PARTY TIME HAS ENDED

The Case for Politics beyond the Party

by Colin Jordan

WE live in the twilight days of a doomed age. Enveloping us is a sick society, condemned to death in the cosmic cycle of transformation by its inherent inability to overcome its strains and stresses: an old order now exhibiting a myriad manifestations of its advancing disintegration. Yet its final demise may be long delayed, and meanwhile its committed adherents tighten their hold on power, exercised through the veiled force of censorship and indoctrination, the denial of facilities to opponents, and an increasing resort to coercion and suppression.

These conditions specify a life and death struggle for those dedicated to the survival and advancement of Higher Man through a New Order or Aryandom. In such a struggle the prerequisite for effective action is a searching appraisal of ways and means. All practices and procedures must be subjected to an analysis of cost-effectiveness, and retained or rejected accordingly. Against that back-cloth, this article is concerned to show that the day of the political party is over. Its appeal to the masses with leaflets at large, its marches round and round the houses, and all the rest of its routine designed to woo and win the majority vote of the population at an election is hopelessly unproductive.

The political party, whatever its content, and even where nominally anti-democratic, is the organisational product of the mass society called "Democracy", meaning a society which purports to respond to and provide for the Common Man. It was preceded by the overt and avowed rule of minorities, and Democracy is no less subject to minorities than any other experienced or conjectured society, its only distinction in this respect being that of the modus operandi of its minorities. It is except when mortally menaced, and thus brought to a departure from normal form - mainly manipulative and masked, as opposed to being mainly and blatantly coercive. This dominance of minorities is to be expected as a fact of life. The rule of the public, apart from minute units of administration, has never existed, and never can and never will exist. Civilization, its management and its finer fruits, has always come not from the Common but the Uncommon Man. To say so in no way detracts from the argument for the just apportionment of its material benefits to the former, however lowly in ability and effort and consequent due. By the term "'the masses", as here used, is meant not a material but a mental class, regardless of monetary means, made up of the entirety of sheepish citizenry in its conformity to the status quo ordained and blessed by the media of Democracy.

DEMOCRACY'S CONTROL BOX

The political party came into use in the early days of the development of the mass society, consequent on the increase in communication among the people at large, and the increase in the uniformity of their lives, both resulting from the Industrial Revolution, and this long before the advent of the most modem and most powerful means of moulding the minds of the masses: television. With television today the ruling minorities of Democracy have an instrument of mind control in the centre of virtually every home in the land, ensuring that millions upon millions of beguiled boobs of the cathode-ray tube think the "democratic" way, and thus come to vote for the" democratic" options. The total content of the television box today decides the total result of the ballot box tomorrow.

The party game is thus firmly under the power of the enemy of national and racial resurgence, and indulgence in it by those excluded from television, along with the rest of the mass media, is a waste of time. Even Hitler- who came to power just before his opponents gained this weapon - could not today succeed against and without the magic box. Short of acquiring it for ourselves, or destroying it for the others, there is only one way its all pervasive, hypnotic, malignant influence can be overcome, and that is through a thorough breakdown in society sufficiently painful to prod the people out of their coma of enslavement.

Created for and concerned with the masses, the Nationalist of National Socialist party inevitably becomes crippled and corrupted by the exactions of the involvement. In the delusive pursuit of numbers as the measure of strength, it commits two errors of cardinal severity which guarantee weakness. Firstly, in its desire to attract the Common Man in quantity, it has to set its requirements of membership at a sufficiently low level, so as to offer him the gratification of identification with a supposedly lofty cause on the basis of little, if anything, more than some paltry payment. Having brought him into the fold, instead of just taking the collecting box to him on the outside, and with his contribution clearly proving insufficient to enable desirable progress, there follows a constant striving to try and coax him into doing more, which is the folly of trying to make a political activist out of a being whose nature prohibits it. Thus the role of the political party runs counter to that iron law of humanity which decrees that political activists are and always will be a tiny minority, most productive on their own, and that the rest of mankind is and always will be of the nature of political bystanders.

In consequence, while necessarily starting out as a nucleus of political activists, the party soon ends up dissipating the capacity of its activists because of their attachment to the others. Because of this attachment an endless effort ensues to try and keep the recruited men of the masses content with their membership. Activities to this precise end have to be arranged all over the country, costly in time and money, including all the travelling back and forth by all concerned, primarily of benefit to the petrol companies, the coach companies, and British Railways. Beyond this, to a considerable extent the party tends to degenerate into as much a party of fun and games as anything else, greatly occupied with the posturing and pretending, the babbling and boozing of the bulk of its members.

PITFALLS OF THE PARTY GAME

The second great error of the party is to set its bounds of belief so wide in pursuit of numbers that it achieves thereby not a greater strength but a lesser one through the disunity this spells. The amalgamation of numbers without a fusion of minds is but a congregation of bodies doomed to discord and disruption, because it is only the semblance and not the substance of unity, which always depends on a clear predominance of common belief. With its arms thrown open too widely in welcome, the party, in the width of its policy, takes in differences too large to digest. Along with the positive protagonists of ideological disagreement, it attracts a swamping influx of little people - little in the limitations of their mind, vision and spirit saturated with all the superficial perceptions and shallow sentiments of Democracy; people who fancy a spare-time hobby of rebellious radicalism, albeit shackled with the mental fetters of Democracy's notions of "respectability" and "moderation", and thus incapable of dangling more than a couple of toes in the cauldron of revolutionary thought and action.

With the fatal combination of low requirements of membership and wide bounds of policy, the political party cannot do other than present a feeble spectacle of the tail wagging the dog. Any complete computation of the cost-effectiveness of this party game, namely what is actually gained from all the relatively inactive but disproportionately vociferous recruits in this forlorn hunt for mass membership, in return for all the constant effort to contain them, condemns the practice completely.

It is said that every little bit helps. So it does, providing and only providing it does not cost as much or more to obtain than it is worth; and providing it is recognized that little bits will never bring victory in a mighty struggle, even when much multiplied. Otherwise, we commit the folly of subscribing to the egalitarian vanity that little is lovely. To do so is to create a slough of frustration wherein the active few are nullified and discouraged by having to carry on their back the burden of the relatively inactive many all around them. The issue here is not for one moment that the little bits of help from the public at large should be scorned and disregarded, but that they can and should be gathered on the outside by the political activists, segregated as a task force; and do not need to be and should not therefore be sought through common membership of one and the same organization as happens with a political party.

BALLOT BOX FUTILITY

The very raison d'etre of a political party is to appeal sufficiently to the masses so as to obtain sufficient votes in elections as to attain state power, and thus to form a government of the country. Nationalist parties have been operating for decades to this end, and yet have failed to obtain or even come near to obtaining a single seat in Parliament, let alone a necessary majority in Parliament, meaning hundreds of seats. While during those decades the plight of our race and nation has worsened and worsened, such parties have come no nearer success.

Some seek to account for this obvious failure to become sufficiently known and acceptable to the masses as a failure to trim policy sufficiently for this political market, including a failure to avoid the stigma of "nazi" and "extremist". Their remedy is to convert themselves that much more to the masses, instead of seeking to convert the masses to them, thus seeking to compete with the established parties on their own ground by coming closer to them, while still lacking all the advantages of infrastructure which those orthodox parties possess. Such people, priding themselves on their astuteness, perpetrate the absurdity of abandoning the capacity to reform in pursuit of the opportunity to reform.

In deep privacy and with a crafty wink, some will confide that their contortions are only window-dressing, and that when in power they will show their true colours. Their true colours, apparent enough already, amount to constitutional weakness. Such are the workings of such frailty that, giving way to it now, come the pay-off they would never have the strength to transcend it. The smears they fear and vainly attempt to distance themselves from are but the concomitant of all adequate proposals for national and racial resurgence, avoidable only by a shameful procedure of self-sterilization.

Others of sterner stuff concede that electoral success is out of reach, but argue that electioneering is nevertheless justified for the sake of the resulting publicity and recruitment. However, to prove their point they need to show, and fail to show, that the gain in whatever quantity and quality of support resulting from such electioneering at least equals, if not exceeds, the gain to be achieved through an equal expenditure of time and money in other ways. One thing such electioneering certainly does not achieve is that manifestation which more than that of intellect and ideals moves the masses - the manifestation of strength - for it almost always results in a miserable manifestation of weakness.

Our misrulers, secure in their mastery of the media and thereby the minds of the electorate, are comparatively content - if they cannot dispel or deter all resistance - to let Democracy's dissidents expend themselves in the attrition of the party game they have devised and dominate. They are confident that, if by some fluke, these non-conformists did happen to become a real threat, they could increase the array of existing impediments to the extent of a ban in all but name. Democracy's deceit is all the time to proclaim to its spellbound public the prevalence of freedom, while preventing its exercise by a combination of contrivances. In this conspiracy of suppression the current revision of the Public Order Act is intended to turn the screw that much tighter on any Nationalist or National Socialist party as almost to paralyse it. Even if a veritable miracle happened, and such a party did gain a majority of votes, can you believe that Democracy's masters, faced with elimination, would accept the verdict of the ballot box, and meekly hand over control? A naked struggle would still ensue.
It is thus not some option for us, but an ultimate necessity in any eventuality.

Constantine XI Palaiologos

[caption id="attachment_6246" align="aligncenter" width="400"] Konstantinos Palaiologos - Ilias Dimitrelos[/caption]

Last Byzantine Emperor (1405 – 1453)

Constantine Palaiologos, the immortal Marble King, was born in 1405, at a time when the Byzantine Empire was at its final years. Having suffered from Iconoclasms, 2 bloody Crusades, the Latin invasion and countless raids by neighbouring clans, the Byzantine Empire had taken severe losses on its population, lands and its glory.

Before his time as an emperor, Constantine had liberated Peloponnesus from Frankian rule, together with his army and established a powerful operations center. He had then continued north and liberated parts of Steraia Hellada and Thessaly. His plans to continue and liberate northern parts of his empire, however, failed and he retreated back to Peloponnesus.

When John Palaiologos died childless in 1448, his brother Constantine succeeded him as Emperor of the Byzantine Empire. The coronation took place in Constantine’s hometown, the holy city of Mystras. He was the first and only Byzantine Emperor to be crowned outside of Constantinople. As soon as Constantine was crowned emperor, he was faced with a massive undertaking. With almost nothing left but Peloponnesus and a small part of Eastern Thrace, the empire was on the brink of collapse. His army was very small and his resources scarce. But the greatest challenge with which he was tasked was the enormous army of the Ottoman Empire that was rapidly approaching Constantinople, lead by Mehmed the Conqueror.

As emperor, he put all his efforts to keep the empire alive. His politics were different from those of his brother’s. John sought help from the West by participating in the Council of Ferrara-Florence. His attempts to reunite the Byzantine and Latin churches, however, failed. Constantine, on the other hand, was against the Latins, having been sworn enemies of the Byzantine Empire. His main concern was to defend Constantinople, otherwise, it would mean the end of a 1000 year old empire. When he arrived at Constantinople, he started organizing the army and strengthening the defenses of the city. He received help only from the Republic of Genoa, led by Giovanni Giustiniani.

The siege lasted for many days with huge casualties from the Ottoman army. Nevertheless, with an army of just 8500 against an army of 180.000, massive cannons and a fleet of 150 ships, it was only a matter of time before the city’s walls could hold much longer. Weakened, but determined, Constantine and his men showed unlimited courage and continued to defend the city with all their might. One day before the Fall, Constantine made his final speech, in which he addressed all his people in an effort to increase their spirit, saying among others that there were 4 reasons that they should prefer death over life: first for their faith, second for their homeland, third for their king and Jesus Christ and fourth for their families and friends. During the closure of his speech, with tears in his eyes, he prompted his men to fight till the death for Jesus Christ and their homeland.

[caption id="attachment_6247" align="aligncenter" width="600"] The siege of Constantinople[/caption]

On May 29, 1453, the Ottoman Turks breach the walls of the City and vast amounts of soldiers quickly surround Constantine and his faithful men. After having fought fiercely with a broken sword, Constantine falls like a lion beside his fellow men. It was the end of the Byzantine Empire, after nearly 1000 years of existence.

Legend has it that moments before his death, an angel appeared and took Constantine off his horse and into a cave, where he transformed him into marble. To this day, the Marble King awaits in his cave, the day that he will rise like the Phoenix to reclaim Constantinople and re-establish the Byzantine Empire, chasing the Turks faraway to the Red Apple Tree.

Bibliography

1. “Palaiologos, Konstantinos XI”. Helios New Encyclopaedic Dictionary. Passas, I. Athens, 1946. Print.


2. TakJar. ΝΕΤ Η μήχανη του Χρόνου S02E16 Η Άλωση της ΠΟΛΗΣ. YouTube. February 2, 2012. Web. November 27, 2015.

https://greatestgreeks.wordpress.com/

HERO-WORSHIP AND TOMMYTARDS

The True Right has always believed in strong leadership and the ability, as Thomas Carlyle wrote, of 'great men' to shape history. In his collection of lectures On Heroes, Hero-Worship and the Heroic in History, Carlyle identifies six types of hero: the Hero as Divintity, as Prophet, as Poet, as Priest, as Man of Letters and as King. This is not limited to the Right, for the Left also has its heroes: its revolutionaries and men of theory. What we have seen since the 1960s is a new breed of hero that has emerged, firstly on the Left, but now increasingly on the Right: the Hero as Activist. The activist's name on everyone's lips at the moment, especially since his recent arrest and imprisonment, is Tommy Morrison, but is he a hero and will he shape history?



As you will no doubt have realised from the photo above, I do not think he is a hero for our times. In fact, I do not think he is in control of much of what he says. From the very beginning, Robinson has had a dubious relationship with organised Jewry in Britain and this has meant toeing the line of "diversity and inclusion" (see picture above). While his identification of Islam as a problem and direct confrontation of Muslims has been admirable and shows real bravery, divorcing the problem from the subject of race has not just been deliberate, but a conscious dishonest and political choice to align himself with Jewish interests.



The English Defence League, after all, was formed in the image of the Jewish Defence League, a terrorist group that aligned itself to militant Negro groups in America. From the very beginning, despite doing good work in exposing Muslim paedophile gangs, it also promoted multi-racialism and attacked genuine nationalists in Britain who had been exposing the same as "racists". The EDL under Robinson had various groups within it, including a Jewish section and an LGBT one. In other words, the EDL promoted the same agenda as the government. This is not to say there were not any good people in the EDL. There certainly were, but they were coerced into toeing the PC line, with Robinson being convicted of headbutting someone he referred to as a "neo-Nazi" in 2011.



Indeed, when Robinson left the EDL in 2013, he cited "extremism" as being the reason and suddenly started working with the Leftist/Muslim think tank Quilliam and appearing on the BBC, no longer as an antagonist, but as one of the fold. In 2016, he was invited for a trip to Israel by Jewish Youtuber "Brian of London" (but obviously rather more of Tel Aviv), where he became a mouthpiece for Israeli propaganda. He has since worked for Ezra Levant's Rebel Media, a Jewish Canadian internet media outlet that has promoted Israeli intersts in the Middle East and Jewish interests in the West, including the usual Jewish hypocracy of advocating a Jewish ethnostate while undermining ethno-nationalism in other countries. Let us be clear: Robinson has always undermined ethno-nationalism for Whites. Just last year during the Charlottesville march, he tweeted this:



Read more: here

Blutfahne by Kvasir's Blood

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Two brand new songs of True Vinlandic Black Metal released by HYPGNOSIS RECORDS. Total running time for this EP is 22 minutes. Song titles and lyrics are private and will never be released. Professionally duplicated cassettes with full color j-cards housed inside a slipcase. The name of the EP will become clear to you once you hold the finished product in your hands…
WOTAN UBER ALLES

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Eulogy for David Lane By Richard Kemp

Native American lore teaches an owl is a harbinger of death. I do not buy into this superstition, so when I saw a great horned owl perched outside my window on the night of May 27th little did I realize I had lost a dear friend, trusted comrade, and hero of our folk David Eden Lane.

When a man becomes a living legend, we forget he was mortal and possessed many of the same passions as rest of us. Many of you are unaware he was a boxer, or that he was a scratch golfer who used to hustle skins games at various golf courses around the West. When I first met him, he was working for a title company. He was the stereotypical middle aged bachelor who liked to dance with the ladies at the country and western bars on the weekend and had a knack for hooking up with wild women.

The first time I met him, his woman friend was chasing after him with a sword and intended to inflict grievous bodily harm upon his person. It took three strapping men disarm her. I thought to myself; this is a guy who lives life on the edge, maybe he can teach me a thing or two.

Though David had a silver tongue and was a smooth talker with the ladies, he was not given to ostentatious displays. He lived out of his suitcase for the first year that I knew him. At the same time, he often slept on people’s sofas of hide- a- beds, or stayed in cheap motel room. He was given to wearing casual slacks or jeans and a dress shirt covered by a windbreaker. For transportation, he drove a broken down VW bug with no power. One day, he let me drive it to the store, and I swear, I had the accelerator pressed to the floor just to get it up to 50 M.P.H. on the highway. Yes my friends, although he did not have a lot of wealth and finery, this man was a prince. In personal sacrifice, he eschewed all worldly goods and gave his heart and soul to fight for a dying race.

David was most ardent in his beliefs. He was unafraid to speak his mind both verbally and in his many writings. He was an adherent to the “By any means necessary” school of thought. He fought for our people with both pen and sword - though it was his pen that proved to be his greatest weapon. He penned “The 88 Precepts” and was responsible for coining The 14 Words. The title of his book Damned, Defiant, and Deceived summarized in just three “D’s” how Mr. Lane viewed the world. In my mind, his defiance is what will forever ring true in my memories of him. David was defiant with every fiber of his being. Even when they took his freedom and locked him away in some of the highest security prisons in the U.S., he continued to tweak the nose of the authorities with his fervor. Even if he had to sharpen the stub of a pencil on the concrete floor of his cell he continued to write and influence our folk half a world away.



There is a huge emptiness in my heart upon hearing of Mr. Lane’s passing. I would like to honor the man with some words and share with you some memories so you can know how this man lived, that he passed this way and made an impression on our hearts.

The night we heard of his passing, about 40 guys stood in our grove and honored him with a moment of silence. As my mind raced with memories of the man, my gaze fixed upon a bird of prey soaring above the farm fields nearby. All these little black birds were flying up to nip at his tails feathers trying to chase it off. I thought to myself; what a perfect metaphor. David Lane was like this raptor, soaring into the heavens; and all these frightened little birds, who could not understand him or his nature, pecked at his behind in an attempt to drive him away.

I remember David told me he was raised in the rural town of Aurora CO. He was born in a cabin there surrounded by fields of grain with the majestic Rocky Mountains silhouetted on the horizon. As he spoke of it, I envisioned this pastoral setting were hardy, ham fisted yeomen hung out at the seed and feed store drinking black coffee, and talking about how the weather is going to affect the crops of the season.

Once, when David and I were passing through Denver, he decided since we were nearby, we’d detour so he could show me his birthplace. I recall David seeming as if he had lost his way. There were blocks and blocks of urban development, brand new condos and shopping centers. Suddenly, the area where he grew up became unfamiliar to him. Where once there were fields of ripened grain - now there was a concrete jungle filled with foreign faces. As we turned into the neighborhood of trash filled streets littered with broken bottles and dirty diapers in the gutters, gang graffiti marked the buildings and Hispanic youths sat on street corners acting tough. We slowed to a stop, and David stared at the home of his youth. I saw tears welling up in his eyes. The windows of this small house were boarded up, and graffiti marred the building. A large construction sign in front of the house indicated that the property was soon to be converted into a soccer field. Already some young Hispanics were kicking soccer balls in a dried up field behind the house. As I looked back, I realize this may have been a watershed moment serving to further enflame the passion and commitment of David Lane.

I truly lament the fact that David had to die in prison - away from his family, friends and loved ones. This man deserved better. Just as it was with the home of his birth, some official probably had a trash can set up outside the door of the cell were he died. He probably tossed most of David’s belongings into the trash, erasing the final traces that a great man passed that way. With any luck, a few items will be boxed up and sent to a family member or close friend. Little does this government employee know that the man whose property he is emptying into the trash was a hero of our folk who ranked with the titans of our people in North America; Robert Miles, Pastor Butler, Dr Pierce and Robert J Mathews. They can go ahead and throw away his treasured belongings. What he lacked in worldly goods, he definitely made up for in the richness of the legacy that he left behind. I think of the scene from “The 13th Warrior” when the chieftain of the Viking Warrior band is dying and he laments he has no worldly possessions worthy of a king, but if a person were to tell his story he would be a rich man indeed. I can assure you, that David Lane is a very rich man because we will tell his story to our children and grandchildren.

I suspect the powers - that - be now feel a sense of justification if not relief in their attempts to muzzle and stifle this man who remained a bastion of opposition until his passing. Regardless of the obstacles placed in front of him through restrictive incarceration, David had remained a beacon of integrity, passion and character who has inspired our folk throughout the world, and will continue to do so in the immortality of his words and teachings - many of which have become tenents of our creed.

In memoriam to my friend David Lane, I ask only that those of us who grieve not dishonor his life or passing by disregarding his commitment to the cause by forgetting the mettle of this man and the sacrifice he made both before and after his incarceration. What I personally will carry within my heart until my end days is the undying love that David held for his people, and the fact that despite efforts to discount and debase that love it remained true and constant even as he drew his dying breath. Remember, if nothing else, David Lane lived and died for the struggle to secure the future existence for us and our children, I can think of no more appropriate words then those of the Havamal..

Cattle Die, Kinsmen Die, Every man is Mortal.
One thing I know that never DIES is the fame of a Dead Mans Deeds
We will Never Forget

Bruder Schweigen
Richard Kemp

War governs all things

[caption id="attachment_6223" align="aligncenter" width="960"] The God of War, painting of Aristeas Frixos[/caption]

"War is the central principle in Heraclitus' thought. War between human beings determines their destinies; even strife between citizens determines the health of their cities. But the war and strife are not lamentable moments of destruction: they are the necessary grounds of all coming to be for Heraclitus. The people, the cities, the cosmos that come to be because of war are bloody and dangerous, but the work of this war is also well balanced, harmonious, and even beautiful. War is not only a principle in the world of mortal affairs; it governs all things, both every being in the cosmos and the cosmos itself as a whole. The strife and opposition between inanimate objects is not different in kind from the wars between mortals; each opposes forces in a logic of conquest, in which each being engages its opposite in an attempt to prevail. This engagement applies not only to individual things but also to their parts, and so accounts for the unity and harmony both in individuals and the whole. The result is a cosmos more marked by harmony and balance than by flux. ;The central role of war in the cosmos determines not only a physics and metaphysics for Heraclitus, but also an ethics and an epistemology. Human excellence requires full engagement in the strife of the cosmos, but not pointless violence. The best men will understand the nature of the world and will think, speak, and act in consonance with it. This kind of excellence is hard for human beings only because their spirits are cowardly and slack. The nature of the world is not obvious, yet all human beings are capable of understanding it. This understanding is terrifying, and so men resist it. Instead of agreeing with the nature of the world, their thoughts turn inward, into a world of the imagination. This flight to ignorance is disgraceful; Heraclitus has nothing but contempt for it"

Abraham Schoener - Dissertation, University of Toronto (Canada) (1993)

Albert Leo Schlageter - An Eternal Heroic Symbol

"I find some satisfaction in dying. Perhaps I can help through my example." — "From 1914 until this day, I have sacrificed all my strength and labor, out of love and loyalty, to my German homeland. Where it was in need, I sought to help." — "Greet my parents, brothers and sisters, relatives, my friends, and my Germany!"

Albert Leo Schlageter’s last words before his Execution.

[caption id="attachment_6212" align="aligncenter" width="600"] Schlageter facing the firing squad[/caption]

The following text is a translation of an address that Martin Heidegger gave to his students commemorating the tenth anniversary of the the heroic death of Albert Leo Schlageter, a young German student at Freiburg who was executed by firing squad in 1923 for attempting to sabotage elements of the French occupation army in the Ruhr.  Almost immediately after Schlageter's death, Rudolf Höß assassinated his alleged betrayer, Walther Kadow. He was assisted by Martin Bormann. Höß was sentenced to ten years but only served four; Bormann received a one-year sentence. After the National Socialists' rise to power, Schlageter was immortalized as a patriot and a hero, celebrated for his noble sacrifice.  Throughout, Heidegger appeals to the notion of the Volk, singing hymns to the notions of courage and the will, to Struggle and Sacrifice. But also notice Heidegger’s pastoral references to the natural landscape of surrounding Freiburg as he tries to stir up feelings of one’s ties to Blood and Soil.

[caption id="attachment_6218" align="aligncenter" width="566"] The funeral of Schlageter[/caption]

“Schlageter”

(May 26, 1933)

In the midst of our work, during a short break in our lectures, let us remember the Freiburg student Albert Leo Schlageter, a young German hero who a decade ago died the most difficult and the greatest death of all.

Let us honor him by reflecting, for a moment, upon his death in order that this death may help us to understand our lives.

Schlageter died the most difficult of all deaths. Not in the front line as the leader of his field artillery battery, not in the tumult of an attack, and not in a grim defensive action — no, he stood defenseless before the French rifles.

But he stood and bore the most difficult thing a man can bear.

Yet even this could have been borne with a final rush of jubilation, had a victory been won and the greatness of the awakening nation shone forth.

Instead — darkness, humiliation, and betrayal.

And so, in his most difficult hour, he had also to achieve the greatest thing of which man is capable. Alone, drawing on his own inner strength, he had to place before his soul an image of the future awakening of the Volk to honor and greatness so that he could die believing in this future.

Whence this clarity of heart, which allowed him to envision what was greatest and most remote?

Student of Freiburg! German student! When on your hikes and outings you set foot in the mountains, forests, and valleys of this Black Forest, the home of this hero, experience this and know: the mountains among which the young farmer’s son grew up are of primitive stone, of granite.

They have long been at work hardening the will.

The autumn sun of the Black Forest bathes the mountain ranges and forests in the most glorious clear light. It has long nourished clarity of the heart.

As he stood defenseless facing the rifles, the hero’s inner gaze soared above the muzzles to the daylight and mountains of his home that he might die for the German people and its Reich with the Alemannic countryside before his eyes.

With a hard will and a clear heart, Albert Leo Schlageter died his death, the most difficult and the greatest of all.

Student of Freiburg, let the strength of this hero’s native mountains flow into your will!

Student of Freiburg, let the strength of the autumn sun of this hero’s native valley shine into your heart!

Preserve both within you and carry them, hardness of will and clarity of heart, to your comrades at the German universities.

Schlageter walked these grounds as a student. But Freiburg could not hold him for long. He was compelled to go to the Baltic; he was compelled to go to Upper Silesia; he was compelled to go to the Ruhr.

He was not permitted to escape his destiny so that he could die the most difficult and greatest of all deaths with a hard will and a clear heart.

We honor the hero and raise our arms in silent greeting.

Martin Heidegger 

[caption id="attachment_6219" align="aligncenter" width="400"] Schlageter celebration in Düsseldorf.[/caption]

Roar of the North

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3AhcVhpjXX4

In the night, this is very strange
I hear voices in the whispering rain
Not alone, I can feel they're here
From the past, way back, thousands of years

I can hear them calling
Calling across the borders of time
I can hear them calling
The heathen inside me waits for the sign

Lost and gone, no one's been recalled
Only kings live on for ever more
On the rocks stand our history
They wrote this for their offspring to see

I can hear them calling
Calling across the borders of time
I can hear them calling
The heathen inside me waits for the sign

Nothing lasts, all will fade and die
Will we ever find the reasons why
I do hear from deep inside
Can't you hear the howling call of the wild

I can hear them calling
Calling across the borders of time
I can hear them calling
The heathen inside me waits for the sign

Ramiro Ledesma Ramos, The Creator of National-Syndicalism

This text by Antonio Medrano was translated by Georges Gondinet and published in n° 13 of the magazine Totalité.

The figure and the work of Ramiro Ledesma Ramos, nearly unknown outside of Spain and even in Spain, eclipsed by the influence of the heritage of José Antonio, deserves to be presented to the eyes of new European generations, to be brought to the consciousness of those who search for a revolutionary way of radical reconstruction and traditional normalization, for prostrated Europe today and for the decadent West. And this, not only because Ramiro Ledesma was one the most brilliant thinkers of the Spanish national revolution, the genial creator of national-syndicalism, the great precursor of the Falangist movement and the national uprising of July 18^th 1936, a man of action and thought whose message possesses much life and timeliness, but also because the analysis of his work lends itself to a propitious discussion of a series of doctrinal considerations of the greatest importance for today, where disorientation begins to make itself felt in an acute manner among the youth milieus who wish to vigorously search for an alternative to the system.

Ramiro Ledesma was born in 1905 in a small village in the province of Zamora, to a modest family. “The grandson of peasants,” as Juan Aparicio said of him, he knew since his first years the resigned and hash life of Castillian peasants. And for “his peasant roots, his stubborn Sayago ancestry” would lead to this “inner hardness” that would characterize him much later throughout his intense work. His father was a country schoolteacher, and he received from him his primary instruction and the bases of what would be his intellectual formation, solid and expansive. The teaching he received, to which he added an iron will and an intense study regimen, later opened the doors of the university to him, then reserved for a small minority, and permitted him to obtain a professional career from which he earned a modest living, taking, after having passed two competitive exams, an administrative post in the Madrid postal administration. Two facts that would have a decisive influence on the configuration of his destiny.

Santiago Montero Diaz, one of his faithful companions, distinguishes three clearly differentiated periods in the life of Ledesma: a literary period, during which he wrote his essays, tales, and novels of a violent and heartbreaking romantic tone; a philosophical period, in which the passion for knowledge and science arose in Ledesma, and a political period, during which he fully devoted himself to action and to the theoretical work of creating a new movement.

His works El seflo de la muerte (1924) and El Quijote y nuestro tiempo(1925 ; unpublished until 1971) in which he profiles the vigor of his passionate personality date from the first period– of the latter, Tomas Borras said that it “seemed to announce from afar the Don Quixotism of the Crusade.” In the second period Ledesma discovered the world of philosophy and science: at the time he took courses in philosophy and literature and physical – mathematical sciences, two domains in which he would succeed brilliantly. He imposed on himself an iron work ethnic thanks to which he acquired a solid and extended education as few did in his time. “The long hours of study,” wrote Montero Diaz, “brought him considerable scientific assets, some of the most effective and cultured that had been achieved in his generation.” The methodological rigor of the philosophical and mathematical disciplines left an indelible mark on his character, a mark that would display itself in his sober, concise, striking style, full of logic and expressive richness. At this time this admiration for the work of Kant, Scheller, Heidegger, Hegel, and above all Nietzsche, whose impact on his interior life would be decisive, was born. He was also passionate about new contributions to Spanish intellectual life, especially for the work of Unamuno and that of Ortega. He would become the disciple and collaborator of the latter, and would collaborate on different works and translations in the Revista de Occidente, the prestigious publication directed by Ortega, which then represented the pinnacle of Spanish thought. “If his personal and irrevocable fate – equally united in an irrevocable and personal manner with the destiny of Spain – had not interrupted the first duties of his intellectual life, Ramiro would figure in the history of Spanish culture as one of our first philosophers.” (S. Montero Diaz). José Maria Sanchez Diana called him “The Spanish Fichte of the 20^th Century.”

[caption id="attachment_6204" align="aligncenter" width="600"] "Only the rich can afford not to have a country." - Ramiro Ledesma Ramos[/caption]

Finally, in the years 1929 and 1930, under the influence of Nietzsche and Maurras and before the turbulent events that would happen in Spain and Europe, his political vocation awoke. In his response to an inquiry on “What is the avant-garde?” published in Gaceta Llteraria in July 1930, Ledesma affirmed that from liberals to socialists to Catholics to monarchists “all fail to grasp the secret of Spain today, self-affirming, nationalist, and with the will to power.” The same year, he made a study excursion to Germany, where he would be impressed by the paramilitary formations of Hitler’s movement and by his violent fight against Marxism. In February 1931, barely 25 years old, he threw himself into politics, with the famous Political Manifesto of the Conquest of the State, one of the most important and most creative documents in Spanish political history. In March of the same year, he published the first issue of the periodical La Conquista del Estado, which would have an unfortunately brief lifespan due to continual governmental repression. These were the critical moments in which parliamentary monarchy was struggling for its last gasps and where the proclamation of the Republic was already imminent. The Conquista del Estado, whose name could not be more eloquent, was born with the goal, not to be a simple organ of expression, but to rally around itself “Falanges of the youth” who would complete the Spanish revolution.

In November 1932, the group La Conquista del Estado merged with the Juntas Castellanas de Actuacion Hispanica of Onésimo Redondo, from this merger the JONS, Juntas de Ofensiva Nacional-Sindicalista, was born, in which Ramiro would be the principal ideological mentor and the first activist. These were years of intense and exhausting struggle, which followed the creation of JONS; years of intense effort to spread cells of the new organization across the entire Fatherland. The effort of Ledesma would principally aim to win over young Marxist and anarchist militants to the national idea. “He was obsessed with the nationalization of the syndicalist masses” and “he made desperate and magnificent efforts to give the violent, deracinated, and anarchist multitudes of the CNT a national content, in the sense of the Fatherland, of filial love for Spain.” (Guillén Salaya). The success of his apostolate is testified by names such as Santiago Montera Diaz, Manuel Mateo, Alvarez de Sotomayor, Francisco Bravo, Sinforiano Moldes and Emilio Gutiérrez Palmas, all former communists or CNT members.

[caption id="attachment_6203" align="aligncenter" width="438"] José Antonio Primo de Rivera and Ramiro Ledesma Ramos 1934[/caption]

In February 1934 the merger of the JONS with the Falange Española, the new movement of National-Revolutionary inspiration lead by José Antonio Primo de Rivera, took place. The new organization took the name of FE de las JONS, and Ramiro, who received membership card number 1, was part of the first triumvirate assumed collective direction of the movement, with Ruiz de Aida and José Antonio.

In 1935, Ramiro Ledesma, in disagreement with the line of Falangist movement (according to his diagnosis: freezing of revolutionary spirit, passivity and inactivity, immersion in sterile parliamentary politics, growing presence of writers disconnected from the preoccupations of the people and the true political vocation, excessive “rightness” of the party, etc), separated from the Falange with a minority of JONSists established in different Spanish regions. In the months that followed, as usually happens in such cases, a series of lamentable incidents and violent confrontations took place, not simply verbal, between the dissident group and the organization in which they militated. During this same year, Ledesma founded the periodical Patria Libre and wrote his work Fascismo en Espana ? That related, from a bitterly critical point of view, the history of Spanish Fascism and ,especially, the Falange. He also published the celebratedDiscurso a las juventudes de Espana, the most important of his works, a classic of Spanish national political thought. In this book, more concerned with tactics and strategy rather than theory, he traces the route that the national revolution must lead for the Spanish youth, the only force capable of saving the Fatherland, by putting itself at the head of the masses.

Read more: here

Operation Mercury

[caption id="attachment_6195" align="aligncenter" width="600"] Chania Fallschirmjäger Memorial 1940s[/caption]

"It is true that at the beginning Cretan irregulars attacked and killed wounded parachutists – after all, early on there was no organized resistance. The Germans reacted by taking reprisals. I wrote that until Operation Mercury, WWII had been a ‘clean’ war in which neither side committed war crimes but respected the international rules of war [Hague Conventions]. But when attacks by noncombatants and reprisals began, the war became ‘dirty,’ i.e. the participants no longer obeyed the rules of war. This is the view of international historiography."

Heinz A. Richter, historian

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DnTxsGYCZiQ

Auf Kreta, im Sturm und im Regen (In Crete, by Storm and Rain) - English translation

In Crete during storm and rain,

A paratrooper stands on guard

He likes to dream of home,

Where a tender girl's heart awaits him

The little stars twinkle in the night from the sky,

Say hello to my home,

 

Say hello from bloody battle to my little maid

 

Jumping on the enemy's trench

Enemy's bullet hit his heart

Crashing on the bloody lawn

He painfully whispers to the stars

You, little stars sparkling in the night from the sky

Say hello to my home,

 

Say hello from bloody battle to my little maid

 

Then he said with a dying voice

Comrade, come and give me your hand

And take this ring off my finger

And give it to my beloved as a pledge of farewell

The little stars twinkle in the night from the sky

Say hello to my home,

 

Say hello from bloody battle to my little maid

 

In Crete flags are fluttering

We paratroopers won anyway

Even if so many have died

The the paratroopers' fame will remain

The little stars twinkle in the night from the sky ,

Say hello to my home,

 

Say hello from bloody battle to my little maid

In Memoriam

Eric von Rosen - Swastika, Rockelstad and Carin Göring

Count Carl Gustaf Bloomfield Eric von Rosen (born June 2, 1879 in Stockholm, died April 25, 1948 Skeppsholmen, Stockholm) was a Swedish Honorary doctor, patron, explorer, ethnographer and prominent figure in the Swedish upper class. von Rosen was married to Baroness Mary Fock (1886–1967)

Rockelstad and Hermann Göring

Eric von Rosen had made himself known as a pioneer in Swedish aeronautics after his crossing the Baltic Sea during the Finnish War of Freedom in 1918. Later on he sometimes used aeroplanes for transports in Sweden and abroad. This was the case the 21st of February 1920, when he had been in Stockholm and needed urgently to go to Rockelstad. The trains were all cancelled due to bad weather, so the Count went to the small airfield in Stockholm. The Swedish pilots were unwilling to head out in the snowstorm that late, but a German former fighter-pilot, Hermann Göring, was available.

[caption id="attachment_6185" align="aligncenter" width="601"] Rockelstad Castle[/caption]

Eric and Göring flew through the snow-storm towards Rockelstad; they flew low along the railway until they reached Sparreholm, where they turned south across the lake and landed on the ice below Rockelstad. They tied the plane to the steamboat jetty and the two freezing men went in to heat up in front of the fireplace in the Hall. Countess Mary's sister, Carin von Kantzow, was visiting this weekend, and when she came down the stairs Göring immediately fell in love.

When Carin and Göring started seeing each other in Stockholm it caused a scandal in the high-society, for Carin was married and had a young child. The pair moved to Germany later that year, where Göring soon leaned about a group of revolutionaries in Munich; Hitler and his henchmen, who had started with demonstrations on the streets. Göring soon travelled to Hitler, who welcomed the national war hero into the party. Karin was divorced from von Kantzow in December 1922 and married Göring on 3 January 1923. After their marriage, the Görings first lived in a house in the suburbs of Munich. Carin followed her husband and became a member of the Nazi Party. When Göring was badly injured in the groin while marching alongside Hitler in the failed Beer Hall Putsch in November 1923, Carin took him to Austria, then on to Italy, and nursed him back to health.

[caption id="attachment_6181" align="aligncenter" width="400"] Carin Göring[/caption]

Carin suffered from tuberculosis by her early forties. When her mother, Huldine Fock, died unexpectedly on 25 September 1931, it came as a great shock to the 42-year-old Carin. Although her health was still fragile, she went to Sweden for her mother's funeral.The next day, she suffered a heart attack in Stockholm. On the news reaching Göring, he joined her there and stayed with her until she died of heart failure on 17 October 1931, four days before her 43rd birthday. After her death, Carin's older sister Fanny wrote a biography of her which quickly became a bestseller in Germany. By 1943, it had sold 900,000 copies.

Carin's death came as a great blow to Göring. In 1933 he began to build a hunting lodge, which became his main home, and named it Carinhall in her honour. It was there that he had her body re-interred from her original grave in Sweden, in a funeral attended by Adolf Hitler. Göring filled Carinhall with images of Carin, as he did his flat in Berlin, where he created an altar in memory of her which remained even after he remarried in 1935. Carinhall was demolished on Göring's orders as Soviettroops advanced in 1945.

[caption id="attachment_6182" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Görings estate Carinhall a little bit north of Berlin. It was build as memory of Carin, and blown away by Hermann Göring in the end of January 1945 when the Russians came.[/caption]

Eric von Rosen and the Swastika

Eric von Rosen found swastikas on a Viking rune-stone on Gotland, where he went through high-school. This seemed to him a typical Viking symbol, and as such it held great appeal to the nationalistic young Count. The Vikings used the swastika as a symbol of light and happiness. When Eric was preparing for his first expedition, the one to South America in 1901, he had swastikas painted on his crates and luggage, to separate them from those of the other participants. This way of choosing for oneself a personal emblem or token of luck, was common and fashionable at that time. During his travels among the descendants of the Inca in Bolivia, he was surprised to see how often their textiles were adorned with swastikas, and realised that this was a universal symbol that had been used by many cultures all over the world.

When he started rebuilding at Rockelstad the next year, he used the symbol as a decorative element everywhere in the house. They are easily spotted in the ceiling of the Great Hall, where they are painted green on a red background. The Hall was finished in 1903. When he planned his spectacular hunting-lodge in 1910, the architect Tengbom was commissioned to design a group of furniture in Old Nordic style, decorated with carved swastikas.

[caption id="attachment_6183" align="aligncenter" width="600"] The first airplane of the Finnish Air Force, the Thulin D, donated by Eric von Rosen.[/caption]

Being a friend of Finland, he gave the newly independent state an aircraft adorned with his symbol signifying the beginning of the Finnish Air-force.
The Swastika, though blue with a white background, was adopted as the Symbol of the Air-force of Finland. The aeroplane that von Rosen bought in 1918, to support the Finnish fight for independence, was painted with large blue and white swastikas on its wings before it was delivered to General Mannerheim.

[caption id="attachment_6184" align="aligncenter" width="185"] NSB (***) poster from 1935, announcing a meeting with Eric von Rosen as main speaker.[/caption]

***National Socialist Bloc (in Swedish: Nationalsocialistiska Blocket) was a Swedish national socialist political party formed in the end of 1933 by the merger of Nationalsocialistiska Samlingspartiet, Nationalsocialistiska Förbundet and local National Socialist units connected to the advocate Sven Hallström in Umeå. Later Svensk Nationalsocialistisk Samling merged into NSB. The leader of the party was the Colonel Martin Ekström. The party maintained several publications, Landet Fritt (Gothenburg), Vår Kamp (Gothenburg), Vår Front (Umeå), Nasisten (Malmö) and Riksposten. NSB differentiated itself from other Swedish National Socialist groups due to its liaisons with the Swedish upper class. NSB was clearly smaller than the two main National Socialist parties in Sweden at the time, SNSP and NSAP. Gradually the party vanished.

Sources: http://www.rockelstad.se and Wikipedia

Blasphamagoatachrist - 'Black Metal Warfare' demo 2018

Nuclear assault metal created by the demons of Blasphemy, Goatpenis and Antichrist. Nothing fancy, just pure warfare noise.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W1RfwMQCNy4

The Harii, an Ancient Germanic Maennerbund

In pre-xtian Germania a band of warriors flourished called the Harii. According to Rudolf Simek in his Dictionary of Northern Mythology Harri was a latinised term for the Gothic harjis meaning `army`. The meaning that Tacitus was trying to convey is that of `warriors` rather than `soldiers`. Today there are no real warriors in the western world only soldiers, a Latin derived term from solidus, a gold coin. This implies that the soldier as opposed to the warrior is little more than a paid mercenary, another Latin derived term. This tells us a little about the character of the Germanic `warrior` as opposed to the Latin `soldier`.

Tacitus refers to the Harii in his Germania:

"For their part, the Harii, besides the military might in which they surpass the peoples listed above, savage as they are, enhance their inborn ferocity by trickery and timing: their shields are black, their bodies stained, they choose dark nights for battles, and thus inspire terror with the shadowy horror of a ghostly army. None of their enemies can withstand that strange and so to speak hellish sight: for in every battle the men are overcome first."[Rives translation]

I prefer the Mattingley translation:

"As for the Harii, not only are they superior in strength to the other peoples I have just mentioned, but they minister to their savage instincts by trickery and clever timing. They black their shields and dye their bodies, and choose pitch dark nights for their battles. The shadowy, awe-inspiring appearance of such a goulish army inspires mortal panic; for no enemy can endure a sight so strange and hellish. Defeat in battle starts always with the eyes."

Simek draws an interesting link between the Harri and the Einheriar:

"The name of this shadowy army of warriors also reminds us of the einherjar, who do not necessarily represent an old detail from the concept of the Germanic warrior`s paradise. A more likely explanation is the night-time activity of the Wild Hunt, which O. Hoefler convincingly interpreted as a band of warriors, which he associated with the cult of Odin."

Caesar in his de Bello Gallico refers to a similar staining of the body by the ancient Britons:

"All the Britons paint themselves with woad, which produces a dark blue colour: by this means they appear more frightening in battle."[Book 5,14]

Woad[vitrum or isatis tinctoria] is a plant from whose leaves a blue dye was pressed. So either the Celts shared a similar cultish practise to the Teutons or perhaps Caesar was inadvertantly referring to a colony of Teutons already established in England as some scholars such as Oppenheimer proposes in his groundbreaking work The Origins of the British which I referred to in my articles The Belgae and the Ancient Germanic Colonisation of England and The Ancient Presence of the Germanic Peoples in England both posted on my Celto-Germanic Culture, Myth and History blog on 11/4/13 and 24/6/12.

The Harii were not a tribe in the usual sense of the term but a band of brothers sworn and bound together by sacred oaths to Woden[the God who binds], to their lord and each other. Their bonds were considered more sacred than the bonds of family and tribe.

Hoefler identified the Harii with the God of storms and battles, Woden and he was right to do so for this God is the one who was primarily honoured by the warrior elite and most of the Anglo-Saxon royal houses acknowledged Him as their divine ancestor, thus conferring legitimacy for their right to rule.

In addition to Woden it is quite possible that the Harii also honoured other battle deities such as Hariasa. An old but now lost stone from Koeln in the Rheinland refers to this Goddess. Her name reminds one of the valkyrie Herja. An inscription on a 1st-2nd century BCE helmet fom Slovenia refers to a God Harigast. This could be an alternative name for Woden whose alternative names include Herass[`army-god`] and Herblindi[`the one who blinds the enemy army`].

I believe that the Harii chose black not just as a means of camouflage or to inspire terror but also for more spiritual and cultic reasons. My readers will recall from my article The Significance of Red, White and Blue/Black in Aryan Society and Cosmology posted on this blog on 8/4/13 that the colours in the combinations of black/blue/green, white/gold and red feature on the flags of most European nations and are a manifestation of the deep cosmological significance of these colours for the Aryan peoples.

A more recent manifestation of the Harii as a Maennerbund is of course Germany`s Waffen SS, a pan-Germanic body of highly trained mystical warriors devoted to the lord-retainer concept which features not only amongst the Teutonic peoples but other ancient Aryan peoples as well. A scholarly work which explores this concept amongst the Anglo-Saxon and Celtic peoples of Britain is Lords of Battle by Dr Stephen S. Evans. The associations between the Maennerbund and Woden are fully explored in Kris Kershaw`s Odin: The One-Eyed God and the [Indo-] Germanic Maennerbuende. I have only a German translation of this work, the English language one being long out of print and the cost of second hand copies being quite prohibitive.An essay titled The Woden Maennerbuende by the leader of our Order, Wulf Ingesunnu was published in Troy Southgate`s Woden, which I highly recommend.

One will recall the ceremonial black uniforms of the SS with their silver insignia incorporating such ancient Germanic symbols as the Totenkopf and the Sigel runes.  As a Woden Mannerbund today we follow this tradition in our donning of black which I tend to wear all of the time. This visually sets us apart from the masses and reinforces  in our minds that we are mystics and warriors sworn to Woden and the Maennerbund in which we serve with the higher purpose of engaging in spiritual warfare for the destiny of the English, Germanic and Aryan folk.

by Wotans Krieger

http://celto-germanic.blogspot.gr

The general cause of anti-Semitism

[caption id="attachment_6168" align="aligncenter" width="600"] Kiev pogrom (1881)[/caption]

"It must be therefore, since the enemies of the Jews belonged to the most diverse races, since they lived in countries very distant from each other, since they were ruled by very different laws, governed by opposite principles, since they had neither the same morals, nor the same customs, since they were animated by unlike dispositions which did not permit them to judge of anything in the same way, it must be therefore that the general cause of anti-Semitism has always resided in Israel itself and not in those who have fought against Israel."

Bernard Lazare

The Innocents Abroad, by Mark Twain (Athens)

The Innocents Abroad, or The New Pilgrims' Progress is a travel book by American author Mark Twain published in 1869 

"...But what were sunsets to us, with the wild excitement upon us of approaching the most renowned of cities! What cared we for outward visions, when Agamemnon, Achilles, and a thousand other heroes of the great Past were marching in ghostly procession through our fancies? What were sunsets to us, who were about to live and breathe and walk in actual Athens; yea, and go far down into the dead centuries and bid in person for the slaves, Diogenes and Plato, in the public market-place, or gossip with the neighbors about the siege of Troy or the splendid deeds of Marathon? We scorned to consider sunsets.

We arrived, and entered the ancient harbor of the Piraeus at last. We dropped anchor within half a mile of the village. Away off, across the undulating Plain of Attica, could be seen a little square-topped hill with a something on it, which our glasses soon discovered to be the ruined edifices of the citadel of the Athenians, and most prominent among them loomed the venerable Parthenon. So exquisitely clear and pure is this wonderful atmosphere that every column of the noble structure was discernible through the telescope, and even the smaller ruins about it assumed some semblance of shape. This at a distance of five or six miles. In the valley, near the Acropolis, (the square-topped hill before spoken of,) Athens itself could be vaguely made out with an ordinary lorgnette. Every body was anxious to get ashore and visit these classic localities as quickly as possible. No land we had yet seen had aroused such universal interest among the passengers.

But bad news came. The commandant of the Piraeus came in his boat, and said we must either depart or else get outside the harbor and remain imprisoned in our ship, under rigid quarantine, for eleven days! So we took up the anchor and moved outside, to lie a dozen hours or so, taking in supplies, and then sail for Constantinople. It was the bitterest disappointment we had yet experienced. To lie a whole day in sight of the Acropolis, and yet be obliged to go away without visiting Athens! Disappointment was hardly a strong enough word to describe the circumstances.

All hands were on deck, all the afternoon, with books and maps and glasses, trying to determine which “narrow rocky ridge” was the Areopagus, which sloping hill the Pnyx, which elevation the Museum Hill, and so on. And we got things confused. Discussion became heated, and party spirit ran high. Church members were gazing with emotion upon a hill which they said was the one St. Paul preached from, and another faction claimed that that hill was Hymettus, and another that it was Pentelicon! After all the trouble, we could be certain of only one thing — the square-topped hill was the Acropolis, and the grand ruin that crowned it was the Parthenon, whose picture we knew in infancy in the school books.



We inquired of every body who came near the ship, whether there were guards in the Piraeus, whether they were strict, what the chances were of capture should any of us slip ashore, and in case any of us made the venture and were caught, what would be probably done to us? The answers were discouraging: There was a strong guard or police force; the Piraeus was a small town, and any stranger seen in it would surely attract attention — capture would be certain. The commandant said the punishment would be “heavy;” when asked “how heavy?” he said it would be “very severe” — that was all we could get out of him.

At eleven o’clock at night, when most of the ship’s company were abed, four of us stole softly ashore in a small boat, a clouded moon favoring the enterprise, and started two and two, and far apart, over a low hill, intending to go clear around the Piraeus, out of the range of its police. Picking our way so stealthily over that rocky, nettle-grown eminence, made me feel a good deal as if I were on my way somewhere to steal something. My immediate comrade and I talked in an undertone about quarantine laws and their penalties, but we found nothing cheering in the subject. I was posted. Only a few days before, I was talking with our captain, and he mentioned the case of a man who swam ashore from a quarantined ship somewhere, and got imprisoned six months for it; and when he was in Genoa a few years ago, a captain of a quarantined ship went in his boat to a departing ship, which was already outside of the harbor, and put a letter on board to be taken to his family, and the authorities imprisoned him three months for it, and then conducted him and his ship fairly to sea, and warned him never to show himself in that port again while he lived. This kind of conversation did no good, further than to give a sort of dismal interest to our quarantine-breaking expedition, and so we dropped it. We made the entire circuit of the town without seeing any body but one man, who stared at us curiously, but said nothing, and a dozen persons asleep on the ground before their doors, whom we walked among and never woke — but we woke up dogs enough, in all conscience — we always had one or two barking at our heels, and several times we had as many as ten and twelve at once. They made such a preposterous din that persons aboard our ship said they could tell how we were progressing for a long time, and where we were, by the barking of the dogs. The clouded moon still favored us. When we had made the whole circuit, and were passing among the houses on the further side of the town, the moon came out splendidly, but we no longer feared the light. As we approached a well, near a house, to get a drink, the owner merely glanced at us and went within. He left the quiet, slumbering town at our mercy. I record it here proudly, that we didn’t do any thing to it.

Seeing no road, we took a tall hill to the left of the distant Acropolis for a mark, and steered straight for it over all obstructions, and over a little rougher piece of country than exists any where else outside of the State of Nevada, perhaps. Part of the way it was covered with small, loose stones — we trod on six at a time, and they all rolled. Another part of it was dry, loose, newly-ploughed ground. Still another part of it was a long stretch of low grape-vines, which were tanglesome and troublesome, and which we took to be brambles. The Attic Plain, barring the grape-vines, was a barren, desolate, unpoetical waste — I wonder what it was in Greece’s Age of Glory, five hundred years before Christ?

In the neighborhood of one o’clock in the morning, when we were heated with fast walking and parched with thirst, Denny exclaimed, “Why, these weeds are grape-vines!” and in five minutes we had a score of bunches of large, white, delicious grapes, and were reaching down for more when a dark shape rose mysteriously up out of the shadows beside us and said “Ho!” And so we left.



In ten minutes more we struck into a beautiful road, and unlike some others we had stumbled upon at intervals, it led in the right direction. We followed it. It was broad, and smooth, and white — handsome and in perfect repair, and shaded on both sides for a mile or so with single ranks of trees, and also with luxuriant vineyards. Twice we entered and stole grapes, and the second time somebody shouted at us from some invisible place. Whereupon we left again. We speculated in grapes no more on that side of Athens.

Shortly we came upon an ancient stone aqueduct, built upon arches, and from that time forth we had ruins all about us — we were approaching our journey’s end. We could not see the Acropolis now or the high hill, either, and I wanted to follow the road till we were abreast of them, but the others overruled me, and we toiled laboriously up the stony hill immediately in our front — and from its summit saw another — climbed it and saw another! It was an hour of exhausting work. Soon we came upon a row of open graves, cut in the solid rock — (for a while one of them served Socrates for a prison) — we passed around the shoulder of the hill, and the citadel, in all its ruined magnificence, burst upon us! We hurried across the ravine and up a winding road, and stood on the old Acropolis, with the prodigious walls of the citadel towering above our heads. We did not stop to inspect their massive blocks of marble, or measure their height, or guess at their extraordinary thickness, but passed at once through a great arched passage like a railway tunnel, and went straight to the gate that leads to the ancient temples. It was locked! So, after all, it seemed that we were not to see the great Parthenon face to face. We sat down and held a council of war. Result: the gate was only a flimsy structure of wood — we would break it down. It seemed like desecration, but then we had traveled far, and our necessities were urgent. We could not hunt up guides and keepers — we must be on the ship before daylight. So we argued. This was all very fine, but when we came to break the gate, we could not do it. We moved around an angle of the wall and found a low bastion — eight feet high without — ten or twelve within. Denny prepared to scale it, and we got ready to follow. By dint of hard scrambling he finally straddled the top, but some loose stones crumbled away and fell with a crash into the court within. There was instantly a banging of doors and a shout. Denny dropped from the wall in a twinkling, and we retreated in disorder to the gate. Xerxes took that mighty citadel four hundred and eighty years before Christ, when his five millions of soldiers and camp-followers followed him to Greece, and if we four Americans could have remained unmolested five minutes longer, we would have taken it too.



The garrison had turned out — four Greeks. We clamored at the gate, and they admitted us. [Bribery and corruption.]

We crossed a large court, entered a great door, and stood upon a pavement of purest white marble, deeply worn by footprints. Before us, in the flooding moonlight, rose the noblest ruins we had ever looked upon — the Propylae; a small Temple of Minerva; the Temple of Hercules, and the grand Parthenon. [We got these names from the Greek guide, who didn’t seem to know more than seven men ought to know.] These edifices were all built of the whitest Pentelic marble, but have a pinkish stain upon them now. Where any part is broken, however, the fracture looks like fine loaf sugar. Six caryatides, or marble women, clad in flowing robes, support the portico of the Temple of Hercules, but the porticos and colonnades of the other structures are formed of massive Doric and Ionic pillars, whose flutings and capitals are still measurably perfect, notwithstanding the centuries that have gone over them and the sieges they have suffered. The Parthenon, originally, was two hundred and twenty-six feet long, one hundred wide, and seventy high, and had two rows of great columns, eight in each, at either end, and single rows of seventeen each down the sides, and was one of the most graceful and beautiful edifices ever erected.

Most of the Parthenon’s imposing columns are still standing, but the roof is gone. It was a perfect building two hundred and fifty years ago, when a shell dropped into the Venetian magazine stored here, and the explosion which followed wrecked and unroofed it. I remember but little about the Parthenon, and I have put in one or two facts and figures for the use of other people with short memories. Got them from the guide-book.

As we wandered thoughtfully down the marble-paved length of this stately temple, the scene about us was strangely impressive. Here and there, in lavish profusion, were gleaming white statues of men and women, propped against blocks of marble, some of them armless, some without legs, others headless — but all looking mournful in the moonlight, and startlingly human! They rose up and confronted the midnight intruder on every side — they stared at him with stony eyes from unlooked-for nooks and recesses; they peered at him over fragmentary heaps far down the desolate corridors; they barred his way in the midst of the broad forum, and solemnly pointed with handless arms the way from the sacred fane; and through the roofless temple the moon looked down, and banded the floor and darkened the scattered fragments and broken statues with the slanting shadows of the columns.

What a world of ruined sculpture was about us! Set up in rows — stacked up in piles — scattered broadcast over the wide area of the Acropolis — were hundreds of crippled statues of all sizes and of the most exquisite workmanship; and vast fragments of marble that once belonged to the entablatures, covered with bas-reliefs representing battles and sieges, ships of war with three and four tiers of oars, pageants and processions — every thing one could think of. History says that the temples of the Acropolis were filled with the noblest works of Praxiteles and Phidias, and of many a great master in sculpture besides — and surely these elegant fragments attest it.



We walked out into the grass-grown, fragment-strewn court beyond the Parthenon. It startled us, every now and then, to see a stony white face stare suddenly up at us out of the grass with its dead eyes. The place seemed alive with ghosts. I half expected to see the Athenian heroes of twenty centuries ago glide out of the shadows and steal into the old temple they knew so well and regarded with such boundless pride.

The full moon was riding high in the cloudless heavens, now. We sauntered carelessly and unthinkingly to the edge of the lofty battlements of the citadel, and looked down — a vision! And such a vision! Athens by moonlight! The prophet that thought the splendors of the New Jerusalem were revealed to him, surely saw this instead! It lay in the level plain right under our feet — all spread abroad like a picture — and we looked down upon it as we might have looked from a balloon. We saw no semblance of a street, but every house, every window, every clinging vine, every projection was as distinct and sharply marked as if the time were noon-day; and yet there was no glare, no glitter, nothing harsh or repulsive — the noiseless city was flooded with the mellowest light that ever streamed from the moon, and seemed like some living creature wrapped in peaceful slumber. On its further side was a little temple, whose delicate pillars and ornate front glowed with a rich lustre that chained the eye like a spell; and nearer by, the palace of the king reared its creamy walls out of the midst of a great garden of shrubbery that was flecked all over with a random shower of amber lights — a spray of golden sparks that lost their brightness in the glory of the moon, and glinted softly upon the sea of dark foliage like the pallid stars of the milky-way. Overhead the stately columns, majestic still in their ruin — under foot the dreaming city — in the distance the silver sea — not on the broad earth is there an other picture half so beautiful!

As we turned and moved again through the temple, I wished that the illustrious men who had sat in it in the remote ages could visit it again and reveal themselves to our curious eyes — Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, Socrates, Phocion, Pythagoras, Euclid, Pindar, Xenophon, Herodotus, Praxiteles and Phidias, Zeuxis the painter. What a constellation of celebrated names! But more than all, I wished that old Diogenes, groping so patiently with his lantern, searching so zealously for one solitary honest man in all the world, might meander along and stumble on our party. I ought not to say it, may be, but still I suppose he would have put out his light.

We left the Parthenon to keep its watch over old Athens, as it had kept it for twenty-three hundred years, and went and stood outside the walls of the citadel. In the distance was the ancient, but still almost perfect Temple of Theseus, and close by, looking to the west, was the Bema, from whence Demosthenes thundered his philippics and fired the wavering patriotism of his countrymen."



"It occurred to us, after a while, that if we wanted to get home before daylight betrayed us, we had better be moving. So we hurried away. When far on our road, we had a parting view of the Parthenon, with the moonlight streaming through its open colonnades and touching its capitals with silver. As it looked then, solemn, grand, and beautiful it will always remain in our memories."



 

The Time Cycle to a Golden Age

“Evola referenced a wide body of religious traditions to argue that western society is decaying, and claimed that the rise of liberal modernity aligns with what Hinduism calls the Kali Yuga, or the dark age—the final in a four-age time cycle where spirituality is replaced with materialism and the structures and hierarchies that previously ordered societies disintegrate into a leveled (or egalitarian) social chaos. Evola would eventually embrace the fatalism inherent in this concept of history, anticipating that nothing could stop the destruction of the Kali Yuga and that its full realization could bring a fiery end to liberalism and reset the time cycle to a golden age.”

Benjamin R. Teitelbaum writing about Julius Evola

Why We Continue to Tell the Truth about Adolf Hitler and National Socialist Germany

If we do not tell the truth about National  Socialist Germany, why should we expect anyone else to do so?

By James Harting

On occasion, we receive the suggestion from people sympathetic to the NEW ORDER and to National Socialism that we would have more immediate success in building our Movement if we were to abandon our policy of openly championing Adolf Hitler and defending the historical record concerning National Socialist Germany. The Swastika, they explain to us, is “the most hated symbol in the world,” and that ordinary American Whites equate it with pure evil. Also, unlike for many Europeans, the word “socialist” has a negative connotation in the US. So, we are told, the smart thing for us to do would be to ditch Hitler, the Third Reich, the Swastika and the term “National Socialism.” Instead, we should simply explain our philosophy and our policies in a modern American context, without all the negative baggage associated with the past. Young, Alt-Right types, we are told, do not care about Mein Kampf or the bombing Dresden – they just want their country back.

Perhaps our day-to-day efforts in recruiting and spreading our message might be easier if we distanced ourselves from our essential National Socialist identity, and instead tried to “fit in” and “modernize” our approach. However, historically, we note that in the 1970s it was an open NS group, the National Socialist White People’s Party, that was the strongest, most successful NS formation in the US, in terms of membership, income and activism. Groups that shunned the open approach languished behind it. Yet by the 1990s, it was the National Alliance, which was not openly NS, that had taken the lead. Recently, one openly NS group has given up using the Swastika in the pursuit of greater mass acceptance – but since then, attendance at its public gatherings has dwindled. All theories aside, the historical record indicates that the open NS approach is not the kiss of death its critics maintain that it is, and that other factors, such as leadership, energy and organizational competence are more important.

So, if others want to promote National Socialism in an indirect manner, that is fine – but it is not for us.

To begin with, simply as practical matter, pretending to be something other than what we are just does not work. We can claim that we are not “Nazis,” and camouflage ourselves in any number of ways – but experience has taught us that this is never successful. In attempting to disguise ourselves, we do not fool the Jews or our other enemies. We do not fool the media. We do not fool the government or its spy agencies. In the end, they all know that we are “Nazis,” and that is how they will describe us and that is how they will treat us, no matter what cosmetic changes we employ. The only ones we end up fooling – if anyone – are the very White people we seek to bring in to the Movement. But our mandate is not to lie to our people about National Socialism, but rather to tell them the truth!

As George Lincoln Rockwell explained in his groundbreaking essay In Hoc Signo Vinces, if we abandon our Symbol and renounce the great men and women who died fighting for its victory, we also give up the enormous spiritual power and the tremendous publicity advantages that are inherent in the open advocacy of National Socialism. (See: https://wordpress.com/view/neworderorg.wordpress.com)

Beyond that, to adopt the “sneaky Nazi” route (as Commander Rockwell called it), would be to undermine the fundamental integrity of the Movement. We do not have a huge fortune at our disposal, nor do we have the support of powerful forces in the government or the military. We do not have a mass following consisting of millions of our fellow citizens, nor do we have a positive reputation in their eyes. We do not have effective access to a means of mass communication with which to broadcast our message. What we do have, however, is our integrity.

That is a word that you do not hear much anymore, and for good reason: the values of honesty, wholeness and incorruptibility that define it are completely at odds with the modern zeitgeist – the “spirit of the times.” Rather, in the decadent, degenerate, soon-to-be-gone final days of Western civilization, the ruling notion is that one should do whatever brings the maximum short-term success, regardless of whether one’s behavior is dishonest, immoral or just plain wrong. Shamelessness is the order of the day, or, to use the original Hebrew term, chutzpah.

But we National Socialists do not derive our code of behavior from the Old Order and its rotten value system. Rather, we find our values in the sacred precincts of our racial soul, in the innate religious stirrings of the Aryan personality. And there, honor, courage, loyalty and purity call to us. Let others take the path of least resistance in the name of temporary expediency; we prefer to be true to ourselves, no matter what the cost. If we abandon our sense of integrity, we lose the moral premise on which our struggle has always been based.

It is sometimes argued that the outcome of our mission is so important that we are justified in taking shortcuts to make ourselves superficially more-appealing to the masses. In the early 1920s, at the outset of his struggle, Adolf Hitler had already encountered similar arguments. He responded:

“Even then I always came out in taking a position in important questions of principle against all public opinion when it assumed a false attitude – disregarding all considerations of popularity, hatred or struggle. The NSDAP should not become the constable of public opinion but must dominate it. It must not become the servant of the masses but their master!” – Mein Kampf, Volume II, Chapter 6, pp. 464-465 (Manheim)

We cannot put it any clearer than that.

There is much that White people today – and especially young adults and teenagers – need to know about World War II and the era preceding it, whether they want to hear it or not. The world we live in today is direct consequence of that conflict and its tragic outcome. Had Hitler won, there would be no threat of White genocide, nor would there be the menace of a nuclear holocaust caused by the misdeeds of the Jews in occupied Palestine. As the American novelist William Faulkner put it, “The past is never dead. In fact, it’s not even past.”

Some people suggest to us that it would be better to let the Revisionists fight the battle of rectifying the historical record. One thing we quickly note is that “Revisionism” is not a unified movement; different Revisionist historians pursue different objectives, and sometimes they see things from a non-NS perspective that that is not necessarily friendly to us.

No, it is up to us to tell the truth about our Movement and its history, rather than to leave that up to others. Only we have both the objective knowledge and the subjective understanding necessary to explain our past, its significance and its meaning.

We know that everything was not perfect in Hitler’s Germany, and that it was never a completely realized National Socialist state (although things became better as the years passed, so that by 1944-1945 the development of a pure NS society was in an advanced state). We have a choice: do we emphasize the things that were done right, or do we focus on the shortcomings? The NEW ORDER, as a matter of fundamental policy, does not engage in petty, nit-picking criticism of Adolf Hitler or NS Germany. There are many, many mainstream historians who already do that. Rather, we focus on the positive aspects of the Third Reich and hold them up as shining examples of the society that we seek to build for future Aryan generations.

So, no, we are not going to abandon the Swastika, nor distance ourselves from Adolf Hitler. Rather, we will continue to tell the truth about the National Socialist era in Germany, and to proudly proclaim ourselves to be its heirs. 

https://neworderorg.wordpress.com

The modern danger

“How long can men thrive between walls of brick, walking on asphalt pavements, breathing the fumes of coal and of oil, growing, working, dying, with hardly a thought of wind, and sky, and fields of grain, seeing only machine-made beauty, the mineral-like quality of life. This is our modern danger—one of the waxen wings of flight. It may cause our civilization to fall unless we act quickly to counteract it, unless we realize that human character is more important than efficiency, that education consists of more than the mere accumulation of knowledge.”

Charles Lindbergh

The Call to Awakening

"Dark times have come, but in spite of this we have not yet reached a twilight of the gods and even today we have no reason for doubt-filled pessimism, for the Wihinei of the Aryo-Germanics is too deep - even if unconscious and latent - rooted in every Aryo-Germanic soul and it awaits only the call to awaken which will and must catch fire in order to instill the flame of inspiration in the Aryo-Germanic sensibility..."

Guido von List

In Hoc Signo Vinces

Our Banner makes us go Forward
Our Banner is the New Time
And the Banner guides us to Eternity
Yes the Banner means more than Death!