Uncle Adolf’s table talk, 159

the-real-hitler

 

1st August 1942, evening

British lies—A comparison with America—The Church’s cunning wisdom—Exit the Pope.

Conversation turned to a book entitled Juan in America which Bormann had recently lent to the Fuehrer. In it the author paints a picture of the unbelievable conditions which reigned in the intellectual and political circles of the United States, and of the astonishing credulity of the American citizen. Hewel stated that this credulity was not an exclusively American characteristic, and that in Britain, too, the people swallowed everything they were told. Hitler said:

It is perfectly true that the British swallow everything they are told. At the moment, nevertheless, there is a certain amount of murmuring over faked reports. According to the Americans themselves, America has the finest, biggest and most efficient of everything in the wide world; and when one then reads a book like this about them, one sees that they have the brains of a hen! Well, the disillusionment will be all the more severe, and the consternation, when this house of cards collapses, will be enormous.

It is very difficult to argue with Americans. They immediately shout: “Say, take a look at what our workers earn!” True, but let us take a look at the shady side as well. The industrial worker earns his eighty dollars; but the man who is not in industry gets absolutely nothing. At one time they had no less than thirteen million unemployed. I have seen pictures of shelters built out of old kerosene tins which the unemployed had erected for themselves and which remind me of the holes of misery to be found in the Bolshevik industrial cities. I grant you that our standard of life is lower. But the German Reich has two hundred and seventy opera houses—a standard of cultural existence of which they over there have no conception.

To sum it up, the Americans live like sows in a most luxurious sty!

Reichsleiter Bormann drew attention to the gifts which France made almost every day to the Church, and on which the power of the Church was thriving mightily. The Fuehrer continues:

It was exactly the same in Bavaria! Held restored to the Church forest lands to the value of thirty or forty million marks, lands which by expropriation belonged to the State!

The Church has succeeded in striking a very pretty balance between life on earth and in the Hereafter. On earth, they say, the poor must remain poor and blessed, for in Heaven the earthly rich will get nothing; and the unfortunate poor on earth believe them!

It is only by keeping the masses ignorant that the existing social order of things can be maintained; in the eyes of the faithful, this is the justification for supreme Papal authority. Cramer-Klett told me one day that he had become a Catholic because he realised that Luther with his Reformation had completely destroyed authority as such.

Possibly—but I cannot help thinking that man has been endowed with a brain which he is intended to make use of, and that anything which is founded on a premise unacceptable to the human intellect cannot endure for ever. It is not possible to hold fast for very long to tenets which the progress of knowledge have proved to be false. I should be wrong if I condemned as a liar a man who believed firmly in the Aristotelean or Ptolemaic world, when he had no other alternative to choose from. But a man who still believes in this old conception of the world today certainly is a liar. No science remains stationary. In my eyes the ability of mankind to reject a proven untruth is one of its virtues. By the Church the Unknown is described and explained with precision, and if she advances with the times, the ground must inevitably be cut from under her feet. For this reason she is opposed to all progress. It adds little to our knowledge of the Creator when some parson presents to us an indifferent copy of a man as his conception of the Deity.

The most pressing danger, as I see it, is that Christianity, by adhering to a conception of the Beyond which is constantly exposed to the attacks of unceasing progress, and by binding it so closely to many of the trivialities of life which may at any moment collapse, is ripening mankind for conversion to materialistic Bolshevism. And that is a terrible tragedy. Man will lose all sense of proportion, and once he considers himself to be the lord of the universe, it will be the end of everything. And if the Church in Spain continues in the way it is doing, it will end on the refuse-heap.

In Venice, in 1934, the Duce once said to me: “One of these days the Pope will have to leave Italy; there is not room for two Masters!” The Church of today is nothing more than a hereditary joint stock company for the exploitation of human stupidity.


_____________________________

Consider obtaining a copy of the complete notes
published by Ostara Publications.

Uncle Adolf’s table talk, 165

the-real-hitler

9th August 1942, midday

The British are nothing but a twig from the German tree. They have no claim whatever to a share in the responsibility for the security of Europe. For that Germany is prepared to accept full and sole responsibility. By harsh rule we must bring law and order to the Continent. The Balkans we will leave alone for the moment, so that we can continue to export arms to them.

Published in: on May 9, 2015 at 9:08 am  Leave a Comment  
Tags:

Anglos & Germany

Hitler and frau

The truth surrounding Hitler and his catastrophic betrayal by the Anglos is what one finds at the deepest level of the rabbit hole. Unfortunately many on the right are unwilling to venture that deep.

Perhaps this is because the truth is so utterly depressing. Hitler overcame such incredible odds and came so close to freeing the Aryan soul from its Jewish chains, only to be struck down one step from the finish line. I can think of no other feat in western history that rivals it. His success was so critically important, his defeat was our greatest tragedy.

Reflecting upon his legacy inspires me and also fills me with despair. Seeing the growing number of people who are beginning to understand and support him give me hope.

—Hyperborean

Published in: on April 24, 2015 at 9:03 am  Comments (7)  

Uncle Adolf’s table talk, 180

the-real-hitler

31st August 1942, evening

Britain, Germany, Lloyd George and the Duke of Windsor—Jews spur on the deadly work of the warmongers—Churchill.
 

It is a mistake to think that all Britons are arrogant. It is perfectly true that they have a handful of degenerates at their head, and I must admit that our leaders of 1917-18 shone in comparison.

I asked Lloyd George why it was that he had failed to gain his point when negotiations for the peace treaty were in progress? (He was advocating a magnanimous peace treaty.) He explained that Wilson opposed him from the beginning, and that the French never ceased from their witch-hunt; it was not his fault, and he had done all that was in his power to do.

Recently they have announced the internment of eleven thousand Fascist followers of Mosley. The real reason for the destruction of the Duke of Windsor was, I am sure, his speech at the old veterans’ rally in Berlin, at which he declared that it would be the task of his life to effect a reconciliation between Britain and Germany.

The campaign of antagonism against Germany was organised by Churchill on the orders of his Jewish paymasters, and with the collaboration of Eden, Vansittart and company. The Jews had already succeeded, step by step, in gaining complete control of the press. To counteract Rothermere, the Jews cut off his complete revenue from advertising, and it was Rothermere himself who told me the story of how he was compelled to toe the line. Any and every nation which fails to exterminate the Jews in its midst will sooner or later finish by being itself devoured by them.

_____________________________

Consider obtaining a copy of the complete notes
published by Ostara Publications.

Quotable quote

The century of 1930 to 2030 was providentially destined to be the Aryan century of all history, but thanks to the fucking Anglo-Saxons it has become the Jewish century par excellence.

—César Tort

Published in: on March 19, 2015 at 11:20 am  Comments (18)  

Uncle Adolf’s table talk, 182

the-real-hitler

 

2nd September 1942, evening

Political evolution of Britain— Possibility of a volte face by Churchill.
 

I do not believe that Britain is going Left; if she did, it would be a catastrophe! For as long as the war lasts, Churchill will remain. But I do not regard it as beyond the realms of possibility that some event, like, perhaps, the fall of Stalingrad, may compel him to make a complete volte face. A leading statesman has, of course, his eye on the possible proceedings the State may take against him, once the game is lost, and this may act as a deterrent. When once the terms we offered to Great Britain are made public there will be an uproar throughout the Kingdom.

If a change of leadership occurs, the first thing the new man should do would be to release all those who have been incarcerated by Churchill. They have already been in prison for three years, and a better preparation of the spirit of revolution does not exist. These people would soon settle accounts with the Jews!

When war was declared, a bare 40 per cent of the Members of Parliament were in their seats; immediately afterwards, on another occasion, two hundred and fifty-four members ostentatiously refrained from voting. Never has Britain waged a war which is such an offence to the intelligence and which was thrust upon her by a small clique.

_____________________________

Consider obtaining a copy of the complete notes
published by Ostara Publications.

Published in: on March 19, 2015 at 11:02 am  Leave a Comment  

Uncle Adolf’s table talk, 183

the-real-hitler

 

3rd September 1942, evening

Never yield an inch to Britain—No war against the British, but against the clique who rule them.
 

One thing is quite certain—we should never have got any where with the British, if I had given way to them in one single instance. Today, they regard me capable of anything; hence the satisfactory reply to our demand for the immediate cancellation of the order to manacle prisoners of war.

We must persist in our assertion that we are waging war, not on the British people, but on the small clique who rule them. It is a slogan which promises good results. If we say we are fighting the British Empire to the death, then obviously we shall drive even the last of them to arms against us; and do not forget that there are very many among them who never wanted war. If I give Churchill grounds for declaring that Britain is fighting for her survival, then I immediately close the ranks for him—ranks which at the moment are most desperately torn asunder.

What has Britain achieved by her declaration that she will destroy the German people? I’ll tell you what she achieved: she has welded the whole German people into one mighty, determined fighting unit. Of one thing I am sure: the people at present at the helm will continue the war until they see that it can no longer be won and—this is important—are at the same time satisfied that a cessation of hostilities will not mean the destruction of the British Empire.

In spite of everything, I therefore think that we are psychologically right in continuing to declare, now and in the future, that we are not fighting against the British people, but against this ruling clique.

_____________________________

Consider obtaining a copy of the complete notes
published by Ostara Publications.

Published in: on March 18, 2015 at 2:36 pm  Leave a Comment  

Horrific war, calamitous peace

by Nelson Rosit

“WWII represented the triumph of Evil. Seventy years afterward the fruits are evident and undeniable. We are all paying for it now.”

—A commenter of The Occidental Observer

BookCoverImage
 
Hellstorm: The Death of Nazi Germany,
1944—1947
by Thomas Goodrich
Sheridan, CO: Aberdeen Books, 2010
Reviewed by Rosit in 2014 on TOO

 
 

Introduction

I was flattered when asked to review Thomas Goodrich’s book Hellstorm. Though first published in 2010 it has recently come out in paperback and Kindle editions and deserves wider notice. That said, I knew this would not be an easy book to read and review.

Hellstorm chronicles the atrocities and deprivations visited upon Germany from 1944 to 1947. Though much of the story will be familiar to serious students of World War II, the author appears to have also included some new primary-source material. The bibliography shows that Goodrich has accessed most of the older major works in this field, making Hellstorm a well-researched compendium. So, if you have not read Bacque, Sajar, Keeling, et al. you will find them quoted and footnoted here.

In addition to hundreds of footnotes the book contains two maps, always a plus, sixteen pages of photographs, and a useful bibliography and index. If fault can be found, it would be that Goodrich seems to have completed his research by 2000 so none of the more recent historiography has been included. Also, there are places in the narrative where the events described are not assigned a date and location making the chronology a bit unclear.

These are minor criticisms, however, because it is not simply as a piece of historiography that Hellstorm finds its power, but as a gut wrenching, heart rending story of human suffering and the malice that produced that misery.


Synopsis

Prologue: Right from the start Goodrich grabs the reader by the lapels and shakes him. He starts by describing the fate of the East Prussian village of Nemmerdorf. In October 1944 it became the first town in Germany proper to be overrun by the Red Army. Soviet troops went into a blood frenzy of rape, torture, and murder.

The author makes it clear that by 1944 the war aims of the Allies was not just the defeat of the German armed forces, nor even the destruction of the National Socialist regime, but rather, “nothing less than the utter extinction of the German nation” (p. 6). Why the genocidal intent?

Goodrich suggests that, in large part, this genocide was the culmination of an eleven-year propaganda campaign against Germany lead mainly by American Jews. International Jewry had declared war on Germany in 1933 by instituting economic sanctions as well as the above-mentioned propaganda offensive. The author quotes from Theodore N. Kaufman’s book Germany Must Perish! “Germany must perish forever! In fact—not in fancy… by preventing the people of Germany from ever reproducing their kind” (p. 7). He also cites Ben Hecht’s A Guide for the Bedeviled in which Germany and Germans are compared to a cancer which must be destroyed.

On September 15, 1944 President Franklin Roosevelt converted such hate-filled rants into official policy by endorsing the Morgenthau Plan. Named for Secretary of the Treasury Henry Morgenthau and developed by his chief lieutenant Harry Dexter White (both Jews), this plan envisioned reducing the postwar population of Germany by two-thirds mainly through the starvation of 50 million men, women, and children. Winston Churchill also signed on to the Morgenthau Plan.

To the east, Ilya Ehrenburg, “perhaps the most influential Jewish writer anywhere in the world,” was advocating German genocide via articles in Pravda, Isvestja, and Red Star as well as in millions of leaflets distributed at the front. “The Germans are not human beings… Kill, Red Army men, kill! No fascist is innocent, be he alive, be he as yet unborn” (p. 10).

dresden et alChapter 1 covers the terror bombings conducted by American and especially British air forces. This campaign begun in July 1943 with attacks on the port city of Hamburg that left, “750,000 homeless [and] an estimated 60,000 to 100,000 dead, mostly women and children” (p. 14). Called by various names—area bombing, carpet bombing, saturation bombing, and unrestricted bombing—the indiscriminate destruction of urban areas could more accurately be described as terror bombing.

The leading architect of terror bombing was Chief of British Bomber Command Arthur “Bomber” Harris. Postwar assessments by military and political leaders as well as historians have led most to agree that, in contrast to strategic bombing of military targets and production and transportation facilities, bombing of residential areas and cultural monuments was ineffective. While causing massive devastation, it failed to break civilian morale.

Chapter 2 deals with the issue of POWs on the Eastern Front. Much has been written about the poor treatment received by captured Soviet (but not Western) soldiers. But Goodrich makes the point that Stalin, “refused to sign the Geneva Convention on prisons of war or the Hague Treaty on land warfare” (p. 49). With no assurance of humane treatment for their own troops Germans gave little quarter. Unfortunately, massacres of prisoners on both sides began early. For instance, on July 1, 1941 160 captured Germans were shot or bayonetted in Broniki, Ukraine.

Chapter 3 continues to chronicle events on the Eastern Front as the Soviets advance into Germany. Rape, murder, looting, and destruction accompany the Red Army. “Kill them all, men, old men, children, and the women, after you have amused yourself with them!” urged Ilya Ehrenberg (p. 81). One German boy recalled that in his town, “everyone wearing anything military—a military coat, for example… [was] shoved against a wall and shot” (p. 86). Also in this chapter Goodrich recounts the disaster that befell the refugees trying to flee west by sea. On the night of January 30, 1945 the Wilhelm Gustloff was steaming west on the Baltic Sea, grossly overloaded with 8,000 women, children, and wound soldiers. Goodrich skillful describes the scene.

That black stormy night, as she struggled through high winds and heavy, ice-filled waves, the Gustloff’s ventilation and plumbing systems failed utterly. Strained beyond its limits, the tightly-sealed ship filled with a hot, nauseating stench of urine, excrement, and vomit. The groans and screams of severely wounded soldiers and the wails of separated families added to the ghastly horror. But the worst was yet to come. At approximately 9 P.M., three heavy jolts rocked the passengers on the Gustloff. (p. 89)

The ship had been torpedoed by a Soviet sub. Goodrich gives a figure of roughly 7,000 men women and children lost.

Chapter 4 gives an account of the Yalta Conference of February 1945. For seven days the leaders of the Big Three—Britain, the US, and the USSR—met in Crimean Black Sea resort. This conference confirmed the decision made by Roosevelt and Churchill at Casablanca in 1943 to accept nothing less than unconditional surrender from Germany thus insuring that the Germans would fight to the bitter end. Goodrich notes that the US President “was a staunch supporter and admirer of [Stalin] and defended him at every turn” (p. 98). It was FDR who gave the Soviet dictator the moniker “Uncle Joe.”

Most of this chapter is devoted to describing the holocaust of Dresden. The city, which had been spared up to this time, was obliterated in mid February 1945 by Allied air attacks. The author gives six compelling reasons why Dresden should have been spared the destruction visited upon Hamburg and other German cities. But spared it was not.

On February 13 and 14 the magnificent Baroque city was bombed to rubble. Then thousands of incendiary bombs were dropped igniting the debris to create huge fire storms. “[T]he International Red Cross estimated that 275,000 had died… other estimates that place the death toll at 300,000 to 400,000 may well be closer to the mark” (p. 123). After the horror of Dresden a few Allied political and military leaders raised protests, but “the air terror continued unabated” (p. 125).

Chapter 5 returns to the plight of those fleeing the Soviet advance. After 150 pages of death and destruction the reader may think he has become inured to descriptions of violence. Then Goodrich recounts the shocking story of Neustettin. After the Red Army overran the city in February 1945 2,500 girls of the Reich Labor Service were killed, many after the most gruesome torture imaginable.

Chapter 6 deals with the conduct of Allied soldiers in the West. Their behavior was not nearly as bad as the Soviets, but the GIs did “‘their share of looting and raping’ a US sergeant admitted” (p. 169). Even more serious than looting and rape were the “large number of captured or surrendered Germans [who] were simply slaughtered on the spot” (p. 170). Fortunately, these were the exceptions rather than the rule and Goodrich concedes that “the average GI and Tommy comported himself amazingly well” (p. 170).

Chapter 7 describes the Battle of Berlin, the desperate, heroic, ugly, and hopeless defense of the German capital.

Chapter 8 covers a number of topics: the concentrations camps in the West, the fate of German POWs and civilians in the East, and the treatment of foreigners who supported or collaborated with the Germans.

When the concentration camps in western Germany were captured Allied soldiers were greeted by the sight of thousands of emaciated bodies, living and dead. With the breakdown in production and distribution of food, fuel, clothing, and medicine, “thousands of camp inmates swiftly succumbed in the final weeks of the war to typhus, dysentery, tuberculosis, starvation, and neglect” (p. 230). The Allied forces blamed the camp guards for these conditions and shot most of them on the spot. At this point of the war, however, many of the guards were ordinary German soldiers assigned to the camps to keep some semblance of order until Allied troops arrived.

The surrender of German forces in the spring of 1945 did not bring peace nor stop the killing. In Czechoslovakia German civilians and POWs were subjected to savage reprisals. Almost all Germans, many from families who had been there for centuries, were expelled from their homes. Over 200,000 were killed, many tortured to death. Similar scenes, on a lesser scale, were played out in Rumania, Hungary, and Yugoslavia. In France, 100,000 French citizens who had collaborated with the Germans were murdered.

At the end of the war over five million Soviet citizens—POWs, Cossacks, foreign workers, veterans of Vlasov’s German/Russian army—fell into the hands of the western Allies. To appease Stalin, Operation Keelhaul was implemented to forcibly return these millions to the USSR to face execution or years of slave labor. Operation Keelhaul became Operation Prevarication as the War Department solemnly proclaimed, “The United States Government has taken a firm stand against any forced repatriation and will continue to maintain this position… There is no intention that any refugee be returned home against his will” (p. 251).

Meanwhile General Eisenhower was circumventing the Geneva Convention by designating captured German soldiers as DEFs, Disarmed Enemy Forces rather than POWs who would be accorded certain protections under international law. As a result, the surrendering Germans were imprisoned in huge open-air enclosures without shelter, and with little food, water, or medical care. Hundreds of thousands died of exposure, starvation, dehydration, and disease. Probably close to one million German prisoners died in American and French camps. “And thus, in ‘peace,’ did ten times the number Landsers die than were killed on the whole Western Front during the whole of the war” (p. 260).

“These Nazis are getting a dose of their own medicine’ a prison commandant reported proudly” (p. 255). At the same time the International Red Cross reported that ninety-nine percent of American POWs held by Germany survived the war and returned home safely.

human torch

Chapter 9 begins with the German unconditional surrender on May 8, 1945. One phase of the war was over. Incredibly, “the worst yet lay ahead… The war against Germany continued unabated” (p. 279). Goodrich points out that the Morgenthau Plan was never officially repudiated and what might be called the Modified Morgenthau was implemented. “‘Most children under ten and people over sixty cannot survive the coming winter,’ one American admitted in October 1945” (p. 289). A few US elected officials protested the treatment of Germans, but the great humanitarian Eleanor Roosevelt declared after a fact-finding tour that conditions in Germany were “tolerable” (p. 292).

Chapter 10 surveys the de-Nazification process instituted after the war. This process involved imprisonment, interrogation, and punishment. Interrogation was often accompanied by beatings, rapes, and even more extreme torture. Few failed to confess to whatever they had been accused of while often implicating others as well. “One man opposed to the vengeance-minded program was George Patton. ‘Evidently the virus started by Morgenthau and [Bernard] Baruch of Semitic revenge against all Germans is still working,’ wrote the general in private” (p. 299).

Twice in the book Goodrich mentions that in immediate postwar Germany the Salvation Army was, “one of the few relief organizations that dared face and fight the incredible suffering, regardless of the Allied political pressure.” (p. 318). Although the Salvation Army was hardy able to “make a dent” in the desperate conditions these efforts might be something to keep in mind when you hear the bell ringers around Christmas time.

Chapter 11 covers the expulsions of over twelve million Germans from Prussia, Pomerania, and Silesia. After the war the USSR would claim a bit of East Prussia, the rest of the territory was awarded to Poland. The Germans, whose ancestors had lived in these lands for many centuries, were forced to flee west. Without adequate food, clothing, or shelter, exhausted and hungry, these hapless refugees were robbed, beaten, raped, and murdered by Russian soldiers, Polish militia men, and gangs of Gypsies and Jews. It was, “the greatest death march in history, [and] it was preordained that millions would never survive the trek” (p. 334).

About two million eastern German expellees, mostly women and children, died. Another one million ethnic Germans expelled from Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Rumania, Bulgaria, and Yugoslavia also died. Four million more Germans were sent east and disappeared into the gulags. Unbelievably, it appears that, “far more Germans died during the first two years of ‘peace’ than died during the previous six years of war” (p. 344).

Epilogue: The author suggests that the one thing that saved Germany from total postwar destruction was the beginning of the Cold War. By the late 1940s “Great Britain and the United States were more intent on erecting a bulwark against Soviet expansion than in flailing a fallen enemy even further” (p. 354).

Goodrich ends the book by saluting the German people’s will to live manifest in their postwar economic miracle. Yet he also notes that the propaganda campaign against Germany has continued—a psychological and political necessity for the victors to justify their wartime and postwar policies.


Conclusions

Hellstorm is revisionist history in the most basic definition of the term “revision”—to look at again. Seven decades after the end of World War II the standard narrative still reads like a morality play—the forces of good fought and triumphed over the forces of evil. Whenever history is written in such simplistic terms the reader should know that much of the story is missing. Building on earlier efforts, Hellstorm provides some of the missing pieces of the story.

This reviewer can remember when James Bacque’s Other Losses came out in 1989. It caused a minor stir. It contained evidence that perhaps one million Germans died in captivity in the West. It was released by a major Canadian publisher. It was reviewed by several mainstream publications. And, in that pre-internet age, it was available on the shelves of chain bookstores.

Yet Other Losses shows how difficult it is for any single book, no matter how significant, to change public perceptions of World War II formed by decades of incessant propaganda. Jews were the real victims of the war, and whatever losses the Germans may have suffered were their own fault.

The need for a more balanced view of the war and the need to interpret National Socialist Germany within a historical perspective is why Hellstorm is an important book. More such books need to be written. The suffering of the German people needs to be acknowledged. People of European extraction everywhere should see that the children burned alive or crushed under rubble were our children. The women beaten and raped were our women. The young soldiers summarily executed were our boys.

After seventy years, the denials and hypocrisy of the war and postwar years need to be recognized. For example, today America is fighting a War on Terror, yet terror—the killing of the innocent for military and political ends—was a major tactic of the Allies during World War II.

In 1984 Jewish author and media personality Studs Terkel published a best-selling oral history entitled The Good War. There was absolutely nothing good about World War II. It was a tragedy for our peoples and civilization.

William Faulkner wrote, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” Thus it is with World War II. The war is still being fought. It is a psychological war that heaps shame and guilt on Germany, and ironically, on her opponents as well to the extent they shared Germany’s race and culture. The war ought to be seen as an internecine conflict, the result of a failure of statesmanship by both Anglo-American and German leaders. As Patrick Buchanan wrote, it was The Unnecessary War.

An optimist might see the tide beginning to turn. In the past several years a number of mainstream books have been published seeking to present a more impartial view of the wartime and postwar suffering.

This is much more than just an issue of nuanced historiography. The narrative of World War II continues to be used as a propaganda weapon to demoralize the West. The effort to historicize World War II should continue. Hellstorm is part of that effort.

___________________

For the footnotes see the original article on The Occidental Observer, linked at the hatnote.

Extermination • III

Libro
CHAPTER 1:

THE STAR CHILD
 
 
 
 

A dream in Madrid

The day after my birthday in 2011 I received a wonderful gift, a long letter in Spanish, from which I translate here only one of the opening paragraphs:

You see, like you I was raised and educated in Mexico, where I was taught from school and the official media to despise my people and consider myself a mestizo. Had it not been for the rectifier comments of my parents probably I would be one of those many Criollos waving an enemy flag as if it was my own. The point is that it gradually dawned on me that the Mexican society was multiracial garbage where the Mongoloid-American element has replaced the European element, so causing the current state of anarchy and endemic violence.

“Criollos” or “Creoles” were the children of Spaniards born in the New World who had no drop of Amerind blood. It’s true what the Criollo said, whom I shall refer to as “Ibero,” that in Mexican public education Indian blood far outweighs the Spanish. So true that even some phenotypically Creole people are more identified with the American-Mongoloid element than with their European roots. No wonder the popular Mexican genius says, “Mexico is a surreal country.”

Such surrealism is a direct result of the continental experiment of the Counter-Reformation to genetically mix the European-Iberian with the American-Mongoloid. Never before it had been attempted a project of biological and social engineering on a continental scale in previous centuries and millennia! While the Spaniards used to talk of limpieza de sangre (purity of blood) and a caste system prevailed in the Americas, with the peninsular Spaniards and the Criollos at the top of the pyramid, the desire to exploit economically the New World alongside the universalism of the papacy broke natural barriers between what, following William Pierce, were two different species of humans. The mix of European and Indian worsened considerably with the massive importation of blacks to the mainland. Few know that more blacks arrived in the Spanish and Portuguese colonies of America than to the colonies of their Anglo northern neighbors. The difference is that here they amalgamated earlier, resulting in the formation of a crossbreed stock of the three races that explains the falling behind of the nations south of the Río Bravo.

In the mid 1970s I studied two years at the Madrid School of Mexico City. Back then most of my peers were Caucasian, some even blond: children of refugees of the Franco regime. (The school I knew no longer exist. On February 16, 2014 I received a visual shock when seeing more than a dozen classmates of one of my nephews from the Madrid. There was only one that might be considered white.) The Viceroyalty of New Spain lasted exactly three hundred years, from 1521 to 1821. In one of the history lessons I received in the Madrid School, the teacher revealed that the New Spaniards amused themselves by classifying the mixtures between the three races. Note that in the list below, a transcript of the footnotes of the sixteen illustrations of various Mexican parents with their children, the “Morisco” should not be confused with the peninsular Moor, or “Chino” with the inhabitant of China, or “Gíbaro” with the Amazonian Jívaro tribe:

1.- Spanish with Indian, mestizo
2.- Mestizo with Spanish, castizo
3.- Castizo with Spanish, Spanish
4.- Spanish with mora [negress], mulatto
5.- Mulatto with Spanish, morisco
6.- Morisco with Spanish, chino
7.- Chino with Indian, salta atrás
8.- Salta atrás with mulatto, lobo [literally, wolf]
9.- Lobo with china, gíbaro
10.- Gíbaro with mulatta, albarazado

Castas

11.- Albarazado with negro, cambujo
12.- Cambujo with Indian, sambaigo
13.- Sambaigo with loba, calpamulato
14.- Calpamulato with cambuja, tente en el aire [literally, stay in the air]
15.- Tente en el aire con mulatta, noteentiendo [literally, I don’t get you]
16.- Noteentiendo with Indian, tornatrás [literally, jump back]

(The Jews were not included in this melting-pot list of the three races as the Inquisition always kept them at bay; although some say that every Spanish has at least a drop of Jewish blood.) In today’s Mexico these New Spaniard terms are no longer used but the naco, analogous to the North American nigger, is used to refer disparagingly the mestizo with pronounced Amerind features.

In a coffeehouse in the center of Tlalpan in Mexico City, on January 26, 2012 to be exact (as good autobiographer, I keep a diary), I personally met Ibero, the author of the above-cited epistle, when he returned from his stay in Spain. After a long conversation we agreed that we would start a radio program for Latin American Creoles, and that we would meet on Saturday to plan the details. Ibero spoke to cancel the appointment the same week we met and mysteriously did not answer my numerous e-mails. I let time pass and decided to phone him more than a year later, on 31 March 2013. His answer was laconic, and the tone of his voice was not benign. I forgot the matter but later that year, on December 14, Ibero called back. He was very apologetic; insisted on an appointment that afternoon, and we met at another coffeehouse in Tlalpan, near where I live, El caldero chorreado (a translation of The leaky cauldron), in honor of the Harry Potter movie that Alfonso Cuarón filmed.

After coffee I invited Ibero to see my bookshelves, which are under my sister’s house. All the talk had been, from the coffeehouse, friendly until for some reason the subject of Mediterraneans and Nordics was brought up. I was surprised that, with bilious zeal, Ibero said something like: “We [the Mediterraneans] have saved them [the Europeans] more than once!” Ibero ignores that the ruling castes of the ancient Greeks and Romans were Nordic, as shown in FR. Even in the early Middle Ages, Charles Martel, as a Frank, came from a Germanic tribe. But I was surprised when I told him that, to save myself from the currency crisis that is coming, it would be ideal to move to Iceland. I did not record the conversation, I just wrote down what he said: “They kill you!,” “They’d kill us!” or “They’ll kill us!” (when writing the diary I was not sure which of those phrases had been the most accurate and wrote down all three). He meant that the Icelanders would kill us if we dared to emigrate there. I was shocked because I thought it was obvious that the nacos would terminate us—not the Aryans—after the collapse of the dollar leads to social chaos in the largest metropolis in Latin America. I was stunned at Ibero’s vehemence and did not say anything. But when I showed him in a bookshelf the 2011 edition of Arthur Kemp’s March of the Titans, he got very upset. Although I do not remember the specific reason of the anger, the image of Ibero greatly exalted when showing him the book is very much present.

I feel bound to say that on my recent trip to the United Kingdom I visited Kemp in an ideal village to live: far from traitorous London and where I saw no people of color. Years ago Kemp’s car was vandalized by the antifa while working in the British National Party, so I’ll omit mention where he now lives. Suffice it to say that he was very kind to me, a real tourist guide. He took me in his car to Chester and several places of interest: beautiful English countryside far from the Babel of the large British cities. My talks with Arthur in one of the very small towns we visited revealed something I suspected but was not sure.

The anger not only of Ibero, but of a good portion of the white nationalist community about March of the Titans is due to such an elemental truth that it requires complete brainwashing by racial egalitarianism not to see it: The concept “Nordic” refers to those whites who are less mixed. It’s that simple. No one who reads Pierce or Kemp fails to see so elementary fact.

History is the tallest tower of experience, wrote Van Loon, the queen of the humanities; and he who fails to base his understanding of race on it—classics like Gobineau, Chamberlain and Günther—won’t learn the Letter A of racial studies. Most white nationalists persist in not seeing what they have in front of their noses and claim that those who have lived for millennia in the Mediterranean, so close to the Levant and Africa, have virtually the same percentage of non-whites genes that Scandinavians. Not only many so-called white nationalists cling to the absurd premise that the mixture was negligible. Those Mediterraneans with inferiority complex so take this revelation like a bomb that Arthur’s family suffered harassment by e-mail from a Greek man of very dark skin, the stalker came to be called, who felt insulted for the book.

Before I met Arthur I supposed the critique of Christianity by Kemp in a book that took years to investigate was a factor of the visceral rejection of March of the Titans coming from many white nationalists and Mediterraneanists. In the “very small town” I won’t name I became disabused. Questioning Arthur I realized that the cause was simply the most abject state of denial before the elemental on the part of those who had browsed the online version of the book. (Ignorant racists because, as I told Kemp, he had not done anything but “reinventing the wheel” already devised by Gobineau.) And this, even though Kemp was always very polite in his texts by adding, immediately afterwards, that not all Spanish, Greek, Slav or Balkan inhabitants had suffered considerable miscegenation. Qualifying his findings in each chapter was not enough. The mere fact of making discriminative distinctions drives crazy the “racists” who are currently “fighting” the dogma of equality, Ibero included.

Following my meeting with Ibero in El caldero chorreado he invited me to what, as I understood, would be a meeting of Creole nationalists to be held on 21 December. I hesitated but decided to go at the last minute. Besides Ibero I had not met anyone knowledgeable of “white nationalist” literature over the internet, and despite our differences I could not resist the temptation of meeting more people that, like Ibero, were familiar with the subject.

When I parked my car on the street Mecanógrafos in the Sifón neighborhood, where the meeting was held, I was struck by the rock music played in one of the houses. I thought some naco neighbors were having a party and wondered if the noise would mar our meeting. Imagine my surprise to learn that the “music” came exactly from Ibero’s friend’s home! In announcing my arrival to the woman who opened a window, she summoned the one who had invited me. Another surprise: with Ibero a guy on costume with a swastika on his arm opened the door! What left an impression on me was that Ibero’s companion was not Criollo. He was clearly a hybrid whose Mongoloid-American element stand out. As a courtesy, I won’t mention his name but in this book we shall call him “Mestizo.”

Upon entering the party—not a meeting of intellectuals as I had imagined—I was surprised again to see it be held in winter outdoors. At the back of the yard I saw a fabric with the sign of the German SS and another with the Blade of Burgundy: Nazism and Creole nationalism. In my idealized vision I had imagined people like, say, the racially conscious gentlemen of the London Forum I would meet the month before last. But the anti-music and outdoor December party were the opposite: they would perform a crude pagan celebration at midnight, a popular holiday condemned by the pope. More surprising still was that among a few whites were more people of swarthy skin. I could not believe it and the situation turned openly surreal—the surrealism that Mexicans are fond to self-parody—when the friendly Mestizo with his swastika on the arm said “I’m white” to a group of guests, standing and drinking alcoholic beverages. I remembered an adolescent story of Arturo’s follies, one of my classmates of the Madrid School. Arturo once got into his car some transvestites and the police stopped him. One of them made a scene by yelling at the police: “I have vagina! I have vagina!…” Arturo commented that, if he said that, it was obvious that he did not have one. The same is true of those airing from the rooftops that they are “white.” Although I spoke some time in the yard’s party with Ibero, Mestizo and a Punk who showed me the wounds of his fights against the antifas, I could not long stand the music and the cold and left. And yes: the trio was very kind to me and accompanied me off the street.

The following month, the first Sunday of 2014, I saw again Ibero and Mestizo but this time in the Casa del Té—a place chosen by me—in the Condesa neighborhood where, without quarreling, I informed them that I was the staunchest nordicist in the Anglophone blogosphere. I explained that it was all a platonic love for the nymph Catalina when I was in my early twenties. It was then that Ibero confessed that he did not read my blog, and I assumed that the cause was precisely the nordicist articles I was reproducing and my open contempt for Spain. Let’s recall that in FR I pick texts by William Pierce and Kenneth Clark where it is alleged that the Iberian Visigoths allowed to be duped by Christianity, thus breaking their ancient taboo of never mixing with non-Goths, and henceforward Spain had not contributed substantially to the development of the ideas that create Civilization. But what Ibero and Mestizo ignored is that my nordicism obeyed a tragedy that prevented me to relate, among other realities of life, with Catalina (tragedy that I’ll tell in the long chapter “In Search for the Soulmate,” although I mention some of it in the first book of HS).

Although our differences were irreconcilable, I felt very curious to know a little more about the group. In a couple of weekends after a flu that hit me, Mestizo and I met in other places: the first one, a solitary coffee shop on a side of the central church in Coyoacán; the second, at a restaurant in Paseo de la Reforma with distant group members (Ibero missed those meetings while Punk had problems with the law). At the last meeting I witnessed another incredibly surreal scene. Fabián, who barely knew the group had invited one Gabriel at the meeting: a subject with light skin but whose brachycephalic head denoted rude Indian ancestry. Mestizo degraded Gabriel in front of me, Fabián and Pedro—a son of Spaniards—by telling the other mestizo that, due to his Indian-white mixed breed, he could not belong to the group. Gabriel, who had arrived wearing Nazi paraphernalia, was a young man with good feelings and the degradation ceremony distressed me so much that I left the table. Even for Pedro, an authentic Criollo, it seemed excessive what Mestizo did to the other mestizo for being mestizo, and tried to make modest amends.

If we keep in mind that the ethno-state that will emerge in North America will have to know the peculiar psychology of her southern neighbors, you will understand why I mention such colorful anecdotes. The racial complex of the Mexicans is not limited to Mestizo. There is much “coconut” in the country: people brown outside and white inside. Even so-called neo-Nazi groups in Mexico are composed mostly of this type of people. I have seen in the subway of the big city very dark-skinned brown women with bleaching creams on their arms, and have heard of a mother who disowned her daughter for not having being born white. (Mrs. Hypocrite!: she was the one who married a very dark-skinned man!)

Surrealism also occurs in reverse, and even among the Mexican intelligentsia. A family member told the bizarre story about a man who visited my parents’ house: the partner of the former director of the Madrid School, Cristina Barros, granddaughter of the famous Justo Sierra. (Cristina’s daughter, Isabel, was fair-headed, perfectly dolichocephalic and of sublime facial features. To me she always seemed a nymph of pure “nordish” stock but, in reality, her blood was of the most Aryan type existing among Spaniards. She and her family travel with Mexican passports.) Cristina’s partner, whose name escapes me, said with total vehemence that he was “a pure Indian”—something that contradicted all appearances! Although it may seem laughable, there are not only “coconuts” aspiring to white in Mexico, but whites who repudiate their Creole blood as well. We cannot understand the impossible chimera of different ethnic groups that is now called “Mexico”—Indians that not even speak Spanish, a few Criollos, the full range of mestizos and dark-skinned browns with negro blood—if one ignores the psychic toll that such concoction of races caused.

The last time I saw Ibero and Mestizo was on 19 April this year I write in a homely meeting at which only these two attended. The other group members are hobbyists, as they take “Criollo” preservation more like a hobby than a profession. In the meeting Ibero said such an aberration that I won’t sit and take it.

He said, as I annotated the following day, that he did not mind the blond hair or blue eye to become extinct “provided the generic white survive,” i.e., the non-Aryan, peninsular Spaniard like him. Taking into account that I am devoted body and soul to the archetype of the nymph Catalina we did not see or talked again after that meeting; but that night I discovered that Mestizo had better feelings, as he was concerned that the blue-eyed blonds became extinct.

If we translate to Oldspeak Ibero’s vocabulary his words mean something like: “I don’t care that the white race is extinguished always providing the Criollo-types survive,” that is, the mudbloods, as the vast majority of Creoles are not even remotely as pure whites as Catalina or Isabel.

Ibero turned out to be my ideological antipode insofar I am so devoted to the archetype of my hyper-Nordic Catalina as that feudal nobility of the 12th century who fabled with an inaccessible and deified woman. Since childhood, my mind and my most cherished taste for those I fancy have been clearly and inexorably medieval.

The semantic trap in Ibero’s ideology is to call generic white those who are not. “White” as I said in FR refers to the European mixture that occurred in the United States and Canada before the migration of Jews in the late 19th century. Ibero and Mestizo abuse the term by referring to those folk that are far from the Aryan paradigm—Aryans that still exist, though they are very few, in Latin America. (The statistics of the article with the title of “Blanco” in the Spanish-written Wikipedia are misleading: they are based on surveys of mestizo-Americans that, as Mestizo does, call themselves “white” or “of white ancestry”.) Ibero’s stance is aggravated by granting amnesty to people who, without a doubt, are as mestizos as his colleague: accused physiognomies that remind me of the Moorish actors I have seen in several Spanish TV series filmed in the peninsula. “Generic white” does not mean Indo-European. Ibero misuses language as mestizo-Americans abuse words like “Latino” or “Hispanic” in the United States to refer to immigrants of the color of poop.

Although Mestizo has good feelings, cognitively he is a goner because, unlike the Brazilian, he has no objection to breed, as Ibero.

The latter is what the Spanish-speaking Metapedia denominates “mediterraneanist”: people who believe that the “meds” are superior to the Nordic.

In my discussions with Ibero I noticed he has got a clear animosity toward the real Aryans. In the last meeting I saw them he told me that those who fought with most courage in World War II were the Spaniards; and when I mentioned the looming monetary and energy crises he said he was hopeful that Spain would be saved. That is what matters to him.

I mention these stories because, I believe, Sebastian Ernst Ronin’s critique of white nationalism, a late version of American universalism, is correct. Ronin claims that all nationalism is ultimately ethno-nationalism, and that it makes no sense to use the word “white” in Europe.

The case of Ibero illustrates it. Though born in Mexico, Ibero is an ethno-nationalist (a Creole nationalist) to use Ronin’s language, not a “white nationalist.” He apparently has no Indian blood: his heart is in Spain or, rather, in an Hispanic America. Extrapolating the concept of “white race” to Europe is launching into a fool’s errand. Doing it in Spain would literally charge at windmills for the simple fact that many of the “meds” are not even white. Most people of the Iberian Peninsula will identify with other “meds” and, what is infinitely worse, with clearly mesticized people like the Hispanic Americans. Ronin is right: you cannot create “white” awareness among WASPs and MEDs of Europe or Latin America, including authentic Criollos. Perhaps it is worth mentioning that, the day of the pagan party outdoors, Ibero drove back some of the guests: pure English girls living in Mexico. When Ibero’s ideology—whom I repeat: has no-Amerindian blood—came up, one of these English said: “But you’re not white.”

The key to the whole thing is to notice how the inferiority complex of the Mediterranean, so well exemplified in Ibero, sometimes almost comes to desire the extinction of the real whites. It’s not only bothering he does not care that blue-eyed blonds become extinct—presumably, only an eccentric and expendable subset of the “generic white” in his mind. When I was on speaking terms with him I always detected a kind of peevishness towards them. And what’s scary is inferred from this, taking into account the harsh criticism of Ronin to white nationalism.

Although he has no Jewish blood, Ibero is a kind of Jew as he uses his Iberian genotype and phenotype as platform and inferiority complex to degrade the competition. And the competition is no less than the true white. Ibero is, as his internet pennames denote, an “Iberolobo,” a “Peninsular.” He never emphasizes, as I do, the fact that the peninsular Portuguese irreparably tarnished their genes with sub-Saharan, African blood. Although he and Mestizo—especially Ibero—have a good grasp of the content of white nationalist blogs for English speakers, Ibero’s mind orbits around another gravitational field: Spain and its American transplant. He is a silent scholar of English blogs only as inspirational material on how to develop a “Criollo” equivalent in the Americas. By remembering his outburst against Icelanders when I told him if I had money I would move there—with true Vikings genetically speaking—, we will see something fundamental. I never heard from Ibero a similar rebuff against the Mediterraneans, Amerinds, mestizos or Jews. Only the nordish peoples seem to arouse his anger.

I will be told that the case of Ibero is eccentric, and that it is illogical to generalize from an isolated case. But it is not so isolated. Drawing on my recent trip to London I will tell something I saw at the Millennium Bridge.

I joined a walking tour on the bridge led by a young man who spoke, in Spanish, of the desire to divorce of Henry VIII as if it was “a tantrum of a brat” which the Pope did not grant. Although many Spaniards have lost their faith, you may still feel the cultural inertia of previous centuries. Ibero himself, who is not Catholic, has told me he does not like the English. Similarly to the tour for Spaniards, contemporary nationalism reinforces ancient grudges between the nations. Europeans are not united by a common lack of skin melanin! Unlike them I do not care if the divorce was legitimate; only that the establishment of an independent church by Henry VIII helped to break the monolithic power of the Catholic Church which had chained the thought of the white man throughout Europe. An old-styled nationalist in Spain would never reason that way!

To be fair to Ibero, I must make it clear that his anti-nordicism can go completely unnoticed unless someone presses him a little. That distinguishes him from the ancient hatred of Jews for Aryans, who so badly want to exterminate them that in their Talmud they proclaim that “the best of the gentiles must be exterminated.” In other words, the animosity of Ibero before the Aryans is only dormant, not omnipresent as in the case of our ethnic enemies. However, Ibero’s mind is perfectly understood when we note his words, that he has repeated more than once: “I’m not a second-class white!” Actually, as the English girl who he gave a raid said, he’s not even properly white.

Had Hitler’s dream been fulfilled—an Aryan empire from the Atlantic to the Urals—the most Aryanized Spaniards would be already thinking like me, not as Ibero. But I would like to put forward a direct response to his stance that it doesn’t matter that blue-eyed blonds become extinct, and that what only matters are the so-called generic whites, with the opposite fantasy: although it was a gift from the unconscious.

Some years before meeting Ibero, in November 12, 2008, I arrived at the Madrid airport after barely sleeping the previous night in mainland and across the ocean for nervousness to travel: something that usually happens to me the day before transatlantic voyages. Falling into deep sleep that night in a city I had never been, something happened. Unlike my dreams that opened the chapters of my HS, so riddled with symbols, this time the descent into the abyss of my being took me to something I had known for some time but was no longer in the front of my consciousness. But before quoting the content of the naked “dream” without symbols I must say I slept in a soulless building, which was surrounded by more of them: residential complexes like those that have become so fashionable in the West since the culture fell.

The dream had somehow present the rudimentary faces of the Spaniards who had been in the neighborhood without soul where I slept. The message from my unconscious that awoke me suddenly well after midnight let me know that we had to level all that vacuous culture, wiping out the ugly people living there. In other words, in no way my destiny in life ended with the Hojas I wanted to publish (that trip to Spain, I naively believed, would lead to find a publisher for my 700-page book). No: there was not nearly the last word in my Hojas. The wake up dream on another continent, after some thirty-odd hours of not sleeping and then falling into the depths of my being, was analogous to those dreams in which the person believes to have received a divine message: You still have to speak about the extermination of the Neanderthals, César: you still need to talk about it…

Six years have passed since that night of late 2008, but instead of delving further into my unconscious let us continue our story.

Quite independently of my dream in Madrid, it would hurt me horrors that whites with brown hair and/or brown eyes became extinct. There are precious Aryans with black hair—think of the Liza Taylor in 1952 who filmed Ivanhoe or the 1889 painting by Heinrich Hoffman, Christ and the Rich Young Ruler (though of course: the neighborhood Madrilenians where I slept seemed troglodytes compared to them). I’m perfectly capable of appreciating the dark hair to the degree of falling in love if you reach that level of beauty for my eyes. But people like Ibero give us a slight clue to the envy of those who, during the Jacobin terror, sent to the guillotine the blonds of Paris (as Kemp tells us in his magnum opus).

In Europe “white nationalism” not only does not exists: it cannot exist. Ibero is neither white nationalist nor a Nazi, although the website of him and Mestizo, Visión Blanca, sometimes exhibits a rare fetish for Third Reich paraphernalia, a subject that Mestizo is more knowledgeable than us. As already explained, Ibero is simply an Iberian-Latin-American nationalist: he defends the Caucasoids of this part of the continent despite their mudblood. What is striking of quite a few white nationalists who blog or comment in English is that, as Ibero, they are capable of the doublethink that someone with brown skin is “white” simply because he is native of towns along the Mediterranean coast. The truth is that some Europeans are as “white” as Ibero’s partner, Mestizo. If those internet anti-nordicists who have offended me were confronted with pictures of both, they could not decide who is the American mestizo and who, say, the contemporary Greek.

No wonder that, once broken the Visigoth taboo of not mixing with the Mediterranean, the resulting stock of ancient Hispania embraced Christianity with such superstitious vehemence. Pierce said it clearly: the physical beauty of the Aryans is the splendor of divinity, so that the Christians (as the perpetrators of the Jacobin terror with the guillotined blonds) smashed the statues of the Greco-Roman world. A glance at the chapter on Hispania by Pierce in Who We Are is enough to see how the original Iberians mixed with the Semitic Carthaginians from time immemorial—long before the Muslim conquest of eight centuries, of which only the very stubborn say it did not leave a significant genetic mark. (Also, many Russian and Europeans of the Balkans mixed with Asians and Turks respectively.) This passage from the only non-fiction book from the pen of Pierce should be kept in mind:

The hard lesson taught by the different results of the European colonization of North America, Latin America, Australia, New Zealand, India, and southern Africa is that the only type of colonization with lasting significance is racial colonization; and that racial colonization can succeed only when Whites are willing and able to clear the land of non-White inhabitants and keep it clear.

By white Pierce understood of Indo-European origin; not what the newspeak of our days calls “Mediterranean,” “Hispanic” or worse, “Latino.” Independently of the behavior of the Brazilian, who according to the humorous illustration above would be a noteentiendo or tornatrás, he is well above the Criollo nationalists, white nationalists and even neo-Nazis (whom I have referred to in FR as fake Nazis). As seen in FR the Brazilian strongly believes in the “one-drop rule.”

Once one starts tolerating the first drops of non-white blood in one’s own body—say: the ancestral taboo that the Visigoths violated—, those drops will mark the beginning of the end. If we look at the history of the Iberian Peninsula from the highest tower of History we see that it is marked by two major Christian betrayals: the conversion of the Goths that broke the color barrier in the 6th century and, a thousand years later, the green light of a Pope for peninsular males to marry the conquered Amerindian. (In Portugal the church even allowed women to marry a number of imported negroes.) Regarding this last betrayal that began in the 16th century it is worth mentioning that, despite the system of castas the mestizos, the castizos and the harnizos used to bribe the Spanish authorities to be registered as “Criollos” though genetically they were not. These historical realities help us to understand the mind of Ibero’s partner, Mestizo; and also remind me the general amnesty that white nationalists have granted to the populations bordering the Mediterranean Sea.

There is no way to avoid the downward spiral of miscegenation once the line becomes blurred. If white nationalists lack the courage to draw a line highly enough the same fate will fall upon them—what happened to the continent conquered by the Spaniards and Portuguese. So-called Latin America is actually mestizo-America: a gigantic racial rubbish-dump from Río Grande to Tierra del Fuego. And this is true in spite of the fact that a tiny fraction of the population of these countries* remains authentically Aryan.


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* Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Costa Rica, Cuba, Ecuador, El Salvador, Guatemala, Haiti, Honduras, Mexico, Nicaragua, Panama, Paraguay, Peru, Dominican Republic, Uruguay and Venezuela.

Extermination • I

Or:

Second thoughts about my “parting word”

 

I was serious last July when I wrote that I would not add more posts to this page until the financial accident happens. But another sort of accident happened to me that ruined my plans (see below), and instead of making a living overseas I find myself writing again.

In the July message I also said that I would “be busy explaining my minority report.” Well, I have started that autobiographical book in my native language. Its first translated pages are precisely the ones that appear below:
 

 

_______________________________________

 

To the memory of Percy

 

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LibroOn August 4, 2014 I arrived to London in the hope of moving to a small town in the United Kingdom in order to save my life once Mexico City catches fire after the looming collapse of the dollar.

One of the smartest commenters on my blog, whom I will call “the Brazilian,” had promised, through his contacts, forged work permit so I could look for a job in England. Throughout the two years I interacted with him in the blog and then thru personal communications, this guy reiterated that he wanted to help me to move there, and when in early 2014 he indeed moved to England I thought his plans were sincere.

The man is the result of a mixture between the races of his homeland, Brazil. He himself confessed publicly that his ancestors were Iberians, blacks and mestizos. Thus in order he did not feel self-conscious with me, I told him that I was not properly white.

Later in this chapter I will talk about some “Creole nationalists”—Mexicans that show off their Iberian roots and claim to have no drop of Indian blood—with whom I interacted in Mexico. The Brazilian’s intelligence had so impressed me that I told these Creole nationalists that my Brazilian, “mulatto friend has an IQ of 140.” Moreover, in my intimate soliloquies I said, more than once, that the level of penetration of the Brazilian on important issues to understand the darkest hour in Occident amazed me. I even told to myself that an “upward quantum leap” was crystal-clear when comparing the Brazilian to the vast majority of Aryan commenters visiting my site. No one like him had captured perfectly the disaster that represented Christianity for the white race, to the extent that—like me—the Brazilian considered it a more serious problem that the Jewish problem itself. Even his derogatory remarks about the philosophers sounded to my ears far above the intellectual masturbation we read in some sophisticated pro-white sites in the internet.

The Brazilian’s intellectual acumen, along with my huge need to escape Mexico, made my defenses down and I trusted him to the extent of deferring to his judgment my first steps to immigrate. I refer not only to the steps to obtain forged documents but also to roommate concerns. (London is so expensive that almost everyone shares their departments and the poorest even their rooms.) Although, as we shall see later in Extermination, thirty-two years before I had a horrible experience in London at a time when I also wanted to escape from Mexico, this time I thought that with such smart colleague our plans could not fail. The Brazilian even offered to pick me up at Heathrow Airport outside London; by telephone he informed me that he would not go to work the Monday I arrived to pick me up.

I thanked him and my flight arrived on time. After exiting from the immigration line, where obviously I hid the British woman who interrogated me that the purpose of my trip was to immigrate, I was surprised that the Brazilian was not there. I waited about twenty minutes at Terminal 4, the specific spot of international arrivals I had mentioned to the colleague, but no sign of him. After half hour he hadn’t come. Nor forty or fifty minutes after arriving at the terminal… I had virtually not slept due to my inability to sleep sitting on the plane and I badly needed to leave the soulless airport lounge and go to the hotel I had booked and even paid from Mexico. But the Brazilian did not appear. With the heavy suitcase I carried—suitcase to emigrate, not for tourism—I could not even move at ease in the terminal. I made a change in coins from a fiver to call the Brazilian’s mobile phone. What was my surprise that he wasn’t at the airport; just on his way, and he claimed he was “about to arrive.” I stopped worrying. But time continued to pass, and more than an hour-and-a-half after my arrival at the agreed terminal, he did not appear. I was hesitant to make extra phone calls because the airport’s phone had swallowed one or two of my pound coins but tried calling. This second time his tone was less friendly, “I’m almost there!” It must have been about two to three hours after the plane landed that the Brazilian finally appeared, without apologizing for the delay.

I wish to stop now and don’t recount the misadventure of that day because it makes me mad that I trusted someone whom I had never met in the real world, but I shall keep writing…

Having been so much delayed would be only the first lack of consideration by the Brazilian to a man more than twenty years his elder, who had arrived sleepless from a transatlantic voyage. After greeting each other, the Brazilian convinced me that the taxi would be very expensive and that we better take the subway to my hotel. Once in the tube, as it is called the narrow subway in London, we had to transship over more than once the various lines en route to the hotel, always carrying my heavy suitcase up awful stairs during the transfers. When we got off from a train among the London crowd for one of these transfers, the Brazilian asked me to wait because he wanted to buy something in the store just across the tracks. He climbed the stairs, walked into the shop, came out and smiled at me before… getting out into the street.

I was completely flabbergasted! If such a thing happened to me in my right mind, not in the confused state I was, I would have acted differently. But I was at the mercy of a bloke that—allegedly—would solve my migration problems. He was the only contact I knew in London for a (crooked) work permit. As he had already been delayed at the airport without a good reason or having apologized, had I been in my right mind when he went off the street I would have told him to get lost; fled by taxi to my hotel, and would have sought a more reliable contact the following days (say, through Spanish-speaking restaurants). But without sleep as I was, with great anxiety I remained on the tube station watching the largest racial melting pot of Europe (nowadays London has white minority).

The Brazilian should have taken about thirty-five minutes to arrive, or more, since he left and only then I realized that he had not found what he wanted at the front shop; that’s why he looked it out on the street. Hours later I discovered it were beers what the miscreant had bought, who had cared a damn that his fellow blogger (the Brazilian used to maintain a blog about “racial realism” in Portuguese) remained stranded with his heavy suitcase wondering what the hell had happened.

As I said, it makes me mad to tell this because I did not react as I should. The fact that I did not possess work permit and that the Brazilian had the handle for the grill not only for it, but to get me affordable accommodation—according to him he already had reserved one—played a psychological role in my indecision to make a clean break after the second or third discourtesy. Anyway, when he came laughing and said, “What did you think: that this crazy Brazilian had abandoned you?” I hid my feelings and continued the underground journey to the hotel.

It was during another transfer, now closer to the hotel and where we had to go outside to take another train (I think it was the street where he showed me the tallest building in Europe) that the Brazilian asked me something. He said that instead of going to my hotel, why not accompanying him to the slum hostel where he was living these days. They only charged £60 per week and although his roommates were black—that is, three blacks slept in a single room, beside the Brazilian—, it was only for a week while the better place he had reserved for us would be vacating. The Brazilian had a small back suitcase containing his laptop. He dared not leave it in the hostel with such hosts and carried it every time he went out.

Go figure my dear readers… All of my travel strategy had been based on a bloke that, now I realized, was on the verge of homelessness as he had to carry his belongings in the street for fear of loosing them in a “hostel” without lockers. Had I not been so obfuscated by the turn of events I would have stopped dry the adventure that very instant. But cognitively I was not well. In fact, I was completely alienated. True: I had prepared with extreme meticulousness everything left in Mexico—my library, my manuscripts in ring-binders and envelopes sealed against moisture (I thought I wouldn’t be back in years), the taking care of my pet and even a big farewell party for all believed I would leave for good—, but about my stay in England I had deferred all planning to “the mulatto of 140 of IQ.”

What a mistake. It was not until my return to Mexico, when I told the details of my misadventure to my old friend Paulina, that I noticed things that a man usually cannot see. Pau listened carefully and explained that men tend to admire intelligence at the expense of the other facet of the human psyche: empathy. I knew that in the white nationalist movement there were people with terrible character flaws. But the fact that the Brazilian seemed a hybrid between mestizo and mulatto was no reason to distrust him, as he believes in the “fourteen words” to the extent of having promised not to leave offspring. (Remember the first lesson to the Hitler Youth of Faith and Action by Helmut Stellrecht: “But if your blood has traits that will make your children unhappy and burdens to the state, then you have the heroic duty to be the last.”)

Unfortunately, character flaws can be hidden over the internet. And as in Mexico I only had considered the intellectual aspect of this bloke—a “hemiplegia” of mine, so to speak instead of having delved into the two facets of the person—, in a state of complete cognitive alienation to what was happening I agreed to his idea to abort the journey to my hotel and go to his hostel.

I would lie if I lay the blame at the Brazilian. Now that I’m out of the UK I find it obvious that the planning of my trip was grotesque, to say the least. “The drowning will grab at straws,” and the urgency of leaving a Neanderthalesque Mexico and survive the dollar collapse was such that I put aside from my consciousness basic matters I should have contemplated at my age, before venturing on another continent.

The journey to the hostel was not underground but from the outside, traveling in one of those red double-decker Routemaster buses so showy in London. And still there came the miscreant character of he whom I had placed my most cherished hopes. Throughout the journey in the underground and on the outside of the biggest city in Europe—a crossing that, due to change of plans, had already lasted more than two hours after leaving the airport—the Brazilian had never been solicitous in helping me with my heavy suitcase. Now, in the red double-decker bus, he swiftly climbed to the second floor and asked me repeatedly to go upstairs with him! It was then for the first time, that I showed some self-respect by refusing to come up with my heavy suitcase. During that second-long journey—remember that by aborting the way to the hotel we now were going to a very different address—we still had to make another transfer, but this time from bus to bus. We descended into a densely populated and very noisy area of London; streets swarmed with lots of blacks. To my surprise, the Brazilian told me to wait because he was going to find a toilet.

Lo and behold I was once again alone among human swarms with my heavy suitcase and no sleep! (Later, when I learned that the first time he left he had gone to buy beer, I connected the dots and realized that it was urgent for him to urinate the ingested alcohol.) In that hideous swarthy-filled street, and carrying something less than £2,000 in cash along with my credit cards, a black approached me. I didn’t understand a word. Scared and carrying the heavy suitcase I entered a grocery store but the attendants were not white either. My anxiety was very obvious until the Brazilian reappeared and we boarded the final bus that would take us to our destination.

Unlike the noisy subway, on the red bus it was possible to talk. At last we initiated conversation on topics that fascinate me. I told him that I had seen some mixed couples in London and was greatly surprised that there were so many blacks. He replied that it was a punishment to the English for having waged war against Germany, and added that Nazi Germany was by far the noblest creature that European history had produced. Then he said he did not understand how Americans like Matt Parrott insist on mixing the unmixable: Christianity with white nationalism.

It was not until we reached his quarters that I received the biggest shock of the trip. It’s true that in 1982 I had spent a night in London in a spacious room of a Youth Hostel; a room with many beds. But back then they were all European Aryans; I, the only foreigner. I was twenty-four and, coming from Mexico, was amazed at how good looking some of those English were (in the country where I was born almost all seemed Neanderthals to me). But now I was in 2014, and the all-encompassing social engineering of the British elites in recent decades, that is, replacement of the native race by imported race, had been a success. The Brazilian’s room was not spacious as the hostel I had slept decades ago. It was of regular size with the most miserable niggers you might think of. In fact, in no way it resembled a hostel but one of those trash-people rooms subsidized by charities for the homeless in large metropolis. But they were not homeless: they were blacks surviving, I suppose, from the same type of underemployment of the Brazilian.

I barely saw the spectacle and wanted to run away. On the street the Brazilian insisted that I should pay the £60 for the week. It was already night and he claimed he was tired and that we should think things over the next day. I didn’t know what to do. I had to cancel the hotel reservation so that it was not charged to my American Express, but there were no public telephones in the neighborhood. I tried to get information in a grocery store that opened at night, but they were immigrants who hardly knew English and were unaware of the dynamics of the big city. Not even the Brazilian could tell me what was, in England, the telephone equivalent to 911 so that, through his cell phone, I could make a call. The Brazilian kept insisting me to pay the £60, as the “hostel” never receives one-night payment, only a full week; and said I should forget my worries until the next day. (Take into account that with those £60 I could have spent a single night in a modest hotel, even after losing my reservation.) Still arguing in the street, the Brazilian, speaking in a serious tone, argued that he was tired; ignoring that it was me who had not slept the night before, and insisted to forget the matter of seeking hotel or making emergency phone calls.

As there was no one to help me, not even a taxi to get on in those streets, and as I was worried that in that colored neighborhood I could be assaulted and my money taken away (for my heavy suitcase I was an obvious target), I agreed. I reentered the “hostel,” paid the administrator of the slum the £60 he demanded, and walked into to the room of blacks and the mulatto Brazilian.

But I could not sleep… Although I had not slept the night before I was in a state of extreme anxiety.

I went out to the hostel’s terrace and finally I saw a white man. He was also an immigrant. He didn’t have fluent English and told me he was from Romania. As it had happened to me decades ago in the same city, as I newly arrived from Neanderthalesque lands I was pleasantly surprised by the looks of the blond Romanian. I spoke with him in the fresh night but not for long. He was not very smart and I also felt a little cold in the outdoors terrace. (I had left the plane with my jacket, shirt and dress pants but had not changed my clothes; one of the blacks that tried to sleep in the dirty room, where my cloths were, had warned me not turn the light on.) Apparently the Brazilian also failed to reconcile sleep and after sighting me in the terrace he went to the kitchen to talk at length with a muscular black returning from the gym. The Brazilian informed me that to survive in such place—go figure, myself in formalwear with the downtrodden—, one had to learn to converse amiably with the dark-skinned. The long conversation of the Brazilian with the huge black gave the lie to the claim that he was too tired to help me make an urgent phone-call.

I don’t remember the exact moment when the Brazilian told me that the police had arrested his contact—the very contact that was supposed to get me the papers. He did not say whether he had been arrested the day before or the day I arrived at Heathrow. But I doubt that, if the story is true, it was such a recent event. Chances are that the arrest had occurred long before—which means that the Brazilian had not warned me on time, when I was in Mexico. Had I been informed on time I would have aborted any plan to cross the Atlantic!

The events yelled at me that the trip had been in vain. By not having warned me in time of the arrest the Brazilian had committed a trick of confidence. However, even though that day the Brazilian confessed that he was desperately seeking a decent roommate, I failed to suspect that behind his convincing me to come to London a sinister motive was hiding. The crux of his confession was that his old roommate was a black homosexual whose conduct had caused the Brazilian to flee from there and move to the seedy hostel (where we were now).

I am ashamed to say that even with all this novel information I was slow to connect the dots that such insistence that I go London had not been motivated to help me, the word he used several times but to help himself in his problems with blacks. The underlying motivation of Brazilian seemed to be: “Unlike this nigger, blogger César, who comes from an educated family and whose parents have three pianos at home and five servants, will be my personal savior.”

Such naiveté!: In Mexico I had only imagined a Brazilian full of honor, insofar he vehemently insisted he did not plan to reproduce even after finding a woman in England (remember the wise counsel of Helmut Stellrecht for non-whites). But in London he told me that even before his “racial awakening”—something unheard of in a man of color—he had come to the firm conclusion that he would not leave descendants in Brazil. It was not until I assimilated even more painful confessions than that of the “gay nigger”—for example, that the day prior to my arrival the Brazilian had been wandering at London’s downtown because he could not remember where he lived, and that he drank alcohol to cope with his pathetic life—that I began to glimpse who he really was.

The trip had been a fraud. My purpose had never been crossing the ocean to help a mulatoid fellow to find a roommate—but looking sanctuary for me in a small English village with no coloreds to survive the dollar collapse! He who so much boasted to know something of human psychology had been duped like a child…! Nothing had I suspected of the motives of Brazilian: trying to use me to solve his problem and, therefore, the understandable lack to timely notify me about the “arrest.”

But back to my sleepless night.

My mattress had no sheets. I had no choice but to put my white skin in contact with a mattress that must have suffered a thousand sweats from blacks. Even in such conditions I tried to sleep with the four darks of the room. My anxieties and a disagreeable negress snoring inches from me on the top bunk—the pseudohostel was so abhorrent that not only races mixed, but the very sexes too—didn’t let me sleep…

But with the dawn I regained my senses. In the morning, with several guests already waking up on the terrace, including some I had not seen the previous evening, the Brazilian insisted I opened a bank account and said that another of his contacts worked in a bank (by law, tourists cannot open accounts in the UK). Perhaps that employee even knew, the Brazilian told me, another person to obtain work permit.

But I had lost confidence in him. The second night of consecutive sleeplessness I had talked to another night bird, Stuart, who lived there in another room and used to talk to the Romanian during the evenings on the terrace. His accent was not British. Stuart was born in Scotland and raised in New Orleans. As the Brazilian, Stuart had been so badly beaten by life that he had fallen to the pseudohostel. We spoke of my racial ideas and this young man conceded that in New Orleans blacks had behaved very poorly during hurricane Katrina. He was not bothered, though somewhat surprised, about my overtly racist worldview and I asked him what was the whitest city in Scotland. He said that Perth and his hometown, Dundee. He added that the beautiful town of Perth was ideal for retirees (i.e., for people like me had I arrived with the proper funds to buy a modest house).

I made my decision. That morning I was not going to endure a single minute of a “hostel” which did not even have showers for bathing. The blacks woke up and put their filthy music we all heard over the terrace. I told the Brazilian that I would go to Scotland. He was surprised but, by seeing my resolution, walked along with me to the outskirts of the metro station. We said goodbye and never met again.

I still struggled that day to reach Perth. It was not the Victoria Station that the Brazilian had suggested but the famous King’s Cross the one which would take me to the far north: the very one where they had filmed the movies of the magical station in Harry Potter. My flight had been so hurried that already going on my train to Scotland I had to ask one of the uniformed train attendants if Perth was large enough to house hotels. By fleeing multiracial London and the nightmarish underworld of the Brazilian I hadn’t had time to make the most basic inquiries! (the hostel didn’t have Wifi access). Although nearly all uniformed workers in train stations were black, I approached an Anglo-Saxon woman who informed me that there were hotels there. However, still dying of tiredness I was unable to sleep sitting up and had to wait six more hours to reach my destination.

When I arrived to Perth the tourist information center was closed, but the taxi driver of the terminal, a typical Scot, was extremely helpful in taking me to the cheapest places he knew. We went to Dunkeld Road not far from the station, and the Scot awaited me several times while I knocked the doors of various guesthouses. As it was midsummer the signs were saying “No vacancy” but in one of the houses, Connie, the Irish woman who received guests in Clark Kimberly Guest House, admitted me gladly. Having no reservation I had to rent an expensive room with double bed.

But it didn’t matter. That night I slept placidly after so long. At last I encountered myself in the hands of the white man…

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