A Glorious Defeat

by John Michael

July 30, 2002

I lay upon the brown and brittle grass which sprouted from the sloping hill. The Wind played about me, as if alive, in a swirling dance of chance. There was a healthy chill in the Snowmoon air, but the radiance of the Sun in the crystal sky was a comforting companion. I breathed deeply of the crisp air and I listened to the stiff grass rustle in the Wind. There is nothing quite like a private moment with Nature. Then I heard a familiar whisper, and it seemed to come from the Wind, even the Northwind -- but how could I be sure? The voice in the Wind is strange like that, for it is not heard with the ear but rather with the heart. It could be said that it blows through the very spirit of Aryan man.

So I remained still and listened with awe to the perfect silence. What made this silence so perfect was that it was full of Life. I was illumined and stirred within as Nature played about me. Then my mind was directed to my kinsmen who had lain on the Earth in ages past. These were those who had lain where they had fallen on hills so much like this one. These hills were wet with the blood of battle and full of the weakening cries of the wounded or dying. These were hills that they gave their lives upon to take from a foe, but they fell before a hail of lead or storm of arrows. So there they lay, wounded, bleeding and dying. As they drew nearer to the threshold we call "death," the pain left them and their bloodstained hills became as peaceful to them as mine was to me.

So I journeyed deep into my Folk-soul, and for a moment I became the Celt who had charged against the Romans in an attempt to drive them back into the sea. Even though I had fallen, impaled by the Roman defense, unspeakable pride, peace and Victory flowed through my being. The ruddy faces of the children of my tribe looked back at me from the clouds, and regret could not be found in my breast. I had found Victory in a bloody defiance, a glorious defeat.

Then I became a Viking Rus in battle with the Asiatic vermin. Even though I fell, the raping horde was abolished and my womenfolk were safe. The fair and bright maids of my folk smiled down at me from the midst of their flaxen locks, their faces reflecting from the grey sky. This man of the ice searched the horizon, hoping to catch a glimpse of a Valkyrie as she descended from Valhalla.

Then I lay upon upon a hill in Gettysburg as one of Lee's fallen faithful. I had been shattered by the cannon unleashed upon Pickett's charge, but I no longer felt the pain of my missing limbs. The smoke and the flames and the thunders of hell which had exploded around me were fleeing before a feeling of pride. I had given my Life for something I dearly loved, something like a dance with a Southern maid to the fiddles of Dixie. I looked at the sky and I realized that all of the barefoot marches and all of the hungry days had been worthwhile. They had been worth this one chance to give the greatest sacrifice possible in defense of freedom. If I could I would do it again a thousand times over! This short life may be gone, but I knew that in so dying I had become forever free.

What beauty, what true beauty, I realized were in the bloody faces of those who die so. These men may have spilled their last drop of warm blood to nourish the green Earth, but they had found Victory in a glorious defeat! When someone gives their all to a cause that is just, right, and pure, and when they reach the threshold of the final beat of their heart, they are overwhelmed by the feeling of a defiant Victory.

A striking example of this is the hard Norseman, whose greatest fear was that he would die without shedding the blood of his enemies. He believed that the greatest paradise after this life was reserved for the hero and the conqueror. He felt that the traitor or the coward were only fit to be thumped into Hell. There was no Honor in suffering what they called a "straw death" of old age or sickness. The greatest Honor for the Norseman was to die using his last shred of might to smite his foes. Such a creed of Courage is a stark contrast to the spineless belief systems used to manipulate the gutless herd today. They teach of a paradise after "death" that is not earned, but rather given to the castrated, the meek, and the weak. To submit to such a thought pattern is in itself a shameful defeat.

Then my thoughts fell upon the battle we now face, a battle in a great war which is being waged upon our race. In other battles of ages past our ancestors died to gain dominion of a hill, to enforce political or religious beliefs, or to protect their country or tribe. However, the outcome of this current battle will determine if our race shall yet exist or simply be annihilated. As our enemies plunder our resources, escape with our women, and destroy our children, large portions of our racialist army are in dissarray with no seeming direction. However, as of late, an awakening is beginning that is moving us in a more srategic and focused way.

Our books and literature which express the Truth are called "hate speech" by those who hate us. Our organizations and peaceful activists which promote fair treatment of White people are framed or bankrupted with lawsuits. Our fellow racialists are jailed with violent primitives and placed before Jew-controlled judges and juries. Our homes are raided, our taxes audited, and our phones are tapped. As the pressure increases it is becoming clearer that any form of "peaceful revolution" is a farce.

Things shall not begin to change until those responsible for this atrocity against our race, fear to continue in their treacherous deeds. When they walk from their offices and homes and wonder if this will be their day, they will begin to consider an alternate, and less parasitic, occupation. When their companions fall, one by one, they shall seek a new way to feed their greed. Observing current trends, it can be safely said that this is inevitable - it is only a matter of time. When all means of peaceful protest are removed, violence will become a last and welcoming alternative. Unlike the feeble White ballot in this multi-racial catastrophy, violence has real power. It carries with it a thing called fear, and fear can cause powerful people to do weak things. The key to wielding this great power is found in this : the only difference between courage and a stupid suicide is STRATEGY.

So the Northwind had spoken and the lesson had been taught. "But," asked I in a whisper, "what does this have to do with a glorious defeat?" The Wind swirled again and brought the answer. The response came in questions with obvious answers. When we reach the end of our days and the greetings of death are upon us, when we peer down the passage of our life, what shall we see? We may live a long life, with perhaps the last twenty years stricken with arthritic pain and illness , we may pay our taxes and be "good citizens," but what have we done? Have we really lived? We may "live" to please ourselves, whether it be with a car or a television, but what have we accomplished? Will the dwindling remnant of White children look back on our accomplishments with pride, or will they spit upon our memory with rage because we did nothing to save them from hell? When nothing remains to restrain the raping instinct of the Negroid animal, will the last fair daughters of our race curse our living days?

Yes, the Northwind had spoken and spoken true. Our defeat means our extinction and without devoted action, our defeat is inevitable. There are two types of defeat, the glorious and the shameful. The shameful defeat is to bow before the Zionist lie machine and bask in the easy comfort of today. This type of spineless, gutless, and weak defeat, if suffered by all, would bring about the irradication of the White race. However, the selfless sacrifice of nourishing the tree of liberty with one's own blood brings eternal freedom, and insures that our race shall yet live on.

Temper'd hard by frost,
Tempest and toil their nerves
The sons of those
Whose only terror was a bloodless death.

James Thomson


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