The Case of Gregory Chelli (alias Ulcan, alias ViolVocal)
This document is part of the Smith's Report periodical.
Use this menu to find more documents that are part of this periodical.
Residing, it seems, at times in his native Paris, at other times somewhere in Romania and sometimes in Israel, precisely at Ashdod, right beside the Gaza Strip, the thirty-year-old French-Israeli Gregory Chelli, member of the Jewish Defense League, works, notably by means of the Internet, at making the life of men and women whom he considers anti-Semitic miserable. He sets up provocations in the course of which he makes the police services look ridiculous. So far he seems to have enjoyed an impunity comparable, proportionately speaking, to that of the State of Israel itself. Up to now Alain Soral, Dieudonné and their families have been among his best-known targets.
In our turn, we—my wife and I, along with some members of our family—have had to endure his provocations. I am 85 and my wife, who is nearly 83, is in poor health: her eyesight is diminishing, she is prone to falls and, when she does fall, she cannot get back up without help; she almost always needs my presence at her side; if I have to be out of the house for more than half a day I must arrange things so that she will not remain alone.
From March 8, 2012, if not before, and for as long as he was able to phone us at our old number, this Chelli assailed us with a hundred calls of insults, abuse, threats (including death threats) and—I stress this point—on some of those occasions committed numerous actual assaults, details of which will be seen below. He has gone on making fun with impunity of the French police in general and its anti-violent crime sections (the “BAC”) in particular, something that costs the taxpayer dearly. The police register our complaints but nothing or almost nothing comes of them.
To begin, here is a selection of the words this thug has addressed to my wife, words that can sometimes be heard in the recordings that, not without relish, he diffuses on the Internet: “Bitch, I shit on you, I piss on you… I enjoy seeing your husband’s smashed head… I—you, I’m going to make your life impossible, I’m going to call your neighbors.” The “smashed head” is an allusion to photos showing me on a hospital bed after my sixth physical assault, on September 19, 1989, when three “young Jewish activists from Paris” set upon me in Vichy, where I live. From November 1978 to May 1996 I sustained ten assaults, particularly at the Palace of Justice in Paris, where the guard corps consistently refused me any protection, in direct words such as “We are not your bodyguards!” or “You may go to such or such place [in the building], but at your own risk!” or, from the commanding officer, a lieutenant colonel: “My grandfather was at Dachau…!” Not once was any of my attackers or any of the organizers of the assaults arrested. In one case alone—that of September 1989—the Jew behind an attack in which I nearly lost my life was merely questioned; he explained that on the day of the assault he had been far from the scene, at the house of a Jewish friend whose name he gave; asked to give other names, he responded that he could not because it had been the day of a masked ball… to which the friend had invited him.
I lodged my first complaint against Chelli for telephone harassment and assault at Vichy police station on March 9, 2012 (report of Guy Dablemont, police officer). I specified that the individual had also phoned two of my neighbors in the middle of the previous night, telling the first that there was a gas leak in my house and that he must go and inform me of it (and the neighbor, in a state of complete panic, did so), and announcing to the second that I was a terrorist. Both told me afterwards that they were ready to talk to the police if their testimonies were required. But the police, to whom, with their agreement, I later conveyed their respective identities and addresses, never asked them anything.
The very next day, March 10, the historian Paul-Eric Blanrue, whom I knew to be remarkably knowledgeable on the subject of Jewish activism, revealed Gregory Chelli’s identity to me, supplying a wealth of information about him which I then shared with the police. On Sunday, March 11, our grand-son B., aged 20, phoned me and my wife to say that, on orders from his father, living near Vichy, neither he nor his twin brother would be coming to visit us any longer because their father had received a phone call [from Chelli] telling him that someone was going to set fire to his house. It must be said that, in his youth, the father of these twins aspired to become a judge but had to give up his law studies because of the trouble brought on by the misfortune of bearing my surname. Thereafter he had, for the same reason, also abandoned two other possible careers and lived in fear of losing the job that he had nonetheless managed to get. He ended up telling those around him one day that he wanted to kill me. I understand and forgive him.
Continuing his campaign against me and my wife, Chelli kept up his assaults on the telephone: “Son of a whore, son of a whore, son of a whore, we’ll get you one day… We’re waiting for you to come to Paris to see Dieudonné, Soral. You’re worth shit.” I contacted the police and asked when my two neighbor-witnesses were going to be called in, as they wished to be. Answer: they will be called. In fact, as I have pointed out, they were never to be called. Second report signed by Mr. Guy Dablemont, March 12, 2012. No action followed. On March 19 I obtained an interview with commander Janiszewski of Vichy police station. The man seemed amiable and interested but there was still no follow-up on the case.
On March 21 I wrote to him. To no avail. Throughout the month of May at the station I would speak, four times, with Major Gay, who made a strange objection; as the case involved YouTube he told me straight out: “The police can’t do anything with [against] YouTube.” On June 21 he promised me that he would work on the telephone numbers from which the calls had been made but warned me that I would not have the right to note them or to obtain the names and addresses. On June 30, Chelli, getting my wife on the phone, told her: “We’re going to put ground glass in your —.” On January 9, 2013 the thug, pretending to be a doctor, announced to me: “This is Chabanais [Charente] hospital. Your wife is dead.”
On February 9, 2013, with the harassment continuing, a serious incident occurred. At around 3 am, three members of the BAC showed up at our house. It seems someone had phoned pretending to be me, saying: “I’ve just been attacked by three blacks; they’re in my basement, raping my wife.” I tried to get an appointment with commander Janiszewski. Impossible. They promised me he would call me. He was not to call me. On my way to the police station I was walking up Boulevard de la Salle on the left-hand pavement. A little old man who had recently shouted at me: “Oh! You, you’ll go to hell” and who, myself making no reply, had followed after me, calling me a “dirty bastard”, was on the opposite pavement in conversation with the owner of a garage there and another person. He noticed me. He was talking loudly but I could not make out what he was saying, although it was obviously about me, and heated words indeed. This time I decided to call him to account. I went up to him and asked the reason for his attitude. He replied: “You should be ashamed, denying the existence of the concentration camps”, thereby proving he had not read anything I had written! He is a state education retiree: a former schools inspector called Jacques Thierry.
I wanted to discuss this matter with commander Janiszewski but could not manage to contact him.
On February 21 I finally saw him. He informed me: “They’ve got [Chelli’s telephone] number” but, of course, this number was not revealed to me and I was never to know what action, if any, followed the discovery. Regarding the incidents with the retired inspector he said: “We’ll see to that later”, but nothing was seen to “later”. A new complaint was lodged, with a report bearing the signature, this time, of Bernard Manillère, police officer.
New calls, new insults on March 14, 16 and 17: “You’re still alive, — !”; “So then, rotter, old fossil, old fossil, old fossil.” On March 19 I sent a new letter to commander Janiszewski, pointing out that the harassment had now lasted for over a year and that I knew nothing about the investigation except that the thug’s telephone number had apparently been found. No reply.
April 3, 2013: “I’ll go and piss on your grave... Son of shit… Your daughter… Your son disowned you like a dog... Your wife sells her paintings. I’m Gregory Chelli… I called your neighbor for the gas leak… I’ll make YouTube videos.”
As I ended up changing my phone number, which caused me considerable nuisance, we were no longer to receive insults, abuse or threats liable to lead to assault. But the situation would suddenly worsen.
The newspaper in France that has vilified me the most since the late 1970s, throwing me to the dogs, Le Monde, today owned by Louis Dreyfus, has this summer begun to denounce the practices of Gregory Chelli because he rebukes its journalists for their criticism of the State of Israel’s current behaviour in Palestine, particularly in Gaza. An intriguing reversal of the situation. The thug’s victim is no longer Faurisson, concerning whom the newspaper has reported virtually nothing of the attacks he has had to endure; on the contrary, Le Monde was at the head of media campaigns against the revisionists, dubbed “stubborn liars, gangsters of history”, of whom I myself would seem to be the paragon.
This time the victim is primarily a weekly of the political left and of big money, Le Nouvel Observateur, or its website called Rue89. See “Qui est le hacker sioniste soupçonné d’avoir piraté Rue89?” Le Monde, August 10-11, 2014, p. 7 or http://tinyurl.com/oar2omt.
See also: “Le Monde and Le Nouvel Observateur solidaires de Rue89”, Le Monde, August 12, 2014, p. 7 or http://tinyurl.com/nzego29.
More specifically, the journalist concerned is Benoît Le Corre; on this subject I recommend the video at http://tinyurl.com/pgbp8e7.
The reporter’s father, hearing the words of the thug Chelli, has suffered a heart attack and been placed in an artificial coma; see http://tinyurl.com/kgqc82m. Given the circumstances, the fact that the case should have “taken a tragic turn” does not surprise me; my own myocardial infarction of October 16, 2012, occurred in similar circumstances.
I have a long experience of Jewish attacks; often they aim at the heart. On July 12, 1987, I was beaten with extraordinary violence by the Jew Nicolas Ullmann at the Vichy “Sporting Club”, with no possibility of defending myself: all his blows were to my chest which, four days later, had become one enormous bruise. “Your guy was a real bomber!” was the remark of the Cameroonian doctor at Confolens (Charente) hospital on seeing the damage. As usual, I did not bring charges because I could not afford to retain a lawyer, and experience had taught me that if there were a trial my assailant would either be acquitted on the presumption of good faith or else be ordered to pay me a pittance in damages.
For many French judges my opponents are automatically in good faith. In 2007 former Justice Minister Robert Badinter, who had the chutzpah to state on television that as a lawyer for the LICRA he had had me found guilty in 1981 of being a “falsifier of history”, proved incapable of proving his assertion in court during the case I had brought against him for it. And for good reason: never in my life have I been found guilty of distorting or falsifying anything whatsoever; the court had to take note of this and rule that Badinter had “failed in his offer of proof” (p. 16 of the judgment) but, the judges dared to add, Badinter had been in good faith! And, losing my suit, I then had to pay €5,000 to my extremely rich “good faith slanderer”. The year before historian Pierre Vidal-Naquet, the most worthless of my opponents, wrote on the website of Libération: “If I had got my hands on Faurisson I would not have hesitated to strangle him” (January 6, 2006). He knew that, smothered with fines and other financial penalties, I was hardly likely to prosecute him and that, in the event of a trial, he could count on a court presided over by Nicolas Bonnal, with François Cordier as representative of the Justice ministry, two friends who had taken special courses in “Shoa” history organized by the Simon Wiesenthal Centre in Paris and the Representative Council of Jewish Institutions in France (CRIF).
Suddenly, on Saturday, August 16, 2014, at 12.30 am, there appeared on our doorstep, very tense, four members of the BAC and two uniformed policemen. The BAC men had arrived on the scene with weapons and shields. The one in charge neither introduced nor identified himself. A neighbor who had not been involved in last year’s episode came out on the street in his pajamas. He held out to one of the policemen a telephone handset on which he was still in conversation with Chelli. It is the latter who can be heard in a long recording. The neighbor, for his part, did not have all his wits about him. He ought not to have followed the thug’s instructions and come out of the house in the middle of the night as he did.
My wife is distraught. She can no longer sleep. Personally, I refuse to dwell too long on the consequences of what I call “the Jewish torture”. I do not know what the Chinese torture is but I know the Jewish torture: it is particularly vicious. My mind tries hard to erase the various incidents but my body forgets nothing. For many years it has hardly ever left me in peace, especially at night, when the cries I let out during my nightmares wake up those near me. I smile and, at times, even laugh. A matter of temperament. I laugh, for instance, with my friend Dieudonné and I adopt the judgment of Pierre Guillaume, expressed in a play on words on the name “Dieudonné”, which literally means “God-given”: “The laughter given by God is the final solution of the Jewish question” (Le rire par Dieu donné…).
I have learnt that my new file is in the hands—quite a coincidence—of Major Gay. The good man has done nothing in the past; he will do nothing in the future. Three times, in the evening, at around nine o’clock when he goes on duty, I have been to the police station to keep him informed of what, in the course of the day, I have garnered on the subject of Chelli but the matter clearly does not interest him and he asks me to take my written reports with me as I leave. Finally, on my third visit, a surprise: he informs me that my file has been sent to the regional police service (SRPJ) in Clermont-Ferrand. By a new coincidence, the file is in the hands of a commander there who, a few days ago, on a complaint of the LICRA of Strasbourg, came to Vichy to ask me fifteen questions about two articles on “Robert Faurisson’s unofficial blog”: our appointment was also at the police station. However, for the most part, I limited myself to letting him put down in his minutes my ritual sentence: “I refuse to collaborate with the French police and justice system in the repression of historical revisionism.” Amiable and smiling, he did not seem to begrudge me for exercising what, in this case, was a right under the law.
They surprise me, all those Jews along with all the people who live in the panicky fear that they have, and rightly so, of those whom I call “the Jewish-Jews”. They think I can be intimidated; however I can say that, although I have often felt fear, discouragement, anxiety, I have never known timidity. They believe I am French and intelligent. For them, after forty years of blows and injuries, trials, insults of all kinds and especially after so many attacks on my wife, my children and my grandchildren, I’m sure to break down. They are wrong. They run on blinding hatred. I do not. Admittedly, I am French by my father but, by my mother, I am British, or rather Scottish. Unlike the pure Frenchman, born clever and whose eye sparkles with intelligence, I see no reason to believe that my fight is lost before it begins. I am even persuaded of the contrary.
Let’s recall the British in June 1940: they were lost. Unintelligent, they did not grasp the fact. Then, with the decisive support—at first surreptitious—of their cousins across the Atlantic they continued the fight and that’s how they won it. But even so, above all the reader mustn’t go and take me for an admirer of the alcoholic Winston Churchill! Under his leadership the Western Allies, perfect “democrats” that they were, offered a good part of Europe to Stalin and amassed the very worst crimes in Europe and elsewhere while their propaganda specialists, as in the First World War, lied to the fullest, ascribing, for example, to the Germans the invention of “corpse factories” which, during the new war, would become “death [by gas] factories”, built at Auschwitz or elsewhere.
Their propaganda endorsed the gargantuan Jewish mystification of the alleged extermination of the Jews (which produced millions of miraculous survivors), the alleged Nazi gas chambers and the alleged six million. Finally, they incur, after the Americans, a heavy responsibility for the crime par excellence that was the judicial masquerade of the International Military Tribunal (three lies in three words) at Nuremberg, presided over by a British judge; article 19 of this tribunal’s charter pronounces that “The Tribunal shall not be bound by technical rules of evidence…” while article 21 stipulates that “The Tribunal shall not require proof of facts of common knowledge but shall take judicial notice thereof. It shall also take judicial notice of [an endless series of documents and reports signed by the victors concerning the crimes of the vanquished]…”. So it was that the Soviet report on the massacre of thousands of Polish officers at Katyn, attributing it to the Germans, was to have, like a multitude of other reports each more insane than the rest, the value of authentic evidence with no possibility of appeal, and for all eternity. Three cheers for the Allies in general and also for those Frenchmen à la Fabius who grounded their 1990 antirevisionist law on... the Nuremberg trial!
Addition of August 30, 2014:
Another neighbor of mine, owner of a restaurant in the town center, has just revealed to me that on the night of August 16, wanting to return home, he was stopped by policemen near his house who, agitated and ready to shoot, ordered him, guns drawn, to move away because his neighbor Faurisson was extremely dangerous. It is likely that those men, having first gathered in Vichy police station before moving into operation, had not been made aware of the treatment which, for the last two years and five months, I had been made to endure by a hoaxer carrying on with impunity who, on February 9, 2013, had already staged a scenario exactly the same as what he was repeating on August 16, 2014. Had they known they would not have been in such a nervous state. But perhaps some high-placed persons wanted to let an incident occur. After all, except for one case, in the last forty years in Vichy neither the police nor the municipality has expressed any interest in the safety of a Faurisson.
Additional information about this document
|Title:||The Case of Gregory Chelli (alias Ulcan, alias ViolVocal), or the French Police’s Inaction, Thus Far, in the Face of a Form of Jewish Terrorism|
|Sources:||Smith's Report, No. 209, October 2014, pp. 1,2, 6-9|
|First posted on CODOH:||Oct. 5, 2014, 7 p.m.|