The Gangs That Rule Herrgården

Our Swedish correspondent CB has translated a long newspaper report about the violent gangs of “youths” in the Rosengård district of Malmö. He includes this introduction:

Malmö burning carsThis is a translation of an article from the newspaper Sydsvenska Dagbladet. It’s about a team of reporters who keep a running account of the disintegration of Rosengård in Malmö. One can but wonder when the reports will be about the disintegration of Malmö proper. I suppose that will follow in the near future, given the demographics of the town and the senseless Multiculturalism of the ruling leftists in the municipality.

I think the story is noteworthy, since it consists of the observations and experiences of the reporters from several occasions in Rosengård. Note the wish to take out a cop. The tactics used to lure the police into entering the yards around the houses to be able to pelt them with rocks. The enforced territorial lines, with the photographer being knocked down when he gets too close or crosses said lines.

Apparently the police have conceded those territories to the gangs, and in effect Swedish law no longer applies there during certain periods of the 24 hours. Perhaps that holds true for more than the nights in Herrgården and at Ramels väg. The man shouting at the police had a valid question: Why don’t they do anything?

Malmö gangIt would be tempting to let the “youths” burn the whole place to the ground, but that would be the final surrender. However, the currently applied nice-mister-policeman attitude is of no value. Someone from the authorities needs to tell these people: If you don’t change, if you don’t get your education and be a productive member of society, the gloves will come off!

An even more valid question to the man shouting at the police would be: Why don’t you, the people of Rosengård do anything? It’s your kids! It’s your neighborhood! You grown-ups have to be able to control your own kids. If not, you will not be treated as grown-ups anymore and you will lose a lot of your freedoms that we have given you as our guests in Sweden.

And now for his translation of the article in Sydsvenskan:

Youth gangs rule Herrgården

A rock flies close by. A bottle hits the asphalt in front of us. The police have abandoned Herrgården and the youth gang rules the residential area.

“I want to take out a cop,” says one of them before Sydsvenskan‘s reporters are attacked instead.

We escape across Amiralsgatan.

It’s Wednesday evening last week, just after 21.00, when we run towards quiet Kryddgården. It’s the fourth evening in a row that Sydsvenskan has been on location and sees the police not entering Ramels väg as long as they don’t deem it absolutely necessary.

And they usually just dare to approach the T-junction and the street leading up to the yards. The police don’t enter the yards without being prepared for riots.

– – – – – – – –

For four days the picture has been the same. Burning tires on the road, making it hard for cars to enter. The container that the garbage company placed there, instead of building a new garbage shed, is burning every day. Smoke from rubber and burning tires has enveloped the houses closest to the road.

As long as nobody protects the fire brigade, there is no one putting out the fires.

Earlier in the day, one of the rock-throwing youths is in Malmö district court. He wasn’t arrested in Herrgården, but at the Davis Cup protests March 7th.

Outside the court-room sits the 18-year-old’s younger brother and five six friends. At least two of them are members of Black Cobra or Black Scorpions.

“We don’t have any jobs. One doesn’t want to live on just 3,000 [kronor] on social welfare,” says one of them when Sydsvenskan asks why they are members in the gang.

But if you get money or cars, you have to grab that from somebody who might be working.

“Well, the thing with car extortion might not have been right. But if one sells, it’s not anybody who’s forced to buy. It’s their choice. Nobody is putting it in anybody’s mouth.”

Dressed in uniform, Andy Roberts comes out from the court room. There he has testified about how paving stones were hurled against the car he sat in until he went out, pulled his firearm and pointed it at the rock-throwers.

He works as outdoor commanding officer in Malmö, and mostly gives a calm impression. With a small smile he begins to talk with the youth, some of them about what they are doing outside the courtroom and who he has encountered on the streets before.

“When are you going to stop throwing rocks at us?”

Instead of answer he gets a lightning fast counter question:

“When will you stop calling us f****ing monkeys?”

“But you can’t pass a collective judgment because of three people’s bad judgment,” says Andy Roberts.

“You pass a collective judgment on us and say we throw rocks.”

“I haven’t said that you throw rocks; I said ‘when are the rocks being thrown at the police are going to stop?’“

In the evening darkness the German shepherd stands on its hind legs against those who approach the burning container or the food store behind it.

Youths in small groups of two or three mix with grownups, women and men. People engage in small talk with each other when they realize they can pass through the T-junction and get out of Herrgården.

In a pile in the middle of the road some car tires are burning.

“I’ve told you that you aren’t allowed to walk here,” the policewoman says sharply while at the same time she pulls in the leash so the barking dog won’t attack.

Nearly an hour earlier, at 20.20, the police received an alarm about fighting and something perceived as shots being fired. Several people called in alarms and the police judged that it might be for real and not just a ruse to lure them into the yards.

When they finally came to check that nobody was shot, the police were attacked with rocks. Shortly afterwards there was a fire in the area again.

“It’s a workday,” states the evening outdoor Officer Charlotte Svensson after she tells about what happened.

The youths have temporarily been dispersed. The police have called on loudspeakers that all who do not obey and go home can be apprehended according to the police law, 13th paragraph.

“You don’t stay here alone, do you, Lotta?” says one of the police when they bring their vehicles out of Ramels väg again.

Four youths come out of the yards. Wonder who remains so deep into Herrgården.

“Are you a civi?” [Plain-clothes cop]

“Nope, Sydsvenskan.”

Nobody is unfriendly and we start talking about rock-throwing and the police.

“I don’t have a job, therefore I throw rocks. I’ve applied for jobs for three years now, but you know how it is.”

“Where do you come from? Rosengård! Well, nice that you came. Bye!”

More youth join and their answers are like a pick from last year’s news articles.

Nothing to do. Nowhere to be. Cockroaches at home, so there you can’t stay there. The police harass us.

“I want to take out a cop,” says one of them.

Several laugh and nobody cares about the follow-up questions.

More and more join and it’s getting noisier. Their first questions are the same:

“Who are they? Are the civis?”

It’s difficult to estimate their age in the darkness, but most of them seem to be 16-17 years old. A few over 20.

One of the older ones acts as a leader and decisively steps forward.

“Do you have ID?” he demands.

“Sure, what’s your name?”

He illuminates the press IDs with the mobile. And says he want to make something clear:

“There are no children throwing rocks. Nobody’s under seventeen.”

Several shake hands, take our business cards, and want to talk. About the police. Media. Society.

Others are skeptical.

“Don’t talk with them. They’re not with us,” someone shouts from the group.

One of us walks away to make a phone call. Turns his back to the gang — and gets hit by a stone in the head. His skin in unbroken, and the stone doesn’t cause a bump, but we decide to vacate the area.

When we have taken a few steps onto Ramels väg, towards Amiralsgatan, several are arming themselves. We are running and a stone barely misses us. At least one bottle hits the ground close in front of us.

At midnight the night after we stay on the safe side of Amiralsgatan. At the Preem gas station, where the police stand and just watch. The youth gang at Ramels väg is loud. Single fireworks fly through the smoke from the container.

Two policemen stand leaning against a tree. They have a clear view at Ramels väg and can see how the youths first steal a trailer from the Shell gas station. And then another. The commanding officer stands close by.

The fiberglass cover burns with big flames. When the remains are a pile of embers someone in the gang knocks down a photographer who comes too close and steals his camera.

A young man is heaping his anger on one of the policemen at the Preem gas station. “Why don’t you do anything about the situation?”

“I will move away from Sweden because of this!”

“Do you understand? There is a war in my home country, but I would rather go there and die,” he says to the policeman.

The policeman looks towards the youths on the other side of the street and answers:

“Then you can take them with you.”

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