Rainbow Warriors

White Light Broken: That’s a Rainbow

 

This is the end, beautiful friend, though the veil will not be lifted. Instead, it’s slowly rotting away as our politicians and bankers pull at loose threads. It is the task of the writer, the freethinker, and the revolutionary to weave it anew, even if from the other side. It matters not if you sit at the loom or sharpen your blade. The world needs both pen and sword in this battle.

The masses are rootless, severed from their ancestral source and told we are all one ~ and this from the same venom-dripping tongues that preach the values of multiculturalism. Multi, that is, unless you are of Norse descent and hold to Asatru. Of African descent? Embrace your voodoo! Of Moorish descent? Let us make concessions for your Islam. Of Celtic descent? Let us scream racist and tear your culture from you the second you start to remember. Teutonic? How dare you bring up anything that stinks of Germanicism.

Why? When ethnic and cultural identity is broken, so is opposition.  That is why the puppet masters lead a broken pack into another’s land.  That is why they preach multiculturalism and oneness, but be warned ~ this sentimental oneness only comes when the surviving wild ones are bred into the domesticated masses.  Will the day come when all wolves lie at the puppet masters’ feet?  This is the restructuring of society.  This is social engineering.  This is intentional. The hypocrisy of the puppeteers is blatant; they’ve found a way to uproot the discontented masses and given them a common enemy whose past is no more bloodied than anyone else’s.  This enemy is the one they see as the only remaining foe to be broken ~ and do they want the white wolf broken, torn to bits, scattered to the multi-colored masses, and forgotten to all but  history.  Will history remember the white pack fondly?  Not likely, as history is the product of the victor and when you write the books you can spill all the blood on one side of the page and the reader who looks no further will see blame only there. The above scenario is not inevitable and history happens every day.  There is time enough for the white pack to gather, and that time will come.  The time will come when the brown pack comes to resent being led too far from home.  The time will come when the black wolf realizes he is being used.  That day is nigh, but we are not there yet.  There is work to be done.

Today, our roots are severed and the string pullers tell us, “This is your collective past! Look no further!”  Look anyway.  When you do, you’ll see that these storytellers have used a faulty thread and their tales are unraveling. Look again and you’ll see the complexities they tried to hide. Look closer still and you’ll see blood and tears everywhere.

History is blood.  Blood is history.  We are all villains. We are all victims. This is the only oneness we should embrace, the oneness of responsibility for an entire species gone horribly awry.

If you see right here and wrong there, cut your strings. You’re being played. They can play you because you’ve no roots, nothing to draw strength from, nothing to keep them from jerking you this way and that. Find your roots, talk to your ancestors, embrace your color not as a racist but as one who is racially aware. There is a subtle but crucial difference and that difference is the critical line between exclusivist hatred and an autonomous appreciation of diversity. We can all take pleasure in the beauty of the rainbow and our own unique color within it.

They can play you because you feel powerless; you have forgotten who you are.  And on the puppet masters cajole, “Skin color is only superficial; forget about it.” Yes, brown is a color painted on the surface, but is Congolese only skin deep? Kenyan? There is a world hiding in those words; find it before it’s lost forever. What about yellow? It’s just another color, but is Tibetan merely a gloss? No. But surely white is just a color. Of course it is, but is Slavic? Norse?  No. When we sever our roots form the spirit behind these colors, we become powerless. Look to the Native American with his coppered skin in all his tattooed and leather-clad glory. Here is a man with strength. Look at him instead in a flannel shirt by a rusted trailer, beer in hand. Here is a man severed, powerless.

Did white do that to him? No. The powers that be, colorless souls who only care about gold, did that to him ~ and to all of us. They aren’t finished. Find your roots. Find your power. Power lies not in mounds of gold, but in the soul of the Viking who remembers the sagas. It lies like a buried treasure in the heart of the Aboriginal who refuses modernity, in the Indian who covers himself with ash and doesn’t give a god damn for the rest of the world. Power can be found in the hands of the black Southerner who refuses baptism and instead picks up mask and drum. We are not one. We are many and we are powerful. The hoarders of gold want us to forget that. Whether you remember Christ crucified or Odin nailed to a tree, remember. Remember that both changed their worlds and let the rest of the world have its own stories of greatness. Remember your own stories. Remember that we are not a gray mass but a colorful multitude with the power to cut our strings whether with scimitar, tomahawk, or broadsword.

The time has come to choose your blade.

Rachel Summers