“Freedom is being clawed away” around the world: Address to the Horowitz Freedom Center

(Katie Hopkins spoke at an event sponsored by the Horowitz Freedom Center in Los Angeles on March 27, 2018. Below is Katie’s prepared text; however, in the video below she addresses an even wider range of topics, and also takes audience questions. )


My name is Katie Hopkins.

Or as I am otherwise known: The “female Farage,” the “British Ann Coulter” or the “biggest bitch in Britain.”

On a point of detail: unlike Farage I still have all my own teeth. And some of mine are actually white. Smoking kills, people.

Unlike Ann, I can talk about something other than a wall.

And as for being the biggest bitch in Britain, I am only 130 pounds. I did put on half my body weight – just over 50 pounds – and lose it again to prove fat people are lazy. But that’s one for another day…

It is my great pleasure to be here with you today in this very beautiful hotel in L.A.

Which stands in rather direct contrast to my last three days, living in and reporting from Skid Row, Downtown. Tucker Carlson did his best disgusted face on Fox when I ran my report with him earlier in the week. In fact, Mark Steyn and Jordan Peterson were on, too, so it was a good night for truth-tellers across the globe.

You know, I went to live on Skid Row for a bit because so often we don’t want to look at the ugly things in life.

When I was last here in LA, I drove past Skid Row, just like everybody does. I had the area pointed out to me: row after row of people, washed up on the pavement in their tents, like dirty plastic on the shoreline.

Sometimes I think we imagine that if we don’t look, maybe it will all go away. My sister doesn’t watch the news any more for the same reason. There’s an element of self-protection, which I really get.

I took a map from a hotel nearby, and they had put a sticker right over the top of the whole area. All the blocks of Skid Row hidden away, as if that would make it all OK.

But it is not OK. It is worse than I expected – and I have spent time in the migrant camps of Calais, France.

There is a quote from a history book I want to share with you:

“In the poorer parts of the city, hygiene was impossible to maintain in the overcrowded tenements and garrets. There was no sanitation, and open drains flowed along the centre of winding streets. The cobbles were slippery with animal dung, rubbish and the slops thrown out of the houses, muddy and buzzing with flies in summer and awash with sewage in winter. The stench was overwhelming and people walked around with handkerchiefs against their nostrils.”

That was written about the London slums in the 1600s, right before the outbreak of the bubonic plague. You will recall the plague came from a bacteria in infected rats, spread by the bites of fleas.

This description fits downtown LA right now: a sea of human fluids, filth, slops and rats. The sidewalks are slippery underfoot. And the rats teem about your ankles.

It is a human-health time-bomb waiting to go off. The people are beyond help. It is out of respect for that, that this city needs to take complete control. Tears and sympathy will not cut it. Moving in the military, physically assisting Skid Row residents into supported housing units, and 4 million gallons of Clorox just might.

We may look away now. But those tents aren’t fixed, nor are the rats. As the human numbers grow, so do the tents, and the rats, and the fleas on the rats. One day they will be outside the door of the Democrat politicians and maybe then they will see action is needed.

However, washed and freshened up, I am back in action, ready to face another day.

And it feels good to be here in the Land of the Free – a phrase I would not use to describe my own country, so desperate to please the Saudis and submit to Islam.

The recent exclusion of a law-abiding American citizen, Brittany Pettibone, a right-wing activist, and her boyfriend, the Austrian, Martin Sellner, on the grounds of “future hate speech as yet unsaid,” was a new low for Britain.

They were detained for two days at the border of the UK, and then deported because the speech they wanted to give at Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park “might upset local communities.”

Local communities. Love that. That’s a euphemism for Muslims. Like “Asians” – that’s the BBC’s euphemism for Muslims, too.

If 100 men are found guilty of raping our children in mass grooming gangs, the BBC uses the term “Asian” and throws a few Sikhs, half of India and a bit of Taiwan under the bus so that the Pakistani man raping our children don’t get hurt feelings. Inshallah.

The Pakistani Muslim men sent down this week for abusing girls as young as 13 were referred to as “Oxford men.” Their names?

Assad Hussain. Kramer Ibai. Khalistan Hussein. Kamran Khan. Raheem Ahmed. Alladitta Yousaf.

Yup. Oxford through and through.

Again, if you can’t be honest about a problem, you sure as heck aren’t going to be able to fix it.

Lauren Southern – another right-wing activist, from Canada this time – was also detained in Calais and deported because she once used her platform in the UK to pose the question, in provocation, “Is Allah gay?”

I mean, I’m blowed if I know either. I guess it would be a touch unfortunate for him if he was, given Muslims are not huge fans of homosexuals, and ISIS is rather prone to shoving gay men off tall buildings. That’d be quite a story, wouldn’t it? “ISIS shoves Allah off tower block.”

I digress. She was deported, essentially for breaking blasphemy laws that no longer exist. And if we now have de facto sharia, what’s next? If I commit adultery in the UK will I be stoned by angry Muslim policemen? Given my sexual history it’s not looking good…

Lauren Southern, the Canadian journalist, was hauled off a bus at the border and deported. This is the same ferry port where I have watched truckload upon truckload of illegal immigrants knowingly waved through without question.

A jihadi who put a bomb on our subway came to the UK via the same port of Calais. He told officers he had trained with ISIS for three months, learning how to kill unbelievers. We gave him a home, a foster family, and an income. In return he made a nail bomb and chose to plant it in a carriage of schoolchildren on the subway.

It strikes me that freedom is rather like your sight or your hearing or being doubly continent: fundamental to life, but skills you don’t truly appreciate until they start to go.

I cannot read without my glasses. The time I waste looking for the darned things drives me to distraction.

Freedom is very much the same. Now I see it being clawed away, I find myself looking for it in other countries and encouraging everyone to hold on to it for as long as they can.

It is my consistent message to Americans. Do not let your country become the UK. Do not let yourselves fall as we have fallen. Fight for your freedoms every day.

The fight is real.

The assault on your Second Amendment rights is relentless. It is well-funded, immaculately coordinated, and politically loaded. There are dark forces at work behind the façade of crying kids.

I watched the kids as they marched for our lives, holding their banners, getting selfies of themselves.

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To be fair, some of the fatter ones could do with a bit of exercise, so it wasn’t all bad.

I did wonder, for all the talk about enough being enough, if they were ever going to shut up. I mean, how many times?

But I am a mother of three children aged 13, 12 and 9. I do not let my kids make big decisions when they are upset. We wait till we have all calmed down and feel ready.

Good parents do not let little people make big decisions. Especially when they are upset.

Good politicians do not look to children to make policy. Especially not on guns.

Scratch beneath the thin veneer of these kids enjoying the attention and taking selfies for social media, and there was not much substance to this march. Just like the women’s marches in Washington. Nothing changed. A few women went for a walk, in silly hats. That’s it.

Coordinated by the globalists, CNN and celebrity fools, the march should serve as a powerful reminder to all of us of the connected forces at work seeking to erode the freedoms your founding fathers made constitutionally yours.

In support of these rights of yours, I am proud to say I am a card-carrying member of the NRA and my son is very pleased with his new hat and duffel bag. I have put the NRA car sticker on my car. Other mothers have stickers that say, “Baby on Board.” I like to imagine mine has bullets.

For many, the right to bear arms is not a freedom. It is, in fact, a necessity for survival.

For whites in South Africa, guns protect them through their day.

I am grateful to so many people in this room who kindly supported my mission to cover the plight of the whites in South Africa, an intention I first announced at the Freedom Center weekend in November 2017.

Two months later, in January, I was there, in-country with a cameraman, an armed security team and two military wagons capable of getting us closest to the story and the other side.

In urban areas, whites live the same caged existence as animals in zoos: whites in captivity, living behind fences, in gated communities, and behind bars. I did a school run with one mum. She calls in to security to say she is leaving the house, drives the children through the automated gate, changes her route to school every day, and returns home another way. She checks her home cameras from her phone before she operates the gates to her drive, in case the gangs are lying in wait.

On farms, only the richest can afford to defend their land and their crops; 22-million-pound mega-fencing makes avocado and macadamia farms the new high-security prisons, with helicopter reaction teams ready to respond if there is trouble. This is the security you now need to farm fruit in South Africa.

It is a different world for poor farmers. Vulnerable and exposed, they talk about when not if they will be attacked. There have been more than 100 attacks and 15 murders in 2018. A serving policemen who asked to meet me in confidence estimates that within three years there will be no more white farmers in South Africa. Whites will have been cleansed from the land, hunted to extinction. And unlike the white rhino, nobody cares.

Mr. Johan Burger, senior researcher at the Institute for Security Studies, agrees. He says that to be a white farmer in South Africa is statistically more dangerous, and has a higher mortality rate, than being a policeman on the front line: 59 murders per 100,000, compared to 55 murders per 10,000.

Here in California, the figure is four.

Mariandra was married to a white farmer. She was asleep in her lounge with her daughter and husband when a black gang broke into their home. Her husband offered them anything they wanted – the car, the computer, the safe. Instead they shot him right there in front of their six-year-old girl.

They wanted to take Mariandra downstairs, so her little daughter offered the men her piggy bank if they would let her mummy live. She survived.

Mariandra buried her husband and five days later gave birth to their first son. She is tiny and frenetic. I ask her what will happen if she stops moving, stops trying, stops organizing. She says she will fall over.

Bernard came home from church with his father, wife and children to light a braai – a BBQ – for the family. A black gang was waiting for him in his garage. Two hours later his father was dead, his wife was strung up with fencing wire in the garage, and his son had been shot at, but lived.

Bernard ran to his father dying on the stoop and pleaded with him to hold on, because they had so much work to do together on the farm. But his injuries were too cruel.

I learned that for these farmers and their families, death is not the end of it. Death might be a blessed relief for those the gangs torture and brutalize, but for those left behind… Sometimes I felt like they might suffocate in their sadness; they could barely keep their heads up to breathe.

Bernard’s 11-year-old doesn’t want to live. He wants to join his grandad in heaven. And his smallest son, who saw the whole attack, his grandfather shot, his father beaten, his mother strung up with wire – he cannot sleep. He is on antidepressants and sleeping pills. He is a tormented soul. He is 8 years old.

There are many more like them.

I tell you these stories not to make you sad here at lunch, but out of respect for these lovely people I met and for their impossible lives. And as a reminder of why our freedoms and your rights matter. Your right to speak. Your right to bear arms.

For every crying child from the Parkland shooting screaming BS at the NRA, I think of little Mariandra’s daughter offering her piggy bank if the killers would only let her mummy live.

Some white farmers are fighting back with their ownership of weapons. Their wives are taking weapons training to try to save their children when the time comes.

Once you lay down your arms, once you lose the right to speak freely, what do you have to defend yourselves with? With what will you defend your freedom to life?

I remember, in Sweden, talking to a fireman in the toughest fire station in the country, planted in the heart of a no-go area in the toughest suburb. He was building a bigger fence around his fire station, to defend the engines from the migrants who were stealing the cutting equipment and the fuel from the tanks.

I asked him whether we would need to build more walls and more fences in the future to keep people out.

He said no: we will build walls to keep in the people we want to keep safe.

I am sure he is right.

And that’s what we are all doing here, what we do when we stand together for the conservative cause, when we reach out and hold hands with fellow patriots and those defending our freedoms. We create a wall. To keep the madness out, to keep the darkness from our doors, and to keep the things we love safe inside.

My South African farming friends love family, God and the land.

My American friends love life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Together we stand strong.

Thank you.

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