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anachilles · 16 days

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drive the dark clouds far away ☁

If anyone on Earth deserved tenderness, it was Gale Cleven. Throughout the years they’d known each other, he had dropped little morsels of his history into John’s lap, one piece at a time. It was almost off-hand, how he’d do it. Like he somehow hadn’t expected John to capture every one, savour them, commit them to memory and file them away in a special box in the back of his mind. To take them out as he did every so often and piece them together again, wondering about what young Gale had been before he was John’s ‘Buck’, so he had an entire landscape laid before him of what made Gale Cleven who he was. Or: Winter falls in Stalag Luft III, Gale's sick, and John has feelings about it all. -> read here on AO3 <-

A Nazi prisoner of war camp was hardly a place one would ever want to be, at any time or for any reason.

If Bucky had the choice, however, he sure as hell wouldn’t particularly choose to be in a Nazi prisoner of war camp in the middle of what was turning out to be a brutal Germanic winter.

It came on so suddenly, too, or at least that’s what it felt like. One day, the entire camp had been bathed in incandescent autumn sunshine. The kind that illuminated every leaf on every tree, lit the sky up so bright you could barely look at it, and sparkled off the surface of the puddles left behind from the early morning rain. The next day, and the next, and the next after that, it was like someone had gone and thrown a blanket over the sun itself. Everything was grey. Everything was dark. Everything around them started to wilt, to shed, to die.

For every degree the temperature dropped, for every shiver that raced up their spines in the dead of night, and for every dull, drizzly day that inched them through November and closer to Christmas, morale had started to plummet. It crept up on them and burrowed in like a degenerative disease, infiltrating their ranks one by one and slowly, gradually, started to break them down. Tired minds began to conjure bittersweet memories of good food, good music and the encompassing warmth of their families thousands of miles away, such imaginings only making their reality even starker. Anywhere at all outside the perimeter of the compound was beginning to feel like a whole other plane of existence.

At this point in the season, even the hours of daylight they were afforded were seemingly war-rationed. Dark moods, irritability and the icy tendrils of hopelessness had started to permeate the stalag as the sunsets came altogether too quick, and the daytimes were overwhelmingly bleak.

That night, Bucky shifted awkwardly in his bunk, trying to get comfortable in spite of the threadbare cushioning underneath him. It would have been pitch dark save for the slightest crack someone had left in the black-out curtains, letting moonlight spill in and make vague silhouettes out of the sleeping men around him. Several of them were snoring to various degrees of severity (God help them when Demarco properly got going), bed frames periodically creaking, someone even seemed to be humming slightly in their sleep.

The incessant background noise wasn’t the problem, though; the opposite, actually. From basic training, through flight school, then all the way to the war, Bucky had spent far too long now in shared quarters through every point in his military career to be able to sleep surrounded by absolute silence. In fact, if he closed his eyes and concentrated real hard he could probably have imagined himself being back in the barracks at Thorpe Abbotts right then, far, far away from this Kraut hell hole. Okay, the food wasn’t much better there, he’ll admit, but at least there was a stocked bar, actual showers, and no Nazi goons on a hairpin trigger when it came to pointing rifles at them for doing the sum total of jack shit too hard for their liking.

Bucky’s foot bounced in place as he stared a hole into the wooden slats of the bunk above him. Tension pulsed behind his eyes. When he exhaled, his breath materialised as a humid cloud, before dissipating again into the dark. Rain hammered against the window that was definitely draughty. His fingers were so cold they were starting to go white at the tips.

A sharp gasp suddenly pierced through the din, and in the same beat Bucky instinctively snapped towards it, the whirlpool in his brain suddenly stilling, sharpening down to a single point; like someone had ripped the plughole out of a bathtub. In the middle bunk directly across the way, in the shadows of the darkened cabin, the outline of Buck’s body jerked forward with a strangled little click… a pause… and then another. It was an oddly vulnerable sound, the action was chased by a heavy sniffle, and Bucky let out another long, visible breath.

With the insidious chill of deep winter now catching at their heels, illness was quickly becoming another looming problem with their fucked up sleep-away camp experience in the Glorious Third Reich. The often sub-zero temperatures, paired with a widespread lack of proper food, sleep, and provisions, as well as with them living on top of each other in such poorly built cabins (Bucky’d seen more insulation built into the damn backyard chicken coops he’d been roped into helping his neighbours build back home as a kid), meant that it was rife. Take a walk from one side of the camp to the other, and every third guy was coughing and spluttering with something.

It wasn’t even stuff that would necessarily be anything to worry about in any other time or place. Anywhere else in the modern age they lived in, it would be the usual winter crud that went around every year. Stuff that’d have them downing cough syrup, maybe a bit of hot whiskey, and being fussed over a bit by wives, girlfriends, or moms. Here, though? Despite how the men may joke about it to try and outrun the worry, lurking in a darkened corner of the room was an unavoidable reality that if the cold managed to sneak down into your chest and take root, lay you up with a fever you just can’t shake, in these conditions… well. Who knew what could happen?

There were some guys with a decent amount of medical training who acted as makeshift ‘doctors’ in a makeshift ‘hospital’ on site. Although, naturally as airmen, that leant more towards snapping back in dislocated shoulders, setting broken bones, and patching up bullet and/or shrapnel wounds well enough to get the victim to solid ground alive. There was little, if any, actual medicine to go around.

Before, it had been an abstract, underlying kind of concern, one he’d glance at every now and again before turning away, putting it out of his head again. Let himself be distracted by something else, not that there was much else to distract yourself with in here.

But then it was Buck.

Now, John’s body thrummed with a twitchy, nervous beat underneath his skin, some sort of momentum growing within him as his heart rate picked up and an internal debate played out in his head; one he’d been having with himself for several nights now. After only a handful of seconds from when he’d turned around in the first place though, there was another noise, something delicate and unplaceable. Whether it was the sound of teeth chattering or a stone rattling against the wall of the cabin, or whatever else it could be, it had John dropping down on his feet and gathering up his blanket, wincing as the chill of the room enveloped him all at once.

Crossing to Gale’s bedside, John wordlessly and unceremoniously chucked the blanket over the other man’s body, before leaning a hand against the wooden frame of the upper bunk above Gale’s own. He was curled up tight in on himself, arms stiff as they crossed over his chest, as if he was trying to gather any heat to be had around himself and keep it there by force.

John watched, and waited, as Gale sluggishly unfurled himself a little and turned around to face him, expression sleepy. His face caught the moonlight, something jarring in John’s chest at how pale he looked.

“Bucky?” he asked softly, his already rumbling voice now gravelly and shot to pieces. “Did I wake you?”

Unable to help himself, John heaved out a disbelieving huff of laughter, his voice dropping into a murmur “What, with your bizarre, near-perfectly silent sneezing? Yeah, you did, actually.” Gale rolled his eyes.

“Please, just try to be a bit more considerate to the other guests at this fine establishment.” Success curled fleeting warmth within John when he got a hint of a smile out of the other man. It was the first he’d seen from him in nearly two days, and the twitch of his mouth alleviated an increment of pressure in John’s chest he hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding. “God bless you, by the way.”

It would’ve sounded like a taunt if it wasn’t so fond.

“What do you want then, Bucky?”

In pursuit of cutting to the damn chase, because this was all fun and games but now John really was freezing his balls off, he replied “It’s too cold now for any of us to be sleeping by ourselves.”

At that, Gale’s rheumy gaze sharpened, his eyes scanning the room. John briefly followed them as they took in nearly every other man in the cabin having broken off into a pair to bunk down with for the winter.

“It’s okay, Buck,” John supplied, loosening the valve and letting sincerity bleed into his tone even as he lowered it. This is probably the most ‘okay’ we’ve ever been or ever will be to do this where people can see it.

Memories rise unbidden then; awkward, inexperienced fumbles and a hurried kiss in the barely-lit supply closet off an aircraft hangar in Texas while all the other cadets were asleep. Hidden away in Bucky’s short-lived Air Exec office while he still had it, a rare moment of stolen solitude behind a blessedly locked door with frosted windows. The one time they’d dared risk venturing into the woods at Thorpe Abbotts in the dead of night. They were more experienced by then, but somehow only more repressed and desperate for having now known the other’s touch, but having had to go without it for so long.

“Those RAF pricks were right about one thing for certain.”

“What’s that?”

“You were getting too handsy” Gale had said, voice edged in grit, grabbing John’s wrists and yanking them away behind his back.

In the next breath however, John shrugged, adding “And, well, you have my blanket now. So you either scoot over, or I go back to my bunk and freeze to death. Your choice.”

Gale levelled him with a withering look that only made John want to smile in return, but after a brief contemplative moment, a pregnant pause and a steely gaze edged in wary scrutiny, the caginess seemed to melt out of him, like he physically couldn’t hold onto it any longer. He acquiesced with no more fuss about it, shifting closer towards the wall and pulling up the blankets to invite John in. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, these bunks barely made to fit one fully grown man, never mind two, but suppose that was kind of the point of this, wasn’t it?

John hopped up onto the bunk, the wood groaning slightly under their combined weight, and took the liberty of adjusting Gale a little further onto his side so that he could bracket right in tightly to his back. The length of Gale’s body seemed to slot perfectly against the curve of his own. Back to chest, thigh to thigh, shin to calf. As if by muscle memory, underneath the blankets John’s hand traced a reverent trail down the length of his side, the feeling warm and honey-sweet with familiarity. As was the way he felt Gale relax into his touch, his head turning a tantalising fraction of an inch back towards his face. John’s next exhale came more comfortably than any had in weeks, despite how his heartbeat kicked a little bit harder against his ribcage. Tracing upwards from where his hand had wandered to Gale’s thigh, because he’s nothing if not a goddamn hedonist, John indulged himself with another handful of stolen seconds to touch, to rub and knead affectionately at the curve of Gale’s waist.

This place was hell. A labyrinth of endless days filled with grey, bleak, monotonous nothingness on top of a vague, torturous hope that one day will be the right one; that that day they’ll escape. Or be liberated. They’d been keeping up to date with the state of the war on their homemade contraband radio, listened to and dutifully recited by Gale every night as they forced down boiled garden scraps swimming in dishwater broth. They couldn’t be long now from the invasion of Europe, they tried to reassure each other. It proved enough to get the men out of bed every day and keep them going through the drudgery.

John, though; if he had this. If he had Buck solid and tangible and living and breathing before his eyes and underneath his fingertips, he’d find his way out. The embers that sparked to life in his chest with the feeling of just being near him would light his way out.

A shallow cough sounded from somewhere across the room, and John’s hand froze, even under the shroud of the blankets. Despite arguing the logic of this himself only minutes ago, of why it was ‘okay’, the sudden reminder of the ambient presence of the other men in the room amplified then. John couldn’t help but be aware of it, a shred of unease fluttering to life in his chest.

Swallowing it down, and simply unable to truly pull himself away anyway, he retired his wandering touch and looped his arm around Gale’s middle. His broad hand splayed wide across his chest as he brought the other man impossibly closer. John could feel just how cold he was, even through the fabric of his clothes. That was worrying enough in and of itself, but shock jolted through him like lightning as Gale’s hand brushed his own.

“Jesus, Buck! You’re like ice,” John ground out, reaching to grab it before Gale could move it away again. He knew he likely wasn’t much better, all-too-aware of the pervasive and unshakable chill infecting his own fingers. Whatever last vestiges of warmth he may have had remaining within himself though, hidden away in some forgotten or unreachable nook or cranny, he’d give to Gale in a heartbeat if he could. Even if he couldn’t, he’d try regardless.

Gale’s fingers flexed around his own, joining them, before bringing them up to his mouth and huffing a breath of hot air over John’s hand. The breath caught a little in his throat though, triggering a bubbling of thick, stilted coughs. “You are too.”

John laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Yeah, no shit. We all are…” he said, his tone softening then, even as he prodded the back of Gale’s knee with his own “...but you’re sick. So I’d argue it’s definitely more important to make you not so.”

He felt Gale’s body squirm a little uncomfortably in place against him, shaking his head a little, tilting it down. “It’s just a cold, John.”

“Yeah, for now. But you don’t…” The whispered words fall between them with a heavy clang, echoes of meaning slipping through where maybe they hadn’t been intended. John’s eyes were trained on the back of Gale’s head in the dark, his forehead resting on the other man’s golden crown. Even then, John felt more than saw him stiffen, then pull away as much as he physically could from John’s vice-like hold. He pitched forward with two more clumsily pinched back sneezes, grumbling in annoyance as he then groped underneath the pillow, eyes teary and nose dripping, for the now-worn handkerchief he’d been holding there.

Yeah, it wasn’t exactly convenient, particularly at a time such as this, that they all tended to only have the one on them that they’d had when they went down.

Oh, it was so uncharacteristically inelegant it was actually endearing. A peek behind the curtain at Gale Cleven, the mere mortal. Happy to let himself be sidetracked from his worry for a moment, John dipped into one of the inner pockets of his long coat and pulled out his own handkerchief, gallantly offering it over.

Gale’s head swivelled back, his gaze questioning, and John shrugged. “It’s clean, I promise,” he said, though his eyebrows drew together in sudden contemplation. “Well… mostly. I might’ve washed up with it earlier today…” He made a show of trailing off, pulling the collar of his sweater up over his face and taking an experimental sniff down into it. “Ah, no, definitely not, actually. You’re all good.”

Thoroughly used to his antics, Gale didn’t even blink, though his chapped lips did pull up into a fleetingly small, slow, reluctant sort of smile, before eventually taking it from him. He let the fabric linger in his fingers for a mysterious extra beat, his thumb swiping once over it, before putting it to use. When he did speak, his voice was completely mangled with congestion. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers. Probably would have taken it anyway.”

John winced, the levity leaking back out of his countenance like a faulty fuel line. “You sound awful, Buck,” he mumbled seriously, “C’mon, lie back down.”

Though he dismissed the concern with a telling look, Gale complied and they fell into an easy sort of silence. Their breaths, underlined by the tangible rise and fall of John’s chest against the other man’s back, fell into the slow, steady rhythm held by the rest of the room. Even after a handful of minutes he could tell Gale wasn’t sleeping, though. Neither was he, evidently, feeling like a live wire despite how exhausted and perpetually bone-weary his body had become. He was tired, probably needed to sleep, but at the same time didn’t want to miss a second of their contact now that they had established it. He didn’t want to close his eyes, open them again, and it be morning time again so damn soon, that chasm of emptiness in the space between them returning all too quickly.

If only to give himself something to do, have somewhere to put that gnawing awareness, John gave into temptation. Ducking his head, he pressed his lips to the nape of Gale’s neck. Just once, at first. Experimental; his eyes flitting up briefly to catch Gale’s reaction. With the sight of his lips dropping further open around a sudden inhale he tried to conceal, John took the silent approval and continued in his work. One kiss here, another one there, he marked a languid trail down the column of Gale’s neck and back up again, an answering shiver racing up the length of his spine when John’s mouth teased that one little spot under the hinge of his jaw. It was addictive; and what was Bucky Egan if not an addict?

Having thoroughly surveyed all that he could reach, John’s hand slipped down and palmed at Gale’s hip, urging him to turn back over and face him. When he did, his cheeks were flushed. His eyes still heavy, but now with pupils blown and trained right on him. They pinned John in place, made the cabin, and the camp, and all of Germany, all of Europe itself disappear around him. As if pulled by magnets and with the weight of the last couple of months bearing down on him, John moved to kiss him properly. His eyes snapped open when his mouth met the soft pressure of cold, unyielding fingertips, mere centimetres from the IP.

There was something brittle now in Gale’s gaze when John looked again, that feeling scooped back up and the lid put back on the jar. It still shone through though, muted but simmering away under the surface. Behind the shield of darkness and John’s broad body, Gale’s hand twisted, cupping John’s jaw as his thumb delicately swiped across the seam of his lips. “You’re gonna end up getting sick with me lying here breathing in your face all night.”

John let out a huff of annoyance, exaggerated maybe just a little bit in the hopes of making Gale smile again. “No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will.”

Despite his amusement at the childish back and forth, John relented, changing course. “Okay, well, if it’s doomed to happen anyway I’d rather it was from you than any of the rest of these clowns, so…” He peeled Gale’s hand from his jaw, his phantom touch lingering in a way he hoped remained corporeal right through until the morning at the very least. In the same fluid movement he turned it around and mouthed his knuckles, then with a heart so full it could’ve burst right out of him, leaned in, slowly, carefully, kissed him anyway.

Oh, he could feign all the long-suffering exasperation he wanted to, but John knew the truth of the matter in how the tense lines of the other man’s body loosened under his hold then, how he nudged himself closer in the new position to close out any hint of a gap and the biting chill that could and would find its way through.

God knew he needed it, too. John wasn’t sure if it was just him that noticed the trail of signs left in Gale’s wake wherever he went throughout the day, subtle or not, that gave away just how crappy he was feeling. Sitting in the same room as the rest of them but far enough away at any given point. The way he’d pinch the bridge of his nose, presumably against the pressure there and the ache behind his eyes. How his chest sometimes seized with the need to cough that had been swallowed back. How he’d been keeping it all held back behind a tight jaw and clenched teeth, a brave face on for the sake of their men and the general morale. Whether he’d choose it or not, Gale knew he was a symbol, much like John, much like any other group’s commanding officers. He had a responsibility.

Now, though, in whatever new strange semi-privacy they’d stumbled upon and could seemingly kid themselves for a few hours they were alone within, it started to crumble.

In the extended silence, with sleep still out of reach, John couldn’t help but reflect on all of that. Right down to the very position he’d found him in when he gathered the nerve to approach his bunk, Gale was so damn protective of himself. Fiercely so, at times, that stoic, guarded veneer serving as a concrete wall between himself and the sometimes inexplicable chaos of the world. When they first met, oh so many moons ago now, John had been tempted to simply assume he lived with a stick up his ass and leave it at that.

Maybe it was because he was pretty in a way that his teenage self didn’t quite have the vernacular to understand yet, maybe it was the quiet echo of his mom’s voice in the back of his head scolding him about not judging a book by its cover, maybe it was divine intuition. But whatever it was, Bucky would thank whatever may have been out there in the sky looking down on them that, for whatever reason, he’d chosen instead to throw all of his chips in on Gale Cleven and insist on knowing him anyway. To push and prod and tease and question and irritate and somehow charm his way into the other boy’s life, into the most genuine, heartfelt friendship he’d ever had, and then further into, well, this. One that allowed him to pull on the thread of the image of himself that Gale presented to the world, bit by bit, without reprisal.

Throughout the years they’d known each other, Gale had dropped little morsels of his history into John’s lap, one piece at a time. It was almost off-hand, how he’d do it. Like he somehow hadn’t expected John to capture every one, savour them, commit them to memory and file them away in a special box in the back of his mind. To take them out as he did every so often and piece them together again, wondering about what young Gale had been before he was John’s ‘Buck’ and how he wished he could’ve been there for him, so he had an entire landscape laid before him of what made Gale Cleven who he was.

If he was stubborn and headstrong and fiercely protective of himself, fine. He had every right to be; had made himself that way out of necessity. Thinking about the circumstances of how and why made John’s heart ache something stupid just to think about, so he made a point to try not to.

If anyone on Earth deserved tenderness, it was Gale Cleven. For having taken the shitty hand life had dealt him and still come out the other side so kind and compassionate, to have taken all the hurt and the loneliness, bottled it up, and somehow turned it into white-knuckled determination to do better with himself. For having made his life something, even if his ambition was originally rooted in defiance against what had been laid out for him. For having the hordes of men in the squadron he presides over look upon him with deferential reverence, for giving them hope by making himself look invincible. Truly uncatchable, even despite having been caught.

If it ever got to be too much, though, especially in here, where home seemed so far away, and the idea of safety such an abstract, unreachable concept, Bucky would shoulder it. Without a second thought, every time. Gale Cleven deserved tenderness, and by hell was John Egan going to do everything he could to give it to him.

John had his moments when he let the darkness in; indulged in thoughts of disillusionment, found himself questioning any number of aspects of what they were doing, how they were doing it, and for what. One thought always ended up shing through the murky din though, a guiding light that pretty much always managed to pull John back in its direction. Back on path.

So long as he and Gale Cleven were on the same side, he knew he was in the right spot.

“Bucky?” His voice reached out, barely there and so soft John could’ve denied even hearing it at all. “You still awake?”

John’s eyes fluttered open, readjusting to the dark again as he blinked away the cobwebs from the sort of half-sleep he’d drifted off into. He hummed in affirmation. “What d’ya want then, Buck?” he echoed from earlier, chucking the other man’s own words back at him with a teasing, heavy-lidded smirk.

The question hung still and charged in the air between them as Gale hesitated, teetering on the brink of losing the nerve to ask whatever it was he wanted. Surely he should know by now, with John being the blatant and irredeemable sucker that he is, could ask quite literally anything of him and he’d find a way to grant him it?

Gale looked like his mind was half somewhere else, eyes unable to fully meet John’s own, and still seemingly debating whether to continue or not right up until the moment the words left his lips. “Y’know what, um… what this needs right now?”

John’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

When it came, it came small and vulnerable. “...vocals,” he said, before catching himself, the word ghosting across John’s chin. “Very, very quiet vocals.” Gale’s hand wound around John’s back, before slipping up the back of his shirt to flatten against John’s freckled back.

John couldn’t help the smile unwinding across his face, eyes sparkling in the dark with sudden mirth. “From me?” he questioned, infused with faux-disbelief. He made a show of pressing the back of his hand up under his dirty blond bangs to Gale’s forehead, half-teasing about checking for fever, but breathing a very real sigh of relief when he found little evidence of one yet.

“I mean, I did always say you would all eventually come around and see me for the true musical talent that I am. I’m just glad it’s finally being acknowledged, so I won’t hold the delay against you.”

Gale rolled his eyes, though it drew a smile out of him at the same time, even so.

He may have had no hope of being privy to all that went on inside Gale’s head, despite knowing all the important coordinates and the routes to get there. But he could see the sickbed request for what it was, the reminder of where they’d come from. A tether to an old life that felt sickeningly distant now, lost in the soupy abyss of the camp. A yearning for something familiar; anything. He sees just a hint of Gale’s impatience, his growing frustration at their situation and the longing for home, and it fractionally lightens the loads bearing down on John’s own chest. That for all his calm, careful control on the surface, it was confirmation that he felt it too.

Catching them both by surprise, and with grumbled curse, Gale twisted away with another desperate sneeze, newly acquired handkerchief hastily raised. Newly, and sort of relievingly, unrestrained, the harsh sound echoing off the walls of the small cabin.

Uncharacteristically flustered and with an apology quick on his tongue, Gale immediately moved his entire body so they were chest to back again, and he was facing the wall. “Right, that’s it. I’m turning back around.”

“You do whatever you need to get comfortable, and I’ll ahem, warm up,” he replied through a smile, the dismissal of the apology silent but palpable.

Gale fell asleep that night to the soft, dulcet tones of Blue Skies butchered in his ear. Despite the cold, despite the illness, it was the easiest sleep since he’d arrived.

The next morning, Douglass and Hambone were the first to reluctantly extricate themselves out of bed, it being their turn to do the first water run of the day and collect the cabin’s assigned jugs. Once they were outside, confident in being completely out of earshot, the gossip flowed freely.

“Jesus, you’d think Cleven and Egan gab enough to each other during the day, now they’re going to be at it at night too?!”

#masters of the air #clegan #buck x bucky #gale buck cleven #john bucky egan #HOOOOO BOY #first fic for this fandom/pairing #we're really in it now boys x #my writing

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max1461 · 10 months

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Okay, here is one such policy. Here is a specific example of a large governing body actually using the term “replacement” to describe its immigration goals for Europe and the United States. https://archive.is/YH9cY I am sending you an archive link because the actual page was taken down. Surprise surprise, people don’t want to be replaced.

Now of course, the world is somewhat complex. It’s not like the UN is the world government. So you need to go to other people and other governments. Look into the immigration policy of every single western nation - the immigration policy of all of them are moving third world trash in the millions into White nations. Do you think those migrant boats (which luckily do sometimes sink) come from nowhere? No, they come from anti-White governments and NGOs working in tandem to change the demographics. It must be also remembered that immigration is not natural. Immigrants are imported. Immigration could be curbed at any moment - in fact, one of the principle reasons for founding civilization at all is “protecting ourselves from outsiders.”

I sent you quotes from individual people, which you then described as “quotes from randos.” An example of one such rando was Joe Biden, a rando who I think has some government position nowadays. He stated at the 2015 White House global conference on confronting global extremism (where they sometimes let randos speak) that “the black box” for America, which he defined as “the secret hidden strength,” was 1. Skepticism for orthodoxy, and 2. The fact that White people will become a minority through mass migration.

An important concept I sent you, which you just kinda glazed over, was the Celebration Parallax. A parallax is the effect where the same thing is viewed differently by different angles. If someone says “the Great Replacement is real, and it’s bad and awful,” then they are a right-wing nutjob conspiracy theorists freak like me. If someone says “the Great Replacement is real, and it’s a good thing. White people will become a minority, your grandkids will be brown” like you then they are not incorrect in any way. Ash Sarkar is a Pakistani politician within British who has specifically pointed to changing demographics being real, and described it with “we’re winning.” Why would she say that? Why would she say “we’re winning” when describing how Pakistanis are replacing the British through demographic change? Mark Sotok of the SPLC has a chart on his wall of the declining White population, specifically singling out the year 1965 when the immigration act was passed. The 1965 immigration act was passed under false pretenses, by the way. People at the time correctly pointed out it would change the demographics of the USA, and it’s supporters simply lied and said it wouldn’t do that. It was passed, and demographics changed, which was always the purpose.

But I’m getting off on tangents. The point is, once you say the Great Replacement is good, you are no longer a conspiracy theorist. It’s only people who say it is bad who are conspiracy theorists.

“The man of the future will be a mongrel. Today's races and classes will disappear owing to the disappearing of space, time, and prejudice. The Eurasian-Negroid race of the future, similar in its outward appearance to the Ancient Egyptians, will replace the diversity of peoples with a diversity of individuals." - Richard Nikolaus von Coudenhove-Kalergi, Austrian politician, father of the modern European Union, certainly not a right wing crank

“We have got to eliminate the gringo, and what I mean by that is if the worst comes to the worst, we have got to kill him." - Jose Angel Gutierrez, Chicano activist, attorney and university professor, who probably doesn’t mean that, right?

“The key to solving the social problems of our age is to abolish the White race. The goal of abolishing the White race is on its face so desirable that some may find it hard to believe that it could incur any opposition other than from committed White supremacists. We'll keep bashing the dead White males, and the live ones, and the females too, until the social construct known as the White race is destroyed. Not deconstructed, but destroyed. Treason to the White race is Loyalty to Humanity." - Professor Noel Ignatiev at Harvard

The 21st century will be a century of mass genocide so complete and total that the genocides of the 19th and 20th (even the fake ones) will pale in comparison. The only question now is which races aren’t surviving.

Ok, let's start at the very beginning. That link does not say what you are claiming it says.

To quote from your link:

United Nations projections indicate that over the next 50 years, the populations of virtually all countries of Europe as well as Japan will face population decline and population ageing. The new challenges of declining and ageing populations will require comprehensive reassessments of many established policies and programmes, including those relating to international migration. Focusing on these two striking and critical population trends, the report considers replacement migration for eight low-fertility countries (France, Germany, Italy, Japan, Republic of Korea, Russian Federation, United Kingdom and United States) and two regions (Europe and the European Union). Replacement migration refers to the international migration that a country would need to offset population decline and population ageing resulting from low fertility and mortality rates.

So, first of all, this is not a policy. It is a report by the UN Department of Economic and Social Affairs, reviewing the scientific evidence for whether a particular policy would be successful. This is similar to the IPCC climate change reports. If you know anything about those, you'll know that the advice of reports like this is not necessarily likely to be followed by world governments at all.

Ok, with that out of the way, what policy is this report examining? Well, you can read it for yourself, but it says it right there in the bit I quote: the report is examining the policy of offsetting already declining local populations through immigration. So it's not about shrinking the white population on purpose! It literally does not advocate that. It's basically saying "in developed countries where the native born population is already shrinking, can immigration be used to provide a source of young laborers to bolster the economy?"

That is the policy of "replacement" they're talking about, not some policy of intentionally shrinking the native born (white, Japanese, Korean, whatever) population!

Do you understand how this is different than what you claimed?

And, just to be clear, the report mentioned Japan and South Korea as countries where this policy could be tried as well, because they have low birthrates and shrinking native-born populations. But, again, the report is not advocating wiping out Japanese people. It's saying "Japan's population is already shrinking for reasons that we can't control. Given that it's already shrinking, could Japan offset its population decline through immigration."

This is not a policy of intentional race extermination. It just isn't. It's clear that you didn't even read the fucking report you linked, because that is simply not what it says.

So, on to the next thing.

[Joe Biden] stated at the 2015 White House global conference on confronting global extremism (where they sometimes let randos speak) that “the black box” for America, which he defined as “the secret hidden strength,” was 1. Skepticism for orthodoxy, and 2. The fact that White people will become a minority through mass migration.

Ok, this is a fun one because it's obvious you just saw the Tucker Carlson clip on this, and didn't actually go to the original source. Anyway, you can watch the full clip of Biden speaking here.

Tucker Carlson excerpted the following quote for a segment on his show, and it's what's apparently got everyone in hysterics:

An unrelenting stream of immigration, nonstop, nonstop. Folks like me who were Caucasian, of European descent for the first time in 2017 will be in an absolute minority in the United States of America, absolute minority. Fewer than 50 percent of the people in America from then and on will be White European stock. That’s not a bad thing. That’s as a source of our strength.

Anyway, if you actually watch the whole clip, Biden starts talking about the "constant stream of immigration" referring to (primarily white) immigration in the 1700s. He specifically mentions the Irish (because he's Irish)! Later in the discussion he mentions that white people will be less than 50% of the population in 2017, and it's pretty clear that he's saying this to illustrate the point that America is very open to immigrants. Like, he's not saying this because he thinks the demographic change itself is great, or because he wants white people to be a minority. It's extremely clear that he's just using this as one among several ways to illustrate the old "America is nation of immigrants" talking point, which he was already discussing just a few sentences earlier.

I frankly think there's basically no ambiguity at all here, when he says "that's the source of our strength", he means "immigration is the source of our strength", not "white people becoming a minority is the source of our strength". Like, just watch the whole clip!

The "America is a nation of immigrants" talking point isn't new. That talking point has been around for over a hundred years at this point! Emma Lazarus wrote The New Colossus in 1883! It's just a fucking talking point that every American president parrots. It has nothing to do with intentionally manipulating racial demographics, it has very little to do with actual policy (because American immigration policy has always been hostile to whatever the newest wave of migrants is), and it definitely isn't because of some UN report. Biden is trying to sound progressive, and he knows that pro-immigration talking points poll well with progressive voters, and so he's repeating the oldest one in the book.

This is really obvious. He's just a politician being a politician. It's not a conspiracy.

I'll give you one thing, he does unambiguously say that it's not a bad thing for white people to become less than 50% of the population. And, well, I agree! It's not a bad thing, it's not a good thing, it's just a neutral thing. Populations change and I'm not worried about it. But just because Joe Biden and I agree that it's not a bad thing doesn't mean either of us are trying to fucking orchestrate it happening in a grand conspiracy. This is just dumb.

Ok, next thing:

Now, I want you to read this next paragraph very carefully, because you have repeatedly ignored it, and I will not respond to any future messages in which it is clear you have not read it carefully:

When you very first messaged me, I asked you to define the Great Replacement. You defined it to me as an intentional policy, by Western governments, of trying to shrink the white population and replace them with immigrants. That is what you said. Do you understand this? Ok. And I said "demographics are changing, but it's not because of an intentional policy to get rid of white people. It's just the natural result of people having more freedom to move around the world. Demographic change is a neutral fact, it's not good or bad. People having more freedom of movement is good. So I support laxer immigration policies, and I don't really care about demographic change one way or the other".

Do you understand the position I am stating here? Again, I will not respond to any future messages in which you show me that you don't understand what I am saying. So read that paragraph as many times as you need to to be really confident that you've got it.

We do not simply have a "difference of perspectives" on the same thing. We are saying different things. You are saying there is a set of intentional policies to replace white people. I am saying there is not. We both agree that demographics are changing. I agree that the white population in the US seems to be shrinking, and although I haven't looked at the stats for any EU countries, I don't have any reason to doubt that it's shrinking in some of those countries too. We agree about this part.

You keep accusing me of thinking that this demographic change is good, and of wanting to exterminate white people. I keep telling you that I think this demographic change is neutral, and I don't care how many white people there are.

Do you understand? I have said this to you at least six times at this point. You have shown me that you can actually follow what I'm saying if I tell you that I won't respond to you otherwise, so you need to read what I just said until you understand it if you want to keep having this conversation. The above paragraphs are the most import part of this post. If you show me that you did not pay attention to them I will not respond to your message.

Ok, next thing:

Ash Sarkar is a Pakistani politician within British who has specifically pointed to changing demographics being real, and described it with “we’re winning.” Why would she say that? Why would she say “we’re winning” when describing how Pakistanis are replacing the British through demographic change?

I have no fucking idea. Ash Sarkar is a fucking YouTube political commentator, this is someone I would describe as "a rando". It does not matter to me what she thinks. Having seen a couple of her videos I suspect it was probably a joke, but I don't know, and even if she was serious it doesn't support your point. Because she is a fucking rando. I can find just as many internet commentators actually saying they want to exterminate black people. There are members of the KKK in elected office in the US. If you can use randos to back up your point then so can I. People believe all kinds of shit. If you want to show that some policy exists, you need to point to the evidence of that policy actually being carried out. For white supremacist policies I can actually do this, I can point you to evidence of segregation and redlining and so on. If you can't do this for the Great Replacement (as you fucking defined it) then you have no argument.

Next thing:

Mark Sotok of the SPLC has a chart on his wall of the declining White population, specifically singling out the year 1965 when the immigration act was passed. The 1965 immigration act was passed under false pretenses, by the way. People at the time correctly pointed out it would change the demographics of the USA, and it’s supporters simply lied and said it wouldn’t do that. It was passed, and demographics changed

Again, I don't care that demographics changed. I don't care about what percentage white people are of the population. I like when people have freedom of movement and I do not care if this changes population demographics.

which was always the purpose.

I strongly suspect it was not. If you think that it was, please provide any evidence at all.

I agree that this guy thought this. I don't deny that, like, some people have held this ideology. But if you think this is what motivates either the modern left or major world governments, I think you're just not paying attention to what's actually going on. There are pro-immigration camps and anti-immigration camps in every democracy. Sometimes people in the pro-immigration camps use rhetoric like this, but mostly they don't. They use they same rhetoric that I'm using, or they talk about the economic benefits, or whatever. The anti-immigration camps have their own rhetoric. The policies that actually get passed, like all policies, are then compromise positions between the desires of the various factions involved. But there's no conspiracy to eliminate white people, and the kind of position you are quoting here is very uncommon in my experience.

No I'm sure he means that, he's just a fucking random academic. I told you that quotes from random academics and shit are not evidence. There's random academics who say the physical world doesn't exist, it's all a product of subjective consciousness. Do you think that guides the policy of Joe fucking Biden? Cause I don't.

I'm pretty sure this person is talking about abolishing the concept of whiteness, which is actually a pretty common position among academics. There are a lot of academics who talk about "abolishing race", and what they mean is abolishing the idea of race, so that people will no longer think of themself as "white" or "black" or whatever, but just as "people". Pretty often they specifically want to abolish the idea of a "white race" because they think that the concept of "whiteness" been used as a tool of oppression. So they'd rather white people just identify their ethnicity as like "Italian" or "Irish" or whatever if they have to, and not as "white". Like I said, this is a pretty common position among humanities academics.

I know this is what these people are saying because I've met these people. They like to dress up their ideas in the most radical sounding language they can, which is basically a strategy for making themselves sound cool to their in-group. But what they actually believe is pretty moderate; it's not that all white people should die, it's that white people should no longer use the collective identity of "white".

I don't know if that's what this person is saying, but it kind of sounds like that's what this person is saying. It has all the hallmarks of a humanities academic trying to sound provocative for clout. Do you see how they refer to "the social construct of the White race"? So they're not saying they want to kill white people, but that they want to kill the idea of "Whiteness".

It's unfortunate that they talk this way, because it feeds into conspiracy theories like yours. I've tried to explain this to people but they usually don't listen. Unfortunate.

This is so fucking stupid, and I'm gonna be frank with you, I kind of think you know it's stupid. Like I've avoided pointing this out until now, but you insert all these cheeky little comments and provocative asides into what you're saying in a way that makes me think at some level you know you're saying it to get a rise out of people, you like adding in the most extreme bits you can because it's fun. You're a dumbass.

#anon #society #hooooo boy #hey if anybody sees any typos in this please point them out to me #I don't have the energy to proof read right now

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