Hollandia

white squatters South Africa“Millie, wake up! Wake up, my precious!” I heard my father’s voice whispering urgently to me. I was confused because it was still the middle of the night. Why was he waking me up now? It was then that I heard the sounds of people shouting in the distance. I quickly got up and started putting on my clothes just like my father had trained me do in dozens of drills. I grabbed my bug-out bag; each member of the family had one; mine was small, as was my younger brothers’ bags. Mother’s was bigger, but Father’s was so big it made him look like a dwarf when he carried that thing on his back. We were all assembled in the kitchen of our shack and by this time the shouting had grown quite loud. Outside the window I could see torches and fires glowing in the distance across the eastern horizon. They were distant, but coming closer to us. There were people and children on the road outside, mostly staring dumbfounded at the fire glow.

Looking back, it beggars my belief that these people were still not prepared for the government attack. Just a few years earlier, they’d been living in cities, in comfortable middle class homes, and working jobs as teachers, accountants, and engineers. The Zakhandan government, under black majority leadership, had taken away their right to work and forced them to live in this shanty town. They were not protected by the law anymore and robbers and murderers preyed upon them all night and day until they dared not leave their corrugated iron sheds. The murder rate was so high here it was worse than during war time. All this because of their skin colour, because they were white. Yet despite years of systematic persecution against them for being whites living in Africa, they stood there gaping incredulously that the government was now actually burning down their shanty town. Such is the poison of thought crimes: it paralyses the victims so they are unable to act in their own self-interest anymore.

My father gave us the signal and we started out of the house, making our way from the fires and shouting. I was aware that we weren’t the only ones fleeing anymore; it was as if by taking the initiative, my father had sent the signal for everyone to grab their families and start moving, too. We were now a great mob running out of the shanty town and into the desert to escape. I remember thinking that at least we would be safe out in the desert. However, moments later, the entire landscape was lit up by spotlights and everywhere around us, I could see soldiers armed with guns: black soldiers. Rather than panic, the crowd seemed to just huddle together, the men on the outside and the women and children on the inside. No one was armed on our side besides some clubs and kitchen knives— the government had taken away all our guns years ago. All at once, the women and children, including myself, started weeping and wailing until that was all we could hear: one long chorus of weeping. I was certain that I was about to die, so I held my hands together, closed my eyes, and started to pray.

The mass of white people corralled together just kept growing larger and larger. I expected they would just start shooting us soon, but they didn’t. A voice came up on a loudspeaker announcing that this was an illegal settlement and that we were all criminals and would soon be relocated to a concentration camp before being officially settled in other regions of the country. They then marched us for hours through the night. My parents carried a brother of mine each and, since I was the oldest child of three, I had to march on foot. As soon as we arrived at the camp, they stripped us of all our belongings, including our clothes. We were led stark naked into a great open field just as the sun was coming up. There were no latrines nor shelter anywhere for us, just thousands of humiliated white people sitting in the desert surrounded by barbed wire and guard towers. I heard the adults murmuring that they intended to kill us through starvation and exposure.

Then the president of Zakhana appeared on a stage at the edge of the field. President Muza. I had seen posters of him and pictures of him on TV all my life. A giant of a black man wearing a military uniform adorned with golden jewellery. He gazed out at us all and, holding an AK47, he pretended to shoot us while making threatening facial gestures, then he smiled and started laughing at us all. His voice echoed through a public address system.

“White invaders of Zakhanda! Your disgusting shanty town on the outskirts of our great capital could no longer be tolerated. Public opinion tells me I should just shoot you all because we black people will never rise to greatness again so long as a single white person persists in infecting the soil of our homeland. However, I know better. I know that you white people are good at one thing: farming. Just as you once shackled us under apartheid, we shall shackle you to our farms. We will make you work for us. We will make you feed us. We will make your children pay for the slavery you inflicted on us for a hundred generations! Because you white people are such good slaves! You work so hard and you teach us things. Now we will force you to grow food for us so that-”
“Those aren’t your farms!”

Muza stopped speaking and scanned the crowd and then demanded to know who had interrupted him. My father stood up. He was naked and covered in dirt and sand, yet his blue eyes and blond hair seemed to glow against the backdrop of the desert. His act of defiance radiated through the crowd like ripples on a pond and the women and children stopped their sobbing all at once.

“Those aren’t your farms and this isn’t even your homeland. White people built those farms, the black people who worked there were never slaves, they were paid a good income for their labour, and your tribe actually came from the north, this is not your native land.”

Muza picked up the AK47 and aimed it at my father. My father just stood there defiantly, while everyone else flinched and wailed. My heart was racing and I felt dizzy, ready to faint at any moment. Muza pulled the trigger and an audible click of the hammer landing impotently on an empty chamber echoed across the field. From the expression on Muza’s face, it was clear that he hadn’t realized his own gun wasn’t even loaded, but instead of quickly loading it he instead dropped it and gave a forced laugh. Though I was a young girl, I hadn’t succumbed to the weeping and sobbing of the other children during the night, but at the realisation of just how close my father had come to being shot dead, tears started flowing down my face. My mother grabbed me and squeezed me tightly to her bosom.

“You, whitey, are very brave to speak such heresy to me!” howled Muza, “I have a plan for you. You and your kind won’t be going to the farms to work, you’re going to go to a special place: the island of Hollandia. There you will have to survive, as best as you can!” He then broke off and started laughing hysterically, “Which won’t be very long without any of your fancy tools and weapons, white man!”

I didn’t realise for some time what he meant by “you and your kind”, but in the hours that followed, me, my family, and everyone else like us who had blue eyes and blond hair were segregated from the rest of the white population. Everyone in my family was blond and blue-eyed so we got to stay together, but many families had a mixture of different features. Sometimes they took some of the children, but left the parents, sometimes they took one parent, sometimes only one child. Families were being forcefully pulled apart and all the non-blonds put into one train carriage, while the blonds were put on another. Muza’s plan, it seemed, was to put the non-blond, non-blue eyed whites to work on the farms, while separating all the blonds and carting them off to the island of Hollandia.

The train took us to the coast where were shoved at bayonet point onto ferries. The ocean crossing was terrifying as the ferries weren’t deep sea-going vessels and were overloaded. Some people actually elected to throw themselves into the water and be shot or eaten by sharks rather than be taken to Hollandia. When the ferry carrying my family arrived, there were already thousands of stunned blond whites standing around on the beach naked and unsure what to do. Hollandia was a huge island, about a third of the size of Tasmania and it was covered in jungle. It was completely uninhabited by people, as the previous white colonial government of Zakhanda had designated it an ecological treasure. My father explained to me that Muza believed that blond whites were somehow magical and that by getting rid of us all it would allow the country to flourish under black rule. So his plan was to genocide us all through starvation on this island, since shooting us all would probably force other governments to intervene. At least with this slow gradual genocide, he was more likely to get away with it because most people can’t see a slow genocide, only a quick one.

I remember lying on that beach thirsty, sunburnt, and starving, thinking things were only going to get worse. There were close to one hundred thousand of us there piled up on the shoreline as far as the eye could see. It was a sea of blond dotted with thousands of pairs of blue pearls as far as my eyes could see. The entire blond and blue-eyed population of Zakhanda was there with no clothes, no tools, no weapons, no food, no water, and what I had thought was no hope. However, that was to be the very lowest point of our people’s story. Without realising it, Muza had unwittingly given us whites something we hadn’t had in a long time: our own land, our own community, freedom, unity, purpose, and security from rape gangs and killers. As the next few hours and days proved, these were the things we needed more than any of the others. Things we couldn’t have back home on the mainland living side by side with the black Zakhandans.

My father started walking up and down the beach, explaining to groups of people what they needed to do. Again, his initiative seemed to inspire other people to speak up and all across the long coastline, tens of thousands of people divided themselves up into groups working on various projects. Thousands went into the jungle to gather fruits, mushrooms, and roots. Others gathered sticks and stones, and started working on building fires. Others combed the beach for crabs, jellyfish, and even dead fish that still had some decent flesh on them. Others were organising the children, especially the orphans, and building makeshift shelters. The older men and women started weaving the leaves and grass to make clothes, and the young boys quickly learned how to scale the coconut trees and harvest the fruit without the use of a machete by simply kicking them with their heels. Everywhere around me was one great mass of intense labour, the likes of which I had never seen on the mainland. Everyone knew what to do and, as there were so many scientists, engineers, naturalists, and survivalists among our numbers, they could educate everyone on what was safe and wasn’t safe to eat. I helped collect firewood and kindling, but I felt happier than I ever remembered feeling before, I looked around me and all these starving and dirty people were happy, too. Happy to be free from terror and thought crimes, at last.

That night we all had a ration of fruit, roots, and seafood to eat. Someone had managed to start one fire and soon thousands of fires were burning from one end of the shoreline to the other as people carried the flames from the first fire to all the fireplaces set up by the other groups. Some of the engineers had managed to fashion axes out of stones and sticks and were busy cutting down the first trees before night finally took over. During the night, a storm came over and blew out all our fires, but we were so happy to finally have some fresh water falling from the heavens that we ended up cheering for the rain. It was so strange how our spirits had lifted simply from being left alone. We sang, we worked, we prayed, and we listened to each other in a way we hadn’t done before. All the conflicts, arguments, and tensions that had once divided us seemed silly and pointless now. We were one people with one purpose again: to survive, and then to thrive.

It astonishes me to this day how in just weeks after being abandoned on that island, we had not only avoided starvation and dehydration, but we had built thousands of huts, clothed ourselves with woven grasses and leaves, carved out wooden pots with stone axes and knifes, and built kilns for firing up clay pots. Large sections of the jungle had been cleared and were being prepared for farming and hundreds of goats had been captured alive from the wild to be kept in corrals to provide us with milk, fur, and meat. Men were hunting with makeshift bows made of sinew and my father was the de facto head of a council with about 200 members who each represented communities of about 500 people in size. The purpose of the council was not to tell people what to do as such, but to find out what the most pressing needs of each community were: sanitation, shelter, water, food, warmth, clothing, health care, child care, and so on. Once the pressing needs of that group were known, people just volunteered to go and help out to make sure those needs were met.

At the end of the first month on Hollandia, every single person had a hut to sleep in, most people had hammocks, we had clay pots for collecting and storing fresh water, we had established and planted large areas for the cultivation of the various native plants. We had two thousand goats in captivity and their wool was being collected and spun into thread. But most impressive of all was when a man came running up to my father one day brandishing a metal hammer. I was too young at the time to realise the significance of this, but this man, who had been a blacksmith in a historical re-enactment society back on the mainland, had built a furnace, collected enough iron ore to melt down, and poured into a stone mould a hammer head. My father gave a speech to a crowd of a thousand people that day holding up the iron hammer.

“We were exiled on this island naked, thirsty, and starving, and in the space of one month we went from the stone age to the iron age. How is it that the blacks on that continent over there have all our tools, machines, farms, knowledge, and buildings, yet they are unable to even feed or clothe themselves without our help? They called us devils and blamed us for their poverty, yet we were always the source of their prosperity. They could never have been able to out breed us without the food and fresh water we provided to them, they then used their numbers against us to win elections. We educated enough to move beyond mud huts and sticks and yet they used what we taught them against us once in power. I must ask you this, how much further could we as a people go now without them? We need to acknowledge one fact here today: that all our attempts to care for them, to help them, have resulted in nothing but misery, disenfranchisement, and death for our people. No more helping them! From now on, we only help ourselves. No more sacrifices for those who are ungrateful.”

The crowd cheered, for he needn’t even say these things; in the time we’d been on the island, we had grown into such a close knit community that everyone felt and thought the same way just through the feeling of being safe enough to listen and learn from others without conflicts. Back on the mainland, people had been so scared of saying the wrong thing or being thought racist, sexist, or offensive that people were too afraid to speak, but more importantly, too afraid to listen to others properly so as to learn from them. Once we could listen to each other, we all learned from each other, and we all reached the same conclusions in the end: We would not be content on this island while our white brothers and sisters on the mainland were slaves, forced to feed and support those who wanted and intended to kill us all. Muza had been so convinced of black superiority to whites that he imagined that we would simply die out on this island. However, once freed of the fear of thought crimes, we were at last united and acting as one community, one people, one nation: an Aryan nation. That designation of an Aryan nation had started off as a joke because we were all blond and blue-eyed. However, it quickly spread and we decided collectively to call our new home the Aryan Nation of Hollandia. Again, without direction from a central leadership, the men, young and old, started swearing public oaths to each other they would never allow Hollandia to be taken from them. This was our land now, and we were not going to share it with anyone. Living memory informed all of us what would befall us if we let that happen again.

My father said one more thing to that crowd, “We need hundreds more blacksmiths here. We need to upgrade all our tools and weapons to steel. Once we have a good supply of steel, we can fashion boats, effective weapons, and armour, and we can start taking the fight back to the mainland. We have been given a huge advantage with this island that was meant to be our graveyard— let us prove that the spirit of our Aryan ancestors is not dead. We were once a people of conquest and expansion— let us inform those who would enslave and genocide us that the spirit of our ancestors is reborn in us all, reborn in Hollandia. We are still weak and vulnerable on this island, but we will prepare, we will start new families, build new industries, and when the time is right, we will take back our homes, our cities, our farms, and reunite with the rest of our people and re-establish Zakhanda as an Aryan nation once more!”


Due to the enormous interest in this story I have written a sequel: Hollandia – Part 2.


The inspiration for this story came from learning about the horrendous humanitarian crisis in South Africa. The plight of the white South Africans, particularly the farmers, has recently been brought to light by Lauren Southern in her videos. The mainstream media doesn’t want to bring attention to what is happening in South Africa to white people. This is particularly disgusting because they are arguably more responsible than anyone else for the current situation there. I am hoping this story will achieve a lot of different things from highlighting the suffering of the white South Africans, to promoting the reality of anti-white racism, and to give some hope to a demoralised population who no longer believe in themselves. No one should be humiliated, much less to the point where they hate themselves as much as many white people do. I hope this story can in some way bring comfort to the South African whites.

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Author: philosophicaltherapist

I am philosophical therapist based in Australia. However, I offer Skype services for people who live in regional districts, or internationally providing the time zones do not clash. In my practice I emphasise honesty, self-knowledge, curiosity, self-acceptance, self-responsibility, compassion, empathy, respect for emotions, and understanding how key relationships work.

4 thoughts on “Hollandia”

  1. Yes…that is exactly what the white people would do….work and make a success of the place BUT as soon as the blacks realised how well the whites were prospering on their own , while they were still starving in poverty and laziness they would storm in and take it all back.

    Liked by 1 person

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