London Riots: Turkish shop owners attack nigger looters & defend their hood


London Riots: Shop-owners defend their businesses in east London - video

John Domokos stands with Turkish shop owners amid disturbances on Kingsland High Street in east London

Everything all right?” Under the circumstances – the day after the lootings around the corner on Mare Street, a petrol station burned, a bus besieged, mass muggings in London Fields – asking the Turkish barber if things are all right seems a little insensitive.

But he assures me that everything is fine; he has a full metal shutter to protect his shop window. Mr Husein, who shuts his shop only for one week a year, when he visits his family in Cyprus, will close early today. You might know his barber shop: it was used by David Cronenberg in the opening scene of his film Eastern Promises. You might not know Mr Husein, but you’ll probably know someone like him: quiet, dignified, industrious to the point of mania. Closing early, for the first time ever.

Across the road, I ask another shopkeeper if what I’d heard is true, that the Turkish men in Kingsland Road and Stoke Newington were arming themselves to protect their shops, to protect their own. “Is true. Police no use, government too soft.” He frowns: “So they had knives.”

Well, what would you do? This isn’t a theoretical “who governs?” question. This is a “who will protect my livelihood, a livelihood I’ve built with my bare hands and my own hard labour, a livelihood at risk from an uncivilised enemy?” question. The Government desperately needs to find and deliver an answer, and quickly. Because I don’t think the Turkish men will wait much longer.

I hear anger with the Government and the police everywhere. The butcher is patiently wiping down his counters – everyone’s closing early – while listening to an old man list the previous day’s destructions. “They went for Clarence Road…” It can’t be easy, closing up your shop, and driving home, wondering what you will return to the next morning.

Broadway Market, hitherto London’s flagship street for urban regeneration, looks normal. There are the usual clusters of tight-jeaned hipsters outside every bar and coffee shop. But the atmosphere is tense. The “edginess” of Hackney, which, combined with its relatively cheap rents, is what drew these folk here in the first place, leaves their smiles today a little forced, a little frozen.

I’ve grown to love this borough, and this street represents everything good and bad about it. Good: because it shows that hard work and good people can transform a dead street into a thriving, desirable destination. Bad: because we’ve turned a blind eye for too long to the problems that remain. It’s not hyperbole to think of temporal apartheid when you discuss Hackney: in the daytime, young mothers congregate in coffee shops, and art students make pop-up galleries to display their talents. At weekends the farmers’ market brings thousands into the borough. But then the night falls, and the streets are taken over by the malign force of the gangs of fatherless boys.

What does it take to make a community? Our heritage here is roughly one third each Turkish, Anglo-Saxon and African. I used to believe it was enough that the different races rubbed along together, without needing to be one another’s special friends. Something not unlike a truce was observed: we were polite, without ever really mixing. It would not take much – it may already have happened – for these three cohabiting groups to decide they want nothing more to do with one another. What then? More riots?

I walk the length of the street, and end up in my local, where the regulars are cutting up planks of wood with which to board up the windows. A man comes in: “It’s kicking off again, up the town hall.” We listen to the police helicopter overhead. The name of this pub is The Perseverance. It’s apt, I hope.

The streets are deserted as I make my way home. On Monday night, my partner came to meet me at the station, and we walked home together. The buses weren’t running and Hackney Road was eerily silent. There were a few folk like us about – from the world of work – walking home as fast as dignity would allow. Squads of boys-on-bikes passed intermittently. I learnt later that they targeted anyone normal-looking and mugged them.

So we have come to this: I’m frightened to be on the street outside my home. I’m frightened to leave my home, lest it become a target for looters. I wonder if I lack the courage of the Turks.

I have my views about how we got in this state: these riots aren’t spontaneous, but the result of years of incubation. We have de-civilised boroughs like Hackney. This is dis-civilisation. This is what happens when middle-class liberals suspend judgment, for fear of causing offence. But what we need now, immediately, is control of our streets. Because while I’m fearful, I’ll probably be all right. It’s the thought of that Turkish shopkeeper, worried and despairing, with his talk of knives, that really frightens me.

 The police did nothing to defend ordinary citizens. Our brothers did their jobs in London.

 These niggers are a bunch of parasites who are bold against only a person with 100 bastards. Ordinary citizens should defence themselves like our people did.

 Dont mess with Turks, you niggers monkeys !

 Respect & Salute for our brothers in London.


Türkistan Ordusu:
From what I heard, these Turkish shop owners defended not only themselves or their properties; but also the very policemen who were unable to do whatever against the rioters/looters. :)


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