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...by James Mason
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Joseph Tommasi was fond of the saying, "Those not busy being born are busy dying." Indeed, he was at that time in the midst of the struggle to see to it that National Socialism didn't die because of an established, central control that refused to grow, to expand, to adapt. The result was as simple as it was predictable: those that refused to grow died; those that did change soon came to effect and influence the course of the entire Movement. This is a law of nature; it applies universally and there are no exceptions.
But this segment has to do with that which the Rightists and conservatives either can't recognize or refuse to come to grips with. That fundamental, social-historic fact of life which ruled out from the very beginning any chance of their strategies meeting with any success whatsoever. It is a question of knowing when death approaches, why and what can be done about it.
Never having gone the more or less traditional route of being a "bigot" or a "red neck" or being prejudiced on any matter, as a small kid I used to have an almost affectionate admiration for the Blacks and one might possibly see how such an attitude could exist, especially in a child. And having been born a rebel, I really liked the effect they had on– not to mention their performance in– a classroom.
I never became a liberal or, to use the vernacular of the Sixties, a "nigger-lover" because I had always sensed that these people were alien and I could always feel the element of resentment and even hostility that emanated from them. Still, at no time did I count myself as their enemy. Undoubtedly, the first among my very few bad personal brushes with the Black Race occurred when I was about eight years of age (this was well after these sentiments just outlined had already been formed). A chum and I were in the habit of hiking around the city and the area that immediately surrounds it. This day as usual we were equipped with packs and canteens, etc., and had set off towards the west. This was to take us to the southwest edge of town, the part largely inhabited by the Blacks. Some trepidation had already attached itself to this course but we figured the odds against anything untoward happening were fairly slim.
No sooner had we approached the perimeter of the colored district than we encountered the approach of two Black youths, several years older than ourselves, about a block away and closing in. It was clear to both of us that trouble seemed to be on the way but my friend decided to take evasive action that, to me, appeared worse than futile- it appeared provocative. He crossed to the other side of the street. Had there been any doubts before as to whether something was to happen, they were erased when one of the Blacks also crossed over to the other side. In those days, I was noted for my ability to run like the wind but I didn't entertain the thought that day. This was an obvious confrontation. All parties proceeded forward until contact was made.
The tall, lanky mulatto who was now confronting me demanded a drink from my canteen. A similar scene was taking place directly across the street. What I was feeling at that moment I would only years later come to know and identify: the exhilaration of the natural adrenaline coursing through my body in anticipation of the primal conflict which appeared imminent. The "moderns" then and now referred to it as "fear". My refusal was as curt as it was unequivocal. There followed more demands, more physical menace and more refusals while, as though to illustrate the apparent despair of the situation, from my side vision came the scene of the other Black hoisting my partner's canteen for his drink. Finally, my Black grudgingly gave up and moved on. This one had been a bluff but other, later ones were not to be. I can only imagine the Black conversation afterward but my companion, after rejoining me, could only say, "You looked nervous as hell." Yes, but that's not where the difference was decided.
And therein was perhaps a microcosm of the world conflict. We had something and they figured to take it away. They even thought they had us sized-up properly and they were half right. A question of wills perhaps.
The great advantage that the Third World elements have in the world and in our midst is that they still struggle. It is NOT the aid and comfort lavished upon them by the Jews and bleeding-heart liberals, though this is most assuredly considerable. Their greatest impetus today comes from those among their leaders who are claiming that they, as a group, have made no significant progress since the 1960's. This spurs them onto continued struggle. Idiotic Rightists and conservatives take hollow consolation at the same words addressed to Blacks and fall back to sleep. Struggle is the force of life itself. Where there is ample struggle, there is not only life but also strength and all that attends.
Struggle brings with it awareness and touch with reality.
Whites perceive– even if unconsciously– that their struggle has been over for longer than they or any of their predecessors really can tell. When, during the mid-
Sixties, as a youth in junior high school, a classroom of mixed Blacks and Whites was collectively chanting "Black Power, Black Power", the explanation one White offered me later was that there was already "White Power" and that "Black Power" was only the fair thing. By instinct alone, that didn't wash at all with me even though, at twelve or thirteen, I was unable to articulate in my mind exactly why. In fact there was no "power" at all. Only a pie of which everyone wanted a piece. And, just as nature decrees everywhere, the most and biggest pieces go to the most aggressive. Struggle.
Commander Rockwell did a superb, unsurpassable job in outlining and explaining why the workings of this society and the behavior of Whites in general were going haywire and I won't attempt to recover that ground. I will propose to determine what was at the bottom of it all: that Whites had no goal left to them as a people while all other races did, to wit, to gain for themselves all the material riches and technological wonders in the hands of Whites. Hitler and his National Socialists were blessed with a very sudden and real sense of struggle which made possible their miracle.
Americans particularly have been bombarded from birth with the idea that they have it all, that they have it made and that they now must share it, give it all away. The instinctive search for struggle cannot be denied, only perverted. We see today limitless individual struggle. As meaningless as it is empty. Not the mark of a great society but that of a helpless one. One that is LOST. No longer a great people but just a mass of mean, mediocre, little nothings. Ripe for any downfall but incapable of any greatness. Without struggle, identity is lost. Lack of uphill push results in increasingly downhill momentum. Without the unifying bond, a people becomes estranged from itself, from its past, its present and its future.
That is the reason for the otherwise "inexplicable" decay. And there is why no "quick fix" or "shot in the arm" remedy can be entertained as real. There is also the answer to why all the so-called "pro-White" efforts fail without exception. What we must find are more and better ways to distance ourselves from the knee-jerk reactionaries, the mere anti-Semites, the mere racists. If this society were not ripe for death, would it so willingly harken to the Jewish and liberal song of death? Would it cooperate so readily? No, my comrades, the struggle and the cry must be for that which is pro-revolutionary, exclusively. A political army sharing a common struggle! Do not be deceived any longer.
[Vol. XV, #2– Feb., 1986]
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