If you value truth and got eyes in your head you can see that our increasingly untethered world is circling the drain. People who read signs – Wicca types, astrology freaks, esoteric sensitives – see an event approaching. Not just a squaring of accounts, but a reckoning. Of course, everybody wants to survive. But most won’t. Picture a clock a few minutes before midnight. A winter storm is howling – and the fire of our culture is dying out. The old ways may be our only hope.
I’m going to tell this exactly how it was revealed to me.
There is a “sentiment” – or malevolent zeitgeist, if you prefer – worming its way through contemporary American existence. I don’t necessarily subscribe to it all – but I tend to embrace the “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire” philosophy – and I’m concerned. Deeply concerned.
Let’s start with the general premise : a bill is coming due and our society is out of cash. Even our plastic is tapped out. We’re weak, over-fed, unhealthy, faithless and mentally past our collective prime. And please let’s not debate obtuse bromides like “American Exceptionalism” and worshipful, Woke paeans to “Diversity”. It’s nonsense. You know it, I know it – and whomever is waiting in the dark to eat our lunch knows it.
What if America suddenly faced a real adversary?
Some Pentagon analysts have been (quietly) saying it for years. Our fighting forces have not been truly tested since WWII. Once in awhile the USA throws a third-world basketcase up against a wall and then crows about its military invincibility for future news cycles ad nauseam. That ain’t War.
But there’s an even bigger existential issue.
It seems that the very glue that binds us all – the collective consciousness of who we are as a people – is sick. Did America ever coalesce into a uniform, homogeneous national polity? Did E Pluribus – ever become – Unum? Did this “melting pot” experiment succeed? I don’t know anymore.
I’ve recently watched scores of violent, ill-educated and room-temperature IQ thugs – of all skin colors – riot and destroy our beautiful american cities. They’ve spray-painted, burned and looted our cultural patrimony. Statues of our national heroes have been systematically defiled and /or pulled down. Major metropolitan centers have become shooting galleries. My “toxic masculinity” has been indicted. I’ve been endlessly lectured about how racist and privileged I am and instructed to grovel and apologize for being born in a white skin-suit. Right..…
I didn’t think the land of E Pluribus Unum (“From the Many, One”) could’ve gotten any crazier. But it has. Frankly, as an on-going, functioning society I wonder if we got The Right Stuff anymore.
Is the USA falling apart?
Recently I accompanied an aquaintence of mine to wrap up a business deal and learned a few things.
It all began innocently enough – I was having my 2009 VW Golf serviced. Synthetic oil, front and rear brakes and rotors. Tire rotation. You know – basic stuff to get the old girl in shape for the Fall. I’ve been going to the same mechanic for years – Paul – and he’s a gem. Got himself a good little business wrenching Kraut cars up on Route 38 in Southampton, NJ.
So I stop by Paul’s Garage to write the check – figuring me and my wife can go back later and collect the car – and I run into a fascinating guy with whom I’ve had a professional and personal relationship with for years. He’s got a sweet 1968 Porsche 911R and Paul keeps it hummin’ like new. Hakan Olson-Nyberg.
“Hack” immediately heads over to shake my hand (screw the COVID, we’re two old dudes). As usual, Hack is resplendent in an immaculately tailored blue blazer, trim khakis and pricey loafers. A big-ass Rolex Submariner is strapped to his wrist and a Princeton University ring gleams on his outstretched hand.
We exchange a firm handshake. Old school. His grasp conveys genuine warmth.
Hakan Olson-Nyberg is a Rennaisance man – unfailingly polite, classically educated and a precise speaker of the King’s English. And so good is his diction, I was initially shocked when he told me that his native tongue is Swedish. Of course, he speaks fluent French, German and Russian. I’m just a Jersey lawyer; compared to me this guy is James Bond. Hack lives on a gigantic horse farm on New Freedom Road in Southampton, NJ. I’m talking serious bucks. Old money.
Hakan’s voice trails off a bit as he speaks but he holds my hand fast. His eyes are as deep blue and honest as ever – but there’s an wary sobriety about him. He releases his grip – but not before he directs me towards a couple of chairs in the grimy waiting area.
“I’d like you to join me at my Stables for a business meeting……a private affair…… in case I require a nudge in the right legal direction…”
So “Hack” and I meet later that week. I’ll try to relate it in real time how it all unfolded. And bear with me – this is about our future.
I show up at the gate of “Maison La Victoire Equine Stables” early. Opposing stone pillars frame cast bronze plaques bearing that name in tasteful, classic lettering. I’m surprised to see nearby a large “CRB Commercial Real Estate” sign: “For Sale – 7500 acres Prime Equine Land, NJ Farm Zoned” and a phone number. I didn’t know Hack was selling the place.
I’ve been told to dress for business. Look like I’m going to court. You know – strut a stuffy, pin-striped funerial vibe.
Hack is wearing a dark Brioni suit and carrying a box the size of narrow briefcase. It’s metallic. He’s got on a white shirt, dark tie and black shoes. An old John Wick. I get the feeling he’s packin’. His usually superbly tailored suit jacket seems to bulge a bit on his right side. I know he’s got a collection of Glocks. How strange…
Questions gnaw at me as we stand in the middle of Hack’s immaculately groomed equine parade ground. Here we’re surrounded by hundreds of acres of pristine Kentucky Blue grass, immaculate trotting ovals and access paths. Placid. Peaceful. It’s nearly three o’clock and about eighty degrees on a breezy, sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky. And this is the site for our business meeting?
“Hack….” I finally ask. “Who are these guys we’re waiting on?”
My ex-Prosecutor gut is starting to rumble a bit. Not red lights – but unease. It’s all a tad weird. Especially that bulge in Hack’s suit jacket.
He smiles and his blue eyes narrow a bit. His voice is measured, as usual.
“Don’t be concerned….to you, they are no threat. To me……let us just say their influence transcends physical violence…”
Hack turns and puts his hand on my arm. “I’ll explain everything when it’s over, Jon…..”
So I shut up and wait.
Three o’clock on the dot. A light wind washes over us and pollen starts to burn my eyes. I no sooner reach for a tissue in my pocket when I hear the drone of a helicopter coming our way. I gaze through my wet eyelids towards the sound, trying to focus. Soon the thing lands, kicking up dust and fresh grass clippings about one hundred and fifty feet away from us.
It’s a gleaming-new French Aerospaciale AS350. NJ State Police use one. A sleek European workhorse bird. This one is black. No markings other than a tail and fuselage number. I commit the number to memory. The chopper’s turbine powers down. The passenger door opens.
Then a surprise. A FedEx panel truck seemingly out of nowhere speeds up the gravel drive towards where Hack and I are standing. It suddenly veers across the lawn and stops a safe distance from the chopper. Its rear doors face us.
The pilot stays inside the chopper, his dark aviator sunglasses glinting in the sunlight. Four men disembark. All wear dark suits, white shirts and dark ties. They aren’t hulking or brutish – they just look fit and confident. Efficient. I know the type. Ex-military. Serious and sober. The one in front is older, obviously in charge. Their Commanding Officer.
They make their way to the back of the FedEx van. The doors of the van open outward revealing a brightly lit comand center inside, stocked with what appears to be computers and scientific equipment. Looks like a mobile clean room laboratory. An extremely attractive young blonde woman wearing a white doctor’s coat scrambles down off the back of the truck. An older, gray-haired gentleman remains inside the van, rattling instructions to everyone in a language I can’t seem to make out. The woman closes the back doors of the van and waits, now staring at Hack and myself.
The “suits” commence their trek towards us.
The younger men behind their “leader” move with well-practiced deliberateness. Hands ready. No wasted effort. These guys are pros – I’m sure of it. Hack doesn’t seem perturbed. He quietly stands next to me, cradling his flat metallic container.
Finally we’re all face to face.
The Commander locks eyes with Hack and says one word, his manner respectful and precise. There’s an air of familiarity – almost intimacy.
“Bruder.”
Hack responds in German. Fast – too fast for me to even parse out even a few words. My German language skills are too anemic for this. Hack ends his sentence with the word “Letopis” and hands his flat metallic container to the man.
The Commander pivots on one foot and hands off the package to one of the young soldatos behind him. As he extends his hand grasping the object I notice what appears to be a small tatoo on the top of his left hand. Nothing garish or particularly bold. It’s a Rune. Of the “Elder Futhark”. An arrow pointing outward, from the middle of his hand towards his fingertips. No bigger than a few inches.
The soldato takes the thin, rectangular container from him in one fluid motion and immediately heads toward the FedEx van at a hurried clip. He has a marking on his left hand also – but his is a simple Byzantine Orthodox Cross.
I glance at the remaining two soldatos standing a respectful distance behind their Commander. Their hands are clasped together as they stand at a kind of relaxed “attention”. Left hand on top of right. They, too have Russian Orthodox Cross tatoos. Again – nothing garish. It’s not some au courant statement or gang tag – it’s a brand. But it’s their eyes that unnerve me. You can always tell killers. It’s in their eyes. These men have killed and will kill again. High Slavic cheekbones. Thin, humorless mouths. I figure they’re ex-Spetznaz. Russian Special Forces.
They just stand there. Immobile like stone. Staring at me.
Hack is waiting for something to happen. Minutes pass. I’m sweating down my armpits even though the temperature is perfect. I think about the .38 Colt Detective Special I left at home, then reconsider. These guys are definately carrying – and can perforate me into swiss cheese in seconds. It’s what they do. Tension is in the air.
.
In perfect English, the Commander asks Hack a question.
“Who is your friend?”
Hack is asked in English – so he responds in English.
“A former Prosecutor. Now my personal lawyer and friend. His name is Jon Croft”.
“You needn’t have been so cautious…” Commander replies, addressing Hack but looking at me. “Ours is but a simple business transaction…….”
The soldato finally sprints back. The FedEx van, its rear doors closed, starts its journey back across the luxurious grass and heads towards the front gate of Hack’s paradise. He whispers in the ear of his Commander and resumes a centurion stance next to his comrades.
The Commander nods in Hack’s direction and speaks one word into a lapel mic which I must’ve overlooked in all the excitement: “Doss”.
They head back to the Helicopter at a quick pace as its turbines power up. Within minutes they’re airborne and gone.
I breathe a sigh of relief and look at Hack.
Tears are streaming down his face. He lightly grasps my arm and leads me back to his home office.
I don’t say anything until I down a double Glenlivet and collapse into a leather couch. I gaze through the huge windows at gleaming, exquisite horses being exercised in the yard and prancing around the dirt track in the distance. An incredible contrast to what I’ve just witnessed. Finally, I can’t hold it back any longer.
“Alright, Hack…..what the Hell just happened?”
Hack gently raises his hand, like a good-natured human Stop Sign. “Refill your glass and listen…..listen until I’m finished”.
My friend sits down in a leather chair near an imposing fireplace, cradling his scotch. Although the fireplace isn’t ablaze, it still complements a perfect ambience. Country repose, wood panelling and hand-hewn overhead beams. Rural splendor. If you’re gonna’ sip single-malt and talk turkey, this is the place to do it.
I grab the Glenlivet and pour. Ice and water are close by, courtesy of my perfect host.
Hack stares off into the distance and takes a few pulls from his glass.
“I’ve just sold something that was entrusted to me when my father died. It was entrusted to him when his father died. And his father before him. I come from a family that spans centuries. Everything you see around you – including my beloved Porsche 911 – is owned by them. Well, not them exactly – but close enough.
“Who were they, Russians?”
Hack stares back at me with moist eyes.
“If it were only that simple”, he sighs. He looks tired – yet somehow relieved.
What is this all about? The answer to a question – is Russia the true home of the Slavic people and the Orthodox faith? It’s a Tribal quest. It’s about Blood. Russian Blood. And the Russian Tribe just paid a Hell of a lot of money for their answer.
“First, some context. This is all about a manuscript – The Tale of Bygone Years. Also known as “Nestor’s Chronicle” (because it was written by a Monk named Nestor around 1050AD in Kiev). It’s also been called “The Primary Chronicle”. It is the only written testimony of the earliest history of the Eastern Slavic peoples in the land of Rus from the years 852AD through 1113AD.
Nestor’s Chronicle – that is, the original animal skin document he put his pen to – has long since vanished from history. But surviving Editions called “Codices” have been maintained and revised over the years, always by Monks at the behest of ruling Princes of Liev. The lineage of Rurik.
The earliest “Revised” version of Nestor’s Chronicle is the so-called Laurentian Codex (also known as the “Muscovite” Codex), compiled by the Monk Laurentius in 1377 in Nizhny Novgorod for Prince Dmitry Konstantinovich. The Lauentian Codex traces the Kievan Rus blood line to the Muscovite Princes.
It is the direct evidence of historical legitimacy running from Kievan Rus – Prince Rurik – to Moscow.
I repeat: This document is the very foundation of Russian primacy. This is the document that proves Moscow – not Kiev – is the true home of the Slavic people and their Orthodox Church. Ukraine has been contesting this for years. And because of what I’ve just sold – Russia wins.
It is said that the original text of the Bygone Years Chronicle penned by Monk Nestor that Laurentius used in his Codex Revision was a document provided to him by Grand Duke Mikhail of Tver (Mikhail Yaroslavich) in 1305. This document – parts of which now resides in the National Library of St. Petersburg – is missing Chronicle sections for 898-922AD, 1263 – 1283AD and 1288-1294AD. Why?
The Laurentian Codex had certain pages “torn out”. Someone wanted Moscow’s claim of Primacy discredited.
And now for some Polish treachery.
The mystery of the missing years and pages in the Larentian Codex became even more compelling when a fifteenth century rendering of Nestor’s Chronicle called the Hypatian Codex surfaced in the Vydubychi Monestary of Galicia-Volhynia. This is now called the Galician-Volhynian Chronicle or the “1201 Ruthenian Chronicle”.
The pages missing in the Laurentian Chronicle were supposedly not missing in the Hypatian Codex. These pages were said to lend historical weight to the argument that Western Galician Slavs (now called Ukrainians) had a more solid claim to Rurik’s dynastic blood line than the Muscovites. This “Hypatian codex” or Galician-Volhynian Chronicle is now held by the Polish Government in Lviv. They won’t allow anyone to see it!
The Poles will not allow any tests to verify its historical provenance. It is believed to be a forgery, kept for political reasons. Polish hatred for Russia is well known. Testing the document may well provide authentication for Moscow’s claims of primacy – ergo Polish obstructionism helps their goal of keeping Russia at bay.
So which Document – the Laurentian “Muscovite” Chronicle lending weight to a Kievan Rus-Moscow bloodline of Rurik or the Hypatian, Ukrainian-centric version of Rurik’s bloodline is accurate?
Were Rurik and his offspring the very foundations of Muscovy – and, hence, modern day Russia – or do the Ukrainians have a legitimate claim?
Answer? The Radziwill Letopis.
Google the name Radziwill and countless Princes, Nobles, Barons and Knights will fill your computer screen. Their ancestral lands and estates literally comprised most of modern Bylorussia today. Immense wealth. Immense influence.
We know that in his Nesvizh Castle, Prince Mikolaj “The Black” Radziwill of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania (later the Polish-Lituanian Commonwealth) at around 1550 commissioned an elaborate 15th Century copy of an earlier 13th Century “Nestor’s Chronicle” – a Tale of Bygone Years. This is what we know as the “Radziwill Letopis”, Letopis being Greek for “annal”. It was an extraordinarily beautiful illuminated manuscript, bankrolled by a wealthy Prince for whom money was no object.
The Radziwill Letopis presently resides in the National Library of Science in St. Petersberg, Russia. I’ve seen it in person. A glorious triumph of western civilization. A work of art….
Curiously, certain pages are also missing in the Radziwill Letopis in St. Petersberg: 898-922AD, 1263-1283AD and 1288-1294AD. According to legend, however, Prince Mikolaj “The Black” Radziwill, boasted far and wide that he alone had a complete Primary Chronicle. An authentic, seamless version of Nestor’s Chronicle – with no gaps in historicity.
Why did Radziwill brag that he had a complete Primary Chronicle in 1550 if the pages are missing today? Because somebody stole them after he died!
Let’s frame the question another way – was Mikolaij “The Black” Radziwill custodian of a complete Primary Chronicle in 1550? If so, the subject missing pages must have been removed thereafter….and spirited away….somewhere. What a prize, eh?
Imagine what those missing pages would be worth today to the right buyer……But then you don’t have to imagine because you’ve just witnessed the sale.
Since the time of Mikolaj “The Black” Radziwill, there have been many wars, upheavals and reconfigurations of our world. Armies have come and gone throughout Europe, leaving a wake of pillaging and destruction. New countries have sprouted. Warfare is mankind’s oldest pastime. Conflict is coded into our DNA – blood borne, like a virus.
What you’ve just witnessed, Jon, was the sale of the original missing pages of the Radziwill Letopis back to their rightful stewards. Back to their rightful People.
It’s a Tribal thing…….it’s all about blood and historical continuity”.
I follow the general story line – but I’ve a few more questons.
“So – I’m assuming – the missing pages of the Radziwill Letopis is definitive provenance once and for all that the Muscovite – Russian – blood claim to Ruriks’ line is legitimate. Moscow will forever be regarded as the rightful heir to the throne of Kievan Rus – and of Rurik himself…..
I didn’t see any exchange of value…..was a price paid? Where did your family get the documents? Who was the Commander out there – and who were those guys with him? They all Russkis?”
Hack gets up and walks over to me carrying a short, squat lamp he picks up off an end table nearby. The electric power cord drags behind it, apparently still plugged in to an outlet. He flips a switch on it and thrusts his left hand underneath the odd light. An “M” glows on the top of his left hand. He switches off the lamp and resumes his chair, clearly eager to continue his narrative. I get the feeling he wants me to understand why this is all so important.
“Yes. The missing pages are conclusive evidence of Moscow’s claim to Rurik’s line…..and the men we’ve just seen, well….
We can say they are the future. They carry Russian passports. And Swiss passports. And Swedish passports – all kinds of passports. But they are not citizens, per se. They are members of a supra-national identity.
Look. Think of it this way. After Germany was defeated in 1945 did the Nazis disappear? Not at all. They internalized completely their identity as Nazis and established their own colonies in South America. They had a blood bond. Plenty of money. An established infrastructure of political protection, industrial facilities and a database of scientific secrets the Allies were salivating over. They went underground. Slowly feeding the West – and sometimes Russia – scientific patents and secrets for enormous sums. Enabling America to walk on the Moon, develop cutting-edge aerospace and microchip technologies. They sold us – for a king’s ransom – the secret of “Red Mercury”, a radioactive substance so magical it made possible the miniaturization of atomic warheads. Now clusters of warheads can fit into single rocket plaforms; it’s called a “MIRV”.
America has been feeding off the Nazi technological corpse for decades like a bloated tick. Now the old-time Nazis are dead. Their children run the shop. Do they consider themselves Nazis? Probably not. They just think of themselves as a Germanic Aryan Tribe. A brotherhood of scientists and engineers. United by their blood and certain truths that define their existence. A pride of common purpose and culture sustains them.
The “Commander” as you call him – he’s a member of my Tribe.
We are Nordics. NordTurVerein – or NTV. The symbol on his left hand is a Rune. It looks like an arrow. It is the Rune Tiwaz, meaning leadership. He is a Senior individual. My rune is an “M”- Ehwaz – meaning trust. I am a Counsellor. A mediator of disputes. An escrow holder. I wear a black-light- only visible Rune sign for personal reasons.
Our group is – like the Germans I mentioned – well financed, almost exclusively Nordic in bloodlines, internationally based and existing beyond so-called borders of any particular country. We all have multiple passports, endless channels of investment income, employment oppportunities and comfortable safe-havens in “cooperative” countries.
The young men accompanying the “Commander” are Varang.
They are offspring of pure Eastern Slavs. Varangians. Warriors since the time of Emperor Constantine in Byzantium. Bred to be fearless. Raised like Spartans. Of one blood. One Tribe.
When the power brokers in Moscow want something from the NordTurVerein they usually send Varang to facilitate the transaction – their ultimate insurance policy. Varangians are unpredictable but steadfast and never disloyal. The Byzantine Cross on their left hands is more than just a tatoo. It is their destiny. Their raison d’ etre. Like medieval Knights Templars, their Orthodox faith is the Alpha and Omega of their existence.
They, too, are well-funded. They, too, are a Supra-National polity transcending mere nationality. They are an ethnic Tribe, not defined by or confined to a specific piece of real estate on Earth. The Varangians perhaps embody best what is the next big thing in the human experience. Slavic – but not Russian in politics or loyalty. A Tribe solely devoted to its own interests. Living for – and protecting – its own.
Jon, let me ask you –
Do you recoil when you watch your news channels? Do you squirm with discomfort when you see American streets erupting in civil violence? Do you ever question your American ethos that everyone must somehow melt together into an amorphous multi-ethnic-racial polyglot, identifiable neither by race nor color? Neither one thing or another? Where everyone’s DNA is an endless spectrum of chaotic, unrelated halplotypes and cross-polluted currents of everybody from everywhere?
If people are most comfortable, productive and generally healthier among those of their own blood and culture, why force them – expressly or impliedly – into some national meat grinder?
When a farmer wants strong, robust stock – does he not breed his best animals? From his best line? Does he accept and throw together every branch of every stock animal and simply hope for the best? Of course not.
History has taught my Tribe hard lessons. The NordTurVerein is a closed loop. Our investments are impeccable. Our international assets include centuries of accumulated real estate, mining, pharmaceutical, petroleum and manufacturing interests. We have controlling interests in arms producers – such as SAAB/Viggen, BAE Systems /BOFORS, Glock and CZ, Walther and Heckler & Koch, to name just a few. We own shipping giant MAERSK. Telecommunications firms – like NOKIA and Motorola – are ours. We still hold the original NOBEL patents. Our golf courses, Hotels, Castles and raw timber land holdings are staggering. Our art galleries alone can support us for centuries. Did I mention IKEA? Controlling interests in NorskHydro, NovoNordisc, Handelsbanken, Danske Bank and Skanska……. the list is endless.
For centuries we have tended the fires of our culture. We have fought battles, died for our cause and our offspring and women. And we survive – without the need for a “country” because we are a people. A homogenious, ethnically cohesive polity. A Tribe.
Our borders are flexible. Our strength is everywhere – and nowhere. As elusive as quicksilver. Offshore bank accounts, bitcoin transactions, dummy corporations and holding companies from Cyprus to Martinique, Lichtenstein to the Isle of Jersey. Fluid capital, flowing from jurisdiction to jurisdiction. Everywhere self-interested businessmen and lawyers jump to do our bidding. Backsheesh , the “Fragrant Grease” of wealth eases our every step, guaranteeing safe passage and protection no matter where we go. We exert outsized influence in every legal system.
We live in many places, managing our assets. We convene at specific times at secure compounds in Iceland, Norway and Sweden to elect officers and vote on future operations like any other international corporation. We don’t need a country – we are our own country. With our wealth and sway traditional “countries” obsequiously and meticulously accomodate all of our needs. We use them – and their tax codes – like whores.
But we are loyal only to our Tribe – our blood. We are proud of who we are.
What does your nationality do for you?
Have you noticed? A statue of George Washington was defiled and pulled down in the state of Washington a few months ago. A statue of Chistopher Colombus was thrown into Baltimore Harbor. Monuments everywhere in the USA are objects of derision and scorn. Your history – your culture – is shat upon and disassembling before your very eyes. George Soros is financing District Attorneys in your beautiful cities to insure that the destruction proceeds apace. This happens by no accident. It is all planned.
There will come a time when your tired, endlessly abused, ceaselessly prostituted and parasite-ridden USA collapses from within. It will die from a lack of everything that nourishes a true, homogeneous culture. Your grand experiment is failing.
Oh yes, your questions.
Was a price paid? Of course. Five hundred and twenty-five million Euros. I have already received a blockchain notification from Banque Suisse. NordTurVerein has received its funds. Scientists in the FedEx van confirmed the documents were authentic before the helicopter left. It’s a lot of money because the people involved value their culture. They’re proud of who they are. They value History. They serve their Tribe.
Where did my “family” get the torn pages of the Radziwill Letopis?
That, I’m afraid, is a secret…..
And now I’ve a question for you, Jon…..
Do you have another passport in addition to your American one? I suggest you get one….and start accumulating gold……soon. I doubt your country has five years left.
May our Nordic God Odin, the Allfather, guide you and keep you safe, Jon Croft.”
Hack gets up off the couch.
He stretches and groans, then announces through a yawn: “Well, it is done”.
Meeting’s over . We go quiet. My head is reeling. I drain the rest of the Glenlivet and drive home in a funk. There’s a heaviness in my chest. A deep sadness dogs me for days on end.
COMMENTARY:
Maybe the only real thing we have is our blood – our DNA. Maybe this soul crushing, relentless pressure to conform, surrender and squeeze ourselves into some Woke-American uniformity is unnatural.
Why do I have to apologize for who and what I am? Why do I have to bear guilt for sins that have nothing to do with me?
I reject collective guilt.
What if Diversity isn’t our strength? What if it’s a lie to keep people of like minds fragmented and hopelessly mired in disunity?
What if human nature itself drives us to feel most secure in a Tribe?
If I feel comforted among people who are like me, why can’t I surround myself with them? Revel in being who I am? Acting civil and decent to one another is one thing. Being constantly reminded that I’m despicable is another. This ain’t what I signed on board for. A storm is coming.
Prepare.
Copyright, Jon Croft, 2021 & 2023
Credit to Wikipedea for the Viking graphic
joncroft52@yahoo.com
revised 5/23
