Years ago, an amazing man told me he no longer wanted to be my friend. After one heated conversation, he said, “I cannot talk to a person who fundamentally believes that apartheid was good1.” We then temporarily reconciled, but our rupture was probably made inevitable as my political beliefs became less egalitarian and my questions more unpleasant. Most friends and acquaintances eventually grow to dislike me, but his kindness and understanding made our falling out hurt just a little more than usual.

What made this friend so special was his empathy and his intelligence. Like many English social democrats with a fundamentally decent worldview, he had considerable empathy. He was one of the few people who would spend his valuable time helping me understand the intricacies of psephology and correcting my misunderstandings of how real people thought.

Years later, he said that I was a stupid and boring fascist who could not understand that my politics were undermining and destroying everything I loved and blocking me2. Since then, I have become more open and honest about my evil far-right inclinations. I thought it best to at least give him an honest answer.

A Place to Call Home

A Place To Call Home

Let’s imagine an alternate reality in which 1 million Japanese, Koreans, Taiwanese, and Chinese all elected to emigrate to the Republic of Ireland in the span of a decade. Let’s also assume that these Irish Asians have settled across the Republic rather than concentrating in Greater Dublin. Towns and cities that were once homogeneous and a bit sleepy would become home to large, healthy communities that would bring about huge changes.

These Asian immigrants learn to love Guinness and participate in GAA leagues. Many of them work dirty, difficult, time-consuming, and dispiriting jobs that Irish people are glad to give up. Towns like Athlone and Portlaoise see their low-end chippies become mid-market Korean barbecue restaurants.

A generation of schoolchildren becomes accustomed to the smell of Hunanese braised pork and Daegu kimchi during lunchtime. The lunch ladies start serving surprisingly edible versions of Osaka-style tonkatsu and stinky tofu. Some teenagers start thinking, “Why learn Irish when half my friends speak Korean?” and “Is Ryukyu Japan’s version of the six counties?” An autistic student at Belvedere College starts drawing pictures of Irish Pikachu and Derry Ultra-Girl, becoming one of Ireland’s first great manga-kas.

Japanese-Irish chefs turn Galway into one of the few European towns that make perfect soba, sushi, tempura, and unagi. A New York Times critic dubs it “Edo by the Corrib.” In the ensuing years, thousands of foodies drive to Clifden to enjoy an amazing, locally sourced version of sushi omakase that puts Tokyo to shame and still feels intrinsically Irish.

Thanks to ingenious Chinese-Irish engineers, Dubliners and Corkonians now enjoy proper subway networks that rival London and Paris. Korean-Irish music execs turn the nation’s attractive 19-year-old buskers into worldwide stars singing Celtic pop. In time, people start to expand the circle of Irishness. Thanks to the million or so Irish Asians and their contributions, many cosmopolitan citizens begin to truly believe that the Republic of Ireland can serve as a bridge between Europe and East Asia.

This is supposed to be a bad thing?

But it ain’t all Castlebar-style tofu and seafood stew and spotless North Dublin video game arcades either. In time, the million or so Irish Asians start to throw their weight around.

One of the first flashpoints is education. Many Asian-Irish parents begin pushing for selective grammar schools in the Republic. They point out that Northern Ireland already has them and that their children’s work ethic is producing uncomfortable grade gaps.

The debate in the Dáil turns poisonous. A Sinn Féin TD calls the proposal “elitist and divisive.” A gifted Fine Gael minister tries to explain the sensitivities around Northern Ireland’s system, but her fear of being labeled racist causes her to sound like ChatGPT. When a rural TD from Kerry pushes back with typical country bluntness — “We built this country for our people” — Twitter and TikTok explode for two weeks. The hashtag #AllOurPeople becomes a lefty rallying cry. The phrase “model minority myth” gets trotted out by people who never had to sit the Junior Cert alongside kids whose parents ran cram schools from the age of seven.

Meanwhile, mass resentment festers in the schools. Native Irish students watch their Asian peers dominate academically, win nearly every scholarship, and take up just about every university place. Some respond with racist taunts in the playground. A surly teacher tells a late-blooming pupil who has only begun blossoming in her final year, “Of course, your application went nowhere. Your entire class is Asian!”

Parents in towns like Sligo complain that tiger parenting and weekend Chinese schools have turned their close-knit community into an unending pressure-cooked competition. GAA games become dull formalities full of players who treat sport like an extracurricular. The Ireland that once moved at its own characteristically chaotic pace starts to feel like it’s being outworked and out-organized by a people who treat some aspects of success as a non-negotiable compact with their ancestors.

Three decades down the line, Irish Asians become an incredibly powerful group that people quietly resent, openly admire, and try not to fear. Their numbers, especially in major cities, make politicians of all stripes eager (if not always willing) to advocate policies once alien. Too many fresh-faced TDs and councilors try to pander to Irish Asian voters by speaking Korean and making anti-racist bromides. One Social Democrat TD goes so far as to say, “Taiwan, like the North, is being manipulated by foreign forces.”

Immigration eventually becomes the most toxic political issue because the desired consensus for carefully managed inflows clashes with the need to maintain generous family reunification, work visas, and golden investor programs. A voter in Wicklow complains that his area isn’t receiving any of the investment despite being a hotspot for rich Chinese emigrants. The retiring councilor lashes out at him, furious that anyone would question his life’s great achievement — the diversification of the area.

In time, the native Irish gradually resign themselves to being lectured by the most sanctimonious superiors at work. Their resentment at no longer feeling comfortable in their old neighborhoods, at seeing their children condescended to by the most insufferable overachieving fifteen-year-olds, and at being disdained by their more cosmopolitan peers curdles into silent resignation.

Many self-segregate, move further into the country, and speak in code. It’s an uneasy cold peace that makes everyone a little more miserable.

What’s Your Point?

The point of this ridiculous thought experiment isn’t to demand that every non-white person in a white country be deported so you can all eat cabbage and bacon stew forever. It’s to show people like my old friend — and anyone reading this — that even high-skill immigration has real drawbacks.

Nations, especially small ones, are made by their people. When the people change, the nation changes too. It’s just a cold fact that we hate accepting.

My friend believed countries succeed because of strong culture and practical thinking. I knew from our first conversations on Twitter that his parents and community had given him indestructible decency. That’s why he could tolerate stupid and boring fascists like me for so long.

But the color of your skin, the god you worship, and the language you speak aren’t just optional traits you can melt away with therapy and a liberal arts degree. They shape the kind of person you become and the kind of society you build. My friend came from one world. I came from another. Pretending those differences don’t matter is exactly how you end up with the Ireland I just described — clean, rich, full of great food, and quietly miserable.

Look at what actually gets lost. The old chaotic Irish pace that once felt like home. The meaningful GAA matches. Schools where native kids could still compete without constant test prep and endless cramming. Neighborhoods where you recognized almost every face and didn’t have to speak in code. Those small, everyday structures that hold a society together don’t survive mass demographic change intact. They erode gradually, then suddenly, until people are left with quiet resignation and a country that no longer feels like theirs.

Few great nations ever had truly closed borders, and even fewer truly believed there was no cost to diversity. If nothing else, stop calling people evil for noticing the changes around them — and stop believing the Western world can turn every last person into a Hobhouse-reading Nanci Griffith enthusiast.

No Longer a Cantonese Ethnostate

Did you know that the fastest-growing population in Hong Kong is not mainland Chinese? In fact, they aren’t even Chinese at all—much less East Asian. If you did, you’re probably more observant than most Hong Kong residents.

Believe it or not, the fastest-growing group is Africans, South Asians, and Southeast Asians. In the 2021 census, they accounted for nearly 10% of the population—a sharp rise from 2001. While much of the media obsesses over the decline of White expatriates and the influx of mainland professionals, the future of Hong Kong is set to be significantly browner and blacker.

It’s no secret that we Yellow people aren’t having kids anymore. Vanishingly few of my friends from school or university have children, and those who do aren’t having many.

Hong Kong’s dependence on underpaid, mistreated migrant labor from Southeast Asia has only deepened since the 1970s. These workers—almost always women—have little recourse when abused. They lack political representation, meaningful workplace rights, and institutions willing to defend them. It is now clear that many no longer return to Indonesia or the Philippines when their contracts end or their bodies give out. The women who have raised nearly two generations of Hong Kong children are now having children of their own here—children similarly deprived of rights.

Many of these children speak fluent Cantonese, engage deeply with Hong Kong culture, and contribute to society. Some are even gaining prominence by voicing discontent with the sinocentric yet anglophilic worldview of middle-class Hong Kong. Unlike mainlanders, whose complaints are often dismissed, these young people carry real credibility because they grew up alongside us. They are becoming less invisible—and less deferential—with every passing year.

Hong Kong society, and the government in particular, has no plan for dealing with a homegrown generation of non-Chinese residents who are fluent in our ways and increasingly assertive about their interests. The fact that many lack formal settled status is beside the point. They are residents, if not citizens.

DEPORT?

The Immigration Department could, in theory, deport or denaturalize them—or even ask Beijing to reinterpret the Basic Law to avert a crisis. After all, it has happened before. In 2001, when the Court of Final Appeal ruled that mainland parents of Hong Kong-born children had the right to stay, the Chief Executive went to Beijing. The NPCSC reinterpreted the Basic Law for the first time in history, and the ruling was overturned. The stakes were clear: if every mainland citizen could secure residency through an “anchor baby,” the city’s resources would be overwhelmed. It was a no-brainer.

Hong Kong’s immigration regime is anything but light-touch. Despite the elite’s obsequious attitude toward Beijing, getting in is difficult. It requires marketable skills, a solid university degree, and a viable plan to contribute. Of roughly a million “top talent” visa applications, only 330,000 were approved—and just 220,000 actually arrived last year. Much is made of Hong Kong’s “mainlandization,” but enough bright young mainlanders will admit over a beer that the city was only ever a fallback—Singapore and San Francisco were the real prizes.

Yet when the conversation turns to the rising numbers of Black and Brown people who perform dirty, low-paid jobs and choose to raise their children in the very city that mistreats them daily, the same tired bromides appear: “They’re transients,” “They have no right to permanent residency,” and “We can always send them back.” Hong Kong’s self-satisfied middle class, so quick to mock the West for its decadence, cannot imagine a future in which the state is no longer able to clear them out.

Susie doesn’t even have a pension!

This blind spot persists for an obvious reason. Hong Kong remains remarkably unsentimental toward the Brown and Black women who clean our homes and raise our children. Laws on the books promise dignity and fairness, but the reality for most domestic helpers is anything but.

I was raised by a succession of Filipino women paid a pittance. They worked from sunrise to the early hours, six days a week, and endured routine verbal abuse from adults who should have known better. When my father was dying, Susie—the woman who essentially raised me—slept beside my mother every night. Instead of a proper bed or even a cot, she was given a thin mattress on the floor next to the king-sized bed. She continued this arrangement for months after my father’s death. My mother never acknowledged the sacrifice, even as she lavished praise on her. Did I mention Susie doesn’t have a retirement plan? Believe it or not, the law expects her to die penniless.

Even as Hong Kong families grow ever more dependent on domestic helpers, we still treat them as fundamentally separate from us. Few parents pause to question whether it’s fair to demand a full home-cooked meal of steamed fish and kangkong on a maid’s only day off. Even fewer ask whether forcing them to live in already cramped apartments is reasonable.

What the fuck should we do then?

One day, Hong Kong people will have to accept that the Black and Brown residents among us can no longer be considered apart from us. Once we acknowledge that most will not remigrate—because we refuse to grant them status or a genuine sense of belonging—we will need a real national conversation about what it means to be a Hong Kong person. The national pastime of complaining about colonial legacies and excessive welfare spending won’t get us there.

Who are the Whites and what counts as White?

Many of the world’s smartest and most educated and morally upright people insist that whiteness, however real in a sociological and political sense, does not really exist biologically. When they say “race is just a social construct,” they don’t deny its presence. These Berkeley grads just deny that the color of your skin (or the shape of your nose, or the texture of your hair) has any meaning beyond what other humans assign or project onto it.

Are the poor coal miners of West Virginia or the guidos of the Jersey Coast truly white? Even so, are they white in the same way as the Grosvenor family? Knowing the answers to these questions is key to any productive conversations about white people and whiteness.

Who are the whites?

(Basically, every vaguely fair-skinned person from Europe whose DNA plots inside the big European blob on a PCA chart.)

It’s very easy to spot a white person in the wild, especially in an incredibly ethnically and racially diverse metropolis like London, New York City, or even North Dublin. The average white person will be wearing stylish stretchy pants, a tasteful shirt, and a boring coat. He or she will either be in excellent shape or could use an extra weekly workout.

They love learning about other cultures in a passionate yet detached way, are deeply opinionated about mahogany, and love reading middlebrow political tracts. Their favorite foods include matcha-infused drinks, some types of red or white meat accompanied by bread or potatoes, and salted caramel ice cream.

Every white country has extremely different variations of this type of person, but it all points in the same direction. Peripheral Whites like the Southern Italians or the Black Irish have a more olive-like skin tone and rich, dark hair; Greeks insist they actually enjoy eating octopus, and Croatians like to think they possess the secret to attracting billionaire patrons who pay their staff under the table. These are all very interesting quirks, but they are all Europeans. They are all the result of the same ancient farmer + steppe + hunter-gatherer recipe, just stirred in different ways. In the end, they all believe in affordable egalitarianism and feel entitled to overpriced coffee.

If all else fails, here are two ways to truly know if someone is White.

• Does said man or woman look and feel like someone who would be coveted by a 26-year-old neurotic Asian American?

• Ask them, “Are you white?” If they look uneasy, a bit concerned for your sanity, or just plain annoyed, then you’re speaking to a bona fide white person.

WEIRD Kulchure

Let’s be honest: when most people talk about whiteness and white culture, they aren’t exactly talking about cacio e pepe, Grigori Perelman, or even how the Winged Hussars saved Europe from the Ottomans at Vienna.

When your average woke person or Asian parent talks about whiteness — especially in that special derogatory tone — they conjure up a very different, far less flattering, and weirdly profound collection of traits. Think: free-market capitalism, gap years, or a posh git spending his sabbatical in a tastefully furnished cabin in northern Sweden, or a lovely suite at the Lisbon Ritz, to finally finish his magnum opus.

These are all aspects of WEIRD culture — the psychological and behavioral package that originated and was nurtured in northwestern Europe (England, the Netherlands, Scandinavia, and much of the German world) and has since become the most prestigious and most despised culture on earth. Like classical liberalism, it’s the original culture that spawned a thousand enemies.

The Weirds are the extreme psychological variant of Europeans that emerged in northwestern Europe a thousand years ago. They’re the people who exhibit ungodly levels of individualism, analytical thinking, trust in strangers, and that special guilt-based moral system that is kinda endearing but also deeply counterproductive outside the West. Perhaps it was the rain or the demoralizing climate, but these countries gave birth to the original high-trust, self-critical, restrained, luxury-obsessed, pasty-skinned people.

The culture of Westernized, Educated, Individualistic, Rich, and Democratic people came about after some wise guy in the Western Catholic Church (probably in England, but it could be anywhere) said to a colleague, “Gerard, I’m beginning to think that incest and clannishness are getting in the way of proper prayer and obedience to God. Besides, it’s just awful on a practical level. Let’s stamp this out in the name of Jesus.”

So for the next six hundred years, the Western Catholic Church spent real time and energy changing the psychology and way of life of millions of people. The Church banned any type of cousin marriage, outlawed polygamy with a vengeance, made divorce and remarriage into an incredibly difficult and bureaucratic process, and (crucially) pushed individual-based inheritance laws.

The result was that, gradually and then suddenly, your average German or Swede started marrying outside their clan. Wealth, land, and loyalty slowly seeped out of large extended families. Powerful men were no longer able to build huge kin networks that came with multiple wives and spousal swapping. New inheritance laws weakened the incentives to have big families, and people began finding suitors who were the right match rather than the best for the clan.

This state- and church-led social engineering produced a strange culture that made analytical thinking (breaking big concepts into smaller chunks to make logical reasoning easier), trusting complete strangers, and cooperating with men and women you’d otherwise despise for mutual benefit, utterly normal.

It’s hard to explain how much of a sea change this has become in historical terms. Other great civilizations, like Ancient China and Rome, were built on strong familial ties and more collectivist cultures. Sophisticated concepts such as Roman virtues and filial piety were nurtured and refined within a different paradigm.

Capitalism, Self-Hate, and the possible end of whiteness

By the time Northwestern Europeans had gone full WEIRD, the rest of humanity was still crawling out of the Dark Ages. Trade, the Protestant work ethic, half-decent universities, and a sudden hunger for something beyond Aristotle’s extended shitposts and yet another interpretation of the Bible all kicked in at once. By the early 1600s, Europe had clawed its way back to the living standards of its ancient ancestors. Settler colonialism, coal, and the steam engines cranked it up to proverbial warp speed. The Malthusian Trap was finally smashed. Technology could suddenly feed, clothe, educate, and enlighten millions more people than ever before. And these weirdos were not content to sit pretty in Leuven libraries, Krakow seminaries, and the pubs of Merry Olde England.

These Brits, Germans, Poles, Dutch — even the Italians — fanned out across the planet and exported their strange new psychology along with their muskets and their bracket clocks. To the world’s detriment and benefit, it worked all too well.

Today, a Beijinger studies at a university still modeled on Salamanca and the Sorbonne. A Black South African washes down a cheeseburger and fries with an ice-cold Coke. A Mexican American with Oaxacan roots speaks fluent Spanish and English instead of Zapotec. The entire planet, especially you, now runs on a mindset that barely existed seven centuries ago.

What happens when the Whites are all gone?

Unfortunately, this story did not end with these blue-eyed, blonde-haired aliens riding off into the sunset and enjoying their classical liberalism while listening to Ryo Fukui albums in the comfort of their own net-zero lakehouses.

Around 75 to 80 years ago, these Northwestern Weirds — the same highly trusting, guilt-constrained, analytical weirdos who smashed clans, broke the Malthusian Trap, and exported their mindset to the entire planet — became the only ones actively trying to apologize it out of existence.

They’ve turned their own tools of self-criticism and universal trustworthiness against the very people who made any of this possible. Today, white people and whiteness are persona non grata. It’s not only responsible for unintentional microaggressions and questionable reinterpretations of nigiri sushi, but it’s also a system that chains us all to low pay and low self-esteem on a burning planet. The undeniably Caucasian super-lesbian literary demoness, Susan Sontag, went so far as to call her brethren “the cancer of human history.” You laugh, but it’s what most young educated people think, regardless of race or class.

The saddest part of this whole process isn’t just white demographic decline, the last two or so decades of genuinely harmful self-flagellation, or the potential breakup of Britain and the hollowing out of mother Europa. I’m a Hong Kong person. I know that all good things come to an end. No golden age lasts forever; just consult a Chinese history book or a chart of US Total Factor Productivity.

So yes — the poor coal miners of West Virginia, the guidos of the Jersey Coast, the Grosvenor family, the Black Irish, the Southern Italians, the Poles, the Greeks, and every vaguely fair-skinned European whose DNA sits inside that big European blob on the PCA chart are all White. They’re all the same ancient farmer + steppe + hunter-gatherer recipe, just stirred differently.

The real question isn’t “who counts as White.”
It’s whether the Weirds will keep harming themselves until there’s no one left who remembers how this truly magical culture was birthed and nurtured.

Conclusion

Why do I care? It’s not because I think white people are morally superior. I’ve spent way too many years in special ed schools to believe any group has a monopoly on virtue.

I just know they built something rare: a form of ordered liberty that hasn’t been matched by Hong Kongers, Rwandans, Qataris, or even the Japanese.

That’s why millions of us keep showing up at your borders. We may make better pasta now, but we still can’t bottle that specific freedom.

As much as it pains me to admit it, drinks in ultra-capitalist Kowloon don’t quite hit the same as driving down the Pacific Coast Highway or bombing a flirt with a six-foot woke Oxford math tutor and still feeling victorious when she says, “That’s very kind. Have a good day.”

I want Lap Gong Jr. to have the same experience when he visits Cambridge someday.

Three weeks ago, the Jolly Heretic invited me to his old country of England. He and his team were filming two major documentaries about the state of Middle England, focusing on the towns of Slough, Windsor, and Oxford. The goal was to document and comment on the effects of Britain’s demographic change and economic stagnation in these very different locales. By the end of the trip, I had far more experiences than I bargained for. This article isn’t a summary of the films—you can watch those yourself. Instead, it’s about what I saw in those three towns and how I felt during the shoot.

The first thing readers should know is that Ed Dutton is a dynamic, incorrigible personality both on and off camera. He’s an intelligent street fighter who has no problem speaking his mind and diving into verbal scraps. Two moments stand out. During our shoot in Slough, a creepy busybody trailed us, filming with his phone. The unkempt late-twentysomething looked every bit the Reddit warrior and had no qualms trying to shame Dutton. “Why are you here? What are you doing here? I want to know your motives,” he demanded. As soon as Ed noticed him, he laid it on thick: “This is a public space. We have every right to film here. You’re a spiteful mutant with no purpose beyond shaming people for thinking differently.” Eventually, the puffed-up hero scurried away. Ed remained unfazed, and the crew was finally free to continue filming.

The second incident happened toward the end of our shoot in Windsor. As we were wrapping up, a fortysomething woman approached Ed and implied he was in trouble for filming teenage students. Even though we hadn’t stepped onto Eton College’s campus or interacted with any students or staff, she tried to sound authoritative. “There are children here,” she said. Though visibly exhausted, Ed laid it on thick once more: “I’m sorry, but I haven’t broken any law. We’re in a public place and haven’t intruded on your space. The law is the law—I can cite it for you if you like.” The woman retreated toward the campus. Afterward, Ed told the crew and me that women like her rely on guilt-tripping to get their way, which is why you should never give in and must stand firm. It was somewhat unedifying to witness his pugilism up close.

The most eye-opening part of the shoot was seeing Slough’s partially dilapidated state and uneven development. Once a strong hub of the white working-class community, it is now a diverse town benefiting from AI-related investment. We started filming at the railway station, where a gigantic supermarket sat beside a multi-story car park. Next to it stood a sterile office block that looked like the result of a compromise between a value engineer and a junior architect. It was clear the town was hungry for investment. While residents seemed cautiously optimistic that their town was on the upswing, the main thoroughfare felt like a cheap outdoor mall. One older Asian man lamented the loss of his white working-class friends as they slowly departed. The cracked floors, empty chain restaurants, and closed mom-and-pop stores were disheartening. Though the public realm was decent, an underlying lifelessness lingered.

Seeing corners of the town treated like a mini-dump made me question the wisdom of joining the shoot. Before reaching the high street, we came across a half-derelict two-story house. What should have been a handsome family home was now partitioned into a shabby downstairs apartment and what appeared to be a boarding house. Graffiti covered the walls, trash littered the area near the doors, and the small patch of grass was overgrown. The street wasn’t much better—aside from a fried food shop and a Bulgarian mart, it showed clear signs of long-term wear and tear. This isn’t to say the town was beyond redemption. The office blocks, police station, and council buildings bustled with productive people. What felt most damning was the sense of self-segregation: residents of every race, class, and religion seemed simply to be staying out of each other’s way. Ironically, the most optimistic person we met in Slough was a Somali migrant—a twentysomething YouTuber with infectious enthusiasm who spoke about data centers and the tight-knit community. He even offered a nuanced take on immigration and demographic change. In retrospect, he was the most sensible and even-keeled person we interviewed. He didn’t roll his eyes or act aggrieved—he simply listened and engaged.

After filming, we piled into a taxi and headed to Windsor. The contrast with Slough wasn’t as stark as I expected. While Windsor was well-kept and benefited from civic-minded residents, it was noticeably more diverse than it had been five or ten years earlier. We immediately saw an energetic Black man riding a decked-out bicycle with a portable sound system. When interviewed, he said he was raising awareness for Palestine. The shops and restaurants were a step above Slough’s but still looked somewhat tacky. I had to remind myself that we were in one of the country’s top tourist destinations, which explained the French schoolchildren and bored-looking parents. Ed kept mentioning how there were no security guards at the castle gates back in 2001. Frankly, I found it hard to believe.

The locals in Windsor were sharper and gave more coherent answers. Many were either well-off or worked in healthcare. One of the more combative progressives Ed sparred with was the owner of one of the last independent souvenir shops. He pushed back hard against Ed’s premises and suggested England’s diversification was part of a long historical process. The pro-Palestine cyclist looped back around and allowed another interview. While more polite and conscientious than the shop owner, he was similarly dismissive of questions about demographic change. To his credit, he wasn’t outwardly hostile—he tried to smooth things over with compliments and joviality. “Why would you want to live without diversity? We’re all much better off together. I certainly benefit from learning and living alongside other cultures,” he said. We finished the shoot near Eton College’s old campus, where Ed delivered a roaring recitation of some mid-century British poetry. Unfortunately, all I could focus on was the small piles of litter scattered around Windsor.

If Slough was an unevenly developing suburb and Windsor an oversold chocolate-box town, Oxford was where I realized England was far more “American” than I had imagined. I knew the college town was more urban and dense than often portrayed, but seeing it firsthand was the trip’s biggest surprise. Its absurdly elegant ancient spires and stone buildings stood alongside worn mid-century brutalist office blocks. One 1970s-era complex was being replaced with something more upmarket. The students, some in the silliest outfits, all carried the brisk confidence of young demigods. I enjoyed chatting with them during breaks.

What wasn’t enjoyable was discovering how England’s best and brightest offered the most canned responses when asked about demographic change or Reform UK’s non-white leaders like Zia Yusuf and Suella Braverman. On the first day of our two-day shoot, our cameraman, Iggy, begged me to ask tough questions. “You’re Asian and autistic—you’ve got two shields that let you ask people about English people becoming a minority in their own country.” “No, I don’t want to get my head bashed in by some zealous Antifa graduate student,” I replied. After more pleading, he reluctantly let me ask softer questions like “Why do you think people oppose diversity?” and “Do you think Reform UK’s non-white leaders are self-hating or just in it for the money?” My indirect approach didn’t yield much variety. Most of the twenty-five vox pops featured intelligent but formulaic answers: Reform UK was racist, perhaps even dangerous; its non-white leaders were self-hating, avaricious, and ambitious; people who oppose diversity weren’t all bad but needed educating on its benefits. A few were more thoughtful. One standout was a transgender medical student who noted that people from wealthy, homogeneous places—like her hometown of Jersey—might struggle with rapid change. An international student from India mentioned that Reform UK’s anti-immigration stance had wide appeal among her relatives in Britain. By the time we finished on the high street, Iggy felt we had enough footage. He praised my work ethic but was less enthusiastic about the results. “It’s okay. I’ve got enough to work with.”

The final day in Oxford featured Ed Dutton, me, and a new co-star, Lipton Matthews, filming near the Radcliffe Camera. This was the most fun part of the trip, as we leaned into our personas and hammed it up. “That’s not a camera—that’s a rotunda,” I quipped, pointing at the landmark. Sadly, partway through, I started dozing off or getting distracted by the tall co-eds around us. The producer approached me: “What’s going on, Lap?” “I took a double dose of my medication,” I admitted. “That explains it. Lap, we’ve got our footage. You should head back to the hotel and rest.” He walked me back to ensure I didn’t bother anyone. Hours later, I received a frantic call from Iggy. Lipton’s charismatic interviewing had attracted real-life maladjusted activists. “We need to lay low in your room—now!” “What the fuck is going on, Iggy?” “Two women started asking if we were from Turning Point USA and caused a scene. You’ve got to let us hide out, or we’re in deep shit.” Within half an hour, Lipton and the crew piled into my small hotel room. Once they decompressed, we raided the minibar and waited for the coast to clear. The crew left one by one. By the time I boarded a bus to London, I’d had my fill of New England and found myself wondering if Old Britannia could ever be found again.

If you had told me in 2019 that Elon Musk would be openly tweeting heartfelt racist sentiments in seven years, I’d have given you some of my psych meds.

For all the extraordinary developments that have happened since 2020, Elon Musk’s transformation from moderate liberal to openly racist moderate liberal ranks up there with Trump’s re-election.

How could the man once called the real-life Tony Stark become so red-pilled? Is this a genuine change of heart or just a consequence of sleep deprivation and drug abuse? Will Mr. Musk one day see the light? Will he disavow his support for us troglodytic ideologues who obsess over white demographic decline if the Democrats win in 2028 and unleash WOKE 2.0?

Why have so many successful people become more open about their views on race and culture?1 What are they going to do about these insights? Is there anything that can be done with said insights in any case? Probably not much.

Why Not Much?

Think of all the white nationalist phrases that have entered the modern-day lexicon. In 2015, few liberals would ever say “low IQ,” “dysgenic,” “high-trust,” or “redpill.” In 2026, it’s now common for liberals to argue that racist Republicans are hypocrites for attacking a “high-trust” community like Minneapolis. Even-handed liberal journalists now lampoon conservatives for obsessing over Minnesota’s Scandinavian heritage and whether such lineage caused such resistance.

Right-wing youth aren’t just unintelligent for idealizing wealthy white enclaves such as Newport, Rhode Island, or Aspen, Colorado. Their social ineptitude, loathsome beliefs, and disgusting fixation on racial superiority rightfully bar them from the Newports of the world that vote overwhelmingly Democratic. Self-proclaimed egalitarians now speak and behave as crassly as 4chan addicts. Jared Taylor could only have dreamed of this type of memetic victory in 2015.

However, has this mainstreaming led to any progress? Little, if any. There has yet to be any frank and respectful discussion about group differences. There is practically no desire for Americans to recognize the trade-offs of a majority-minority country. The most learned and successful among us still believe that their civic religion and culture possess an unparalleled assimilative power. Most still insist that diversification is morally correct and economically necessary, even if it is risk-laden. Noah Smith characterized it as difficult but rewarding. Few Americans disagree, even fewer dare disagree openly.

Having failed to lift up the underdeveloped world, our betters now place their faith in immigration. If elegant white papers written by condescending IMF apparatchiks didn’t work, then maybe immersing underprivileged people in Western culture and good institutions will finally spread liberal norms. Think of it as the Solow-Swan model, but for humans instead of countries.

Are Guatemalans, Nigerians, and Filipinos THAT different from Italians, Irish, and Poles? After all, didn’t most bigots claim that Russian Jews and Germans failed to assimilate and threatened to undermine American culture 120 years ago?

Those brave enough to say “full assimilation rarely happens, and there’s no reason to believe Hispanic and Asian Americans will be any different,” continue to be crushed by eye rolls, hostile ridicule, and black opprobrium.

Asking someone, “If culture is the secret to good institutions, why can’t we just export bottles of the magic sauce over there so they don’t have to emigrate?” puts you on the naughty list, unless your name is Garrett Jones. No more charcuterie plates for you!

The rise of white nationalist rhetoric, semiotics, and consciousness did bear fruit, but much of the harvest is modest and fragile.

The White birth rate has increased since late 2024, albeit from a low base; there has yet to be a persistent upward trajectory. During Trump’s first term, white births went through a similar bump, only to keep falling later on.

Granted, there is now an almost perfect correlation between being a White Trump supporter and having kids, but liberal whites in big, productive cities such as DC or Portland are as fertile as Koreans! Some believe that this heralds the end of liberal dominance, but liberals have proved adept at converting conservative kids for ages. The Republican fertility advantage, nearly half a century old, has yet to be a game-changer.

Some hard-edged bean counters will say, “Black and Latino fertility continues to fall! Asian fertility is on the floor. Once we close the borders, we’ll have our country back!” Let’s suppose this is true. It will only be fuel for the Democrats to jack up immigration for moral and practical purposes. Remember, the Democrats are not stupid. They know that immigration and diversity are key to their survival. Do you think they’ll let the Bidenwave backlash stop them?

To Trump’s credit, illegal and legal immigration has fallen thanks to deportations and executive action. However, we are still far off from 15 million deportations. Permanently reducing legal immigration will require passing major legislation since executive orders can be reversed.

Trump’s success has elicited a deeply emotional backlash. The Minneapolis mishaps have turned immigration into a moral crusade. Blue America has always been wedded to making America the world’s greatest, ever more inclusive multiracial social democracy. It’s no longer a grand vision but the core of their social-democratic program.

Nerdier right-wingers, cognizant of this quiet revolution, are now complaining that Stephen Miller’s policies are counterproductive. Bernard Stanford and Noah Carl are too intelligent to believe Federal E-Verify (among other tough technical fixes) would be efficacious. They are simply preparing for the worst when Woke reasserts itself with a vengeance.

Elon Musk is not your savior

So why doesn’t Elon Musk put some of his millions toward American Renaissance or toward people with credible plans to build those safe havens?

Musk already donates considerable sums to the Republican Party. Giving a fraction of that money to the Orania movement or the Western Cape Independence campaign would turbocharge their prospects. Orania could continue to industrialize its economy. Capetonian secessionists would have the firepower to run real campaigns.

If the liberal majority believes ever-greater diversity is non-negotiable, then building prosperous and self-sufficient safe havens would be far more effective than holding the White House half the time. If the Democrats just keep jacking up immigration when they hold the presidency, then you’re fighting a losing game.

Granted, the existence of an explicit white polity in the United States (or any country) would be treated as a malign entity. If American Orania were even remotely successful, it’s almost certain that the Democrats would try to end it.

Then again, why should Elon and his friends spend millions building a town for racists if they could spend that money helping humans settle Mars and accelerate automation? Reverse global warming through geoengineering and restore worldwide productivity growth, and this will almost certainly reduce emigration to Western countries. You won’t be maligned if your money helps Nigerian entrepreneurs adopt AGI en masse.

However, Musk and others have already burned most of their bridges with Blue America. He could disavow Trump and blame his right-wing turn on social media addiction. He could even argue that the redemptive power of the American civic religion entitles him to be given a second chance. If Richard Hanania can be rehabilitated, why not the man who revolutionized electric cars and pioneered the use and manufacture of reusable rockets?

The problem is that millions of people have read his heartfelt tweets about crashing birthrates. Millions more have seen him retweet screeds against growing ethnic diversity.

There is scarcely an informed person in the world who hasn’t heard Elon talk more openly about his fear for the future of Western civilization, his race, and the fate of Europe.

He’s already given speeches arguing that the AfD is a sensible moderate party. Millions have heard his bitter complaints about the suicidal empathy of white liberal women.

Even though he rarely speaks about his early life in Pretoria, he still opposes the ANC with a deeply suppressed fury only seen in former South Africans. You don’t give President Ramaphosa a death stare if you are apathetic about your old home.

Elon has nothing to lose, and he clearly cares. So what is stopping him?

Nobody Wants To Do Something That Will Ruin Their Future

Would you really leave Seattle, Palo Alto, or London just to spend all your time with people of the same skin color?

Would you give up dinner parties with Korean neuroscientists and Ghanaian coders so you could change diapers and raise four white kids?

Do you want to spend the rest of your life foregoing millions in potential earnings just to install solar panels on a scorching day? Are you ready to give up the opera, dinner parties, and the esteem of your friends and family to build a white town?

Are you strong enough to endure the hatred of men and women who once loved you to build a white state somewhere in this broken world?

If I’m being honest, fewer than 1 in 10 people reading this piece would make that sacrifice. The ones best placed to lead and grow a White Homeland have much better things to do.

Elon Musk and many of his contemporaries may have the money, talent, and desire to build an ethnostate, but they don’t see it as their lodestar.

This is not to say that their beliefs are insincere or that their newfound race consciousness is a form of shallow virtue signalling. Why else would Musk, Thiel, and Andreessen spend so much time railing against DEI or supporting Alice Weidel’s campaigns? Their honesty doesn’t pay, does it?

Your favorite based billionaire isn’t building the ethnostate for the same reasons why you wouldn’t even if you had a billion dollars to burn.

Right now, extraordinary right-wing men and women are designing rockets, mastering the art of solar radiation management, and researching controversial topics. Their days are filled with purpose, meaning, and opportunities to make money. They are enjoying the luxury and satisfaction that only come from the highest levels of honest work. Why would they give any of that up?

Besides, like you, they can always tweet about their frustrations on X and vote Republican like the rest of us.2

The anger around ICE and the perceived excessiveness of its deportation campaigns has been a clarifying moment for the dissident right. We can no longer deny it: huge swathes of Westerners view white identity politics with profound contempt. Many of them will take action against anything they perceive as remigration. For them, and perhaps for the median voter, continued diversification is not just non-negotiable. It is now a moral necessity.

This has led many right-wing social media enthusiasts to fantasize about Orania, a small town of 3,025 people that has proven voluntary segregation need not be violent or exploitative. The quirkiness and earnest beliefs of its residents have attracted surprisingly sympathetic coverage from mainstream and progressive media. When you watch videos about the town, you can see mutual respect form.

However, storms are brewing. Orania’s material success has sparked furious envy among Black South Africans. What used to be an insignificant desert town now has the potential to become a small but visible city.

My Friend, Joost

I first met Joost Strydom at a Young Republicans meetup in New York City. He and his fellow Oranians were special guests at an oversubscribed, standing-room-only event. Everyone wanted to know how and why Orania worked, and the delegation was more than willing to share its experiences. Joost and I had been acquainted via social media, but meeting him and the others in person felt special. They just seemed like solid folk with good intuition. If they had an ulterior motive, it wasn’t perceptible.

Naturally, I asked every question in my arsenal. “Is Orania the Volkstaat?” Joost, the leader of the Orania movement, had clearly heard it all before, but he still gave me an honest answer. “No, we are not the Volkstaat.” “So what is Orania supposed to be, then?” I said. “We are a cultural community,” he replied.

ORANIA, Not for the Faint-Hearted

While “cultural community” sounds like one of those clunky Afrikaans literal translations, it’s the closest thing to an accurate description.

Orania is not a white ethnostate, nor is it the nucleus of an independent Afrikaner state as once intended. If it truly were the nucleus of a potential state, it would likely not survive the wrath of the South African government. Orania owes its continued existence to its uniqueness and unthreatening nature.

Until very recently, Orania’s existence was a bugbear among both educated liberal Afrikaners (verligte) and more conservative traditionalists (verkrampt). Enlightened Afrikaners view Orania as an unhelpful band of apartheid nostalgists at best and a malignant force at worst. Conservative traditionalist Afrikaners are happy it exists, but are put off by its distant and unusual nature in Afrikanerdom. The fact that it’s nine hours away from the Western Cape’s bucolic havens (Boland) and equally far from the hallowed dusty grounds of East Pretoria (Transvaal) doesn’t help.

As of 2026, Orania is a small but growing town of 3,025 in the middle of an arid desert. With freezing winters, scorching summers, unpredictable weather, and an isolating atmosphere, it’s difficult for cosmopolitan urban Afrikaners to live there. The closest city, Bloemfontein, is about 2.5 hours away by car. Cape Town and Johannesburg are hours away. The only assets the town has, aside from its people, are its ability to expand and the Orange River. While Oranians can attract human capital, they’re not operating in an ideal environment. Why would moneyed Afrikaners live in Orania when they could live in Val de Vie, a gorgeous fortified Cape Town suburb where they can still be served by the help?

What’s the Sauce?

The key to Orania’s success, more than competent administration and clean politics, is its rigorous immigration system. Orania has selective, discriminating criteria that favor the toughest men and women.

An Oranian isn’t just fluent in Afrikaans, reasonably devout, and immersed in their people’s traditions. If being faithful to faith, culture, and nationalism were sufficient, Orania would be a city of two million. Prospective Oranians need to prove they are financially stable, drug-free, and crime-free. Cohabitating couples are encouraged to marry, and homosexuals aren’t actively recruited. I surmise that Orania also places a premium on expanding families and expecting couples.

The town has become infamous for kicking out people who become dependent on others or who have high needs that cannot be met. Living in Orania isn’t for the faint-hearted. The community is not afraid to enforce its standards rigorously. That rubs many an Afrikaner, especially those accustomed to a different lifestyle, the wrong way. This is one of the reasons the population grew at a snail’s pace until the 2010s.

ROLL UP THOSE SLEEVES!

Orania’s greatest strength and weakness are its people’s unrelenting commitment to cleaning their own toilets and mowing their own lawns. Most White Africans with decent salaries are accustomed to having Black and mixed-race domestic servants. Ever since Jan van Riebeeck planted his country’s flag on Table Bay, Whites have exploited Black and Brown labor with disconcerting relish. For more than 400 years, Black and Brown men and women served as sexual companions, informal wives, nursemaids, cooks, cleaners, factory workers, non-union laborers, and surrogate parents. There was never a time in modern South African history when Blacks and Cape Coloureds were not doing many or most of the menial jobs, and that has not stopped, even with the rise of the Black bourgeoisie.

During the final days of apartheid, many hard-edged conservative Afrikaner individuals believed that their personal and collective dependence on Black labor had been their undoing. Apartheid wasn’t just a moral obscenity; it had undermined the legitimacy of separateness. If Afrikaners were ever going to have their own country, they would need to be the majority. How can there be an Afrikaner state if most of your people aspire to having their own domestic worker?

Why? It is because thousands of wealthy South Africans of all races live among their own and insulate themselves from state failure by huddling in estates. These places have private guards and working generators towithstand the worst dysfunction. Others are safehouses for citizens preparing to emigrate. If Orania were to start allowing even a small amount of Black and Brown people to work on construction projects or care for the elderly, its entire raison d’etre collapses. Orania would go from being a powerful and polarizing example of self-determination to a scruffy HOA full of eccentric Boers who chose to live in the middle of nowhere. And for what? To feel in control.

Some Oranians believe that the town’s growth can be accelerated by tweaking their Own Labour policy. Joost himself had admitted that their most cherished values were constraining growth. During our many talks, I gained the impression that he was growing tired of having to explain the importance of Own Labour to well-meaning outsiders and ambitious insiders. It shows that even the slightest success can distort anyone’s perspectives and saying “no” is part of good leadership.

Are there any Lessons for the West?

There aren’t really that many lessons to be taken from Orania and South Africa. Even if the Western world were to continue diversifying at an even faster pace, Westerners will still have (just) enough time to dig ditches and consolidate their position. Moreover, as much as the left thinks otherwise, historically white countries were not apartheid states. That knowledge keeps them from demanding genuine expropriation. Different contexts require different solutions and perhaps even different institutions. Having experienced the swift loss of power, status, and numbers, the Afrikaners were forced to choose between two paths. They could either embrace the Rainbow Nation or run for the hills. Verligte Afrikaners embraced the former by trying to build up the Democratic Alliance. Unlike Afrikaners, Westerners still have options and the luxury of time. Even so, remigrationists and their allies are still cultivating a sense of urgency.

Orania is just one spoke in the ever-expanding wheel of the Solidarity Movement. In just 30 years, a tight band of traditionalists has built up a collection of effective parallel institutions. This network now encompasses education (Akademia/Sol Tech), media (Maroela Media), some aspects of welfare (Helpmekaar), property development (Kanton), and extra-parliamentary politics (Afriforum). Since 2021, they’ve become globally infamous for their forthright manner and blunt rhetoric. While Westerners do have much to learn from them, we’re going to have to come up with our own ways to deal with the effects of continued stagnation and anti-Westernness.

For now, Orania serves as a shining example of the power of doing something without permission and freedom from self-indulgence and self-doubt. If nothing else, their hard work has given them options. We should all do the same in our own countries, wherever we may be.

Minnesota wasn’t the only Midwestern state with socialist impulses and a heavy dose of modified Janteloven—what Americans called “Minnesota Nice.” Wisconsin, North Dakota, and Michigan also hosted large left-wing communities of Northern Germans and Scandinavians, electing politicians who promised comprehensive redistribution. What set Minnesota apart was its people’s high human capital, strong institutions, and deep interpersonal trust. Simply put, the average Minnesotan was slightly smarter and more capable than the average Michigander or Wisconsinite. And lest you think I’m just a racist eugenicist, know that I was one of Scott Walker’s biggest fans back in the day.

WENDELL ANDERSON AND THE CREATION OF A MIRACLE

Before Derek Thompson wrote a book on policy-induced abundance, his most compelling work was a 2015 series on America’s superstar cities. These top six hubs were drawing millions of the world’s most talented people, but unaffordable housing and high living costs hindered their potential. Millennials faced a choice: accept lower standards in big cities or relocate to second-tier ones. Minneapolis circa 2015 stood out as different.

Thompson attributed Minneapolis-St. Paul’s success to the state’s revenue-sharing system between rich and poor counties and aggressive affordable housing policies. This ensured decent funding and talent access, helping more students reach their potential. They grew into productive adults who built businesses and corporations, generating wealth for Minnesotans. This “Minnesota Miracle,” aided by luck, prevented the state from hollowing out like Illinois or Wisconsin. Unlike its neighbors, Minnesota’s economy outpaced the Midwest into the 2000s.

The foundation was a pioneering, communitarian, and often consensual political culture. Wendell Anderson, a doctrinaire progressive eyeing the White House, embodied a pragmatic tradition. His pragmatism and telegenic charm built temporary consensus for generous public services—and the taxes funding them.

The paradox behind the miracle

Minnesota couldn’t stay the “it” state forever. George Floyd’s death at the hands of a zealous police officer exposed the state’s secret shame: America’s social democracy was a tough place for Black residents. Competent administration and robust safety nets hadn’t transformed lives for its growing Black and Brown population. White Minnesotans fared better than

many elsewhere in America, while non-Whites, though better off than peers in other states, weren’t thriving.

Twenty-seven percent of Black Minnesotans lived in poverty, versus 6% of Whites. Seventy-two percent of Blacks graduated high school, compared to 89% of Whites. Seventy-seven percent of Whites owned homes, but only 29% of Blacks did.

Young progressives worldwide, enraged by this incident, questioned how an exemplary social democracy let a quarter of its citizens suffer.

Some blamed racism. Others cited cultural dysfunction. Most were outraged.

For five years, the state’s progressive elites have moved heaven and earth to address disparities for non-White residents. Yet gaps persist, and beneficiaries are souring on their benefactors. This discontent partly drives Minnesotans toward Republicans; without weak candidates and a mismanaged state party, Minnesota would be more purple than blue.

Conclusion

If you’re a hereditarian or don’t dismiss persistent individual and group differences, Minnesota’s struggles aren’t mysterious. Its success drew millions of less able, underprivileged people seeking better lives. These domestic and international migrants haven’t assimilated well, despite efforts from leaders and themselves.

It’s unclear if investments in reducing disparities will pay off. Until they do, the state that works will see its people victimized from within and without.

Disclaimer: Forgive me for posting this a day late. Writing this post was incredibly exhausting. Paying tribute to the departed is always tricky, and a son’s father is no exception.

Leong Ka Cheong Christopher died on January 25th, 2025. His death had a discombobulating effect on me. Even though cancer had emaciated his body, my mother and I could’ve sworn he was making progress. His oncologist was adamant that his aggressive treatment plan was working. My father was not only resilient but was slowly but surely conquering his disease. The latest scans showed that the tumors were still growing (albeit very slowly). Dr. Gill had insisted that this was pseudo-progression. While my father’s body was failing, his mind was still sharp and stimulating. “I will never leave you,” he said.

Dr. Gill may have been one of the most compassionate physicians I had ever met, but he rarely made the time to discuss my father’s progress with anyone besides my mother. That led to a deep reservoir of hostility and skepticism towards him and his interpretations. However, he would end up being right. The chemotherapy and immunotherapy had worked too well. One of the tumors shrank so much it ripped a hole in his intestine. Despite countless surgeries, the doctors couldn’t really patch it. Dad’s condition seemed to worsen with each intervention. One evening, my mother made a rash decision. He died the morning after.

I am still devastated. Dad was everything to me.

My father and I rarely agreed on anything. Most of you reading probably believe that differences in success and intelligence are more genetic than environmental. Dad may not have been a blank slatist, but he thought people made their own luck. Like a lot of asian men of his generation, he had little to no sympathy for the unsuccessful and even less for those he considered dead weight.

Even though he had told me otherwise constantly, my mind continually wonders if Dad ever believed in the existence of mental illness. My father was certainly skeptical of psychiatry and did not like seeing his son being analyzed and scrutinized by what he felt were incompetent clinicians. If it was difficult for him to accept that his son was autistic, he couldn't believe that my severe innumeracy was anything but a product of laziness. “Why don’t you pick up a workbook?”

And yet, for all my infractions, Christopher Leong loved me with such deep and abiding devotion. He could’ve cut me off during the Hong Kong protests. He could’ve made his financial support conditional on learning Chinese and showing appreciation of my Chinese heritage. He could’ve demanded that I never talk about mental illness or autism in front of him or other people. He could’ve spent years trying to constrain and shape me into someone completely different. Instead of doing the smart thing, my father did what was hopefully the right thing. He showered me with an endless supply of love and never looked back.

I am still lost without him. That is why I am sharing the eulogy I gave at his funeral.

My father was sitting across from four teachers in a cold meeting room. Even though the lights were on, the atmosphere felt subdued. The only bright light that was penetrating this strangely frosty setting came from the stained windows. The old section of the school building was formerly a resplendent mansion, but he felt anything but splendid when he had to listen to an hour’s worth of concerning analysis about his son’s future. Christopher Leong was used to listening to and debating with a rotating cast of teachers, clinicians, advocates, and administrators. He had developed an uncanny ability to intuit which complaints about me were genuine and which were simply attempts at retaliation. He had heard it all before; he had crossed swords with so many well-meaning professionals. Christopher Leong was not afraid to humiliate someone if it meant they would get off my back. However, this meeting was much different. The teachers had nothing but good things to say about me. They loved me so much; they thought I should stick around for another year or two after graduation. “We think that Lap would benefit tremendously if he entered our transition program”, the kind old lady said. My studious history teacher chimed in, “It would ease his path into college or training”. Instead of asking probing questions or grilling the teachers, he smiled and thanked them for their time. As we walked through the parking lot, I could tell that he was incensed. We suddenly stopped. He took me aside and said, “Don’t listen to them.

You can do whatever you want.” It was all I needed to hear from him. Whatever my decision was, Dad would never stop being my biggest cheerleader and my most relentless advocate. Whenever he was around to assert my interests, I would feel invincible. And when I felt invincible, life no longer felt so uncertain. Such was the power of Christopher Leong’s undying love.

A decade ago, after graduating from high school, I spent many a night pacing my apartment, trying to solve a great mystery: my father had the time, energy, and resources to do whatever he wanted. He had dreams of driving around the Italian countryside in a Ferrari and wanted to spend more time in Hong Kong. However, instead of traveling the world with my mother or spending weekends with his grandchildren, he continued to work late into the night to support me. “I work 14 hours a day”, he said, with pride. Why would he do this? He no longer needed to drive me to and from school, nor did he have any desire to accompany me to the psychiatrist's, yet, for one more glorious decade, he’d continue to be there when I needed him the most. Whenever he thought a physical trainer was overcharging me, he’d send stern emails before meeting them in person. Whenever a therapist needed to know more about my situation, he’d always have the time to be at their office with me. When it came to my community college education, he’d make sure to secure every possible accommodation.

I can still see him at the Office of Accessibility, sitting down and patiently explaining to the deputy director why his son needed double time on tests and for his class notes to be transcribed by an aide. Why's relaxed, yethe'ss ded till upright. His tone is empathetic, sharp, and clear. His words are concise and calculated. Christopher Leong was taking Mrs. Leach on a tour of his long journey so she could see what he saw in me. For a man who was never entirely comfortable with the concepts of Autism or learning disabilities, he spent his days trying to find the best people who would help make my life happier, more meaningful, and more independent. His deep doubts about the efficacy of talk therapy or the scientific validity of psychiatry didn’t stop him from providing the deep support that I took for granted. To this day, I am still dumbfounded as to why Christopher Leong went through all this effort to help me. The best answer he ever gave me was the simplest one,” You are my son, I love you.”

Who is the Last Autistic? Why is he showing you all his Irish vacation photos?

Here’s the exciting answer:” I’m from a far more prosperous and stable Earth. There, I’m among the last remaining autistics who have not been cured of their affliction. The treatment process felt unbearable. So, unlike most of my classmates and friends, I have elected to stay autistic. There aren’t too many of us left these days. Autistic traits are respected, almost fetishized, but practically no one wants to bear the additional cost of employing or caring for autists. Besides, it’s not as if autistic traits are impossible to mimic.

One key difference between Earth B and Earth A is the rate of total factor productivity growth. Back on Earth B, productivity growth never faltered after our version of the Oil Crisis. As a result, global wealth continued to rise. This unending process of international economic convergence made it far easier for Western countries to maintain strict, merit-based immigration systems. Low levels of diversity have done wonders for cohesion and societal trust. Still, the lack of Guatemalan farm workers and Indian coders meant far fewer taco trucks and curry houses in the West. Thankfully, Americans and Europeans routinely board supersonic flights to Mexico City and New Delhi for the real thing. One of my friends, Francesca, practically commutes between Bangalore and West London to enjoy good dosa and learn from the world’s most meticulous robotics experts.

One positive upside of the great convergence is broadened horizons. Believe it or not, there are as many Westerners who dream of studying at IIT Delhi as there are Asians who dream of Berkeley. Sri Lanka is now home to a booming artisanal cheeseburger scene, and Seoul boasts the highest number of American-style discotheques in Asia. However, my favorite example of this cultural exchange is Hong Kong’s infamous Honky Tonk clubs. Its non-existence in your world is egregious!

In your world, college is a middle-class entryway. In my world, the sharpest teenagers have either graduated by eighteen or work in frontier lab systems like Bell National and the Royal Technological Institutes. Some roam the planet on cheap high-speed rail and cut-price Concorde tickets. The boldest go farther. My brother’s old pot dealer is building the first luxury spa hotel on a Martian Planetary Park.

Sadly, my world isn’t perfect. When society is optimized for hyper-functional, deeply empathetic high-achievers, autistics whose best isn’t enough are quietly left behind. Years ago, I decided to move to where I’m needed. While the dysfunction on this Earth can be grating, it’s slowly become my home. The point of this blog is to show you how liveable and seamless the world can become.

The Real Answer

Here is the boring, accurate answer.

My name is Lap Gong Leong. I’m not a transdimensional expatriate. In January of 2025, I lost my father. My favorite brother, Cliff, died six months earlier the year before. Those deaths transformed my book, Minority of a Minority, from a quirky essay collection into a more profound, angrier meditation on modernity, autism, and enforced equality. I still miss both of them every single day. The Last Autistic is their legacy.

The manuscript is finished. Now I’m free to write what I love most: speculative dispatches from a better future facing better problems, alongside serious articles on complex issues.

I hope you enjoy reading The Last Autistic as much as I enjoy writing it.