Why I Write

^[1]585 words

“A cowardly man thinks he will ever live,
If warfare he avoids.
But old age will bring him no peace
Though spears may spare him.”
—Havamal, “Wisdom for Wanderers and Counsel to Guests,” Verse 16

In the modern liberal order, very few people do anything that really matters. Severe social pressures and material “comforts” make sure that we continue to consume, pay taxes, flip channels, and keep our mouths shut. Our everyday lives are organized by an anesthetic flow that keeps us shuffling from one distraction to the next. We sleep, we laugh, we read (well, some of us read, anyway), and we bask in our little accomplishments. Then, years later, we die practically unnoticed. Before long, we’re forgotten. The world, unchanged, moves on without us.

Because life for most white Americans is about relaxation, the grind, and a big TV, they’re not distressed by a repulsive world that will have no reason to remember them when they’re gone. But white nationalists, on the other hand, have a different view of the past and the future: recognizing that we live in a world of eternal inheritance and bestowal—a world in which we are always connected to our ancestors, our descendants, and the whole of our people—we understand that we have no choice but to fight (or write, as the case may be). For us, as people tossed into a dynamic, conflicted belief-system torn between past and present, the struggle isn’t really about victory. It’s about the fight itself.

This unusual historicity, in which we are caught violently between our ancestors and our descendants, naturally makes us creatures of struggle. In a society that despises its past and scoffs at its future, we will always be revolutionaries. The contemporary West, unabashedly, is a society of the present: it exports its industries for fast profits; it stuffs its belly with spiked, revolting “food”; it whimsically wreaks havoc on its natural surroundings; it starves into extinction non-human animals as carelessly as it wipes out, on command, inconvenient ethnies on the other side of the world. And it does all these things, of course, to maximize the present, to squeeze the crème out of the here and now. The historical life, the life of tradition with its eye always on struggle and progress, is shrugged off in favor of stuff and security and comfort.

But we, caught between our people’s past and its future, can never coolly submit to such a nauseating, shallow society. Until we construct a progressive society that rejects the presentist, materialist, giddy ideology of the 21st-century West, we will always fight, no matter the odds. It is, if I may say, in our blood.

Put simply, that is why I write. A White Nationalist is defined by struggle, by the sacrifices s/he is willing to make in order to create a more just world. And in this climate, at this time, the pen is the most devastating weapon in our arsenal. For those of us who understand that we’re in the heat of history’s most important battle, we have no choice but to fight (write). If we truly value the lives of our ancestors who struggled for us, and of our descendants who deserve to inherit that same ancient legacy of struggle, then we have no alternative. We must fight and fight well.

But let’s find comfort in this: though we might live a life of the spear, it’s also a life of peaceful, hopeful nights—a life our ancestors and children can be proud of.