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Peace at any cost is a Prelude to War!
In search of Mary Magdalene
Insider's view of prostitution in modern-day Sodom called Amsterdam
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Editor’s note: WorldNetDaily international correspondent Anthony C. LoBaido
recently toured Amsterdam's infamous red-light district. This report
chronicling the sights, sounds and personalities of the area and delving into
the psyches of those who make their living in the "world's oldest
profession," is part of an in-depth feature article in the February edition
of WorldNetDaily's offline companion publication, the monthly WorldNet
Magazine. Readers are invited to subscribe to WorldNet at WND's online store.
By Anthony C. LoBaido
© 2001 WorldNetDaily.com
AMSTERDAM, The Netherlands – As the witching hour approached, the streets of
Amsterdam’s red-light district came alive with a plethora of vices, spewing
forth as if the gates of hell had been unchained.
A light drizzle was falling, and as this reporter walked along the canals,
the booming sounds of the bells ringing in the old church towers created an
ominous tone. The scene was so overwhelming and mind-boggling that I had to
stop every few meters to write down the details in my notebook, so as to
capture the very essence of this dark, twisted place. Surely, when Oswald
Spengler penned his epic "The Decline of the West," the author had a glimmer
of modern Amsterdam in mind.
Quaint, two-story houses and hotels lined either side of the canal. The smell
of men urinating straight into the canals was nauseating. People were
vomiting in various places along the canals. A police boat passing by slowed
down to shine a light on a crazed black man who was literally foaming at the
mouth and screaming obscenities from his wheelchair.
“You want to watch the Olympics?” the man in the wheelchair shouted out at
the police. “Well, I got a new sport for you. Who can pull the most shopping
trolleys out of the canal in five minutes? And dead bodies, too!”
The smell of marijuana was everywhere. As I passed the well-known cannabis
bar, “The Grasshopper,” the smell became overwhelming -- not to mention the
effects. Drug dealers were everywhere, 99 percent of whom were black
immigrants from Nigeria, Ghana, Gambia and other African nations.
I wondered why Holland doesn't recruit black African Christians as
missionaries to teach the white pagans in Amsterdam about the message of
Jesus.
“Crack? Ecstasy? Cocaine?” the dealers all called to me.
I could only reply “no” the first 50 times. After that, I began to get more
creative in my responses. “No thanks, I had a big lunch,” “You shouldn’t
get people started on that stuff,” and “Let sleeping dogs lie.” These clever
answers amused the dealers, who walked confidently, like panthers stalking
their prey, under the protective guise of Dutch policemen mounted on
horseback around the red-light district.
One drug dealer from Nigeria told this writer, “The Dutch, they took from
Indonesia and Surinam. And now the immigrants come here and go on welfare to
take back what they feel is rightfully theirs – or that which belonged to
their ancestors. I don’t do that. I sell drugs -- drugs that people want. I
provide a service to help people escape -- from life.”
I continued to make my way through the twisting alleys. The roads were being
torn up and refitted for new sewer pipes -- the irony didn't escape me. While
turning around one particular corner, I disturbed a group of pigeons, which
immediately took to flight all around me like an outtake from Alfred
Hitchcock’s film "The Birds." When the fluttering and cooing of the birds
dissipated, two teen-age Dutch girls dressed up for Halloween in old-style
black nun’s habits rushed past me.
The girls were, of course smoking cigarettes, something all people outside
the U.S. seem to do. I immediately thought of my 12 years of Catholic school
and suddenly had newfound respect for those old nuns, who in their
old-fashioned ways had tried to instill morals and virtues in their students.
Their desire for purity, humility and holiness that lay hidden behind their
reliance on rituals was remarkable. Those old nuns knew that we children
would one day grow up to participate in a great war -- a war against
principalities and powers in high places. They were right.
The bells were tolling once again, and the rain began to fall a little bit
harder. At the far end of the long, thin alley, a man emerged. He was wearing
a Michael Meyers mask, made famous from the series of slasher Halloween films
that have been produced over the last generation. The man was holding a large
knife in his hand.
Now the tolling of the church bells stopped. It was a quarter past the
witching hour. My mind filled with the theme music from those Halloween
movies as I continued to walk towards "Michael Meyers." We were the only two
people in the alley. I walked toward him as my old Timberland boots splashed
through the puddles. I felt as though I was moving in slow motion, like when
you are having a nightmare and want to run away, but your legs won’t move.
When I reached the masked man, we both stopped and eyed one another. I
remembered that the Michael Meyers mask was actually the facial mold of actor
William Shatner. The first Halloween film was a low-budget job starring Jamie
Lee Curtis. As such, the crew had only $20 to spend on a mask, and a gofer
was sent to buy a mask for that amount. When he returned to the set, he
informed the cast and crew that the only mask he could find was an unfinished
William Shatner.
“William Shatner,” I said to the masked man. His breathing was heavy behind
his mask, and he held his plastic butcher knife at his side.
“William. The will of ‘I Am.’ The will of ‘I Am Who I Am,’" the man said.
“Do you understand what that means?”
“Of course I do. I am a Christian,” I replied. “It is a Christian name. The
Will of I Am. It’s what God told Moses. `I Am Who I Am.’”
The masked man began to laugh hysterically.
“You’re a Christian?” he wailed while busting a gut. Then he pulled a bunch
of condoms from his pocket and threw them at me, before turning and
staggering with laughter as he continued down the alleyway.
Once past that encounter, I turned back onto one of the main streets. It was
filled with shops selling dirty magazines and sex toys. There was the Adonis
gay film theater, a few casinos, marijuana bars, countless pubs and rows of
neatly chained bicycles. Orange, white and blue flags of Holland hung proudly
from many of the storefronts.
In a pool bar hung a poster of Uncle Sam with a caption reading, “I WANT YOU:
To be a good sport!” The street was home to pizza parlors, Internet cafés, a
hotel called “The Greenhouse Effect” and the Café Pacifico Mexican
restaurant. The dug-up street was turning rapidly into quicksand -- both
literally and metaphorically. I saw a group of roller bladers reduced to
tippy-toeing their way through the sand.
The street was packed with parked cars, despite the construction, as well as
delivery trucks -– including one driven by “Dennis.” Dennis wore overalls
that hung languidly on his hips, with the top part unbuttoned and fallen down
like an apron. I knew his name only because it was tattooed on his back in
eight-inch letters. He was, of course, shirtless, but apparently not cold in
the least, perhaps thinking warm thoughts as he bought a gram of cocaine from
a drug dealer in plain sight.
Towering high above this sordid mess was a giant sign that proclaimed “Jesus
Loves You.” All I could think was, “If my mother could see this place, she
would start firebombing.”
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