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.
In the interest of improving my Russian, I spent the last few weeks “embracing the inner Slav.” I have always taken the “method acting” approach to learning languages. I don’t just study grammar and vocabulary. I read history, listen to music, and generally immerse myself in the culture of the language I am learning.
This time I was a little too successful. After a couple days I stopped studying Russian, but continued to act like a Russian. After three weeks, I had written nothing, barely gone to work, screwed up my sleep-schedule and experimented with new means of intoxication.
At my low-point, I found myself sprawled across my bed, in the middle of the day, enjoying a casual beer. I felt pretty Russian. But then it occurred to me–I can never be a Slav. A Slav wouldÂ enjoy this. If heÂ felt like lying around in the middle of the day (as he so often does), he would do it, and he would feel good about it. I, on the other hand, was not enjoying my sloth. I felt like shit. While my outward behavior was Slavic, something was wrong.
This all got me thinking on the Slavic Question. What is the essence of Slavicness? Why do they try to drink or incinerate everything they see? What’s with the tracksuits? No other group of whites acts like them. What is going on?
The Spirit of Inclination
Spengler attributed the characteristics of peoples to differences in their national spirit. A people’s innate sense of time, space and direction would determine the sort of culture they would go on to create. The ancient Greeks, for instance, fixated on static form. Modern Westerners (Faustians), on the other hand, are obsessed with motion. So while Faustian sculptors try to imitate classical style, they never capture the aesthetic faithfully, because the products of their creativity belie their strong sense of driving movement. Cultural differences in directional sense also explain the typical Chinese’s ineptitude at driving.
What defines the Slavic soul? How does the Slav differ from the striving, willful Faustian?Â The Slav acts only in accordance with his whim. He has not will, but inclination. Take Tolstoy. How could a will-less manÂ write thousand-page literary masterpieces around characters who are so well developed that they strike many readers as more familiar than their own relatives and friends? Because TolstoyÂ felt like it. An inclinationÂ for writing is certainly rarer than an inclination for food,Â alcohol, sex and petty entertainments (abysses into which the Slav has poured most of his energies), but when a Slav is inclined toward writing, you getÂ War and Peace.
In the same vein, a Faustian, having will, cannot write a novel of such proportions. For the Westerner, action is the result of Will, which is only moral if it runs opposite to his inclinations. Following his whim would violate Kant’s Categorical Imperative–that man only acts morally when he acts contrary to his desire. Thus the Western soul contains a paradox: Faustian Will cannot triumph over its moral qualms, because acting counter to his inclinationsÂ is, for the Faustian, the mostÂ absolutely moral deed.
So even if a Westerner wereÂ inclined toward writing, he could never produce War and Peace. After writing a few hundred pages, he would be hampered by a creeping feeling of unproductiveness. The sub-mental process would run roughly: “I am acting according to a whim, this is immoral.” Thus his Will would subvert his whim, and he would direct his efforts to new endeavors.
All great Faustian men have been “renaissance” men. Goethe, the outstanding figure of German literature, was also a botanist, a geologist and a sometime sinologist. Mozart played pool and enjoyed dancing. Hitler was a painter.Â No Faustian has ever given himselfÂ totally to one endeavor. Such devotion would be impossible.
It is thus the Westerner who is lazier, inÂ terms of measurable outcome, than the Slav. For Russian Culture to succeed in any endeavor, the Slavic race must only produceÂ one man who is inclined toward its undertaking.
The Slav Abroad
A few months ago a random encounter got me thinking about The Slav. Â I was in Rome, sitting at an outdoor cafe table. I noticed the fellow next to me was having a phone convo on his phone. Bored, I struck up a conversation, knowing it would lead to hours upon hours of drinks and proclamations of eternal brotherhood.
His idea of vacation was utterly alien to that of a Westerner. He did not care for sites, for museums, for anything. His only desire was to saunter to a new cafe every few hours and have some different scenery to compliment his drinking. Sure, Italy was beautiful. The food was great, and the Culture!
He was innocently perplexed that the Italians had such a wonderful country, but drove faggy fiats and vespas. “Why? If I had money, I would buy a awesome car with lots of power! These Italian men are such gays with their little motorcycles.” I patiently explained that when Italians went to Russia, they wondered why the food is so bad. It’s not like the Russians are poor, but their idea of spaghetti is ketchup on EZ-mac. He feigned gastronomic sense and summoned a polite “I guess.”
The Slav shares the typical American tourist’s thorough-goingly superficial appreciation of Culture. The only difference is, while the Westerner goes to Rome to see the Coliseum, to visit the Forum, to throw a coin in Trevi Fountain, the Slav regards the cultural artifacts as mere background noise. Â He wants only to drink in the midst of these wonders.
The Slavic Ubermensch
The late Spengler believed man was onÂ the cusp of entering a new, post-historical phase of his existence. Spengler thought that Western civilization, due to it’s ever expansive, Faustian nature, could break the life-and-death cycle of human cultures. The revolution would be akin to what man experienced when he emerged from prehistoric savagery into cultural life.
He was wrong. Faustian man was destined to fail. He already has. Nineteen forty-five marked our final, best attempt to follow our inclination–our drive–toward ever greater acts of expansion. We tried to create a 1,000-year galactic super-state, but our striving was subverted by the need to defy inclination. Fucking Kant. Conquering the stars would have been too easy. Suicide-by-demographics would be hard.
Therefore, the Hitlerian Triumph of the Will is impossible, because the Faustian can only be a reluctant hero. The Aryan born-hero would have to become something else–a Canadian comedian, perhaps. On the other hand,Â Slavonic apathy will result in millions of drunks, one of whom willÂ turn out to be the true Ubermensch. It’s only a matter of time.
In my three weeks of going full Slavic-nigger, I have learned a lot about myself. I am not inclined to read or write, to learn languages, to be productive in any way. If I were a Russian, I would be a bum. I can onlyÂ actÂ when I embrace my Faustian nature–that is, when I act contrariwise to my inclination, but in accordance with my Will.
Man will colonize the galaxy. But such is not a possible fate for the Faustian. The Slavic race will lead the way. As soon as they stop larping as Europeans and surrender totally to their whims. They will eventually generate an Ubermensch, who will whip his bored, drunken comrades into shape.
Here’s to our limitless, will-less future. “Feels good, man.”
Natt joins the AI bros to discuss the coming Purge. The alt-right is not big-tent. We are little-bunker. We have to kick out the degenerates and the intellectuals. Stop thinking and start acting.
Vince and Greg defend European super-nationalism, and Singh stands up for Thought, but Natt’s having none of it.
On this historic day, as Shillary, the puppet of Globalist tyranny, denounces the Altright, AI brings you this glimpse of the coming battles. We are the Resistance, we are right, we will triumph!
Featuring Mr. Bond’s latest single “Blood & Soil,” a parody of Mase’s 1997 “Lookin’ at Me” at 49.50.
Greg mentions the book “Three Faces of Fascism” by Ernst Nolte, which defines fascism negatively. “Fascism is anti-marxism which seeks to destroy the enemy by the evolvement of a radically opposed and yet related ideology…within the unyielding framework of national self-assertion and autonomy.”
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.
Race-Tour 2016Â is winding down. I have a lot of material to process, which will likely serve as fodder for future articles and podcasts. My laptop has a Stasi-level archive, including pages of pseudo-intellectual musings, and hours of grainy recordings of me trolling Arabs and Lesbians. So goyim, buckle up.
But the fun isnâ€™t over yet. I have a few more objectives to hit: Munich (spiritual reasons), Berlin again, a certain hamlet in Denmark, Stockholm and Iceland. Before I launch on this final, exclusively Germanic leg of Race-Rour 2016 (RT16), I decided to do a little AAR. How did my original assumptions compare to the reality on the ground? What is to be done about our race’s predicament?
At the very onset, Vince and I concluded that the Nords were not the key to White salvationÂ (Link to Vince’s two-part series). All the memes were basically right. While Nords are most exposed to the problem, they are sadly the most inured to it. That brought about the question of southern, “frontier” whites. Could they be the source of a racial awakening?
I conceived RT16 back in February. At the time, the Hadji hoards were swelling up for another summer storm, with monthly numbers of immivaders, despite the cold, exceeding even the stats for last summer. There was a good chance of tens or hundreds of thousands by summer. “Born too late to explore the earth, born too early to explore the galaxy”… born just in time for the Great European Race War. I was positively giddy.
There was no way anyone was going to get a handle on the situation. The European governments drank their own Kool-Aid. They were petrified by their own myopic, neo-Puritan ideology. Supranational powers like the EU and NATO (â€œThe Empireâ€) would let the immivasion continue, whether by incompetence or malice. Shit was going down. So great an influx of zombie-Hadjis would certainly lead to a total collapse of the social order. Two outcomes seemed possible: Hungarian obstinacy would trigger a chain-reaction in the Balkans, with one government after another refusing to accept migrants, or a major political crisis would erupt in some core-European country.
I based my travel plan on this analysis. I would fly to Sweden, epicenter of POZ, then head south to Germany and Austria, where I figured most of the action would be. If, like 2015, the Balkans were crawling with sub-human streams, I would venture out into the old Hapsburg-Ottoman borderlands. I even went so far as to retool my Russian as Serbo-Croatian.
It did not quite work out that way. In March, the EU struck a deal with the Turks that cut the inflow to a trickle, thereby making all-out race-war unlikely this year. To use the now classic metaphor–the frog is being boiled slowly again. So instead, we have stalemate. If last year was 1914, this year is 1915. Positions have shifted, the losses have mounted–Cologne, Paris, Brussels, now Nice–but no decisive action has occurred. And worse, none seems possible.
I changed plans accordingly. After hitting Sweden with Vince, I figured the best place to see some action would be Italy and Greece, entrepÃ´ts of the Muzziepocalypse. It was not quite what I had hoped for, but Southern Europe provided a welcome contrast with the North. The race-problem was still stark, but in a different way. The aliens were there, and in big groups, but they (were) kept to themselves. I was relieved to see no cases of miscegenation.
The Southern Problem
But the locals let me down. I figured that Southerners would have a more realistic view of the Problem. They did. Indeed, southern dislike of the barbarian is instinctful. While many exhibit a veneer of liberal attitudes, few are impractical enough to really believe in them. Unfortunately, that visceral dislike rarely manifested itself in any sort of resolve. They know something is off, but they generally do not care enough to do anything about it. It probably will not affect them anyway. All they have to do is ship the next batch of dindus North and its la dolce vita again.
Two particular instances are illustrative. I had conversations with two middle-aged men on my last day in Thessalonica. Their opinions were far more realistic than the average Nordâ€™s, but their realism often crossed into outright cynicism. They had taken â€œthe Black Pill,â€ as we are calling it now.
I struck up a conversation with the first of them while sitting at a sidewalk cafe. He held an odd mix of totally based and utterly liberal opinions. He argued that the Greek economic crisis is fake, it is nothing more than a bankersâ€™ scam. Fair enough. On the other hand, he called the Syrian civil war â€œreal.â€ He argued that it was caused intentionally by the European powers, and therefore, â€œWe have to let them in.” But he conceded that Muslims cause problems, citing 9-11 as evidence that even a few could be very dangerous.
He also argued that Greece needed a totally crazy leader to clean up its economic problems. He cited Hitler as an example. When I pressed him about the refugee crisis, he recast his proposal. â€œThe whole world needs a leader like that.â€
He was vaguely Jew-aware. Not knowing my nationality, he stated that he liked the US, because there is a strong Greek lobby. I pointed out that, while true, the Greek-Americans have nothing on our main ethnic lobby. He nodded, and bragged that his people had gotten on with (((them))) well for centuries. I smirked. Supposedly the Arabs used to say that it takes two Jews to cheat a Greek.
He wondered about life in Washington, DC. I told him that the people in power are soulless, â€œThey look like this,” doing my best to emulate the shitlib 1000-cock stare. He recognized my meaning immediately and blurted out â€œcyber-metrics!” (I think he meant â€œcyborgsâ€). So, the Jews run the world through Washington cyborgs. At that point I excused myself. His world concept was ridiculously simplistic. Had this guy even read Culture of Critique?
The second man started talking to me in the nearly empty central train station (railroad strike). He spoke English very well, and claimed to have been around since the Korean War. Refusing to reveal his nationality, he mentioned Greek, Turkish and Israeli friends. He started talking to me to offer a warning: in this deserted station, a Bangladeshi was pimping a tall Serbian girl in a scheme to steal valuables from men. I was skeptical but went along. He complained that he told the security guard, but that they did nothing. He went on to bemoan our general situation, predicting that the Bangladeshis and Chinese would take over the world. â€œBut they did not build any of this (gesturing to the marble floors and walls), our fathers paid for it,â€ he said, pointing at himself and me.
I agreed, citing my experiences this summer, and asked â€œWhat can we do?.â€
He shot back, â€œNo, you canâ€™t get worked up! Thereâ€™s no point in getting worked up!â€
So to sum up, Europeans come in two basic types: frontier whites and interior whites. Interior whites (Germanics and the French) suffer all the worst delusions that the alt-right has so exhaustively critiqued. Frontier whites (eg. Italians, Greeks, Serbs) on the other hand are instinctively realistic. They make no pretense of liking the invader. Their shortcoming is not seeing the big picture. So long as their lives are not directly affected, they are content to let the Afro-Muzzies pass through. Several times I had the occasion, often standing next to a concentration of refugees, to ask a local if the migrants were a problem. Sometimes the problem was acknowledged. But too often they would shrug. â€œNot a problem. Everything is fine.â€
Of course this distinction ignores a number of others. It is not just interior vs frontier. It is city vs countryside, female vs male, young vs old. Youth, femininity and urbanity make people more likely to back their own peopleâ€™s dispossession. Itâ€™s the old yin and yang.
As I am finishing up this essay, my impeccably quiet train-car is gliding through the Austrian Alps. over a mountain town that looks exactly like the one from The Sound of Music. And, what do you know, a whole family of hadjis just entered my train car. They Syrio-Iraqis always come in big packs– an old man, two old women, two boys, two girls and two young bucks, one of whom is of course wearing a pink polo. In light of recent happenings, I am way too triggered to write anymore. I wish it would just start already.
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.)
No one is giving me orders. I find this distressing. As a fascist, I need hierarchy to keep me from getting confused. Fortunately, since I got to Europe, I have been able to think up mini-missions for myself. But on Lesbos, the lack of command and control started to get to me.
Thankfully TRS was there to help. The Swaggots came through–offering questions they would like to see me pose to the refugees. Armed with their ideas, I went out to try some dry-approaches.
I tried a couple times on some of the feral Pakis whom the Greeks had so unwisely begun to allow out of their containment center. I did not get much. They were reluctant to exercise their English. â€œOnly little English.â€ Yeh, mkay. Thatâ€™s not what youâ€™d be saying if I were interested in a slurpee rather than your ethnic origins, your political aims, and economic means, the absence of women and children among your number, and your whiney-bitch excuses for all of the above.
So that was not going anywhere. Maybe it was my appearance. I look like the stereotypical CIA agent–light blue button-down, slightly overgrown high-and-tight, aviators. But â€œshock journalismâ€ is not my style anyway. It is not easy to watch when a reporter, or a comedian, starts asking awkward and intrusive questions. The product is grating to listen to, and rarely informative. The method had worked on the dindus in Athens, but the air was humid and my targets were constitutionally less inhibited. Sorry TRSers, to get anything worth listening to, I would have to go after the prey most vulnerable to my charms. I would have to find a Hadji.
I needed three things to land the ideal interview with a genuine Ayrab: an easy state of mind, a conversation-starter and a receptive target. The first item was easy to acquire–every grocery store, kiosk and video-rental joint in Greece sells beer, and I always assume public drinking is legal. And I was not worried about how to open the conversation, because my cigarette-lighter was intentionally in my room.
So that left target-selection. Women and groups were out of the question. Groups would dissolve into internal spin-off conversations, and my Arabic would be inadequate to regain the initiative. Approaching women might work, except that Arab females are stuck-up, xenophobic wildebeests who somehow, when approached by a man, nevertheless prefer to flatter themselves about his motives, which I suppose is only reasonable, given their usual milieu.
So it would have to be a man. But I kept getting sidetracked throughout the day. Things became more and more like aÂ Camus novel. I seemed to spend a lot of time standing in grocery lines to buy single half-liters of beer. It got really hot. A couple fighters streaked over the harbor (â€œWHOHOOO! Gitsum, boys!â€)–God, if only their employment had anything to do with my fantasies. Hey, with any luck my day might end like L’etranger.
I napped it off and went back to the harbor that evening. Dusk is the Magianâ€™s primal hour. I ran into one, and asked for English. He couldnâ€™t. I got my cigarette lit and switched on the dirka dirka, at which I instantly received the in-group treatment. My accent being way better than Clarissa Wardâ€™s, he assumed that I was more proficient in the Iraqi dialect than I am. I was able at least to ask questions and understand the answers, even if my comprehension fizzled out during his oriental elaborations.
I found out a number of things that did not in themselves surprise me, only that he was saying them. First, the corrupt and incompetent Baghdad government is worse than ISIS. Second, despite ISIS and the democracy, things are way better now than at any point in the recent past. He pointed at his phone as evidence of that (Iâ€™m no expert, but it looked like the same model as the rather expensive one I just bought). Third, that, despite the governmentâ€™s incompetence, he neither wanted nor thought possible an ISIS take-over of all Iraq. Fourth, he was not going back, he would stay in Germany or Austria.
He was quite open with me. In fact, he poured his heart out, describing the random violence in Baghdad, even showing me personal cell-phone pictures of bombingsâ€™ aftermath. I have no reason to think he fabricated any of this. I think his motive was simple: talking is therapy. Iâ€™m sure he had rehearsed these explanations a hundred times, never really thinking he would get to tell a Westerner. And what good would it be to tell another Arab?
On a lighter note, he also showed me pictures of his keepers. He said they were mostly Canadians and Americans. One was a mulatto, the others were fat. The problem with the red-pill is it takes the surprise out of life. And who was the ringleader of this altruistic orgy–the beast at the very bottom of my descent through European meme-land? You guessed it. A fucking Swede.
I admit I feel real sympathy for these people (not the Swedes). This Iraqi reminded me of my Arabic teacher–a flawlessly polite gentleman of the old middle-class. His parents were no doubt secular bourgeoisie during the old regime–before his country was thrown into a death-spiral (he mentioned fighting in the Iran war as a young man), courtesy of the Jews in Washington and their Levantine kinsmen. His parentsâ€™ remote ancestors had built the worldâ€™s first civilization, arguably the Westâ€™s first, or at least a critical forerunner. To them we owe the innovations that separate us from barbarism. I truly wish Iraq werenâ€™t such a shithole now.
Call me an islamophilic cuck all you want to. Only fascists can feel real sympathy. Sympathy, real sympathy, derives from a sense of tragedy–the fatalistic understanding that bad things will happen. The fascist understands that other people are different from him and that they have their own aims, which sometimes conflict with his. Thus, he does not deem his enemies morally defective for opposing him. What are enemies for? My enemy and I strive to do each other harm. That is sad. If I were my enemy, I would do the same to me. That we find ourselves locked in a life-struggle against the Muslims is, and I really feel this, tragic.
But it would be insane to pretend the struggle is not there. Only madness, or profound irrationality, could lead someone to assume that menâ€™s conflicting desires do not lead to strife. Because the liberal suffers from this very delusion, he cannot know real sympathy. What he imagines to be sympathy is only his maudlin effort to broaden his incomprehension. He wants to at least feel what he does not have the capacity to know. His sympathy is false. To recycle an example from Otto Weininger, a female nurse can simulate concern for her dying patients day after day, yet remain undisturbed, because she cannot experience real sympathy. Whereas for a man with a sense of the tragic–a fascist–would suffer total a collapse under such psychological strain.
After a 50 minute conversation, we parted. His gave meÂ the most valuable thing he had–the truth aboutÂ hisÂ aims. I hope that one day soon, we canÂ repay the favor.
Itâ€™s fucking happening Goyim, another jihad in France, a Coup dâ€™etat in Istanbul, and congress dumps the 9-11 reportâ€™s redacted 22 pages.Â Itâ€™s all going out with the trash, because itâ€™s Friday, and the Jews think they can get away with it. But AI is on point and on air with this special episode, featuring George Singh in Washington, DC, and Greg Ritter in some Eastern European shit-hole.
Elin Krantz was a young Swedish woman who was raped and murdered by an Ethiopian named Ephrem Tadele Yohannes. A photo of her contorted body was leaked (probably from the police investigation) and has been floating around on the internet (Editor’s note: No link posted. The reader is invited to do a google image search. The picture is extremely disturbing).
A different woman is featured in a music videoÂ having sex with a black while singing the Swedish national anthem. The clip “blanda upp” is from a ‘comedy’ show named Grotesco. The video promotes race mixing and is intended to mockÂ the Sweden Democrats.