He was not a tall man. He stood about 5’7″, yet he was a giant amongst
men. Wide in the shoulders with bulging biceps, Robert J. Mathews was known as a no-nonsense guy in the community of Metaline Falls, Washington. This Selkirk Mountain town employed miners, woodsmen, and blue-collar union men in season. It was known more for bars and taverns than its churches. Bob would work his 8-12 hour shift in the Bunker Hill zinc mine and would spend the remaining daylight hours falling timber on a forty-acre parcel he had purchased on Boundary Dam Road. Like his ancestors that tamed the West, Bob was determined to clear and fence a small parcel to raise Scottish Galloway cattle. In the town, he earned the moniker; Badger Bob; for his hard work and determination. He cleared and prepped an area for two doublewide trailers on this land, one for himself and one for his elderly parents.
Without much help from anyone else, he built a chicken coop, a root cellar
and a barn. After pulling up all the stumps and seeding a five acre pasture,
he brought in a bull and three or four cows. Near the creek in the woods,
close to his house, he placed some benches in a mossy grotto-like area with a small waterfall, so he could sit and relax at the end of the day, enjoying
Nature’s beauty. In the evenings, he would read from his extensive library
until he could barely hold his eyes open. Oftentimes, the book would tumble
to the floor and he’d be found snoring in his easy chair. Then, in the
morning, he’d start his day at the crack of dawn with John Philip Sousa
marching music, or the Black Watch playing reveille on the pipes, blaring on his phonograph. His breakfast, every single day, 365 days a year, had to
include grilled eggs (slightly running) and a bowl of oatmeal because he had
read somewhere that the Scottish Highlanders would carry oatmeal in their sporrans when they went to battle and would live off the land supplementing their diet with pillaged eggs or small game.
In the early 1980’s Bob had created a movement called ‘White American
Bastion‘ (W.A.B.) and was active trying to get people to move to his corner
of the Pacific Northwest. He felt that if whites would move out of the urban
cesspools, they would return to their idyllic tribal roots. The bad part was
that jobs were few and far between in this utopia. A recession was going on
in the country at this time. Farms were being lost to foreclosures. The
logging industry was depressed, and many of the mills shut down. The zinc
mine was no longer operating. The union at the cement plant was going on
strike. Unemployment was 20%, or worse, as many jobs in Pend Oreille County were seasonal.
Yet Bob was undeterred. One day, he invited a number of people he had
met at Aryan Nations Church in Hayden Lake, Idaho, up to his place for a
potluck dinner. After the meal, while the wives and children stayed in the
house, the men moved out to a building Bob and I, and two others, had built
that summer. Bob sat us in a circle of chairs he’d placed in the upstairs
room. In a very serious manner, he explained to us what he perceived to be a major conspiracy against our race, our families, and our way of life. He
showed us articles pulled from the Spokane newspaper that would prove to us that our people were under attack. Mostly these were articles on farm
foreclosures with violent endings, or court decisions pushing affirmative
action to the detriment of White communities.
He reminded us of what was said at the 1983 Aryan Nations Congress about how money was scarce for our Folk. He gave us examples of how people in our own community were struggling to make ends meet. Less than half the men in the circle that evening had steady jobs. One man’s family was living in a dirt floor cabin without running water. He asked us if we could think of ways to make money. Dan Bowers suggested sponsorship by appealing to wealthy donors and creating some equitable means of distributing the proceeds. Most of us viewed this idea as too labor intensive to set up on a short notice for our immediate needs. Kenneth Loff suggested we bid on forest service trail cleaning jobs. Someone argued that we would have to put up money to bid on the contracts as a promise we’d complete the job; then someone suggested doing robberies. None of us had engaged in criminal activity before and most of the men were very much against it. Most of the men were Identity Christians and could not justify it by their faith. Most of us agreed that people worked hard for their money and we didn’t want to rob them of their hard earned property or savings. It was suggested that money from banks was insured, but none of us were prepared to take such a drastic step. The general consensus was that we would work to create jobs in our area and would make it a point to help one another. Then Bob told us to wait in the circle while he ran downstairs. In a moment, he came back carrying Jamie Ann Loff, Ken’s infant daughter. He placed her on a blanket on the floor in the middle
of the circle, lit some candles and dimmed the lights. He told us that he
wanted us to make a pledge to one another; what he said was just as sacred,
if not more so, than a wedding vow. He impressed upon us that this oath was so unlike any other that, if we wanted, we could leave the room with no hard feelings. No one moved. There was a moment of silence as all of us stared at the child in the center of our circle. Bob told us, that the oath we were about to swear was directed toward all White children, which were represented this night, by this one child. It was a pledge to defend the children at any cost. We all raised our right arms as Bob began reading prepared words from a sheet of paper, in a trembling, yet determined voice. As he read a line, we would repeat after him. The moment was so moving that I could feel the energy generated by each one of us fill the room. Tears filled my eyes as I felt a deep connection to each of the men standing in the circle. Like a pebble dropped in a pool of still water, I could feel the energy radiating outward, through space and time, to our brethren not present with us on this evening. We were pledging to give our life for our folk and would use all our resources to protect this child and all White children, to defend their safety and honor. From this moment on, our lives were thoroughly changed.
Ultimately, we did take action, engaging in more than a years worth of
criminal activity to support our cause. Many of the men in the circle that
night were fortunate enough to get a bit of prison time for their
involvement. They would have a chance to re-evaluate and examine where they went wrong and how to do things better in the future, but not Bob; he gave his life.
After a two day stand off with scores of government agents, Robert J.
Mathews was killed in a fiery blaze; a Viking funeral pyre. When they
located the charred remains of his body the next day, a gun was found melted into each hand. His Bruders Schweigen medallion was melted onto the Kevlar vest where his chest had been.
With his passing went his dream of creating his White American Bastion, a community of families banding together in support of one another in a little town called Metaline Falls. His ashes were scattered beneath an apple tree on his property on Boundary Dam Road. Though they were able to destroy his body, they couldn’t kill his spirit. Wherever people gather to work for the glory and honor of our Folk, the spirit of Robert J. Mathews is alive and well, his dream renewed. Hail Robert J. Mathews!
– Richard Kemp
It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong
man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit
belongs to the man who is actively in the arena, whose face is marred by dust
and sweat and blood.
– Theodore Roosevelt
Ode To Robert Mathews
by Marvin Gustafsson, POW
Rest now my Silent Brother
Your work on earth is through,
Your spirit lives in others
Who carry on for you.
The flames you have kindled
Burn brighter than the sun,
To awaken the sleeping brothers
For work that must be done.
From seeds that you have planted
A mighty forest grows,
From guns of Aryan Warriors
Your story will be told,
So rest now my Silent Brother,
Your crops are doing well,
A million Aryan Warriors
Are blooming in your fields.
When the guns are silent,
And in Victory we stand,
The Spirit of Robert Jay Mathews
Will live in every man.
Copyright ©SIGRDRIFA Publications. All Rights Reserved.
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