An American Nationalist Visits Warsaw

Occidental Observer contributor Adam Komiaga attends this past November’s Independence Day rally in Warsaw and describes his experience.

The 60,000-strong march, known for its participants’ aggressively patriotic posture and its umbrella slogan “We Want God” was attended by nationalists from all over Europe. The author of the article stayed in an apartment with Swedes who, like him, flew to Warsaw to join the march. He makes a number of street-level observations, starting with an encounter with a belligerent Pole:

But we’re almost forehead to forehead now. I lock eyes, my deep-blue squared against his ice-blue. It gets tense.

Our group keeps moving around him though, and like white water flowing around a jutting stone in the river we slide around him on both sides. As I side-step him, I lower my eyes because eye-contact that lasts a millisecond too long usually leads to a fight. Anglos and other Western Europeans rarely experience this sort of thing. Growing up in the comfortable and loving leafy embrace of Suburbia makes you soft. But spend some time in Eastern Europe and you learn the rules about eye-contact etiquette quick enough.

The guy is a good writer. That description of the anatomy of eye contact was well done. You can relate to this in the United States. With our diversity and police-secured general order, most of our public space outside of non-White enclaves is no-man’s-land. When I pass a homie or a cholo, my posture and eyes communicate a message. I look at him, sort of through him. A blank fearless face. Mastery, not aggression. “No disrespect but it’ll cost you if you try something.” They always drop their eyes. Fights can result in organ damage or death (yours or his) so the point is neither to bait nor to submit, the latter serving to embolden them tomorrow, but to claim absolute dominion over your personal space and leave the question of public space ownership, at minimum, open for the time being.

The American visitor comments on various fights he saw break out:

… we participated in the massive, 60 thousand strong nationalist march through Warsaw. Just like the night before, there were sporadic fights breaking out all along the route among rival football clubs and rival nationalist organizations.

Poles against Poles. Whites against Whites.

There are different levels of identity. Right wing factions and football fans brawling, ethnic and national rivalry, on up to our ideal of racial solidarity against the mudworld. There is racial solidarity. It happens in emergencies, such as at the Superdome in 2005 when local Whites and stranded European tourists created a security perimeter in an arena full of blacks. Or Vienna in 1683. There are also long-standing friendships, such as between Poland and Hungary. The mere fact of Polish national holiday celebrants welcoming fellow-European nationalists and chanting Christian, pro-White and anti-Islamic slogans means a great deal. There is your racial solidarity.

(A long aside: Europeans are a war-race. But we temper our violence with Christian honor, which we extend to and expect of our fellow-Whites and which is why unlike savages, we develop codes such as the Geneva Convention, mercy with submission, distinction between combatant and civilian, and recognizing the enemy’s individual gallantry. Raping girls is not something we brag about. Waffen SS was the world’s most fearsome military corps but the reason naahzees have a radioactive reputation isn’t just post-war Jewish propaganda, though that is a big part of it. German Ostplan campaigns in WWII broke with civilized norms through their brutal behavior in Eastern Europe. Oskar Dirlewanger’s counterinsurgency units, as one example, are responsible for murdering up to 120,000 civilians in 200 villages throughout Belarus alone, his favorite method being to herd people into a barn, then setting the barn on fire.

Likewise, Allies’ barbarity toward German civilians in 1945 is a stain on our honor. My grandfather was a brilliant, severe-faced man of aristocratic Kresy tradition. He served as a lieutenant with First Polish Army under Soviet command and told me about his infantry unit entering a village in Pomerania. He saw a Russian soldier grappling with a German girl and ordered him to let her go. There were discipline problems on that front, with Russian soldiers disobeying Polish officers. My grandfather put a gun to the Russian’s head and the girl ran away. End aside.)

Men are small-group tribal. We’re supposed to be territorial and ready to fight. That’s freedom. That’s what keeps us sharp. It teaches us to be polite. It keeps women loyal. How many of us had spent our youth in middle class comfort, never having a redneck square up to us at a mall? Or if you’re a redneck, a locking of horns with a cocky frat dude or a loudmouth off-duty soldier from the local Army base. Racial solidarity entails collective effort in an emergency. “No more brother wars” doesn’t mean kumbaya.

Someone once commented ruefully that Europeans have culturally blended into an undifferentiated pop monoculture, so national distinctions are anachronistic. I disagree with that, countering with my own observation that if I’m talking with a Norwegian, it’s just two guys having a conversation. But if it’s five Norwegians and me, or five of my countrymen and him, the odd-man-out quickly notices that one is not like the others. If you are American but not a Southerner or a Mormon, get together with them and discover that culture is real.

An illustration of European diversity comes when the author got separated his from his Swedish companions and joined up with a Dutch group, observing a change in vibe:

I lost track of the Swedish Nationalists I had come with and ended up marching with the Dutch Identitarians instead. To be honest, it was a welcome change of pace. All of a sudden, I was around a different kind of European. They could crack jokes, include me in the conversation and seemed to actually want to practice some of that pan-European solidarity I had heard so much about.

Turning his attention to the landscape: Warsaw is an ugly city, he reports. Indeed, anybody who is not from there will enthusiastically agree with that sentiment. Not me, though. I’m a true Warszawiak, it seems, as either because of childhood nostalgia or for some other reason, I find the city to be quite lovely. My indelible feeling of home is Warsaw in any given December, where it’s dark at 4:00 PM and snow is falling, the smell of bus exhaust in the icy air bringing back memories. Perhaps Warsaw is meant to be grim, a reminder of history’s bloody relapses. That’s her burden still, as Europe heads into a war.

Yet, that’s the city where globalism is considered dead, the only city in the world where Christendom’s nationalists are free to march. That’s Warsaw’s terrible beauty:

The sky was overcast and it got dark quick, but the harsh red glare from the flares lit up everyone and everything with a kind of sepulchral glow. The smell of the burning chemicals washed over me and I breathed it all in, like the mystical smoke from some pagan witch ceremony or something. The flares seemed to have a powerful, almost reverent effect on everybody in the march.

The article segues to its most interesting part, a meditation on a new generation of Europeans. A seventeen-year-old Polish skinhead joins his group. He’s part of a disciplined paramilitary unit:

I saw them at the march the other day. They came in like a war-machine, ranked up in a Roman-style Testudo formation, with their banners wrapped all the way around the group like a shield wall. Black suns and Celtic crosses were flying proudly behind the first ranks — these guys were the real deal. Protecting the flanks of the column were black-clad young men with their faces totally covered in black ski masks. Turns out our young friend was one of them.

Older Poles would run up, yell out abuse and some even tried to start fights. But the Black Bloc just kept marching in perfect discipline. Even the soccer hooligans didn’t dare touch them.

As the American visitor learns, the teenager lives in Sweden where he goes to school as the sole White kid in his class, having been previously expelled from a majority-White private school. In the young man’s words:

“You know, before I was even a nationalist, I had problems at the private school. The Swedes are worse than the Arabs and Blacks. They would complain about me and report me all the time. Always behind my back, never to my face. Poles are naturally too nationalistic for them, I guess. I like it better in my new school.”

Turns out that the Arabs and Blacks respect him ever since he became a Neo-Nazi.

“Every time I do this…” he throws up the roman salute, “they fear me.”

The author gets to Nazi iconography, dispensing with dead history. Again, he has a way with graphic description:

Nazi imagery may not be good at convincing shy huWhytes to join the Identitarian cause, but its ability to strike fear into the hearts of non-Whites is second to none. To them, we’re all just a blend of Crusader-Nazi-White Devils who’ve gone soft. They stiffen with fear when they see that black spider on a field of red and white and see the gangs of young White hooligans that fly it.

As the age-heavy racial demographics shift in parts of Europe with the passing of Boomers (good riddance, anti-racist dead weight), it’s the White teenagers and kids who are inheriting their countries in their infested condition and who will have to reconquer Europe to have a chance to live in peace — to extend Western Civilization’s life, if you want to use such lofty words. Maybe they’ll wait for winter and cut off invaders’ heat. If they are merciful, they’ll let them go back to their ancestral shitholes but either way, nurseries will be reclaimed.

But [the young skinhead] is a good enough kid. Normal, sane and if I’m honest, he’s probably the future of the Post-First World. Generation “Zyklon” isn’t a meme. These kids are pissed. They are the first to feel what it is like to be in the White minority… and many of them don’t like it.

They will also have brothers and sisters, as White births are rebounding.



“Perfection is real, and can be seen”

Josh1476 writes:

I’m thankful for Thordaddy’s dialectic. I’m [new] to WN, just about 6 months now, but I can sense my understanding of Our Cause much better with my mulling over wS. TD is most definitely hard to understand, but does that have to be his fault? Perhaps his IQ is so high that it is difficult for him to come down here to our level? And he still sometimes does explain his seemingly autistic expressions, even if poorly, it is always in good faith.

There is another commenter in the sphere who usilizes his own dialect and style of prose, gunslingergregi. He is a Salt-of-the-Earth Hero around these parts. I have a lot of respect for men like William Shakespeare who help Create the language rather than just follow everyone elses rules, whereby those people are also creating the language and it’s rules, but rather by authority instead of Divine Creativity.

Thordaddy has been around for years, most people are familiar with his enigmatic commentary. You never really know who is who behind his screen name, so you take him on face value. Prophet? Troll? I went into the WordPress dashboard yesterday and pulled up all of his comments on this blog in spreadsheet format… all 2,668 of them and skimmed through them. It was like when you pull away from a bunch of pixels to see a coherent picture, and in that body of Thordaddy’s commentary, I saw a man with something to say.

He and I have butted heads, which I suspect is something he’s used to. But I’ve also invariably expressed my respect for him. In part because of glimpses into his life he’s provided, such as this one:

PA… I was recruited as a quarterback… Then went to FS. The drill was old-school one-on-one, ball carrier and tackler amongst our defense. The ordering was random and so I would, as a FORMER red-shirt freshman QB turned FS, frequently tandem with a DL and execute the very scenario I outlined. I ran the ball to hurt people rather than juke them. But I also wanted to get on the field as a “preferred walk-on” and smashing people was the most obviously NATURAL manner in which to do that.

And this one:

I was a preferred walk-on QB for what was at the time a lowly DIV I university.

I ONLY PLAYED FOUR GAMES at QB my senior year. New coach. New offense. “We” were a 1-9 DIV I highschool team.

And I was the best raw athlete of the 5-6 QBs we had when I was a redshirt freshman on paper and the field. But I was not cerebral about the game at all. And certainly apolitical about the whole affair.

I went to FS the next season.

I could dunk in one step with two hands… Easily.

I bulldozed 275lb-315lb d-lineman in the basic old school line-n-up… I ALWAYS TOLD THEM FIRST WHICH DIRECTION I WAS RUNNING… They knew a train was coming and exactly where we’d meet.

And it was there that a “black” senior who did a little stint in the NFL said, “Watch out for this one…”

He glimpsed wS in me before I glimpsed wS in me. Thanks Jason.

Ryu comments:

You will learn a certain admiration for TD in time […] One MUST be thick-headed to be a WN and take on ZOG. The recognition is coming that the white race was at its best under Christianity. Jesus is the perfect, sinless man TD is talking about. Perfection is real, and can be seen.

Ryu also links to the video below. It seems that when Thordaddy talks about Perfection, this depiction of Jesus illustrates his point:

300th Post

After the euphoria of the 2016 election year and the rocky road that followed, it took work on everyone’s part to keep spirits high. We discovered that we’re in a long game, winning the election was just a step — albeit one of do-or-die significance.

October and November 2017 saw my all-time highest visitor and page-view stats. As always, I sincerely appreciate your reading, commenting, and linking. In return, I never make you read stuff you’ve already read elsewhere. Here are the ten posts of the most recent 100 to revisit, starting with the trilogy that reckons across generations:

We inhabitants of Diversityland will be regarded with the awe that historians reserve for survivors of civilization’s great dramas. Dispossession, Youth, Anger, Future:

Welcome to your exciting future, White teenager. No sarcasm: a corollary to valuing something you’ve lost is the fact that the depths of evil make the heights of good shine that much more brightly.

I don’t know anything about music but it’s my favorite blogging subject. Warszawskie Dzieci is about the nightmare of children in armed combat. I link to a contemporary performance of a beloved marching song and Laibach’s mind-blowing tribute. The post offers a few words on the relationship between an original song and its cover:

There are original forms and derivative tributes. The former are often simple, self-contained, and perfect. A creative tribute drinks the waters of the original. Classic forms inspire mannerist interpretations, and as such the cover-form offers tantalizing possibilities that can succeed spectacularly, revealing the compressed wealth of the simple original. At other times, the creative tribute misses the point or runs away with the artist’s ego, and fails.

Be A Lighthouse: a tribute to Ryan Landry, framed in heavier thoughts about our individual responsibilities.

Observations In New York City:

[A] woman is born with three choices: to be a wife, a nun, or a prostitute. The flaw of modernity is the fact that they try to be all three, to farcical effect.

Have you noticed a pattern in professional photos that show a man and woman in love? See if you know what I’m talking about in this example: Photos of Couples In Love

God Bless The USA: thoughts about my adoptive homeland one year after Donald Trump’s victory.

Europe, Rise From Your Knees!”:

As long as these Western people, in the privacy of their minds where there is no excuse for being a slave, consider their governments lawful and legitimate, they are kneeling… Getting off your knees would mean, first of all, that you open your eyes and see the evil that is staining your land.

What would be the next step in rising off your knees?

I don’t tell people to do anything I am not doing. But keep reading.

And No. 11, a word on love.

Open thread.


Morning Songs

An aubade is a composition about or evocative of sunrise. As popular songs go, Cat Stevens’ “Morning Has Broken” is among the prettiest. Beck’s euphonic Morning is a keeper:

Can we start it all over again this morning?
I let down my defenses this morning
It was just you and me this morning
I fought all my guesses this morning
Won’t you show me the way it could’ve been?

I’ll relate an experience that might sound like nothing much but it continues to have an effect on me a year-and-a-half later. Make of it what you will. At dawn, my father-in-law and I were passing through a little town in eastern part of Poland, he drove. It’s countryside with birch forests and tall, flower-adorned crucifixes at every crossroad.

Driving slowly through the wioska, we turn a corner and a burst of early morning’s sunlight floods everything. How to describe this. My perception opened for a moment. This lasted for a microsecond. What I saw, when we turned that corner, was a young woman pushing an infant stroller and a little boy walking with her.

They were real people, actually walking on the sidewalk and like I said, the vision was a flash but during it their silhouettes against the golden sunlight made an effect of the light being the sole reality. People who describe their near-death experience talk about an overwhelming sense of being embraced by love and for that moment, without a prelude and ending at that same instant, that is exactly what I felt.

That morning is when I stopped worrying.

“When the Morning Lights Arise” (orig. “Kiedy ranne wstają zorze”) is Franciszek Karpiński’s aubade, written c. 1800. My translation:

When the morning lights arise
To You the earth, to You the sea,
To You the elements sing:
Be praised, mighty God.

And man, without measure
Showered with Your gifts,
Whom You created and saved,
How can he not praise You?

Still rubbing my waking eyes
I at once call to my Lord,
To my Lord in Heaven
And I seek Him by me.

Some into the sleep of death have fallen
After lying down last night…
We still woke up
To praise You, God.

A Comment On GenZ

Anglo nations don’t have much experience with losing at home, American Southerners being a notable exception. Winning and winning and winning makes you morally soft and sets you up for guilt complexes. It makes you ashamed of your ugly, Pyrrhic victories such as the Boer War.

Losing fosters a sense of togetherness and paradoxically, pride. What doesn’t break your spirit or genocide you makes you more fanatical. Eastern European nations have a sense of righteous identity because they know both loss and victory. The Polish national anthem begins with “Poland has not perished yet so long as we live.” Hardly a cocky winning attitude. But boys (and girls) who listen to stories of national against-all-odds going down fighting myths stick together.

There is a reason why the American GenZyklon — White teenage boys and girls — is farther to the Right than probably any adult American generation in modern history — they are literally born losers; in other words, born as a dispossessed, despised minority on their own land. The young know who the enemy is.


A Poem About Gods

I’m discovering Zbigniew Herbert’s (1924 – 1998) poems as we speak. In one of his poems, Herbert described himself as a bard who merely knocks on doors behind which truths are revealed. Herbert’s Apollo and Marsyas below (orig. “Apollo i Marsjasz”) describes a torture-execution. In Greek myth, satyr Marsyas challenged Apollo to a music contest. The contest was judged by the Muses, Marsyas lost and was flayed alive for his affrontery in challenging a god.

As always, I recommend reading along with the musical interpretation. It’s not an inviting proposition, given the language barrier, which is why I made the line-by-line translation.

“Apollo and Marsyas” — Zbigniew Herbert

właściwy pojedynek Apollona
   the actual duel between Apollo
z Marsjaszem
   and Marsyas
(słuch absolutny
   (an absolute ear
contra ogromna skala)
   vs. immense scale)
odbywa się pod wieczór
   takes place in the early evening
gdy jak już wiemy
   and as we already know
   the judges
przyznali zwycięstwo bogu
   ruled in favor of the god

mocno przywiązany do drzewa
   tightly bound to a tree
dokładnie odarty ze skóry
   meticulously stripped of his skin
zanim krzyk dojdzie
   before the cry reaches
do jego wysokich uszu
   his mighty ear
wypoczywa w cieniu tego krzyku
   he reposes in the shade of that cry

wstrząsany dreszczem obrzydzenia
   shaken with disgust
Apollo czyści swój instrument
   Apollo cleans his instrument

tylko z pozoru
   only seemingly
głos Marsjasza
   is Marsyas’ voice
jest monotony
i składa się z jednej samogłoski
   and composed of one vowel

w istocie Marsjasz opowiada
   in fact Marsyas relates
nieprzebrane bogactwo
   of the inexhaustible richness
swego ciała
   of his body

łyse góry wątroby
   the bald hills of the liver
pokarmów białe wąwozy
   the white digestive gorges
szumiące lasy płuc
   the murmuring forests of lungs
słodkie pagórki mięśni
   the sweet mounds of muscle
stawy żółć krew i dreszcze
   the joints bile blood and shudders
zimowy wiatr kości
   the bones’ winter wind
nad solą pamięci
   over the salt-flats of memory

wstrząsany dreszczem obrzydzenia
   shaken with disgust
Apollo czyści swój instrument
   Apollo cleans his instrument

teraz do chóru
   now the choir
przyłącza się stos pacierzowy Marsjasza
   is joined by the spinal stack of Marsyas
w zasadzie to samo A
   in principle the same A
tylko głębsze z dodatkiem rdzy
   only deeper and with a touch of rust

to już jest ponad wytrzymałość
   this is now beyond the endurance
boga o nerwach z tworzyw sztucznych
   of a god with nerves of synthetic fiber

żwirową aleją
   down the gravel alley
wysadzaną bukszpanem
   lined with boxwood
odchodzi zwycięzca
   departs the victor
zastanawiając się
   wondering if
czy z wycia Marsjasza
   Marsyas’ howls
nie powstanie z czasem
   aren’t the birth of
nowa gałąź
   a new branch
sztuki – powiedzmy – konkretnej
   of – shall we say – concrete art

upada mu
   at his feet falls
skamieniały słowik
   a petrified nightingale

odwraca głowę
   he turns his head
i widzi
   and sees
że drzewo do którego przywiązany był Marsjasz
   that the tree to which Marsyas is tied
jest siwe
   has turned white


A Showstopper Shiv

Attempting to convert a liberal only flatters him, as Lara observed and I agree. But what about this hypothetical scenario:

At first, it’s a friendly conversation in which he asks questions that express sincere interest in your point of view and things go swimmingly. After all, it’s two intelligent men discussing adult stuff, right? But soon his steady hand trembles and non-sequitur interruptions fly.

Here is where you terminate the dialogue and deliver the showstopper shiv.

Because if you don’t end things here, you’re henceforth rolling in mud. If you are considering making an appeal to securing a future for his children, reconsider. His Kool-aid is too strongly spiked. He’ll meet that one with a moment’s blank look in his eyes. He will personally accuse you of killing that antifa girl in Charlottesville, in which case nothing’s lost if you fling the mud right back: “Good riddance. One less pig that hates your kids.”

Liberals are unmoved even by entreaties to parental instinct. They long for death but they want to pull the rest of us down with them.

Here is what to say when he starts to get belligerent:

You know, sometimes when you talk less and listen more, you just might learn a thing or two.

And then, it doesn’t matter what he says. He can cry “Learn to be a Trump voter?! no thanks!” but the damage is done. Don’t pursue, just look at him with contempt.