There is truth. There are politics. And seldom do they meet. There is recognition of our shame. And seldom do we speak of it. Thank you to those who are brave enough to speak.
Originally posted on Female Imagination:
I didn’t much like my country last week because I saw a side to it that was ugly and coarse and cruel. Maggie Thatcher wasn’t even cold before the tsunami of hatred crashed through the plaudits like a poison riptide. “The Witch is dead”, “Rot in Hell”, “Rejoice, Thatcher is dead” said the vile banners, even though many of those brandishing them weren’t even alive when Thatcher was in power. How ironic that the people screaming she’d wrecked the country and wrecked their lives still had enough money to buy champagne to drink to her death, to shout that they hoped it was a painful and degrading one.
What kind of country are we when people rejoice that an old lady had a stroke and died?
Lady Thatcher’s death has brought the revellers joining Gerry Adams and George Galloway in applauding her death (the ultimate projection being Galloway accusing Thatcher of being a friend to dictators). Still, the difference between Thatcher and Adams is that when he dies no one will party in Catholic areas of Northern Ireland – because they’d be shot.