This speech was delivered on October 31, 2015, at the NPI conference, Become Who We Are.
Something is happening.
The fact that we’ve all come this far . . . that we’ve come together from around the world . . . that we’ve left Twitter and gone physical . . . means that something is happening. Or at least something has happened to us.
On one level, coming together means that we are, in fact, “normies,” or at least a lot more “normie” than our critics imagine. We haven’t lost that human desire for communion, companionship, and the sense of being on a team.
But it also means that we’re all a bit mad. We’ve got this splinter in our minds that screams. It screams at us to do those things and say those things that our guardians and authorities tell us are “radical” or, even more tantalizing, “dangerous.” For what is danger to us but a sign that we’re getting close . . . close to that thing around which the world revolves. We’re getting close to what lies behind the invasion of the European homeland by Africans and Arabs . . . this unspoken angst felt by millions of White people, and that informs something as implausible and seemingly comical as a Donald Trump presidential run . . . as well as what lies behind those Iowans supporting Ben Carson, sending off wishes and prayers to the White Guilt tooth fairy: “If only we vote for a Black man, they’ll finally leave us alone. If only we vote for a Black man, they’ll really know that we’re good.”
Something is happening to the world. Something big, if we’re willing to open our eyes and see it.
“Conservatives” have this tendency to focus in on technicalities: they might see, for instance, the current invasion of Europe as a matter of “bad refugee policies” or resulting from the machinations of some bad politician or financier.
And there, of course, are many bad policies and many bad people who are currently in charge of most governments of the world. But even a George Soros-style “gagillionaire” is a flea in comparison to what we’re facing. We live at an historical inflection point as significant as Constantine’s conversion to Christianity.
We live in a time defined by the Total Moral Delegitimization of the White Man. A time when few disagree with the opinion that we, who once dominated the world, are the cancer of mankind. That we have got to go. And that it will be good when we’re gone.
This period could be called The Great Erasure . . . but then that term doesn’t quite catch the irony of what’s happening. For we do not face the kinds of conquests, humiliations, and genocides that we’ve read about in history books. We aren’t being driven from our homelands by force (with a few important exceptions). We don’t face the slaughter of captives, systematic raping of women, and quartering babies so that the defeated line will never live again (even though some very nasty things are taking place).
I actually wish that our challenge were like these “horror shows” of yesteryear. That we all faced the immediate prospect of a firing squad, a knock on the door at 3 AM, or a march off a gangplank. For in such an obvious emergency, even the most debased American might actually rise off his couch, turn off the football game, wipe the Dorito Cheese from his face, grab a gun, and fight.
As homo sapiens (that is, seemingly intelligent primates), we are well endowed for a physical confrontation. We haven’t fully lost that part of us, the little beast inside that will fight to the death to defend ourselves and our people—and that might even have a certain fondness for blood.
But we don’t face the “End of the World” from a comic-book movie or an Alex Jones fever dream. To the contrary, I could very well imagine millions of White people surviving The Great Erasure, living on in the ruins of the postmodern world, living on without identity and without meaning, living on though debt, Snapchat, porno, and Prozac, living on by lapping up humiliation. Put another way, I could well imagine a future that is worse than extinction.
As physical beings, as animals, we’re ready to fight marauders or thieves and criminals. But we are not ready to fight this war we’re in, and specifically we are not ready to fight it on the field on which it takes place.
This war against us will often have physical effects—say, Fergusson protests, a German family being removed from their home to make room for migrants, or the widespread rape of White women in Stockholm, Sweden. But these are ultimately effects. They are the effects of a war that is fought in our minds and souls, a war that is psychological, moral, and spiritual before it is economic, political, and physical.
Conservatives, despite all their talk of “culture,” have been useless in stopping this war. They never really comprehended it. And that’s the problem.
A Letter From a Budapest Jail
I first started writing this essay one year ago, when I had a lot of time on my hands, as I was serving out a weekend stay in an Hungarian prison. A pen and paper were just about all the possessions I was allowed, and I imagined scribbling away at a speech that would soon go by the pompous and ironic title “A Letter From a Budapest Jail.”
In case you haven’t heard this story, a year ago, this organization brought down the ire of the Hungarian government by attempting to host a pan-European, racialist conference in that Central European capital. This quickly became something more dangerous than triggering Social Justice Warriors, which usually only results in making them write “Wow. Just wow” as a Facebook status update.
For our efforts, we were declared a national security threat by Prime Minister Viktor Orbán. My colleague, William Regnery, got booted. I was captured, interrogated, imprisoned, and deported after spending a weekend staring at various examples of prison cuisine, which were all indistinguishable from cat food.
But don’t feel too sorry for me. If I’m to be honest, getting arrested for being too right-wing for the most hated man in Europe was completely bad ass.
But looking back on it now, I see those crazy few days in Budapest as a sort of black comedy, a microcosm of our race’s inability to distinguish Friend and Enemy, and separator the wolves from the sheep.
Moreover, 2014 wasn’t just any year. And my weekend arch-nemesis, Viktor Orban, as you know, isn’t just any European leader.
2014 was, of course, the 100-year anniversary of the First World War. Historians and philosophers can speculate about its causes. We know that it was effectively the year that the then-commanders of our race committed mass suicide, on a scale that was previously unimaginable.
In other words, we hosted a “pan-European” brotherhood conference on the anniversary of that event that seems to forever scream out about our race’s propensity to always be fighting Brothers’ wars, and to always be losing the whole world in the process.
A year on, Viktor Orban has as much right as any man alive to call himself a “Good European.” Indeed, Orban might be the singular “Good European” among existing world leaders. He is the one who has confronted multiculturalism and the refugee crisis as a man ready to defend his people, a not as a “conservative” eager to lower interest rates or bring back school prayer.
So why did Orban throw poor old me in jail?
The simplest solution to this puzzle is that he was kowtowing to PC. A more complicated response would be that people like us are a little too close for Orban’s comfort: we’re a little too edgy and a little too explicit. We make Orban look bad. So why shouldn’t he purge a few “Edgelords”; after all, he’s got a parliamentary majority to manage.
But on another level—and, I think, a deeper and more revealing level—Viktor Orban is all-too-similar to the “Europeans” of Old, the Europeans who who fought each and lost the world.
Orban’s rhetoric has certainly made him a bête noire among the liberal journalists, on the level of Donald Trump. And for that reason, we like him.
But what is really happening? Orban is busy creating “Fortress Hungary.” He’s building fences, which, judging from photos coming Budapest, are about as effective Swiss cheese. Orban has even organized a grand corridor, through which the African and Arab stream can flow freely into the Germanic heartland of Europe.
He’s used water canons on immigrants and sicked the hounds on Americans racialists alike. In other words, Orban expresses, in one man, the limits and contradictions of ethno-nationalism and “conservative” pragmatism—of half-measures, and solving little problems and not big ones.
In case you think I’m being too harsh. I would say, unequivocally, that Orban is playing the only game he knows; he’s playing it to the best abilities; and, from our perspective, he is playing it better than anyone else in power . . . for what that’s worth.
Politics is, after all, the art of the possible. And at this point, Orban’s ethno-nationalism is right on that edge. A politician must reach people where they are, and not where we might wish them to be. The problem here is that where our people are is stumbling towards humiliation and death. And “Fortress Hungary,” under the rosiest of possible scenarios, might one day be little Lilly pad in giant swamp.
Politics is the art of the possible. But today the impossible is necessary. And the art of the impossible is exactly the reason why our movement should exist.
Europe Is Coming Together
But when I say “impossible,” maybe that’s not quite right. For we are not building castles in the clouds or writing symphonies not meant for human ears.
To the contrary, often I feel that history and events—even those of terrible politicians and gagillionaires—are conspiring to make European identity necessary, indeed, conspiring to bring it into the world.
For the past 200 years, Europe has been coming together. It might seem odd to say that in light of the World Wars or even the World Cup. But the geopolitical trajectory of Europe is unambiguous.
The European continent was once a patchwork of competing, interlocking principalities and states. It has come to be defined by imperial blocs: Germany, France, Russia, Britain. And we shouldn’t forget that imperial blocs are what these “nations” really are.
Modern European history can be seen as a history of the formation of the state—from a multitude to a few and maybe soon to one.
Just as important as this political development has been the creation of an Homogenous European Man. He is someone who might call some place home: Wales, Bavaria, Cork. But he is demonstrably European in his character, values, tastes, and outlook.
There’s a cost to that, of course. For the homogenous European man is, in his way, the Last Man Nietzsche spoke of: the businessman or consumer, whose greatest ideal is filling his tummy and cashing a pension check.
But we must look beyond him, or through him, and view what this process is really leading towards.
We must be brave enough to see a silver lining even in the ongoing immigration and demographic catastrophe.
This invasion certainly threatens us on the most basic level of biology. But it contains within itself its own reversal—the potential to heighten and intensify our racial awareness.
For who are we in the eyes of Ahmed or Yourself or Halim? We are not Italians or Hungarians or Poles, or liberals or conservatives or Marxists. Little distinction is made by the invaders between those who applauded as thousands of Syrian invaders enter the Frankfurt airport and those who remained silent.
In our adversaries eyes, we are all White Men, regardless of how we might want to conceive of ourselves.
Years from now, we might look back on this seeming disaster as a blessing. We might look back with a certain gratitude on these invaders. For they—at last—taught us who we really are, and they, at last, taught us how to fight. The invasion didn’t kill us; it made us stronger.
And Europe is coming together in our imagination as well.
2014 was another important anniversary, which went virtually uncelebrated. It was the 25th anniversary of the events of 1989—the fall of the Berlin Wall, which set off the collapse of the Soviet Union.
We Americans (who shouldn’t be trusted with historical consciousness) have a tendency to see this only as a matter of the triumph of “capitalism,” and the misery of socialism.
When I was a child growing up in the 1980s, I had an ideological map of the world in my head. It was defined by an Iron Curtain, with an “Out” and “In.” I was “in” America and “in” freedom and “out” of Communism. I imagined Russians as “in” socialism, but who could escape and get “in” freedom.
Today, of course, we might have very different feelings about the Cold War. Was it not being “in” Communism—that inefficient, failed version of modernity—that, despite itself, allowed traditions to survive? And was it not Americanism—that more pernicious form of mass equality—that rotted our souls?
Regardless, today, we are all “in” the nihilistic spiral of The Great Erasure—and that includes Russia and Fortress Hungary. It’s really only a question of degree.
But our ability to overcome this crisis result precisely because there is no longer any “In” and no longer any “Out.” We are all parts of the sick man of the world. But we are also all parts of race that, despite its wishes, is being forced to take up Great Politics once again. To restart the world, and re-enter history, as struggle between races and civilizations for the future of the planet.
The Meaning of Becoming
Some have asked what I meant by titling this conference Become Who Are. What is “become” anyway and how do we “become” what we already “are.” In mathematics, “Become Who We Are” does not compute. There is no analogue for become; something is or is not.
In getting at what I’m thinking, a good place to start is with our collective feeling—that everyone here has in his guts—that we are not ourselves, that we—who live in the late-stage “lala” land of America and Western Europe—are not who really are.
In this sense, I’ve always been suspicious of people in our movement who unthinkingly define themselves by saying, “We Must Defend the White Race!” For what, exactly, are we defending? Are we defending the White race that invented liberalism? That is now passionately dedicated to its demise? Should we defend the White race that’s built an economy based on processed pink slime, Extra Value meals, and lottery tickets? Sometimes I get the impression that people in our movement want to save America or the system from itself? Why not let it die. And why not become something greater and more beautiful in its stead?
This sense of becoming should be at the heart of our conception of race and Darwinian evolution.
Our enemies have a point when they say that there’s never been a “pure” race, and that what we think of as “White” is really just a chance accumulation of characteristics, brought about by a clash of Angles and Saxons, Aryan invasions, and random outbreeding with Neanderthals.
It’s telling that the word “race” is a synonym for a “run” or a “contest” or a “campaign.” For race is essentially flux—with no beginning and no end. We’re reminded of Heraclitus, who said that a man never stepped into the same river twice, for the river is always flowing, turning, waxing and waning. (But it’s still a river.) In other words, there is Being and Time. There is the type (Who We Are) and there history, experience, and, most important, will (Who We Will Become).
What holds for all of nature, holds ten-fold for the European. For the White Man is a becoming animal, not only due to the nature of race but due to his own nature. We see the world—we see even our selves—as an unfinished project, as a work of art. We see the world as having meaning in that we shape it, transform it, make it is as beautiful, powerful, or terrifying as our imagination.
In turn, that angst that we feel, that splinter in our minds that has brought us here today is the screaming of our will for something higher more beautiful.
And will and imagination have always been more powerful than truth.
The Truth Is Overrated
One of my favorite metaphors in our movement is the “Red Pill” (which, of course, comes from The Matrix, the 1999 classic starring Keanu Reeves.) As Morpheus, the dark god of the Internet underworld, states,
You take the Blue Pill, the story ends. You wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill . . . and I show you how deep the rabbit hold goes.”
We all swallowed the Red Pill whole when we abandoned our illusions about democracy, race, class, women, Jews, religion, America, und so weiter. The scales dropped from our eyes. We pulled ourselves out the incubators of quaint bullshit and stropped drifting through life doing what we’re told.
We should remember, though, what happened when Neo took the Red Pill. He’s wasn’t transported to a bright, shiny world of happy endings and infinite possibilities.
He was taken to the “Desert of the Real”—a land of loneliness, darkness and pain. He lived a monochromatic existence in a steel submarine, eating nothing but cat food—perhaps not too different from a stint in a Hungarian jail.
How many of us have taken the Red Pill—“Truth”—and responded with despair and regret? Or, worse, responded with a kind of extreme cynicism about our bourgeois lives?
How many have learned the truth about race—or sensed it in our bones—but only embraced the attitude that there’s nothing we can do and we might as well watch videos of Black flashmobs on World-Star Hip Hop.
How many have learned the secrets of female nature, but never sought to use these in order to bring White children and families into the world; instead we developed techniques for picking up sluts in bars.
How many have been “Red Pilled” only to respond by Riding the Tiger into oblivion.
Millions of White people around the world are being Red Pilled as I speak, not because of anything we’re doing, really, but because they’re being Red Pilled by life.
They shall know the truth. But truth might not set them free. For the truth never set anyone free.
Indeed, knowing too much truth can be a problem. It can lead us to be like Hamlet—the quintessential modern hero, who could see through everything, who could see the dark side of every decision and every human relationship. Hamlet sees the world disintegrating before his eyes—and as a result he is utterly paralyzed. It is “conscience”—awareness of the dark sides of things—that makes us cowards and conscience that makes us sick.
In turn, it is not truth but forgetfulness and dreams that inspires action.
This is what I mean by “Political Theology.” This notion might strike contemporary ears as a contradiction, or as a kind of heresy; politics and belief are things we like to segregate. The term, of course, comes from Carl Schmitt, who understood that it was myth and belief—not force—that defined real political power—that granted it legitimacy, meaning, and rightness.
We in this room might scoff at all those foundational myths of America, and the whole postmodern world: “self evident” chestnuts like “all men are created equal” and that governments are established to protect “rights.” These things embarrass us.
But it is this mythic realm that secretly lies beneath all political discourse—that informs action, that defines what’s “possible” and what’s not. And it is on that subterranean, mythic level that we must operate.
By 2015, we’ve reached the end of something—The Great Erasure, our moral delegitimization and physical dispossession. Millions of European people will be experiencing this catastrophe in millions of different ways.
If our movement is to have any justification, it’s to offer them something more important than just another policy proposal, some way to “Make America Great Again.”
Part of this must be the ideal of the Ethno-state, as Guillaume Faye has spoken of it—from Lisbon to Vladivostok. But more important than utopia is that moral reorientation that must take place first—that new psychic grounding for the politics of the future.
Over the past 2000 years, in what’s known as “the West,” we have lived through the age of individual salvation. With Christianity, it has been the dream of the afterlife, or in liberal ideology, the dream of being an purely autonomous ego, liberated from the past, from duties to ancestors, from familial bonds, and the debt we owe to the future.
Our age—the age that follows The Great Erasure—will be one of collective salvation, of a theology that is both down-to-earth and fixed on eternity. We should dream that can see our ancestors, and the entirety of the past, reflected, infinitely, in the eyes of our child. That we can see the whole story of our race—our divisions and trials and defeats—building to the moment of salvation, in this world and not another.
For we, we, who are cast down. We, who’ve been dispossessed, imprisoned, and overthrown. One day, we will become a people.