Ahnaf Ibn Qais argues that “mass deportations” are a grief ritual for the childless sons & daughters of exhausted societies.
The migrant isn’t the cause of collapse, but the mirror... a witness to the death of a people who abandoned God, ceased to breed, & forgot how to rule.
What remains isn’t statecraft, but séance. Not policy, but performance.
Remigration isn’t Restoration; it is theatre for ghosts.
1. 🧍♂️ 📱 The Man in the Apartment. 🪞 🗂️
There is a man who doesn’t rule, doesn’t build, doesn’t breed, yet dreams of removal.
He rests in a room too small for memory,
Scrolling exile into imagined blueprints of justice.
Not for himself, not for his child (there is none),
But for ghosts his father no longer names.
The phone hums like a priest without parish,
While he draws train routes into extinction maps.
A biometric frontier, a wall of steel, a convoy of neat logistics, no One will fund.
He sketches airports filled with Silence,
Manifests stacked with names that no state will sort.
In these lines, he doesn’t touch the soil, wield the blade, or speak the final order.
He watches the machine whir to life in a dream alone,
Operated by men who don’t exist.
He doesn’t account for fuel, uniforms, chains, or food for the drivers’ cold mornings.
He speaks of “the nation” in echoes, unaware that the archive was deleted mid-decade.
He mistakes inertia for sleep, collapse for delay,
Forgetting that entropy isn’t idle. It is king.
The state he imagines died in litigation.
The body he invokes was compost before he arrived.
What remains is the flicker of spreadsheets,
The churn of digital files that no hand affirms.
He doesn’t know the engine has no parts, no oil, no bolts,
& no instruction manual left intact.
He dreams of cleansing, of return, of a moral tide… but there is no water in the aquifer.
There are no officers, only filings; no generals, only task managers;
No flags, only slogans.
He doesn’t notice that the lights are dim, the ceiling is cracked,
& the air is thick with mould.
He doesn’t breed, yet chants of birthrights. He doesn’t plant, yet speaks of lands.
The homeland is a brand to him now, a playlist he replays while ordering delivery.
He murmurs myth into the void,
Never seeing the migrant next door praying with five sons.
The streets aren’t his to reclaim...
They were auctioned off before he finished high school.
The postbox bears names he cannot pronounce.
The census no longer waits for his children.
Yet he waits, like a widower at a wedding, believing some reversal will grace the altar.
He doesn’t ask who will drive the buses, build the fences, or type the final name.
The answer would ask him to rise, but there are no tools in his hands, only history.
He lost, not by invasion, but by attrition: of strength, of seed, of stamina, of structure.
The nation wasn’t taken from him. He gave it away, inch by inch, ad by ad.
Now he clutches memory like a passport that expired when the ink of belief ran dry.
The state won’t rise to his defence.
Not because it is cruel, but because it no longer breathes.
He doesn’t live in a country. He lives in a eulogy for One. Typed. Shared. Forgotten.
2. 🛻 💉 The Illusion of Willpower. 🛑 📉
They whisper of Willpower like Coal...
Stored, ignitable, ready to be shovelled into history’s furnace.
They chant “rise up,” “take back,” “restore”...
As if logistics obey the temperature of slogans...
Thinking collapse as cowardice; depletion as betrayal;
Entropy as sabotage; Silence as treason.
They don’t ask who staffs the checkpoint,
Fuels the vans, writes the orders, or clears the snow.
They speak of momentum without motion,
As if belief compels the conveyor to hum again.
They dream of barbed wire unspooling like prophecy;
Yet forget the diesel that made it spin.
As if deportation is a question of courage, not calories. Of virtue, not voltage.
But Willpower isn’t fuel; it burns nothing. It moves no wheel. It powers no train.
They ignore the weight of matter, the drag of Time,
& the toll of friction on institutional gears.
Their chants dissolve into spreadsheets;
Symbols get flagged by HR; Flags fold windlessly.
Their buses are rotting, their rubber stiff,
Their gears rusted from thirty winters of neglect.
The drivers are gone; retired, deceased;
Or replaced by foreign men with sons & working spines.
The action scenes aren’t scripted by testosterone,
But by a bureaucracy staffed via gender policy & pamphlets.
One can’t launch an operation whose uniforms don’t fit,
Whose medals are printed by interns.
One can’t summon Rome with a hashtag,
Nor manufacture it from memes & echo chambers.
The grid flickers in summer, dies in winter...
& surges under the weight of old refrigerators.
The barracks are condos. The training camps are parking lots...
The fortresses are museums.
The tribunals with stern men & thick folders...
The folders hold PowerPoint slides on inclusion.
They think every government office is waiting to awaken...
When most are closed on Mondays.
Every plan dies on contact with the filing cabinet.
Every crusade drowns in a court appeal.
They don’t see that their nations are paper...
Printed, filed, & stored in obsolete languages.
Will doesn’t run factories.
It doesn’t replace labour shortages & vanished masculine caste.
It can't plan logistics, repair tarmac, requisition buses, refill fuel depots...
Or hold a perimeter.
The dream isn’t opposed; it is ignored.
Not crushed, but overtaken by the math of reality.
France cannot keep its lights on. Britain cannot move groceries.
Germany cannot make steel.
They are burning forests to stay warm...
Yet people think they’ll launch Operation Final Return?
The plan requires soldiers, steel, sleep, & surplus... all sold for TikToks & therapy.
& so they say “It’s just a question of Will”...
But the machine is rusted & the map erased.
No One is coming. Not because they are afraid...
But because the road has already collapsed.
3. 📜 🧳 Paperwork is King. 🖇️ ⚖️
“Deport them all,” the chant repeats...
But few can file a passport form without assistance.
They forget that most were born here,
Shielded by courts, names inked on sealed documents.
They aren’t shadows in alleys;
They are indexed citizens, bracketed by statute & jurisdiction.
Every face imagined for erasure is already archived,
Logged, or married into the register.
No One removes what is embedded so deeply...
That the file predates the chant’s first echo.
Each comes with layers:
Birth certificate, education record, asylum verdict, & custody appeal.
Their presence isn’t spectral;
It is notarized, adjudicated, & signed with pens that outlast revolutions.
Every attempt at “return” is a paper war, & in that war, the machinery is perfected.
Not to crush resistance. Only to delay it; slowly, politely, with signatures & wait times.
The van stops not for mobs,
But for injunctions descending like snow on exhausted asphalt.
The bus cannot move because a fax machine issued a stay. The driver cannot proceed.
There is no villain here... only backlog. Only systems designed for stasis, not reversal.
No One is ready to process a removal. The state was built to import, not exhale.
Airlines don’t wait with engines warm.
No flight plan is ready for sovereign subtraction.
No deportation charters are waiting for call signs;
Only flights with no clearance to land.
Who grants re-entry to the stateless?
Who mans the gate during these political abstractions?
One can’t rerun the empire via Ryanair,
Nor charter through embassies that closed a decade ago.
NGOs outnumber admins. Paralegals outflank policies.
Appeals arrive faster than removals.
Courts stall. Clerks review. Doctors note trauma.
Social workers delay. & the moment recedes...
Even the paperwork of rage must pass through scanners. Even exile must be stamped.
No One fights bureaucracy with passion.
Its defence is Time, not steel; protocol, not will.
“To change the law,” they declare,
But who writes it, votes for it, & survives its enactment?
No bloc has a majority; No motion survives chamber...
As ministries draft statements of regret.
Civil servants don’t obey slogans.
They process forms, leak memos, & issue clarifications.
No rebellion is administered. No reckoning is coded in JavaScript.
No uprising files quarterly.
To act, One must pass background checks.
To staff the camps, One must pass HR reviews.
Said bureaucrats already chose a side;
Papers over people, policy over myth, inertia over intent.
The dream of reversal presumes momentum.
But stasis isn’t a pause; it is triumph by attrition.
In the end, even the dream collapses... not by bullet or riot, but by inbox & form.
What One faces isn’t a regime of terror, but a cathedral of clerical infinity.
A hall of filings, of soft stamps, of slow denials. & no One walks out victorious.
4. 🛢️ ⚙️ The Physics of Collapse. 🔋🚧
It is said collapse comes by fear or treason, but often it arrives through mass & heat.
States don’t fail for lack of courage...
They fail when energy drops below operating thresholds.
They demand return, Restoration, & revenge...
But the grid can’t be powered just by emotion.
Steel doesn’t arrive by nationalism. Diesel doesn’t ignite through slogans.
Rail runs on physics.
To move a million souls isn’t a wish; it is a volume of food, fuel, & flesh.
Every dream of expulsion has weight...
Tonnage of water, tons of meat, rows of idle tires.
One cannot deport with desire alone,
But with calories, manpower, rail gauges, & asphalt.
The buses must eat too...
Rubber, belts, brake fluid, shifts, dispatch logs, maintenance contracts.
& there is no surplus left...
Only systems operating One outage away from logistical seizure.
France burns coal again to survive December.
Britain buckled from a trucker shortage alone.
Germany unbuilt itself by unbolting Russian gas...
A Civilization unplugged by its own ethics.
& still the vision persists... fleets, barracks, bunkers, & databases...
Reawakened by conviction.
But conviction cannot refuel aircraft. It cannot patch fibre optics.
It cannot mine magnesium.
Logistics from nations where infrastructure trembles at rainfall & late invoices...
Is impossible.
This isn’t about Will. This is about Watt.
About voltage, pressure, conductivity, & throughput.
To reverse demography,
One must survive the winter without rolling blackouts & rationed heat.
The riot police require sleep. The drivers need to be paid.
The IT system is down again.
The state isn’t paused; it is degraded.
It leaks capacity faster than any doctrine can patch.
One doesn’t win by waking the machine. The machine is gone. Only the shell remains.
Bureaucracy survived, but ministry died. Forms exist, but furnaces don’t.
Budgets are bounced.
The spreadsheet still opens, but no One left knows what the columns mean anymore.
No empire survives this.
No network of sorting & purging can emerge post-energy-decline.
For every man One would remove,
There is a need for metrics, storage, protein, & boots.
& there aren’t enough boots. Not enough uniforms. Not enough calories.
Not enough steel.
Even China, with all its engines, doesn’t run deportation programs at this scale.
Even Israel, hyper-militarized, can’t erase Palestine.
Even Denmark retreats behind payouts.
What they all imagine is but an extinct apparatus...
From a Time when the economy still rotated on surplus.
But surplus is gone. What remains is triage & attrition. No room for moral logistics.
One doesn’t deport millions in a nation...
That cannot maintain sewer lines or traffic lights.
Even if the plan were right, the mass is wrong.
Even if the will rose, the pipes would burst.
5. 🧍♂️ 🍼 The Womb Closed Long Before the Border Did. 👶🏽 📉
They spoke of sovereignty,
Yet forgot the soil requires sons before it yields permanence.
One cannot evict what replaced what was never born.
The ledger contains no names to restore.
The line has broken not in law, but in womb.
The fields lie fallow in spirit & flesh.
Fertility isn’t culture. It is breath. It is blood.
It is numbers no myth can rewrite.
1.3, 1.2, 0.9.. these aren’t stats.
These are countdowns toward the end of Civilization in Silence.
No Civilization has returned from this.
No culture has reversed this arithmetic of vanishing.
One may chant “Return!”...
But who returns when the cradle is shut & the family tree ends?
What law reopens the womb?
What policy restores the unborn, the missing, & the lost heir?
The migrant didn’t conquer. He simply arrived.
& in his hand: bread, prayer, lineage, direction.
They brought five children. The native brought a complaint.
One built schools. The other closed nurseries forever.
They walk together toward a future.
The native stares backward into graves with blank plaques.
The childless wave flags in barren winds.
The fertile recite the Qur'an at playgrounds, long emptied out.
It wasn’t an invasion. It was an invitation... through empty houses, & silent chapels.
One can’t deport what One already conceded...
Through inaction, doubt, & sterilized afternoons.
The migrant isn’t strong. But strength isn’t required when the host withers in spirit.
They aren’t victorious. They outlasted the Silence.
They replaced no One. No One remained.
Lineage isn’t ideology. It is labour. It is repetition.
It is patience under metaphysical law.
Those who refused birth must now witness burial...
Not of others, but of their own line.
One cannot speak of civilizational defence...
While fearing fatherhood more than erasure.
No court can summon children. No agency revives lineages.
No tribunal restores sperm counts.
There are no battalions without boys. No parades without daughters...
& No myth without grandchildren to remember them.
The womb closed before the gates. That was the actual loss.
Borders fell after. Not before.
One can patch the wall, but not the soul.
& the soul expired with the final child’s absence.
They pray for Restoration...
But their lineage in the archives is marked “no further descendants.”
The women rejected the future. The men receded into fantasy.
The family imploded & froze.
They called this liberation, but it was a refusal.
Of motherhood. Of sacrifice. Of continuity.
& now they speak of eviction...
Of correcting demography without first repairing biology.
But Time doesn’t wait.
The migrant’s sons memorize verses while the native scrolls away days.
& when the last native dies, there will be no One left to bury him, no One to mourn.
Only the sound of children playing...
In a language he never learned, on a land once claimed.
6. 🌐 📦 Return to Sender? They Can’t Even Find the Envelope! 📫 📉
Let us pretend, briefly, that resolve returns...
That somewhere, spine survives beneath the dust.
That One finds courage amid tablets,
& forgotten passwords for state logins long expired.
Let us imagine momentum...
Charters arranged, vans summoned, printers warmed for processing the reversal.
But no One remembers how to print forms anymore.
The driver retired. The server is down.
Thirty million isn’t a statistic;
It is a superstate, spanning postcodes, Time zones, & dialects.
Their protections span constitutions. Their advocates span law firms & ministries.
Every “send back” contains a question:
Where? Which airport? Which passport? Which embassy will answer?
Most have none. Stateless in practice, naturalized in the database.
No return address on file.
The state once managed relocation...
When paper was king, & officials stayed past noon.
Now it runs on outdated software, manuals in dead formats,
& policies rewritten each quarter.
The clerks are outsourced. The translators unionized.
The legal team speaks twelve languages.
The moment One begins, the system replies not with violence...
But error codes & help tickets.
Each step toward reversal triggers another prompt:
A consent form, biometric confirmation, court notification, & a health waiver.
One cannot deport with maps...
But via machines, chain-of-custody signatures, & redundancy.
Who builds the detention centers? Schedules the flights?
Feeds the children between transfers?
The airline won’t fly. The contractor won’t sign.
The town refuses the site. The riot begins.
Even warzones run better than bureaucracies...
Without a moral consensus or surplus logistics.
& this vision has neither. No One will fund it. No One will fuel it. No One will wait.
The dream collapses not under resistance,
But under unprinted tickets & unpaid invoices.
The children have schools. The parents have jobs.
The court calls them residents. The ministry agrees.
One can’t expel those...
Who’ve grown roots under policies signed into law in bygone decades.
The system cannot reverse its own flow. It can stall, drift, glitch, rot... but never revert.
The archive resists deletion.
Every departure needs consent forms & acceptance abroad.
The consulates refuse. No nation accepts phantoms. No borders reopen for said farce.
One doesn’t return people like parcels.
One doesn’t reverse entries via righteous monologues.
No One deported Kabul correctly. Infants were left on tarmacs.
Allies clung to landing gear.
That was war. This is infrastructure. & the latter is harder to defeat than insurgents.
The ministries don’t listen. They auto-reply. The systems don’t obey. They Time out.
There is no envelope. There is no address.
There is only sediment... layered, legal, permanent.
& no One can find the edge of the ledger, where reversal might begin again.
7. 🧬 ⚰️ Remigration Is Ritual Grief. 🕯️ 📿
This isn’t strategy. It is mourning.
A dirge masked as doctrine. A liturgy for the unbegotten.
They call it remigration, but it resembles a chant for the dead...
Recited at dusk by the landless.
No plan lies beneath the slogan...
Only the ache of extinction, dressed in slogans & flag colours.
What One witnesses isn’t policy, but grief.
Grief for the unborn. The father that never was.
The land no longer held, the nation dissolved before memory...
Reassembled only in forums.
It isn’t hatred that drives this.
It is longing, projected outward from a wound too old to trace.
The fantasy persists not from hope, but because nothing else remains to speak of.
They don’t seek conquest. They seek a reversal of Time itself.
A cleansing that can never come.
The migrant becomes a scapegoat not for power, but for absence...
For the lost inheritance.
The rituals emerge: maps reposted, slogans retyped, podcasts from empty sanctuaries.
Each vision of return is a fiction for coping with finality...
Like drawing a home on an urn.
There is no road back. The city has changed.
The school speaks new tongues. The altar is gone.
Even the ghosts have departed,
& the soil can’t recognize the names once carved in its grain.
The imagined homeland exists now only as a watermark...
Behind the last ancestral photograph.
To say “send them back” isn’t to propose action;
It is to light incense before a vanished God.
The grief is deep, but directionless.
It circles in myth, invoking trains, trials, banners, codes.
But none arrive. The banners fade. The trains rust. The nation becomes a footnote.
One doesn’t mourn by marching. One mourns by mythmaking...
& these are myths of evaporation.
Hymns disguised as policies. Funeral rites wrapped in hashtags & declarations.
The priests are streamers now:
Their pulpits glow. Their vestments are branded. Their sacraments: nostalgia & rage.
The congregation doesn’t breed, but remembers.
Doesn’t build, but archives. Doesn’t fight, but reenacts.
They are widows of a civilizational marriage that never bore fruit...
Chanting for a reversal.
Marvin Harris would understand:
It is cultural materialism to mask demographic entropy.
Societies create ideologies to obscure what they cannot repair. This is no exception.
These aren’t revolutionaries. These are mourners.
But the casket holds not others, but Self.
The imagined return is a shroud...
Not of reclamation, but of coping in the dusk of meaning.
There is no Restoration. No cycle. No Second Coming of the ancestral household.
There is but a grief ritual...
Richly adorned, chanted in dying tongues, for a future that left.
8. ⚰️ 🪦 No, They Won’t Go Back. 🧾 📉
This isn’t the intermission. It is the end. The closing ledger. The final unpaid invoice.
The chant isn’t the first cry of a giant awakening. It is the echo of embalming rites.
The future isn’t a battlefield. It is a spreadsheet. & the cells are already filled.
The system One hopes to seize was never theirs; it was built to erase, not to serve.
The last agency that could act...
Now manages recycling programs & gender equity webinars.
The army they imagine is a DEI internship.
The police require two-factor clearance to operate.
One cannot retake...
What was forfeited in law, language, blood, & breath over three generations.
The state isn’t sleeping. It is decomposing...
An HR shell, a pension scheme, a fading form.
Schools teach children to forget. The churches chant statistics.
The unions mourn pronouns.
& still they say, “Take it back.” But there is nothing to take.
Only placeholders. Only branding.
The state now belongs to the auditors. The courts to the clerks.
The myth to the market.
Even identity is administered by an algorithm, leased from platforms they don’t own.
The dream of reversal has lost all agency to carry it out.
No men. No mandate. No matter.
Even citizenship is contingent...
On updated browser settings & Terms of Service acceptance.
One doesn’t seize a state that no longer governs.
One doesn’t retake what no longer exists.
There will be no mass deportations.
No reckonings. No final speech. Just a change in signage.
No monument will be built for their loss. No memorial liturgy for the absence of birth.
The cities will be renamed. The squares will be repaved.
The flags will be redesigned again.
& the Silence will deepen...
Not with horror, but with forgetting, with polite transitions.
Those who remain will raise children in new tongues.
They will cite new laws. They won’t ask.
The original owners will pass quietly...
Childless, adrift, arguing with bots & moderators.
No One will answer their calls or open their manifestos or translate their grief.
Their legacies will vanish in cached pages, closed bank accounts,
& DNA tests with no match.
The migrant doesn’t conquer. He inherits. & he does so with calm, steady feet.
He thanks his Lord. He walks his children to school.
He plants where others wrote manifestos.
He waits... not for war, but for the default. For attrition. For expiration by Silence.
One cannot reclaim what One didn’t guard. Cannot restore what One refused to birth.
& now it ends. Not with fire, or screams.
But with unsubscribed newsletters & expired IDs.
The last prayer wasn't a decree. It was an automated reply.
“Access denied. Session timed out.”
& the homeland is gone. Not burned. Not overrun. Just… reallocated.
⚰️ ☠️ The DOOM Cometh…! 📉 🔥
 | A guest post by
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Yes, I think the writing is on the wall for Europe and the 'native inhabitants', to use a term that is fast losing meaning. But what then, a more homogenous world? If Britain, say, is ultimately populated by people of sub-Saharan African and Pakistani origin will it resemble those places in most respects? Will the USA be no different to the rest of Latin America? I supposed this sort of equilization will turn off some of the drivers of migration and an equilibrium will be reached. No more first world-third world difference in living standards or infrastructure. No more "NGOs" encouraging the movements and campaigning for benefits for immigrants. No difference in systems of government, in the end. Perhaps the appeal of moving to cold and grey Britain will fade when there's nothing more to offer there than at home.
While its true that the newcomers will not be expulsed by the dying native europeans, it is however entirely possible that they might abandon certain areas of their own accord as western europe collapses and the natives are not maintain crucial infrastructure anymore.
This is what happened in many provinces of rome, after the empire collapsed.