German LARPing–it’s in the vogue. But is there more to it than mere nazi-cosplay? Could Teutonophilia mitigate the effects of (((education)))? Singh interviews Ritter on his life-long love of all things German–the language, the literature, the music, the history. Enter a rich world, unknown to anglospheric normies: The Nibelungenlied, Faust, Ernst Junger and inflected grammar.
An alien race has overrun Europe, bringing crime, terrorism, rape and murder. Do the natives even realize what is going on?
On the way from Petersburg back to the USA, Vince harrows Austria and Bavaria. He tries to shake the locals out of lethargy, but to no avail. It seems that the only people who get it are Poles.
AND: The alt-right: rich boy of fascism? The antifa think so. As if that were a bad thing. Greg and Vince discuss the mindset of the politically active. Perhaps alt-righters and antifa have more in common than either would like to admit.
Nikolai Starikov is something of a Shaman. An insider with the ear of the Kremlin, he has upended conventional thinking about history. In his view, Hitler was no mere tyrant, but the tool of a grander Anglo-American scheme to dismember Russia. A crazy conspiracy theory? Perhaps. But Starikov is no Alex Jones. Like many of us, he sees something sinister in the West’s current predicament. And his explanations are always one step ahead.
Some translations of Starikov’s blog by fans
Starikov’s blog (in Russian)
No society is built on the family. It’s the Mannerbund, stupid. Greg and Singh discuss this building-block of civilization. They cover the sublime theories of historical philosophers like Peter Turchin, and the less refined practices of certain alt-righters. The Greeks, the Vikings, and the Brownshirts also come in for praise and criticism.
AND: A lot of people conflate male-solidarity with homosexuality. Where do you draw the line, goyim? AI refutes this typically Yiddish fallacy. It’s not gay. It’s homoerotic.
The Occidental Observer on hypermasculinity in ancient Scandinavia.
Music: Intro: Fyrdung’s Folk i GevÃ¤r (as usual). Future Fash Intermission: It’s my 80’s (Perturbator / Dance with the Dead music). Outro: Die Braune Kompanie. Also Laibach “Opus Dei” (Life is Life) back-drop to the classic “precious bodily fluids” rant from Dr. Strangelove.
I love Munich. This is my third time here. Munich is a cozy metropolis, full of cafes, traditional restaurants, old book-stores, gardens–all preserved more or less in their pre-war state. In the cathedrals, one can feel a definite connection with his Faustian soul, his past, his people. And in these streets, our heroic SA forebearers went toe-to-toe with international Bolshevism. Hitler, Rohm, Goering, Himmler–The Dream began here, in Munich. Her beer-halls were the stage for countless sessions of fashy broing (a tradition which AI has continued).
There is only one problem.
In a way, I owe this city my awakening. The first time I came here, as a college student, I noticed the Arabs. Having studied Arabic and German, I was at first excited at the chance to practice both. But something felt off. In this idyllic Bavarian city, there were packs of fat Arab women black niqabs carrying on in their filthy Gulf dialect. I was all for experiencing foreign cultures… but Munich was for Germans, wasnâ€™t it? If I wanted to see the traditional Arab womanâ€™s costume, complete with BDSM-style nose-piece, I could go to Dubai. You certainly would not seeÂ Bavarians or lederhosen there. Even then, before my racial awakening, I sensed the significance of this disparity.
The second time I came was three years ago–the eve of the Storm. Not much had changed. The barbarians still blotted the aesthetic, but Munich remained essentially German. The old-timers wore elements of the traditional costume (â€œTrachtenâ€) the same way Texans wear cowboy stuff–with a tint of archaism, but still naturally. Munich seemed ready to putter on as a quaint, second-tier city for a few centuries, before it sank back into its landscape.
Now itâ€™s over. Munich reeks of cosmopolitan death. Perhaps her buildings will endure, but only as fossils to befuddle her inheritors. The Arabs have won. They are everywhere and they are rich. The blocks directly south of the Hauptbahnhoff are infested, but you see them in droves in the nice parts of town too. Especially in the nice parts. They seem to have nothing to do but shop and be seen. It is ironic. For a people so concerned with modesty, they certainly go all out on the clothes, the jewlery and the make-up. Form over content. No wonder the Quran is so beautiful.
You do not need to be reminded that you are paying for this, in one way or another. The safe, trusting societies that your ancestors built through centuries of struggle and hardship for youÂ cannot survive what these people bring. Inter-ethnic economic competition is the least of it. There will be blood. There already is.
I have only spent 10 days of my life in Munich. But it really does feel like my European home-city. Every time I have come, I visit my old haunts, buy a couple books, get a new shirt. I have a ritual. My three visits, being spaced out over the years, have had an outsized effect. Itâ€™s like the PUA â€œvenue change” move, go to a couple bars with a girl and sheâ€™s more likely to sleep with you. And each visit has marked a different stage in my personal development–first as an innocent boy, then as a purposeless youth, now as a man–all too filled with purpose.
Miscegenation is the worst. These days in Munich have made me understand the Swedesâ€™ predicament better. They are suffering from abject demoralization. I did not really understand that when I visited Sweden. Yes, it was deeply unsettling to see your race being cucked, but I have no particular attachment to Sweden.
In Munich, I started to get it. Seeing it in your home is a thousand times worse than seeing it in a strange environment. It ruins all the good memories you have of the place. You feel you are losing a piece of your own past. It is like watching a friend let himself go–one more obnoxious tattoo, a few more ripples of Pillsbury spilling over the belt, a newfound penchant for Scientology–in the end, the good memories are pushed out by the ballooning disgust.
There are three possible reactions: fight, give in, or go Chateau Heartiste. Now, go ahead. I hear the unwashed voices of a thousand manosphere spergs advising the CH option. Get degenerate, approach, be an insouciant douche, save the white girl from his barbarism and subject her to yours. I admit I used to be of this mind.
The option is tactically sound, but strategically counter-productive. If you suppress your disgust and wreck miscegenation by legally acceptable means, you have to poison your own mind. You have to convince yourself that sexual promiscuity is all in good fun. You have to not care. But, this is one thing we should care about profoundly–racial hygiene. There is a huge difference between reveling in butt-hurt when another guy gets the girl, and getting righteously pissed to see a kebab polluting your gene-pool. That is not an emotion you should try to suppress, even tactically. It is the healthiest, sanest and purest emotion you can ever have.
And even if you out-alpha the brownie, your are only subjecting a female of your race to a different (albeit lesser) form of social pollution. Hooking up is masturbation with a partner. It will not propagate our race. It may make you more confident with the next woman, but it will certainly make her less fit to be a wife and a mother. If we want to WIN, we need to annihilate this cancer. It seems that the alt-right, including many of the most fervent PUAs, is starting to see that.
But fighting is not yet an option. The legal and social repercussions for the individual are utterly debilitating. So, in the meantime, each of us is forced to give in. Even the deftest player cannot CH-the-fuck-out every mudsharking or kebab-basting pair he sees. Even he must, more often than not,Â endure the humiliation. And, in an environment like Munich or Stockholm, you are forced to see it again and again and again. Most will faze it out, but the healthier your mind is, the more it screams for a shot at revenge that never seems to come. Enduring this mental cycle over and over, it is no wonder so many have given up.
The only healthy option is to fight, together. And we will, very soon. We will fight the way white men always have, as a group, totally committed to, and willing to die, for each other. That is the one force that no one can defeat.
Vince recounts his time in Siberia: eternal frontier of the Russian Imperial project. Over the years, Russia has used different ideologies–Orthodoxy, Communism, Eurasianism–but all with the goal of uniting its disparate subjects. How is the project working out? And what does the Imperial Idea mean for the alt-right? Heimbachian nationalism is great. But will it be tolerated in the Trumpenreich?
AND: Greg is posted up in a Munich beerhall, getting Nostalgic about 1923. What a great city, a great country–too bad it’s shredding at the seams.
I just fucking missed it. I was in Munich this morning. This afternoon, it happened–somebody started shooting up a shopping mall in the Bavarian capital.
This is literally the shittiest race-war ever. I came to Europe fantasizing that this summer, it would be all in the open. I could hook up with some Serbian death squads and go full-Srebrenica on some kebabs. But instead we have this.
There’s simmering racial tension, frequent attacks in random locations, and consummately triggering race-cucking–about which we can do nothing but meme and dream.
As I wandered through Munich’s Hadji-infested boulevardsÂ over the last three days, I kept expecting a bomb to go off 100 meters in front of me. The city is so idyllic, so clean, so German–yet so diverse, it was only a matter of time.
But then I thought, “No way. No hadji would be retarded enough to set off a bomb here. He’d kill too many of his coreligionaries. If I were a Muzzie, I’d attack with rifles. I’d pull a Bataclan.”
Today it fucking happened. Someone(s) went in and shot up a shopping mall. No word yet on the shooter’s race, but longer we go without a pronouncement, the more likely it is that the shooter was a non-White, as vdare.com has so helpfully pointed out.
And I just missed it. What does it take to be a hero or a martyr? Timing apparently.
The press is reporting multiple shooters. I find that unlikely. The fog of war obscured the singular nature of the Dallas shooting too. But if it is multiple shooters, ala Bataclan, you can be sure it was Muzzies.
I agree with the NSA-section known asÂ Andrew Anglin. I feel no sympathy for the victims of this (unless they were righteous racists). It is past time to stop mourning and start fighting. These attacks are not acts of God. They are assaults by an Enemy.
The BBC is reporting, that among other forces responding to the attack, there was,Â “an elite border security unit, GSG9, is heading for Munich with several helicopters.”
“Elite border security unit.” heh.Â I’m sure the Roman state was still passing out medals to Limitanei formations in the fifth century for “outstanding service in maintaining border security.” God, when will they wake up?
So instead of an honest-to-god fight, we have this. Some weird form of quasi-warfare. I’m sure some Johns Hopkins Global Security Studies faggot has already written a dissertation on it: “5th Gen Warfare: Mastering the psycho-cyber battlezone.”
It looks like we have to double down. Keep posting those memes. But even more importantly, keep hammering your normie friends.Â Every serious, face-to-face conversation is worth a hundred shit-posts. You may be surprised at how receptive people are to our message–when it is presented with a clear conscience, and a sincere heart.
We are right. The Truth will win. We will win.
(Editor’s note: Further Essays in Greg’s ongoing series “Race-Tour 2016” will come out in the next couple days. Tomorrow–a report on Munich; and the next day, a recap of the summer, focusing on intra-White differences. Tomorrow we will also release our podcast Red Dawn 22, featuring Vince’s Siberian adventures.)
I was in a groggy, allergy-compounded daze for the whole train ride. My night of Danish homelessness really took it out of me. For seven hours I faded in and out, all the while conscious of the sweat and grime that seemed to have replaced my khakis. How appropriate–on my way to Berlin, my Aryan Mecca, and I was getting the full hadjiÂ experience.
Despite how I must have smelled, at least I looked human, unlike some others. The train boarded a ship to ferry us from the Danish island of Lolland (actual name) to Merklenburg-Vorpommern, and we went to the upper decks. I munched on a chocolate bar and stared out into the treacherous Baltic that had deprived me of my watch and sunglasses (stolen while I was swimming). But the thing that scared me about this boat was not the sea it transversed, but the people it bore. Some of these fuckers were Soomalii. Others had certainly been pilgrims like me, but I doubt their hadj had terminated at the Spree. Others still looked like they had been boating before. The rest were Danish.
We went back below deck and reboarded the train. My seat-mate was a healthy, middle-aged Dane named Frederik. He must not have noticed the smell, because he played along as I struck up a conversation. He was on his way to Hamburg, to settle some shipping contracts. After some niceties, he brought up Trump in the usual liberal way. Detecting his illness, I decided to offer him a very small, very purple pill–I brought up Shilleryâ€™s connections to the Judeo- *cough* neo-cons. He took it well. I then brought up, in the politiest way possible, the Afromuzzie immivasion. I made the usual rational points, which he again took well.
I am always amazed that I can still carry on such respectable, middle-class conversations. I liked Frederik, he was the sort of man for whom I had borne immense respect as a teenager, the sort of man I thought I would become. But that is no longer possible. His opinions were, logically, preposterous. Worse yet they were a profound threat to me and my–our–people. But for some reason I still admired him. He was open-minded enough to listen to my points cooly and sincerely. It seems one can be more frank in speaking outside oneâ€™s usual social circle. If there is any value in diversity, it is that. Exposure to diversity is red-pilling.
The train stopped at the first station in Germany. Some officers in peaked-caps (I got hard) walked down the isles doing a face-check. They silently zeroed in on an East African and removed him. Fredrik and I watched out the window as four or five officers escorted the subhuman along the station platform. â€œPoor chap!â€ my seatmate exclaimed. I never understood why Europeans think English means British, what the hell. Anyway, meanwhile my spine got erect, my eyes bulged, and my the left side of my mouth quivered into a smirk. I must have crossed my thighs, because no one noticed the full extent of my physiological response. â€œMmmâ€ I managed.
I arrived at Berlin, and relief washed over me. I love Germany, but until now, I had not realized how much like home it felt. The street-signs, the chain-stores, the whole material culture is familiar. Most importantly, I have a reasonable command of German. With the languages of Scandinavia my knowledge is only passive and theoretical. I feel like a moron whenever I try to say something. But speaking German is like encountering an old friend. Maybe we have not kept up lately, but we have been through a lot together.
I escalated out of the train station–one of those typically post-war glass and metal things–and found the daylight. The first thing I noticed was the goddamn antifa graffiti. The following photos were all taken right around the train station:
The lefties here must all be from out of town, because no Prussian would ever write something on a wall, even if he were a commie. I harrowed their filth quickly, because on the horizon the Reichstag appeared. Of course I know all the history. But my real excitement stemmed from how familiar I am with the buildingâ€™s steps and facade, at least in the virtual world. World War II is the Trojan War for Americans. But we have no Iliad–we have Saving Private Ryan and Call of Duty: World at War. I must have played the Reichstag-level a hundred times, where you, as a Russian, reenact the Battle of Berlin, head-shooting your way through streams of conspicuously fighting-age German soldiers.
At the steps of the real Reichstag I saw the same fight. Two Germans were holding a demonstration in favor of a vaguely nationalist cause. They were getting a lot of silent attention, and a little heckling from some people who, by their age, seemed to be middle-class baby-boomers. What a shitty generation. Eager to practice my German and my politics, I asked one of the agitators what exactly their cause was. Their billboard said something about Germany still being occupied, but I could not tell if they were nationalists–political discourse is so tame in this country. The man handed me a brochure, as if that explained their position any better than the billboard. I asked explicitly if they supported a â€œGermany for the Germans,â€ to which he replied affirmatively. I guess that explains the heckling.
Perhaps one other fact explains this strange scene. Three flags were flying outside the Reichstag (sorry to any Germany-fags, I donâ€™t recognize any other name)–that of neutered Germany, the flag of the EU, and that of Georgia. Russian Georgia. â€œWhat are these cucks trying to pullâ€ I thought. Did the Anglo-Zionist Empire tell Mutti Merkel to make noise about admitting Georgia to some Atlanticist organization? Or is it just Georgian heritage day in Germany? Very strange, but very predictable.
I sat down for a beer and some internet. Where is the Fuhrerbunker? I asked google. Surprisingly, it answered quickly and directly. Wasnâ€™t this information supposed to be secret, lest Nazis like me start treating the site as a shrine? I strode through the streets, past the Reichstag, the Tiergarten, not the occasional Hadji, and the Brandenburg Gate. A bunch of Kurds were lazing about amidst signs and placards. They seemed to be bitching about the Iranian Government. I could not imagine why anyone here would care about their whining, then I turned left and spotted the American Embassy.
I passed through the throngs and entered a side-street lined with more post-war blockoffices. Ministries and embassies it seemed. The street ended in a T, atop which was a parking lot, interspersed with clumps of trees and surrounded by ugly apartments. I got an excited chill. The scene must have just as miserable when The Dream ended–right here. There was a sign with a map and detailed explanations in English and German. Either the Germans had grown tired of all the inquiries, or this was all an elaborate deception and the Fuhrer had spent his final days somewhere else.
I analyzed the map in an attempt to discern what mattered most to me. Where was my Fuhrer cremated? I have to admit, like everything else about the War, most of my knowledge comes from Jewliwood movies. In DerÂ Untergang, the Germans lay Hitlerâ€™s corpse in a pit right outside the entrance to the bunker and burn it with what must have been the Reichâ€™s last can of gasoline. I reckoned that it all happened (if it did at all) right at the lot’s entrance. Goebbels and Magda shot themselves somewhere in what was now the middle of the street. And to think–this sacred ground is subjected to auto traffic and Chinese tourists. The site of Hannibalâ€™s suicide was probably similarly profaned in Roman times. How dare they. It was if the whole scene was calculated induce blase, I wanted to cry–partly to trigger the gawkers–but I could not. Even that they had taken from me.