Here are the reports of Julian Assange's last two hearings in London. The next performance of this puppet theater will be on 7 September 2020
I can't hide it, emotion gripped me when I returned to London after exactly 5 long months since the epic last day of Julian Assange's trial at the Woolwich Court on February 27th. In the meantime, we have lived through many trials, the strange and violent Covid adventure, police confinement, social and economic chaos, the ultimate terror that many of our citizens still feel. Words are lacking to describe the strange feeling of a return to the "life before", when the political power is still the same and we are weakened by what it inflicts on us, in France as in England and throughout Europe.
Nevertheless, we are not giving up the struggle. The borders being open again, the quarantine over, I went back to Paris - London Victoria Coach Station. Eurolines having been swallowed up by its German competitor, the bus drivers were no longer the ones I had come to know by dint of making the trip twice a month. Were they fired in the context of the compulsory liquidation that Flixbus imposed on Eurolines? Some restrictions are still in place: one out of two seats condemned, toilets closed... The bus was occupied by migrant families joining theirs. My young neighbour was a Polish migrant living in London who took advantage of a cheap offer to make a tourist stop in Paris.
The border crossing lasted two hours because you had to show your white paw: a form filled in on the British government website in which you had to fill in your departure and arrival details, information on your means of transport and the sacrosanct mobile phone in order to be contacted again if you had transmitted a coronavirus to someone... You also had to leave a third person's phone in case you refused to answer the friendly government requests on the covid19. But the border police seemed annoyed by this bureaucratic hassle and let me pass without presenting the document in view of my French passport.
My reunion with the British capital was full of emotion. Indeed, contrary to what I had expected, I felt very comfortable. The great city of London is almost empty. People were walking slowly, without stress, the weather was superb (except this Monday...). The greenery and flowers were shining. People are apparently not terrorized by disease. Very few masks in the streets, and despite the obligation, very few masks in shops, cafes and restaurants. It is in the subway that the wearing of masks is the most disciplined, although the trains were empty of the usual crowds, although I don't understand if this is due to holidays or teleworking. Admittedly, economic activity is reduced, and a large number of hotels and restaurants are closed, hoping to reopen in August. I do not know what is happening to the workers in these establishments. But I was happy to find my little habits in the cafés in the Paddington area around the Frontline Club, places that Julian Assange had frequented and which are only a few hundred metres from Westminster Court. Opposite the Frontline Club, Norfolk Place, lies the huge complex of St Mary's Hospital, the historic site of Alexander Fleming's discovery of penicillin. 50 metres from the Frontline Club is a place of powerful power, the importance of which we unfortunately did not grasp last winter: the Imperial College of London Medical School. This "Imperial" research centre which has influenced our lives in France and Europe to an unimaginable extent is physically part of the Saint Mary's Hospital complex but is not dependent on the British health system, the National Health Administration. The all-too-famous Neil Fergusson, a 50-year-old mathematician who boasts of having imposed total confinement on the French population after terrorizing President Macron, is vice-decan, vice-president of this institution and sits in this building (1).
II-14 August: Westminster Court turns into “Kindergarten” (nursery school)
I travelled across the Channel to attend Julian Assange’s Final administrative hearing at the Westminster Magistrate Court on Thursday 13 August, the day after the announcement of the launch of Sputnik 5, Russia’s coronavirus vaccine, full of hope that this step could help people out of the terrible crisis we have been in for the past five months. My ticket had been ready for several weeks and I kept hope that we could win this struggle, the one for HIS freedom and for OUR freedom, since the crisis is a permanent war, a war of leaders against their people and a “west against east” war since the American military state and its Baltic and Polish henchmen openly attack Belarus by sending fascist militants to foment riots there. During the trip I remained mobilized, spreading on social networks the truth about the so-called “Polish journalists arrested by Lukashenko” supported by the European Federation of Journalists, when in reality they are two dangerous neo-Nazi activists.
I did not learn the news of the quarantine imposed on the French by Great Britain until the evening of my arrival in London. This news surprised me: until now the government of Boris Johnson was involved in the global storytelling about the coronavirus, but in reality it does not terrorize the British as the macronist mafia does the French people. In fact, I had prepared in advance the certificate theoretically necessary for entry into the British territory, with address of residence and contact details of a third party in case I gave the coronavirus to someone and refused to answer my own phone… And here in Calais, the English border police does not ask for the certificate! The bus driver confirmed to me that for 10 days of daily travel this “covidian” attestation has never been required. He was very kind to us and went to great lengths to get us to open the toilets at the stops and hand out bottles of water on the Eurotunnel train. Indeed, the coronavirus was used as a good excuse to close the toilets and the air conditioning in the transport, which at 45 degrees outside generates stress and discomfort.
The weather in London is superb and cool. The Paddington district close to Westminster Court is slowly coming alive since the hotels have almost all reopened since August 1st and the tourists, first of all English-speaking, are coming back. Business obliges, the managers are all very friendly and the prices very affordable. The masks are almost non-existent and as I walk under the big trees in the neighborhood I feel liberated from the intense collective psychosis in which we are so immersed in France that we no longer realize it. It is only at the restaurant that the corona reminds me of it in the form of a large register kept by the waitress where her name and telephone number must be written down – but the British have more confidence in their government than we have in ours and they are not afraid of being found by the authorities, accused of having “infected” someone or exterminated in a hospital. Similarly, in another pub, a signposted route imposed on the consumer so that they do not mix with others also reminds me that absurdity also exists on this side of the Channel.