For a Gentile Independence Day

Will the world someday celebrate a real Independence Day? An explosion-free celebration of an explosion-free world?

In solidarity with my dog, I began hating the Fourth of July years ago. The explosions begin weeks before the Fourth, steadily rising in frequency as Independence Day nears, reaching a crescendo on the day of, then gradually tapering off again, until finally, mercifully, disappearing. In some neighborhoods, only the advent of autumn can fully extinguish the ardor with which firecracker enthusiasts make little explosions.

Today is the day of the crescendo, and my dog is lying under my chair, his big head between my feet. I can feel him trembling.

Explosions are scary. I’m told that I began screaming in terror with the first explosion at my first Fourth of July municipal fireworks show. Apparently, my mom ended up having to view the show from the parking lot, sitting with me in the family car, holding and comforting me until I fell asleep in her arms. I was only fourteen, but I still remember the terror.¹

Here’s a picture of some little kids who, not long before this picture was taken, were screaming in terror from the loud explosions. I suppose their mothers were comforting them, too, as American bombs the size of our family car crashed into their neighborhoods.

There are millions of American mothers who know what it is to comfort the screams of terrified children, who nevertheless ally themselves in the name of religion with the huckster on the left to support the undeniable evil on the right.

The repellent creature on the left is John Hagee, a leading Christian Zionist in America—an outspoken and influential supporter of the abomination on the right.

One of the destructive aspects of Christian Zionism is its unbending dogmatism. Christian Zionists are so inflexibly confident in their beliefs that, for them, Judgment Day is practically a mere formality.

Imagine the shock John Hagee is in for.

Scene: the Pearly Gates
Time: just after the earthly demise of one, John Hagee, televangelist, of Texas

St. Peter: Whoa, hold up there, guy. Where do you think you’re going? I need to check your name in the Book of Life.

Hagee: Oh, hehe. I thought you’d probably recognize me. Dr. John C. Hagee, senior pastor, Cornerstone Church, San Antonio. 22,000 active members. Founder and National Chairman, Christians United for Israel, 10,000,000 members. Donated more than 100 million Christian dollars to Jews in Israel. Recognized by the state of Israel on its 70th Anniversary as one of the 70 greatest contributors to Israel since statehood. Invited by U.S. Ambassador David Friedman to give the benediction at the opening of the U.S. Embassy in Jerusalem.

St. Peter (ignoring him, turns pages in a book): Hafemeister… Hafenbrack… Haferkamp… Hagarty… here you are, Hagee… (reading) Hmmm… (looks up over the top of his glasses) It says here you supported the genocide of children.

Hagee: Huh? Genocide of children?

St. Peter: It says you gave material support to the Israeli demons knowing they were using it to slaughter innocent Palestinian children.

Hagee: Oh, well, you know… Old Testament prophecy. End Times. Armageddon…

St. Peter: Genocide of children. It couldn’t be more clearly evil.

Hagee: But, God’s Chosen People.

St. Peter: No real god has a chosen people, dupe. It’s ungodlike. No real Christian supports Israel. No real religion has a political agenda. And no decent human being supports the genocide of children under any circumstances. You’ll spend eternity with the “god” you actually worshiped.

Hagee (as several leering demons wearing yarmulkes lead him to the “DOWN” elevator): Noooooo!

The choice has been made crystal clear by the televised genocide of the Palestinians. Choosing Christian Zionism means choosing the genocide of children. Choosing Christian Zionism means choosing evil.

Gab AI image-generator

Americans have celebrated Independence Day with fireworks displays as long as America has been an independent country—the first organized celebration occurring with fireworks at Philadelphia on July 4, 1777.

Like most Americans, I grew up believing that we had a reason to celebrate—that we had a great country—a force for good in the world. That’s what our parents and grandparents certainly believed.

But our parents and grandparents can be forgiven their misguided patriotism as it was a consequence of falsehoods and ignorance. In their day, the condition still prevailed that was described in a famous 19th Century Russian forgery:

We must force the Gentile governments to adopt measures which will promote our broadly conceived plan already approaching its triumphal goal, by bringing to bear the pressure of stimulated public opinion, which has in reality been organized by us with the help of the so-called ‘great power’ of the Press. With few exceptions not worth considering, it is already in our hands. (7th Protocol)

Because of that press control, our ancestors believed falsely that Japan attacked Pearl Harbor without provocation or warning. They believed falsely that Hitler was a madman intent on conquering the world. They believed falsely that it was necessary to fire bomb Tokyo and Berlin and drop atomic bombs on Japanese civilians. And they were ignorant of the Jewish genocide of Russian Christians even as we allied with the perpetrators of that continuing genocide against the Christians of Germany.

Because of our ignorance and false beliefs, Americans visited horrors on the world. We were not the good guys.²

But, today, Americans have no excuse. When Aaron Bushnell said he would not be complicit in genocide before self-immolating, the condemnation that rained down on his act was condemnation of the act, not the reason. We know we are funding the genocide of children.

As St. Peter will someday say to a blubbering John Hagee: It couldn’t have been more clearly evil.

I’m reading a book right now called The Forgotten Soldier, a memoir by Guy Sajer, who served as a young man in the German army on the Eastern Front against the Bolsheviks. So, with the explosions—the little pop-pop-pops around the neighborhood dying away—let me transcribe a couple of passages having to do with explosions. If you are a patriotic American, try to let these passages make the horror in Gaza more real—the horror in which you are inexcusably complicit.

“Shut up. Dig with your belly if you like, but don’t move anything else. If we play dead, maybe they will think that we are.”

Something fell with a dull thud on the other side of the hillock. Its crest disintegrated, and we were spattered by a rain of earth. There were no new flares coming over, and the ones still falling were fading. As usual, the Russians were shouting curses at us. Another grenade landed somewhere to our left, and we could hear the whistling fall of its fragments through the noise of the explosion. Someone lying beside the veteran groaned.

“Shut up! Hold it back!” demanded the veteran between clenched teeth. “If they hear anything, that’s it.”

He was talking to his number two man. The boy was clawing at his face, which was twisted with pain. His hands were trembling.

“Don’t make a sound,” said the veteran, sliding his hand imperceptibly to the boy’s forearm. “Be strong.”

Grenades were still falling all around us. The boy clenched his fists and his eyes flooded with tears. He sniffled.

“Quiet,” breathed the veteran.

The flares died out and everything around us became pitch black. The Russians must have spotted another group of our men somewhat to the north: it was their turn to get the lights and the noise. Then we heard other sounds directly ahead of us. By deliberately dilating our pupils as wide as we could, we were able to distinguish several men creeping forward parallel to our position. A cold sweat trickled down our backs.The veteran was holding a large grenade about four inches from my nose. Once again, we froze. The hunched figures came toward us as far as the barbed wire, and then turned back.

We all breathed again. The wounded boy buried his face in the ground to try to stifle his groans.

They’re just as scared as we are,” said the veteran. “Somebody orders them up here to see what’s going on, so they take a few steps and then run back as fast as they can and say they don’t see anything.”

“It’s almost dawn,” whispered our noncom. “I think we could stay here. It seems a pretty good spot.”

“I don’t, seargent. I think we should get out.”

“Maybe you are right. You,” he said, pointing to Hals, “There’s a hole about twenty yards from here, level with the barbed wire. You get over there.”

Hals and Lindberg slid off like snakes.

“Where are you hurt?” the veteran asked the wounded boy, touching him on the shoulder.

The young man lifted his face, which was smeared with dirt and tears.³

The writer had just returned to the front. It was his second combat tour. He was seventeen. Here he is describing an experience with explosions while on leave back in Germany.

Night fell, and the train rolled on. We had been moving for at least three hours, during which it seemed we never left the city. There was no countryside, only buildings. Suddenly the train came to a stop, although we were not in a station. Everyone leaned out the windows to see what was happening. Although it was dark, the distant sky glowed with a red light. We could hear a muffled rumbling, mingled with the boom of guns. The throbbing of a mass of airplanes overhead rattled the windows of the train.

“That must be Magdeburg, getting it in the neck,” said a soldier who had shoved in beside me to look out, too.

“Who’s giving it to them?” I asked.

He looked at me curiously. “Those Yankee bastards, of course,” he said as if he were talking to a simpleton. “Things are just as hot here as they are at the front.”

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the glow of the burning city. I’d thought that we’d left the war far behind us. The train began to move again, only to come to a fresh halt fifteen minutes later. Soldiers ran up the track calling everybody off. Somebody said that the line had been cut and that all military personnel, whether on active duty or on leave, had to put themselves at the disposal of the local authorities. Thus, I found myself, in my clean uniform and carrying my holiday package, falling into step with about a hundred resigned soldiers.

We walked for about half an hour into the blinding, acrid smoke of countless fires and began shifting timbers and massive masonry blocks, while delayed action bombs pulverized what was left of a terrified bourgeois population. Groups of whimpering civilians were impressed into cleanup squads by foul-mouthed officials shouting at the tops of their lungs. Everyone was put to work. Although it was pitch dark, we were able to see: broken gas pipes thrown up onto the torn earth blazed like blowtorches amid the heaps of stones, broken furniture, splintered wood, shattered window glass, and arms and legs.

A gang of territorials handed out picks and we piled the rest of our equipment beside a fire truck. We had to dig into the ruins with the greatest possible speed: we could hear the groans and cries of people trapped in the cellars. Women and children weeping with terror were carting away bricks and stones to clear some space. Shouted orders overlapped. “Quick! This way!” “We need help over here!” “Quick! The water pipes have burst and are flooding the cellars!” Of course, the military were chosen to deal with the most dangerous situations, and were sent into places threatened with immediate collapse.

We reached the cellars through the deep air shafts. We attacked a brick wall which seemed to be blocking the entrance to a basement where people were calling for help. My pick sank into something soft: probably the stomach of some poor soul crushed by the debris. And damn it! I was on leave and all this was holding me up! An explosion shifted the ground we were standing on: another one of those American bombs that blow up some time after they’ve landed. Nonetheless, our efforts were finally successful. The last brick wall fell beneath our blows, and a bunch of haggard blackened people surged through the jagged opening, engulfed in a swirling cloud of dust. Several people embraced us, sobbing with relief and recognition. Others were in a state of literal madness. Everyone was somehow hurt or wounded. We had to climb down ourselves to bring out terrified women clutching their children so tightly they were nearly suffocating them.

I pulled out the first child I saw. A kid of about five was tugging at my pant leg so hard it came out of my boot. He was trying to drag me to a particular spot, and he was crying so hard that his gasps for breath between each sob were extraordinarily long. He pulled me over to a recess where a crushed wine bin was holding up the base of a vault on the brink of collapse. An inert human form was lying in the jumble of rubble at my feet. The kid was still howling, in a passion of grief that couldn’t be helped.

I shouted as loud as I could: “Licht aus! Schnell!”

Someone came over with a torch and we saw the body of a woman crushed by the metal of the bottle rack, which had collapsed under the weight of the thirty or forty tons of disintegrating masonry. The body of a child was wedged in beside her. Pulling against the stiff dusty clothes of the corpse, I dragged out the child’s body as if it were just another stone. But maybe the kid was still alive: it seemed to move a little. Dragging the two kids with me, I made for the exit hole, and handed over the kid in my arms to some rescue workers. The one who was howling trailed along with me for a short distance until I abandoned him. He could shift for himself, for God’s sake. In Germany, everyone had to be ready for that—the younger the better. We were already needed for another job.

The sirens were howling again: the Anglo-Americans were faithfully adhering to their practice of coming back with a second dose before we had time to help the victims of the first. The gang chiefs blew their whistles for retreat. Voices were shouting: “Everyone take cover.”⁴

By what evil insanity do we bury children in rubble? Intentionally. What evil insanity has us funding the Jewish genocide of the Gazans?

Here is a page from a remarkable trove of FBI documents from 1940 (p. 119), declassified⁵ in 1989:

“…support United States participation in this Holy War of Judah..” Oscar-nominated Jew, Lee Kern, is right: American Jews duped Americans into destroying Germany to punish the Germans for resisting subjugation to the Jews (the triumphs of 1918).

The evil insanity is Judaism. Plain and simple.

And here is a document—one of several—giving an indication of the methods used to neuter the anti-war efforts in the United States (p 114).

Even Dr. Seuss got in on convincing us to destroy Germany.

A more inclusive Dr. Seuss. craignelsen.substack.com

But the ongoing slaughter of Russian and Ukrainian Christians at that very time warranted no attention at all. After all, with few exceptions not worth considering, the Press was already in their hands.

The Internet has given us an opportunity to strike out for Emancipation—an opportunity our grandparents never had. The opportunity will soon disappear. The recent federal action by the slaves in Congress to force the sale of TikTok to “American” ownership is, of course, nothing more than Jews scrambling to take that opportunity away.

The 25 percent of the American electorate who slavishly follow the insane ravings of the John Hagees of this world are a primary reason it is nearly politically impossible to emancipate ourselves from the hold of the murderous Jews. These Christian Zionists will need to emancipate themselves from the paralyzing muck of the Old Testament/prophecy lunacy if we are to have a reasonable hope of political emancipation ourselves.

Let’s hope for our sake, for the sake of our civilization, for the sake of the world, and, most of all, for the sake of those little kids screaming in terror at the explosions, our people can come to their senses, finally.

1. Except for my age, story is true.

2. When I was a kid, a lot of WWII vets were still alive. And you’d here people say things like, yeah, my grandfather was in the war in Germany, but he never talks about it. I always took that silence as an indication of the horror of war itself—that it is too awful even to remember. Now, I believe those old timers who were so reticent to talk about their experiences in the war were reticent due to shame, not social delicacy. Had they been proud of what they’d done, they would have, like old warriors throughout history, never tired of regaling the younger generation with tales of glorious exploits and personal valor.

3. Guy Sajer, The Forgotten Soldier, 1967, “The Gross Deutschland,” Spring 1943-Summer 1943, p. 181

4. Ibid. pp 132-134

5. And why the hell was this ever classified in the first place?