'We see children as pestilent' -- A psychologist, writing in the Guardian, warns that some people in Britain already hate the young.
As a mother and a specialist in child and adolescent mental health, I despair for today's young people, who are feared because of the actions of a minority population - the violent, aggressive and antisocial; a population that has always existed. We see young people as so pestilent that we create the Mosquito, a device only they can hear, designed to frighten them away.
The Mosquito, according to Wikipedia is an electronic device which emits a sound with a high frequency, which can typically only be heard by people below 25 years of age. "The device is marketed as a safety and security tool for preventing youths congregating. As such, it is promoted to reduce anti-social behaviour: loitering, graffiti, vandalism, drug abuse, drug distribution, and violence. In the UK, over 3,000 have been sold, mainly for use outside shops and near transport hubs."
Considering that the dwindling number of children are going to be relied upon by the elderly to pay for their care, especially at a time when retirement funds have been wiped out by the meltdown and defend them against invaders even now pressing against Western borders, it might be best not to antagonize them too much. The Boomers were left a world by their fathers. Perhaps this generation has not been quite so provident. Leaving aside the question of morality completely, and considering people only as economic and physical units, the West has been profligate in the expending its youth. Millions and perhaps billions of people who would have been young today never got past the abortion dumpster; the ones that are left are shooed away by high-frequency Mosquitoes. The survivors robbed of their fellows, inhabit a culture they have been taught is worthless. And when they grow to manhood and if they get jobs, they'll have to work off the crushing debt the stimulators have left them.
Maybe the youth are right to make merry while they can. Nearly a hundred years ago a poet, wondering perhaps where the love of parents for their children had gone wrote:
What passing-bells for those who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
No cannon now, but still the slow drawing down of the blinds.