As a land that welcomes refugees, we face one moral masterful merit: figuring out how to provide these people with proper education.
The question of language arises immediately.
Which alphabet should we teach? They need ours to navigate their new home, certainly. But if they eventually leave, shouldn’t they be prepared to make a better land of their own? Whatever “better” might mean!

A column I wrote years ago delved into the phenomenon of education, but as everything has “evolved” in heaps over the last five years, the subject demands fresh examination.
Most of you recognise names like Hermes Trimegesto, Rudolf Steiner, or Maria Montessori, yet I bet you a dime to a dollar that none of you has ever heard of Emo of Frisia. The Eclastic fellow wrote many worthy words on pages (most lost) and even knew how to convince a pope called Innocence (that is a bit on the nose, haha).
Emo was the one who pioneered exchange students and advocated their importance.

My regular readers are familiar with my brain spinning, but I understand that even the loyalists among you might not be seeing the sum quite yet.
Let me explain: In today’s world, where we live amidst once-cartoonish visualisations of flying cars and computers made real, wars still burn. They burn just as they did when man first discovered his role in the miracle of life and promptly began to hoard and conquer.

This is why education must be aimed at identity—ensuring comprehension of our origins before all else.

I often notice pictures of women from Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan dressed in everything but a burka, dresses, trousers or sometimes their traditional garments (which, by the way, are far more beautiful than Western streetwear).

My humble yet keen observation is that this change in garderobe represents a response to Rothschild & co—the Darth Vader effect it has cast upon all the merry moguls of Mother Earth.
Global financial powers dictate much of our world, including which fabrics cover which bodies. These powers reveal themselves in shifting cultural expressions: one cloth obscures while another exposes, but both serve systems of control that span continents and centuries.

So now, back to refugees and education. You feel it coming, right? Yes, to teach them the fundamentals of the hosting country, yes, to prepare them for the modern reality of the world, but most of all, and most importantly, teach them about their home country!
For what is a refugee, but a temporary guest as a custodian of cultural memory? We offer them crumpets but must encourage them to remember the taste of naan. We teach them our alphabet while helping them preserve their ancient scripts.

This is not contradictory—it is complementary, like oil and butter, each enhancing rather than erasing.

In our cartoonish modern world of digital marvels and ancient hatreds, this is the education we all need: one that connects rather than divides, that remembers while moving forward, and that sees the patterns linking Rothschild to burkas to classroom desks and eventual homecomings.

The spinning stops here, dear loyalists. The sum becomes clear: education is not merely adaptation but preservation not just for them but for us all.

We cannot change how the world is functioning right now. It had an intensive run to make the leap, but in that box of sand where we have landed can have one strong antidote to wake up out of this sushing unreal existence made out of materialism: roots!
That’s what we’re truly offering when we teach refugees about their homelands—not nostalgia, but survival.

Roots that reach deep beneath the shifting sands of our material world. Roots that remember what was before the cartoons became real and the real became cartoonish.
These roots are not constraints but lifelines, pulling nourishment from depths that Rothschild and his fellows cannot reach or commodify.

So yes, teach the alphabet, whichever one. Yes, explain the flying cars and computers. But most importantly, water those roots!

Or; Roots Bloody Roots
Roots Bloody Roots
Roots Bloody Roots
Roots Bloody Roooaaaaaahh

I
Believe in our fate
We don’t need to fake
It’s all we wanna be
Watch me freeeaaak !!

I say
We’re growing every day
Getting stronger in every way
I’ll take you to a place
Where we shall find our

Roots Bloody Roots
Roots Bloody Roots
Roots Bloody Roots
Roots Bloody Roots

Rain
Bring me the strength
Is breeding me this way
To get to another day
and all I want to see
Set us free

Why
Can’t you see
Can’t you feel
This is real
Ahhh

I pray
We don’t need to change
Our ways to be saved
That all we wanna be
Watch us freak

For without them, we’re all just playing in a sandbox, pretending the grains won’t slip through our fingers with the next strong wind.

May Harmony find you,

Irena Phaedra

P.S. Sepultura; wisdom with a roar.