White People Vs. Evil
Here’s an article taken straight from my video White People vs. Evil. If you prefer to watch it with the full music, visuals, and narration, I’ve included the link below. Otherwise, you can read it here in article form. Enjoy.
https://youtu.be/sJs07ZNIh_Q?si=Ce89BQoYNuIqrTJM
White People vs. Evil
The Tophet of Kronos: Europe’s First Battle Against Pure Evil
Tophet, the charming little shrine of Kronos. When war, famine, or plague rolled in, the Phoenicians would apparently look at their children and think: “Aha! Firewood with legs!” Nothing says civilization like roasting toddlers to keep the gods happy. What lovely neighbours to have. Picture it: a giant bronze statue, arms outstretched like some benevolent uncle, except the hands were tilted conveniently downward into a blazing pit. Place your darling child in its palms, give it a shove, and, whoosh! down junior goes into the barbecue. Efficient, really. The first slide-and-grill combo.
Plutarch explains the cruelty: "With full knowledge and understanding they themselves offered up their own children, and those who had no children would buy children from poor people and cut their throats as if they were so many lambs or young birds; meanwhile the mother stood by without a tear or moan, but if she wept or wailed, she had to forfeit the money, and her child was sacrificed nonetheless." Phoenicians, great traders and apparently, connoisseurs of roasting their own offspring. A great Civilisation, they called it. Pure evil.
The Romans took one look at this Phoenician hobby of roasting children and said, “Absolutely not. Someone get me a legion.” And what a machine Rome was. They trained farmers and shopkeepers into human battering rams, then threw them at Hannibal, who promptly smashed them to bits, at the Trebia, at Lake Trasimene, at Cannae. Whole armies gone. Any other people would’ve said, “Well, that’s that then, time to surrender.” Not the Romans. They just shrugged, raised a few more legions, and marched straight back out again. Losing armies, to them, was like losing a pair of sandals: annoying, but hardly worth mentioning.
And after a decade of Hannibal running circles around Italy like a Carthaginian fox in a Roman henhouse, they finally cornered him at Zama in 202 BC. Scipio took one look, said “Right, let’s stop faffing about,” and sent the cavalry smashing into the Carthaginian flanks. Roman infantry ploughed through the centre like it was a badly made garden fence. Hannibal, the so-called genius, bolted.
In 146 BC the Romans under Scipio Aemilianus stormed Carthage at the end of the Third Punic War. For three years the legions had besieged the city, until at last they broke through the walls and fought street by street. Ancient writers like Diodorus and Plutarch record that in Carthage’s darkest hours, the priests of Kronos still demanded the old Phoenician rites.
Either way, Rome would have none of it. The Senate had already sent Cato thundering through the Forum with his demand: ‘Carthage must be destroyed.’ And so it was. Seventeen days, that’s all it took. Seventeen days of steel and fire, and a city that had stood for centuries was reduced to ash. The Tophet of Kronos, the so-called holy furnace, gone. Snuffed out by men who thought civilization meant roads, aqueducts, and laws, not roasting children like a side dish.
One can almost imagine a Roman centurion, brushing soot from his armour, addressing the Carthaginian priests in perfect dry politeness: “Yes, terribly sorry, chaps, but you can’t barbecue your children anymore. Regulations.” The Phoenician cult was gone. The altars were eradicated. Evil silenced by Roman steel. That was the end of Moloch.
At Carthage, it was not abstract forces or nameless armies, it was white men, the white Europeans of Rome, who destroyed the evil. The Romans were not some foreign race, they were Europeans, the blood ancestors of today’s Italians and kin to all the peoples of Europe. And in that war, it was Europe that stood victorious, Europe that put an end to Moloch…. Or did they.. (laughing Hilary Clinton)
The Cannibal Cabaret: Spain Cancels Taco Tuesday.
When the Spaniards marched into New Spain, the land of the Aztecs, Bernal Díaz del Castillo noted it all with the casual horror of a man describing a new stew recipe: “Every day we saw sacrificed before us three, four or five Indians whose hearts were offered to the idols and their blood plastered on the walls, and the feet, arms and legs of the victims were cut off and eaten, just as in our country we eat beef brought from the butchers. I even believe that they sell it by retail in the tianguez, as they call their markets.
In the Aztec world, war captives and tributes from conquered tribes weren’t just unlucky — they were basically takeaway orders for Huitzilopochtli, Tezcatlipoca, Tlaloc, and Xipe Totec. Yes, the gods needed their regular protein fix to keep the sun up, the rain falling, and the empire thoroughly drenched in terror. The Mexica of Tenochtitlán made sure of it: prisoners hauled in from endless wars or demanded as tribute were marched up the steps, slit open, and offered to the idols. Then came the pièce de résistance the flesh, elaborately dressed and paraded as the banquet’s centrepiece. Cannibalism, but with table manners. Prescott drily observed that it “becomes even the more revolting.” Bon appétit, gentlemen. The Maya took this to a new level. Diego de Landa watched as the executioner nacón “arrived with a stone knife… reached for the heart like a rabid tiger, tearing it out alive, and placed it on a dish for the priest.” Sometimes they flayed the body whole, and the priest, naked, pulled the skin over himself. A fashion statement? Perhaps, if one’s idea of fashion is last season’s jacket made from the neighbour. Shocking stuff.
Nor did knives always enter into it. At Chichén Itzá, victims were tossed alive into the sacred well, “believing they would come out on the third day although they never appeared again.” The Spaniards saw this and drew the line. Cortés didn’t come out swinging from the first moment; he told them, clearly, again and again. The sacrifices must end. The idols must fall. One day he warned them, and still the smoke rose from the temples. Another time he threatened, and still the hearts were torn out. They nodded, then carried on as before. Patience thinned.
What made it intolerable to the Spaniards was the sheer parody of it all. They grew up believing sacrifice meant Christ on the Cross, one man’s suffering to redeem everyone. Not this Aztec version: conveyor-belt butchery to bribe the weather forecast. To the conquistadors, this was not religion but diabolism, cruelty masquerading as piety. Their Christian faith taught them that all men were made in the image of God, not fodder for a priest’s knife.
So Díaz recalls Cortés roaring like a man who’s had enough of amateur hour: “How can we ever accomplish anything worth doing if for the honour of God we do not first abolish these sacrifices made to idols… the idols must come to the ground that very day.” Lovely pep talk. The locals, of course, nodded politely, then went straight back to slicing hearts out like it was Taco Tuesday. Finally Cortés lost his patience, no more gentle sermons, time for the hammer: “either they… must remove the idols at once, or we should throw them out and roll them down the steps… we were no longer their friends but their mortal enemies.” Translation: playtime’s over, the statues are going flying, and yes, you’re about to find out what “mortal enemies” actually means. Cortés made an example. “He scolded them badly… and ordered one Mexican Indian to be burnt as punishment for the death of the Indians they had eaten… so that he should appear to be doing justice.” Harsh, but one suspects the message was received. An eye for an eye and all that.
At Cholula, the moment came with the crack of an arquebus, the signal to strike. The Spaniards fell on their foes, cutting them down “with as much ease as the reaper mows down the ripe corn in harvest time,” as Prescott put it. One imagines the Aztec allies staring at the harvest of corpses and thinking this was, at last, a season with better returns than maize. Brutal, yes, but against men who measured civilization in hearts torn out and bodies roasted, the reaper was the more honest craftsman.
Looking back, Díaz summed it up with soldierly pride: “we, the true Conquistadores… have freed them, and led them into cleanly ways and taught them holy doctrine… the Franciscan Friars… and [the order of] Señor Santo Domingo… have extirpated it from the very roots.” And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you shut down a civilisation whose idea of fine dining was sautéed neighbour with a side of maize. Spain didn’t just conquer Mexico, oh no, they put an end to one of history’s longest running horror shows. A standing ovation, please: the curtain finally drops on the Cannibal Cabaret. Chalk up one morality point for the white chaps. Civilization saved, satanic menu cancelled. You’re welcome.
The Great Turkish Tent Sale. Everything Must Go!
In 1683, the armies of the Ottoman Empire marched deep into Central Europe under the command of Kara Mustafa Pasha, because clearly two centuries of nicking the Balkans, Hungary, and half of Austria still wasn’t quite enough. Their methods? Oh, charming. As Andrew Wheatcroft records, “the first living prisoners and sacks of severed heads from Hainburg were brought in triumph to the Grand Vizier and laid out before him. After the town was sacked, all the leading citizens who had resisted the summons to surrender … ‘came under the blade’. The remainder of the population were enslaved. On the following day … Kara Mustafa received a fresh offering of two hundred severed heads from Hainburg, plus ten prisoners.” Lovely. Just what every man wants delivered to his tent: a few sacks of heads. Elsewhere, “some eight hundred of the townsfolk were captured in this attack, and most of them were either beheaded or enslaved at the whim of their captors.” A nice reminder that under Ottoman hospitality, your choices were basically slavery or sudden head-detachment. The brutality was systematic: terrorize, butcher, enslave, repeat. And as Vienna braced for siege, Kara Mustafa even “ordered the execution of 30,000 Christian hostages.” As Vienna braced for siege, Kara Mustafa even “ordered the execution of 30,000 Christian hostages.” This was not simply another border raid, it was the knife-edge moment when Europe itself, from the Danube to the Rhine, hung in the balance.
On 12 September 1683, the fate of Europe was decided on the hills above Vienna. Against an enemy that had brought fire, slaughter, and chains, the defenders stood their ground. Starhemberg and his garrison had already endured more shells than a French oyster market, yet still refused to hand over the keys. When Ottoman miners blew breaches in the walls, “the officers and sergeants quickly rallied their men… ‘three files of men standing shoulder to shoulder, who fired down, then turned off to each side to reload and then enter the firing line again’… ‘several Turks were impaled on the spear points as they tried to scramble over them.’” Inside the bastions, blood and brains were spattered across the defenders as cannonballs tore men apart, yet still they held.
Then came the hammerblow. Sobieski himself led the charge: “Eighteen thousand horsemen charged down the hills, the largest cavalry charge in history… Jan III Sobieski led the charge… at the head of 3,000 Polish heavy lancers, the famed ‘Winged Hussars’.… The charge easily broke the lines of the Ottomans.” Eighteen thousand thundering Poles against a camp full of Ottomans suddenly realising they’d forgotten to invent a Plan B. The result? Pure comedy. The vast encampment that had terrorised Christendom for months dissolved faster than French courage in 1940. Sobieski’s own words rang with triumph: “Veni, vidi, Deus vicit, I came, I saw, God conquered.” Meanwhile, the enemy fled, abandoning their camp like students after a fire alarm, except in this case, they butchered their prisoners on the way out, just to prove what bad sports they were. Vienna was saved, and with it Europe. The greatest Islamic power of the age had been broken on the walls of a Christian city, turned back at last by courage, steel, and the wings of Poland’s horsemen.
If Vienna had fallen in 1683, the heart of Europe would have been split open. The Ottoman armies came to annihilate a Christian capital and then march onward. The walls of Vienna were the last shield before the German states, and beyond them lay the trade, cities, and kingdoms of the West. For two long months, from the 15th of July to the 12th of September, “the most devoted heroism was displayed by both the garrison and the inhabitants,” which is polite historian-speak for starving people fighting off lunatics with explosives. And when help finally arrived, the change was instant. And when it did, the tide turned with breath-taking speed. “Less than three hours after the cavalry attack, the Christian forces had won the battle and saved Vienna.” The Polish and their allies did not just rescue a city; they preserved a civilization. As the chroniclers later said, “Never was there a victory more complete… The great destruction of the Turks before Vienna was rapturously hailed throughout Christendom as the announcement of the approaching downfall of the Mahometan Empire in Europe.” From that day forward, “the battle marked the historic end of the expansion of the Ottoman Empire into Europe.” Too often on my channel, Poles and Eastern Europeans are dismissed or mocked, as if they were outsiders to Europe’s story. That could not be more wrong. Without them, there may have been no Europe at all. Vienna proved that when evil wanted to destroy Europe, it was our Eastern brothers who saved us. White people versus evil, and this time, white people won. Thank you my Polish brothers.
Modern Ideological Evils.
Communism. Ah yes, the grand idea that if you just murder enough people, utopia will arrive on schedule. Lenin, the patron saint of terror, didn’t bother with niceties. “In principle we have never renounced terror and cannot renounce it.” That’s not a slip of the tongue. That’s the mission statement. Imagine if Coca-Cola advertised itself as “Now with extra arsenic.” Paul Johnson was an English historian, journalist, and public intellectual, he explained: Lenin thought violence was “an essential element in the Revolution.” Essential, like oxygen, or like a knife to the throat. Meanwhile, Communism was never for people who abominated murder; it was for people who abominated everything else. So what did this dazzling workers’ paradise actually produce? A death toll that makes the Black Death look like a bout of hay fever.” The Black Book of Communism tallies: six million dead in the famine of 1932–33, 720,000 shot in the Great Purge, seven million dumped into the Gulag, nearly three million still there at Stalin’s death. All that, and they called it “progress.” Progress towards what? A world without Russians. For comparison, tsarist Russia managed just 6,321 political executions over a century. The Bolsheviks did 15,000 in two months. Bravo! A new record. Lenin wanted civil war, and he got it. So much for the fable of “good Lenin, bad Stalin.” There never was a good Lenin. There was just Lenin, and then the people he taught to murder more efficiently. Ukraine, of course, was starved on purpose. Genocide? Oh, darling, we’re doing Picasso tonight instead. We build Holocaust memorials, but Holodomor? Barely a post-it note. And yet, people fought back. Ukrainians refused to stop being Christians, even as Stalin’s boys tried to club it out of them. Churches boarded up, priests shot, others shoved onto trains east, and still people prayed in barns, in cellars, anywhere they could whisper the Lord’s Prayer without an NKVD eavesdropper. But yes, comrades, history will thank you for modernisation. And in the West? Oh, we had Jean-Paul Sartre, the intellectual’s intellectual declaring it was “not our duty” to write about the Soviet camps. Of course not. His duty was to chain-smoke and seduce philosophy students. Meanwhile Albert Camus, a man with an actual spine, said simply: “The truth is the truth, and denying it mocks the causes both of humanity and morality.” Which is exactly why Sartre got the café girls, and Camus got ignored.
Then there was Solzhenitsyn, who didn’t so much write a book as drop a literary sledgehammer on communism’s skull. The Gulag Archipelago removed the mask off the regime and paraded its rotten teeth for all to see. And of course the applause. Endless, thunderous applause at Party congresses, because NKVD men stood in the aisles waiting to see who dared stop clapping first. Imagine that: a society where sitting down could kill you. Solzhenitsyn smuggled it all out, page by page, and when the West finally read it, no one could claim ignorance ever again. And through it all, Western nations actually held the line. Berlin, 1948: America and Britain kept an entire city alive for nearly a year with nothing but planes and willpower. And when Reagan said, “Mr Gorbachev, tear down this wall,” it wasn’t just rhetorical theatre. It was the punctuation mark at the end of seventy years of carnage. Communism didn’t collapse because it “ran out of corpses.” It collapsed because it ran out of food, money, and believers. The economies were wrecked, the shelves were empty, people were sick of queuing five hours for a loaf of bread while their leaders drove imported cars. And the only reason it didn’t stagger on longer was because the West kept up the pressure on Berlin airlifts, NATO armies, Reagan’s missiles, and dissidents smuggling out the truth. That’s why it fell: not because it stopped killing, but because it stopped working. White men, white nations, standing between civilization and the abyss. It was evil from the start, baked in like arsenic in the cake mix. And it took the courage, sacrifice, and blood of our people to hold it back and, finally, bring the whole rotten thing crashing down.