After having planned for half a year ahead, like any good man of Germanic descent, I set out to attend the Polish independence day march on November 11. I had originally intended to organize a small conference, but such things were not meant to be this year. Nevertheless, I am still aiming to organize an annual European show of solidarity with the Poles: a sea of colorful banners joining together in the cause of an immutable European homeland on the European continent. It would be a conference for the exchanging of ideas between East and West, overcoming language barriers to offers warnings and advice to the Poles while they offer some measure of hope to reenergize the Western European spirit.
Every year I return from it rejuvenated, yet short of temper, to my own country. Why do we subject ourselves to this mockery of existence when dignity and patriotic fervor still come so naturally to the Poles? What is it that has broken the will of the Western Europeans so deeply? I can perhaps accept that paying lip service to Leftist nonsense may sometimes be warranted – yes, this is how far I’ve fallen in my expectations — but to tolerate the continuous humiliations inflicted upon our people? Why do my people bear the unyielding tide of indignities we are never truly free from? Do they even notice these heavy packs on their shoulders? Has this become so routine as to be subconsciously accepted?
Regardless of these questions, let me regale you with another tale of Right-wing adventuring. Our people are due their sagas, of course. I trust next year you will all join me in Warsaw, tankards in hand.
With the COVID drama now on a low boil, tests and fake QR codes weren’t the issue this time as it was last year, when I was forced to drive 12 terrible hours to get to Warsaw. (For Europeans, this is quite much; for Americans, it’s a Monday-morning commute.) We arrived without issue and took a cab to our hotel, where we encountered the famous Warsaw traffic: What should have been a 15-minute drive took almost an hour. This is because, while Warsaw is a European city, it is designed like an American one, where one must drive everywhere, leading to a constant state of terrible congestion. The only bicycles you will see are being ridden by migrant POCs making food-app deliveries. While Warsaw is generally considered the Portland, Oregon of Poland by nationalists, not much hipster culture there apart from the snooty coffee places, located next to towering glass expat farms has hit the city so far. Thus, Warsaw has all the downsides of liberalism and none of the good it occasionally brings.
We arrived and tipped our all-Polish driver. Our hotel was a utilitarian Communist-era construction, but this spoke quite well to our Dutch sensibilities. It wasn’t fancy, but everything worked and was of reasonable quality and service. Even the people at the front desk spoke good English and smiled — a tall order in Poland) — and best of all, we didn’t pay much for it. Thus, all the boxes were ticked. As you can tell, I am not very demanding concerning service, but I am relentless about quality and efficiency. Conversely, I do not pursue luxury for luxury’s sake, and so I feel overbearing care offends the guests’ supposed adulthood.
I contacted my good friend Aristoteles from the Warsaw league of bigots, a group of racist expats and exiles residing in the city, the place where all the well-intentioned come to rest from their struggles against the powers that dominate our world. We picked out a nearby Polish restaurant, but being familiar with the city, Aristoteles knew a traditional chain restaurant which serves traditional Polish cuisine and that wasn’t bad or overpriced, as many of Warsaw’s promenade establishments are. We ordered a few platters for sharing amongst the three of us, to the visible confusion of the Polish waitress, and downed two liters of beer in large tankards apiece. How good it was to be among the boys again, sharing stories and drinks in the beer hall without having to talk in code constantly. This is a type of therapy all should indulge in.
After having our fill, we dodged several Ukrainian beggars along the promenade — I only donate to extremist groups, thank you — and went for a smoke in the Right-wing shisha lounge (another VICE exclusive waiting to happen). In the place’s darkened booths, which was playing ‘90s music over the speakers, I was reminded of better times — when the struggle for our survival seemed very far away. Similarly, the sea of unintimidating European faces in Warsaw reminded me of how things could have been back home today had our civilization chosen a different path. Is this how the POCs feel? I do not mind diversity so much that I go catatonic at the sight of them, but any nationalist will know that casual life-or-death battles when making eye contact with those of other races are not unusual. Contrast this with the gentle breeze that is friendly eye contact with a Westerner, and I cannot imagine why immigrants detest our presence in our own lands so. While I often attribute to stupidity what others attribute to malice, I can only assume that deep, malicious intent rules their hearts and intentions.
Snapping back to reality, my friend and I retired for the evening, seeing off Aristoteles and returning to Communist comfort (which I mean in a positive sense).
The next day we arose, eager to do something. We had not made many preparations to interview Polish politicians, so we looked for entertainment. My friend who is an authentic Germanic shaman, and whom we’ll refer to simply as Jan, wanted to enjoy freedom as only the Americans know how: by shooting! Our host suggested an out-of-the-way place that he claimed was of high quality and right he was! We arrived during a quiet hour, and we were like children in a candy store, spending our Western European wealth on Polish-priced ammo. Our excitement carried us away, and our instructor was impressed by our handling of the weapons and shooting accuracy — the result of many hours playing Battlefield. He was delighted when his students did well, suggesting new toys whenever we finished with one — and we didn’t care how far we ran up the tab.
Is this what freedom tastes like? We theorized that Americans must be a blessed people. I have been told that some shooting ranges in the United States are like public parks, and that one can shoot there for free, with only the cost of the ammunition being the limit. Such a wondrous place! To put this into perspective, in my own country one can only shoot sporting-style, one-handed, like a duelist of old. One is reprimanded the moment he takes up a square position. Worse, yet have to get licenses for your guns from the government, even though you purchase them from private retailers. On top of this, the police can confiscate your weapons at their discretion (yes, really) — though this doesn’t stop infiltrating Mossad agents from frequently being caught carrying concealed illegal weapons in my country (and being shortly released afterwards with no trouble).
We returned with elation from the range, and chose on the spur of the moment to stroll through Warsaw until we found a coffee place. This took longer than intended, as this was the hour when many of the office yuppies were descending from their glass towers to complain about Elon Musk while sipping their pumpkin-spice lattes.
We later returned to the same restaurant we’d enjoyed the previous night. It was past noon and a good time for a coffee and a modest beer. We finally took some rest as we chilled in a medieval-style venue featuring warm wood tones on painted plaster, eating beet soup. A class of Polish children passed by our window, surveying the historical city on Independence Day, on a field trip that many schools arrange around that time. We noticed that while some of them were cringey zoomers with perms and game hoodies — ah, the joys of being young — they were nevertheless all white, down to the last one. Jan and I recounted how this has become an impossibility in Western Europe today, even in the villages, especially with the “spreading law” looming wherein the government will have the power to force the municipalities, or counties, to accept very dark-looking “refugees” from Ukraine (which I assume is a country somewhere in Africa).
With our minds returning to the present, we made our way through the Old Town to learn about Polish history and entertain ourselves in various bits and bobs until dinner. Our hosts had organized an event at a beer hall where we met many of the march’s foreign attendees, along with the lads from the League of Bigots. A few gallons of beer and a good steak later, the attendees had had their fill and it was time to switch venues. Contests were held as to who could best disregard traffic safety while darting across the roads before Polish drivers could tag us. After these fun and games, we arrived at a second beer hall, where we met more of our Polish host’s men, as well as the Hungarians, who have warm relations with the Poles. I found this curious considering Viktor Orbán’s primarily pro-Russian stance — but then again, these fellows were to the Right of him. Enjoying ourselves deep into the night with real-life shitposting and loading up on Polish shots as we harassed the Hungarian youths, we called it a night at 4 in the morning to make sure we were fresh for the march.
We awoke after four hours of sleep, committing ourselves to rolling down the hotel stairs for breakfast. Elevators are un-Aryan, and as everybody knows, they weaken the spirit. Groaning over coffee, bacon, and eggs I explained to Jan how the march would go, as I had experienced it last year. Our Polish host sent me information on where to convene. Still feeling rough, we took our dextro and headed out to the Palace of Culture to meet our haggard company from the night before, who were in a similar condition to our own, but in high spirits regardless.
After some small talk, we assembled at the mustering area, which was a short walk away. Here we met many of the international guests we hadn’t seen the night before: Spanish, Americans, Dutch, Germans, Estonians, and of course the Hungarians. I did some street interviews with the various groups, but sadly I lost my audio and won’t be able to transcribe them for an article.
The march is quite a happening every year. A tide of flags flows through the streets, and some liberals even have the gall of looking down upon it from their city lofts, impotently hanging pride and other word-salad flags from their balconies as pretentious shows of “defiance.” It started off with a mustering and a Catholic prayer, which the Poles and Spaniards dutifully attended; the latter even kneeled in the street. Being a former Catholic myself, I couldn’t help but marvel at their display of piety, but in my country that faith has long since lost its park. Yet, part of me never truly lets go of my beginnings, as it provides a framework for all later acts. A Catholic flair for dramatic rituals will always accompany me.
After this short interlude, the Polish national anthem was played and all the attendees popped their flares. With it, the storm gods blew a great wind through the city as all the banners waved in the smoke and the city was bathed in bright red light. Amidst all of this the Poles’ feverous song could be heard. At that moment, I felt “it” — something that was more than just symbolic politics or empty gestures, but a spirit awakening in the people. I hope that someday, all the representatives from other countries can likewise have this feeling stirred in them so that they can then take it home and cultivate “that” spark — the light of patriotism.
The march across the bridge to the stadium was uneventful. We proceeded at a waddle for most of the time, with the pace continually increasing and decreasing, making it a bit tiresome. As night began to fall over city, we retired to the formerly “rough area” of Warsaw, where we chose to have a burger, and our host joined us there later. We were informed of the location of an afterparty — in fact, it was at a location I had scouted earlier for a potential Counter-Currents conference — and headed over with the gang as we told nasty jokes along the way. When we arrived, the venue was still occupied by another group of the same political conviction, so we waited it out by buying beers and chips at the Zabka and squatting in the parking lot.
I calmed the nerves of a panicked German before we entered — he was worried about bringing his own water. Our friend Aristoteles joined us, along with our lost Estonian comrade, and we decided to have a seat after an entire day of standing and walking. I didn’t have much energy by that point, but we shared some good times with a Polish friend who had returned with fresh wounds after a scuffle with the anti-fascists — it must have been a brave one, who would challenge the likes of him to a fight — as well as another from the night before who told us that electric smoking is definitely not vaping. We all agreed.
I admired the fighter greatly, as I had only learned how to throw a punch later in life, and never quite built up the confidence to do it at all unless thrust into the situation. I hope the example provided by being around courageous types like him will inspire me to develop such an attitude as well.
The electric smoker admired my attitude, which I must say is an acquired taste which few develop. I live carefree about what I do and say, and I joke around a lot. In my view, if one endures all that I have, it is better to develop a lighter heart than fall into madness, as I feel many do on the Right. You either bench it in this fashion, or eventually you will leave the cause to be reinserted into the Matrix again — or snap, and do even worse.
For example, I bought a Polish armband and wore it upside-down for a giggle, saying I was Indonesian. To the added Chagrin of the Dutch, I kept saying “Solai Malukku,” to which I received some cringed faces. If such things become unbearable in jest, I feel it is a sign one is overinvested in his or her beliefs. This is to one’s detriment, as one often loses the ability to think outside the box, which is necessary when engaging with a normie you are seeking to convert.
We joked back and forth throughout the night, trolling each other. I think if our host were to stick to the political game, he could go far as an organizer. Such youths who are free-thinkers within our frequently closed-minded community often show much promise. We then retired for the night and I fell asleep in the metro for a brief moment on the way back, then stumbling into our hotel room at 1 in the morning.
With much of the active nationalism behind us, we slept out the entire morning, only rising for the breakfast that ended at 11. Settling in to have second breakfast in the sky lounge, we found that most of the larger buildings were closed or inaccessible to the public for the day due to the holiday. We instead went to a cigar lounge to chill and sip whiskey, which we did for a few hours while reading books and browsing Telegram. That week I had especially good animal magnetism, as random dogs and cats were approaching me. Even in the cigar lounge, a dog came up to say hello to me – even before his owner, much to the latter’s disappointment.
After being invited for another round of shooting, we bought tram tickets, but then we were informed at the last moment that it would be at another range. Leaving the tram, we decided instead to instead attend some food halls that night before meeting up with some girls. There we strolled around, looking for specialty beer and Japanese noodle omelets. Surprisingly enough, we even found pagan silverware featuring Black Suns for sale. Since there was also a Japanese night going on, cosplayers were running around, and I bought a pair of cat-ears, given that we all know that catboys are inherently Right-wing these days.
Aristoteles showed up later in the evening, where we had chips and beers until it was time to meet the ladies at a sports bar to watch a sport none of us really cared for. After being bored out of our minds for a while, we switched bars to look for adventure, picking one close to the rainbow arches that are constantly set ablaze by nationalists and ordered more whiskey. This would be the last night that we would see Aristoteles. The goodbyes were hard, but we’ll be back another year! Perhaps it will eventually be permanent, as the Netherlands doesn’t satisfy me in the slightest. You fight constant uphill battles against the secret services and Lefties — for what? So that normies can disregard their own safety in the name of propriety? Why must our survival come so hard in Western Europe when it comes so naturally in Poland?
The following day, we decided to take it easy, checking out early and leaving our luggage to collect later. After a brief stint at the vodka museum, we returned and headed to the airport.
I hope to work more closely with the Poles in the future, and interviews for Counter-Currents Radio are in the making for your listening pleasure. Next year I trust that I will see many of you in Warsaw to share in my boozing misadventures and experience Polish solidarity, so don’t forget to subscribe to our paywall and Telegram. Every year it is an experience, and I promise that you will take feelings home with you that are better than what you bring with you from the pessimistic West. The Lefties say travel is good for the soul, but I would add that it is only worth doing when one actually learns from the experience, instead of spending the time partying with people of various shades of people, backgrounds, and long-overcome cultures.
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