This bear was so emaciated that he had an eerie appearance, for as he would stand and perform his tortured dance, he resembled a man. When the trainer whipped the bear with his stiff cane pole, the animal placed its paws over its head to protect itself from the blows. Streaks of red blood colored his digits. I moved through the crowd with my fists clenched. It would have been so easy to wrench that pole from that puny little torturer and give him a dose of the pain he was inflicting on the pitiful bear. One more strike at that bear and I will have at him, I thought. Then I felt a tug on my arm and heard the calm, evenly modulated voice of the Englishman whispering that he felt exactly the same way I did, but then looked directly into my eyes and said, "What are you going to do, David — go to war against the whole Indian nation?" 

I stumbled back to the cab, wondering how many times in a man's life he must turn his head when justice demands he act. Regardless of how much pity I have for the people of India, it is true that every people ultimately have responsibility for its own condition, for its general health and well-being. After gazing on the poor, mistreated animal that had no control over its destiny, a profound sadness came over me. 

On both sides of the highway to Agra were cattle — thousands of them. The driver explained that they were sacred. As he told us about their religious sanctification and protection, I thought about the great cattle industry the nation could have. Later, in the shops of Agra, I saw rats and birds scampering around the food in the bins and not receiving a second glance from the proprietors or their skinny customers. In some areas of India, not only the cattle but even the rats are sacred. 

Agra and New Delhi are far cleaner cities (by Indian standards) than the other large cities, such as Calcutta and Bombay. In northern India the people are taller, lighter skinned, and more sturdily built than are those of the hot coastal areas. Occasionally I encountered a native Indian who could easily pass for a southern European — or perhaps a Louisiana Creole. Anticipation welled up in me and tingled like a cool breeze across my sweaty body as we neared the Taj Mahal. My father had described the structure to me a number of times, and for years I had been eager to see it. As we passed through the shaded arches of the outlying buildings, the whitish-blue sky became bright with glare. Then the great temple itself came into view, gleaming, white and magnificent in the sun. I had stepped out of the filth, rot, and decay of modern India into an earlier era of beauty, order, and high art. 
 

Taj Mahal

Rodney and I sat on the edge of the reflecting pool to cool off and rest. We rested quietly, our eyes drawn to the water. We looked at the reflection of the great structure, overwhelmed by its beauty, and then at the building itself. Although Rodney and I were both usually quite glib, we sat motionless and mute. When Rodney finally spoke, the words came out in whispers of reverence for the splendor of the Taj Mahal. And then reality slowly began to crowd in on me. I knew that most of the modern-day Indian visitors I saw around me were poor reflections of the men and women who had walked these grounds centuries before. The temple — actually a memorial built by a man for his dead wife — had been constructed as a Muslim temple long after the great flowering of the Aryan civilization but contains many of the architectural and artistic qualities of the earlier era. I thought, as I approached the temple, how it might be taken as a metaphor, a funerary monument to the memory of a people who had given the world such great beauty. As I viewed the structure in the sharp sunlight of afternoon, it occurred to me that the rounded dome, with its features like sun-bleached bone, resembled a great skull. The temple might represent the spiritual cranium of the Aryan people, I thought — one that had once held talented and disciplined minds but which now served only as a magnificent gravestone of a deceased culture and genetic treasure now degraded beyond redemption. 

On the long road back to New Delhi, Rodney slept, while I rested my head on the window frame and peered into the dusty countryside, taking in the sights and sounds as nonchalantly as if I had traveled the road a thousand times before. Half asleep, I dropped Rodney off after we had exchanged addresses, but somehow in my travels it became lost, and I never saw or heard from him again after that day. When I got back to the YMCA, I took off my shoes, curled up on my musty cot, and fell asleep with my camera still around my neck. 

The next day, I decided to explore some of the other temples that dotted the countryside. I hired a cab, and it wasn't very long before I spotted a suitable target. I began walking across a dry grassy area toward the huge structure in the distance. A few hundred feet from the paved highway, I literally stumbled across another road. It was extremely old, and only a part of road was visible through the overgrowth and sediment. It was a magnificent road of stone carved into perfect blocks and laid over a base of gravel. The surface of the road was as level as a billiard table and would still have been usable if the weeds that had grown up in the cleavages of the stone had been cut. 

As I walked over the ancient road and through the patches of dry weeds toward the temple, I reviewed all that I had read about India and all that I had seen firsthand. I recalled the fact that the highest classes were the lightest-skinned, that nothing was more insulting to an Indian than calling him "black," that "Varna" (caste) is the Indian word for color. The original language of the ancient Aryan invaders, Sanskrit, is an ancient Indo-European language with direct links to every other European language. Ancient Sanskrit literature even has descriptions of Aryan leaders as having light eyes and hair. As I neared the temple, I thought about the splendor that once was and about the dreadful squalor I had witnessed since my arrival in the India of today. 

I noticed that the temple's dome had partially caved-in. Only two walls remained standing. Still closer, I saw thousands of pockmarks eroding the structure. Each of them had once housed a precious stone, but these had long ago been pried loose and picked clean. I wondered if all the monuments of Europe and America would eventually endure the same fate as this one. 

Around the corner of the temple, on the partially shaded side, I saw something that will forever remain in my memory. In the shade sat a little, brown, half-caste Indian girl. She was thoroughly emaciated and resembled some sort of hideous doll except that she moved slightly, and her animated bones and skin had a terrifying effect. She was so malnourished that her face had not developed properly, but her eyes were very large, and in their own way they were hauntingly beautiful. On one cheek was an open sore the size of a quarter. More sores covered her arms, chest, and legs. Dozens of flies covered each sore, jockeying with each other to feast on her flesh. Occasionally the little girl would brush her frail hand over one of the sores, causing the flies to retreat. Inevitably, though, once her hand had passed, the flies returned like iron filings to a magnet. The child held her hand out to me, begging for a few rupees. I dug my hand deep into my pocket, pulled out all the Indian coins I had, and carefully tipped them into her dark, skeletal hand. I turned and stumbled back out into the hot Indian sun, my eyes blinded by tears. 

On the way back to my room I wondered if, in a few hundred years, some half-black descendant of mine would be sitting among the ruins of our civilization, brushing away the flies, waiting to die. Every day our nation grows a little darker from the torrential immigration of non-Whites, high non-White birthrates, and increasing racial miscegenation — and with each passing day, we see the quality of our lives decline. Crime is ever on the increase, drug activity proliferates, educational quality declines, and the American standard of living suffers. There are those who ridicule the healthy racial values of our forefathers and replace them with the pseudo-science of egalitarianism. Treason to our heritage thrives, and corruption feeds in the highest places. 

All that keeps our society afloat are the small number of scientists and technicians (predominately Caucasian) who continue to create technological wizardry that cushions the impact of the economic slide caused by lower individual productivity and the dependency of the growing Welfare underclass. Somehow, the increasingly hard-pressed, White middle class keeps the wheels turning (and taxes flowing into the social structure) — but with decreasing efficiency. 

To the plaudits of the media, the Pariahs — the Untouchables — are slowly replacing the Brahmin of America and the entire Western world. The hideous skeletal girl in that prophetic setting of that Indian temple was my glimpse of the future of the Western world. If that bleak future is to be avoided, it will require each person who understands the racial truth to act with resolve and a sense of urgency.

The nation of India, like most of the Third World, has already passed the point of no return. She cannot feed or otherwise adequately take care of herself, not even with repeated injections of Western capital, aid, and technology. The huge populace of modern-day India cannot sustain the level of culture and economic well-being that its high-caste forebears created.

It is not, however, too late for America and the West. No matter how dark our destiny may appear, there is enough genetic treasure among our people to fashion a road to the stars. Those who know the racial truth often excuse their inaction by expressing pessimism. Suggesting that "the battle is already lost" is often simply an excuse for cowardice. Our race's struggle for survival and evolutionary advancement became the meaning of my life when I looked into that little Indian girl's forlorn face, for I then knew exactly what I must do. Prospects of victory or defeat became irrelevant to my responsibility and my honor. I resolved to live my life in the original meaning of the term Aryan, a noble life of dedication to my people. My life from that moment onward has been in the service of my people and the Promethean task ahead. I became determined that my life would be about awakening the Aryan inside of every European.

When I grow weary in this battle and I find my character smeared or my personal life attacked, that girl's gaunt face is there to haunt me, to drive me onward. When my personal safety — or that of my loved ones — is threatened, that girl's pleading countenance is there to remind me, in the most graphic terms what failure would mean for our progeny. I learned that it was my responsibility to do all that I could for the survival of my heritage. In the crisis our race now faces, all of us who know the truth must carry that same personal responsibility, and with it the understanding that any individual danger or suffering must be endured when the fate of our whole people is at stake. Such was the altruism that brought our forebears through the crucible of the ice ages of prehistoric Europe, and now we must draw from that genetically imprinted trait as we stand on the brink of being inundated by the masses of the Third World. 

Before my journey to India, the racial ideals that I believed in were abstract concepts and principles. In the moment I saw that emaciated child in the ruins, all my ideas were dramatically transformed into the reality of flesh and blood. I finally realized that my cause is different than that of an athletic contest, business competition, winning of an election, or even struggling for an important new scientific discovery. It is not about being right or wrong about ideas, but about the very essence of life itself — the natural laws that provide its beauty, character, and meaning. Seeing the child in the temple changed an intellectual commitment into a holy obligation. 

A passage from the Bhagavad Gita comes to mind:

Likewise having regard for duty to your caste
You should not tremble;
For in a warrior, there exists no better thing than
A fight required of duty (Chapter 2, Verse 30) 

Through years of heartbreak and hardship, physical weariness and character assassination — but also in the exhilarating moments of success and acclaim — my heart has remained true. The flame that ignited in me on that hot August day in India in 1971 is still white hot and imperishable. 

It was at that point that I realized who I am. I am an Aryan — a word that has evolved through the centuries to denote those of our race who are racially aware and racially committed. Before I saw that half-breed little girl in the ruins, I was a racially conscious White person. Afterward I was a White person who had become completely committed to the preservation and evolutionary advancement of his people. Not only was I awakened to the truths of race, I was awakened to the sacred purpose of all those who came before us, and those who will follow us in the unbroken spiral toward the heavens. I had become an Aryan.

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