Was That a Muezzin Reciting the Adhan? Fortunately, No….

Not long ago, I finished reading The Rape Gang Inquiry Report put together by Rupert Lowe and some other UK patriots. It described, in painful detail, how Mohammedans of Pakistani descent (and a few of their Afghan, Syrian, Iraqi, Somali, Turkish and other co-religionists) had groomed, raped, abused, humiliated, sometimes tortured, sometimes murdered and sometimes forced the conversion of about 250,000 young White girls in England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland over the past half-century. The Report called this “one of the most horrendous scandals in the history of our country” and showed how it was to a large extent self-inflicted, starting with the British Nationality Act of 1948 and Prime Minister Tony Blair’s laissez-faire immigration policies of 1997 and beyond; foreign subcultures have now turned the UK—home of my paternal ancestors—into a dystopian landscape.

As I went through the Report’s 217 pages, I was outraged not just at the Paki Mohammedans who committed the crimes but at the health officials, police, judges, school masters, licensing bodies, members of the media and politicians all the way up to current Prime Minister Keir Starmer who had turned a blind eye or in some cases actively covered it up. Children suffered because these adults feared being called “racist” or “Islamophobic.” There had been earlier investigations of large-scale child sexual exploitation (such as Operation Bullfinch [2011], the Jay Report [2014], Operation Marmion [2015] and the Independent Inquiry into Child Sexual Abuse [2022]), but the effects were minimal. These Paki guys continued their evil ways with virtual impunity. It is my sincere hope that Lowe, et al. will be successful in getting justice and eliminating the root problems that allowed this to happen.

Reading first-person testimony from victims like “Felicity,” “Claire,” “Tinkerbell,” “Lia,” “Phoebe,” “Celeste” and others was heartbreaking and perplexing. How in the world could such awful things have occurred in the land where the Magna Carta was signed, where one of the world’s earliest representative democratic systems began, where Shakespeare wrote his classics and where John Wesley preached the one true faith?

Infidels, as I call them, make up 0.3% of the current South Korean population, mostly in the Seoul metro area. There are 20 mosques and more than 100 prayer halls nationwide. When I see one of these people, especially the women with rags on their heads, I scowl; there was a wordless scene on the subway six months ago that was unpleasant but fully authentic. In a discussion with a colleague last month, he glossed over it and said, “We are all brothers.” He is a nice young man, but he is innocent and naïve. I am older and—permit me to say—aware. I keep my eyes wide open.

On Tuesday of this week, nearing the end of my nightly 30-minute walk, I heard a somewhat loud noise. It was a recorded male voice, but I could not decipher what was being said. Intent on learning its source, I turned left earlier than planned because I just had to know. I have been living in this neighborhood north of Yeoksam Station for 2 ½ years and am very familiar with it. As I walked in the direction of the sound, I was not in a happy mood because it seemed to be the Adhan recited by a muezzin—the Mohammedan call to prayer, which goes like this:

Allahu Akbar. (“Allah is the Greatest.”) (four times)

Ashhadu alla ilaha illallah. (“I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah.” (twice)

Ashhadu anna Muhammadar Rasulullah. (“I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah.”) (twice)

Hayya ‘alas-Salah. (“Come to prayer.”) (twice)

How could a Mohammedan prayer hall have been erected so close to my home almost overnight? Surely not, but I have seen numerous videos in which the Adhan is recited from the minaret of a mosque, and this was what it sounded like. Rich-Rich was darn sure going to find out. Visual and auditory clues soon demonstrated that I had no reason to worry or get angry. It was a Korean street vendor, roughly my age, going around, advertising and selling tteok. This is a soft, chewy, glutinous rice cake which all natives seem to like—a real delicacy. It’s not for me, however. The cultural gap is just too wide, my nearly 19 years here notwithstanding.

The man, who showed me a sample, was so nice that I just had to buy some of his tteok. He walked with me three blocks and waited outside of my goshiwon (the same building that BTS did not visit back in the spring). I went in, retrieved 8,000 won and handed it over. He was happy to have made a sale and probably assumed that this foreigner would go upstairs and consume it without delay. I happened to see my landlady, Han Hee-jin, in the kitchen and gave the tteok to her. She, too, had no clue about the historico-religio-cultural factors behind this and did not need to know. I walked to room 23, my tiny abode, and smiled.

To the Pakis (some of the most inbred people on Earth) and other infidels who inflicted such abuse on innocent English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish girls and got away with it, I have a message: Forget about Mighty Mo. Abjure him and behold the cross! The time will come when every knee bows.

Thank you, Rupert Lowe…

Friendly man who sold me tteok (bottom portion of his cart is where the announcement came from)…

The tteok I bought and gave to my landlady…