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George Lincoln Rockwell Real men Sword

On fighting heroically

rockwell

A passage from White Power
by George Lincoln Rockwell

Men will talk about almost anything. Men will fight for very few things. And men will fight to the death for only the most basic of motives. They will fight heroically (that is, with supreme self-sacrifice—which is what “heroism” means) only for idealistic aims they hold greater and more holy than their own personal survival.

Only when you can make a man feel, deep in his heart, that survival of his loved ones, his honor, or his whole people are in deadly danger, will he risk his life to do battle against overwhelming odds, where his own personal survival is unlikely.

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Ancient Greece Athens Evropa Soberana (webzine) Herodotus Leonidas Oracle of Delphi Sparta (Lacedaemon) Sword Thebes

Sparta – XV

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Ancient Greece Art Athens Evropa Soberana (webzine) Friedrich Nietzsche Homosexuality Lycurgus Pederasty Sparta (Lacedaemon) Sword Xenophon

Sparta – XIV

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Brigade (novel) Civil war Harold Covington Sword

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XXX

by Harold Covington


“Names On The Wall”



Covington in uniform
It was now fifteen years since the bloody morning in Coeur d’Alene, when outraged white men had finally arisen in arms to strike at the bloody claw of Zion that sought the lives of their children. It had been ten years since the Tricolor had gone up over the Longview conference, and the Northwest Republic had proclaimed its independence. Hill still couldn’t quite grasp in his own mind the fantastic changes that had taken place in the Homeland since the Revolution. Wherever he went now, he looked out over a clean, peaceful and prosperous world that had overcome every obstacle to establish a society that was stable, just, compassionate, safe, and fearless, a nation strong with faith in the destiny of this land and her people.

Despite the sanctions and shortages of the early years, despite the monotonous threats of war and invasion from the rest of the world, despite the constant bombardment of screaming hatred from the media and the politicians from what remained of the world’s Judaic liberal democracies, despite all the problems, every year white people Came Home to the Northwest by the hundreds of thousands. They ran the barbed wire and the minefields in Aztlan, Canada, and the United States. They dodged the helicopters and the shoot-to-kill patrols. They snuck in via the cargo holds of blockade-running ships and planes. They used every conceivable subterfuge somehow to bring themselves and their families to this land where their present and their future had been won and secured by the sword, and where they were willing to die if need be to live among their own, and only among their own.

There was a knock on Hill’s door. “Come in,” he said. The door opened and Special Service General William Jackson walked in, wearing full black dress uniform with silver piping, Swastika armband, peaked cap and dagger. He had a paper file folder under his arm. “Hey, Billy. I see you’re all dolled up for your speech,” said Hill.

“Yeah, I have to go in a few minutes,” said Jackson. “NBA [Northwest Broadcasting Authority] is broadcasting it on the Government Channel.”

“And what’s your competition?” asked Hill with a smile. “A 1950s Western on Channel Four and cartoons on the Children’s Channel?”

“Actually, Channel Four is showing Braveheart, like they always do on Independence Day, and some of these new cartoons are actually pretty good,” said Jackson. “You’ve seen Kappy the Kike?”

* * *

Down on the wide green swath of the Capitol Mall, a number of veterans from the newly formed NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] Old Fighters Association had gathered for the Independence Day holiday. The Memorial Wall stood before them in massive black basalt, bearing the inscribed names of all the NVA and NDF [Northwest Defense Force] personnel who had given their lives during the War of Independence. It had only been unveiled a few months before. A large Tricolor flag of blue, white, and green flew over it, on a stone pillar bearing the seal of the Northwest Volunteer Army. Along the base of the monument, chiseled into the finest Italian marble, were the words: “Beloved kinsmen, from the world of darkness into which we were born, from the time of struggle in which we laid down our lives that you and your children may walk in the light, we greet you.”

Many people were taking sheets of white paper and stubby soft lead pencils from a small kiosk off to one side of the monument. They mounted the steps and walked along the long row of alphabetically listed names, finding and tracing onto the paper in graphite the names of former comrades. Many of them were quietly weeping, men and women alike. In front of the monument dozens of children were running around on the grass, playing and screaming and hollering, mostly oblivious to the solemn adults around them. No one tried to hush them or shoo them off. It was for them that the people on the monument had died, after all.

Ex Gladio Libertas.
Freedom comes from the sword.


http://northwestfront.org/

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Lord of the Rings Quotable quotes Sword

LOTR quote

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

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Civil war Feminized western males Harold Covington Justice / revenge Real men Sword

“For a century we have no longer been wolves, but dogs”


The Brigade excerpts, chapter II

by Harold Covington

The Trouble Trio



No ellipsis
added between
unquoted paragraphs:



“Like we’re not marked already?” snorted Washburn. “I think Lear knows damned well who did Liddy King and that plug-ugly dyke Proudfoot. He gave me a funny look when he talked to me about your night of gainful employment at the store. It’s common knowledge we’re Steve’s closest friends, and Zack’s military record isn’t exactly a secret.”

“Yah, same with me. I think he knows, all right. He just can’t prove anything,” said Len Ekstrom.

“I don’t think he wants to prove anything,” said Hatfield. “What I don’t understand is why no FBI involvement? Why no mention in the media of the letters NVA I scrawled on the bedroom wall in dyke squaw blood?”

*   *   *

“Right on time. A good sign in a revolutionary.”

“How was the traffic on the bridge?” asked Hatfield. “We came down the scenic route, from Ilwaco,” replied the newcomer. “Homeland Security is starting to put closed-circuit TV cameras on bridges.”

“You know our names now, but all we know about you is you’re called Mr. Chips,” said Charlie. “Do we get code names too?”

“Eventually you’ll each have a whole collection of your own, yes,” said the Party’s man with a smile. “Mr. Chips isn’t so much a code name as it is a nickname. I used to be a schoolteacher up in Dundee, and I taught a kind of unofficial history course to certain selected white students after school, strictly extracurricular. The feds know who I am, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t. My name is Henry Morehouse, but back in the days when I had more hair, I ended up being called Red. You guys acted, on your own, and that impresses us. Zack has told me about the incident that took place here with the King woman and her beast of pleasure.”

“Uh, we gonna have to take some blood oath or something?” asked Ekstrom.

“No, not at this time,” said Morehouse. “Later the Army may find it expedient to formalize. For now, if you’re good men and true then an oath is unnecessary, and if you’re not, no oath will make you so. If I say you’re in, then you’re in.” Morehouse paused and took a sip of coffee. “The first question that I need to ask is the obvious one. Are all of you up for this? Do you fully understand just what the hell you’re doing? This isn’t a video game or a made-for-TV movie. This is the real thing. You see what’s going on in the Northwest, every time you turn on CNN. People are dying, and not just white people this time. The Beast is in a blind rage. It has been defied and it has been wounded, and it’s lashing out in all directions. You do understand that if you proceed, there is every chance that you men will end up either dead or living out the remainder of your lives in a federal prison, under conditions that don’t bear thinking about?”

“Mister, the way they’re hollering in the news media about racism and domestic terrorism, if we were even caught sitting here with you, we’d go to prison for the rest of our lives,” said Ekstrom. “We know this, and we’re still here.”

“Yeah, official paranoia is rampaging, all right,” replied Morehouse with a chuckle. “They’re starting to wake up to the fact that they didn’t get us all when they stormed into Coeur d’Alene last month, and some of us are still fighting. Fair enough. But before we get down to cases, I’d like each of you to tell me in your own words what has brought you here tonight.”

“I guess I’ll start,” said Hatfield. “I knew that time had to come, if any of us in this country had one spark of manhood left in us. We have tried everything else,” Hatfield went on grimly. “For generations we have dutifully trooped to the polls like sheep and voted in elections where we were given no meaningful choice, and where not one single candidate or party represented the white man’s racial interests. Nothing changed except the politicians grew more and more coarse and corrupt, more cynical and contemptible. We tried the internet and spent years tapping to one another on keyboards, because we bought into the idea that ‘education’ was the answer, and if we could just get the truth to people, then things would change. Well, education without action isn’t worth a bucket of warm spit. We got the truth to people, all right, and it turned out to be nothing but a bunch of noise that was simply ignored, because the internet was where it stayed. Nobody ever did anything except tap on keyboards. That was fine with the bosses. Tapping on keyboards was no threat to them, we just let off steam and nothing changed. It is now crystal clear to any white man with two brain cells to rub together that the only thing that will make these dogs in power hear the word no is the sound of gunfire.

“But I didn’t make up my mind finally until that night when I took care of Steve King’s problem for him,” Hatfield continued heavily. “I never realized just how damned good it would feel to strike back! It wasn’t like Iraq at all.”

“I know what you mean,” said Charlie Washburn with a smile. “For once, just once, the bad people didn’t win. I am just so damned sick and tired of bad people always winning all the time. But not this time. For once, just once, there was true justice and a good man and two good children will now have some kind of a chance together in life. A horrible deed committed by wicked perverts has been undone. The scales were balanced just a tiny bit back in the right direction. I feel it too, and it’s indescribable.

“But it’s more than that with me,” he went on carefully. “You know, Americans see a lot of movies and TV shows where some ordinary Joe like me is called upon to step up to the plate, so to speak, and be a hero in some way, usually fighting against the Arabs or Serbs or French or evil white racists or whoever the Jews’ main enemy of the moment is. Most of those flicks are just hokum, but in the past few months, ever since Coeur d’Alene, I’ve been feeling like that. Like I’ve gotten a call from destiny.”

“Things must change,” said Lennart Ekstrom slowly. “Every white man and woman in America knows it, deep down inside of themselves. This isn’t America anymore.”

“And that, Mr. Ekstrom, is what the white race has been waiting to hear from men like you for a hundred years,” said Morehouse with a nod. “You know that we were in a very similar situation, back before the Party was formed? The Old Man himself Came Home in 2002, but for years he simply sat all alone in a series of cracker box apartments or trailers or boarding houses, pounding on a computer that grew older and crankier as time passed. For years he looked for those out-of-state license plates to come over the hill, begging and pleading on his knees with his fellow white people to come to his side and help him, and for year after year, no one came. He asked only for a hundred good men, or women. One hundred people who were willing to place the future of their blood and their civilization over their own personal welfare. And for year after year, no one came.”

“And then what happened?” asked Ekstrom.

“Then they came,” replied Morehouse simply. “We refer to this among ourselves as The Awakening, and we still don’t understand it fully. Don’t get me wrong when I say this, because we’re not a religious movement, rather the reverse in fact. But the best and most comprehensible way that I can put this, is that it had to be some kind of divine intervention. God decided to give His most wonderful and yet wayward children one final break before He threw the white race onto the scrap heap of history. He reached into the hearts of one hundred people and moved them, changed them, so that they let the scales fall from their eyes and they knew they had to put something above their own well-being; that they had to live for something besides a job and a paycheck and a shopping spree at the mall. One day it just kind of began, and one hundred people stopped worrying about themselves and went out and began packing the moving van. The Old Man had his first hundred, and they became the nucleus of the Party that was formed when they came to the Homeland and were in place. Without that first hundred people, there could have been no Party, because it was they who set up the infrastructure and the safety net so the rest of the migrants would have something to Come Home to.”

“We’re going to need more than a hundred men now,” said Washburn gloomily.

“They will come,” said Morehouse with quiet confidence. “They came before. Damned late, but they came. Very well. Let’s get on with it.” He knocked back the rest of his coffee, put down the mug, and leaned forward to speak to them. “We are here to make history, gentlemen. We are here to plan and execute the first organized, armed insurrection against the United States of America since 1861.”

“I’m in,” said Hatfield.

“I’m in,” said Washburn.

“And I,” said Ekstrom.

“Gentlemen, you just swore your blood oath. Make sure you honor it all the days of your lives,” said Red softly.

“I look back at all the crap our people have put up with over the past century and I am still astonished that we never picked up a gun before,” said Washburn plaintively. “Why the hell has the white man never fought?”

“Oh, God,” said Morehouse with a sigh. “Some of us have spent our entire lifetimes studying that one simple question, Charlie, and I have to say we’re no closer to an answer than we were at the beginning. There are a few standard, canned answers, of course. Up until the past couple of decades, most white people simply had it too good. Life was just too damned sweet, and all the bullshit caused by liberal democracy and political correctness didn’t seem to be really life-threatening, just more and more annoying as time wore on. When men are merely annoyed, they write letters to the editor, or phone a radio talk show, or bitch and gripe drunkenly in bars about how the world is going to hell. They don’t pick up a rifle or start making bombs in their basement. And of course, up until about twenty years ago, if things got too bad where you were living, then you could just up stakes and move to the suburbs, or some other state that was a little whiter.

“Liberals are always the first to flee from the messes they make. Usually, they’re the only ones who can afford to do so. Anyway, liberalism and political correctness have gone beyond the merely annoying phase for a long time now. Things have been getting colder and crueler for white people. Medicare. The drawbacks of our wonderful democracy have become quite apparent to those of us who find ourselves living in the northernmost province of Mexico. They can’t sweep all the problems under the rug anymore. They’re too visible and obvious, and no one has any money left to run to the suburbs.”

“But that still hasn’t produced anything other than an army of white people hollering on talk radio and then trooping in to the polls on election day to vote Republican,” complained Ekstrom. “What the hell was wrong with us back in the 60s and 70s? Or even earlier? Why didn’t we fight?”

“Perhaps the more pertinent question, Len, would be why are we fighting now?” asked Morehouse. But it’s more complicated than that. White American males are still capable of being physically brave, sure they are. They prove it every day on the battlefield. Every week you can see some story on the tube about a white cop who faces down a pack of gang-bangers or a white fireman who pulls kids out of a burning building, and then you get these extreme sports kooks who jump out of airplanes with snowboards and try to surf down Mount Everest, or snorkel butt naked in a school of sharks, that kind of nonsense.”

“God knows I saw enough Aryan heroism every day in Iraq,” said Hatfield. “White men will still be as brave as lions, granted, but only for the Jews or for their money, Red. When it comes to standing up and fighting for ourselves, against the Jews and the government that’s tyrannizing us, all of a sudden we wuss out.”

“Mmmmm, here’s where it gets complex, Zack,” said Red contemplatively. What we can’t seem to do is to be brave on our own, for our own interests, without the Jewish seal of approval. We have developed a poisonous symbiosis with the system. We can be brave in a structured environment, so long as it is an officially approved form of courage.

You might say the Jew has succeeded in domesticating the Aryan. We can be brave and good dogs so long as we hear the reassuring sound of our master’s voice and get the occasional doggie treat from his hands, but we can’t be lone wolves anymore. We didn’t fight, Charlie, up until now, because for a century or so we have no longer been wolves, but dogs. The Jew domesticated us. But now we must hear the call of the wild again. We have to find that spirit of the wolf once more within us, and bite the hand that feeds us. And I suppose I’d better abandon that simile before I stretch it into a pretzel. But you get what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I do,” said Zack with a sigh. “And that poisonous symbiosis between the American white male and the system is still very much with us, an ingrained part of us. How many guys are going to be able to break out of it? Those are going to be pretty rare birds.”

“Well, maybe not so rare,” said Red with a smile and a swirl of smoke. “Once that first hundred stepped forward, it wasn’t so hard for others to do so, because more and more, when they came here they found a crowd to hide in. It was getting that first hundred to go first that was the real bitch. We will be the tiny lion against the enormous snake, but the serpent is old and sick and dying, poisoned with its own crapulence.”

“The movement has always had to deal with this defeatist and paranoid belief that if we ever really tried anything, the might of the Army and the Marines would simply crush us,” said Hatfield.

“You would think that maintaining the territorial integrity of the United States would be the régime’s first priority, but it won’t be,” agreed Morehouse. “With the growing world fuel shortage, oil is frankly more important than land, and will become more so. After all, the Northwest has no oil, other than Alaska, which is a separate problem. The Army Council’s strategic assessment is that initially, at least, there will be only a small actual military commitment against us, if any. They won’t take us seriously. Wishful thinking on their part: they desperately won’t want to take us seriously. The idea that white boys would actually revolt against them boggles their minds too much. They’re not going to be sending B-52s to bomb Seattle or landing the Third Marine Division in Astoria. What would that accomplish against small bands of guerrillas who will simply melt away in the face of overwhelming force, and then strike where the underbelly is soft? I think they’ve learned at least that much in Iraq and Iran. It won’t be that type of war.

“No, they’ll try to treat us as a crime problem at first,” Morehouse went on, the three of them leaning forward intently to listen. “Our enemies on the ground will consist of a hodge-podge of local police, National Guard reservists, FBI and BATFE, Homeland Security and other enemy paramilitaries, and eventually probably some SWAT-type special units. Of course, ideally speaking, it should never come to a full-blown shootout. We live light, we move light, we hit hard, and then we vanish before they can bring their superior force to bear. Classic guerrilla tactics.”

“So how many men do you think we will need in the NVA to get the job done?” asked Ekstrom again.

Morehouse puffed his pipe meditatively. “We should be able effectively to terminate federal control over three Northwestern states and maybe more territory as well, if we can maintain a force in the field of approximately one thousand men.”

“Overthrow the United States government with a thousand men?” demanded Washburn in skeptical amazement. “Bullshit!”

“I didn’t say overthrow the United States government,” Morehouse corrected him. “I said effectively terminate federal control and authority in three large Northwestern states, which is not the same thing.”

“How?” asked Ekstrom.

“By hitting the enemy hard and often, in teams or crews of two to five or six people max. Let’s assume an average of five Volunteers per squad or crew. Our thousand effectives will make up two hundred such crews. Assume half of them are involved in support duties, supply, intelligence, medical services, propaganda, whatnot. That’s one hundred combat teams of five guys each remaining, who are actually pulling triggers and making things go boom. Imagine each of those crews striking the enemy on an average of once per day, all across the Northwest. Remember, one of the main reasons we migrated and we’re restricting our campaign to this corner of the country is to reduce the problem to manageable proportions. Let’s assume an average of a single dead enemy of one kind or another per attack. That’s 100 people per day being killed in one three-state area, with concomitant damage to enemy property, infrastructure, and damage to his morale, his public image, and thereby his capacity to govern. Their armies are designed to fight Star Wars, but we won’t be fighting Star Wars. We’ll be fighting Godfather style.” Morehouse knocked out his pipe onto the concrete floor, and then went on.

“In Vietnam, in Iraq, in Iran and Afghanistan, ZOG had every gadget and deadly toy human ingenuity could devise, computerized and covered with bright shiny lights. But they never found a way to beat the little barefoot brown man, dressed in rags and armed with an AK- 47 and a couple of magazines of ammo, and a heart that would never surrender. The human heart and the human spirit can beat their machines, gentlemen. The human heart and the human spirit can beat their money. The human heart can beat their lying media.”

“That’s if we can find the kind of political soldiers necessary for that kind of warfare,” Hatfield reminded them. “The guys with the cool head and the iron nerve and the ice water in their veins.”

“You got it,” agreed Morehouse with a nod. “I can outline for you a structure for a revolutionary armed force. I cannot turn mere white males into white men once again, men that our ancestors would have recognized. That we must somehow do for ourselves, by finding within ourselves that last dying spark of pride and honor and courage that has always distinguished us for thousands of years.”

“You think these bastards will give in no matter how many people we kill?” asked Washburn. “Iraq and Afghanistan are very far away, something people read about over their morning coffee or watch on CNN. We will be striking at the very core of their power, right here on what they consider their home turf. Can they psychologically bring themselves to admit defeat even if we beat them?”

“This is another reason why we are not being so foolish as to try this in all 50 states. What we’re going to be doing, Charlie, is we’re going to be fighting a classical colonial war,” Morehouse told him. “There are rules for fighting a successful colonial war, and they have come into play dozens of times over the last century, from Ireland to Africa. We’re not trying to take their whole loaf from ZOG. Of course, they’d resist that to the death. Such a guerrilla war across all of America would last for generations, and anything we could salvage after such a conflict probably wouldn’t be worth living in anyway. Nor could we win it. For one thing, we’d have to slaughter over one hundred million non-whites, or drive them back south of the Rio Grande in the most massive refugee wave ever seen, and that simply isn’t feasible with what we have or what we are likely to get.

“With our thousand or so people—and by the way, there will almost certainly be more than that as our insurgency grows—anyway, what we can do is to make these three states of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho and maybe parts of Montana and northern California completely ungovernable. We can stop the United States from reaping any profit or income from this territory, and we can turn it into one gigantic black hole sucking in men, resources, time, effort, and above all money. Gentlemen, there is a truth to fighting and winning a colonial war that I want all of you to burn into your brains, because it is the key to our victory. In a colonial war, the generals never surrender! The accountants surrender! What we have to do is to confront the United States with a situation where as bad and as humiliating as it will be to let the Northwest go and let white people have their own country, the continuation of the guerrilla war is no longer an option for them. We can win this, comrades,” concluded Morehouse decisively. “We can beat the God Almighty United States of America, kick their stinking rotten asses right out of here, and take this land for ourselves and our children. But only if we have the stomach for it.”

There was a long moment of silence. “Let’s get started, then,” said Hatfield.

“Right,” said Morehouse, filling his pipe again. “Okay, you’ve already got the basics here. You’ve got three men. In this room you’ve already got your first Trouble Trio.”

“Say what?” asked Charlie.

“The basic building block of the NVA company,” said Morehouse. “A three-man team. When we were planning all this out, studying and analyzing how previous successful revolutionary movements worked in Western political and social environments similar to ours, we came up with a kind of hybrid anatomy combining the IRA and the Cosa Nostra, two highly successful subversive outfits who to this day have never been completely repressed by their governments. You’d be amazed how much hell three men can raise in a society this complex, this racially volatile and unstable.

“Go ahead,” Hatfield urged him.

Morehouse lit his pipe again. “You start with three people as I said, all of whom must have the requisite qualities of courage, resourcefulness, loyalty, and fanatic dedication. That’s the hard part, finding the right men and women for this. Each of these threes will be the nucleus of a company. I know it sounds ridiculous to call three people a company, but there will be more of you, and what we want is a structure that we can maintain right up until the end, when we will make the transformation from a guerrilla insurgency to become a proper national army. During our initial underground phase, the NVA is not an ordinary army where units are supposed to have some kind of set strength or function. We are as fluid as a lava lamp, always changing shape and bobbing around. Each company needs to be free floating, capable of conducting operations indefinitely on its own, even if it is totally cut off from the rest of the movement, and eventually regenerating itself and growing, adding more cells, like an amoeba.

“Each company will be part of a larger unit called a brigade,” Mr. Chips continued. “The next unit up from a company in most armies is actually the battalion, but we’re not going to create any of those until necessary and until we’ve got the bodies. The brigade will be the main operational combat unit of the Northwest Volunteer Army, responsible for taking on ZOG within a roughly defined operational area. Each brigade will report to and be directed by the Army Council in the person of one or more political officers.”

“So the political officer actually commands the brigade?” asked Charlie.

“No. He’s strictly a liaison who acts as a communications conduit between the brigade commander and the central organization.”

“Got it,” said Charlie. “I’m a state forestry employee and I have an official truck and uniform and ID, so I can be seen pretty much anywhere and have a good reason for being there that won’t cause comment.”

“That’s ideal,” said Morehouse with a nod. “Now, one of the first things you will need to do is recruit more Volunteers. This will be the most potentially dangerous of all the things you do. Make a mistake and try to bring in the wrong man, and you’ve compromised the whole company. Make a bigger mistake and actually bring the wrong man in, and you will either die or spend the rest of your lives being sodomized by niggers in the prison shower. Your first duty will of course be to clear this North Shore area of all enemy forces and non-whites.”

“Define enemy forces,” requested Hatfield.

“Anyone who is part of the federal apparatus of control and enforcement, or who assists in maintaining the Zionist occupation, or who gives aid and comfort to the régime,” Morehouse explained. “Military personnel, of course. FBI and Homeland Security agents, obviously. Certain local police but not all; that’s a special problem I’ll go over with you later. Some of the cops will be on our side, or at least willing to stand aside and let us get on with it. State and federal judges and anyone to do with the court system, and all lawyers. Federal bureaucrats of any kind, but especially anyone to do with the IRS or revenue collection. One of the keystones of our strategy is that from now on, not one more dime we can prevent goes to Washington, D.C. from the Pacific Northwest. Elements in the media and the civilian population who actively support the régime or propagandize for it. And of course, anyone with skin the color of shit is henceforth persona non grata in the Northwest. Believe me, Zack, you won’t lack for targets. Basically, your job is to make sure that from Beaverton on down the river to the sea, ZOG’s writ doesn’t run anymore.”

“That’s a mighty big stretch of territory,” commented Ekstrom with a frown.

“Yes, but the potential is immense,” replied Morehouse with a smile. “I don’t know if it’s hit you guys yet, but you’re sitting right in the middle of perfect guerrilla country here. Huge expanses of heavy forest, mountains and ravines where you could hide an army. The whole area a backwater that the feds won’t want to expend much on in the way of effort or manpower, because their main fight will be in the cities.”

http://northwestfront.org/

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Iliad (epic book) Michael O'Meara Poetry Sword Toward the White Republic (book)

It is the poet who creates nations, not the scientist

The following articles, “The Sword” and “The Edge of the Sword,” published originally at The Occidental Quarterly, are the second and third essays in Michael O’Meara’s book Toward the White Republic, available from Counter-Currents Publishing here.





The Sword

My article “Toward the White Republic,” which recently won the TOQ essay contest (though under shady circumstances according to one critic), has been the subject of several internet discussions, most of which, typical of the medium, have produced more heat than light.

Nevertheless, around the margins of this discussion and in a few genuine flashes of insight buried under the rubble of meandering commentary, certain signs suggest that white racial consciousness in the English-speaking world may be in the process, however slowly, of changing, as white nationalists challenge the hegemony of the race realists.

I say this, of course, based on my particular understanding of white nationalism—which is mine alone—and not that of any group, least of all that of a conservative outfit like The Occidental Quarterly.

My sense of this changing consciousness is perhaps exaggerated by the fact that the prospects of white nationalism at last finding its way into the political arena seems a bit brighter now that the black Jesus is losing his magic touch, that the still too comfortable white middle class is already up in arms over his proposed Big Brother state (which they will have to pay for), and that the impending economic tsunami is about to sweep away the materialist illusions that have misguided whites for the last half century or so.

A great cleansing could be coming—probably won’t, but could.

Influenced by Heidegger and Evola, I’ve long believed that the “malaise” afflicting the white man is profound, traceable in part to the advent of modernity, which introduced certain civilizational and ontological principles inimical to European life.

This malaise has taken a toll no less on the racially conscious community, which upholds not a few of the same principles that are today responsible for the impending demise of white America: especially principles associated with the disembedded individualism of Adam Smith, the scientism of capitalism’s technoeconomic order, and the nihilism that seeks to disenfranchise religion, morality, and the significance of culture.

Part of this is due, I suspect, to the fact that the “racially conscious community” has long been dominated by the idealism of “race realists” or what, before 1945, was called “scientific racism,” a school associated with Madison Grant and Lothrop Stoddard, along with such scientists as Charles Davenport.

The tasks of “scientific racism” were considerably different than the tasks we now face. The largely scientific orientation of realists upholding their truths was appropriate to a society which still had a color-line and kept Negroes out of the public sphere. Against reformers, Jews, and do-gooders who sought to integrate alien races, race realists simply needed to demonstrate the terrible social and genetic costs of racial integration.

This not the case today, where the issue is a matter of asserting ourselves as a free people, rather than defending an already established status quo.

Though the principles of scientific racism are now clearly beyond the pale of respectability, science itself nevertheless remains the conceptual bedrock upon which modern liberal society rests.

Ideologically, liberalism emerged in the eighteenth century, as proponents of scientific rationalism endeavored to apply their principles to society and state. All traditions, beliefs, customs, and affiliations—that is, all the qualitative facets of life that are the source of meaning—were thus forced to give way to the quantitative, materialist, abstract, and inherently alienating imperatives of a scientific instrumentalism that sought to impose its bloodless order on the white world for the sake of homo oecomicus.

This emphasis on the materialist and quantitative has resulted in the comforts of our consumer society, as well as the less than comforting realities of its consummate meaninglessness. We may, as a consequence, be materially richer—yet spiritually, and in other ways, we’ve become the most desperate of the poor. A truly enriching life, as tradition holds, depends less on the means of existence than on its meaning.

It is only when the world is no longer experienced as a sacred whole and knowledge is fragmented into narrow scientific disciplines that man becomes a social atom regulated by purely rationalist principles detached from superior ideals and subjected to subpersonal, collectivist, and naturalist criteria, whose inevitable culmination is the present decadence.

To think, then, that a popularization of Salter’s Ethnic Genetic Interests, a revival of Darwinian biology (with its propensity to see organic life in terms of self-regulating market principles), or the privileging of a (philosophically naive) analytic-empiricism has any role to play in saving us from the menacing forces arrayed against white life—well, to be kind, it’s too absurd to refute.

Science simply does not understand human being, just as its truths cannot defend us from the forces favoring our extinction.

Heidegger says “science does not think”—it only enunciates the facts, which it has no means to interpret or evaluate—because that would mean appealing to normative, hence unscientific standards. Understanding is the work of culture—the work of accumulated legacies that imagine, populate, and make meaningful man’s world.

Science, as such, can’t tell us why a handful of men, armed only with a will and a goal, would think they could defeat the greatest empire in history or why my favorite aunt is the one who defends her country’s honor with a German accent.

As much as we nationalists respect the authority of science, we consider it secondary, say, to the extraordinary authority of Homer, who gave birth (in his myth-making) to the Greeks and the Greeks to all the rests of us.

What’s important, here, is to realize that the truths of the Iliad, or those of Mendelian genetics, are born of the imagination, not of some natural illumination, and that their significance pertains not to “the thing itself,” but to what lies in us, as a people rooted in time and being, with a destiny distinct to who we are.

One historian of the ancient Greeks, Paul Veyne, argues that: Men do not find the truth, they create it, as they create their history.

Thus it was that whenever the Greeks criticized the fictitious stories that had grown up around their myths, it was not to reject myth, but to uncover the deeper, more truthful basis—the authentic tradition—which they took as the ideal representation of who they were. For myth—this “constitutive imagination of their tribe”—is what gave them a meaning, a vocation, and a destiny—which is something quite simply beyond science’s capacity.

This is not to say that science is the opposite of poetic myth, in the way truth is the opposite of error, but simply that it is a different and by no means superior way, to know the world—at least the physical world in its quantitative and materialist expressions.

It is imagination, not the analytical formulations of science, that gives us access to the real in the world.

The notion that truth can be presented stripped of myth is itself a myth. Nietzsche argues that there are no facts, only interpretations. This doesn’t mean that the real doesn’t exist, only that it’s impossible to apprehend without some interpretative faculty, analytic or artistic, that rests on mythic foundations.

Myth, not coincidentally, undergirds the foundation of our culture. It operates still in the highest reaches of scientific speculation. It speaks to us as a collective solidarity, not an individual conscience; it expresses a determination to act; it is beyond dispute; it cannot be defeated; it speaks the language to which all human beings are most responsive; it transmits the defining experiences of authority and ultimacy, the source of sacredness.

For myth, the world is not a product of rational calculation, but rather a primordial legacy imbued with the weight of tradition, spirit, and blood.

It is the poet, relatedly, who creates nations, not the scientist. (Creativity, need it be added, is hardly born of analytical reason—if such a disembodied thing ever existed. The great scientific breakthroughs [as Kuhn with his “paradigms,” Bachelard with his “epistomological ruptures,” and Foucault with his “epistemes” explain] are rarely the product of a scientific reason applied to neutral source materials or facts, but rather come from something else entirely—something more akin to the creative side of the artist’s sensibility.)

Novalis said that “poetry is the base of society”—for without poetry, there is no myth, and without myth, there is no culture—and hence no means of creating a people.

When white nationalists appeal to a mobilizing myth, it’s not because they dismiss discursive reason or the authority of evidence and experience. Rather, they simply assume it to be the more elemental and galvanizing form of our understanding.

As Sorel, Le Bon, Pareto, Weber, Mosca, and others have shown, the success of an idea depends less on its logical virtues and demonstrative capacities than on its mythic representation of certain collective impulses.

If man were a machine, rationality alone would suffice. But man’s “rationality” is rooted in the irrationality of his collective consciousness, in the mythic postulates of his culture, in the norms and values of his communal existence, and in the strange, occasional stirrings of his blood.

White nationalists pay homage to race realists less for validating the significance of racial differences and highlighting the dangers of miscegenation (whose obviousness needs no scientific elaboration), but for their often gallant effort to keep America white.

Today, however, in this miscegenating age indifferent to the scientific implications of race differences, our task is not to defend a no longer existing racial hierarchy, but to save what remains of white America. The white nationalist struggle, as such, is about freeing whites from the anti-racist order threatening them—not about carrying out the sort of educational campaigns that occupied the scientific racists.

Race realism, moreover, is only a part of what defines white nationalism—no matter how primordial blood may be. The racial truths of the biological sciences are indeed meaningful only in the context of our people’s life. For they, not the material world of science, are what makes these truths significant.

In favoring an independent white homeland and assuming, rather than privileging, the postulates of race realism, white nationalists hold that the world is not a marketplace of ideas and that the best ideas rarely get the best market price. No matter how primordial blood may be, the white nationalist struggle is more about the soul and spirit that blood brings forth.

More crucially, white nationalists are not so naive as to believe that their America will be saved by facts or scientific demonstrations. Rather, they believe that only by acting as other oppressed and threatened nations have had to act to insure their survival will their America survive: That is, only by struggling to become a sovereign nation, free of the forces opposing them as a people, will their kind have a future (aspiring to do this, of course, in strict adherence to the legal provisions of the US Constitution).

White nationalists, as a consequence, assume that the defense and rebirth of white life in North America will have little to do with science or truth or justice or any other grand abstraction (so fond to the language of liberalism), but only with the struggle for power—a struggle old as the ages—one which, even in our dumbed-down information society, is not about issues related to science—but about the politics of imposing our cosmos (order) on the prevailing (and encroaching) chaos—above all, a political struggle in the Schmittian sense of determining who our real enemy is and of knowing that the ultimate goal is not about abstract truths, but about white survival.

La politique, Napoleon said, c’est le destin.

The political in this sense opposes scientific rationality, whose calculating and determining materialism drags man down to his animal side, and instead favors all that lifts man above and beyond himself, as a destining being.

Every distinct people is indeed a destiny forged by common values expressed in certain basic myths. Without those myths, there are no collective values and without collective values there are no common destiny—and no people.

This makes the struggle for nationhood a matter of political, cultural, and social struggle, not science.

The change I see affecting the racially conscious community is related to what may be an emerging understanding of the need now, if we are serious about guaranteeing a future for white children, to go beyond race realism and to start thinking like a nationalist vanguard, which sees itself as the kernel of a future White Nation—born from the desperation of the decayed and increasingly tyrannical system of the powers that be.

The historical course offered by myth, in contrast to the inherently passive determinism of scientific rationalism, is a choice for heroes, not bookworms or computer hobbyists, for it opens the future to those tiny grains of sand that inevitably bring the great machines to a grinding halt.

In the struggle we’ll need to wage if we are to survive, myth is not simply a more appropriate and powerful way to understand what needs to be done. It taps those primal forces that will empower us to reject the devitalizing forces of liberal modernity and to assert ourselves in a re-enchanted world with a destining project distinct to who we are, as New World Europeans refusing to accept our programmed extinction.

If there are odd individuals here or there who can or do respond solely on the basis of self-interest alone, that’s fine—but they are more likely to end up in the race realist rather than the white nationalist camp.

One final point: Besides promising to free us and ensure our continuity, the mythic imperatives of white nationalism offers us another chance to expiate our “sins”—to do the penance that will make us better men, more like our great grandfathers, as Harold Covington says—degenerate and characterless types that we have since become. For it’s not just that whites have been hoodwinked and manipulated by their new masters, as many would like to believe. From an Aryan perspective, they have all too readily abandoned almost everything that once made them such a world-forming race.

To undo all that has alienated us from our innermost spirit (and that’s a great deal), we no longer need to keep harping on the teachings of race science, which whites have been conditioned to resist. Instead, our task today is to recover the values and traditions that made our ancestors strong.

To do this we need, in imitation of those who have gone before and in anticipation of those who will follow, to struggle, sword in hand, to be what our myths have destined us to be.

The sword is white nationalism.



The Edge of the Sword

Author’s Note: Myth and science are tangential to the real issue facing us, which is about politics and preservation. The following is an effort to sharpen (or maybe just to repeat) certain ideas presented in “The Sword.”

One.

The starting point for all discussions of white preservation must begin with the realization that we have entered an Interregnum, a period of unprecedented danger during which we are destined to experience a great transformation. The most conspicuous sign of this came in November 2008, with the advent of the blackest night, symbol not of sleep but of death.

The question that now faces us is: Will it be our death as a people or the death in us of all those things that have led to this most desperate stage of our history?

Two.

The historical antecedents of white nationalism are many: Kearney’s Workingmen’s Party, the First and Second Klans, various state’s rights and segregationist movements of the 1940s and ’50s, perhaps George Wallace’s American Independent Party, as well as a horde of smaller, more sectarian organizations.

For the past generation, however, the racialist movement defending our way of life has ceased to be political and become largely a race-realist affair—which was to be expected, given that the race realists presently dominating white discourse are the heirs of the prewar “scientific racists,” who saw their task in essentially educational terms.

Three.

Scientific racists in the early twentieth century indeed played an important intellectual role in defending the existing system of racial relations.

But that role bears no relationship to the one facing white Americans in this period, however much race realism remains a crucial part of the white-nationalist arsenal.

Then, when scientific racists commanded the center stage of public opinion, America was still a white man’s country, it had a well delineated color line, an established racial hierarchy (which most whites unconsciously accepted), and twice it succeeded in imposing immigration restrictions on a reluctant government (against Asians in the early 1880s and against non-Nordics between 1921 and ’24).

In this context, scientific racists—who came mainly from the upper classes and were often academics or intellectuals—merely needed to popularize their findings to defend the pro-white status quo.

Today, their race realist successors have continued in this tradition, trying to re-educate whites in the knowledge of what their great grandparents once knew.

This knowledge, moreover, is mainly of a scientific kind and aimed primarily at informing elites and influencing public policy—typical Enlightenment forms of metapolitics. Not coincidentally, such metapolitics accepts the liberal supposition that man’s world revolves around the objectively-defined self-interest of rational individuals, whose identities are rooted in materialist considerations rather than in the infinitely less quantifiable ones of history, culture, and kin.

Four.

As Rome burns, the question inevitably arises of how reasonable it is to continue writing cookbooks amidst the flames devouring us. This, though, is what race realists will end up doing if our racially conscious community does not soon break with its naive scientism and assume the shape of a political-metapolitical front to represent the higher collective interests of European America.

Five.

Since state policy has turned against white Americans and come to pose a direct threat to their continuity, our tasks today is a matter of ensuring our collective survival as a people, which means it is a matter of forming organizations and movements to struggle on our behalf.

Six.

To this end, white nationalists will need to break with the exclusively academic/scientific orientation of race realists and start building a nationalist vanguard to lead their people. The question is: How?

This is the question that needs to be addressed and addressed not as an epistemological issue (i.e., as an issue of knowledge), but politically, culturally, socially, and in other ways that intersect our experiences in the world.

Seven.

Science (which too is infused with myth and ideology) is for academic debate, myth and ideology are for popular social movements. There is, though, no hard and fast division between them. Those seeking to make the epistemological difference between them primary seem not fully conscious of the great historical tasks facing white men in the twenty-first century, just as their dismissal of popular political mobilizations as a “misty and idealistic totemism” seems to reflect the typical liberal propensity to avoid engagements that might involve them in real world activity.

Context here is all important. If I need a cancerous growth removed from my body, I’m not going to have a student of myth do it, just as if I want to learn about José Antonio Primo de Rivera, I would prefer to ask a Spanish historian rather than a geneticist.

Similarly, if I want to build a nationalist movement, I know it’s going to take something more than the virtues of Frank Salter to convince whites to abandon their individualistic and materialistic lives (which, incidentally, are usually led under the sign of self-interest)—it will take something bigger and grander that touches them at the core of their being.

That something can only be found in myth, culture, history, and blood—in all those things that transcend the individual, that link him to a higher destiny, and that refuse the safe, sanitized detachment of modernity’s privatized realm.

Eight.

Myth is not “mystification,” even if our naive empiricists assume it to be; it is simply another way (and at times a more powerful way) of apprehending and communicating a truth.

In one situation it is obviously appropriate, in another situation science is.

A mythic figure like Jeanne d’Arc touches a Frenchman more profoundly than the vast intellectual heritage of Cartesianism because St. Joan evokes a hundred defining emotions lodged in a Frenchman’s heart, doing so in ways that the elegant, yet bloodless postulates of Descartes’ scientific rationalism cannot.

The Cartesians’ powerful heritage is not, as a consequence, unimportant to France; it simply has little role to play in defending the nation from those who seek its destruction. Relatedly, in the numerous assertions of France’s nationalist movement, St. Joan is omnipresent because of all she represents, while Descartes rarely has anything to add, except perhaps in keeping debates at the conceptual level orderly and logical.

If you want, then, to engage in discussions about race and racial differences, you bring in the geneticists and Darwinists. But if you want to build a nationalist movement to ensure the continuity of white America, you appeal to Andrew Jackson and Thomas Jefferson, to the Battle of the Alamo and Kearney’s Workingmen, to the Stars and Bars and the sustaining voices of those quintessential representatives of America’s white culture, the Carter family.

Those who think that IQ, JQ, EGI, GSS, HBD, etc., are somehow more important in mobilizing a people than appeals to their spirit or destiny do not seem to know, “empiricists” that they claim to be, anything of history, especially the history of the nationalist and labor movements that shaped much of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

A preference for scientific demonstration rather than political mobilization is, moreover, the strategy of middle-class intellectuals, whose world is defined by the classroom, the computer monitor, and tedious faculty meetings. Political appeals to a people’s cultural and mythic paradigms, on the other hand, are the meat and drink of militants who associate with workers and soldiers, organize local cells and demonstrations, and, when the time comes, raise barricades in the street—to defend their neighborhood from marauders, or perhaps to do what used to be done, in front of Paris’ Hôtel de Ville.

Nine.

The world is not a debating society.

It’s hardly coincidental that Carl Schmitt characterized the liberal, whose ideology distorts his perception of the real, as someone who thinks debate alone in politics suffices.

The politics of the friend/enemy dichotomy is accordingly irrelevant to the liberal, who prefers to reason with the enemy, as he tries to buy him off.

Life/Death, Friend/Enemy: This primordial polarization poses the great political question—the question that brings us to the point where we are compelled to ask ourselves: How are we going to defeat the enemy who threatens our existence?

Contrary to the contention of certain cyber pundits, this is not a matter of deciding who is more intelligent or who commits the most crimes. My commitment to the white nation wouldn’t change even if we were the least intelligent of the races or the most criminally prone.

To defeat the enemy is, rather, a question of deciding what political options are available to us: Will it be a Great Trek to a new homeland; will it be a matter of reviving the heritage of the Borderland Celts, who settled the Indian-occupied frontier and defended the Alamo with rifle in hand; will it involve parliamentary or extraparliamentary actions that mobilize our people; or will it simply be a waiting game, to see how well we can prepare ourselves for the coming crash, when the wolves will be allowed into the very bosom of the city.

Who knows what course awaits us?

The one thing, though, that I hope we can all agree on at this point is the importance of making ourselves ready—by being as independent as possible, by keeping in good physical and mental shape, by ensuring that we are well-located, by knowing who we are and what we stand for—but above all by doing something, anything, in the real world to prefigure what will become the White Nation.

Very little of this, I’m afraid, will have anything to do with marshaling evidence from biological texts—that’s a diversion better left to the liberal modernity whose racial horrors we seek to escape.