Was there a particular event or reason you decided to commit to a
violent attack?
There was a period of time 2 years prior to the attack to the attack that
dramatically changed my views.The period of time was from, beginning
of April,2017 until the end May,2017.
In this time period a series of events broke down my own reserves, my
reservations, my cynicism and revealed the truth of the Wests current
situation.
These events turned my thoughts from pursuing a democratic, political
solution and finally caused the revelation of the truth, that a violent,
revolutionary solution is the only possible solution to our current crisis.
I was travelling as a tourist in Western Europe at the time, France, Spain
Portugal and others.The first event that begun the change was the terror
attack in Stockholm, on the 7th of April 2017. It was another terror attack
in the seemingly never ending attacks that had been occurring on a
regular basis throughout my adult life. But for some reason this was
different. The jaded cynicism with which I had greeted previous attacks
didn’t eventuate. Something that had been a part of my life for as long as
I could remember, cynicism in the face of attacks on the West by islamic
invaders, was suddenly no longer there. I could no longer bring the sneer
to my face, I could no longer turn my back on the violence. Something,
this time, was different.
That difference was Ebba Akerlund.
Young, innocent and dead Ebba.
Ebba was walking to meet her mother after school, when she was
murdered by an Islamic attacker, driving a stolen vehicle through the
shopping promenade on which she was walking. Ebba was partially deaf,
unable to hear the attacker coming.
Ebba death at the hands of the invaders, the indignity of her violent
demise and my inability to stop it broke through my own jaded cynicism
like a sledgehammer.
I could no longer ignore the attacks. They were attacks on my people,
attacks on my culture, attacks on my faith and attacks on my soul. They
would not be ignored.
The second event was the 2017 French General election. The candidates
were an obvious sign of our times: a globalist, capitalist, egalitarian, an
ex-investment banker was no national beliefs other than the pursuit of
profit versus a milquetoast,feckless, civic nationalist, an uncontroversial
figure who’s most brave and inspired idea resolved to the possible
deportation of illegal immigrants.
Despite this ridiculous match up, the possibility of a victory by the
quasi-nationalist was at least, to myself, a sign that maybe a political
solution was still possible.The internationalist, globalist, anti-white,
ex-banker won. It wasn’t even close. The truth of the political situation in
Europe was suddenly impossible to accept.My despair set in.My belief in
a democratic solution vanished.
The final push was witnessing the state of French cities and towns. For
many years I had been hearing and reading of the invasion of France by
non-whites, many of these rumours and stories I believed to be
exaggerations, created to push a political narrative.
But once I arrived in France, I found the stories to not only be true, but
profoundly understated.
In every french city, in every french town the invaders were there.
No matter where I travelled, no matter how small or rural the community
I visited, the invaders were there.
The french people were often in a minority themselves, and the french
that were in the streets were often alone, childless or of advanced age.
Whilst the immigrants were young, energized and with large families and
many children.
I remember pulling into a shopping centre car park to buy groceries in
some moderate sized town in Eastern France, of roughly 15-25 thousand
people. As I sat there in the parking lot, in my rental car, I watched a
stream of the invaders walk through the shopping centre’s front doors.
For every french man or woman there was double the number of
invaders.
I had seen enough, and in anger, drove out of the the town, refusing to
stay any longer in the cursed place and headed on to the next town.
Driving toward the next french town on my itinerary, knowing that
inevitably the invaders would also been there, I found my emotions
swinging between fuming rage and suffocating despair at the indignity of
the invasion of France, the pessimism of the french people, the loss of
culture and identity and the farce of the political solutions offered.
I came upon a cemetery, one of the many mass cemeteries created to bury
the French and other European soldiers lost in the Wars that crippled
Europe.
I had seen many pictures and heard many people discuss the cemeteries,
but even knowing about these cemeteries in advance, I was still not
prepared for the sight.
Simple, white, wooden crosses stretching from the fields beside the
roadway, seemingly without end, into the horizon. Their number
uncountable, the representation of their loss unfathomable. I pulled my
rental car over, and sat, staring at these crosses and contemplating how it
was that despite these men and womens sacrifice, despite their bravery,
we had still fallen so far.I broke into tears, sobbing alone in the car,
staring at the crosses, at the forgotten dead.
Why were we allowing these soldiers deaths to be in vain? Why were we
allowing the invaders to conquer us? Overcome us? Without a single shot
fired in response?
WHY WON’T SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING?
In front of those endless crosses, in front of those dead soldiers lost in
forgotten wars, my despair turned to shame,my shame to guilt,my guilt to
anger and my anger to rage.
WHY WON’T SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING?
WHY WON’T SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING?
WHY DON’T I DO SOMETHING?
The spell broke, why don’t I do something?
Why not me?
If not me, then who?
Why them when I could do it myself?
It was there I decided to do something, it was there I decided to take
action, to commit to force.To commit to violence.
To take the fight to the invaders myself
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