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.
Greg takes us on a tour of the Eternal City and Calabria–the Alabama of Italy. The bros compare Italian and Nordic character and habits, and discuss the Afro-Muzziepocalypse. The signs are everywhere. But is there enough awareness of the problem for anything to get done? AI brings you this report from the Front.