Jew World Order

There are 48 independent countries in mainland Africa, yet among Americans the ignorance about this vast continent is staggering.  Few know that for many years, until the latter half of the twentieth century, nearly all these countries had been protectorates or colonies of European nations, the great majority France and Great Britain, with Belgium and Portugal ruling a small share.  The Portuguese were apparently the first Whites to make contact with the Black race, in 1482, during the Age of Exploration.  According to the chronicles, they took a handful of captives on board after making landfall near the mouth of the Congo River.  Then they sailed back to Lisbon, and ever since then relations between the races have been problematic.  It’s a problem the Founding Fathers, born into the institution of slavery, with all their wisdom, failed to solve.  No one has solved it, least of all in America, which has always been a racial powder keg.  For those who know nothing of history, this became painfully obvious in 2020 for several months following the martyrdom of St. George of Minnesota.  The next explosion is just a matter of time.

Similar convulsions of varying degrees took place in several African countries, mostly in the 1960s, as one after another was granted independence by the European powers.  Yet very little news came out of Africa then as now, aside from the occasional famine or tribal massacre.  From a young age something about that mysterious continent tantalized me.  In my late twenties, I learned that there were a few British-based companies that ran overland trips from one to three months across various regions of the Dark Continent, visiting countries that seemed difficult or impossible to visit on one’s own.  These were self-sustaining journeys in sturdy vehicles that involved camping in the wild, and preparing meals from a stock of non-perishable items supplemented by whatever fresh food was available in local markets.

In 1981 I booked a month-long trip, fifteen people in two Land Rovers, that began in Tunisia, crossed the Sahara Desert in Algeria, then on to Black Africa: Niger (pronounced nee-ZHAIR), Burkina Faso (then called Upper Volta), Togo and Ghana, from where I flew home.  Despite several hassles with gendarmes at road checkpoints in Togo, and some worrying scenes of instability in Accra, Ghana’s capital (a military coup took place two months later), Africa got into my blood.  The following year I joined a two-month segment from Kenya to Nigeria, though this time our transport was a powerful open-air army-type truck with a roll-down tarpaulin, again with about fifteen fellow travelers.  This expedition got off to a good start, taking in the great game parks of Kenya and Tanzania, then Rwanda, before taking on the enormous Congo, which was my special obsession.  By the time we reached Kisangani, the former Stanleyville, in the very heart of darkness, the trip was falling apart.  Some people had stomach problems, two, including the driver, were down and out with malaria, we were exhausted from pulling two-hour shifts through the night to guard the truck from thieves, worn down from the heat and humidity, unable to bathe and wash our clothes properly, and fed up with the drudgery of camp chores.  Personality conflicts were flaring left and right.  Two guys and I decided to abandon the group and strike out on our own in the world’s most regressive country.  It would be the most unforgettable adventure of my life.  Somehow we made it to the Central African Republic, then Cameroon, a day trip across the Chari River to N’Djamena, capital of godforsaken Chad, which was taking a coffee break during its endless civil war, and finally to Kano, Nigeria’s second largest city, from where I flew to London.  Six years later I returned to Africa for two months with my former wife, this time traveling more comfortably but still at ground level.  We rented a car and drove around South Africa and Namibia, breezed through tiny Lesotho, and hitchhiked around Botswana and Zimbabwe, with a delightful steam train ride to Victoria Falls thrown in.  One day in Zimbabwe, while riding through the countryside in a car with a White family, I felt an intangible fear for my life, which I had experienced acutely more than once in the Congo.  In 1982, while I was on the continent further north, a southbound truck from another overland outfit came across a log blocking the road in Zimbabwe.  Six men were abducted by rebels and never heard from again.  Their skeletons were discovered years later.  I was thinking about them, about the White farmers who had been murdered in that country, about the unknown risks of going there, and my sixth sense kicked in.  But nothing bad happened to us.

Looking back, it was really something to have seen a part of the world that so few others have seen, and often, when I learn of some upheaval in this suffering land that has brought another wave of death and misery, I find it incredible that I was actually there myself at a time when things were as close to “normal” as one could hope for.  I was never in the wrong place at the wrong time, though a few times I came close.  I have written this article so that White people everywhere, especially Americans, learn from history.  As such, I will focus below on South Africa and the Congo.  There’s much that’s enchanting, as well as dangerous, about Africa, and I could tell you a hundred great stories, but I can’t write a book here.  Let me just try to give you a general picture of the facts on the ground there, keeping in mind that all these countries have their own personalities, so to speak.  Without a doubt, general conditions have not changed since the 1980s.

First, Africa is as poor as most people imagine.  I never saw outright starvation, but malnourishment is common, as are tropical diseases.  Most serious diseases can be avoided by using common sense, but malaria was always my bugaboo.  Preventive pills do not always work and can have terrible side effects.  Except in the far south where the disease tends to be spotty and seasonal, and in desert areas and at high altitudes where mosquitoes cannot live, malaria is absolutely rife throughout Africa.  This disease has always been a major world killer, with Africa having by far the highest incidence.  Every twenty seconds an African native, usually a child, dies of malaria.  My next greatest fear was dying in a road accident while with my two companions.  Most Africans drive like they have a death wish, and accidents with multiple fatalities happen all the time.  I don’t know how we survived some of those rides in Cameroon.  Except for the scarcity of transport and fuel and the mud tracks of the Congo, which is in its own category in every way, in most countries you can get from A to B sooner or later by “bush taxi” – slang for anything on wheels, usually crammed beyond belief.  Road conditions vary from decent paved or hard earth to rough to borderline impassable.  Long waits are common after a heavy rain, as are mechanical breakdowns.  In most countries you’ll hit military checkpoints every ten or fifteen miles, where passports or IDs are usually given a cursory glance, though sometimes there are delays when each passenger’s personal details are entered in a logbook.  You better learn the virtue of patience if you want to travel through Africa.  It always seemed to me that, aside from cosmetic changes and a tolerance for black leaders as long as they don’t get too crazy, the French still run things in their “former” colonies.  Border crossings are always unpredictable, as is the mood of the official in charge.  Trying to enter Nigeria, for example, we were refused for no good reason by a real bastard who had it in for Whitey, even though we had valid visas.  Yet at the next closest entry point we got in no problem.  Sometimes you’re asked to pay a “special tax,” read bribe.  The sleepiest border post I ever saw was after crossing a bridge over the Rusomo River from Tanzania into Rwanda on a Sunday morning.  Nobody was there so we gave a boy some pocket change to find an official, who came puttering on his scooter ten minutes later, bleary-eyed, to stamp us in.  Twelve years later I saw a news photograph taken at that exact spot, the river clogged with hundreds of Tutsi corpses, massacred by their Hutu tribal enemies.  There’s always something boiling under the surface, always some unseen danger lurking in Africa.

Coming to the crux of the matter, two things astonished me during my first foray into Black Africa, and I was to make the same observation repeatedly the following year.  The first is that the great majority of natives, especially in the countryside, are kindly disposed towards Whites.  Almost invariably, whenever we stopped in a village or small town, our vehicle would be surrounded by curious, smiling locals and cheerful kids, although we always had to guard against petty theft, like someone swiping a shirt hung out to dry.  Few Africans have access to newspapers and television, and with no Jewish media constantly agitating them against Whites, racial hostility is very rare.  For the majority, contact with Whites has been limited to missionaries, doctors or Peace Corps types who have tried to improve their lives.  In their simple way they sense that most Whites are good people, and often they try to reciprocate.  The natives of Cameroon were especially wonderful.  I have the warmest memories of that country, despite the maniac drivers.  To be sure, there are a few pockets of racial hatred towards Whites scattered around the continent, especially in the Congo.  For whatever reason, I encountered more of this in the Congo than in all the other countries put together, but even here we were sometimes the recipients of overflowing kindness from people who owned little more than the shabby clothes they were wearing.

My other discovery that you’ll never hear about in the controlled media is that in all these supposedly independent countries, the utilities, industries, schools, hotels, airports and so forth, where they exist – that is, all establishments requiring organizational ability or technical expertise – are run almost exclusively by Whites.  Not only is this situation not resented, it’s accepted everywhere as perfectly natural.  The superior intelligence of the White man is as obvious to the native as the fact that elephants are huge.  It’s simply not questioned, and those who are hired for menial jobs consider themselves lucky.  A common sight that stays with me is a bunch of Black laborers standing around waiting for their White boss to tell them what to do.  The most cynically racist Whites I have ever met were in supervisory positions all over Africa – often men who came here with high-paying work skills, never got married, and are just living out their frustrated lives, spending their spare time getting drunk with each other.  This is also true of the missionaries, a mixed bag of Europeans, many of whom gave us a room to sleep in the Congo after we split from the group.  All of them were given to self-mockery, seeming to know down deep that they had wasted their lives bringing Jesus to the jungle, even though they seemed to have a resigned affection for the natives.  Since the roads were so horrendous, the few battered cargo trucks plying them often getting bogged down for days in the mud, their only connection to the outside world was a grass airstrip where small planes fly in their supplies, which always include plenty of beer, wine and booze.  Black Africa is no place for a healthy White existence.

Now let’s have a look at the Congo’s recent history.  Every African country in the post-colonial era has undergone political and social chaos at some point, but the Congo is a special case.  It’s also a long and complicated story which I unfortunately must abridge and oversimplify here.  What makes it unique is that the Congo exploded like a megaton bomb immediately after receiving independence from Belgium on June 30, 1960.  The abrupt decision to cut it loose, made in faraway Brussels by bureaucrats just five months earlier, was incredibly stupid and treacherous.  Although all colonies are inherently defective, most natives had made great strides under paternalistic White rule.  But that meant nothing now.  For a year communist-indoctrinated native politicians had been whipping the disaffected segment to a fever pitch, accusing the White man of plundering their country and enslaving them for nearly a century.  The wildest promises were made: as soon as the Congo became free, planted stones would turn to diamonds, dead relatives would be resurrected, and the White man’s big cars, big houses and beautiful women would be all his.  More than 100,000 Whites, mostly Belgians, called the Congo their home.  Now, in the spring of 1960, most of them left, cashing in their increasingly worthless Congolese francs.  Natives everywhere became increasingly surly to Whites.  Ugly and sporadic tribal violence flared up in all areas of the huge country, Africa’s second largest.  The writing was on the wall, but not all Whites could read it.

On June 30, after Belgium’s King Baudoin relinquished sovereignty in a formal ceremony, the Congo’s first prime minister, a fiery communist, dope addict and convicted embezzler named Patrice Lumumba, rose to speak.  Glowering at the young monarch, Lumumba said in part, “Mockeries, insults and blows we had to submit to morning, noon and night, just because we were black….We are no longer your monkeys!”  Several hundred dignitaries listened in disbelief, while Lumumba’s speech, broadcast live to millions of Congolese listening on transistor radios, fanned new flames of racial resentment.

The Congo went wild.  In the first two weeks of “freedom” riots broke out in all major cities.  Whites were spat on, assaulted and driven off the streets at gunpoint by civilians and mutinous soldiers alike.  Hundreds were murdered, often by bestial methods.  Some 600 White women were raped, many of them repeatedly; thousands of African women suffered the same fate.  Ancient tribal feuds erupted, the streets littered with hideously mutilated corpses and polluted with the stench of death.  In the bush, and even in the cities, cannibalism and barbaric rituals resumed.  All services broke down.  Hunger and famine desolated the land.  Panic-stricken Whites in the capital city Leopoldville (today Kinshasa) fled across the Congo River to tranquil Brazzaville, capital of the smaller French Congo, before rampaging soldiers sealed Leo off from the outside world.  The U.S. Navy carrier Wasp​ steamed across the Atlantic to rescue American nationals.  All Belgian commandos and paratroopers were recalled from leave; thousands were flown in to lead their countrymen to safety.  Sabena, the Belgian national airline, cancelled all scheduled flights and diverted its entire fleet to evacuate besieged Whites.  Tribal massacres, rape, murder and total anarchy raged on all over the Congo through the summer of 1960, less than a year after it was still proclaimed the showcase of African colonies.

In the southern province of mineral-rich Katanga, the violence was contained.  Hundreds of shops had been smashed and looted in the capital Elisabethville (now Lubumbashi), but violent crime was stopped in its tracks.  In complete contrast to the White-hating Lumumba, Katanga president Moise Tshombe (pronounced Chom-bay), insisted on and received the immediate deployment of Belgian troops to enforce law and order.  On July 11th, he announced to the world, “We are seceding from chaos!” and declared Katanga an independent country.  Charismatic and highly intelligent, Tshombe was the finest leader ever to come out of Black Africa, a man that embodied all the virtues that decent White people hold dear.  While smeared in the American press as an Uncle Tom and despised by the new Marxist breed of strutting African rulers, he was enormously popular among Black Katangans, particularly those of his own Lunda tribe who deified him, and universally admired as the sole voice of reason by Whites living in Africa and those in Europe who knew the realities of that continent.

The drive to demean, uproot and ultimately exterminate the White race, which is so much in evidence today, is nothing new.  It gained momentum with the creation of the (Dis)United Nations in 1945, which has always been a sick joke.  UN globocrats did not look kindly upon the secession of peaceful and stable Katanga from a country in complete turmoil.  Also, behind the scenes there were huge, competing mining interests that on one side supported Tshombe and on the other were directly connected to certain UN officials or their relatives.  Tensions increased for more than a year until a polyglot UN force, pretending to be “peacekeepers,” which had done nothing to end the violence throughout the rest of the Congo, launched an eventually successful, 16-month on-again off-again war of terror against Katanga, fully supported by President Kennedy, forcing the province back under the central government –  a disgraceful episode obfuscated by the media, though it created a firestorm of rage, especially in Europe.  Tshombe fled to Spain, but by the most unlikely circumstances was called out of exile a year later and became the Congo’s prime minister in order to reclaim half the country that had been overrun by a cannibalistic rebel force called the Simbas (Swahili for lions).  These savages terrorized ordinary natives and held hundreds of Whites, mostly missionaries, as hostages.  Turning a deaf ear to the howls and shrieks of the leaders of newly “liberated” countries throughout Africa and Asia, Tshombe handpicked an extraordinary South African of Irish background, Mike Hoare, to train and lead a White mercenary army to crush the Simba revolt.  That inspiring story, much too long to relate here, is told in Hoare’s gripping Congo Mercenary​, essential reading for anyone who wants to understand African racial realities.

Hoare, who was very close to Tshombe, wrote of “the extraordinary magnetism of his personality,” calling him “the exceptional man who is able to understand the African and the European mind at one and the same time.”  Sadly, Tshombe came to a tragic end, in part because of the machinations of New World Order servant Mobutu Sese Seko, a slimy army general and political chameleon who seized power in 1965.  For 32 years this bloody tyrant enriched himself while neglecting and bankrupting his country, to which he gave the nonsense name Zaire before it was changed back to the Congo in 1997.

To back up, Lumumba was wined and dined in both Moscow and Washington, where Eisenhower put him up in the White House guest room, but he proved to be so deranged, and so widely hated in the Congo, where the government was in such disarray, that he was deposed, captured after slipping his UN guard, and in January 1961 murdered under mysterious circumstances.  Lumumba became the George Floyd of his day, revered as an apostle of freedom by misfits around the world.  The announcement of his death sparked riots and demonstrations in many capital cities, and also in the UN visitor’s gallery, where a brawl erupted between sixty pro-Lumumba blacks (who imagined that the UN had murdered their hero) and UN guards, which spilled into the corridors and out into the street, where the Blacks joined a rabble that had already been chanting and marching with placards.  To this day, Lumumba’s name is an inspiration to the dregs of the earth – those who would destroy everything and create nothing.

Two months after Lumumba’s death, a horrific event, hushed up by the global media, took place across the border in northern Angola, then a Portuguese colony.  Few have ever heard of it, and hardly anyone would be aware of it today if not for a book printed in 1965 by a small American publisher, Devin-Adair, The Fabric of Terror​ by Bernardo Teixeira.  Angola has always been a backwater, even by African standards, and nowhere more than in the north, a sparsely populated area of hardscrabble farms and poor communications where Portuguese settlers and their families quietly lived on good terms with the natives, many of whom they employed.  Portugal, under Olivier Salazar at the time, took a hard line against communism at home and in its overseas territories, and somewhere – perhaps in Leopoldville, more likely in New York or Washington – a plot was hatched to drive the Portuguese out of Angola.  An army of Bakongos from the Congo crossed the porous border and fanned out over a wide front, gathering recruits among their fellow Bakongos, and on the morning of March 15, 1961 they struck, taking the Portuguese completely by surprise.  Invading about fifteen isolated towns, and armed with machetes, the African weapon of choice, they proceeded to slaughter every White man, woman and child they could find, along with their Black servants and workers, torturing, dismembering and disemboweling them in scenes horrible beyond description.  Each chapter of Teixeira’s book, which contains sixteen gruesome photographs, relates a separate massacre, most told by eyewitness survivors or Portuguese soldiers assigned the grim task of collecting remains.  In all, close to 1000 Whites were butchered, and many more Blacks.

Although I lived through these events, I was too young to realize what was happening – not that the great majority of American adults, lobotomized by Jewish newspapers and television, had a clue.  By the time I visited South Africa in 1988, however, not only was I politically and racially aware, but I’d seen a good chunk of Africa with my own eyes and understood the everyday realities of that continent.  I knew, also, that the international hate campaign against that country stretched all the way back to 1948, when the National Party of the Afrikaners assumed power and began to implement policies based on racial differences rooted in nature and codified in the system of apartheid, that media-hammered spit word which simply means separateness.  Anyone perusing records of news coverage from that era onward, such as the New York Times index, will be amazed at the sheer volume of negative reports attacking White rule, which in fact were nothing but wishful thinking liberal delusions.  This hatred became ear-splitting in the 1980s.  I still watched television news back then, and not a week went by without a frenzied film report giving the viewer the impression that long-suffering South African Blacks could no longer take the oppression of apartheid, and the whole country was going up in racial flames.  Actually, very little was happening, aside from a few occasional disturbances in the Black townships by the usual criminal mobs incited by the Al Sharpton types and the lying media, such as we’re accustomed to in the U.S.  From my firsthand knowledge of Africa and my subscription to politically incorrect newsletters, I knew that ninety percent of the country’s Blacks were content with the apartheid system, and wouldn’t think of living elsewhere, although they were free to leave.  If you have a roof over your head, electricity, clean running water, a stable society, access to advanced medical care, and three square meals a day you’re living like a king in Africa.  Most South African Blacks knew that, and couldn’t have cared less that they had no voting rights. In fact, in 1975 the authorities installed an electrified fence along the border with Mozambique to keep refugees from flooding in during the civil war that followed that country’s independence from Portugal.  Nevertheless,  I didn’t encounter a single foreign tourist during the month I crisscrossed the country, which was safe and peaceful everywhere I went.  Within seven years, following the makeover of communist terrorist Nelson Mandela from prisoner to president, and the rapid ascent of South Africa to top world contender in every category of violent crime, White tourists flocked by the millions each year to the wonderful new rainbow nation just oozing with racial harmony.  How do you explain this?  Simple: We live in a world gone mad thanks to Jewish television.

Hendrik Verwoerd, South Africa’s prime minister from 1958 until his assassination by a half-breed in 1966, deserves a place in the pantheon of White heroes.  Although he was not the original architect of apartheid, he did the most to refine and apply it.  Verwoerd was a model of dignity, a brilliant, soft-spoken, kindhearted man who nevertheless understood the iron laws of nature.  He knew that the international outcry against apartheid had nothing to do with the uplifting of the Black man and everything to do with the destruction of the White man.  He knew it was a waste of time to try to appease the paper tiger known as “world opinion.”  He knew that people of all races, most of all the elemental Black race, respect strong, no-nonsense rule tempered by justice and benevolence, they despise weakness, and that caving in to the demands of Black agitators in South Africa would only be seen as weakness and lead to more insolent demands.  Under his rule the Communist Party was outlawed, strikes were prohibited, and in the very rare case of violent Black on White crime, the accused was given a fair trial, and if convicted, promptly hanged.  He responded quietly or not at all to the insults hurled at him by White liberal politicians abroad, and by the dark-skinned screaming meemies at the UN, from which he was planning to withdraw South Africa shortly before his murder.  In a country inhabited by an impossible multitude of races and tribes, he envisioned a commonwealth of separate areas exclusive to each group, and to that end he chided his own people for their dependence on cheap Black labor.  Whites living under Black rule was unthinkable to him, but he respected tribal culture and traditions, and in turn was respected by all citizens.  Most Westerners don’t realize just how conservative – in the best old sense of that word – most African tribal chiefs are.  Under Verwoerd South Africa became a prosperous, stable powerhouse, and this crowning success is what made his many critics foam at the mouth.  He was a statesman, not a politician like all his successors, the worst of them the traitor F. W. De Klerk who surrendered his country to Mandela and the forces of darkness.  On YouTube you can find a 47-second clip from 1961 of Verwoerd defining apartheid, which by itself demolishes seventy years of lying propaganda about this word.

The great majority of South African Whites can be divided into two groups: the Dutch-descended Afrikaners, or Boers, and those of British descent.  They’re analogous to the stereotypical Deep South rural rednecks and urban Northeast liberals.  A quiet antagonism has persisted between them since the Boer War of 1899-1902, and generally speaking they keep to themselves.  I had some “political chats” with both.  I simply could not believe the ignorance and trendiness of the Brits I spoke with, who had the same sappy opinions on race as one would expect of a mentally retarded American liberal – this on a primeval continent where the strong live and the weak die.  Apartheid was evil, Blacks had long been mistreated, and once the proper political reforms were made things would be a whole lot better.  Not one of these good folks seemed to have a clue about the bloody history of post-colonial Africa, including what had recently taken place on their own borders.  I really wonder what they’re thinking now – those who haven’t been murdered.  The Boers I spoke with had a different outlook, though they couldn’t articulate it.  As I said, South Africa was peaceful and safe in 1988, but I sensed a “calm before the storm” atmosphere.  The White man still held the upper hand, Mandela was still in prison, but political change was in the air and the Boers were uneasy about it.  Nobody seemed to know what direction the country was taking, but in retrospect, the lion was beginning to show signs of weakness and the vultures were beginning to circle.

No one has examined the downfall of the White man in South Africa more perceptibly than William Pierce.  He ascribed it to several factors.  One was that the pastors of the Dutch Reformed Church, a significant social force in the Afrikaner community, sold many of their congregants on a guilt trip about the supposed injustices of apartheid.  Another was the constant flow of poison from the Jewish mass media, as entrenched in South Africa as in every other White nation, which convinced Whites that once political power was equitably shared between the races everything would be just peachy, and South Africa would no longer be the world’s pariah state.  There was, of course, the treasonous politicians taking orders from the New World Order crowd.  Pierce also noted that even though Whites favored and voted for some vague program of change, they never specifically voted for Black rule, but step by treasonous step that is exactly what they got.  Mandela became president in 1994, and it wasn’t long before he bared his Marxist fangs, but his successors have been even worse, the hate-crazed Jacob Zuma and Julius Malema outdoing even the most viciously racist Congolese politicians of the sixties.  Nearly all readers of this site, I’m sure, are well aware of the tragedy that has befallen the dispossessed Whites unable to emigrate from this broken land.  For the uninitiated, I highly recommend Katie Hopkins’ one-hour documentary Plaasmoorde, which you can watch at killingfieldsmovie.com.

The lesson of this article should be obvious, especially after the nationwide race riots of 2020.  Negro savagery is real, even if latent, and poses a constant danger wherever Blacks live, especially in large numbers.  It stands ready to be provoked by politicians, the mainstream media and other anti-White institutions like the UN.  The one big difference is that in Africa Blacks greatly outnumber Whites, while in the U.S. the opposite is true.  But that’s hardly a consolation to Whites who live in the Deep South or in the big cities, or now even in the suburbs, many of which were invaded by snarling Black mobs in 2020.  Let that be a wake-up call.  The threat of a racial massacre may be small, but conditions could quickly change, and only a fool would not have a firearm or an escape plan – preferably both, depending on where you live.  There can never be any compromising, nor is there any substitute for robust racial strength asserting itself when White survival is at stake, as was the case when apartheid was the law of the land in South Africa.  The only solution to this insuperable problem is the complete and permanent geographical separation of the races.  I’ve known and respected many Black folks here at home, and many African natives won my affection.  Life is short and hard in Africa, and I feel sorry for decent American Blacks who have to live among the worst elements of their own kind.  I wish them all well, but in the end their fate is not our problem.  We must separate and they must work out their own destiny.

So many people in the deracinated West have been conditioned to believe that it’s out of bounds to talk to family and friends like this – or even to think such forbidden thoughts in private.  I imagine that the thousands of Belgians who opted to stay in the Congo as Independence Day drew near – even when they could have left despite the inconvenience, even as so many of their countrymen packed their bags, even as signs of imminent trouble flickered all around them – were equally weak in mind and spirit.  When those who weren’t murdered were raped or brutally beaten, when they were forced to flee to neighboring countries, when they were rescued by Belgian troops – that’s when reality hit.  The case of the Portuguese was a little different.  “It can’t happen here” was undoubtedly the feeling among the complacent, mostly unarmed settlers in drowsy northern Angola.  After all, even though they surely knew of the Congo inferno next door, for most the frontier was a comfortable distance away, and besides, Congolese savages had no beef with the Portuguese.  Well, the unimaginable took place, and although nothing comparable happened on American soil in 2020, what did happen might be a lot worse next time around.  You better believe that there are string pullers in Washington and New York every bit as subhuman as the creatures who carefully planned and coordinated that day of horror in Angola.

What it all boils down to is the old saying, “Those who don’t learn from history are condemned to repeat it.”  I hope I’ve adequately filled in some historical gaps with this composition.  If it has sparked an interest in Africa, I encourage you to read the Hoare and Teixeira books mentioned above, and I’ll recommend others high on my list.  The Fearful Master​ by G. Edward Griffin examines the foul history of the United Nations and has several chapters on the UN terror campaign against Katanga, along with photographs of their handiwork.  The same subject, along with other treacheries in Africa involving particularly the British territories, occupies six chapters of The New Unhappy Lords​ by A. K. Chesterton.  Another Englishman, who later became a South African citizen, was Anthony Jacob, who penned White Man, Think Again!​, a cynical work which also focuses on the British colonies whose hardy settlers were stabbed in the back by politicians in London.  Jacob makes it clear that he has no use for negroes, but his book is very informative and wickedly entertaining, and events have proved him most prophetic.  These two last books were published in 1965, while racial transfers of power were underway on the continent, which makes them all the more cogent as real history.  The Plot Against South Africa​ by Klaus Vaque and Sell-Out!​ by P. J. Pretorius take a deep look at the demonic forces always working to pull down civilization.  Tim Butcher’s Blood River​, while seasoned with political correctness, will acquaint you with the exploration and development of the Congo, woven into an account of his arduous solo trip in 2004 through that frightening country which made me reminisce about my own journey.  Lastly, On the Edge of the Primeval Forest​ by the German medical missionary Albert Schweitzer, published in 1922, is one of my favorites, revolving as it does around the timelessness of innate racial differences.  Schweitzer was a man of many talents, but his misguided Christian altruism compelled him to spend – some would say waste – his long life tending to the sick at a remote jungle hospital in what was then French Equatorial Africa.  The book is filled with reflections, observations and engaging little stories of day to day life.  No one ever did more with his own two hands (which he sometimes threw up in despair at leaving Europe) to alleviate the sufferings of the Black man, yet Schweitzer was a diehard racist, and anyone writing today what he wrote a century ago would be crucified by the media.  The clear message in this and in his later writings, was that the races cannot possibly live with each other on equal terms, that the White man must always be dominant or he will be destroyed.  But racial dominance, as history has clearly shown, will always boomerang on the White race.  Separation is the only solution.

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