I was born under the occupation of my beautiful country, Belgium. Living in Flanders, seeing Germans come and go was nothing unusual. As a kid, I could not understand why my father whispered to me whenever he spoke Flemish. I was not allowed to go to public school since it was Nur für Deutsche. Years passed by, and Germany decided to transform our fries into Brezeln, our beer into Pißwasser, and the worst arrived when they banned my people from using bikes. Our last ember of dignity was ripped away from our bruised soul.
My parents taught me basic German so I could survive. Today, I own a small quarry and I fight for survival. After countless humiliations, I decided to join the resistance. At first my acts were of little importance for example, a painting on a wall ridiculing the new world order called B.E.E.R., switching the direction signposts, or faking tax declarations. Despite the lack of grandeur, my acts managed to lift some spirits and show that we still exist, that there is still hope.
For the past months, I took part in the unrest triggered by draconian laws in Flanders. We stood brave, we fought, and we lost again.
I fought for Wallonia after Germany decided to regroup on the eastern front. I could see a glimpse of victory in the eyes of my brave brethren. Despite our sacrifice, Germany smashed our desperate attempt with die Kraft von tausend Hämmern.
For anyone reading my note: there is still time, there is still hope. The Belgian people are standing brave in the shadows.
Join our cause! Get the schnitzel out of our land!
United we stand!