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KATIE HOPKINS reports from Sweden, the Scandi-lib paradise

Hopkins er en hård nyser, og det kan jeg jo godt lide. Her ryster hun en reportage ud af ærmet, der ikke ligner nogen af alle de andre, man ser i disse dage:

I didn’t come to Sweden for the riots. Or because of Trump. In fact, I was supposed to be here in December — before airline strikes stood in my way. I came because I was asked. Repeatedly. Swedish women reaching out by email, by letter, to quietly show me what has become of their country. Dads writing that they were worried for their daughters, tweeting that Sweden is not the place people imagine it to be, that young girls are scared to go out at night.

One young girl of 27 — let’s call her Lucy— is now terrified of going out alone. She lives near a busy shopping centre which draws migrants from no-go zones, and dreads her walk to work and home.

Under the bridge near her flat a gang of men gathers. All day and night. They have easy access to her up a stairwell. Like little billy goat gruff, she runs across, carrying her safety spray. Scared.

She knows the latest rape cases by heart, quotes them to me, the words tumbling out, a long line of horrible happenings. She is waiting for her turn to be added to the list. She can’t tell her mum. She doesn’t want her to worry.

Her apartment was broken into last week in the middle of the day. The burglars took her laptop and her car keys, and later her car. The police told her they were too busy to come. KATIE HOPKINS reports from Sweden, the Scandi-lib paradise where terrified women have vanished from the streets and a conspiracy of silence and self-censorship on immigration buries the truth


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