The blood is already in the vein and the soil is a moveable feast for those who understand. The tree of life has branches and roots, but the wise gardener knows that the branches which fall can take root where he wills. The same tree grows where it must, and everything else is form and shadow. The ship’s course was plotted long ago, that sent the branch abroad, and the ship has sailed now long ago. Yes, the sea is vast and the tide is slow, but why should we forget the harbours that sent us off?
If you do your duty, someday you will be called to court. If not by them then one of your own. It is the price of doing business. Common courtesy dictates you answer the call, but these are uncommon times. Yet still, honour makes demands upon your soul, and the ones who set the gears of the global hellscape know the price of honour. What is honour in a global melting pot? Is honour a question of kith fighting kin? Is it a question of fratricide in the face of broad extinction? Do we in fact owe an explanation for each and every thing we do? We do not. Those within our camp we owe much, those along our lines we owe some, and those outside the pale we owe naught.
History is a bloodthirsty mistress. The road has been paved in the bonedust of our ancestors, ground into meal and wetted into mortar, like stone, into which the sins of our fathers are written. For some time now, until quite recently, every war which has been fought has been a fratricide, a case of honour pitted against honour, good intentions warped by the machinations of those without. Every such fratricide has been a travesty. French against German, English against Irish, the list goes on. More recently it was the world against National Socialism. That conflict still goes, albeit through a lens darkly, for those with eyes to see.
Now it is the (((world))) against Whites. The pace has quickened, the stage has widened. Once the resources of Europe were the proving ground, and then the Colonial Estates came up for grabs, but now always and everywhere a struggle for culture, autonomy, freedom, and self-definition rages. The lines are blurred, and there are no clear paths to solemn victory. There are presently only opinions without force of population to back their governance. Another travesty, you’ll see. Yes, “White” began as an artificial term. We all know it. A surrogate, in a way. In the wake of Petty Nationalism confronted with increasingly diversified odds, the differences between tribes and clans had to be shelved in order to, in some way, galvanise against mounting differences. Were the Bavarian and Prussian so unlike the Kentish and Londoner in the face of mounting pressure from the Middle East and abroad? Does that make the thought so wrong, that it began as a term of convenience? No. It does not change that the inconvenient truth has become a dire fact. (((The world))) does not care a bit about your individual folkways, to the (((world))) your skin is a uniform, your culture is a masque that you wear, interchangeable, replaceable. But you, you should care.
Each and every unit of ethnicity and identity in our milieux is under attack, and must be defended. However, there is a broader spectrum than the microcosms which form the macro. One struggle, many layers. There is a common goal, for the defense of all will at some point necessitate a whole. Not one tribe, nor ethnicity, nor even a nation such as they are; is sufficiently strong enough to do what must be done. If they seek preservation of their folkways and mores, than common cause is required. We have only to seize the means of production, as it were, to defend or else generate the contiguous identities which will weather the storm and stress of modern living. Or slow death, as it goes.
Now, we are an outlet for American mores and folkways, here, in our brotherhood. Are we rootless? No. Such monumental effort has been levied to up the roots we have lain that, when you consider the resources and world defining schemes that have been marshalled to do this, there is no more question, and there are no more arguments. Blood came, and baptised the soil. Generations have come to and gone into the earth, it is ours now. That is a cold law of nature. One which you do not have to like, embrace, or believe. It is in our hands now. Not always do you end where you began. Even the ancient Aryans, according to much of what one may read, settled and assumed localities. Here we are, replaying history. The ancient Celts roamed far, and settled much. So did the ancient Germans. Colonial history is nothing more than transmigration of souls from one motherland and fatherland to the next. Moving on.
Shall we own the patently false accord that because the movement of peoples to this country which could have been a nation erased our past? Did America begin in a vacuum? Did we have no history prior to 1776, like when in a bad videogame the English spawned in Plymouth Rock to capture the flag? Did the seizure of England by the Anglo-Saxons disinherit them from their past? Did the border raids of the Celts, and the intertribal disputes disinherit them? Absurd notions.
Is it not also true that for a good long while, much tribal identity was filtered through a Roman lens? Did the Germans name themselves? Did the Celts? Or were these artificial titles applied to them by another tribe and later adopted as a term of convenience to self-define against mounting dissimilarity? Even within each Nationality there are disagreements, vernacular entanglements, and regional customs. They are all beautiful, all developed and owned according to the will and soul of the folk who grew them. Here we have our own, as all do, and they suffer attack from within and without.
Already we are men abroad, disparate, claiming a sizeable diaspora. There is no cavalry, the Winged Hussars were not invited to dinner. They weren’t pure enough for the refined tastes of some. And why? The internet has safeguarded a mechanism of womanish suspicion and grievance, fostered deep resentment, and recurrent complaints which hinder the march to solidarity. Not uniformity, but self-determination; the audacity to take ourselves seriously, one of our regional leaders calls it. We ask the questions, we look for social capital where it may be found, and we move on.
So here we are. Called rootless and likened to dogs, with blood libel upon libel to answer for. Oh yes, our fathers committed sins, and here we are; in our own way, atoning for what we had no hand in perpetrating. The wisdom of the Copperheads and Isolationists was ignored in lieu of false honour, warped into submission, and used for fratricidal abominations. American history is soaked by that original sin. If Cain was the first kinslayer, then his hand stretched from mother and fatherland to squeeze the neck of the European colonies which were so unjustly pitted against each other. Where unlike before, where suicidal solidarity was confined to the European ancestral ground, it has since engulfed the world. And why? Flat thinking, false dichotomies, and shallow understanding. The world lost the last brother’s war, the “victorious” Allies sealed what would ultimately prove to be the fated end of an era, and then, potentially; the fate of the world. It is a guilt most don’t like to speak of, but remember why we do as we do; so another such war never comes.
Still it is asked “what is even White?” There may be a time and a place to ask, but you, reader, should know that when hostility froths from the tongue that asks it; it is not being asked in good faith. Those who do ask, almost always know. The question is more often than not, a gateway drug, leading the dopamine addled to an endless liturgy of complaints. Historical grievances are drug up like the dead horses they are, and beaten for losing a race we thought we’d buried with our grandfathers. Oh, we hear about the mean, manipulative Saxon and the poor, pathetic Irish – as if there were no middle ground, as if all were so feeble as the pittance they’re hemmed in as. Then we hear of Germans and Poles. Endless reasons and wasted complaints about why we cannot get along, all in bad faith, all in pursuit of veiled nihilism. Now, colour me deranged, but it strikes me that even Petty Nationalism suffers a fatal flaw. How many times have I heard that “Anglo” itself is an artificial term, usually from one who wishes to call me British? Yet when they wish to demean my kind, the “Anglo” becomes quite real, the Eternal Anglo, in fact. Is the same argument made for the Irish? Yet here we are, some Anglos and Patties henpeck eachother, but this is in good fun unless you are an idiot. There is no time for regressive infighting, there’s not enough time left before the doomclock strikes the eleventh hour, and ZOG worms his way into our beds one lonesome night. No one with a heart that beats for the love of his Race has time for that, no one I can name stands blind before the dark cloud which blotted out the Golden Sun long before the question of Socialism became an object of discussion.
Faith is required. Say as you like, but I’ve written no lie. Faith is required to triumph. This struggle of ours is vast. This struggle of ours is hewn from timeless proportions. No one can say where it began, nor where it ends. Indeed, this struggle spans countless generations, and most of all the continents, and wipes over the face of the entire world. It stretches deeper than anyone can say, only one who has drunk from the Well of Urd can say, and no man alive, living, or dead, has that much wisdom. False prophets have tried, and we laugh at their attempts, for in their vainglory they are revealed as petulant peacocks – and this while the subtle duck paddles on.
Like the song says; our names are spat on and cursed. Still, we have the torch and we shall carry on. We have to choose our battles carefully, always mind where our struggle leads. Another simple and unpleasant truth is this, our milieux of dissident struggles has but finite energy. The energy you waste on those who claim your values but brand their knives in the long night is energy consumed by ZOG. Energy you waste on doubt and division adds another pound of fat around the burgeoning girth ZOG has to carry, but you, you lose a pound of muscle. ZOG grows bloated, yes, but you, you grow weak, not lean; weak. Underpowered. Like a beaten dog awaiting the final blow. How’s that strike you? All division among Whites does is give what precious energy we have to an enemy who, if we are honest, has far greater resources.
Turn inward at this point and meditate, when the road seems unforgiving; think of the last brother whose hand you’ve shaken. Take a moment to recall the image of his face. Was he smiling and laughing? Were the bonds of brotherhood tied in compassion, humour, and solace? Think of your brothers’ wives, or the last time you played with one of their children. These are the people we owe our account to. We struggle for the brother we know, his wives and children; but also for brothers left unmet, with their wives and their children. Who else will speak to their honour? Who else will rally their name?
Maybe you. Now if you cannot remember the last time you’ve shaken a brother’s hand, nor the last wife you’ve met, or the last of their children you’ve seen… then something is wrong, quite so. Either you have been enraptured by the false promise of electronic social engineering, or you have been so cowed by life that real life scares you. In either case, it is a tragedy. Does the thought of rejection or conflict bother you? The most vicious slander and lies are almost always told by those you’ve no connection to. Leave the internet behind you for awhile, step into reality, and live life the way it was meant to be. The ‘conflicts’ to be had online are simulacra, and not even well played ones. The real struggle is in the flesh; where you live and die. The internet is an evangelical tool and nothing more, this is how we should think. Seek for gain and social capital, but remember where your strength and honour lies.
If you are a brother, you know where it lies, and you know why what I say is true. If you are not, perhaps your honour demands a place to show your strength. Your life is wasted in isolation, if community is to be rebuilt then so it shall be done, brick by brick, each with a man to carry the foundation. You can be part of that restoration of value and brotherhood. This is the way to make America, and every White country, great again. Not through slogans, nor by wasted hatred, but through love of your people, and the iron will to join them.
You know what you have to lose.
Strength & Honour.