“Attorney of the damned”, author of “Defensive Racism” dies imprisoned by ZOG
“Get the story out folks” - Stan Hess
From: Cyndi Steele, Sent: Thursday, September 04, 2014 8:35 PM
“The past 4 years Ed and my family have been living in a nightmare. Today, my greatest fear has come to life or maybe I should say death. Please read the message below that is being posted on the Free Edgar Steele website and sent to all of his supporters as I type this. It is with great heartbreak and devastation that I send you this news.”
Posted by DanielS on Thursday, September 4, 2014 at 11:25 PM in Activism, Anti-racism and white genocide, Demographics, Far Right, Global Elitism, Law, Law & Order, Libertarianism, Marxism & Culture War, Obituaries, Race realism, The American right, U.S. Politics, White Communities & Micro-Economies, White Nationalism
On June 28th this year the Daily Mail somewhat prematurely began the run up to the announcement of the death of Nelson Mandela. It ran an article which began:
I don’t know how many people like Roelof du Plessis have paid with their lives for the alleged freedom of blacks in South Africa. The number must be getting on for four thousand, not a few of them murdered in the most gratuitously savage and hateful way. There has never been a society in which blacks can live in the same society as whites by white behavioural standards without some radical form of social control being applied to them. As an egalitarian experiment South Africa was meant to prove history wrong, and in the process demonstrate that white racism was always and everywhere the underlying cause of friction between the races. The Boer Genocide in the years since stands as a terrible testimony on history’s behalf, and now, with Mandela finally gone, the world will get its answer, one way or another.
Mandela is dead. Long live Orania.
I thought I should replace Graham’s somewhat florid reflections upon the passing today of Baroness Thatcher with something more considered. There will, of course, be hundreds of thousands of words written and spoken about her in the media over the next few days. Much of it will reflect the divisive impact upon British and international politics that this extraordinary woman had. I am not going to tell the story of her life, but I will offer some personal reflections upon the person and period - she was Prime Minister for eleven tumultuous years from 1979 to 1990.
She had four characteristics that set her apart from the politicians about her. She was restlessly energetic, dominant, courageous, and ideological (which she called principled). All the really important moments of her career in Downing Street were expressions of one or more of these. She galvanized millions of us to admire or to hate her for it.
Personally, I couldn’t bear her public mannerisms and speech because it was all so plainly produced and inauthentic. But I found her enemies to be deeply repellant, and therefore took her side in most of the battles she fought - and there were many, for she was nothing if not an agent of change. Few people had no opinion of her, and those who hated her the most, by and large, were the revolutionary socialist left and the Europhile right who expected their agendas to be followed by government without serious challenge. In her, however, they found an implacable foe, and this tendency to stand up and fight for a different, non-authorised vision in a world as cravenly pragmatic as British politics is what most ordinary folk will probably remember her for.
There are several moments of her career that, while not particularly important in themselves, have stayed with me. In particular, I remember her visit to Poland in 1988 as “the Iron Lady” and an icon of the freedom of the West. She was invited to the church of St.Stanislaw Kostka in the north of Warsaw. It had been the church of a priest who inveighed against state repression from his pulpit until, in 1984, the Security Services abducted and murdered him. Hundreds of people, including the parents of the murdered priest, packed the church and the street outside to thank her for coming. When they broke into a spontaneous rendition of a Polish hymn she was unable to hold back the tears.
This image of a leader moved by the sincerity and heart of the people is a near perfect figure for a true nationalist politician. Margaret Thatcher came to the door of No.10 in 1979 wittering away about harmony and St Francis of Assisi. But she was too much the courageous warrior leader and the ideologue caught up in the battle with the Labour Party, with union power, with the machinery of European integration, with the Soviets, with the Argentines, with the miners and, finally, with her own scheming ministers to understand that such unity and faith is even possible. She was no intellectual and no visionary. She used ideas that roughly fitted into her political rubric, the foremost of them the Friedmanite and Hayekian nostrums that were introduced to her by Keith Joseph in the years immediately after her accession to the leadership of the Conservative Party in 1975. She never understood that the petty freedoms she gave people were insufficient for a truly rich lived life, for she never saw people in their social context, only as putative “individuals” awaiting release from an overbearing, over-socialist state.
There was a moment I recall when, early in her premiership, she used the word “flood” in relation to immigration. I thought she might actually be listening to the sentiments of her own party supporters. She did, for example, stand up for the white South African government against the diatribes of governments and international agencies everywhere. But no, the immigration issue was scarcely broached again throughout her remaining years in power, except in the context of protecting national sovereignty from the dictates of the European Commission. The battle above all others that I wanted Margaret Thatcher to fight she assiduously avoided. It is a battle which, as things stand, must be fought on the streets one day. The inevitable, existential conflict of race was something else she did not understand.
Of the battles she did fight, she only lost two: to the Europe integrationists and, eventually, to the grey-suited assassins around her. We are now witnessing the slow, ineluctable coming apart of the European process and also the arising of an anti-politics which disdains the careerists of the political class. Margaret Thatcher will be shown to have been on the right side of history on most matters. She will not, I think, be remembered as the great national heroine or as the vile hate object which she succeeded, by her relentless and divisive political energy, in fashioning herself as.
A colleague of mine passed away yesterday. My relationship with him began while he was at Interval Research circa 1996. This link is to a paper of his written shortly after we met on the basis of my interest in relational over functional description.
There cannot be many of us who do not owe a debt of gratitude to Phil Rushton, both for his theoretical brilliance, allied to an unswerving devotion in most difficult professional circumstances to the cause of unpopular scientific truths, and for his steadfast, loyal European heart. How much poorer would we all have been had Rushton not possessed these qualities ... had he merely shied away from the race question and lived an ordinary academic’s life, a quiet life, the life of an unquestioning product of his political times.
I did not discover Rushton until early in 2003. It was at that time when I had decided to contribute something to the cause of white survival. There was a particular question which troubled me, and which I saw as holding a key to changing the fortunes of white advocacy. To answer it I needed a crucible, and to get that ... to construct something people would feel worthwhile writing for and reading ... I had to generate some kind of internet presence.
Cue Race, Evolution, and Behaviour. When I came across it at Rushton’s own Darwin site, it had already been published eight years, and Rushton himself had said that he had run out of opponents to debate. I certainly hadn’t, though. I had found what I needed, and promptly devoured it in one sitting, reading in bed until the small hours. For the next fourteen or fifteen months I blasted around the political blogosphere provoking every liberal, every racial egalitarian, every race-denier, every anti-racist I could into a hopeless battle about human differences and hereditarianism (hopeless courtesy of Rushton’s superb analysis), psychometrics, and gene issues generally.
A surprising number of my opponents knew of Rushton, and had a ready put-down - second- or third-hand of course. I do not believe that a single one of them escaped the shredder. REB’s central theory of r/K and child development was just too perfect in its internal fit. Most of the liberal rif-raff, of course, didn’t know about this “controversial” (meaning courageous) Anglo-Canadian psychology professor, born on the Dorset-Hampshire border a couple of miles from my own birthplace and eight years distant in time. They would, in any case, have considered their political truths inviolable to attack by one supposed racist using the theories of another. They never had a chance. There was metaphorical blood everywhere.
Thanks to the carnage I had something to gesture towards when the moment came, in the summer of 2004, to put together a slate of writers for a website to be titled majorityrights.com. I never knew Rushton, and only corresponded with him very briefly. I wish now I had had the opportunity to explain how much I extracted from his thesis and to what purpose I had put it. He would probably have wanted to know, like most scientists, if I had correctly and faithfully represented his thought. The answer was that REB was so beautifully and clearly written, that was an easy task.
There is not another Phil Rushton in this world. White Nationalism has lost a true champion. He did not live nearly long enough - gone at just 68. But for his life and his talents and his work we equally loyal-hearted sons and daughters of old Europe can be extraordinarily grateful. I know I am.
by Alexander Baron
Anthony Hancock was no saint, let’s be clear about that, but by the same token he is a man to whom all true lovers of freedom owe a considerable debt. What follows is a warts and all portrait from a purely personal perspective.
His friends called him Tony, which as most of you will know was also the name of a famous though in my humble opinion not particularly funny comedian. I always called him AH, another and far more appropriate double entendre.
I began reading Revisionist and related literature in 1980; one of the first such publications I read was The Hoax Of The Twentieth Century, which was published by Historical Review Press, the company started by the father and son team of Alan and Anthony Hancock. I didn’t meet the man though for another ten years, by which time I had moved back to London. Our first meeting was reasonably affable, especially as I had been given an introduction to him by a trusted third party, after that though, things were not so cordial, the reasons for which were due to not so much a misunderstanding as mischievousness by another third party.
This is where it gets rather complicated but I’ll keep it simple. At his Uckfield print works he employed on occasion someone I will call The Cameraman. Shortly before the London meeting organised by David Irving at which Fred Leuchter spoke, I did something totally innocuous which sent him into hysterics. I’ve related this in my book The Churchill Papers, but basically he decided to make me persona non grata with everyone on the so-called far right from then on. Among other things he conspired with Irving to send me a fake ticket for this meeting. This ticket was printed at Uckfield with the connivance of AH’s right hand man, Tom Acton. I know this because when I inquired about it prior to the hoax revealing itself, Acton sniggered. I thought AH was in on the joke, but as things turned out, he wasn’t.
“We must turn the country around to face its citizens. The scale of the repair will be so great that Poland will become a new republic.”
Any president of a populous European nation who can utter these words, at once loyal and revolutionary, is a rare and valuable bird likely to be much loved by his people. Such, we now know, was Lech Aleksander Kaczy?ski who died in an air accident at a fog-bound Smolensk-North airport today, aged sixty.
With him died all ninety-five aboard the Polish Air Force Tupolev Tu-154, including Kaczy?ski’s wife Maria and many members of the Polish ruling elite.
The mainstream media coverage of this tragedy will keep rolling for days, no doubt. Kaczy?ski’s career will be closely analysed, his successes and failures picked over, his patriotism and social conservatism described perhaps more charitably in some quarters than ever they were while he was alive. But where here, besides the simple, respectful marking of yet another sadness in Poland’s national life, is the legitimate angle for a nationalist to explore?
It seems to me that Kaczy?ski represents something we should understand well, and that is how liberal democracy limits the action of any patriotic national figure outside of, and hostile to, the neo-Marxist/neoliberal dispensation. Kaczy?ski enjoyed little freedom of action. During his presidency he was unable to avoid putting his presidential signature to the Lisbon Treaty. He saw his Law and Justice (PiS) party ejected from office by Donald Tusk’s neoliberal and europhile Civic Platform. Earlier he was, as mayor of Warsaw, even dragged before the European Court of Human Rights for refusing homosexuals an opportunity to parade - no doubt, as grotesquely and offensively as possible - through the capital in the name of a non-existent equality.
He had come to the presidential office promising:
How much of this he achieved I leave it to someone more informed about Polish politics to say. But the definite sense I have is that he was continually frustrated by the democratic process, which is to say, by the ubiquity and resilience of liberal presumptions and by the power of the liberal dynamic - things that must have seemed so desirable to Poles in 1989. All conservative political careers end in failure. Lech Kaczy?ski’s ended in the shocking and sudden violence of a national tragedy too.
The last Kennedy brother is dead but their legacy lives on.
From the VDARE article “So Much for Promises - Quotes Re 1965 Immigration Act”:
Senator Edward M. Kennedy (D-MA)
Senator Robert F. Kennedy (D-NY)
Alexander Solzhenitsyn, whose words those are, has died from heart failure in Moscow, at the end of a long period of decline.
The author, among other works, of One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich (1962), The First Circle (1968), Cancer Ward (1968) and The Gulag Archipelago(1973–1978), historian, Nobelist, and a profund Russian nationalist and Russian Orthodox Christian, Solzhenitsyn belonged nowhere but in the socks and shoes of his own spirit. Life forced moral judgements upon him wherever he looked ... as a soldier in Germany in 1945 witnessing the murder and rapine of the Red Army, as a witness to the grotesque violence inherent in Stalinism, as a prisoner in the gulag and a persecuted intellectual outside it, and as an exile in the liberal West appalled by the spiritual absence, self-indulgence and materialism there.
Solzhenitsyn’s final act of courage in the written word, Two Hundred Years Together (2003), remains unpublished in the West. It examines in a critical way the nature of the Jewish engagement in Russian life from the partial annexation of Poland in 1795 to 1916. Whilst it finds that the Revolution was not a Jewish conspiracy, it does dwell on the culpability of Jews where Jewish culpability existed. For this, of course, Solzhenitsyn has received his due measure of reflexive semitic hatred inside Russia, and his book has been very effectively frozen out in the West.
But the Jewish tantrums will be of no import to our memory of the man. Solzhenitsyn will be revered in Russia and admired in the West for his moral stature, and for proving that the human spirit was greater than the corruption and violence of the Soviet system ... and, perhaps, greater too than the equally deady - actually, more deadly - dangers of modernity which beset Westerners, in all their comfort and security, today.
On his New Right Forum this evening Troy Southgate announced the death from pneumonia of Alisdair Clarke, 46, blogger, traditionalist, paganist, emerging NR intellectual and, just occasionally, a commenter on MR threads.
His final post at Ayran Futurism, dated January 10th, contained these words:-
As a practising homosexual, Alisdair was proof, if proof were needed, that homosexuals have ethnic genetic interests. Disavowing the posturing contrarianism of gay politics, Alisdair demonstrated that homosexuals are not bound to be careless of the rights and the traditions of the majority. He could write of the European New Right’s wish for “strong family life, fecundity, and marriage or relations within one’s own ethnic group”. The “or” in that sentence might have resonated rather loudly with him, of course. Certainly, he sought a martial place at the table for homosexuality in the “Aryan Future”, for which he was spectacularly defenestrated by the long-emerged and leading intellectual of the ENR, Jonathan Bowden, writing in Troy’s New Imperium magazine:-
A quiet, dignified man who, long ago, made the world gasp with wonder, passed away today. Sir Edmund Percival Hillary, KG, ONZ, KBE, conqueror of Everest, died at the age of 88, surrounded by his family in Auckland City Hospital, New Zealand.
Hillary was bound to be defined by that moment of greatness on 29th May 1953, and in truth the rest of his life scaled much less remarkable peaks. So let us remember him now for his spirit as a mountaineer-adventurer.
Should there be European populations in Africa, living alongside Africans?
To Ian Smith, the former Prime Minister of Rhodesia who died yesterday, and the man who unilaterally declared independence from Britain on 11th November 1965, the question did not even arise. The 300,000 white Rhodesians whose cause he championed were almost all of British descent, and almost all enjoyed a pretty good life in their southern fastness of the continent of the negro. That had to be made to continue. The shining commercial success, the gentle settler culture, the ties of family, the imaginings of belonging ... it was inconceivable that these things could be allowed to be lost, simply be given up.
But where are they now?
Smith, of course, was a remarkable man in many ways, and his obituaries will dwell upon that. Those in the conservative and nationalist spheres will laud him as a man of his people and, in the light of the Mugabe experience, someone not without wisdom and foresight. How his words, from the Declaration of Unilateral Independence, resound now:-
A little further on in the Declaration, Smith held out the possibility that the African would, one day, be ready for self-rule:-
He said it, no doubt, out of political pragmatism. But he could not have believed it. Indeed, elsewhere he is quoted as saying:-
Really ... rightly, Smith was, first and last, a believer in the white tribe of Rhodesia. He trusted to their independence of mind, their industry and determination, and their self-reliance. In an age when self-doubt and self-hatred scarred the European mind, Smith trusted wholly to these settler qualities.
Now, it’s easy for us today to support what Smith and his tribe attempted to do. It was magnificent to stand against the moralising, liberalistic nonsense spouted by the global great and good. And there’s no sane reason to invite an African “nationalist” to tea.
But that’s not enough. Even if the impossible had happened, and Rhodesia had survived the odds (of 22 Africans to every white Rhodesian), it’s just not enough.
The question arises whether the shallow cultural roots and economic goods that white Rhodesians thought they were protecting were, in fact, worthwhile. But life is more than these things, no matter that history is littered with similar collective errors of judgement.
There are secondary interests and there is a primary interest. Smith and his Rhodesians were fighting for secondary interests, and a truly wise leader might have ventured to look ahead and divine their destruction anyway. After all, others did: white South Africa considered the game lost across the Limpopo, and used its army at the end to keep the border crossings open for escaping whites.
Looking at Smith and UDI from our blighted vantage point today, it is odd to think that a black or Indian or Pakistani Smith might arise one day in an England rent by ethnic conflict and, in due course, certain to see a reclamation of sovereignty by its native people. How will we view someone who refuses to repatriate, and steadfastly holds that seventy or eighty years of family history here ... weddings, births and funerals ... homes made ... taxes paid ... qualifies him and his kind to stay? As a tragic figure, perhaps, at war with the spirit of the times. But mostly, we will think him mistaken. We would think the more of him if he could divine the lowly value of his interests here, and choose the higher interests of a true homeland and a secure future far away.
Ian Smith was not such a visionary. He was a good man living, like his and every minority immigrant tribe, in the wrong place.
His contemporaries in Northern Ireland politics have praised him. The obit writers are now posting their copy. David Ervine, leader of the PUP, “passed away quietly with peace and dignity” according to a statement issued by his family today (Monday). Unionism in Northern Ireland will feel his loss.
Ervine was one of the many UVF prisoners whom, during the 1970s, Gusty Spence turned from violence to politics. He started appearing on our television screens as, essentially, the political voice of the UVF in the latter half of the 1980s, if my memory serves me correctly. Even then, and notwithstanding the difficulties of speaking for an appallingly violent organisation only nominally engaged in terrorist counter-activity against the Provisional IRA and quite prepared to murder Catholics at large, Ervine struck me as a highly articulate and sympathetic character. That he developed as he did in the period running up to and after the Good Friday Agreement into a passionate spokeman for peace was really rather remarkable. He was a man of genuine vision, and his vision was that of a progressive Unionism as the only practical guarantor of Ulster Protestants’ interests.
He did not carry his own organisation with him on his political and spiritual journey. The UVF remains armed and, in part or whole, criminally active. He endeavoured to merge his PUP party with the Ulster Unionists and failed. The times had not travelled so far or so fast as David Ervine. Now the man is gone, and his too brief life stands as an example for those that might yet follow.
The news of Pinochet’s death should have taken nobody by surprise. He was an ailing old man of ninety-one, living in prison or under secure house arrest, and with the country he helped to preserve from the Red Menace now led and represented on the world stage by glib, effete busybodies. It’s a miracle he held out as long as he did.
Yet this was hardly the first miracle contained within his remarkable life. When, in 1970, Chile elected as its President that Castro wannabe, that Guerra fan-boy Salvadore Allende, many feared the emergence of a second Cuba, albeit one possessed of considerable natural resources and a powerful industrial base. Enough trees were felled to give any modern environmentalist a heart attack, to print all those reams of articles in the Nation and Newsweak giving dire warnings of failed American interventions. Revolutions only go one way, we were told. Once a nation tastes the fruits of the Socialist utopia, even if these fruits turn out to be both bitter and rotten, it will never turn back.
(Obit from the Times is here).
I am saddened to learn British Historian Maurice Cowling has passed away. I had long wished to have him sign my copies of his three volume masterpiece Religion and Public Doctrine in Modern England. I paid a hefty price of $75 for the third volume, but the richness of his scholarship far exceeds the monetary cost.
I’ve shared a few quotes from Mr. Cowling’s work on MR:
My praise for this man’s intellect and hard-headed realism is boundless, though I’ve read he was quite a difficult person to be near, apparently he did not long endure ignorant men. In some ways I imagined him to be like the MR commentator Effra, who used to post here.
If someone can locate a photo of Mr. Cowling please post it, for I’ve always wondered about his features. Interestingly, for more than a year I’ve had a google news alert scanning the internet daily for the name “Maurice Cowling,” and this is the first time it was activated. I cannot think of anyone that has recovered more knowledge of Britain’s past than this man, now he is gone and we are left poorer.
Mr. Cowling has at least one article online, arguing Churchill’s war with Hitler was a flawed undertaking. Well, read it for yourself: The Case Against Going to War. I don’t expect Mr. Cowling was invited to many Hollywood type parties by writing such things, but I’m certain Mr. Cowling didn’t give a hoot about Hollywood.
Today’s papers will be peppered with writings on the life and times of Edward Heath, British Prime Minister from 1970-74, who sailed Morning Cloud over the horizon yesterday, aged 89. I am no obituarist, nor a historian. So I won’t attempt to compete with those who are but, instead, mark the man’s passing with one or two of my memories from those four tumultuous years.
At the time I wasn’t long out of school. I drove a delivery van, worked as a filing clerk and in a hospital laundry before getting a job as a trainee machine engineer and then moving into the company’s London offices as a lowly gofer. That brought me to Bush House in the Aldwych.
One of my less tender memories of that time is of the student marches, a “megaphone obligatory” danced in moronic, slouching style by Socialist Workers – who, of course, were not workers at all - on their way, yet again, to turf the Chancellor of the LSE out of his office.
I am sorry to hear that Sam Francis has just passed away after heart surgery. I did not agree with everything he wrote but he was a great campaigner for conservative causes.
The following is a brief biographical sketch on Samuel Francis.
Samuel Francis was born in Chattanooga, Tennessee, on April 29, 1947. He was educated at The Johns Hopkins University (B.A., 1969) and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, from which he received a Ph.D. in modern history in 1979. From 1977 to 1981, he was a policy analyst at The Heritage Foundation in Washington, D.C., specializing in foreign affairs, terrorism, and intelligence and internal security issues. From 1981 to 1986, he was legislative assistant for national security affairs to Senator John P. East (Republican - North Carolina) and worked closely with the Senate Judiciary Committee’s Subcommittee on Security and Terrorism, of which Senator East was a member.
It was a long time ago. If I had to rely purely on memory I couldn’t even be sure of the year now. But, you know, I was young and didn’t worry for the world as I do today. I didn’t understand the need to hold fast to the remembrance of such dispiriting realities. I didn’t understand why it would matter if, so many years later, they should slip out of the public mind, and mine.
So it was rather easy to forget. Perhaps, too, forgetting went with the grain of the wood. Seventies Britain was a different place with quite different expectations. Life seemed more providential, and perhaps was. We raced between the lights. We were freer and more risk-taking or, perhaps, just more subject to the cheapening, egalitarian law of accident. Now we are all wrapped up in cotton wool. Death seems an intolerable affront. But I don’t know that it was then in quite the same way.
I should also say that we were also immeasurably more naïve then than now. For one thing, the foul-minded, shit-hearted non-soldiers of the Provisional IRA had not begun leaving their murderous gifts in mainland pubs. We saw terrorism on the nightly news. But it was mostly on the island of Ireland, as the shit-hearts liked to put it. Or it was even further away and involved Middle Easterners and Israelis. This type of terrorism came to us through the most basic moral filter. It was a filter through which only one side of the story ever got told. We didn’t question it then. We hadn’t learned to question everything. But anyway it was a true filter.
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