ZGram - Where Truth is Destiny:  Now more than ever!

October 28, 2003

Good Morning from the Zundelsite:

Two distinct excerpts from Cell # 5 in the Canadian Gulag:

The first is from a recent letter to me, dated 10-20-03.  The second,
a bit further down, is from a letter sent early this month to a
rather new supporter in Texas who will, so we fervently hope, get a
small Zundel delegation together to pay Congressman Ron Paul a
reconnaissance visit.  We need to find out if something can be done
at all to find somebody with a spine up there in Washington who won't
disappear in a mouse hole the moment the Holocaust Lobby says "Boo!"

Let me say this:  I have only the highest regard for Congressman
Paul, but I do know that he made a withering remark about my
venerable husband.  If you were in my moccasins, would you let that
pass by?  For many, many in America, Ron Paul is like a beacon of
hope - but he needs to be clued in, don't you agree, that when it
comes to Mr. Zundel, he will be dealing with a man of substance,
integrity and, above all, resilience, and not the cardboard cut-out
caricature created by Spielberg et al to scare the gullible?  

Letter to Ingrid up-front:


It's Monday before noon.  My tall Punjabi Indian bodyguard, turban
and all, came early to fetch me for my ten minutes of fresh air.  It
was a nice brisk morning.  Then it was shower time.

In the meantime, I had my own anxieties to contend with, for my
trusty glasses broke.  For months, I wondered silently what I would
do if and when that moment would arrive.  So now I am waiting for our
Security Chief to come to give him one more Zundel lament.  Without
my glasses, I won't be able to read, write or sketch.  I will be
speaking to my lawyers at 4 p.m. today - hopefully, I can get the
phone then.  I will see if they can get me one of those all-purpose
Walmart glasses.  I have half a dozen in my desk at home in the top
drawers.  What a fate!

My being jerked around is like all the other Zundel persecutions to
serve [people] as an example not to open their mouths, or else - and
in some quarters of the German community, it's obviously working.  [A
Canadian supporter] told me about the fear he encountered once he
asked the German Canadian Congress to engage themselves for me.  They
never were much good, but not even in this extreme situation will
they do or say anything.  It is really perverse - to think how hard I
have fought for that community, so that their children in school
would not be subjected to the constant taunts, and that their
heritage would not be denigrated in their children's school books.

I can see why our soldiers, after the war, were so bitter.  Imagine,
some of them had lost limbs or their eyesight, their wives were
raped,  their children killed. I can only explain it in the context
of Hitler's aftereffect that the German nation could still gather its
remnants - and like a Phoenix rising from the ashes with all of these
traumatized and battered psyches within their community rebuild that
place in a remarkably short time to be again the powerhouse economy
of Europe.  An amazing feat!  Mr. Arcand used to tell me:  "Mr.
Zundel, you come from the most virile, dynamic people on earth!"  He
said that in utter awe and sincere admiration.

This reminds me of the historical writer, William Manchester.  He
once told in an article in Reader's Digest in the late 1960s or early
1970s that he accompanied Charles DeGaulle on a battlefield visit to
Stalingrad in the summer of 1943.  DeGaulle kept exclaiming aloud:
"Mon Dieu, quelles peoples!"  When Manchester asked him, "Mon
General, quelles peoples?" DeGaulle answered, "Of course the German
people!  To think that they came that far!"

An amazing accolade by an enemy!  One has to remember that France,
all of it, was still occupied at that time, and DeGaulle was the
chief of the "Big Four" engaged in a life-and-death struggle with the
German forces.  He still had the grandeur and chivalry to say this in
front of an international coterie of war correspondents.

A little closer to home:

A brutal murderer has been put into this isolation area in the last
few days.  I heard one of the guards scream obscenities at him
because the guy is obviously mental, raging like an animal, pounding
on his cell door, making animal grunts all the while.  It seems he
killed his wife in a gruesome [fashion], stabbing her 27 times,
according to what I overheard.  I feel sorry for the guards who have
to be serving food to creatures like that, take them to the shower,
the yard, to sick bay etc.  One really is exposed to the garbage dump
and the broken wrecks and refuse of society in these places.

I always try to keep that in mind when one of the guards, or the
captains, have a "bad hair day."  Imagine doing this as a career all
the rest of your life!  I have asked some of them why they chose this
kind of work.  You would not believe how carelessly and without
forethought most of these men and women ended up being prison guards
- a whole life spent like a comet's tail based on a whim of a

They don't make all that much money, it seems, and it's shift work.
It also seems that management, in order to save money and to
intimidate the Union, are using a lot of part-time contract helpers.
That was one of the constant discussions in Thorold, almost like an
echo chamber while I was in the shower or outside in the yard doing
my rounds.  Everybody has worries, problems, job fears.  Only you and
I have the perfect job - work we like to do, which is meaningful and
reaches the world in an instant, bypassing borders, customs, snoops,
censors most of the time!

This is quite a time to be alive, when one really thinks about it.
Europe is like a sleepy giant, drowsily blinking into the sunlit
[air], stirring - and, unsteadily as yet, staggering to its feet
after 58 years of abject prostration before its conquerors in East
and West.  In comparison to such a momentous occasion, what are the
inconveniences I have to suffer, and the loneliness you have to
endure, until all this has been sorted out?

Sorry for rambling on, my lady!  I will end this now and get the
envelope ready for you.


Next comes the excerpt from that letter to our young Texan supporter:


In Tennessee's Blount County jail,  where the food portions were
small and of very poor quality, most of the prisoners would buy junk
food, like chocolate bars, by the armful.  M&Ms were the favorites,
Mars bars a close second.  My schizophrenic/manic depressive cell
mate, a chemical engineer who had apparently peddled designer drugs
via the Internet, bought in one week 40 packets of Cool-Aid in powder
form, 30 Mars bars, 10 bags of M&Ms and 20 bags of potato and corn
chips, because he said he was "starving".  All the prisoners
complained of hunger.  Imagine in rich America, prisoners going

[At breakfast], lunch and supper, there was a regular loud,
slave-auction type shouting going on, especially between the Black
inmates, many of whom were in on various drug charges.  They would
trade their two pieces of dry toast or their soggy porridge for "one
item" - that's what it was called, an unofficial in-prison currency
established by inmates among themselves.

Since I was desperate to write to Ingrid and to make some drawings to
cheer her up as well as to send them as "thank you" notes to my
supporters, I participated in the auction to rent - yes, RENT! - a
prisoner's ball point pen for 1  1/2 days for some of my food items.
Another man gave me three sheets of paper for some apple pie,
oversweetened as all this stuff was.  I did not miss it.

The early drawings that Ingrid received came into being because of
this Black entrepreneurship. As soon as the inmates saw that I could
draw, they crowded around, and serious bargaining took place around
the Zundel table.

One white man, approximately 27 years old, in for over 20 years, was
willing to trade me the use of his ball point pen [plus] rental of a
book on America's beautiful national parks if I made him a
letter-sized pen drawing of his vintage Camaro, of which he showed me
a faded color Polaroid, cut off at the end.  We shook hands on our
deal.  I got paper, pen, snapshot, and that precious book from the
boy.  I made Ingrid a prison Valentine's Day card, which took 27 days
from the date I mailed it in prison to our home maybe 35 miles away.

I drew a picture of a grist mill from memory, as I had seen it in
Cades Cove Park, not far away from our home, and one beautiful summer
vista overlooking parts of America.  Ingrid gave those as numbered
prints to our better donors.  That's how the first, desperately
needed money was raised for my defense, for the lawyers gobble up
money at an alarming rate, let me tell you that!

Then I drew the young man's car, and business started booming.
Unfortunately my free enterprise barter system was short-circuited by
my being expelled from America.


A reminder:

Support the Zundel Struggle - one day you will be proud you did!
Ernst's  Prisoner of Conscience sketches are rapidly becoming
collectors' items.  I have a few new ones in the hopper I need to
computer-enhance and put on the Net so our enemies can see we will
not be defeated!


Our address is:

Ingrid Zündel
3152 Parkway, Suite 13, PMB 109
Pigeon Forge, TN 37863

Zgram - Where Truth is Destiny:  Now more than ever!

October 30, 2003

Good Morning from the Zundelsite:

I finally got a reply letter from Provincial Member of Parliament, a
Mr. Runciman, up for election, after I wrote him that furious letter
months ago about inhuman conditions in prison when Ernst's cell was
raided and what little comfort he had been able to secure was
brutally destroyed.

As per usual, Runciman passed the buck - the letter I received came
from the Ministry of Public Safety and Security, Office of the
Assistant Deputy Minister, signed by one Gary Commeford, who also
passed the buck - to no one's great surprise.

Commeford suggested I contact Cathy Morris (!), superintendent of the
Toronto West Detention Center.  His letter claims his ministry
"Sdelivers fair and humane treatment to all inmates in our care."
You be the judge how well they do, after dozens of you have written
as well and complained.  Here is part of Ernst's letter to me, dated
October 17, 2003:


My mail indicates that people are touched by my letters and little
drawings, and we need their support and good will in the months and
years ahead.  So I will do my part to carry the load, regardless of
how uncomfortable or tedious or mean things will get!

I get up as soon as the lights are turned on to full power every
morning and commune with you in spirit because I know you will be
sitting curled up in your corner, having one of those lovely cups of
coffee which make the house smell so inviting and German!  Then I
work, either drawing or writing, until we get given our disgusting
breakfasts - sugar pops, the odd time bran flakes in styrofoam or
plastic cups, all the other junk and jam, which smells of oil and
plastic fumes and burns the tip of your tongue.  In Thorold we had
little dabs of margarine to go with the toast.  Here it rarely is
toast, and only once a week one dab of  margarine.  One cup of overly
sweet coffee.  No refills.

That's it until about 11:45.  Lunch on a paper or a styrofoam plate.
Always cold - in 4 months one warm meal!

Then for supper - more of the same.  Salad?  If there are a few
wilted leaves, usually it is without salad dressing.  Skimpy little
hot dogs.  No relish.  Mostly no mustard.  One nice thing they have
is some tuna fish salad with onions and pickles mixed in.  Then they
have a cole slaw which is really tasty, and if I were free, I would
buy a whole jar of it, it is so tart and tasty.

But outside of that, the food at Thorold was far more ample and
varied, even though both these prisons are supposedly operate under
the same food rules.  Odd.

I will not yammer on in this vein.  I just thought that every once in
a while you might like a little insight into your husband's life for
the moment.

It's like war-time Europe.


And from a Letter to a Friend:


On the political front, it is important that people understand that
my being in here is comparable to my being taken in a kidnapping as a
hostage.  I am a new breed of hostage - a website hostage!

In the first days of my incarceration in America, in one week alone
there were 670,000 visitors to the Zundelsite.org.  These people
looked at 2.3 million documents.

For the past 13 weeks in custody, while I was in Maximum Security,
with all my mail censored and all my phone calls listened to, armed
only with a 2 1/2 pencil stub as an intellectual weapon, over 8
million visitors have come to the Zundelsite and looked at 30 million
pages of documents - all about truth in history, truth about the
Holocaust, and the truth about Germany's sacrifice for Europe.

Even if I had been free, working day and night, I could never have
earned enough money to buy the envelopes, paper and stamps, have the
address labels typed or stuck on for 8 million people, and printed or
photocopied 30 million pages of documents.  That's in 13 weeks only!

So even with hands and feet tied, and my mouth taped shut with duct
tape, I dare say that I am worth my weight in gold, like the Aga Khan
is for his people.  I am worth it to my ethnic group, and especially
to my homeland.

I think it is this which so enrages and infuriates my enemies here,
there, and everywhere - that even in this dismal situation, I the
hated Ernst Zündel, am delivering a drain [on the] good will and
belief the Jewish side has amassed with their Holocaust story since
World War II.  Even in certain "defeat", I am, in reality, the victor
- it is an amazing situation, and [the presiding] judge knows it!

[It is said that] there are 600 million websites in the world.  The
Zundelsite was in 180,000th place in global popularity [before I was
arrested].  Within a few weeks after my arrest, the Zundelsite zoomed
past 160,000 other websites to land at the 20,000th spot - this means
past the websites of entire governments, famous universities,
newspapers, magazines.  Then we slowly receded, but every time there
is a new wrinkle or new publicity, the trend reverses itself and the
climb of visitors and popularity resumes.

People out there, those who help me, need to be informed about this.
People need hope - my incarceration was a stumbling block, but we
intend to turn it into stepping stone, [as we have done] a thousand
times before!  Hope is what they need - not despair.




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