A mistake has been made. It spreads through dissident circles with speed and certainty. The meme is false. It must be buried. The longhouse does not belong to the fat, purple-haired sow who rules with passive aggression and bureaucratic decree. It is not her kingdom. It never was. The mistake now spread by dissidents, calling today’s matriarchal managerial regime a “longhouse” is a betrayal of memory. What they hate, they are right to hate. But they have named it wrong. They describe the den, the hive, the cave, the uterine system of control, not the hall of our ancestors. To smear the ancestral hall with the filth of the present is to sever ourselves from the last masculine order that was sacred.

The den mother is real. She watches you in the workplace. She speaks in the voice of compliance and emotional safety. She enforces silence in the name of harmony. She punishes confrontation, labels truth as cruelty, and installs fear in every public word. She is the spiritual tyrant of the modern age, backed not by fire or sword, but by HR policies and institutional guilt. Her values are not noble. They are suffocating. Infantilization disguised as care. Control disguised as kindness. What she rules is a den; formless, flattened, gutless. A hive of regression. A system of comfort turned monstrous. This is what men despise. And rightly so.

The Longhouse Was Never the Den

But the longhouse is not her architecture. The longhouse is not built for den mothers. It was built by men, for men, for their families, as the sacred hall of order, oath, and judgment. It stood at the center of civilized life not as a cradle but as a forge. Within it, law was spoken, feuds were settled, kin were led, and sons were taught to shoulder the weight of death. Its warmth was not soft, it was earned. Its fire did not soothe, it tempered. The longhouse was not passive. It was alive with memory, ritual, and command. To equate it with today’s regime is to spit on the bones of our ancestors who lived beneath its beams.

The modern den mother does not command with honour. She insinuates. She smiles as she dismembers. She demands submission not by strength but by shame. And those who liken her rule to the ancestral longhouse have made an unforgivable category error. What they describe is the den, a cave, a womb reified into policy. The place of no hierarchy, no edge, no heat. A structure of eternal childhood and bureaucratic surveillance. The longhouse, by contrast, demanded speech, demanded pain, demanded fire. It raised men into fathers, not staff into permanent sons. To confuse the two is not clever. It is castration.

The film The 13th Warrior reveals this with brutal clarity. The warriors dwell in the longhouse. They drink, speak, judge, prepare. Their enemies, the wendol, live in the earth, in caves, ruled by a vile matriarch. The den. A place of devouring instinct, not law. That is the archetype. That is the truth. The den mother is not seated at a chieftain’s high seat, she crouches in a darkened hive, controlling with presence, not principle. What the modern regime resembles is not the hall of law, but the shit-stained pit of regression. And it must be named as such.

The problem with the meme is not that it attacks feminine power. It is that it destroys masculine memory in the process. By naming the den a “longhouse,” this bastion of ordered male authority is handed over to its enemies. One day, a generation will rise who no longer remembers what the longhouse was. Who will think it always meant compliance, not command. And that day will mark the final collapse of ancestral order.

We must reclaim the symbol. The longhouse must be restored, not as nostalgia, but as necessity. Not as sentiment, but as structure. Let its fire burn again. Let it rise again as the place where speech is unmoderated, where men are measured by their oaths, where strength is not suspect. The den mother cannot survive there. She cannot breathe in its heat. She cannot hide behind policies or feelings. She would be judged, and found wanting.

Let this be the end of the lie. The den mother reigns now, yes, but not from the hall. She rules from the cave, the crèche, the open-plan orphanage of the modern state. Let her be cast back into it.

Let the den fill with sickness. Let the womb shrink. Let the hive rot from within.

But let the hall rise. Let the oaths return. Let the longhouse burn again with fire, feast, and law.