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May 2 9 tweets 10 min read Read on X
1/ For years, the pattern has held. A White person makes a comment, sometimes crude, sometimes merely unfashionable. A video is clipped, stripped of context, and cast into the digital coliseum. The crowd demands penance. Doxing follows. Then come the sponsors, the employers, the journalists. The result is always the same: apology, groveling, ruin.

This is not justice, it never was. It is a moral spectacle, a purification ritual for the postmodern West, where the cleansing agent is White submission. The apology is not meant to be accepted, but to affirm the guilt of the group. The goal is not reconciliation, but re-education, humiliation, silence.

But this time, with the case of Shiloh Hendrix, the script cracked. Her personal details were posted online. She received death threats. Her children were targeted. And yet, she did not capitulate. She did not appear on camera with quivering voice and downcast eyes. She launched a fundraiser.

And White people responded.

Not the media, not the institutions, not the credentialed class, but ordinary White people. Tens of thousands poured in to support her. The platform, GiveSendGo—not GoFundMe, which routinely bans dissidents—reported over $250,000 raised in days. These were not donations. These are the stirrings of something new. Each dollar said, “We see what you are doing, and we are done pretending.”

This is more than a defense of one woman. It is a rejection of the moral framework that made her a target. The Hendrix affair is not the first of its kind. But it is one of the first to end differently. No apology. No resignation. No collapse. Instead: resistance. And that, more than anything else, signals a shift.

The ritual is breaking. And with it, the spell of White guilt.Image
2/ White guilt was never a natural sentiment; no people naturally hate themselves or push for their own demographic extinction. It did not emerge organically from conscience or history. It was manufactured, ritualized, and weaponized. It was imposed from above by alien elites who seized control of the institutions of education, media, and culture, and rewrote morality to make one group, the White population, the permanent villain in its own homeland.

From the youngest age, White children are taught to associate their identity with conquest, slavery, cruelty, and destruction. They are told to dissociate from their own heritage, to feel shame for the achievements of their ancestors, to distrust their instincts, and to question the legitimacy of their very existence. They are instructed to love all others, but never themselves.

This is not ethics. It is psychological warfare.

And like all systems built on repression, it only works if it remains unquestioned. The moment it is challenged, seriously, openly, defiantly, it begins to fall apart. The power of White guilt lies in silence, not argument. Once someone says aloud, “I do not feel guilty,” the illusion weakens for everyone else.

That is what the Hendrix fundraiser represents. Not a defense of one person, but a refusal to obey the narrative. It is one thing to quietly disagree with the orthodoxy. It is another to act on that disagreement. The act of giving money in defiance of the media’s command is a political gesture far more radical than voting. It is an act of moral rejection. And tens of thousands just performed it.

This would have been unthinkable a decade ago. Even five years ago, the weight of institutional guilt still compelled submission. But something has changed. The spell is weakening. The repetition no longer works. The words no longer bind. The system still speaks in the language of shame, but fewer and fewer are listening.

The idea that Whites must apologize for existing is no longer sacred. It is simply absurd. And once absurdity is exposed, mockery follows. Then rejection. Then reversal.

We are witnessing the early stages of that reversal.Image
3/ When guilt dies, politics begins. The moral paralysis ends. The silence breaks. And what replaces it is not chaos, but clarity. Once Whites stop apologizing for who they are, they begin to ask the forbidden questions. Who benefits from our shame? Who profits from our dispossession? Why are we the only people on Earth forbidden to speak in our own name?

White identity politics is the answer to those questions.

It is not supremacy. It is not hatred. It is not a call to dominate others. It is simply the political expression of collective interest. Every other group has it. Every other group is allowed it. Only Whites are told that to speak as a group is to commit a crime. But the spell is fading, and with it, the power of that prohibition.

Once the guilt disappears, it becomes obvious. We are a people. We have a shared past, a shared destiny, a right to exist and a right to continue existing. We are not just individuals with private lives. We are part of a greater whole. And like all peoples, we have interests that must be protected.

This is why White identity politics is inevitable. In any multiracial society, politics becomes tribal. Interests diverge. Groups form. Coalitions compete. The only people told to sit out this contest are Whites. The only people who believe they can remain neutral are those still under the spell.

But neutrality is a luxury of those not under attack. That time is over. Every institution in the West now operates openly against the long-term interests of Whites. From immigration to education to media representation to the redefinition of national identity, every policy moves in one direction, toward our reduction, our silencing, our replacement.

To oppose this is not extremism. It is survival. It is not radical to defend what every group defends by instinct. It is only considered radical because the system has criminalized our normality.

But that is changing. Each time someone like Hendrix refuses to collapse, each time the crowd responds with support instead of shame, the political ground shifts. The taboo weakens. The future opens.

What comes next is not a return to the past, but the forging of something new, an explicit, unapologetic, and moral politics of White identity.Image
4/ What happened with Shiloh Hendrix is not an isolated moment. It is part of a larger pattern, one that grows stronger with each passing year. In case after case, when Whites are smeared, vilified, or threatened, the response is no longer retreat. It is support. It is solidarity. It is an instinctive, growing resolve to take our own side.

We saw it with the Covington boys, when a group of Catholic school students were slandered across every major news outlet for a crime they did not commit. The footage was selectively edited, the truth buried, the children’s faces splashed across the internet as villains of the week. And yet the response was not surrender. It was a legal counterstrike and eventual vindication.

We saw it with Kyle Rittenhouse, who was hunted across every media platform as a domestic terrorist, despite clear video evidence of self-defense. He was doxed, threatened, and prosecuted. But millions supported him. Donations poured in. The truth won in court, and more importantly, it won in the minds of countless Americans who saw what the system really is.

We saw it again when corporate giants like Bud Light and Target made open mockery of the cultural and sexual values of the American heartland. The response was not just outrage, it was organized, economic retaliation. Boycotts worked. Stocks dropped. Executives panicked.

In every case, something important happened. Whites, once atomized and demoralized, began to show signs of collective nerve. They acted in defense of their own, even if they could not always articulate why. They stopped backing down. They stopped assuming they were guilty. They started pushing back.

This is the slow emergence of White political consciousness. Not yet unified, not yet fully articulate, but undeniably present. It no longer takes manifestos or movements to activate it. A single slandered face, a single act of defiance, is enough. And each time it happens, the reflex strengthens.

These reactions are not driven by ideology. They are driven by instinct, tribal, ancestral, moral. They are not about hate. They are about loyalty. They are about fairness. They are about survival.

What we are witnessing is not a backlash. It is an awakening.Image
5/ White identity politics is not just strategic. It is not merely a reaction to demographic decline or institutional hostility. It is rooted in something deeper, something moral. At its heart is the principle that every people has the right to exist, the right to continuity, the right to its own space in the world.

To say that Whites have collective interests is not to deny the same of others. It is to affirm the most basic moral symmetry. What is legitimate for everyone else is legitimate for us. No more, no less.

Love of one’s own is not a sin. It is the foundation of every functioning society. It begins in the family. No decent father loves the neighbor’s child more than his own. No sane mother sacrifices her child’s future for the approval of strangers. What is natural at the familial level is no less natural at the national or civilizational level.

The same moral instinct that binds a parent to a child also binds a people to its heritage. To defend your nation, your culture, your memory, is not selfish. It is sacred.

And yet this basic moral code has been inverted. We are told that to love our own is exclusionary, that to preserve our culture is oppressive, that to secure our future is an act of violence. But only White people are told this. No one lectures the Chinese about ethnonational continuity. No one tells Africans that tribal loyalty is backward. No one scolds Jews for preserving their identity. The taboo is selective. The double standard is absolute.

That is why the system is unsustainable. It demands that Whites abandon instincts that every other group is allowed to honor. It demands that we surrender the very morality we are told to uphold.

But real morality does not require self-abolition. Real morality is rooted in order, loyalty, and the defense of one’s own. The deeper we dig, the more clearly we see, White identity politics is not a threat to moral order. It is a return to it.
6/ White guilt is dying. The institutions still speak its language, but the people no longer believe. The slogans ring hollow. The shame has worn thin. More and more, the system demands apology and receives only silence. Or resistance. Or laughter.

What rises in its place is not bitterness. It is clarity.

White identity is legitimate. White interests are real. White survival is non-negotiable. These are not radical claims. They are foundational truths, long suppressed, now returning to the surface. No society can endure without some form of identity. No people can endure without some form of pride.

This is not about nostalgia. It is not about restoring the world of yesterday. That world is gone. What remains is the task of building something new, something rooted in memory but aimed at the future. A politics not of apology, but of affirmation. Not of resentment, but of renewal.

The rise of White identity politics is not a threat to others. It is a restoration of balance. It is the correction of a moral distortion that demanded one people dissolve itself for the comfort of all others. That era is ending.

And the signs are everywhere. In every boycott. In every defiant fundraiser. In every quiet conversation that dares to name what cannot be named. There is a growing majority, not yet organized, not yet fully conscious, but already forming.

The next political realignment will not be between Left and Right. It will be between those who kneel and those who stand. And we are learning to stand.

We do not ask permission. We do not beg for place. We are not going anywhere.

The future belongs to those who know who they are.Image
7/ A Link to the Shiloh Hendrix Fundraiser:

givesendgo.com/ShilohHendrix
8/ An Interrelated Essay:

You cannot care for nature while condemning the only people who ever made it sacred.

You cannot fight for animals while erasing the civilization that protected them first.

9/ The morality of White identity

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More from @CCrowley100

Apr 29
1/ The gods do not die. They are forgotten, buried beneath layers of habit and history, but they do not die. They retreat into shadow, and wait.

Carl Jung understood this better than most. In 1936, he wrote what remains one of the most dangerous and revealing essays of the twentieth century: “Wotan.” Not a political tract, nor a condemnation or endorsement, but a psychological diagnosis. What had seized Germany in the years following the First World War, what had lifted a broken nation into frenzied unity, was not the product of economic distress or even political genius. It was something older. Something primal. The return of a god.

To modern ears, the language is foreign. We are taught that history moves forward, that the past is behind us. That gods are metaphors, and myths are fiction. Jung rejected this illusion. He believed that the human psyche is not modern. Beneath our rational minds lie older strata: ancestral, tribal, animal. These are not merely emotional residues. They are archetypes, living symbols that shape perception, action, destiny. Among these, Wotan, the storm god of the Germanic world, had long slumbered. But not peacefully.

“Wotan is a restless wanderer,” Jung wrote, “who creates unrest and stirs up strife.” He is not an idea. He is a force. And like a buried current, he surged again into the open air, possessed a man, and through him a nation. This was not a metaphor. It was not poetic license. It was, in Jung’s eyes, an eruption of the collective unconscious, a revelation of what lies beneath the mask of civilization.

The age of progress had promised liberation. But something ancient had been repressed to buy that comfort. The old gods, driven out by the Christian Church and sealed beneath layers of Enlightenment reason, had not vanished. They had only withdrawn. And what is repressed returns, often with violence.

What Jung saw in the rise of National Socialism was not a political program. It was an awakening. Not a renewal of reason, but its opposite: the storm. A mythic reassertion of the buried spirit of a people. A reckoning with the shadow they had refused to integrate. That shadow had a name. Wotan.Image
2/ Many in the West may have forgotten their gods, but the gods did not forget them.

To understand what happened in Germany, Jung tells us we must not look at politics, economics, or ideology. We must look inward. Deep beneath consciousness lies a submerged architecture: the collective unconscious. It is not formed by personal memory, nor shaped by media or schooling. It is inherited. It is ancestral. It remembers what man has tried to forget.

This deeper structure carries what Jung called archetypes—primordial forms that shape human behavior across generations. These are not invented. They emerge from the very fabric of our being. And when ignored, when repressed, they do not disappear. They fester. They twist. They return.

Repression does not heal. It buries. And what is buried often returns with teeth. The Christianization of Europe demanded the suppression of pagan memory, of the fierce, ecstatic, tragic spirit that animated the old gods. Wotan was not exorcised—he was internalized. Turned inward. Made unconscious. And there, in shadow, he waited.

In Jungian psychology, the shadow is not simply evil. It is the totality of the unacknowledged. Strength, passion, instinct, and rage—qualities disowned by the modern, rational man—accumulate in the dark. The longer they are denied, the more violently they demand recognition.

So it was with the Germans. Their technological ascent masked a psychic disfigurement. They had rushed into modernity without integrating what lay beneath. A veneer of Christianity, a century of Enlightenment, a cult of reason—and still, the old storm-god brooded under the surface. And then the dam broke.

It is not enough to say that Germany went mad. Madness implies aberration. But Jung’s insight was more disturbing: this was not madness. It was memory. An inherited form reasserting itself through myth, movement, and man. Wotan did not invent the warpath—he returned to it. The furor Teutonicus, long suppressed, surged back with modern machinery. And it found a vessel.

Here lies the root of Jung’s warning. When an individual represses a part of himself, that part finds other means of expression: dreams, compulsions, breakdowns. When a people represses its ancestral gods, the same principle applies. The gods return—not as symbols, but as storms. Not as fantasies, but as forces.Image
3/ The world still struggles to explain him. Historians write volumes, economists trace inflation charts, moralists weep or denounce. But none of them understand what Jung saw immediately: Hitler was not the author of the movement. He was its vessel.

Jung called him a medium, a man seized rather than seizing. “Ergriffen,” he said—possessed. Not metaphorically, but psychologically, mythologically. Hitler did not invent the storm. He rode it. He gave form to something far older than himself, something that spoke not to the rational mind but to the deep unconscious of a people who had lost their center and longed, without knowing it, to recover their god.

Mass movements are never born from logic. They are born from hunger—for meaning, for belonging, for power, for myth. Hitler provided that myth. Not as a writer of doctrine, but as a mouthpiece. He did not command Wotan. He channeled him.

What surged through Germany was not mere nationalism. It was Ergriffenheit—a state of being seized. Millions marched not from calculation but from compulsion. They were not debating policies. They were embodying a force. Wotan, god of frenzy and storm, had returned—and the people, like trees in a gale, bent before his wind.

Jung warned that we ignore this at our peril. To explain the Third Reich in purely secular terms is to misunderstand the event. It was not a political error. It was a psychic eruption. It was not the product of ideology, but archetype. Hitler, in this reading, becomes not a cause but a consequence, the symptom of a deeper condition, the form through which the collective unconscious of a repressed people made itself known.

Here lies the horror, and the insight. We like to think of ourselves as rational creatures, governed by law, protected by institutions. But beneath the surface, older laws still govern. Older gods still stir. And when a man like Hitler appears, when a vessel stands open, the archetype seizes him. And through him, seizes a nation.

This is not an apology. It is a warning. For if Wotan could rise once, he can rise again. And not only in Germany.Image
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Apr 22
War is dysgenic. It kills the best and leaves the rest.

Civilizations are not upheld by institutions alone, nor by laws, nor even by victories. They are upheld by men. Not by the many, but by the few—the aristioi, as the Greeks called them—the best.

Not merely those born to privilege, but those who prove themselves worthy of command, who unite excellence of soul with courage of action, who embody the higher possibility of man.

The Romans understood this instinctively. Though they revered lineage, they did not bind greatness to birth. Their nobility, or nobilitas, referred not simply to aristocratic descent but to a recognized status earned through public distinction, by proving one’s excellence in tangible form.

It was a living tradition of excellence, open even to the novus homo—the new man—who had the fire to rise, so long as he proved himself in the crucible of war, rhetoric, and public service. The Roman Republic was not rigid. It cultivated greatness wherever it found it. But even such a system, perhaps especially such a system, cannot survive the repeated loss of its best men.

When the aristioi are sent to die generation after generation, and the men who remain are those who avoided danger or mastered the arts of peacetime flattery, decline is not just likely. It becomes inevitable.

Nowhere is this pattern more evident than in the Roman experience during the Punic Wars. The three Punic Wars, spanning from 264 to 146 BC, were not minor frontier conflicts. They were total wars for dominance over the Western Mediterranean basin, pitting Rome against Carthage, an ancient maritime empire wealthy in trade and arms. Rome, a city-state grown into a martial federation, found itself locked in a struggle that would test not just its arms, but its very essence. The First Punic War was largely naval and bloody, but it was the Second—fought between 218 and 201 BC—that broke something within the Roman body.

It was in this war that Hannibal Barca led his Carthaginian army across the Alps and inflicted defeat after defeat upon the Romans on their own soil. At Trebia and Lake Trasimene, the Romans lost entire armies. But the catastrophe of Cannae in 216 BC stands above all. There, on the hot plains of Apulia, Hannibal annihilated a Roman force of roughly 86,000 men using a brilliant double envelopment maneuver. Between 50,000 and 70,000 were killed in a single day. It was not only the bloodiest day in Roman history; it was also one of the deadliest battles in all of recorded antiquity.

Among the dead was Lucius Aemilius Paullus, one of the two consuls of the year, a noble commander of courage and discipline. His colleague, Gaius Terentius Varro, survived the battle but bore the shame of the rout. Alongside Paullus fell over eighty members of the Roman Senate, more than a quarter of its entire body.

This was not just a military disaster. It was a demographic and spiritual decapitation. The Senate at this time was not a haven for idle aristocrats. It was composed of consular veterans, ex-magistrates, and men deeply steeped in the mos maiorum, the ancestral code of duty, discipline, and restraint.

Cannae also claimed hundreds of equites, Rome’s equestrian officer class, and scores of young patricians-in-training, scions of the Fabii, the Cornelii, and the Aemilii, families that had produced Rome’s statesmen and generals for generations.

This was a blow Rome absorbed, but never truly recovered from.

The aristioi, the living seedbed of Roman order, had been cut down in their prime. In their place rose survivors, not necessarily stronger but often more cunning, men shaped less by the ancestral virtues and more by the demands of a changing world.

Tenney Frank, the American historian and classicist, would later identify this moment as a turning point. In his writings on the Roman economy and population, Frank emphasized the dysgenic consequences of Roman warfare. It was not simply the physical loss of manpower that concerned him, but the biological and civilizational cost of sacrificing the most noble, brave, and disciplined men in each generation. In his words, “The long wars of the Republic destroyed the ruling stock... The brave perished childless, the cunning remained behind.”

Frank was describing a silent catastrophe: not the death of an army, but the death of a type. With every decade of war, the Republic lost more of its vital aristocracy—not the decadent elite, but the aristioi in the truest sense: those who bore the burden of command and led from the front.

Even Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus, the victor of Zama, would see his line marginalized in the decades following his triumph. His descendants were politically impotent by the time of the Gracchi. This decline of the nobility was not merely a genealogical fading, but a transformation of Roman political life. Without the aristioi to guide it, the Senate degenerated into factionalism and corruption. The Gracchi, tribunes who sought to restore the Roman ideal, were themselves symbols of the aristocracy’s twilight. They were idealist remnants met with violence by a Senate no longer composed of great men, but of wealthy survivors. Their deaths marked the final collapse of the old order’s moral legitimacy.

And yet, the Roman system had always embraced excellence wherever it emerged.

This openness to excellence was one of the Republic’s strengths. The rise of novi homines, new men of no noble birth, had long been a sign of vitality rather than decline. Men like Cato the Elder and Cicero rose through merit, not lineage, embodying the Republic’s ideal of earned nobility.

Even Gaius Marius, a formidable general and reformer, emerged from humble origins through sheer talent and resolve. But with Marius, something began to shift. His career marked the moment when military success no longer reinforced the old order but began to replace it. Even a meritocratic aristocracy requires an existing class of aristioi to test, train, and uphold its standards. When that class dies, and the gatekeepers vanish, what follows is not a flood of greatness, but a lowering of the gates. By the time of Marius and Sulla, the Republic had devolved into militarized factionalism. Ambitious generals now raised private armies and marched on Rome itself. The mos maiorum was dead. What remained was ambition, unchecked by nobility, and cynicism, cloaked in legality.

The pattern is not Roman alone. In the modern age, we see a dark reflection in the fate of the British upper class during the First World War. At Eton College—a finishing school for Britain’s aristocratic elite—over 20 percent of former students died in the trenches of the Western Front in World War One. This was a death rate higher than that of the average soldier, who perished at a rate of roughly 12 percent. These young men, often commissioned as officers, led from the front and died by the tens of thousands. They were not cowards nor parasites, but the final echo of a ruling class still bound by honor and sacrifice. What replaced them was not nobility, but bureaucracy. Managerial efficiency rose where character had died.

The death of the aristioi is not an accident of history. It is a signal. A society that cannot preserve its best—biologically, spiritually, institutionally—cannot preserve itself. Rome won the Punic Wars, but in doing so began the slow unraveling of its Republic. The men who embodied its highest virtues were lost. What followed was not rebirth, but erosion. First civil war, then Caesar, then empire. The form endured, but the soul had passed.

So too in our age. When the best are no longer born, or are sent to die young, or are replaced by the cunning who serve only themselves rather than the brave who serve the greater whole, the system does not survive. It persists, but only as a ghost of what once was and what might have been.

We must remember this. Not out of nostalgia, but out of duty. For if we do not learn to honor and preserve the aristioi—not in name, but in kind—we will inherit not a civilization, but its ruins.Image
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Apr 21
1/ The modern West is not a civilization in decline. It is the afterglow of one already dead. Its towers still stand, its machines still hum, its markets still churn — but the spirit that once gave it life has fled. What remains is not a culture, but a corpse animated by momentum and memory.

We were born into this world as orphans of a forgotten order. And yet something in us still remembers. A word. A gesture. A silence that once meant more than speech. It stirs in moments of clarity, in flashes of rage, in the quiet refusal to kneel before the absurd. This memory is not personal. It is civilizational. And it is beginning to awaken. 🧵👇Image
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2/ Civilization does not fall all at once. It decays. It forgets. It doubts. It replaces form with function, beauty with comfort, hierarchy with appetite. Then one day the people look up and realize that the temples are hollow, the leaders are cowards, the children are strangers, and the words carved in stone have become a foreign tongue.

The man who walks among these ruins today must understand: we are not living in a world without tradition. We are living in a world where tradition has been buried, denied, and mocked, but not destroyed. What collapses is not tradition itself, but the fragile architecture built in defiance of it. Beneath the broken scaffolds of the modern world lies something older than the State, deeper than the nation, stronger than ideology. Tradition does not die. It merely withdraws. It waits.

Tradition is not behind us. It is beneath us. It is the subterranean fire that once shaped mountains and now smolders under ash. The man who would reforge himself must first dig through the wreckage, not in mourning but in recollection. For ruins are not just symbols of loss. They are blueprints. They tell us what was once possible. They tell us what can be done again, but only by those who refuse to be content with managing decline.

To live among ruins and do nothing is cowardice. But to live among ruins and remember is to draw the sword still buried in the stone.

We are not here to conserve the ashes. We are here to rekindle the flame.Image
3/ Tradition is not the past. It is the principle that gave rise to the past. It is not a set of costumes or customs, but a vertical axis — a way of ordering life according to first things, not last things. A man who thinks tradition is something to imitate, as if playing a role in a pageant, has already missed the point. Tradition is not what we were. It is what we are, when we are most ourselves.

In every people worthy of the name, there is an enduring form, a pattern of being that precedes the individual and outlasts the generation. It speaks not only through myths and laws, but through posture, architecture, war, and worship. It is what places the soul above the appetite, the spirit above the flesh, the order above the impulse. It teaches man not merely how to live, but where to aim.

That aim is not comfort. It is not safety. It is not self-expression. It is excellence — in the ancient sense of aretē (ἀρετή), the full actualization of one’s nature in alignment with a higher cosmic order. The traditional man does not ask what he can get away with. He asks what the gods expect of him.

To live traditionally is not to obey superstition. It is to live in fidelity to form, to embody a hierarchy in which the highest governs the lower and the lower obeys because it has been ennobled. It is to reintroduce gravity into a weightless world. It is to stand where others drift, to speak where others stammer, to shape when others collapse.

A civilization rises when its men live like this. It falls when they forget how.Image
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Apr 18
1/ Why did Yukio Mishima die by the sword in 1970?

Why did Imperial Japan’s young officers rise up not against the Emperor, but for him?

Why did Zen monks teach warriors how to die without fear?

Because the true Right begins where the ego ends.

Let us discuss 🧵👇
2/ After Japan’s defeat in 1945, the world saw a nation in ruins. But behind the rubble was something older than the empire, something that hadn’t surrendered: the spirit of sacrifice. This essay explores the spiritual and political vision that drove Japan’s interwar ultranationalist movements, particularly those within the military who sought not to overthrow the state, but to redeem it. Their rebellion was not revolutionary in the Western sense. It was an uprising from within, led by young officers and idealists who believed that modern Japan had betrayed its ancient soul. They called this soul the kokutai, a concept meaning national essence, referring to the metaphysical unity between people, land, Emperor, and tradition.

We begin with the phenomenon of gekokujō, a term meaning “the lower overthrows the higher.” Unlike leftist revolts, these men rose in the name of loyalty. Their insurrections, often bloody, were meant to purify the government and return Japan to its sacred origins. Many of them belonged to the Kōdōha, or Imperial Way Faction, a group within the army composed mainly of younger officers who fused traditional Japanese warrior ethics with a spiritual nationalism. Their worldview drew from Zen Buddhism, Shinto, and bushidō, the code of the samurai that emphasized loyalty, courage, and the readiness to die.

Theirs was not simply a political movement. It was a moral crusade rooted in metaphysical discipline. Through the practice of zazen, a form of seated meditation, the cultivation of mushin, or no-mind, and the ritualization of death, they sought to embody a kind of warrior-sage—men who would rather fall by the sword than live without honor. In this way, the interwar Japanese right resembled not the conservatives of our age, but something far older: a caste of priestly warriors, willing to die so that something higher might live.

This essay traces their path not as a call for imitation, but as a study in contrasts. We in the West live under a regime that hates its own origins. We have no Emperor. No divine lineage. No unbroken tradition to serve. And yet we too sense the collapse of our national spirit. In the Japanese example, we do not find a model. But we do find a challenge. What would it mean to fight not for power, but for essence? What would it mean to die upright?Image
3/ To understand Japan’s interwar ultranationalists, one must understand bushidō, the Way of the Warrior. This was not merely a samurai code, but a spiritual path that demanded mastery of the self before mastery of others. It was shaped by two religious forces. From Shinto came reverence—for bloodline, for Emperor, for nature as the living breath of the divine. From Zen came discipline, silence, and the ability to meet death without hesitation.

Zen was not a theory. It was something lived. Through zazen, or seated meditation, the mind was emptied and the ego discarded. The goal was mushin, the state of no-mind, where action flows without thought. In this condition, one does not calculate. One does not fear. One simply acts, completely present. For the swordsman, it meant victory. For the ascetic, enlightenment. For the young officer planning a political assassination, it meant both.

This was the spiritual framework of the Imperial Way Faction. They believed Japan had been corrupted by liberalism, greed, and party rule. The Emperor was no longer at the center of life. The kokutai, or national essence, had been violated. To remove a traitor from the cabinet was not seen as rebellion, but as purification. Rooted in what became known as State Shinto, a state-sponsored fusion of ritual, myth, and Emperor-worship, kokutai was more than a patriotic ideal. It was a vision of cosmic order in which the Emperor, as the descendant of Amaterasu, stood as the axis between heaven and earth.

Here Zen played its role. As the postwar teacher Taisen Deshimaru explained, the martial arts and Zen “have the same taste.” Both train the body and the spirit to act without hesitation. One must, in his words, “kill the ego.” And once the ego is gone, so too is the fear of death. A blind man walking across a narrow bridge does not think. He feels his way through. So does the man who has mastered himself.

The ultranationalist rebels were, in this sense, warrior-monks. Their acts were political, but their preparation was spiritual. The clearest example is the February 26 Incident of 1936, when officers launched a failed coup to purge the government of corrupt liberal ministers. Before acting, they purified themselves. Some sat in meditation. Some composed death poems. They did not act for gain. They acted in faith.

They failed. But not for lack of courage. They failed because they had misread the world. The Japan they loved no longer existed. The unity between people, Emperor, and sacred order had been severed by modernization. Their loyalty was real—but the object of that loyalty had already vanished.

And yet their lives still force a question: how should a man live when everything around him has fallen? When the state no longer serves the truth, is rebellion a duty? And if so, how does it avoid becoming just another form of politics? The answer, both in bushidō and in Mishima’s final act, is simple and absolute. You begin with death. You act as if you are already dead. Only then are you free.Image
Read 6 tweets
Apr 16
1/ You can tell the health of an age by who it crowns. Today, the coward rules. The ugly is praised. The perverse is proud. That is not politics. That is metaphysics. The world has turned upside down.

Let us speak of Julius Evola—of clarity in the face of collapse.🧵👇Image
2/ The face of the crowd is a mirror. Not of who you are, but of what time it is. Look long enough and the truth of the age reveals itself—not in political theory, but in posture, voice, and smell. The Kali Yuga, the final age of dissolution, is not proven by books or slogans. It is proven in the obesity of children, the smirk of cowards, the visibility of the perverse, and the pride of the unworthy. A sick age does not merely tolerate its parasites, it feeds them. It builds them statues. It takes their sickness and names it “virtue.”

The modern world pretends to be rational. It claims to be governed by neutral facts and material forces. But every traditional civilization knew better. They understood the world as a vertical chain of being. What happens below reflects what has broken above. This is the “doctrine of correspondences”—that every social, physical, and even atmospheric condition reveals the state of the metaphysical order. If kings lose their virtue, there will be famine. If priests become liars, the land becomes infertile. If the hierarchy collapses, so does the world.

When the higher no longer rules the lower, the lower does not remain still. It surges upward to fill the void. And what we live in now is the result of that void. The age does not merely fall short of the ideal—it has reversed it. The noble are shamed. The herd is praised. Not by accident, but by design. Weakness is now holy. The degenerate is now sacred. The purpose is not healing. It is humiliation.

But the masses are not merely passive. They are not helpless victims of decline. They are its raw material. When the metaphysical order fractures, the crowd rushes in. The herd becomes the agent of destruction. It does not know what it serves, but it serves it anyway.

So we return to the mirror. To the stadiums, the subways, the supermarket aisles. And we see what time it is. Not by the clock, but by the faces.Image
3/ The modern mind scoffs at the idea that metaphysics might have consequences. It believes in matter and mechanism, not meaning. But the Traditionalist sees reality differently. The world is not random. It is not a meaningless series of events. It is a symbol, a reflection, a hierarchy. The modern world is not just sick; it is a symptom. A sign of a deeper disorder. Evola calls this the aforementioned “doctrine of correspondences”: the belief that visible phenomena correspond to invisible realities; that form follows being; that history is not linear but vertical, cascading down through ever-diminishing echoes of a primordial order.

This is a worldview utterly alien to modern liberalism, which denies both transcendence and hierarchy. For the liberal, there are only opinions, only material causes, only political mistakes. But for the man of Tradition, there is no such thing as a merely political failure. Everything reflects the condition of Being. When a civilization falls, it falls because something above it has already been abandoned. When man forgets the divine, he does not remain free. He becomes a slave to matter, motion, opinion, appetite. Every crumbling statue, every collapsed temple, every mutilated child reflects this collapse of vertical alignment.

Evola writes that decline is not just economic or social. It is morphological. It is spiritual. It begins in the invisible and ends in the visible. The polluted cities, the sterile relationships, the ugliness of modern architecture, the cult of equality, the war on identity—all are external signs of inner disfigurement. They are what the ancients called omens. Not prophecies, but present realities that point to deeper truths. The modern world, in other words, is itself a ritual, though not one of consecration, but of desecration.

To see clearly, one must train the eye to perceive not just what is, but what it means. A ruined family is not just a social failure. It reflects a cosmic disorder, a break between man and principle. A debased currency reflects a debased soul. A defaced church reflects a people that has defaced its origin. These are not poetic analogies. They are metaphysical correspondences. The state of the world is not accidental. It is a mirror.

And this is why no purely political solution can save it. Because what has been lost is not policy, but purpose. What is needed is not reform, but realignment. Only the restoration of metaphysical order can lift civilization out of its downward spiral. Politics must follow Being. The soul must first remember its source. Then, and only then, can the world begin to take form again.Image
Read 11 tweets
Apr 13
1/ America was not born from principles. It was born from struggle. European peoples crossed oceans, tamed forests, built civilization, and now watch, silent, as strangers inherit what they are told is no longer theirs to claim.

Let us discuss the reality of America! 🧵👇 Image
2/ A nation that forgets itself does not simply vanish; it becomes a vessel for others. Today, America does not suffer from a lack of identity, but from a surfeit of borrowed ones. The monuments remain, the Constitution is recited, the flag still flies. But beneath these symbols, something fundamental has shifted. The American nation, once a living ethnos, an organic people formed through conquest, colonization, and civilizational struggle, has been supplanted by an abstraction. Citizenship has become a costume. Borders are lines on paper. And national belonging is now defined by bureaucratic process, not blood.

This transformation did not occur by accident. It was imposed. And the chief mechanism of imposition was the redefinition of the American nation as a universal idea, rather than a particular people. This idea, most often described as the “proposition nation,” claims that anyone, from anywhere, can become American simply by affirming certain creeds: liberty, equality, democracy. But creeds do not build nations. Peoples do. And the men who created the United States were not abstractions. They were English Protestants, settlers and pioneers, bound by shared ancestry, language, religion, and law. They did not build a “nation of immigrants.” They built an Anglo-American Republic.

That Republic is now being dismantled, not in the name of revolution, but in the name of its own professed ideals. The irony is deliberate. The project of turning a real, historical people into a propositional fiction required severing America from its ethnic roots. The Civil Rights revolution accomplished this with remarkable efficiency. It reframed the Constitution as a universal instrument, not a compact among descendants of a common stock. It recast the Founding Fathers as mere ideologues, not nation-builders. And it introduced the heresy that the American identity is not inherited, but chosen.

In doing so, it erased the line between citizen and stranger, between legacy and newcomer. It prepared the ground for demographic replacement by defining resistance as moral failure. And most devastating of all, it taught White Americans to feel guilt for their existence, to disown their patrimony, and to surrender the institutions their ancestors forged.

But a people cannot live forever in denial of who they are.Image
3/ The fiction of the proposition nation rests on a deeper falsehood: that nations are built on ideas rather than kinship. It claims that national identity comes not from shared ancestry but from allegiance to abstract principles such as liberty, equality, and democracy. In the American context, this inversion has served a political purpose. If a nation is just a creed, it belongs to anyone who repeats it. There is no need for continuity, no duty to forebears, no loyalty to blood. History becomes decoration. Identity becomes performance. The past is rewritten, and the future offered to anyone who knows the script.

But this is not how nations arise. They are born from struggle: territorial, cultural, and often violent. They grow from the shared trauma and triumph of a people—from their myths, their martyrs, and their dead. The United States was no exception. Its Founders were not drafting a universal charter. They were securing the liberties of their posterity. When they wrote “our posterity,” they meant themselves carried forward through time. Not the world. Not the foreigner. Their own sons.

To remake such a nation into a blank slate of emptiness required more than legal revision. It demanded moral inversion. The virtues that built America—fortitude, hierarchy, self-rule—had to be recast as sins. The Anglo-Protestant backbone of the Republic was pathologized. Its history rebranded as crime. The result is a civic order that scorns its founding stock even as it lives off their legacy.

The Left calls this progress. In truth, it is expropriation. A civilizational inheritance is being looted, not by conquest, but by ideology. And the tool of looting is moral coercion. White Americans are not conquered. They are disarmed. Taught to apologize, not to resist. To explain, not to act. To prove they belong in the house their forefathers built.

But no people ever proved its right to exist. It simply existed, and defended itself when threatened.Image
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