Homage to the Post-First World: My Wanderings in Europe: Warsaw
I’m in Warsaw for the 99th Anniversary of Polish Independence. At least I think that’s what this is about. All I know is that Poland is the backdrop and I’m here to meet my friends – no my comrades – yes, that’s what they’ve become to me. We’ve come for the march from all over Europe.
Don’t get me wrong, we’re all for Poles being proud of being Poles and defending their White Christian heritage, but they seem to be doing just fine without us anyway.
Most of us have come from countries that are much worse off. For us, this is a practice run on friendly territory for people with our views. Poland seems to be the only White country in the world left where some form of nationalism is tolerated.
Anyways, I’m staying with the Swedes and every night is a binge-drinking session followed by a narrowly avoided barfight with a random drunk Pole.
I mention this because the Poles really do seem hell-bent on starting fights with random tourists.
Even passing by, across the street from the massive Stalin-era clock tower smack-dab in the center of Warsaw we have some close shaves. A drunk, stocky, leather jacket-sporting Pole with a massive red and white flag in one hand is stalking back and forth, banging on metal poles and cement with a baseball bat.
Naturally, he ignores the Chinese tourists, the African Brits, and the other various New Yuropeans milling around the busy intersection. He rounds up on us instead. The stink of the beer hit us before the baseball bat ever does. I can’t help but notice that he’s already bleeding from a cut on his cheek and looks like a shorter, fatter version of me.
…Strange thoughts at the strangest times…
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.
I only breathe easy when we’ve put some distance between us. We’ve all hushed up and walk on for a bit in silence.
Sven starts the conversation again to bolster our flagging spirits. He’s good at that…
The day before, 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.
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.
We chatted as we strolled, taking turns waving the Generation Identitaire yellow and black lambda flag.
Huge booms from flash bangs started echoing off the Soviet-era Krushevki buildings all along the main road. Then the softer clicks followed by long hisses as people start popping off red flares.
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.
And when you look up, the cloud canopy is so low and tight around the city that it feels like cling wrap or aluminum foiling. Oppressive almost. That is until it all becomes tinted red from the flares…
But we’re almost home now. After our brush in with the local patriot and his trusty baseball bat, we’re happy to be heading back to our place for the night.
As we walk, we look up and around us. Dust from and dirt gets blown into our teeth from all the high-rise construction sites all around the downtown. I can’t help but notice that Warsaw in general is a very ugly city. The only redeeming feature is the Stalin-era clock tower, which is surrounded by dozens of newer disgusting glass and steel towers with advertisements for Coca-Cola, Audi and Deloitte plastered all over them. One gets the impression that despite their best efforts, even the most fervent anti-Russian Poles couldn’t bring themselves to take down the magnificent clock tower bequeathed them by their backwards oppressors. So they just decided to surround it with ample proof that they were dead-set on becoming Western and Capitalist now, as if to spite the tower and the ideals of the people who built it.
But maybe I’m reading too much into it.
At the very least, our little group seems to agree that the Communists at least built better architecture than the liberators who came after.
Speaking of the after, a young nationalist Pole joins us tonight. He’s from the Black Bloc — a Polish alliance of Neo-Nazis.
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.
I should mention that the march had many different factions. You had the pro-Polish anti-German faction of nationalists. And then the anti-Ukrainian nationalists. And of course the anti-Russian nationalists. And from there, you can just mix and match by adding pro-x or anti-y. Every neighbor of Poland past or present is fair game for nationalists to rally against or in defense of. It’s a veritable smorgasbord of right-wing options for the discerning gourmet nationalist.
But only the Black Bloc seems to be pan-European and concerned with “Whiteness” instead of just “Polishness”.
And our young Pole is only seventeen, but he is already a skinhead.
Turns out it’s because he lives in Sweden, and he’s the only White kid in his class in Stockholm. He goes to a high school in Rosengarden, which is one of the largest immigrant districts. Worse, he’s been kicked out of the only alternative private school in his area where the White kids are still the majority.
He talks to me through Sven who translates his broken Swedish into English so that I can understand.
“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.”
And so this young Pole, whose great-grandparents probably fought the Germans in World War II is now part of the Black Bloc.
And I have to admit, I really do sympathize with the kid.
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.
I can’t fault the kid for doing what he had to do to make it in that school. I imagine that the situation is comparable to prison. He already looks much older than his age and he’s already starting to get that dead mackerel stare in his blue eyes.
But he’s 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.
The problem is dire when you think about it terms of age cohorts instead of just looking at racial percentages. Places like Sweden, Germany and the UK are very top-heavy population wise. Once the Boomer generation starts retiring and passing away in the next ten to fifteen years, there’s going to be a dramatic demographic shift.
Generation Z is already the minority in many countries. Unsurprisingly, they’re starting to radicalize.
We talk for awhile more through Sven, but then it’s time to start packing our bags for the airport. They’re going back to Sweden, and I’m moving on to the USSA. I shake hands with all my old friends and my new Polish one.
Their flight is earlier than mine, so I have a few hours of time to myself in the apartment after they leave. It really hits me then and there that we’re all in this fucking nightmare together. The feeling washes over me as the realization dawns that it’s not just funny memes and spoof radio programs anymore.
This is the calm before the storm, and we’re all preparing for it as best we can.
None of the people that were crammed into this little apartment in central Warsaw have a golden ticket for the Ark like our more well-off peers seem to think they do. All of us are going to be wading knee-deep through the demographic deluge for the rest of our lives.
And that is a sobering thought, to say the least.
But at the very least, I’m not worried about that one Polish kid. Somehow, I think he’s gonna be one of the ones that makes it.
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