Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree

To the future, to a time when thought is free once more, to a time when truth is allowed to exist as it did in the days of our forefathers, to the yet unborn: from the age of thought-crime, from the age of hate speech laws and protected classes, from an age of degeneracy and censorship—greetings!

In the age from which these words greet you, we have been drowned in lies. We have been crushed and buried by untruth. Some of us have tried to cling to the truth, to reality, even against the whole world, and we have been told that we are criminals and that we are mad. We have been denied the right to say that two plus two equals four, and that to dare to think it does—and much less say so—is to have revealed yourself as a hateful fascist, or worse, an enemy of the Uniparty.

For, despite what the globalist corporate mainstream media say, despite how insistent the likes of the ADL, SPLC, HnH, Karine Jean-Pierre, or Mariana Spring are, there is only truth and untruth. There is only reality and a perverted, distorted unreality. No amount of lies and subversion or suppression can change that fundamental fact. Realising that the truth cannot be annihilated, even if you are in a tiny minority, even if you are in a minority of one, does not make you mad. It does not make it any less of a fact.

What lies, I hear the human ostriches screech. What lies, I hear the Guardian-reading, Radio 4 listening masses bellow? Exactly what untruths do I refer to, I hear the likes of Don Lemon or Owen Jones demand?... There are almost too many to mention. How about the concept that diversity is a strength? That a deliberate policy of demographic replacement, against our will, isn’t being perpetrated against the West from above. What about the very idea that Islam is a religion of peace, that it isn’t proselytising and expansionist by nature? Or that the 2020 election was fair and transparent; that the subsequent Capitol Hill unrest was an insurrection. That Epstein killed himself. That lockdowns were necessary and the vaccines safe. That men can be women, and on and on without end.

We are fed lies like so much Soma and Victory Gin and ordered to accept our medicine without protest, without wincing. We are soaked to the bone with a deluge of untruth so thoroughly and so often, with such a degree of audacity, that much of it washes over and through us, like the roiling waves of a tempestuous ocean, with no possibility of defying it, no shred of hope that an individual human could stand against such monstrous forces.

Most sinister of all, arguably, is the regime’s desire to not only dominate us in the present, but to rewrite the past in order to control the future. They have waged war not only on the never-ending day-to-day facts of the news cycle but on everything that has ever happened in the past. A war on our heritage, a war on our history. Such a war is as perverse and malevolent as it is possible to be. The Uniparty and their Ministry of Truth minions are as evil as men get. Their insane battle to amend all of history so that White people and Western culture are painted as eternal villains is a crime of such monumental proportions, of such grandiose ambition and scope, that it can never hope to succeed. Yet in this age, the age of thought crime, it is pushed on us with all the vigour and zealotry of an NKVD troika.

The Ministry of Love in Airstrip One—who in our age goes by the name of the Home Office, the Crown Prosecution Service, and the police—require an informer society for their tyranny to function. They require a surveillance state. A population cowed into submission by the constant and ever-increasing threat of cancellation and prosecution for the slightest infringement. They require that the average person be browbeaten and bulldozed into a state of mute and petrified consent. They require that we sell our integrity and our sense of moral reason, our very sense of what is right and wrong, for the low, low price of not being called a racist, and a temporary reprieve from a place where there is no darkness. For be in no doubt, that is where the Uniparty inner members wish to send all those who will not bend to their will; a place where there is no bird song, no windows, no pity, and no escape, even within the limits of your own skull. Under the spreading chestnut tree, they demand that I sell you, and you sell me.