Zimmerman acquitté pour avoir tué de sang froid, Trayvon Martin, un gamin.

Publié par siel sur 15 Juillet 2013, 14:50pm

Catégories : #RACISME

Résumé de l'histoire : un adolescent revient d'acheter des friandises. Il rentre chez son père qui habite dans cette sorte de conglomérat bizarre de maisons dit "gate community" qui ressemble plus à un camp de concentration, mais qu'adorent les Etatsuniens qui habitent le pays au monde où il y a le plus de prisons et de prisonniers par nombre d'habitants (pour vous donner une idée plus qu'en Chine, voyez-vous).

Un modèle qu'ils ont exporté avec succès, la peur étant ce qui se vend le mieux, dans tous les pays du monde où les inégalités de revenus sont en augmentation exponentielle.

Un homme, plus ou moins Blanc, (ce sont les pires, en quête d'identité et de racines "caucasiennes" comme disent encore ces Etatsuniens, qui n'en ratent pas une, question création de concepts à partir de manipulations, pour catégoriser, stigmatiser, exclure - vu que les Caucasiens en question, habitants du Caucase ont la peau brune et sont eux-mêmes victimes de racisme dans la Russie "aryenne")

Le pire c'est qu'ils parviennent, via leur empire médiatique, à imposer leur vocabulaire fortement idéologisé et racialiste partout. Actuellement, en France, il se trouve de plus en plus de gens (dans la fachosphère surtout) à utiliser ce terme de caucasien pour Blanc

(En Russie), Des Caucasiens blessés suite aux violences racistes du 11 décembre link

Donc, cet homme qui s'appelle Zimmerman était dans une voiture quand il a aperçu le jeune de 17 ans.Trouvant la présence de cet enfant dans son gate community, pas catholique, il décide d'appeler la police pour la prévenir de sa décision de suivre son suspect, en quelque sorte de son intention de faire du mal à ce mineur.

La police lui dit de ne pas bouger, de rester tranquille. Zimmerman n'en tient pas compte. Il désobéit donc à la police. Peu lui importe, il est un justicier, un cowboy armé en lutte contre une invasion de sauvages dans son camp de concentration pour "Blancs", un type qui défend sa patrie assiégiée.

Il se pointe avec son arme et se met à suivre le gamin. D'après Zimmerman, Trayvon se voyant suivi lui aurait foutu un coup de poing. Mettez-vous à la place de ce gamin. qui se retrouve coursé en pleine nuit par un adulte. Est-ce que Trayvon ne pouvait pas craindre une agression raciste, ou sexuelle ? On ne le saura jamais puisqu'il est mort et que la seule version retenue par un jury de six personnes dont 5 Blancs et un Hispano est la version du meurtrier.

Zimmerman raconte que dans la bagarre, pour se défendre il a tiré. Il tire à plusieurs reprises sur l'adolescent qui meurt. Le paquet de bonbons reste par terre. Zimmerman tient là sa pièce à convictions. Le paquet de bonbons vu de loin ressemblait à cracher à une fusil automatique.

L'arme de destruction massive portée par Trayvor et retrouvée sur le lieu du crime.

Il faut noter que ce Zimmerman a un casier judiciaire suite à une bagarre avec des policiers et une plainte pour coups d'une ex de ses petites amies.

Zimmerman est acquitté. Pour le jury, la présence de cet enfant dans la nuit- ah, j'avais oublié de vous dire qu'il était Noir et portait une capuche- méritait que Zimmerman le tue.

L'article suivant est un témoignage d'un homme Noir sur sa propre expérience de confrontation avec la police dans ce grand

pays démocratique qui bataille ferme, à coups de drones, pour le respects des droits humains partout dans le monde.

SOURCES link

The Zimmerman Jury Told Young Black Men What We Already Knew

Tonight a Florida man’s acquittal for hunting and killing a black teenager who was armed with only a bag of candy serves as a Rorschach test for the American public. For conservatives, it’s a triumph of permissive gun laws and a victory over the liberal media, which had been unfairly rooting for the dead kid all along. For liberals, it's a tragic and glaring example of the gaps that plague our criminal justice system. For people of color, it’s a vivid reminder that we must always be deferential to white people, or face the very real chance of getting killed.

When I was junior in college in Virginia, my then-girlfriend and I decided one night to meet up for a quick snack while studying for midterms. We bought some sandwiches at a 24-hour deli and, rather than waste time going to either of our homes, which were in opposite directions, we decided to eat in her car in a parking lot near a fancy hotel off-campus. We were listening to music and laughing about something when I saw a security guard’s headlights in the rear view mirror, and I stopped laughing as I watched him—a white man in his mid-40s—walk up to my girlfriend’s door and ask her to step out of the car. “Uh, OK,” she said, clearly as confused as I was about what we’d done to warrant his attention.

He walked her away from her car toward his, but they were close enough that I could hear their conversation. He asked her her name, a slight southern lilt lengthening his vowels. She told him. Then he said, “Are you OK? “

“What do you mean?” she said.

“Are you safe right now?” he asked again.

My girlfriend was white. I am not.

I leapt out of the car and screamed, “What the hell did you just ask her?” I wanted to see if he had the resolve to say it again, to me this time.

The security guard turned to face me. “It’s standard procedure, sir,” he said. “I was going to ask you if you were alright, too.”

“I think you’re lying,” I said.

“You can think what you’d like,” he said, a smile creeping up his face. “We can also call the police right now and sort this all out, because y’all aren’t supposed to be here and this is private property.”

I wanted to hit him in his fucking face. I wanted to take his flashlight from his belt and smash his teeth out, giving him a real reason to call the cops, a reason besides the crime of eating a sandwich in a parking lot.

But I was a 20-year-old brown kid in Virginia. It was late. I was with a white girl. I felt embarrassed, and the thought of being surrounded by more inquisitive white men with pepper spray and tasers and handcuffs and guns only made my face hotter. And so I apologized. “I’m sorry,” I said. “We didn’t know this was private property.”

“Well, now you know,” he said.

My girlfriend drove me home, where I stewed for hours and promised myself I’d report the guard in the morning. When I woke, however, I realized I didn’t have the guard’s name, nor did I even know what to report—it’s not against any rules to ask a white woman if the black man in the car with her is attacking her. It’s not against any rules to humiliate someone in a darkened parking lot in front of the person they love. It may, however, be against the rules to eat food in the parking lot in the first place. I never reported it. I think about it to this day.

It is a complicated thing to be young, black, and male in America. Not only are you well aware that many people are afraid of you—you can see them clutching their purses or stiffening in their subway seats when you sit across from them—you must also remain conscious of the fact that people expect you to be apologetic for their fear. It’s your job to be remorseful about the fact that your very nature makes them uncomfortable, like a pilot having to apologize to a fearful flyer for being in the sky.

If you’re a black man and you don’t remain vigilant of and obsequious to white people’s panic in your presence—if you, say, punch a man who accosts you during dinner with your girlfriend and screams “Nigger!” in your face, or if you, say, punch a man who is following you without cause in the dark with a handgun at his side—then you must be prepared to be arrested, be beaten, be shot through the heart and lung and die on the way home to watch a basketball game with your family. And after you are dead, other blacks should be prepared for people to say you are a vicious thug who deserved it. You smoked weed, for instance, and got in some fights at school (like I did)—obviously you had it coming. You were a ticking time bomb, and sooner or later someone was going to have to put you down.

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