that Boere was not fit to stand trial due to health reasons. This was overturned later in the same year and he was finally convicted in March 2010.

As a result of the German occupation, the Dutch in their homeland experienced WW2 differently to the British. The war came to the Dutch, and like the French, they lived under German rule in their own land.

Last year I watched Oorlogswinter, a hard hitting Dutch film about the German occupation in the Netherlands. It, and films like it, as well as reading the personal stories of those involved over sixty years ago, provide a real perspective on a major part of Dutch modern history. It’s a harsh, harsh history (see the Rotterdam Blitz or hongerwinter of 1944 as examples)

It’s a history that I wasn’t taught in school (though I did specialise in the French occupation and resistance for my A-level French – the Dutch occupation was mentioned in passing during this study) and a history that goes some way to understanding Dutch attitudes to some things; like why the Netherlands gave up its neutral state after WW2 and was an original member of NATO, the EU and the UN and today hosts the ICTY. It also gives more meaning to the poignant event that takes place each 4th May and the celebrations nationwide on the 5th May.

Learning something about the history, and the influences of historical events, certainly has helped me gain a little more understanding of my adopted home.

Is it something that interests you or do you think it adds no value to integrating into your adopted home?

Driving Through Four Countries - An Exercise in Self-Preservation

I recently travelled back to the UK for a visit. We went by car using the Eurotunnel and hence travelled in a number of countries in one day: the Netherlands, Belgium, France and England. And the different driving 'styles' struck me.....

A12 in the Netherlands
Photo:L van Mulligen

It's not the first time I've mentioned it, but the Dutch do tend to like to stick close together on the motorway in the fast lane. It's called tailgating and it's actually illegal. Luckily most Dutch drivers who tailgate don't know this or simply don't care - and there aren't many police around to remind them on the motorways so it happens. It happens a lot. In fact it was actually pinpointed as the biggest annoyance for Dutch road users in 2010. Presumably it annoys the majority of Dutch drivers who think some distance between them and the car in front or behind is sensible and not those who glue themselves to the bumper in front. So that was my most notable observation on the Dutch motorways.

Then we passed into Belgium. You can usually tell that you have crossed the border as the quality of the road surface deteriorates dramatically. And as you jiggle your way down the motorway, something becomes very apparent. Belgian drivers are mad. They make Dutch drivers look tame. They tear down the fast lane with disregard to any speed limits (I learnt that foreigners caught speeding are treated severely by the police whereas the locals are not really bothered by law enforcement officers until they travel at the speed of space shuttles...) and they criss cross lanes as if they are the only vehicle on the road. Something worth watching out for in Belgium are cars with only five figures in the licence plate - these are drivers who obtained their driving licence with a pack of milk many decades ago (or at least they didn't have to take a driving test) ..... and the cars usually show much evidence of this.

Then we hit France. What redeems French drivers is that any driver probably looks good once you've escaped the Belgian roads unscathed. However, the French do something that none of their neighbours do - they keep their indicator on in the fast lane to let you know that they need to get past and they are not just using the fast lane to overtake - they are using the outer lane as their very own personal road to get to their destination as quickly as possible. Therefore, you really need to move over because they have priority. And there is no point just putting your ticker on - you're a foreigner and you still don't have 'fast lane priority'.

And then you drive onto the Eurotunnel train and marvel at how you've made it so far. It's time to sit and relax for the short trip under the Channel to Folkestone before your journey takes you on to the British motorways.

And then you notice the middle of the road attitude of English drivers. They sit in the middle lane of the motorway for no apparent reason. To legally pass them from the 'slow' lane you have to cross over to the 'fast lane' and then cut back to the furthest left lane. And they remain oblivious to the fact that they are causing mayhem around them as drivers criss cross to pass them. Some pass on the left, others on the right, but to no avail. I eventually worked out that some English drivers believe you have to pick a lane when you join the motorway and stick to it - no matter what. Horns. Lights. Cutting them up. None of it works.

So there you have it - Van Mulligen's observations of some of Europe's main highways. You have been warned.