Nothing good has ever come from a phone call that begins with the phrase: “Eight Morrocans in the metro…”
Especially if the woman on the other end of the phone call is someone close to you, with a voice condensing into high-pitched panic. In such a moment, the world itself contracts, a little part of your soul metastasizes in hate and fear, and you brace the entirety of your being to receive the rest of the sentence.
For the sake of the woman involved I will keep the events vague. I received such a call a few weeks ago. A call that nearly ruined me.
The sentence “Eight Morrocans in the metro….” did not end in the same way it has ended for countless other women. It did not end in acid or rape. In permanent physical or spiritual disfigurement. As this friend of mine was leaving the metro car in a station on the outskirts of Rome, a group of Moroccan teenagers jumped in front of her on the escalator and produced an aerosol can and a lighter.
In a single movement, one of them lit up a gust of gas and conjured a fireball in front of her face, which by a stroke of luck—and lack of serious intent— only lightly burned her. She responded by screaming at them, and they replied with hateful jeers, accusing her of being an uncovered whore and a slew of other phrases from the lexicon of third-world contempt. As she ran out of the station, two of them began following her. She escaped into a store and then found a metro policeman. The police officer responded to her tear-soaked words with the apathetic accusation that “maybe she did something to provoke them.”
She then informed the metro employee seated at the entrance of what occurred. He was furious. He told her she must file a report with the police. It was obvious that such events bordered on the quotidian.
I received the call from her and ran to her location, as my countenance simmered in a stew of both rage and relief. Burning hatred for the “youths” but a solace in her safety.
We sat there, the two of us, in front of the police officer, as she explained what had happened. And I listened—I listened with pure contempt, as the officer explained that he knew who the kids in question were. How he had just arrested two of them for shoplifting. He was forced to let the cretins go because they lacked documents, they came here on some dingy across the Mediterranean, that they were drug dealers and had no fear of the police or the Italian justice system. He told us that filing charges was useless. Due to the nature of the justice system, the courts, the NGOs, and due to the phantom of Human Rights, these migrants could do anything other than kill and would still avoid prison. He explained that men like this will wreak havoc, accumulate enough charges until it becomes egregious, and then get assigned a lawyer before disappearing from the country, and then popping back up again in Lampedusa or some other port. You would be shocked to learn just how many convicted rapists remain in Italy.
If an American, a German, or an Italian assaulted a woman at the metro station, they would be locked up in Regina Coeli prison by the end of the week. But the “undocumented” third world sojourner, can get away with almost anything aside from murder. The Big Bad Bogeyman by the name of Human Rights will keep them on the streets, safeguarding them but not the “rights” of their victims. As the police explained this to me, it reminded me of another story. A friend of mine who is a tour guide was showing a group around St Peters Square. One of the countless West Africans who haunt that holy land, selling bracelets and shitty coke, decided to come up to the group. My friend tried ignoring him. But the babbling Senegalese would not stop, he tried grabbing one of the tourist’s wrists. Finally the tour guide yelled at him. The Senegalese punched him in the face. The African then sauntered away with no urgency in his pace, no fear of getting stopped by the police standing fifty feet away. The woman in a nearby store came out to help him, begging my friend to hurry and hide in their store, because if the police saw what happened, the Italian tour guide would spend the night in jail, and the African would be on the fast track to citizenship.
But let us return to the Carabinieri station.
As the police officer explained the situation to me, the terrible reality of the European quagmire was now clear. The injustice. The absolute injustice.
Before I left the station, I looked up for the first time and noticed the expression on the officer’s face. Due to my blind rage, I had mistaken his calm explanation of the situation as coming from a place of apathy. But when I stood up to leave I saw a tension in his face, a contempt, a clenching in his countenance.
There was a rage there. A rage radiating out from grit teeth and knotted fists. A heat.
And we can work with heat.
As I walked home and mulled over the last three hours in my mind, I realized I had two options. I could pick up a bat and go assault the first swarthy trash bag I saw lurking around the metro and consequently rot in prison for the next ten years, all the while ensuring he is put on the fast track to citizenship, or I could devote my life to ridding Europe of these serpents.
I think the second option is the more productive one.
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The area where this occurred used to be a nice town. A safe town. A Roman town. A neighborhood inhabited by people whose roots extend back to the days of the Res Gestae.
I had been away from Rome for a little over a year, and yet I could sense the change from the first metro ride into the town in question. Over the last ten years, little by little, almost all the Italian-owned businesses in this neighborhood had closed, replaced by identical Bangladeshi corner stores, Chinese shops full of useless knick knacks, and kebab stalls. But the speed, the rapidity of this replacement had exponentially increased in the last year in which I had been gone. Peruvian grandmothers selling Tupperware slop outside the metro, Pakistanis indiscriminately proposing to women on the street, a Jehova Witness compound reverberating in ethnic hymns. There was a tension now in the air, a mutual distrust. A cultural pressure cooker.
I have noticed that there is no richness in the culture they are bringing. The wet dream of Will Stancil-esque metropolitan provincials, of a splendid influx of foreign splendor and variety, is non-existent. They are not bringing regional variations or local delicacies. No fiery Szechuan dishes teeming in colorful hues, nor exotic Benghali Puchkas— the Moroccans are not bringing savory tajine simmered in earthenware pots. Instead, they trade in a kind of culinary self-parody. A debasement. Indians cooking the most bastardized curry slop, Chinese frying up and serving stereotypes on a plate. No traditional Cantonese Dim Sum, but the Chinese will serve sushi. The Peruvians bring out platters tex mex. The Kebab is bad and getting worse. Throughout the entire peninsula, there is one good Chinese restaurant in Milan.
What they are importing is crime and contempt.
If the Stancils of the world were honest, and you managed to convince them that the dregs were not in fact bringing hot new lunch spots, they would respond with the other usual line, that the third-world immigrants are an economic boon. To this, I respond:
There is always a line at Western Union.
The money that migrants receive is always shipped back home. For Italy’s sake, every MoneyGram may as well be a bonfire. Furnaces dotting the cityscape, where droves of foreigners line up every day to toss their cash into the flames. An economic sinkhole. Most of these sorts live off the NGO or Churches’ cash, and the money they earn is sent to Senegal, or Peru, or etc etc. “La richezza è lo scambio.” Prosperity comes from exchanging. But there is no exchange occurring, just a giant foreign funnel.
Well if ‘ol honest Will was confronted with these facts, that migrants are leading to cultural liquidation and economic decline, it is around this point they would respond by invoking their favorite god. A deity called upon with the same reverence and zeal that Catholics cross themselves with in the name of Christ. “Human Rights.”
This dark god, this vengeful phantom, has haunted the West for the last couple of centuries. A poltergeist, animating our society in dark energy, tossing objects and people out of place, disordering everything with its cold entropic touch. A shining mausoleum towers over us, the mass grave of a certain set of glimmering ideas, ideas that imbued modernity with a sense of justification. And as the ghosts of these ideologies tear and claw our flesh, the authorities are too petrified to call an exorcist, too scared to desecrate the sepulcher’s gilt epithet. And so we live in subjugation, perpetually dominated by this Phantom-god, this sense of human rights, which possesses our institutions and words as Asmodeus terrorized Sarah. Where is our Raphael? Who will bind him back in the desert?
Let me tell you about Human Rights. Let me tell you what this Golem is up to, what he does in the shadows of the city.
There is a building near my apartment. An expensive office building that was constructed a few years back. The houses around it are all nice, and expensive. Real estate in the city of Rome is always expensive.
One day, a group of migrants snuck into the building. A swathe of squatters, who were sharp enough to bring their children. You may be surprised to hear this, but in Italy, if a group of people break into your house when you are gone, and bring their children, the house is effectively now theirs. The police will not remove children. The children are consecrated to the Phantom-god. They are under the domain of Human Rights.
Imagine finally saving up enough to buy a home, thousands upon thousands over the years collected, just for your own place. And then you walk in one day to find a fat gypsy and her swarthy little child in your living room. Everything is now gone. What about your human rights? No, sorry, Human Rights as the NGO’s use it, as the courts use it, as the Church now uses it, is not a god for you.
But back to the office building. It is now effectively a compound for the dregs. Now, lets think about this for a minute. Do you think that inside the walls of that building, there is a hippy dippy egalitarian utopia going on? Peace and love and no rent? No. Now that piece of real estate is under the control of the ethnic gangs, who are charging and extorting their tenants with impunity. And now crime radiates out from it. The other day I was walking up the hill around it and saw a group of individuals, with children of course, eyeing one of the expensive houses next to it, seeing if they could find an open window. The moment they saw me their disposition changed and they hustled along.
This is not what occurs in a serious country. In a sovereign state. The legitimacy of the nation is being chipped away, the safety of these towns plummeting, the homes of Italians legally stolen, all out of concern for Human Rights
I reject this false god. I spit at this phantom-god. May God damn forever all who cry “Rights!”
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The term ironic is overused. But there is a Mussolini quote that I have been reflecting on, a segment of a speech that in hindsight is worthy of the adjective ironic.
Quando ritorno a riflettere sull'ultimo biennio delle nostre relazioni con Londra, io sono portato a concludere che al fondo c'è stata una grande incomprensione. L'opinione era rimasta indietro. Si aveva dell'Italia una concezione superficiale e pittoresca, di quel pittoresco che io detesto! Non si conosceva ancora questa giovane, risoluta, fortissima Italia.
“When I return to reflect on the last two years of our relations with London, I am led to conclude that there exists a great misunderstanding. The opinion (of us) has remained behind us. There existed a superficial and picturesque conception of Italy, and it is this picturesqueness that I detest! This young, resolute, very strong Italy was not yet known.”
Mussolini despised the picturesque Italy, the Italy of accordions and faux nostalgia. Of Nonna’s pasta and postcards for America. The perennial aperitivo boiling in the lazy afternoon sun. He wanted to shatter this sterility, this static death. But this vitality evaporated with his own. And now these quaint and rustic habits, the carbonara and spritz, this is the only bit of identity that seems to survive. And it simply is not strong enough to survive the invasion. For it is as delicate as gossamer.
Ezra Pound made the following remark:
There was a surge in Italy at the beginning of the 20th century, an outpouring of vitality and adventure. A long-dormant incandescent fire that erupted with the fury of the Phlegraean Fields. Channelled by a few serious men.
The energy has dissipated, fizzled out, extinguished with spite and spit. But that wick still smolders. The sentiment abides, the will is still there, dormant, but diffused among the populace. You can still see it in the face of the Italian, a residual movement in his lips, in his gesticulation. Mankind lives in the few. All that is required, all that is needed, is a few serious men to channel the tide.
There is hope in Italy still, as Italy, for the most part, is free of the modern Anglo pretension, that specific racial neurosis. The gas which fuels the phantom-gods anima.
Covid came, Green Pass came, and the entire country decided to abandon the old voting patterns, they shrugged off the provincial patronage network and voted in the fashion of Americans, they voted ideologically. But they voted with a more instinctual rationality, a rationality not encumbered. For they all chose the party that was as far to the right as they could see. Unfortunately, their eye sight could use some work. Regardless, such a thing is unthinkable in the rest of the West. But unfortunately for the Italic, the election racket has been revealed for what it is. The Italian voted for an axe and instead got an axe wound. Meloni. Not even the directed will of the people can succeed against the electoral process. Maybe they will look for a new expression for determining legitimacy… or an old one…
Only in Italy could a group like Casa Pound exist, or Forza Nuova for that matter. This is something, but unfortunately, neither group consists of very serious men. And the powers that be have already realized that such allowances were a mistake. But EUR still stands, as does the crypt in Predappio.
Italy is possessed by a peculiar destiny, a fact that I believe shall become clearer in the coming decade. I would like to add to Bismark’s famous declaration, “God has a special providence for fools, drunkards, the United States of America, and the Italian peninsula.” Every day this reality becomes clearer to me. I can see it in the bureaucrat’s frown. In the police officers’ gait. In the motion in which certain women take a drag from their cigarette. An electricity, a freedom, and a virtuous contempt. The modern Italian is a peculiar sort. An exceptional sort, in a way very foreign to other Europeans.
I have more hope for Italy than I do for the United States. This is not to say that I am a defeatist, or that I agree with Evola’s darker statements about American society. I am a patriot, I would like to think I am a patriot in the same way Pound was. The way I see it, the last glimmer of possible redemption for America resides in the remnant, the kernel, a certain golden thread of white America. Of Old Hickory who had the gumption to battle the banks, of Polk who dreamed and reached westward, of Teddy Roosevelt, that vital avatar of the American archetype, who had the soulful benevolence to treat all individuals by merit—and yet still seriously considered the merit of eugenics.
Serious men. Men of big spirit. Men of the moment.
But let us return to our Italian town.
Foreigners possess a unique insight into a nation, an objective clarity not afforded to citizens. I am not referring to “migrants” or “refugees.” For them the nation is an object of sustenance and scorn, it is too personal— the host country is both the enemy and umbilical cord. But for those of us who enter a foreign country out of curiosity and love, over time we develop a sense of things.
I am a foreigner, but I feel no need to justify my presence in this country, no more than Dante needed to justify his presence in France. The comparison I am drawing here is not about talent, but of wonder. I am not here for money, nor was I forced to flee my country and by chance ended up here from the barrel of an NGOs cannon. I am here out of love and wonder. And the reason that this is so personal for me, is it kills me to see the incandescent beauty of this place debased, the eternal city descending into the streets of El Paso. I am a guest, a pilgrim. And so I conduct myself in such a manner. I have no rights here, nor do I deserve them. But I share common blood, I am cut from the same root that all western Europeans are. And so I have a vested interest in ensuring this glimmer is not gutted.
Towns are dying. But it is not a quick death. We are not simply witnessing the town’s death throes within a certain contraction of time. No, It is a fast death. There is a dimension of velocity.
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The only way out of this mess is with the death of the Phantom-god. For a single chorus to rise from the choir of the popolo any time the evil of this world appeals to the Phantom-god.
A single response when one appeals to human rights:
“Me ne frego.”