Kotimaa Excerpt

PREFACE: The Warrior’s Story. December 1, 2017 (Helsinki, Finland)

They come even though they aren’t welcome. They enter our homeland on the thinnest of excuses and permissions. They are not us. They are not Swedes. They are not Russians or any other Christian branch of the human race. They are Muslims: believers in Allah and Muhammad and practitioners of self-immolation at the slightest suggestion from their Mullahs, and they do not belong here. They will never belong here. For you see, these immigrants to my country are like an unwelcome cancer that needs to be excised, and, like a malignancy of skin or organs or bone, discarded into the trash. But unlike a cancerous tumor, there is no need to evaluate or study these blasphemers sliding unhindered across our borders, welcomed and protected by a secular and liberal government’s corrupt abandonment of Christian faith. No, there is nothing to learn from talking to or evaluating or examining the unwanted immigrant men, women, and children infecting our country. There is only this: a message must be sent. What happened on 9 March 2015 near the Tapanila railway station can never, I repeat never, happen again. What were the sentences handed out for degrading one of our women? A year and four months as the longest punishment? A year for another of the scoundrels? Two acquittals? Even the prosecutor on the case recognizes these sanctions are a joke, an embarrassment. And the cancer is spreading. On 23 November 2015, another attack. Another rape by an immigrant. A fourteen-year-old girl walking home in Kempele was sexually abused by a Muslim foreigner, a beast allowed in from the backwaters of Afghanistan. Perhaps his skin was a shade paler than The Others who betrayed the government’s misplaced trust at Tapanila. But his soul, ah, that was no brighter, no cleaner than that of those who committed unspeakable acts near the Tapanila railway stop.

There’s also this: my brother’s death—his murder by suicide bombers while traveling on business in Russia. A tragedy. An undeniable atrocity. But I choose not to dwell on my personal loss. Rather, I’m focused on the bigger picture, the societal instability Muhammadan immigration is wrecking upon my beloved Finland.

What can one say about the recent events in Turku, where a Moroccan Muslim, a cur who shall not be named, attacked and killed two innocent Finnish women and wounded ten others, sending many of them to the intensive care wards of local hospitals with life-threatening injuries? All because he was denied asylum by my country? Again, I fault my government for inviting Muslims into the Finnish homeland with full knowledge that many who follow Islam have one thing and one thing only on their minds as they accept the generosity of my people: the complete and utter destruction of Christianity and our way of life.

            And what of my fellow nationalists, my brothers in arms within the Sons of the Raven? What has been their response to all of this? Have they taken any action to salt the leeches sticking to our national skin, to tamp down the tidal wave of foreign interlopers taking advantage of our social safety net? Have any of my comrades in the Utti Jaegers, the unit I served in—from my enlistment at age eighteen until my discharge after putting in twenty-plus years—those brave men who deployed with me to foreign lands, taken steps to address the disease afflicting our beloved homeland? No, they have not. A handful of us acting together could make a statement that our nation and the world can’t ignore. But my former comrades sit on their hands in their lake-cottage saunas, pitifully naked, enjoying cold beer, thinking about their own futures, their women, their pensions, and their precious civilian jobs with no concern for what is happening to the country they once swore to defend with their lives.

            Well, that’s not me. I am different. My Christian faith fortifies me, strengthens my resolve. Having risen to the rank of master sergeant in the Jaegers, having connections with patriots in other European countries who understand such things and who have access to the tools I need—plastic explosives, ammunition, a Sako TRG-42, and an Arsenal semi-automatic—I am equipped to do God’s work on my own. One man. One journey. One result. I will deliver a message similar to the one Anders Breivik tried to send to the authorities in Norway, but one that will, as God is my witness, not indiscriminately take the life of any Finn, with one purposeful exception.

That was Breivik’s folly. Instead of targeting the source of his upset—Norwegian liberal politicians—he chose to take the lives of innocent children; children who were most certainly being led down a primrose path by their misguided liberal parents and educators, but children capable of redemption. I’m not making that same mistake. I will, with God’s steady hand and the clarity of Christ, intentionally take but a single life, the life of the woman overseeing the insane resettlement of The Others in my beloved homeland.

            And so, I have assembled my cache of explosives and weapons. They are hidden in the winter camping gear I’ve crammed inside my military duffle and surrounded with clothing, a mess kit, a sleeping bag, dehydrated food, a lantern, a stove, and fuel canisters. I sent the heavy canvas bag ahead by delivery truck. The tools of destiny await me in Kajaani.

The train trundles along. Because it’s early December, there are few passengers. Steam obscures the window as I clutch my stainless-steel travel mug of hot coffee and watch the ghostly landscape slide by. The sky is gray. The sun is absent. Clouds threaten. It’s afternoon. Soon, the day will set behind the weather. An observer might, if incapable of understanding what it is I am about to do, think that the bleakness of the afternoon replicates the ugliness of my task. But that is not true: I am not some homegrown terrorist, deranged and unhinged by what I saw in Central Africa where I spent a year clearing mines and trying to keep the peace between Muslims and Christians. To ascribe my current mission as being directly related to what I witnessed in Africa would be too simplistic. My present quest, such as it is, initiates from the horrors of Central Africa and from an innate, core belief that each segment of humanity—from my people occupying the very height of religious evolution to The Others, who may, one day, after generations of progress, break free from their reliance upon Muhammadan fables—must keep to its own. That is why I am on this train. That is why the Syrian men and women and children being processed in the Kajaani Refugee Center must witness the assassination of their most vocal advocate. God’s message must be delivered, and I am his Messenger.