We Nust Never Abandon the Coast

This article is a wee bit more important than my usual monthly rave, so please give it more than the usual skim. I’m laying out a very important point for the survival and success of the Northwest independence movement here.

[Section of printed original redacted]

But there is one long-term strategic aspect of this that I’ve been under increasing pressure from other sources to articulate for some time now. To be honest, this is a can I had hoped to continue kicking down the road for a while longer, because I sense this issue will generate all kinds of impotent sound and fury and “debate” within our wee little Movement. We will wave our wee fisties in the air, as we jump and shout and kick at the slats of our playpens, before finally crying ourselves out and curling up in the fetal position with our thumbs in our mouths and falling asleep, having decided nothing and changed nothing, while all around us the grownups continue to prepare our murder. We’re Whiteboys, and it’s what we do.

One of you guys’ favorite pastimes is to have old Hurrold gaze into the crystal ball. “Tell us a story, daddy! Tell us how it will be in the great Northwest paradise that someday over the rainbow will magically come into being, without any of us ever having to incur any personal risk or inconvenience!” Well, this is a story that doesn’t have a happy ending, and it’s a true story, one that I have lived.

Death Of A Nation

I’ll tell you the story of a magic land long ago that was the jewel of Africa. It was called Rhodesia, and the Jews and the kaffirs murdered it. They drenched the soil of that land in the blood of its strong young men and beautiful young women, and now cannibal apes shamble through the ruins, screeching and mumbling and gnawing at the bones of that land of hope and glory.

There are many reasons why Rhodesia died, almost all of them having to do with the gradual corruption and weakening of the White man’s character over decades of struggle, not just in Rhodesia itself but in neighboring South Africa, which was in fact more important. Because, you see, Rhodesia was land-locked. It had no coastline. That meant that all contact with the outside world had to enter and leave the country through territory that the Rhodesians did not control, and were not strong enough to force their way into and hold.

This meant that beginning with independence in 1965, the country was dependent on two rail lines; one coming up from Lourenço Marques on the coast of the Portuguese colony of Mozambique, and another coming up from South Africa through the border town of Beitbridge. Lourenço Marques was even close enough by rail so that Rhodesian families once could take seaside vacations and play on a beach and eat seafood there, much more cheaply than in Durban.

To a lesser degree, the country was dependent on air transport originating from Portugal and South Africa. For example, TAP and South African Airways were the only international carriers that stopped at Salisbury or Bulawayo. If you wanted to fly direct to Rhodesia you took those two airlines only, or else you flew to Johannesburg or Lisbon and changed there. So long as those two countries were friendly to Rhodesia and allowed the rebel nation economic and travel access to the outside world, everything was great.

In 1974 the Portuguese government was overthrown in a left-wing military coup, and within months Mozambique was handed over to the Marxist Frelimo organization of a typical brutal African dictator named Samora Machel. Within months, not only was all Rhodesian contact with the outside world through Portuguese East Africa lost, but the country became actively hostile, sheltering Robert Mugabe’s savage killers and allowing them to launch attacks from Mozambican territory, thus stretching Rhodesia’s slender military resources along more hundreds of miles of border. (Machel was killed in a plane crash in 1986, either due to his incompetent black pilot or because he was assassinated by the kaffir who succeeded him, another Marxist thug named Chissano.)

“Ah well, that’s okay,” we thought at the time. “We still have good old White South Africa! The Jaapies understand, they’re like us, White men in a black sea, they know what kaffir rule would mean better than anyone!” But Jaapie wasn’t the problem. The problem was a South African government that over a period of years had become utterly corrupt. It began in 1966 with the mysterious murder of Dr. Hendrik Verwoerd on the floor of the South African Parliament by a “lone drifter.” (Sound familiar?) By the mid-1970s South Africa’s ruling élite consisted of Oppenheimer employees. (Gross oversimplification here, but I think you all get the idea.)

Then in late 1974 the SAP (South African Police) pulled out of Rhodesia, stretching the country’s available resources to the limit. That made my youthful spidey sense tingle, although everybody put a brave face on it. I left the country in 1976, me and some my fellow Americans deported on the personal orders of Ian Smith I’m told, which also should have been an indicator that something was brewing which did not allow for any genuine White opposition.

By 1979 the betrayal was complete; I understand when South Africa finally cut off all re-supply to the country, Rhodesia had only three days’ supply of petrol and ammunition left before they surrendered at Lancaster House. Ian Smith cut a deal that allowed him to keep his personal farm and his cattle—one which, surprisingly, “Comrade Bob” Mugabe actually kept until Smith died in 2007. By then Rhodesia was gone and the White population down to a few thousand people with no place to run to; By now I understand there just aren’t any Whites there, other than foreigners working for large corporations. Rhodesia died because she was betrayed by corrupt and evil White men, yes, strangled to death, but that occurred because of geography. In the literal sense, Rhodesia died because she was land-locked and dependent on access to the outside world through hostile territory.

That must not happen on this continent.

The Homeland MUST Have A Coastline

One of the more quietly insidious cultural attitudes that has set in over the past generation is this weird and repugnant idea that somehow only left-wing liberals and retired baby boomers get to live with sight and sound of the ocean, and that political views have some kind of geographic aspect that has become set in stone, to the point where we have to adjust our perception and our tactics to a perspective that has some kind of objective form. It doesn’t. It is true that for certain specific and quantifiable reasons which I can’t get into here in only six pages, there are concentrations of liberals on both coasts. That doesn’t mean that there’s some mystical, magical power in the sea breeze that turns normal people into Rachel Maddow, and that therefore we must flee from the horrible lefty seacoast and hide ourselves away in the deep woods. This is a common pathology among White nationalists, roughly equivalent to liberal snowflakes in universities seeking “safe spaces.”

The White Homeland (or ethnostate, if you prefer) will not simply come into existence through some mystical epiphany, and then we’ll all spend the rest of our days in some weird Brady Bunch universe, living happily ever after among the bobbi sox and the backyard barbecues. The Homeland will come into being via a process of violent conflict, amid a shattering series of events. If we are lucky, that process will resemble what happened when the Soviet Union collapsed, with the different sections of North America breaking up and breaking off into separate ethnic and cultural nations, but maintaining at least some structure, cohesion, and order.

But there is every chance we won’t be lucky, especially when it comes time for the White man to step up and claim his portion of the pie. It is dead certain there will be a good deal of disorder and bloody violence, if only when the time comes for those of us who assume the reins of state power in our new nation to persuade the many, many undesirables that they would really be much happier in California.

This could range anywhere from the quasi-I.R.A. style paramilitary guerrilla campaign I describe in my Northwest novels, all the way down to outright Mad Max Road Warrior chaos. Much will depend on how much of the old United States is left intact when the dust settles, into whose hands that remaining United States government falls (I think we can guess), and the reaction of the world’s remaining serious powers, Russia and China and possibly a few lesser players like India, Japan, and whatever may be left of now-Asian Canada and the now-Muslim EU.

For reasons that should be obvious, Russia will have to serve as South Africa to our Rhodesia, at least until we can build up our industrial and food production to the point of self-sufficiency, what is know as an autarkic or self-contained economy. That means that we will need to maintain communications and the movement of goods and personnel with the rest of the world, or at least with Big Bear. This necessity will probably be present in our national life for some years after independence. Not to mention the fact that even in our wide and spacious Homeland (and it must be wide and spacious, with plenty of room to grow)—in that wide and spacious land White people need beaches, where they can take their children to see the vast ocean and shovel sand into castles which are washed away by the tide. Those children must know that there is nowhere in the world they cannot go. It is we who dictate that to the other races.

That means direct access via the Pacific Ocean, which is a fairly short hop from Vladivostok. It means that the Homeland must be in the Northwest, not one or more battered little enclaves, maybe Delaware-sized if we’re lucky, hunkered in the interior of the North American continent, cut off from the rest of the world.

Shakey enclaves, short of everything and unable to import anything other than through Freedom’s Sons-style smuggling. (Rhodesia had smuggling as well; it wasn’t enough. A whole nation can’t live on it.) Surrounded by Aztlan on the southwest and New Africa on the southeast, with crumbling negroid and Muslim metropoli throughout the Midwest serving as breeding grounds for hordes of savages, Rachel Maddowland on the northeast, and whatever remains of the régime in Washington D.C. in the hands of some Hillary or Obama clone president who has been driven insane with hatred and wants every male being on the continent with a White skin dead.

As violent and bloody as the ethnostate’s struggle to be born will almost certainly be, the obstacles that she will face merely to survive the first few years of her existence will be almost insurmountable. It may well be that without more or less unfettered access to the outside world, they cannot be surmounted. We need to understand that as difficult as it will be somehow to persuade the pale Whiteboys who now cower in Mom’s basement playing with electronic devices to stand erect and be men again, the really hard and crucial times will come in the first years after independence.

And for the record, let me remind you: yes, I practice what I preach. When I was driven from my own “old country” of North Carolina in 1998, through That Of Which The Judge Has Forbidden Me To Speak, I went to Texas, where owing to a peculiarity of the law I could have remained permanently, had I so desired. And frankly, I really liked Texas. I would have liked to remain there, still in the South, permanently. In 2002 I gave up the South voluntarily and came here to the Northwest, because I realized that here was the land we must have in order to fulfill our racial destiny. I’m not asking you to do anything I haven’t done myself. 

Yes, I know it’s hard. Bitterly hard. But it has to be done. Now do it. The death sentence of a man used to read “ye shall be taken to the place of execution and there hanged by the neck until ye be dead.” The death sentence of a race may well read: “Shut up, Hurrold, ah ain’t movin’ nowhere!”