Part I: Beginnings

I was born Bill Noble on April Eighth of 1976 in British Columbia, Canada. Raised for my first eighteen years in the forest, then unceremoniously thrust into a public school in my late teens, my early years weren't the most pleasant a lad could hope for. Nonetheless, I am forced to consider the possibility that had my early life been more 'pleasant', it could easily have kept me from learning valuable lessons in life that many seem to miss. 

Raised as an anti-racist by hippie parents, with minimal contact with the rest of society, I was brought up to believe that racism was evil, that White people were responsible for most of the world's problems, and that 'we are all equal'. However, the events of my life were to eventually awaken me to realities that these mainstream values are intended to suppress. 

For one, there was simple observation. Every step of the way, from what I did see of other races in real life - Natives for the most part - and what I read about them in books, races differed in many more ways than mere outward appearance. They talked differently. They behaved differently. They had differing levels of achievement. 

Now, most people can observe all these facts for themselves, but even most of those who do so will continue to deny it due to peer pressure. Even when they are intellectually cognizant of some basic racial facts, their hearts scream out in terror at the thought of friends or family accusing them of 'racism' and browbeating or ostracizing them for it. People in general value social acceptance above truth; so peer pressure is a stronger implement than common sense or logic in driving many people to choose their stance on racial issues. 

At what point did outright racial awakening occur for me? Ah, so hard to narrow it to a point! there was a basic racial awareness all along - even as a child I could see that outward appearance was a manifestation of inward nature; and that racial groupings were inevitable in the flow of evolution. But the brainwashing also started at an early age. We received radio signals in the forest; when we weren't listening to the local FM station, it was CBC radio on AM - CBC, that gross cornucopia of extreme Leftist tripe, with its talk shows chock full of all the latest racial slights and scandals. 

And then there was my mother, a willing instrument of those who would forbid any hint of racial recognition. One night as I, my sister, and my mother were all walking home after visiting some people a few kilometers down the road, my sister mentioned something about a woman we'd seen there; something about her being Native. I was surprised and said "I couldn't even tell she was Native," upon which my mother snapped in a very acid tone of voice "Well, you shouldn't have to notice!" 

That seemingly minor incident was in fact a key incident - my first response, internally, was to wonder "Why did that require such a harsh snap?" and the memory was etched in my brain. 

Bit by bit, over the years, comparable incidents piled up. Time and time and time again, I would witness someone make an exaggerated statement emphasizing their zealous stance as an avowed anti-racist. Gradually, it began to sink in: people only behave thus when driven by peer pressure and fear to conform to something they know in their hearts is false. 

Part II: Spiritual Quest

Much of my life has been a spiritual quest. As a small child, if ever I had a question, my parents had the answer. But then one day, they didn't have the answers any more. By then I had taken to reading books, and I read a book on Hinduism which seemed to explain the various puzzles of the world I'd been questioning - "Why are we here? What's life for?" and similar such queries. 

Later on, after moving to the city of Vancouver, I became interested in Buddhism. I read some of the Flower Sutra and the Tibetan Book of the Dead. I took a course in Zen meditation. 

But there were no ultimate answers, none that satisfied the nagging voice inside - "But what's life REALLY all about?" 

So my quest continued. I had read much of the Bible as a child, and found little sense in it. But in the later '90s I found myself reasoning thus: "Christianity is irrational. But the human mind is limited, and can only grasp at tiny fragments of the Universe and its reality. Is it not conceivable, then, that the true answer to the Universe is in fact rooted in irrationality? For it is impossible for a mind as limited as that of a human to prove conclusively whether the Universe is rational or irrational. Assuming that it must be rational, without proof, might be a grave error." 

And so I decided to go to church. I attended a Baptist church for four months. I also attended Bible studies weekly. All the Christians seemed very nice and friendly. 

Then one day, as I was entering the church, I was accosted by one of my new Christian friends. He began to ask me questions, staring into my eyes with an eerie intensity. Did I know who Jesus was? And did I know where Jesus was? 

The latter question reflected a topic discussed in last night's Bible study. "In my heart," I replied by rote. 

Bang! That did it. It brought forth an explosive congratulation from my friend, who then excitedly ushered me to where the pastor was sitting talking with a few colleagues. My friend interrupted the pastor to inform him "Bill has accepted Jesus into his heart!" 

The pastor congratulated me with a handshake, and a deep gaze into the eyes which gave the impression of being intended to look meaningful. Instead it seemed quite plastic. I had given Christianity a try and found a heart of peer pressure and hollow ritual. 

Now, before I'd started going to Church, I'd already been associating with a family of Muslims. Since moving to Vancouver, I'd been hanging around with a disreputable crowd of alcohol-guzzling marijuana smokers. When going to Church, I was quite open about my activities. The Christian response to hearing of my misadventures seemed to be "It's okay! Jesus forgives!" The Muslims, on the other hand, were more of the attitude that "What you are doing is wrong. You ought to stop." 

Plus, the religion seemed slightly more rational - as opposed to the Christian practice of placing the burden of one's sins upon a man two thousand years dead, Islam emphasized the responsibility of the individual for their own actions. Yes, the specter of rationality was once again plaguing my spiritual opinions. 

Additionally, these particular Muslims had discovered a fascinating mathematical code embedded in the text of the Qu'ran, one which seemed to be superhuman in its intricacy. So much more convincing did I find Islam that, whereas I had spent four months attending the Baptist church, I spent fully four years practicing Islam. 

But, for such a seemingly sound religion, something was missing. The discontent of my soul grew steadily louder until one day, fearing for my sanity, I quit my job and fled to the remote North of British Columbia. 

Part III: Awakening

I journeyed to Fort St. John in August of 2002. I'd been aiming farther North - for the Nahanni Valley, to be precise - but along the way I was told that Fort St. John was my best chance to find a job. 

I set up my tent in the woods and began looking for work. Within a couple of weeks, I landed a job washing dishes at a restaurant. That job only lasted two weeks, but I immediately got a job at another restaurant. I lived in my tent for three months, then rented a room from a local librarian. 

Now at some point while living in the Vancouver area, I had become aware of organized 'racists'. It was my spiritual quest that first led to this discovery - I'd been entering random religion-related website addresses into the Internet -,, etc. - when I entered and discovered a website promoting a book called "The White Man's Bible". 

Naturally, my first thought was "- White Man's Bible? Isn't that horribly racist?" And upon further inspection, my conclusion was "Yes, it's horribly racist." 

That discovery further led to the discovery of, the oldest White Nationalist website on the Internet. It was a discovery that filled me with fascination. 

Now, associating with the Muslims had introduced me to the concept of Jews. I'd heard of them before, of course; but had long been under the impression that they were some kind of obscure religious group who for whatever reason had nearly gotten wiped out by psychotic killing machines called Nazis at some point in the remote past. But the Muslims revealed to me that there was a lot more to the story; that most of the seats of power in the world were occupied by Jews, and they used these seats of power to guide the affairs of the world ever into their favor - often at the horrifying expense of others, such as the Palestinians. 

Perusing Stormfront, I perceived that these people, while horribly racist, were aware of the Jew. "Ah-ha," thought I, "it is clearly my mission to enlighten these people to abandon racism and accept Islam." 

Stormfront had a live chatroom back then. I joined it frequently. I was kicked from it frequently. I argued. I was challenged. 

"You should stop being racist!" I admonished. "Why?" "Because it is wrong and bad!" "Really? Why is it wrong and bad?" 

Questioning my own convictions brought a flare of awakening. Why was it wrong and bad? It was wrong and bad because - because everybody told me so

What the hell kind of reason was that? 

Bit by bit, my stance on things fell apart. I had to accept that my stance as an anti-racist had no defendable basis in reality. My love for rationality could not ignore the gaping holes in the reasoning behind anti-racism. At the same time, and for similar reasons, I began to doubt the religion I'd followed for four years. At the same time as I was debating racial issues with Stormfronters, I was debating religious issues elsewhere. I had a response for pretty much any and every challenge against Islam - except one. 

"The Qu'ran is the book that bears the proof" (that it is from God) - but how can any pile of ink and paper bear proof that it is from God? A book is a pile of men's words in men's languages. There is no way ink on paper can prove God. 

It would have been sometime around the end of August of 2003 that I finally came to the conclusion that I was a White Nationalist. All the pieces were falling together; whatever the realities of the spiritual world might be in all their elusiveness, there was no way they could be wholly separate from the inescapable realities of this life. I had changed religion a few times as I sought the truth, but I had been born a White man, I had been a White man all my life, and I would die a White man. Dealing with a single concrete reality which could not be changed was a surer step in the direction of the truth than weighing one pile of ink and paper against another. 

I continued my dishwashing job, moved out of the basement room and rented my own apartment, and put up my own website - the original - and began airing my political views and opinions. I additionally put up a 'recruiting' page to act as a beacon for any like-minds in the area, to let them know I was there and interested in meeting up. 

But the website and, apparently, that particular page attracted some rather unwelcome attention. 

Part IV: Persecution

My website was fairly simple; links to my favourite pro-White websites, quotes that I felt were worth sharing, my own personal observations on life, pictures, etc. Apart from the political aspect, website design itself was - and still is - a fascination for me. It's sort of like playing with Lego; you click the HTML tags together, and a certain structure appears. There's more code I don't know than I do know, so it's a constant learning process. 

Naturally, not everyone being pro-White, there were plenty of anti-racists and other malcontents who didn't like my website. There were a number of attacks against the site, crank calls to website hosts pulling the site often several times in a single day. But there are many website hosting services out there, so the site was usually back up within half an hour of each assault. 

Then somebody tried contacting the media about it. I came home from work one day and found a message on my telephone asking for an interview. It was a reporter working for the Alaska Highway News. I phoned her back and fielded a few questions about the site, recording the entire conversation for posterity. 

The next day, I bought a copy of the newspaper and read it through, looking for a mention of my site. There was none; I concluded that the story had been deemed less than newsworthy. 

But the day after that, I was in for a surprise. I grabbed a newspaper along with some groceries - and the first thing I spotted on the front of the paper was the enlarged excerpt "We are aware of his website". Closer inspection proved that it was my website. I had made the front page! But - what was this? The 'we' who were 'aware of' my website - were the police. Someone had apparently filed a complaint with the police about my site. 

Publicity for the site had been in the plans, but I had hoped to streamline it first; I'd been thinking of advertising it in a local paper once I was happy with it. Now that it had abruptly appeared on the front page of a newspaper, I went into a frenzy of website refinement, looking for useful pro-White sites to link to. 

The police complaint intrigued me, however. I went down to the local police station to interview Constable Terry Jacklin, the police officer named in an apparent investigation of my site. Jacklin was very evasive, though he did take it upon himself to make a crack about a White Nationalist working at a Chinese restaurant. 

The reason for his evasiveness became apparent three days later, on Friday, February 18, when I was awakened at nine in the morning by loud pounding on my door - and I opened it to find five armed men in uniforms swarming into my apartment to seize most of my worldly possessions. 

Part V: Raid and Arrests

As I'd started learning about Canada's draconian 'hate-speech' laws, my naivety persisted doggedly. I'd read over three thousand books as a teenager, and a good many of those books had been written in America; so my formative years had a heavy influence of American perspective. Concepts such as "Land of the Free", freedom of speech, and standing tall in the world for liberty where few other lands did - yes, I knew on some level that Canada was very much a separate nation from America, but even so, it seemed part and parcel of the American sphere of liberty. 'Everybody knew' that America and Canada shared values. 'Everybody knew' that both nations were democracies and stood for freedom. 'Everybody knew' that America and Canada were 'the free world'. 

So as I began to learn that Canada had some kind of legislation against certain kinds of speech, I assumed that the legal response to such speech would be mild. If something I said on my website was deemed to be in violation of this legislation, I figured I'd get a police officer knocking on my door and asking me to remove the offending content from my website; much as a cop who stops someone for speeding will often warn them to watch their speed. 

I was totally unprepared for what actually happened. Sean McGowan, Mark Graf, Terry Jacklin and two other armed men woke me rudely and swarmed into my apartment, in spite of my protest at being invaded as I was nude at the time. 

There was no simple warning, no request to remove offending content, not even a fine. Instead, I watched with growing shock as they turned my apartment inside out, and stole my computer - and books - and clothing - and a knife - and CDs - and irreplaceable, original artwork. 

I had already reached the inevitable conclusion that 'hate-speech' laws were absurd, but the unreality of what was unfolding before my eyes was beyond absurd. Even 'obscene' barely does justice. By the time the invaders were done, more than three thousand dollars of my personal property, paid for with my hard-earned money, was gone. 

And the nightmare was only beginning. 

A few weeks after the raid, being somewhat devastated at what had happened and depressed at not being able to find any like-minds locally, I moved to Edmonton, Alberta, where there was a community of White nationalists. I got a job there and struggled to understand the Canadian legal system, trying to figure out how to recover my property and sue for damages. 

More than a year after the raid, I was arrested by two Edmonton cops, who shoved a pistol and a taser in my face while screaming at me to put my hands up. Once again, I was struck by the absurdity - was this how the 'free world' responded to political dissent? 

I twice demanded to know what I was being charged with. The second time, they replied "We don't know what you're being charged with; our orders are to pick you up." 

I was also told that a 'Western Canada Wide' warrant had been issued for my arrest. To this day, I have not found anyone who can tell me whether such a warrant is Provincial or Federal. 

Over the next days, and weeks, and months, the unfolding of events forever shattered my illusions of the West as being the 'free world'. The propaganda spell I'd been under fell away, and my eyes opened to the Soviet nightmare that is Canada. 

Imprisoned, shipped in small, cold metal cages in the back of trucks while shackled hand and foot, driven over hundreds of kilometers - the first time was from Edmonton on Friday, March 3rd 2006, to Peace River, then from Peace River to Fort St. John, from where I was released - and forced to hitch-hike hundreds of kilometers home. 

Later, seized once again from Edmonton on September 28th, 2007, I was once again shipped, shackled hand and foot in small metal cages in the back of trucks, from Edmonton to Peace river to Fort St. John - and then from Fort St. John to Prince George, from Prince George to Kamloops, and from Kamloops back to Prince George. I was imprisoned for over a month, mostly in Prince George. 

And when I was released, it was in minus-twenty winter weather, hundreds of kilometers from home, with a jacket that couldn't close due to a broken zipper. I had to wear a ski-mask I was fortunate enough to have on me at the time of arrest; though it barely inhibited the freezing cold, it certainly made me unappealing to motorists as I struggled to hitch a ride. I truly thought I was going to die that day. 

Part VI: Imprisonment

The court proceedings themselves were an utter mockery of justice. But I learned valuable things. The words 'legal' and 'lawful' were not synonymous, as many naively assume. And the courtrooms of today have little interest in the law. If anything they are a form of casino, where lawyers and prosecutors and stuffed robes who like people to assume they are judges play games with people as though with a deck of cards, interested only in winning something to line their pockets with. 

Right versus wrong, justice versus injustice, law versus crime - these things are of no concern in the courtroom. 

Who has not heard the phrase "innocent until proven guilty"? Another American concept, perhaps, with no real place in Canada. Yet I sat in that courtroom for two weeks straight listening to the Crown prosecutor ramble on and on, trying to fathom the alleged case against myself. I listened like a hawk for any statement of "... and this constitutes a violation of section 319(2)" [the section I was being charged under]; and not once did the Crown prosecutor provide any such example. He quoted text from my website; he quoted posts I'd made on Stormfront; he even played some songs from my CDs, even one song I hadn't had a chance to listen to before I was raided. And none of what he spent two weeks rambling on about bore any connection to the section of the code I was alleged to have violated. 

From the outset of the proceedings, I had refused to participate, as I had demanded of Glen Parrett whether he would protect my rights as a man, and he had evaded the question. An earlier enquiry into public records had revealed that there was no public record of Mr. Parrett having ever sworn the Oath of Office of a Justice of the Peace; between that and his refusal to protect my rights as a man, I was forced to conclude that he was in no way a legitimate judge. At the very start of the first day, I was assaulted by no less than six armed thugs in uniform, one of whom deliberately injured my wrist. They kept yelling "Stop resisting!", in spite of the fact that all I was doing was sitting in a seat minding my own business. And Mr. Parrett very deliberately turned a blind eye to the violence occurring before him. 

In accordance with not participating, I entered no plea. Mr. Parrett took it upon himself to declare me 'guilty', in spite of the lack of a case against me, and in spite of the fact that an "expert witness" with close ties to the original complainant lied under oath in an attempt to perpetuate my imprisonment. 

Then followed two months and twenty days in prison, where I was subject to constant abuse from guards who denied me the right to practice my religion in the privacy of whichever cells they held me in. 

Upon final release, I was once again forced to hitch-hike hundreds of kilometers to the next province. Fortunately, it was April this time, and the weather was pleasant. Before heading home, I decided to hitch-hike the other way first, and spent a month with family in British Columbia. Dawdling for a month might not make a lot of sense when one is already financially ruined - lost work, lost wages, and homelessness now plagued me - but by now, the legal system had done so much damage that scrambling to get back to work would have been like treating decapitation with a band-aid. So I convalesced for a month instead. 

But when I finally headed home, it was with newfound resolve. The Canadian government stood fully exposed before me as a tyrannic despot. One way or another, I was going to set my countrymen free. 

But how? 

The road to freedom will not be an easy one - at least, not for everyone. On an individual basis, it's surprisingly easy. One enforces their freedom in exactly one way: by practicing it. 

Earlier in life, I had been under the illusion that the government of Canada was some kind of legitimate authority over the men and women in the country; that the legislation passed by the government was law; and that the 'laws' they passed were right and just. 

But now I know - the government has no legitimacy other than what fools assume it to have, and the legislation they pass is meant only to enslave and rob the men and women of this country. 

In order to be a free man or woman, one must utterly disregard the legislation passed by this government. It is not a matter of whether one 'breaks a law' or not - most legislation is far from lawful anyway. 

Do not give taxes to this government; do not participate in its elections; do absolutely no business with it at all. That is the only way to be free. 

Easy enough on an individual basis - but how to shatter the walls of ignorance? the great masses of people deluded into believing that they are somehow obliged to submit to the whims of a government which is acting against every best interest of the people it presumes to rule? 

The ignorant masses can be very destructive, easily infecting others via peer pressure with their ignorance. What if one man and woman live free together - but their children are hoodwinked by the ignorant masses into submitting to slavery and robbery by the government? 

So, while I enjoy my own freedom, I find myself compelled to reach out to others. There is only so much one man can do, and there are so many obtuse and blind - yet, the effort must be made. 

In the end, the price of freedom - is freedom. It is something which can only be secured by sacrificing it to itself.