The Moral Imperative Of Northwest Migration (2010)

A hundred years from now, the Northwest Republic will still be seeking White immigrants from what is left of the Western world. It will be the primary function of the Homeland to be just that, a homeland and refuge for all the persecuted and endangered Aryan peoples of the world from Afrikaners to Serbs to Ulstermen.

The main problem we have to overcome now is something I've mentioned in the past, and that is the apparent near total loss of the alpha gene that once was the distinguishing feature of our people, that pioneer willingness and even eagerness to go first. It just seems to be gone.

Really, you would think that once White people understood what is on offer out here and once they read the Northwest novels, that they would be on fire with enthusiasm, that they couldn’t wait to come out here. I should be seeing out-of-state license plates coming over the hill every day here. But instead, ostensible White nationalists are hunkering down in their houses and their cheap furnished apartments, and waiting for Harold to wave his magic wand and create the world I portray in my novels, by magic.

They are clinging like grim death to whatever is left of their middle-class lifestyle in nigger-infested Florida and Louisiana, in Mexicanized Texas and Arizona, in Jewified New York and Raleigh, and in the god-awful cesspool that is California.

The incredible fact is that rather than bestir themselves with physical effort most so-called White nationalists would rather stay where they are, in economic misery and in physical danger, surrounded by non-whites and liberal garbage and homosexual perverts, cowering amidst the ruins of their old middle-class lives. They’d rather sit tight and wait for someone else to do all the heavy lifting than exert a small amount of effort, than take a modicum of risk and come out here where they have a chance to create a new world.

It’s really difficult to believe that most White people today are the descendants either of pioneers who loaded up all their possessions into Conestoga wagons and set off across a trackless wilderness up the Oregon trail to reach the Northwest, with nothing at all waiting for them. Or else they are the descendants of Irish and German and Scandinavian and Italian and Polish immigrants who packed up everything they owned into a few cheap trunks and suitcases and spent weeks at sea in the steerage of rusty old steamers to step ashore at Ellis Island, again with nothing waiting for them, no one to set out the cakes and ale.

What in God’s name has happened to us? What have these damned Jews done to us, to make us so weak, so timid, so afraid of our own shadows that we are now terrified to pack a moving van and take a three or four-day drive down an interstate highway, sleeping in a soft motel bed every night, crossing in a matter of days and in comfort a span of territory it took those Conestoga wagons nine months to cross, with our ancestors leaving graves behind at almost every stop?

The Butler Pan has been in existence since the year 2000. The Northwest novels have been around beginning from 2003. The central idea of Northwest independence has been adequately explained to those in our own community and the complete lack of any realistic alternative plan, or indeed any plan at all, is now crystal clear. So what the hell is everybody waiting for? 

Basically, they are still waiting for Harold Covington to wave his magic wand, waiting for me to pull the magic beans out of my pockets. They’re still watching and waiting for Harold to do it all, and produce a finished product that they don’t have to help build. They are waiting for Harold and the small handful of people I have here in the Homeland to get all the heavy lifting done. They’re waiting for the cakes and ale to be set out. Let’s the blunt: they are waiting to be given things.

Oh, sure, when the word gets out that there is someplace White Nationalists can go and meet actual, real people and not e-mail addresses, then we’ll have a flood of newcomers---once the dam breaks and they see someone else going first. We just can’t find anyone who is willing to go first.

I’m not referring to the T-shirt Youth, the young men with nothing but the T-shirts on their backs. They’re a special case and I’ll discuss them later on. But the fact is that we don’t have a bunkhouse or a refrigerator full of beer to offer them, and they’re not really part of the equation.

I get complaints to the effect of “Oh, Harold, I can’t come Northwest now, there’s no safety net.” Well, you’re right. The lack of a safety net didn’t bother our pioneer ancestors who loaded up their Conestoga wagons and it didn’t bother the immigrants who crowded into the holds of those ships headed for Ellis Island, but these are 21st century White people and they’re not made of the old stuff, the right stuff. 21st century Whites are products of Anheuser-Busch, the Frito-Lay corporation, and Mickey D’s.

No, what we need are substantial White people, who have displayed some energy, some talent, some work ethic, and achieved some personal success in life. We need you to come here, to bring your skills and your talents and your assets with you, and help us build that very safety net, so that when this whole American ball of wax comes unglued and we have thousands of White people showing up here in the Homeland as genuine, honest-to-God refugees, there will be some way for us to take them in and get them incorporated into the Party and the revolution.

It’s been said that if someone is a success in Florida or Ohio or Texas or Wisconsin then they aren’t going to come to the Northwest because they don’t need to. This assumes that these are just typical Amurricans who do nothing unless it’s for economic motives or out of self interest, and that’s not the kind of migrants we need here in the Homeland.

We’re not asking people to migrate because there’s something in it for them, although in point of fact there is quite a bit in it for them personally. We are asking them to Come Home to the land that God and/or destiny has appointed to be our people’s lifeboat in the storm, because it is right.

Let’s consider this a test of character. We need people with that old pioneer spirit who do not come expecting to be given things on their arrival. The American sense of entitlement stops here. We will either recover that old pioneer spirit, or else we will perish from the face of the earth.

Guys, I’m going to take time out here and tell you a personal story. 

In May of 2002, when I was Coming Home myself, I was rolling westward down Interstate 80 in Nebraska, and I stopped for lunch at a truck stop somewhere between Hastings and North Platte, if I recall correctly. It was one of these big plaza-type truck stops with a motel and a restaurant and a little shopping mall, I’m sure you all seen the kind of place I’m talking about. I bought a local newspaper, from Hastings if I remember right, and I read it while I was eating. There was a story in that paper about a recent historical find in the area.

A local utility crew had been digging an underground cable trench or something of the kind, and they had come upon a grave site with a rough wooden coffin. They called in archaeologists from some Nebraska university to excavate it and identify it. There were some remains in the coffin, presumably skeletal, which they were able to carbon date from around 1850 or so. There were the remnants of clothing, what appeared to be a calico and gingham dress.

The archaeologists identified the remains as that of a female Caucasian, a teenaged girl of about sixteen. Nothing to identify her beyond that, no way to tell what her name was. Judging from a number of other indicators they believed that she had been a member of a party of early pioneers who had been crossing the prairie, she had died on the way, no way to tell how or why.

Her family knocked together a makeshift coffin for her, from whatever lumber they had to hand, possibly part of their wagon, and buried her before moving on their way westward, leaving their daughter behind forever, to be remembered only as a name and maybe some old faded 19th-century glass plate photograph among her descendants who eventually made it to California or Oregon or Washington.

And when I had read this newspaper story, I looked all around me at the restaurant, and the motel, and the little stores full of useless plastic junk, and the superhighway outside with the cars and trucks whizzing by at 65 miles an hour on their way west, and for the first time I think it really hit me what those pioneers had gone through in order to do what so many of you are too timid and frightened to do.

These unknown White people 150 years ago left their home in Pennsylvania or North Carolina or Massachusetts, walking or riding at about five miles an hour most likely to St. Joseph, Missouri, where they spent their life’s savings on overpriced supplies, and then they just started walking, walking west. No one waiting for them, no idea where they’d end up, no idea what lay ahead. Just following an ancient call of our race that has been with us for five thousand years, since the first Aryans started walking west towards the setting sun from our first homeland around Lake Baikal in central Russia.

The Celts, the Doric Greeks, the Medes, the Scythians, the Goths, the Franks and Lombards, the Slavs, the Magyars, the Norse, that’s how they all got to where they settled and became nations. Five thousand years this little stroll of ours has been going on, and now we’re too timid and weak to complete the journey and save our people from extinction.

Those ancestors of ours set out fully knowing what price they might pay for this new land, and they paid it when they left their daughter, or their young wife in that crude box buried beneath the Nebraska sod. But us—oh, no, we can’t possibly come Northwest. That’s too risky, that’s too dangerous, we might not be able to get a minimum wage job in Washington flipping burgers beside Mexicans, oh, horrors, no, no, too chancy….

What in God’s name have these evil Jews done to us? What have we done to ourselves?

So let me just tell you this. If and when you finally do screw your courage to the sticking point, as Shakespeare said, and you’re on your way out here to your future Homeland down Interstate 80, or maybe Interstate 90 if you take a more northerly route, look out your car or truck window at that barren landscape around you as you’re going through Nebraska or Colorado or Wyoming, and think about how many other graves like that young girl’s are out there, undiscovered and unnamed, along the way the way you’re traveling at 65 miles an hour. 

And when you do, all of a sudden whether or not you can get a job in Seattle or Boise or some town in Oregon won’t seem quite so earth-shaking a consideration, now will it?




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