The Endgame A Memoir by Maria Victoria Navajas Claros - HTML preview

under the threat of war crime tribunals and/or death.

The sad thing is that it was Intelligence that first manufactured that belief to help

Americans feel better about their post-war conditions by telling them the

conditions they live in are the best in the world, a shining jewel that everyone

flocks to without duress. Now, even the government buys its own lies. Do I really

need to point out how terrible this is for actual national security, or for long-term

global stability? Anyone who has traveled all of America and then other parts of the

world knows that America, other than a few select neighborhoods, is not a shining

example of prosperity or sanity.

In addition to the harm the self-congratulating lies do to a nation, there is also the

harm they do to the soldiers (and civilians who get caught up in war), regardless of

what country or war they come from. Many war criminals were citizens serving

their country, soldiers who believed the internal propaganda and thought they

were protecting other nations or their own borders. To be abandoned, exiled, and

under threat because of that, for life, and often while being employed by enemy

militaries (the reality of post-wartime recruitment processes), is a very big

problem no one discusses. I would end up spending time in endgame research labs

and war strategy think tanks with many of those forced recruits over the years.

Their level of depression and resentment for having to carry the world’s sins

permanently, combined with government funding and access, isn't good for any of

us.

It leads to weapons and strategies, used by our own militaries, that will kill us all

and not just a perceived enemy of the day. To believe that the military has these

workers strictly under control and manufacturing everything to specifications is

pure ego and not at all realistic. The recruited scientists and strategists create

what they want to create and then they hand it to the military, appeasing egos and

reinforcing the national lies by falsely claiming they obediently followed

specifications, like good subservient and loyal lapdogs happy to be there. I’ll get to

a few examples of their actual work in a bit.

The population gets to experience a time of peace and normalcy between wars. It

is both inhumane and dangerous to not give the same to the soldiers who fought

the wars for that public, strategized for the wars, and built the weapons at the

expense of their own health and possibly their lives.

To assume it's all okay because what the public is experiencing is okay, or due to

some inane hero-savior complex based on the belief that there is a country with

wealth and culture truly superior above all others (and of course, out of all the

luck, it always just happens to be the one they’re standing in), is a major oversight

that will lead to the next war having much crueler tactics and weapons. It makes

the public appear weak, heartless, and having the whimsical and irrational mind of

a small child. This does not put them in a favorable light to those they have

captured and now forced into labor for them, especially not when the public has

allowed the handing of the keys of the military-industrial complex to those captive

enemies.

What intellectual or scientific mind could rationally respect that level of combined

idiocy and callousness from an enemy? And which one wouldn’t use the keys now

in their hands?

In addition, self-congratulating self-deceit gives the public and politicians a focus

that is not their current issue. Meaning current atrocities are never prevented or

ended in real time. They just become a fallacious legal circus after the fact, and

prime military and intelligence recruitment hunting grounds.

We do post-war wrong. This is one of the major factors behind why we have never

broken the cycle of war. In shoving everything under the rug and creating a

televised spectacle of completion for the public, we don't include actual healing.

We only include pain and anger - driving forces behind vengeance, sustained

motivation, and action. And then we take the precise people who hold those

feelings and place them into military positions within the governments that forced

them there, and then…just to make sure we’ve set ourselves up perfectly for the

fall…we give them the protection of secrecy to hide behind while they work.

I hate to be the one to tell you, but if you are afraid of your government, if you feel

powerless in the face of your government’s crimes against its own people, that’s

not your government anymore. It’s an infiltrator that has crawled their way up

through the ranks and is now wearing the face of your government as its prize.

And your own government was probably the one that handed the keys to your

enemy.

But let’s get back to how I learned all this, firsthand…

When one group of scientists visited in less formal settings, I was still allowed to

remain in the room, rather than nestled into the back of the coat closet like I had been

when superiors on the administrative and strategy side visited. There was a clear

separation between the group from those labs and their superiors. The lab workers

were tight-knit and kept their own secrets within their part of the hierarchy. I would

be just another secret to add to their list.

That was when I first sat with the cohort of primarily military-captive scientists

for a long series of dinner table discussions that would end up spanning the early

years of my childhood in the country. It’s where I first heard them endlessly

discuss plans and ideas for potential longer-running projects. When it came to one

topic of discussion, the energy and drive behind the excitement in their voices

were enough to capture my attention. They strategized about combining walking

pneumonia with an incurable disease so that it would slowly sink into the entire

population. They wanted an incurable pneumonia that no effective vaccine could

be created for, and that people would pass between each other without becoming

immediately incapacitated.

They actually wanted the endgame - something that even they, with their

scientific expertise, could not cure once it was released. They discussed the

Epstein–Barr virus and a slew of other viruses back then, still undecided on the

perfect one.

They had no loyalties. Their own countries had abandoned them and they were

forced to work for the enemy. For them, life was already over. They simply wanted

to take everyone else out with them.

I’ll be honest. There were days when I would come to agree with them, but not due

to hate or vengeance. After seeing the never-ending harm done to the children

(you’ll see more of what I’m referring to in a bit) by a culture that feeds on its own

youth, I saw no way to save those children or myself. How can you save them if

their own parents, communities, and nations are their exploiters and the ones

selling them to additional exploiters in exchange for a head pat and a little extra

cash? There’s nowhere safe for the children to grow. In those dark moments when

I lost my humanity and aligned with the scientists, it wasn’t due to hate. It was

love. I saw it as a mercy killing. The only way to end the children’s pain.

If you’re an ordinary citizen, hardcore war-borne nihilism may be difficult to

comprehend because you still have something to live for - family, country, the

future. The people ripped from war have none of that. It was stolen from them.

They are the people you should be concerned about handing your safety to. They

are not you. They are the ones who will always stand on the bridge while burning it

because they are already on fire. And this entire world is their bridge to the

frivolous and unthinking civilization that turns its back and leaves them to toil in

the war machine. Your knee-jerk response is to take this lightly or avert from it.

Don’t. It’s not an empty threat from those you have safely chained. No one is

attempting to scare you in order to gain a ransom from you. You already handed

everything to them - the money and the ability to maneuver within your own

military, to exploit you without needing your further consent.

It is the reality of what has already been going on this entire time, tangibly, with

funding, and unchecked.

I sat quietly over my plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes and listened to the

scientists talk about creating their theoretical hybrid viruses, something I was raised

to refer to as sane and unconcerning dinner conversation. There are reasons I would

develop stomach ulcers as a child. The fact that the scientists' experiences had

correctly led them to believe funding was available for such obviously reckless

research is as concerning now as it was then.

Maneuverings

The closest thing to magic that humanity has is lies.

And it's one of the worst kinds of magic,

because it claims the truth is a lie

while still leaving it there to suffer,

unchanged and in its original form

- the truth -

while the world believes the lies.

During that first year in the United States, a woman at the local Vital Statistics office

in charge of birth and death certificates happily accepted a large and unofficial pile of

money to register my "birth in the United States" three years after I was born (another grating pain in my life because it often gets flagged as false, due to that three-year

discrepancy of having a birth certificate that says 1977 on it but is filed in the 1980

birth records book, in an office that is never more than three weeks behind in filing).

She thought she was helping a child war victim temporarily hide in the United States,

but she was also profiting from the situation. I stood on my toes and strained to see

the exchange of the document and the large stack of cash in the worker’s kitchen. I

was barely even tall enough to see the top of that kitchen table.

When the woman who illegally adopted me refused to return me after the war, even

the Vital Statistics worker walked away in anger, although still feeling the tug of self-

preservation and the distressing chains of having been ensnared as a willing actor in

trafficking. She continued to help with the coverup for as long as she could, albeit

from more of a distance. When she was still alive, she was who we would reach out to

for fixing things when even her own office refused to acknowledge the misnumbered

and misfiled certificate as genuine.

Eventually, she died of old age, still carrying the secret that had been forced upon me.

Managing to get proof of my “legal” existence became more difficult after that point.

It would become a tangled mess of conning, coercing, and guiding bureaucrats,

forging and replicating documents when they were not available, and not-always-

successful attempts at timing official requests perfectly for when the most malleable

workers were in the office.

Other than that extra work and inconvenience, the identity still functioned on and

off for a while. The record was there, in an official office (when the document

could be located in the wrong section of records), and U.S. culture and government

are permissive of that, especially since additional documentation was procured in

that same year when I was three. A name change document was also attained. It

was applied for because two official documents were needed to acquire any

further documentation, such as a social security number, which was also

eventually attained successfully, later that year. Without a hospital record, and

with only the late-filed birth certificate as documentation, a name change

document for a minor clerical-level alteration was the easiest and most affordable

second one to pursue, since the priest at the local church refused to get involved

and create a retroactive baptismal document.

As I got older, getting them to reliably certify my forged birth certificate would

eventually become such a hindrance that, as an adult, I would go outside of what was

familiar to me and would seek additional citizenship in a third country just to have

documents that were reliably and properly filed somewhere on this earth. The

bureaucratic portion of the process to gain that citizenship took over five years

instead of the standard six months - because for five years straight no one in the U.S.

Vital Statistics office could locate my birth certificate in their records to confirm its

existence to my new nation.

Five years into that delay, l finally gave in and walked a new U.S. Vital Statistics clerk

through the process of finding my certificate where it resides, in the wrong year’s

record book, and had her set aside a copy of that certificate on the office counter next

to the phone in expectation of a call from the foreign embassy, a call which I was

scheduling at the same time. From there, the approval for my new citizenship was

processed in less than a month. If it will remain valid is uncertain, because it was

based on a forgery. But as of this writing, it’s at least been less of a hassle.

The coercive recruiter's own family was angry with her for breaking conventions and

not returning me when the war was over. Her solution? When I was barely four years

old, she told me the whole family had gotten together in two large tour buses to come

to visit me, and that those buses had been run off the road in a storm, killing all of

them in one go, except for a few of her immediate local family members (two sons she

did not have custody of, her mother, a sister, and a cousin who lived near Yale). I don't

know what she told the rest of her family about me, but I spent a lot of time hidden

away behind coats in closets when they came by unannounced, which they often did

because many of her aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. lived in the area.

My life became very limited and unprotected. I was nothing more than a convenient

tool for a psychopath who had lost her own biological children due to her dangerous

and unethical exploitation of them. Her ex-husband, a naval intelligence officer,

removed them from her care after he discovered she had brought them to South and

Central America with her as cover while on a government operation. He found out

that she had her small sons helping with manual labor during large-scale drug

harvests, a behavior she thought was logical and cute. Now, I was a replacement for

those children, and even her own family was no longer there to protect me.

Strategists & Blackmail

Before I delve too much further into my early years, I’ll ask that you don’t get too

hung up on the personal aspects of the low-level individual abuse and exploitation

that make up some of the next few chapters. I’ll only highlight a few instances as

examples to lead to a deeper understanding of the larger landscape. They are not

where this is leading, but they are some of the stones on which the path is set.

I don’t need pity regarding the parts that involve myself, and honestly, I wouldn’t

know what to do with pity. It’s an uncomfortable type of emotion to respond to.

There is already a high level of discomfort simply in sharing some instances (and

I’ve left many of the worst ones out due to that squeamishness - for the sake of the

reader as well as myself). Abuses in this stage are some of the most difficult topics

to write about, and potentially the most discrediting. It’s much easier to believe a

child has an active imagination than it is to face the severity and clinical

psychopathology of some abuses.

Thus, for a victim, it’s often easier to stay in silence about these things rather

having to battle twice - once in living through it and again in having to explain it to

someone who may choose to lash out in disbelief. One battle is already at an

intolerable level without doubling it.

These few early chapters are on my direct interactions with someone who was also

interacting much the same way with the world on a larger scale, with nearly

unlimited freedom to act and massive military research budgets. As they say, if you

give someone a hammer, everything becomes a nail. Their patterns of behavior

grow well beyond those felt on an individual level, until they become like an ever-

expanding nuclear explosion on the horizon that burns us all.

Problems start small before they grow.

Individual abuses and regional politics are only the first symptoms, although I do

wish any part of our global civilization was healthy enough to stop things in the

early stages. The fact is it isn’t, and thus these next pages exist.

The memories from those early years are a mix of waking nightmares from which

there was no escape. I was stuck with the woman I was now forced to call “mother” by

society. It turns out that people will easily accept “She has an active imagination” as a

reasonable excuse from the adult who you just said was your kidnapper. They accept

it just as easily as they accept, “Oh, he’s drunk,” when referring to a man drugged

against his will. I wish I were joking about that. People are very unlikely to help in a

situation in which there is even the slightest amount of doubt, personal danger, or a

chance of causing an imposition. As I found out firsthand, and was devastated by, this

is true even when it involves a nervous child asking for help.

As a child, the worst of those experiences, and one that still stings to this day,

happened in a hallway. The recruiter was in a meeting with a man in what may have

been a consulate (I’m not entirely sure, but the building did have that feeling and

architecture), and I was left alone in the hallway to wait. At that point, I had already

spent several months in the recruiter’s unlit living room, watching television, and had

seen enough public service announcements during the commercials to know that if

you are kidnapped, you are supposed to tell an adult or police officer. So, when a

woman I had heard speaking Spanish walked by me in that hall, I finally pushed

through my massive wall of anxiety and shyness. I stopped her and tried to explain, in

Spanish, that the woman I had entered the building with was not my mother and that

I had been kidnapped.

Her response left me muted on the subject for years. It removed just about every bit

of hope that I had in finding freedom before I was an adult. She told me, “But you’ll

have good schools here.”

She absolutely understood what I had said and yet still chose to do nothing.

My plea for help may have been some of the last words I ever spoke in that language.

The utterly devastating betrayal felt in that moment made clinging to Spanish feel

pointless. It became a useless language. What is the point of speaking it if that is the

response? Even as an adult, I struggle to pick it up again. The deep sense of betrayal

and loneliness the sound of the words elicit can be difficult to work through.

Society has been fully trained to err on the side of deferring to deceit. Allowing the

government to lie without the need for apology or admittance of guilt within an

official’s lifetime, on top of that, creates a social seal protecting semi-concealed

criminal behavior by authority. It is a seal that is almost impossible to break because

everyone does their part to maintain it, even the victims and witnesses.

Remember the story of the fire in Argentina and the behavior of the prisoners, the

prison guards, and the witnesses? Ever wonder what level of crime it is to keep

several hundred people locked in a burning building because they have a different

political ideology than yours? There were hundreds of people there, in all three of the

key positions - victim, perpetrator (yes, even authority can wear that crown), and

witness. Not one of them unlocked the doors before the bodies were charred. That

behavior is par for the course. Many will claim otherwise, but it’s still the reality.

Around the time we visited that possible-embassy was also about the time when the

recruiter started using me as a door opener. She would send me up to office buildings

with security guards that she could not get past, and instruct me to tell the guards

that “my mom is inside.” That would almost always gain me access, despite my

stuttering and inability to answer simple questions such as “Who is your mom?”

because I hadn’t been told what to say if any questions were asked. From there, I was

expected to find certain offices and people and to give them messages or envelopes. It

was a fairly simple task, but it wasn’t one I was comfortable with nor did I honestly

have the people skills and bold personality that were necessary, especially not

between the ages of three and six, when the majority of those tasks were thrust on

me. As I have come to understand it, the recruiter had used her sons in a similar

manner before she lost custody of them. Now, instead of two boisterous boys with

each other for support, it was just me facing the task alone. I was too shy to deal with

it all and I was terrified.

So, the second time she asked me to do it, I smiled, nodded, and agreed. And then I

went and hid under a bush along the pathway to the building for several hours. This

would lead her to think I wasn’t obedient enough (I was obedient in everything, but

sometimes my fear overruled my ability to follow orders). Her thoughts on that would

cause her to attempt a variety of overzealous, unethical, and cruel ways to turn me

into an obedient little subservient. Methods that would, in some cases, even bring

international outcry when used on adults at Guantanamo Bay. She clearly did not

comprehend child-rearing, or I simply wasn’t a child to her. I get the feeling, when

considering what she would put me through, that she still saw me as more of an

enemy combatant. But I’ll get into a few of the more oppressive and bizarre methods

of control that she attempted, later.

In the meantime, I was brought along to a myriad of labs, clandestine meetings, and

for simple ordinary tasks, often among people who had the potential to do as much

damage as the person I was there with. Sometimes the lines blurred, and no real

distinction could be made between ordinary life and the recruiter’s work. One such

experience was when we were visiting a man in the late evenings. The two of them

would talk in another room while they left me sitting on a barstool in the kitchen

watching Tales from the Darkside or The Twilight Zone (I can’t honestly remember

which, the two shows were so similar) on a small television. It seemed like an ordinary

meeting between two people who knew each other, except for the late hour. Even that

seemed ordinary enough.

One night when they were taking much too long, the show I was watching ended. I

got bored and started wandering the living room. There, I found something that I have

since been informed is so rare that it’s only heard of in rumors. It was a lampshade

with a tattoo. I brought it up to the light and examined it, appreciating how beautiful

and flawed it was. When they came into the room, they told me it was made from a

woman. The man returned it to the box I found it in. I still loved it and wished I could

have a tattoo like the one I saw on it. I was a child. I didn’t honestly understand the

implications. It was just something slightly unique that stood out in a room that was

otherwise standard worn furniture, musty sleeping bags, and classically male with no

real care for decor or cleaning. How was I supposed to know that the person the

recruiter was speaking to might be directly related to the higher rankings of the

German SS? There were no obvious indications other than his choice in lighting. He

was the recruiter’s age, not the same age as the depressed scientist I had met. He also

seemed anything but depressed.

Back in the daylight, the recruiter and a work friend of hers were theatrically

whispering together one time while looking at me. I wanted to know what the secret

was. So, they told me I was a French princess but I couldn’t tell anyone at all, that it

was a secret and if people knew there would be grave consequences. I was young. By

the end of the week, every kid at my preschool knew I was a “princess.” Obviously, the

tale they had told me about my being a princess was a lie. They just wanted to know if

I could keep a big secret. That was when they decided I couldn’t.

As a result, and for other purposes as well, the recruiter would spend her spare

moments at home creating a strong and unpleasant-tasting homemade mix of drugs

from nature, with datura and poppies among the main ingredients. When she thought

she had the mixture right, she would invite me over to where she sat with her mortar

and pestle to test it for her. She made me consume that awful mixture by the

spoonful. As my vision became that of a carnival mirror room, with my body parts

going through uncomfortable waves of seeming both incredibly large and small, she

would inform me that I had a fever.

I’ve had many legitimate fevers in life - what I experienced after I consumed her mixture

was not a fever.

What was more concerning than her using a child as the tester for her homemade

drug experimentation, was that she was not the only one to go that far. Around that

same time, she brought me to a language school somewhere in central Connecticut.

As we walked through a room with sinks on the left and plain children’s hospital beds

on the right, I became frightened. As I clung closer to her, she told me not to worry,

that it would be fine. We passed through that room and, eventually, I was brought to

another. I crawled up onto the examination chair and they restrained me.

They talked amongst themselves about how children don’t remember, how what they

were doing was more humane than leaving us attached to an inferior language and a

memory full of atrocities. I get the feeling they were only trying to hide behind

enough professionalism and false concern to convince themselves.

What would follow was a series of strong electrical shocks directly to my temples,

simultaneously on both sides, an absolutely excruciating process from which I

squirmed, desperately trying to find any escape from the pain. I discovered that if I

squirmed just enough that they were not exactly equal on my temples, and if they

pressed against the edge of the bone of my skull rather than the soft and unprotected

flesh of my temples, then the pain was slightly diminished. Thus, I fought to squirm

down and tilt my head that little extra bit. If you look at my temples even today, the

electrical burn scars are still there and one is a little higher than the other. I had

succeeded. However, even my attempt to escape some of the pain was not enough to

stop the voltage from doing its job.

Eventually, the pain would become so intense that it would leave, and I would find

myself in this white, empty, seemingly vast space inside my head. There was no

language there; it appeared like emptiness, and my thoughts functioned freely in it

without words, making boundless connections. I found it beautiful. I wish I’d never

been in the situation to discover it, but it was beautiful. When back “home” with that

woman I was now forced to call “mom,” I would often wander into the back garden

alone, sit in the grass or on a rock, and reminisce about that vivid empty space in my

mind and how free my thoughts had been without the constraints of language with its

limited and fixed definitions. I grew to hate the concept of language and its imposed

limitations.

As for the language school part, it was indeed a school in the sense that, after wiping

our minds nearly as clean as snow, they taught us. I met some of the other children

who had occupied the beds I’d seen when I first entered the space. I spent long hours

side-by-side with them as the teachers brought us through the entire English

language, reading and reciting the words in groups and in order until we knew the

language better than the native speakers in the area.

And as for my Argentine-government-approved kidnapper’s particular homemade

mixture of drugs, she eventually discovered that an effective way to hide it was in

chocolate and strong beverages. She would mix it into my hot chocolate, which she

made with copious amounts of intensely-flavored unsweetened dark baker’s

chocolate, heated milk, and honey. I began to become anxious about how I would feel

after consuming a beverage she had given me, and I started to switch our drinks. It

took me a while to realize it was only in the thicker beverages. I wasted quite a few of

my attempts at sleight of hand on switching our water glasses.

Despite my novice lack of attention to details, by determination and luck, I finally got

it right.

I switched our mugs of hot chocolate while she had her back turned, with her

attention on a rarity - a bear and cub outside the kitchen window. When she returned

to the table, we drank. Several minutes later, I stood in that kitchen horrified, as she

began to act like a panicked and trapped wild animal, fighting both me and the drugs.

She clawed at me with her nails still dirty with turpentine and garden soil. I stood

panicked and frozen until eventually running to hide in my room for hours. The long

red scratches she left on one of my arms would inflame and infect long before they

healed. She tried to drug me again to forget the incident, but pain holds memories

more tightly than a mother holds her child. The soreness of the swollen scratches and

the rapid beating of my heart from heightened anxiety sliced right through the fog of

the drugs.

Mind you, the recruiter didn’t always need to be drugged in order to go through fits of

rage. Every few months, I would wake up to loud smashing in the kitchen, as she

would spend at least an hour systematically going through and throwing each plate at

the floor until the entire kitchen was covered in broken dishes, and only two dishes

and two cups remained (even in these odd fits of rage, she still remembered to leave

us just enough to eat and drink from). During the cacophony of her screams and the

sounds of breaking glass and ceramic plates, I would sneak outside and go to the edge

of the property to avoid becoming a victim.

She eventually began to test her homemade drug on adults, with varying results.

When I was along, she would make sure I knew which drink was mine, often by

marking it in a way I would recognize. So, even if we were all taking Coke bottles from

the same ice bucket, I would know to look for the one with a small indent on it.

Sometimes, she used that method to drug me. Other times she used it to drug

everyone else, leaving me there sober and aware as the people in the room began to

act strange or drop their faces into their plates. If I was drugged or if everyone else

was genuinely depended on the situation, what her goal was, and who needed to be

compliant for that goal to be reached.

The drugs would cause some of her targets to become compliant and some to become

violent. She brought them to the house in both conditions and maneuvered them in

front of a shiny silver tarp that was hung on a wall. There, she would pose me with

them for inappropriate photographs, and use the Polaroids for blackmail. One of them

was Joseph, a man the recruiter had intentionally moved in next door to on Judd Farm

Road around the time I was turning five years old. He was the head sheriff for New

Haven County at that time. I was never comfortable with the situation, and I will

never be comfortable enough to discuss any of those situations in detail.

No matter how many times I was told it was fine and normal, I was never comfortable in

any of those situations.

By then, I had already been present when the haggard-looking woman from Argentina

was shot at point-blank range after she came to the United States to confront the

woman who had stolen me from my country.

She drove up in her wood-paneled station wagon and parked behind the office of the

raw materials plant we were frequently at during that time period (the industry-

massive piles of sand and other raw construction and concrete materials were an

effective cover for major drug smuggling, primarily cocaine, being done by the

business owner). The recruiter told us kids, myself and the children of the owner, to

hide on the ground floor of the building. My friends found spots to hide. I stood frozen

in the center of a room, not that far from the back door. The recruiter, my false

mother, went through that door to the rear of the building and got into a screaming

match with the woman who was likely one of my actual family members. Then I heard

something that sounded a lot like thunder but not really. What I had heard were shots

fired from the recruiter’s handgun.

After the shots rang out, the recruiter came flying through the building, her hands

shaking (ironic that she could poison and bomb people without flinching but that

pulling the trigger on a gun made her visibly shaken, but that’s how human

psychology is - killing is often easy and elating except when its a combination of

immediate and personal). She pushed us kids in the direction of the side door. The few

other people who had been in the office ran to get into the company owner’s pickup

truck and another vehicle. We all sped away. I asked why we were leaving in such a

hurry. Someone, probably the recruiter, told me it was because there was a dangerous

storm coming. From the open back of the pickup truck, I looked up into the sky. It was

blue. There wasn’t a cloud in sight. I never spoke about it, but I knew we weren’t

running from the weather that day.

I still wonder how the deceased woman who had driven the station wagon was related

to me. I often think of her as my grandmother. We age the same, something that I

both adore in that I can now see the reflection of family when I look in the mirror and

also abhor because it comes along with etched lines in my skin.

She wasn’t the only would-be savior of mine who I saw harmed or worse. The guilt ate

at me. So did the growing sense of loneliness.

Domestic Research Subject Recruitment

We’re a world of individuals and nations

attempting to make real moves for survival,

based on fictitious information and half-truths

about concealed dangers.

The results are disastrous, painful to watch, and often fatal.

It is impossible to walk a path to safety when

you’ve been blindfolded and lied to about

where every stone in that path is placed.

I was moved around frequently and kept out of sight of many of the recruiter’s family

and superiors. I had been hidden away for months at a time in a series of military

camps and often-expensive schools. The recruiter rarely let me stay at one school for

more than a few months, and I was frequently absent entirely for months, and

sometimes years, at a time (I once missed two and a half years of school in a row,

between the beginning of fifth grade and the latter half of seventh grade). It felt like

being given an in-depth tour of every type of educational model. I can confirm that

some are, indeed, better than others.

I do not recommend the by-rote Prussian model of “education” adopted by many

public school systems, nor the modernized and infantilized version of Montessori

education - although the original Montessori model offers some serious advantages

for students in the early years of education. What I recommend the most is a method

that does not appear to exist in modern education - one that allows and promotes

true analytical thinking and creativity within the sciences by the students, without

treating the field as if it were an infallible and untouchable altar to worship at. In

order to learn, in order to teach children to learn, we must first admit to them that we

are still learning and do not know everything already.

Out of the habit and conveniences offered to a medical research recruiter, my

mother-by-illegal-adoption also stowed me away on clinical wings of pharmaceutical

company campuses for long residential trials, primarily of cancer drugs for which my

medical documents were altered by her to make it appear that I had a wide variety of

cancer types so that she could have the added benefit of collecting the payments that

were being given to the parents of volunteers.

The recruiter would forge my medical records to match the “disease of the day” and

sign me into paid medical research, primarily via her connections and the list of

research participation opportunities that they kept in the office of the Yale Medical

Research Department. She had connections to that department going back to the

1960s, according to officially published medical articles citing her, using her then-

married name, as a researcher for the Yale Medical Library.

Image Source: National Library of Medicine

“World Biomedical Journals… Acknowledgements:... Yale Medical Library, for the

programs yielding index computations and tabular listings; to analysts (omitted) Mary

Parham, (omitted) and (omitted) for their citation gathering…”

Text Source: National Library of Medicine28

She would sign me into the highest-paying research programs, which at the time

primarily focused on childhood epilepsy and cancer - two conditions I did not have.

One epilepsy researcher did mention to me, in a worried voice, that he thought the

recruiter might have Munchausen by Proxy once he realized I did not have the

condition he was doing his research on. I assured him that she wasn’t sick. She just

wanted the money. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have added that insight if I

wanted help.

Image Source: Yale School of Medicine

28 National Library of Medicine, World Biomedical Journals, 1951-60: A Study of the Relative Significance of 1,388 Titles Indexed in Current List of Medical Literature, https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC198399/pdf/mlab00175-0028.pdf

“For more than four decades, the Yale Epilepsy Program has led the way in research.”

Text Source: Yale School of Medicine29

There are official state child abuse and medical records from that time confirming

that I didn’t have epilepsy and that the recruiter was faking it in me (images of

records can be found below). The social workers were never able to locate me to

speak to me directly. The recruiter kept me hidden and out of school in those years.

Image Source: Personal File, State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services

“DHR worker…Robin was concerned because she has never seen (child).”

29 Yale School of Medicine, Finding New Ways to Calm Storms in the Brain, https://medicine.yale.edu/news/medicineatyale/article/finding-new-ways-to-calm-storms-in-the/

Text Source: Personal File, State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services30

So, if anyone thinks I’m a diabolical manipulative mastermind and have been since

early childhood (that same “child criminal” concept Argentina and other genocidally-

inclined nations are convinced of), and that I make up cruel stories about the saint

who illegally adopted me and brought me over international borders, you can stop it

now. I had zero influence over the investigation the social workers did which led them

to believe the recruiter was fabricating illnesses for me to have. The case was first

opened when a school reported me truant. I was not involved. I wasn’t even present in

the school to be questioned - that’s why the case was opened. The only people the

social workers ever spoke to were doctors, the recruiter, and possible new schools to

send me to.

I do wish that I had somehow known those were the years to reach out to Child

Protective Services myself, to reach a particular social worker I didn’t know the name

of, and to highlight - among all the abuse I was going through - the Munchausen by

Proxy aspects. Because if I had, it might have triggered them to do something more.

Unfortunately, most victims are kept in the dark and won’t know the exact moment of

an opportunity that could have potentially saved them.

30 State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services, Author’s Personal File - Child Abuse Investigation Report

Image Source: Personal File, State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services

“Thorough investigation showed no photosensitivity and that even if photosensitivity

did exist, it would not be influenced so strongly by fluorescent lighting. Mother is

refusing to send her daughter to school in a fluorescently lit classroom. Mother has

sabotaged efforts to test for photosensitive epilepsy…Mother is threatening to sue if

we take her to court.”

Text Source: Personal File, State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services31

While I would note that Child Protective Services cowardly closed the case after

being threatened with a lawsuit by a Yale-affiliated “parent,” despite my still being

missing, I should probably dive in to something more relevant to the recruiter’s

long-game. So, I’ll explain what the ridiculous circus she was bringing the social

workers through was actually about. Her strange claims that it was fluorescent

lighting that induced my “epilepsy” were part of a very well-thought-out con. She

wanted to visit multiple schools in the area under the pretence of being a

31 State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services, Author’s Personal File - Child Abuse Investigation Report

concerned parent of a potential student. Access to the social workers - the

gatekeepers of children and thus the school system - gave her a way to do exactly

that.

She would tell each school that she wanted to "see the lighting in the classrooms,"

and there would be the authority of a social worker there to back up her absurd

requests and claims. That would get her through the door during school hours.

Once in the classrooms, she would seek out potential impoverished students who

might fit the medical research recruitment requirements for the same high-paying

programs she was signing me into. Running only one child through the programs

wasn’t enough of a payout for her.

If she saw a student who interested her, she would tell the head of the school that

she was interested in having me attend there, and that she would like to go to a

parent-teacher night to meet the teachers and school community to make sure it

was truly a good fit for her significantly intellectually disabled special-needs

daughter (a definition of me that she had given to the social workers and that they

had simply accepted). There, she would locate the parents of a child she was

interested in and would begin her deceptive recruitment tactics, turning up the

charm and posing as a philanthropist from Yale.

I was the model child she would use when she was recruiting those children into

“opportunity programs” that didn’t actually exist. She would point to my ballet lessons

and large vocabulary as part of a rags-to-riches success story. It was simply her

tricking the parents into signing over enough medical rights buried in contracts she

would call "permission forms" so that she could gain the written authority to sign

their kids into much of the same paid epilepsy, cancer, and other research she was

signing me into.

Image Source: Personal File, State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services

“Mother’s story is far-fetched and highly unlikely that seizures and blindness occur

because of fluorescent lighting.”

Text Source: Personal File, State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services32

I watched as kids were convinced they were headed to summer camp. Each parent

was told that their kid had been approved for a full scholarship/grant to cover the

costs and would be attending summer programs at Yale for free. The recruiter

informed them that the programs would give their child the exceptional opportunity

to meet rich and influential people who would help that child's career. The parents

always signed. Then the kids were bused to university hospitals or pharmaceutical

companies to be hooked up to chemo IVs or worse, often with creative ways to keep

them in the dark, such as telling commercial pharmaceutical researchers they were

dealing with “child cancer patients who don’t know they have cancer because it’s

better for them psychologically if they don’t, so let’s all pretend this is a summer camp

for them, the poor things.” i.e., cons within cons, blanketed in the good intentions of

complacent adults who participated in the harm done to us for profit. And how

32 State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services, Author’s Personal File - Child Abuse/Neglect Investigation Report

gullible they thought children were? How little they thought of us when they came up

with their lies? I don’t know about you, but I’ve never seen a traditional summer camp

with rows of beds with IV poles next to them and I hope I never will.

The children’s cancer treatment drug trials were depressing. In one case, the

recruiter convinced colleagues of hers to also enroll one of their adopted children

into the program. He was a boy roughly around my age. The odds of us both having

the same type of rare cancer, which neither of us knew we had, is not in our pediatric

medical records, and we’ve never even been told the name of as adults so that we

could inform our own doctors about it… Those odds are simply impossible, especially

considering that his adoptive parents at least appeared competent. In other words, it

was just a scam to get the significant monetary payouts the pharmaceutical company

was giving to parents. We didn’t have cancer.

I had to sit there in one of the little hospital beds, next to my friend, as he talked

about what he thought was a summer camp we had been signed into. They had lied to

him and drugged him before sending him into the building. The happiness in his voice

hurt my head and broke my heart as the particularly noxious chemotherapy drugs

entered my veins.

Those chemicals in my bloodstream caused an instant deep and sinking darkness that

took over my whole world and perception. All of the remaining good, health, and

lightness left my mind and body in an instant. It was replaced by a dragging weight

and an intense sense of hopelessness and dread. The world actually looked darker.

Through the windows by our beds, we could see a hill that led down behind the

building. We begged so much to be allowed to play on it, that one day they finally

caved in and let us. I attempted to gather the other children and have them run down

the hill with me to escape. A few followed for a bit, but the tall dry grass and forest

were unforgiving, prickly, and rough, especially to children made oversensitive by

what was nothing more than human testing for medically prescribed chemical

poisoning. They were also concerned about breaking the rules - the adults were

poisoning them, quite literally, chemotherapy is poison and the early-stage-research

chemotherapy running through our veins certainly was - but they still felt the

compulsion to obey and the fear of consequences if they did not. We have had actual

survival conditioned out of us before the age of ten.

By the time I reached the road at the bottom of the hill, I was the only one who hadn’t

turned around and given up.

Security guards from the pharmaceutical company building drove by and collected me

shortly after. People do not feel the need to act humanely if the harm they are doing is

being covered with a lie of care or assistance. I assure you, poisoning a child for a cash

payout or research funding is neither care nor is it assistance.

I saw kids die from the research. Not from health conditions. From the research. I also

bet there are several out there who are considered certifiably insane if they've

mentioned the trauma of "IVs at summer camp" and tried to process how that

happened. Never mind the ones that were placed into DoD research, and that did

happen. Sometimes, I come across one who was clearly damaged and cannot come to

terms with it. Most of them turn to drugs or eventually fall into psychosis. This

culture we live in, this society, was not made to support the victims of the crimes it

hides. It eventually just finishes them off and mows them under.

It is so much easier for people to believe that what is wrong with a victim comes from

the internal and not from abuse. Case and point: The recruiter told Child Protective

Services, people who should know to look for signs of abuse, that I was extremely

learning disabled.

Image Source: Personal File, State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services

“Spring Glen (school) may be able to accommodate…

Lazy eye, learning disabled.”

Text Source: Personal File, State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services33

Child Protective Services never even questioned it, nor did they ask the teachers or

administration at my prior school who could have confirmed that I was an ordinary

student with B grades at the time. It was a private Catholic school that didn’t accept

children with learning disabilities. They didn’t have the resources set up to do so. The

blunder of not knowing or looking into this was made despite CPS being trained to

investigate signs of child abuse and endangerment. Silencing a child by falsely

claiming they’re too dumb to speak is a major red flag. Yet, tactics like that have

become so pervasive in society as a whole that even professionals have trained

themselves to ignore the signs.

33 State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services, Author’s Personal File - Child Abuse/Neglect Investigation Report

I promise that I’m not, nor have I ever been, learning disabled. I missed nearly half of

the total years of schooling before university and still managed to fight my way to the

top portion of the class nearly every time I returned. I’m also writing this for you right

now, with post-graduate credentials, while working in a country that is not my own,

and keeping a large apartment directly by the sea. I am not learning disabled. Quite

the opposite. There is nothing wrong with me other than the damage I wear from this

life and my rather conversational use of commas.

The recruiter “visiting schools for her disabled daughter” was entirely a con only

intended to recruit. She went through at least half a dozen schools. She never sent

me to any of them. I was rarely even in the New Haven area at that time. She was

utilizing me elsewhere.

Many times, elsewhere was obviously in a research hospital or a pharmaceutical

company’s facilities. As I mentioned, she kept the monetary payments that resulted

from the children (myself included) “volunteering” in medical research. I paid with my

health. I’ve had unnecessary chemo, MRIs, radiation therapy, bone biopsies, and more

while my actual health problems were usually neglected because standard childhood

medical appointments do not come with a stipend/payment for the adult to collect.

Oh, and the thing about “the mother sabotaging efforts” that the social worker

mentioned in their first notes I referenced (three images above). They may have

been referring to when the recruiter drugged me to an excessive poisoning level

before an electroencephalogram (EEG) with every substance she could find that

might induce a seizure, in the hopes of having something akin to an epileptic

seizure show up on the scan.

It didn’t. I still didn’t have a seizure. I’ve never had a seizure in my life.

I did, however, develop cancer shortly after a series of very destructive chemotherapy

and a separate trial looking into altering immune system response via changes to

hormone levels.

The tumors I developed from that would eventually be discovered by doctors later

when I was in my teens. The recruiter told them not to inform me “because it might

make the cancer patient sad” and neglected to have it treated because it would cost

her in both effort and money. There were no research programs for the particular

type of cancer that would have paid her to enroll me and allow them to treat the

condition.

A lab assistant, who I knew socially through a friend, rushed out of the hospital when

he spotted me walking alone on the sidewalk, and he was the one who informed me

that I had cancer. I didn’t believe him. I assumed he had my file confused with some

random cancer patient’s. My stomach hurt frequently, and I was always tired, but

there were so many other legitimate reasons for both of those at that time in my life.

Years later, when I was residing in another part of the country in my early twenties,

the pain became unbearable. I saw a doctor there and was referred to a surgeon who

removed the still-growing cancerous mass from my stomach. He found it latched on

between my womb and intestines. That was the painful tug I had felt every time I had

anxiety. When my stomach muscles tightened in an anxious moment, it would pull at

the healthy tissue and surrounding organs. It wasn’t until after the surgery that I

learned that anxiety doesn’t have to physically hurt.

One of the easier medical research projects I was sent to as a child was as a test

subject for a new type of MRI machine being used on humans for the first time. They

needed healthy female test subjects and were willing to pay several thousand dollars

for only a few hours of a participant's time. The recruiter signed me up quickly, added

a few years to my age on the form so that I would qualify, and came along to ensure

that I made it to the appointment. She let me wear makeup that day.

The MRI machine scan picked up the problem with my neck that had most likely

resulted from the leap my mother had taken before I was born. The doctors made a

quick emergency consultation, showing us the results and stating that I would need to

have several of my vertebrae fused. The recruiter smiled, nodded, and agreed to bring

me to a specialist. Then she double-drugged me on the way home so I wouldn’t

remember, and never brought me to any follow-up appointments for my spine. I only

recall the walk from the research hospital because the amount of drugging that day

made me so incredibly nauseous that the agony of it broke through the

pharmaceutically-induced amnesia wall. While I do not appreciate the level of medical

neglect the recruiter put me through, nor her outlandish and overdone

methodologies, in this one case I am happy she did not listen to the doctors. No one

needs metal fusing their vertebrae.

Decades later, in Italy, I would go to a specialist on my own to see why my neck had

always hurt. When he showed me the results of my MRI (the first image below), it took

everything in me to remain quiet and not look like a crazy person by mentioning the

drugging, medical abuse, and the fact that I’d seen that exact issue with my neck on

an MRI scan before, in a drug haze, with doctors recommending surgically inserting

metal, years and years prior.

First Image Source: Author’s Personal Medical File, Cervical Spine MRI 2018, Age 4134

Second Image Source: Example of a Healthy Cervical Spine MRI, Radiopaedia35

But that’s getting into the future. There are still the years I was growing up in the

grasp of a psychopath:

There was one cancer research trial that I remember in particular, not because of the

treatment itself, but due to it highlighting the distressing but pervasive nature of the

individual components of humanity - humans - to hide the deceit of others for their

own temporary self-preservation.

While that method of survival may have worked in a world in which we could escape

the consequences of our actions simply by running from them, it’s an archaic instinct

that will result in our demise in the modern world in which implications can travel the

globe.

34 Author’s Personal Medical File, Cervical Spine MRI 2018, Age 41

35 Radiopaedia, Normal Cervical Spine, https://radiopaedia.org/cases/normal-cervical-spine-mri-1

The medical trial was in a clinical setting, and I was sitting in a waiting room with the

recruiter. Near us were a mother and child. The child very obviously had cancer. The

medical trial was for the type of cancer she had, quite like one would expect in a

relatively sane world. The mother, spying the recruiter and I sitting in the waiting

room, thought she had found another mother-and-daughter cancer duo. She started

to talk to us about the type of cancer and other details. It was clear that she had done

her homework and knew as much as she could about the condition her daughter was

suffering through.

As she spoke to us and I couldn’t answer anything about the cancer - not its name, not

what part of my health it would have affected, etc., her eyes began to widen. I could

see her processing the information and realizing that I didn’t have cancer. In that

moment, she knew the woman I was sitting there with was a fraud and about to

expose a child to unnecessary and dangerous cancer treatments. I watched that

mother closely as the muscles tightened in her neck and she began to turn to look for

a nurse or someone else to alert. And then I watched her suddenly pause and look

back at her daughter.

Her emotions were so clearly written on her face, with her panicked eyes flickering

around the scene as she thought about it all in those few seconds. I could see the

exact moment when she decided that her daughter’s treatment might be at risk if she

reported that the other child in the room was there fraudulently. In that moment, she

chose her daughter’s life above the safety of a stranger’s child. She went silent, stayed

in her seat, and didn’t alert anyone. I can’t entirely blame her. Her daughter was dying

and that cancer research trial may have been the best bet she was told she had for

recovery.

However, I’ve seen that exact response and behavior in countless situations with

much less extreme potential consequences for the witnesses. They still never did

anything to stop the crimes unfolding in front of them.

That’s the reality I became faced with when dealing with potentially very harmful and

often deadly situations. I could not save myself or anyone else unless I did it on my

own, which wasn’t always possible although I did try. There was no community

support. The community almost always chooses to support the predator, and they do

it due to immediate fear. They never seem to think of the long-term consequences of

keeping a predator encouraged, well-paid, and thriving within their own community.

It’s a flaw in the human mind and one that the predators among us take full advantage

of. It gives them the full and complete protection of the herd they feed on. It would

take an incredible amount of care and restraint to not take advantage of that. Very

few have both care and restraint to that degree.

I needed to share these stories from an unwitting trial participant’s perspective

because behaviors of abuse and coercion do not change simply because someone

capable of damage has a child within reach rather than a nation that day. Much of

what was done to me would be done to the world on a wider scale, with many of the

same methodologies. It’s like research and results. We research on a small scale

before we enact the results on a larger scale… and I was living among the scientists.

That’s how they work.

Abuses are simpler to see when they’re still small enough to be in the same room with

you. They get harder to pinpoint once they’re magnified and obscured through

complex policies and backroom maneuverings on a large scale, even if they are

planned and enacted by many of the same people.

I wanted to show you some of the mechanisms, mentalities, and behaviors behind the

small parts of the explosion before we get to the mushroom cloud on the horizon.

That mushroom cloud will be much easier to comprehend this way. You’ll know where

it ignited, and how. You’ll know precisely how the hand moved when it detonated that

post-nuclear bomb.

In order to learn about a field, we must start with the building blocks. We must first

see that 2 + 2 equals 4 before jumping into differential equations.

Positioning

Chronologically may still be the best way to explain everything, even if it’s more

personal than I would like. It’s been front-loaded with the parts that hit me the

most (and I, subsequently, have had a lot to say on those topics). That’s the reality

of growing up. When we are young, our world is small and we are victims of our

immediate surroundings. As we get older, we expand our knowledge and reach

until we know and become a part of those surroundings and the larger landscape.

However, my small world was sitting on a main artery and poisoning the larger

landscape.

At first, it seemed localized enough.

A solution was finally found for the problem of the recruiter having to hide me from

her own family. She decided that my new home would be in a series of side offices and

safehouses in New Haven, Connecticut. They generally had extra rooms, a shower,

and a kitchen. Each one also had a petty cash box. I was expected to record every cent

I spent from that box, even if it had been on a 10-cent lemon-flavored candy from the

small corner store down the street, so the woman who now owned me for life could

be reimbursed for the "business expense" of keeping me.

On top of being her personal errand girl and medical cash cow, I was now also living

right under the noses and in the view of whichever government agency or contractor

was funding the operations for those locations. Unless anyone in clearance-level

accounting offices can genuinely claim they believed it was an adult recording 10-cent

midday purchases of lemon and baked bean flavored candies from the corner store.

It’s somewhat doubtful anyone intelligent enough to be hired for the job would be that

dumb.

I was eight years old when we hit New Haven, and ten when I started going to the

corner store on my own and the petty cash box procedures for that purpose were

introduced to me.

Life in my New Haven accommodations had some interesting moments. Often, the

space was ours exclusively, and the recruiter would sleep in the front living room or

office like a sentry, despite there usually being an extra bedroom in the back that she

could have used, in addition to one I occupied. Sometimes, we would have unexpected

guests when people needed to use the space. I remember coming home one evening

to discover roughly twenty-five refugees crammed into the two spacious front rooms,

refugees from the same region of political instability that had left me in the hands of

the recruiter.

Looking back on it, I wonder if they even knew they were in a government-funded

apartment, or if they had been told they were being protected by individual citizens

who cared. When they saw the recruiter, did any of them remember her as “Alicia

from the Journalism Department” at the University of Buenos Aires and feel relief? Or

would that have brought them apprehension?

While sitting there, huddled in my living room, they just looked like a group of people

being manipulated and moved around the country until someone could come up with

a way to utilize them. History uses a heavy brush as it paints us as radicals and federal

agents, as freedom fighters and military, victims and CIA, but it often forgets that

we’re all just people, as fallible and vulnerable as the next, and thrown into the midst

of it all. We still need to eat and to find a soft spot to rest our heads at the end of the

night.

Frequently, we slept with our captors.

For a while, things heated up on a personal level as the recruiter was ducking Child

Protective Services. She decided to get me out of town. While doing networking on

location, she gave me a tent, introduced me to some of the organizers, let me listen in

on their conversations, and then left me on my own to spend time on The Great Peace

March for Global Nuclear Disarmament, the 1986 3,700 mile walking journey from Los

Angeles to Washington D.C.

(Yes, I missed school that year.)

Image Source: Online Archive of California

“The Great Peace March for Global Nuclear Disarmament took place in 1986

starting in Los Angeles on March 1 and ending in Washington, D.C. on November

15. It was conceived by David Mixner, a professional organizer and political

activist.”

Text Source: Online Archive of California36

Let me be very clear in this. While promoted under the banner of a good cause, that

peace walk was primarily intended to clean up Los Angeles by relocating a large group

of homeless out of the city. The peace walk used celebrity activists as lures and

promised the homeless and disenfranchised that if they came along they would have

free mobile medical support, a dentist, a mobile post office, shelter to sleep in each

night, community, three meals a day, laundry service, access to water, and everything

they could need and had struggled to attain.

36 Online Archive of California, Great Peace March Collection, 1985-1986, https://oac.cdlib.org/findaid/ark:/13030/kt8w1006s0/

Image: Peace March Mobile Post Office, 1986

Source, Dan Coogan via Flickr37

Image: Great Peace March Mobile Dental Clinic, 1986,

Source: Jeff Share38

37 Flickr, Great Peace March, Dan Coogan Photographer, https://www.flickr.com/photos/cooganphoto/5903978923/in/album-72157626908632257/

38 Jeff Share, The Great Peace March for Global Nuclear Disarmament 1986, https://jshare.wixsite.com/jeffshare/peace-march?lightbox=dataItem-j066kaav1

Images: Great Peace March 1986

Image Source: Jeff Share39

All the homeless had to do in exchange was walk each day. The organizers were a

modern Pied Piper. Much like the Orphan Trains that had cleared impoverished youth

from the streets of San Francisco, the Great Peace March was cleaning up California

by redistributing their buildup of impoverished to other sections of the country.

39 Jeff Share, The Great Peace March for Global Nuclear Disarmament 1986, https://jshare.wixsite.com/jeffshare/peace-march

Image: Orphan Train

Image Source: Louisiana’s Old State Capitol40

40 Louisiana’s Old State Capitol, Louisiana Orphan Train: Stories From the Descendants, https://louisianaoldstatecapitol.org/exhibits-events/louisiana-orphan-train-stories

Image Source: Virginia Commonwealth University's Social Welfare History Project

“During the 1850s there were thousands of children living on the streets of several

major cities.

Between 1854 and 1929, Orphan Trains moved approximately 200,000 children from

cities like New York and Boston to the American West to be adopted…

At any one time, there were between 30 and 40 children, infants to teens, traveling

with two or three adult chaperones. The children often had no idea where they were

going, and were only told that they were going to take a train ride…

"I’d just finished eating and this matron came by and tapped us along the head. ‘You’re going to Texas. You’re going to Texas.’ … I looked up. I said, ‘I can’t go. I’m not an orphan.

My mother’s still living. She’s in a hospital right here in New York.’ ‘You’re going to

Texas.’ No use arguing.” —Hazelle Latimer (Orphan Train rider). .

The confused and often frightened children lost contact with their families back in

their hometowns and, those who were old enough, were encouraged to make a

complete break with their past. When the children arrived in the new area where they

were to live, there was no formal process to place them with new families. There were

only handbills that announced the distribution of groups of needy children that

brought crowds of prospective parents to view and choose children. Although the

Children’s Aid Society made a point of emphasizing the success stories of children

who were well cared for and loved, the outcome of the placements in general was

mixed. Some of the farming families saw the children only as cheap labor.”

Text Source: Virginia Commonwealth University's Social Welfare History Project41

I can’t help but notice that they’ve taken to using the same well-practiced domestic

methodologies and tactics over even longer distances and international borders since

then for both children and impoverished adults. California and major cities in the

United States may have been frequent utilizers of the services in the beginning, but as

time went on, they would not be the only areas the U.S. had involvement in that would

come to have an overabundance of poor to disburse. As we move through history and

it becomes closer and thus clearer, the growing involvement of destabilizing

Intelligence objectives becomes more obvious.

There is a major problem with the methodology, and it goes far beyond the

inconveniences it causes in the intake areas where the people have been disbursed.

When an area creates more impoverished and/or criminal elements than it can

41 Virginia Commonwealth University's Social Welfare History Project, Orphan Trains, https://socialwelfare.library.vcu.edu/programs/child-welfarechild-labor/orphan-trains/

manage, allowing it to simply remove those people from their community is not

actually beneficial to that community in the long run. It does not create a responsible

government and culture in that area. This is because, without having to continuously

face the issues they cause - primarily a large portion of their people becoming

impoverished - they do not learn how to solve the problem healthily and within their

own communities and regions. They don’t have to. Someone else will take the problem

off their hands and hide it away where they no longer have to see it. Thus, they

continue to veer off course, creating a situation in which their people are likely to

become impoverished, and the rest of the world continues to have to absorb the

people of that failed and irresponsible system. No one wins unless they happen to be a

sadistic warlord who likes the giggles caused by creating unnecessary human

suffering and an unsustainable mess.

There is a certain danger that comes with painting every harm as something

beneficial. People cling to the illusion long after they should let it go.

As a child, I simply adapted to the peace-march life and did what I tended to do when

given a situation. I made the best of it. I came to know the drivers of the buses

carrying supplies so that I could get a ride each day and avoid having to walk. The

driver of the kitchen bus happened to have children. It wasn’t difficult to embed

myself with them. While everyone else was walking, I was playing or helping the

mobile kitchen.

Image: Peace March Support Vehicles, 1986

Source, Flickr, Dan Coogan42

Image: Great Peace March, 1986

Source: Jeff Share43

42 Flickr, Great Peace March, Dan Coogan Photographer, https://www.flickr.com/photos/cooganphoto/5904538890/in/album-72157626908632257/

43 Jeff Share, The Great Peace March for Global Nuclear Disarmament 1986, https://jshare.wixsite.com/jeffshare/peace-march?lightbox=dataItem-j066kaau3

After the peace walk, I was hidden away in a much different setting - an empty condo

in the hills of Hamden, a quiet and comfortable community next to New Haven. Bored

and stuck staring at the blank walls there for months on end, I entertained myself by

dancing around the bedroom and imagining that I was a famous singer. I named

myself Roxana. The first time I told the recruiter, she responded that it was a terrible

name, a prostitute’s name, and to pick a better one. She suggested Foxine. I went

along, I wasn’t going to spend a lot of time analyzing why the name Roxana had such a

strong reaction in her. Years later, I would find out it was because it had been my

mother’s name. I had kept little parts of her buried in my memory all those years.

When I saw myself filled with pride and self-esteem in the bathroom mirror while

pretending to be a rock star, it was her I saw reflected in the glass, and her name I had

taken to encapsulate that moment.

Some things will always surface.

Don't lie to people about themselves and who they come from.

The recruiter was still up to making money on the side. That is, if it was the side.

Where the line blurred between government pay and personal side hustle was

always difficult to distinguish with her - she drove back and forth over it like a

drunk person. And one of the times started so innocently that I actually thought it

was going to be something normal and sane…

She didn't give me modern or brand-new toys, ever, so when I asked her for a

Cabbage Patch Kid, her original response of "no” was expected. However, when she

learned they came with customized adoption certificates, her eyes lit up and I

would shortly end up with a series of the dolls. I treasured those dolls and their

adoption certificates, which I kept in their own special drawer next to my bed.

One after another, the adoption certificates would go missing from my drawer

while I slept. And why would that be? The recruiter had sidled up to and started

sleeping with a man who worked with actual adoption records, for humans and not

Cabbage Patch dolls. His name was Tom Flanders, and he was working with

adoption records for the Pequot and Paugussett tribes in Connecticut.

Image Source: DewHirst Funeral Home

“A graduate degree in Comprehensive Healthcare from Harvard

University…Trained with tribal elders…teaching Native American culture…In the

early 1980s, Tom relocated to work more closely with the Native American

community of Central Connecticut.”

Text Source: DewHerst Funeral Home44

44 DewHerst Funeral Home, Tom Flanders, https://www.dewhirstfuneral.com/obituary/Tom-Flanders

Image Source: MyHeritage

“Native American traditions with medicine man Tom Flanders...”

Text Source: MyHeritage45

She would tell him that I had lost my doll's certificate, and that I was devastated, to

get him to pull a genuine adoption certificate from work and fill it in with the

"doll's info" that the recruiter provided to him. I would receive the certificate from him, and that too would go missing from my drawer by the next morning. By the

third or fourth doll, I didn't even bother getting attached.

And those adoption certificates? One of them had the first and last name of a child

I would meet through the recruiter around that same time, the same child who

was there with me drugged out of his mind at one of the cancer research trials.

Another had that child’s sister's first and last name, and the third adoption

certificate - a few years later, I would meet a girl with that exact first, middle, and

45 MyHeritage, Carmen Matthews, https://www.myheritage.es/names/carmen_matthews#

last name. It probably wasn’t a coincidence. I know the first two weren’t. I

overheard the conversations between the adults. Those were the documents they

were using to legitimize illegal adoptions, a deceptively mundane name for

kidnappings.

So, when I look back at my first collection of brand-new and trendy dolls, I'm stuck

with nothing but guilt over my unwitting participation in the trafficking of my

friends.

I won’t be publishing the names of the abducted kids without their permission.

After a lifetime in the U.S., knowing nothing else, some may choose not to go

through the hassle of having their citizenship questioned. I’ve left that to the

individuals and informed two of them. In a world that does nothing for us, I

wouldn’t blame them if they choose to remain in the country they were forced to

build their lives in. They have lives there now, and those lives are their own. None

of us owe the human trafficking intake country a thing. They turned their backs on

and were complicit in our abductions and continued captivity. This failed

civilization has already taken everything from us. If I give you anything, if I give

you knowledge, don’t think it’s because I owe you something. I don’t. I do it

because it’s painful to watch people kill their own children in their attempted

suicide-by-military and I’m seeking to reach the few who would prefer not to be

that, and who might still have the balls and intellect to choose a different path.

Cohorts

I may not have had family, and the recruiter was never human enough to me to be a

replacement for family, but I did have research scientists and domestic

counterintelligence who spent enough time in my vicinity to almost qualify. One, who

I mentioned earlier, was George Edwards, a man that newspapers, including the New

York Times, regularly published entire articles on that could have easily been summed

up as “He’s not a federal agent, we swear!” I’ll show you some of those articles shortly.

I grew to know him to the point that he did nearly replace family, at least for a couple

of years. He was the only one I had any loyalty to in that mess. Out of respect for his

life and career, I waited until he died before writing about his full involvement.

Most of the scientists I only met when they needed an assistant in their office to go

through stacks of participant files or other mundane and repetitive work. The

counterintelligence agents I would first be introduced to behind closed doors, I would

see again at protests, marches, crop harvesting, political campaign offices, grassroots

organization meetings, illicit recruitment drives, and coffee shops. Once in a while,

there would be a crossover, and they and the scientists could be found in the same

place.

Many of them had been recruited by the same mechanism I had been illegally adopted

through. They had been offered an escape from prison, threats of death, and criminal

or war crimes charges, and they took it. Some had a history of domestic terrorism and

activism within the United States, and some had come from foreign countries and

predicaments similar to my mother’s. As I mentioned, we even had a few leftover

aging Nazi scientists of our own, from the recruitment of that era. However, most of

those human relics of World War II began retiring right around the time I reached

New Haven.

I understand the need for an infiltrated system. An unpenetrated one may be

cohesive enough to be a true danger to other countries. However, the foreign and

enemy self-inoculation of military and intelligence via unethical recruitment

processes that take advantage of wounds of war comes with psychological aspects

and unmet needs among the recruited that, when left unresolved and

unacknowledged, endanger us all.

While many of those I met held deep-seated resentment, anger, and sadness, there

were some who seemed to have adapted (but then, many people thought the same of

me). I fully acknowledge that I have experienced the full range of those emotions, as

well as a few fleeting moments of hope, over the course of my life and service.

There is a deep-set pain caused by being enslaved by the enemy and being forced to

work in intelligence and weapons research that is aimed at the destruction of your

own people. It drills all the way down to a person’s core and then keeps going.

As at-odds as it may seem, I felt most comfortable speaking to the people involved

in my abuse and the abuses I witnessed, when it came to how I was really feeling

and why. I didn’t have to worry about them not comprehending what I was talking

about. I didn’t have to explain what was making me miserable or uncomfortable.

They already knew.

I could be closer to my complete self with some of them than I could with anyone

else. They were the only people who held my secrets and knew them to be true

without refutation. Even as I write this I feel like I’m trying to climb an

insurmountable wall to make someone on the outside understand. I didn’t have

that issue with them. They were right there on the inside with me. They had seen

the damage caused. They were a large part of what caused it.

And I do feel deeply for the ones I have met (and those I haven’t met yet), even many

of the ones who have caused me great harm. All people should be free, and they are

my people. I feel their pain more deeply than I feel the pain of anyone else, with the

exception of the children they harm. I feel their pain because it is mine.

Life is complicated. Without love, I settled for finding comfort in intelligence and

reason. Unfortunately, a world that has been taught to self-deceive, in an act of

respect for the lies of others, tends to be a little short on reason, even within

Intelligence.

Expropriated Counterintelligence

There will always be people waiting

to be commanded to work against their own best interests.

And there will always be someone who has worked

their way into a position of authority,

or of influencing authority,

with their goals set on war, exploitation,

and seeking to command others through fear.

Not all among us are of a healthy mind.

These truths are as inevitable

as the birth of a child in the middle of their wars.

The recruiter, her cohort, and the department she was most directly associated with

were lacking in morals and ethics. They were made immune from domestic, and in

many cases international, laws due to their position and the perceived significance of

their work within the Department of Defense.

They also had quite a few internal and inter-departmental issues. The New Haven

Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) office, the local office many of the adults in my

small circle worked through, has been ranked as the most corrupt FBI office in the

country, internally and by the FBI’s own agents. The group I was surrounded by was

one of the primary reasons. However, even they felt the damage from it. Things are

not neat and tidy in that mess. Everyone gets hurt.

Image Source: NECN

“Special Agent Kurt Siuzdak's lawsuit, filed in 2014, exposed allegations of internal

strife and dysfunction within the FBI's main Connecticut office in New Haven. It also

disclosed a 2013 visit to the New Haven office by then-Director James Comey, who

apologized to employees for ‘the failure of the FBI's executive management to correct

the leadership failures’ in Connecticut…

He said FBI New Haven officials authorized unnecessary surveillance of him, gave him

bogus bad performance reviews, and threatened to fire him on false allegations of

attendance policy violations.“

Text Source: NECN46

When people working in foreign intelligence come home to roost, they often have to

change agencies and offices in order to work domestically, and there are bureaucratic

routes that simplify the process. The New Haven FBI office, with its proximity to Yale,

a prime Intelligence recruiting ground, is a top choice in the area for anyone within

46 NECN, Conn. FBI Office Won't Speak on 2 Whistleblower Lawsuits, https://www.necn.com/news/local/connecticut/conn-fbi-office-wont-speak-on-2-lawsuits-alleging/2013002/

the agencies clawing for real power (it offers the opportunity of unrestricted access

to heirs of the rich and powerful in their earliest adult years, when they are prime for

recruitment and being influenced, having blackmail material made to use at a later

date, or for directly influencing and accessing their parents).

Image Source: Yale Daily News

“A number of Yale graduates have worked for the Office of Strategic Services, the

CIA’s predecessor. They dominated the CIA’s leadership throughout the Cold War

period and continue to join the agency in large numbers, said Diplomat-in-

Residence Charles Hill, who teaches Studies in Grand Strategy with professors

John Gaddis and Paul Kennedy.

CIA recruiters visit other college campuses, but they seem to have a predilection

for Yalies — it could have something to do with ‘nostalgia for the Old Blue

mentality,’ Hill said, or it could be that Yalies are simply more attractive candidates

than their Ivy League counterparts.”

Text Source: Yale Daily News47

47 Yale Daily News, For God, Country, Yale, and the CIA, https://yaledailynews.com/blog/2004/09/24/for-god-country-yale-and-the-cia/

That office became an interesting meeting point of corruption, CIA transfers, and a

few crossovers with the DoD researchers who worked in the area, protected by the

FBI and CIA-extended military intelligence umbrella.

And, yes, that mixture does happen. Doctor Charles Morgan, who will come up in this

book later in conjunction with his publicized (and cited) New Haven-located FBI

research, has for disclosure, reasons of public misdirection, or ego, chosen to allow

MedScape to also note his CIA employment.

The recruiter isn’t the only one who drunk drives all over interdepartmental and

ethical lines. Many of them, especially in the Yale and New Haven circles, do. Never

underestimate those who are paid to ignore the rules, even the rules of secrecy they

told you they follow. They may only pepper in the truth within manipulative methods

to guide you in the direction they want you to go, but that doesn’t mean they are

entirely averse to the truth. They simply tend to wield it a bit loosely. A little truth

tends to make the rest of the deception that much easier to swallow.

Image Source: Medscape

“Charles Morgan, MD, a psychiatrist who worked for the CIA for 7 years…

Morgan, who teaches intelligence analysis at the University of New Haven,

Connecticut.”

Text Source: Medscape48

As I mentioned before, I spent a significant amount of time around one of the agents,

George Edwards. He appeared to be primarily domestic, other than a short stint in

England and possible involvement in active theaters of war early in his military career.

He was a classically Yale Drama School-trained actor (even Yale openly admits to this)

and is mentioned in countless articles that include COINTELPRO (the FBI’s

counterintelligence program) and the Black Panther Party, who rightfully decided he

was a federal agent.

Image Source: New Haven Independent

48 Medscape, Doctor/Spy: How MDs Get Involved in Espionage, https://www.medscape.com/viewarticle/951889?form=fpf

"...(George Edwards) was an engineer for the U.S Air Force from 1955 through 1961,

when he was unceremoniously removed for his role in antimilitarism protests...

Yale School of Drama brought Edwards to New Haven, where he became a stalwart

performer in the local Black Arts Movement.”

Text Source: New Haven Independent49

George has been mentioned in news articles as having attacked a police officer with a

chain, walking in the heavily populated downtown New Haven area with a rifle, and

being arrested and imprisoned because of a Black Panther murder case. He then

subsequently held front jobs working for the telephone company, the New Haven

Health Department, and Yale University despite what was an extensive, published,

and public record of erratic and criminal behavior by that point. It’s the type of

behavior that usually does not get a person past the standard job application approval

process.

49 New Haven Independent, A Panther Passes On, https://www.newhavenindependent.org/article/panther_passes_on

Image Source: New York Times

“Mr. Edwards was given two suspended sentences after pleading guilty to two counts

of aggravated assault. One dealt with the beating of Mr. Rackley and the second

involved an earlier event in which Mr. Edwards used a length of chain to assault a

police officer."

Text Source: New York Times50

Image: Black Panther Manifesto. George Edwards, Top Right.

Source: IberLibro51

He was propped up over the years as a radical and a Black Panther by Yale, the

authorities, and media outlets such as the New York Times, Yale Daily News, the New

50 New York Times, Once a Black Panther - Always a Cause, https://www.nytimes.com/1992/11/22/nyregion/once-a-black-panther-always-a-cause.html

51 IberLibro, The Black Panther Manifesto / If the Fascists Attempt to Murder Chairman Bobby, https://www.iberlibro.com/arte-grabados/Black-Panther-Manifesto-Fascists-Attempt-Murder/31053324903/bd#&gid=1&pid=2

Haven Register, and the New Haven Independent. They also consistently made him

out to be a victim of the FBI. The Black Panther Party did not agree. They were some

of the original victims of his being a federal agent.

Image Source: Central Intelligence Agency

“Although targeted overseas these agents are often exposed to and directed against

American radical, leftist, and communist targets to gain a practical knowledge of the

leftwing, radical, communist world. There is a possibility that an asset might become

suspect and be accused of being an employee of the Agency or Bureau; or it might

happen some asset would, for some reason, become disenchanted with his role and

expose his Agency relationship and his activities, with resultant embarrassment. To

minimize potential problems, therefore, each case is cleared with the FBI…”

Text Source: Central Intelligence Agency52

52 Central Intelligence Agency, Memorandum for: Executive Secretary, CIA Management Committee, Subject: Family Jewels, https://www.cia.gov/readingroom/docs/DOC_0001451843.pdf

The Black Panthers were so steadfast in their belief that they had held George at

gunpoint, tortured him, and then refused to call him a Black Panther for thirty-seven

years until Yale intervened and forced one of the prior members to apologize.

Image Source: New Haven Independent

“That ruse became fact in 1969 when a New York Panther named Alex Rackley was

brought to New Haven for a show trial in the basement of an apartment at the old

Ethan Gardens Coop on Orchard Street. The apartment served as New Haven Panther

headquarters. The Panthers accused Rackley of being a government informant

involved in disrupting the New York Section; it would later turn out that government

informants indeed infiltrated that chapter (as well as New Haven’s), but Rackley

wasn’t among them.

The Panthers tied Rackley to a chair and beat him and poured pots of boiling water

over his body until he could come up with a story about serving as an informant.

Edwards refused to participate in the torture. So they tied up Edwards too. With a .45

pointed at his head, he was ordered to ’confess.’”

Text Source: New Haven Independent53

Image Source: New Haven Independent

“Another score to settle was with fellow Panther Warren Kimbro. One night in 2006

Kimbro spoke at the Yale Bookstore..

Edwards listened to Kimbro speak...

Then Edwards stood up. And the bookstore became his stage.

'After 37 years, five months tomorrow,’ he told Kimbro, ’I want a public apology for

having been tied up in that basement at gunpoint, under orders of [out-of-town

Panther] George Sams, a .45 to my head.'"

Text Source: New Haven Independent54

53 New Haven Independent, A Panther Passes On, https://www.newhavenindependent.org/article/panther_passes_on 54 New Haven Independent, A Panther Passes On, https://www.newhavenindependent.org/article/panther_passes_on

I would note that despite the Black Panther Party not acknowledging him as a

member for thirty-seven years, he spent all of those years posing as one for the

media, and he eventually went on to influence the New Black Panther Party directly.

He would use the costume of a Black Panther radical within his undercover work

infiltrating, organizing, and guiding grassroots organizations and movements for the

FBI for roughly half a century.

As far as the general in-the-open infiltrating activities of the cohort I was stuck

with, it’s often been more horrifying to watch than what I saw behind closed doors.

I’ve felt helpless to prevent it. Even when I’ve stepped away from the perpetrators

and whispered to their victims, those victims more often than not still chose to

trust those preying on them because they promised false incentives and presented

with a sense of authority. My voice was never quite loud enough to break through

those illusions. I also had no polished gifts to promise them in exchange for their

dealing with reality. I still don’t.

Relevant to George’s case while I was there, was his connection to the wiretapping (a

persistent issue referenced in the FBI whistleblower article at the beginning of this

chapter) that went on within and by the New Haven FBI office for decades. George,

despite his publicized long history of problems with the law, held a job at the local

telephone company. From what I remember, he would go to it when needed, to

wiretap people's apartments. It was not a full-time job, although it was listed as one.

There were months at a time that he did not go, and yet they had no issue with him

showing up when he needed to do something for the FBI.

Image Source: New Haven Independent

"He had day jobs working as a technician for Southern New England Telephone,"

...

"In 1983, New Haven agreed to pay 1,238 citizens a total of $1.75 million to settle a

class-action lawsuit over its massive illegal wiretapping operation. Victims were each

awarded between $1,000 and $6,000 depending on how often they were illegally

surveilled. Edwards, of course, got the full $6,000."

Text Source: New Haven Independent55

This was a man who openly complained about being wiretapped “as a radical” and

actually received one of the largest payouts for having been the target of wiretapping

(a payment which was blatant fraud, considering his employment with the telephone

company as well as with the FBI). He was the one tapping the lines with a telephone

company hat on. Even the media has admitted that he always worked for the phone

55 New Haven Independent, A Panther Passes On, https://www.newhavenindependent.org/article/panther_passes_on

company on an as-needed basis, except for a short break allowing the company to

save face when he was publicly implicated in crimes.

They were paying a person who directly perpetrated the crime - and they were paying

him from the victims’ fund.

While I was growing up in his presence, I never knew about the Black Panther Party’s

problem with the man. He had me and everyone else around him absolutely convinced

that he was a Black Panther. Each day, he would wear the full overdone outfit: pins

representing the Black Panther Party in text or imagery, printed t-shirts that did the

same, dashikis, berets, and other overtly Black Panther regalia. In retrospect, he was

so incredibly obviously a Yale Drama-trained actor. No actual member of the Black

Panther Party would have dressed like that on a daily basis. In fact, it’s doubtful that

any went to that full amount and all at once, ever.

However, it never occurred to me that it was unusual, possibly because his partner,

the recruiter, was at the same level of absurdly theatrical when it came to her anti-

nuclear outfits - with multiple pins, printed antinuclear t-shirts, and even including

full-body suit protective gear with a full gasmask on occasion. Frequently enough, she

would openly carry an unnecessarily gargantuan Geiger counter. The Geiger counter

she carried for show was a massive box-type Geiger counter. The one she actually

used for herself (I’ll get into that later) was smaller and much easier to conceal. The

terrifying thing is that, when she was infiltrating grassroots antinuclear

organizations, they took her seriously and let her join their boards.

I know I’ve been lecturing everyone up until this moment about the seriousness of not

allowing deceit to ruin a nation or the world, but I have to pause for a moment

because when remembering these details, I’m breaking out into laughter. Any people

capable of the level of delusion and lack of basic reasoning required to accept that

overdramatic acting as genuine probably deserved exactly what they got.

Okay, I’ll now go back to attempting to plead with humanity to care for itself…

Yale further propped George up with their theater department:

Image Source: Yale Daily News

“Edwards…was one of the first members of New Haven’s chapter of the Black

Panther Party. After coming to Connecticut to attend the Yale School of Drama,”

Text Source: Yale Daily News56

An interesting little side note on that theater department:

I was once brought along to the David Geffen School of Drama theater on Yale campus

by the recruiter. She had me sit two rows from the front in the empty theater. Then

she told me, “You’re supposed to be drugged, so act like it.” It was a concerning

statement, especially in the moment. A minute later, a very small group of other

56 Yale Daily News, Q-House Hosts Celebration of Life for Black Panther George Edwards, https://yaledailynews.com/blog/2022/10/31/q-house-hosts-celebration-of-life-for-black-panther-george-edwards/

people came in. They began practicing what I would come to refer to as street acting.

They were rehearsing to be believable in their roles when interacting with the public

“spontaneously” outside of the theater. I sat in my seat, slightly terrified because I did

not actually know what I looked like or behaved like when fully drugged, so I wasn’t

sure how to fake it. On top of that, I had to convincingly fake it in front of what were

clearly professional actors and spies. I stayed so incredibly still that I probably looked

like a deer in the headlights.

Later, after they left, the recruiter gave me a little tour of the building, the lighting,

and backstage. She explained that lighting was the most important aspect of stage

work. An actor could move or speak in any manner, but it was the lighting they were

cast in that made the audience perceive them in a certain way. It was the lighting that

made the audience love or hate them. She said all the power is in the hands of the

lighting crew. Knowing her, I was certain she was speaking about the use of media

manipulation on the political and global stage.

Years later, when watching televised presidential debates and noticing how one

candidate was cast in a diffused white angelic glow while the other candidate was

under an unnaturally orange light, I nearly choked on my dinner because I was

laughing so hard when thinking of it in that context. And it was in that context. A

short block away from the theater, when taking a footpath, stood a society building on

Yale’s campus that I would always refer to as the Political Actors’ Guild because that’s

what they are in the context of the modern-day, and I abhor subterfuge. It was

conveniently located on High Street, a short distance from the theater department,

the law school, and Dwight Hall. That well-positioned Political Actors’ Guild has

produced more U.S. presidents in our lifetime than any other.

A quick aside on Dwight Hall, in case you’ve looked into it and seen that they primarily

focus on social issues, such as and including workers’ rights. While they may be good

causes on the surface, they are causes that should be approached from a bottom-up

perspective and not a top-down one. Allowing the seeds of these movements to be

formed and informed by the rich, political powers, and industry that they will be

negotiating with is not wise. Because those powerful will make sure their own

interests are first met and that they are layered into any doctrine. Why wouldn’t they?

The guidelines and rhetoric are being written in Ivy League university classrooms and

those are the territory of the rich. The reality is that each and every group is out for

themselves first, and that includes socioeconomic groups. When it comes to workers’

rights and related, you do not want the greedy at the top to have first say - you want

the greedy at the bottom - those who want an extra meal, and who want dessert with

it - to have that major influence over how they approach retaining and gaining

enough to eat and succeed in life.

These things, in order to be healthy and successful, must come from the workers

themselves, without pre-influence from those who seek to take advantage of them.

And the industry does, indeed still seek to take advantage of the workers. I assisted in

Ivy League research (not Yale, for once) only recently (2017) that saw the worker as

nothing more than something to use at peak performance with overtime until they

crashed and became disposable. They thought the worker was an easily replaceable

tool from the limitless resource of humanity. There was one worker in our research

pool who was actually connecting to us, and continuing to do his work, from the

hospital waiting room. Even that was not enough of a wake-up call for those in charge

of the research to understand that they were going too far. When I pointed out that

workers were falling out of the project due to burnout and that this one was dealing

with medical issues, the head of the research only seemed relieved that he still logged

in - on the hospital wifi. They considered his dedication to the work to be a success

while failing to note that in doing so he was shortening his life and his ability to work

for them in the long run, if not within the week.

Never let the foxes build the henhouse. That henhouse is so unstable at this point that

no one is safe within it - neither hen nor fox.

Regarding the dangers of allowing the Ivy League to dictate workers’ rights, the same

can be said about letting politicians represent the people. They do not have the same

interests at heart.

So, back to the political actors the Ivy League is prone to produce:

What I would learn over the years in my interactions with that theater department

goes well beyond a few recruiters conning a few Yalies on a street corner between

classes. Yale (and other Ivy League) trained actors and drama department academics

do a significant portion of the mass-scale public manipulation we see every time we

turn on a television. They’re the professional political actors with the resumes to get

those jobs.

After such a long history of the takeover of the national and international political

stage with a primary strategy of public diversion and manipulation for the benefit of

whatever program needed to be kept quiet and whatever exploiters and war criminals

needed the most money funneled that week, the public can no longer make informed

decisions. They’ve never been informed. They haven’t been given any rational or

uncorrupted information with which to make informed decisions. While a portion of

the public on both sides of the political aisle genuinely tries to do what is right from

their perspectives, they cannot because someone switched out their practical

solutions with ones that look similar on the surface but are in reality tainted weapons

and exploited half-thoughts. In other words, they’ve all been subverted. I’ve met quite

a few of the people who did it.

This public audience manipulation is done with basic mechanisms. I will explain one

in the simplest terms possible because I do not want to upset anyone on either side of

the aisle. It’s not my intention, although it’s inevitable. Things have been maneuvered

in such a way that every move in politics has now been painted as a struggle for life

for which each side needs to savagely fight. If only they knew that life was already

being stolen from them and that there are no political debates or voting boxes that

can fix the damage. Those have become a part of the damage.

A mechanism:

We have a pan. That pan is our shared world. A political actor hands a first group (a

political party or a nation) an egg. A second political actor hands a second group the

oil necessary to fry the egg. They then individually tell both groups that what their

group is holding is necessary to cook. This isn’t a complete lie. What they are holding

is necessary to cook, and they know it, and thus each side fully adopts and accepts the

words regarding what they are holding - an egg or the oil. Then the actors tell each

group that the other group wants to destroy what they are holding because the other

side is a madman in direct opposition to that ingredient. Then, the actors on the stage

walk away, satisfied, and the public goes at each other's throats forever, while slowly

starving from an inadequate diet on both sides.

Actually, while I’m still on the subject of theater, let me touch upon the patrons of

those arts…

Going back a few years, one occasion from before we moved to New Haven stands out

simply because it shows the psychology of some of the people the recruiter did

dealings with. These were the ones with the money, people who had the actual

tangible resources, mineral rights, federal politics sewn up, etc., in that country. They

would be the patrons of the political actors’ arts.

The recruiter was there to finalize a contract with them for her bosses, and one boss

in particular. The thing about “the company” is that, while you may be a scientist (or

any other position), you first work for the company and do the company work. If you

can still get your actual scientific work completed, good for you but it’s not the top

priority. That’s just how things operate and get done. Apparently, that even applies to

the supervisors. So, she was finalizing a political acting contract instead of

authorizing disease vector payments and procuring research subjects that day.

The meeting area was a large dining hall on a sublevel of a mall, in the footprint of

that mall, and taking up the same area of space as the food court did on the ground

level. When planning the mall, they had included the construction of an entire

sublevel just for themselves away from the public. Bringing a child through the mall to

access the internal elevator provided a level of cover that came with absolutely no

suspicion. And that’s how I got dragged along for those negotiations.

I’m honestly not sure I’m ready to mention the negotiations or attempt to

maneuver around those carefully placed eggshells. They involve politics, which is

always a dicey subject, especially if the politicians are not quite as aligned with the

needs of the people and parties they claim to be assisting. It's a bit like the bird

that hides its eggs in another's nest. You can scream all day that the unrelated

baby is stealing all the food from the other nestlings, but at the end of the day, that

imposter is the nest owner's baby, as far as she knows...and she'll kill you if you say

anything else. I’ve become quite tired of having that murderous reaction pointed

directly at me. It’s not easy being the messenger.

Instead, let’s start with a tour of the sub-basement layout. I wasn’t the only kid down

there. The wealthy families that had joined together to share that private space away

from public eyes had provided areas for their children to play in. They converted a

movie theater space into a traditional theater with a stage. They made a large

shopping area into an arcade with areas to run around and play games. And then

there was the museum. It was a large space, big enough to play sports. Along the

walls, they had set up a museum of nuclear war. As the children played and ran

around the space, we would see the lit-up large depictions of various nuclear

explosions projected onto the walls with text below them and triggered audio telling

us what country they had happened in, how terrible it had been, and that this was

how the world had entered nuclear winter. The people who commissioned that sub-

basement, as a giant bunker, had prewritten history for their children and they

expected that history to include a nuclear World War III.

So, back in the dining area, I would walk back and forth along the velvet rope that

separated the areas between the wealthy and the absurdly wealthy, as the recruiter

sat and spoke to a man behind that rope. I acted distracted and retarded, a small

person who couldn’t absorb information and was of no threat to secrecy. It wasn’t

difficult to do back then. I had a lazy eye when I was small. I may have an IQ that’s off-

the-charts high, but people are superficial and tend to take in surface appearances

and simply accept them, and I doubt I looked too bright with one eye wandering in

the direction of my nose.

(I would work on exercising it in the mirror for hours when I was young. I don’t have

any pictures from before the age of eight, but you can see that it still went a little in at

that age, even after my initial efforts. Also, excuse the dyed black hair the recruiter

insisted on - well, “darkest brown” according to the bottle. It never did suit me.

Nothing about that predicament suited me.)

Image: Author, Age 8

Source: Author’s Personal Collection57

So there I was, pretending to be easy to amuse and ridiculously interested in every

fiber of the velvet of the rope, with the smell of rich cigar smoke entering my nostrils

as they spoke.

The group the man was representing and was a part of was a core group of people

who owned America. They were the ones who owned the majority of the country’s

resources and had been taking turns playing the role of U.S. president. Yes, it’s been

57 Author’s Personal Collection, Image

sewn up for quite some time and since long before we were born. However, I’d note

that they cared about some level of stability back then because the nation being

wealthy kept them wealthy. Those negotiations were going to change that detail to a

significant degree. I listened in horror because I already knew who and what he was

negotiating with.

The group wanted a vacation from playing the presidential face of the nation. Being in

the public eye is honestly exhausting for most people. We’re not all sociopathic stage

actors by nature - that actually takes certain born traits many of us quite simply lack.

They had been in negotiations to have political actors fill the roles since the year

George H.W. Bush was the head of the CIA (1976-1977) and he’d had a say in what the

contract would include. It was an agreement to use the Yale Political Actors’ Guild

that he had been in since his days attending the university, still had membership in

and influence over, and would profit from financially. And, yes, that guild goes by

another name. I just refuse to give them any more power by saying it.

Image Source: Central Intelligence Agency

“George H.W. Bush - the 11th Director of Central Intelligence”

Text Source: Central Intelligence Agency58

That Political Actors’ Guild, I would later spend a limited amount of time around them

behind closed doors. Beneath the polish and media hype, they’re nothing but thieves.

Large-scale nation-stealing thieves with inside jokes about being pirates that aren’t

even jokes - they have the very real and tangible souvenirs to support those claims. In

their need for a vacation, the money and power of the United States handed the keys

for the federal-level political theater, and thus the nation’s stability, to a bunch of

thieves, many of whom I knew to be long-term heroin addicts. That would commence

the draining of America, and a political stage that would go from measured voices and

reasoning with a consistently pressured slow drain of resources to being completely

replaced by a succession of quick drains and a cascading carnival-madness feeling

until the debt ceiling would reach WWII levels once again, and without the need for a

declared war.

Maybe when they signed that contract in the bunker they had already built to protect

themselves, the truly wealthy of the U.S. knew they were ensuring our destruction by

handing the nation over to the addicts among us.

But that’s enough about actors and theater, for now…

As I grew up, trapped within those circles, I would lean against the back wall in

many a room. I stood stunned into silence as I witnessed astounding levels of

mismanagement, swindling, drug abuse (mostly heroin back then), sabotage,

extortion, safety failures, and illicit dealings going on within military research,

governance, and intelligence activities.

58 Central Intelligence Agency, George H.W. Bush - the 11th Director of Central Intelligence, https://www.cia.gov/stories/story/george-h-w-bush-the-11th-director-of-central-intelligence/

To a distant public, it was all hidden under a blanket of secrecy and a promise of

military-grade professionalism by first-world nations. Up close and in person, the

behaviors of the authorities in charge of the projects looked more like those of

inmates in a corrupt prison, rather than the falsely promised polish of members of

a professional tax-funded organization with rules and regulations.

To them, it was a rush of control and access to drugs, resources, and weapons, all

with no consequences, no genuine oversight, and no voice of reason to stand in

their way. Many of them had entered the profession at the height of the sixties

liberation culture, having been deeply influenced by it (many having influenced it

themselves) while in university. They were still high on the adrenaline rush and

drugs, and now had full permission from multiple governments to break every

promise and every law, including any modicum of truth, the sanctity of human life,

and group survival. It was all being paid for by the public and the war-enabled

black market, and was backed by one of the largest militaries on the planet. It still

is.

And what’s an arms race if you don’t have the method to win the race to the end?

To me, a child too close to the reality to be deceived by the promises of nation-

saving and professional behavior that were made to the public, a child who was

desperately trying to find something real to cling to that wouldn’t be destroyed or

smoked up, it was nauseating. I never felt safe. I never felt that any of us were safe.

And yet, despite all of that, government and their handlers wouldn’t be the biggest

barrier to my freedom or the public’s safety.

It was the citizens, kept in the dark and guided to blindly saw at the tree of their

own ancestors and children. They would be the ones most effectively blocking the

way. They still are.

AIDS Research

Some of the clandestine research and endeavors behind public-facing projects the

adults in my circle worked on were direct violations of humanity and would have been

best left to horror movies, nightmares, and the pits of hell. As a child witnessing them,

I was simply told they were normal. Despite believing this because I had no other

input to go on, there was a tight and painful feeling in my stomach that never went

away, and my heart rate in those years always stood at about forty beats per minute

higher than it should have been. I was terrified, but I internalized it. I felt that being

scared was my fault, that it was something wrong with me, because no one else in that

circle seemed to think that anything going on around us was concerning.

Years later, I would speak to someone outside of that sphere and find out that I wasn't

wrong in having been terrified. The public had been misguided into believing these

things didn’t happen anymore due to their torturous nature, unethical means, and

often genocidal undertones. If they had seen what I had seen, many of them would

have been equally as terrified.

Due to what I was witnessing, I would become outspoken about the potential harm of

current research design methodology to research participants, even in ethics-board-

approved research. These things rarely do absolutely no harm, and almost never offer

continuing support to the volunteers who sacrificed their own health and well-being

on the altar of science for others to profit and benefit from. A one-time $200, or even

$2000, research participant stipend cannot compensate for a lifetime of disability or

lack of support in healing. It also cannot provide the social or medical reintegration

that a research participant was never fully informed that they might need, because

even the scientists do not fully acknowledge the breadth of possible harm caused

during human experimentation.

There’s a basic reason it’s called experimentation. It is because there is no certain way

that we can fully predict all of the results. The scientific community does not care for

the people they use. They treat them as one-time-use discardable products, rather

than taking responsibility for the long-term effects and the human beings now

carrying the burden of those effects.

No one fully understood my argument, or they didn’t want to because it would

interfere with their paycheck or would require extra work on their part. There’s this

unspoken phenomenon in American culture, and possibly in many other cultures, but

I was there to see it in America. Because the criminals have been in charge of the

government for so long (not surprising once we accept that governments are simply

the larger culmination of gangs that have grown in size, gangs that once had a

purpose of protecting their communities but eventually always seem to grow to

exploit those same communities), people genuinely strongly hold an unspoken belief

that evil is expected of them, and if they do not do evil, they will be punished by the

dark hand within the government.

And thus they do not question the status quo, even when they can see that it is

directly doing harm to individuals, the community, the country, and the world. At a

deep-rooted and unspoken level, the same level at which we form personal secrets for

our own survival, a level that has long been tapped into by societal and governmental

level deceit, they tightly hold the belief that they are being bound to and forced to

follow rules both spoken and unspoken, even when those do harm, and possibly

especially because those rules result in harm.

Within the environment created by masses of people who follow such beliefs, I sat in

on, and would eventually participate in many think tanks that would consider and

hone unethical, stealthy, and inhumane strategies that would end up being utilized on

the world stage. Beneath that cloak of secrecy, we had been working on how to avoid

provoking nuclear war while still taking territory, profiting, and damaging an enemy.

However, there was one in particular that had more far-reaching implications than

altering political lines on a map, giving the military-industrial complex more leeway,

or operating in ways that intentional harm would become plausibly deniable

infringements and “industrial accidents” to avoid triggering official declared domestic

and international wars while very much engaging in them.

There was also the issue that this particular research would be hidden beneath DoD

funding with a much different purpose listed on the front page of the proposal. They

would be doing this within government, with government funding, and using

government labs. Due to their subterfuge, not everyone in government knew what

they were actually working on. Of course, very few people in the public would know at

all, even when it impacted their lives.

Some of the most unethical weapons research I saw came directly from the dinner

table biological warfare strategy sessions I had sat in on during my earliest years in

the country. Even before deciding on the right viruses to use for a pinnacle project

(they were still undecided and had been contemplating using a walking pneumonia

and Epstein–Barr virus combination), they were already working on funding.

I was there waiting in the lobby and sometimes in the room for countless meetings in

locations with large echoing halls and marble pillars as they lured idealistic scientists,

the government, and the mega-wealthy into supporting and funding their project,

with a promise that it would solve the funders’ problems while still allowing them to

protect their own family, their own soldiers, and their own staff. That protective

portion of that sales pitch was a lie, but it was an easy one for large egos and large

money to accept, and it was a significant part of what led them to shell out the

funding, research space, and the AIDS virus.

We had told them that along with a modified HIV-based disease, we could provide a

cure manufactured just for them. Apparently, wiretapping wasn’t good enough back

then to listen in and capture the dinner-table research planning discussions in which

the words “incurable” and “no vaccine can be made for” were uttered. All it had taken

back in those days to avoid anyone overhearing was simply to unplug the rotary

phone and remove it from the room. It was also helpful to have people inside the FBI

and the telephone company.

I use the word “we” loosely. I was still a child and pretending to be completely

distracted by dessert on a table or the candy machines in the hallway. The amount of

sugar I consumed back then should have been a crime on its own.

After the funding had been secured and the research had been approved was right

around when George’s face started popping up in relation to AIDS research and

community outreach to help with the recruitment of unwitting research participants.

To this day, I hope there were major flaws in their research results.

Image Source: New York Times

"Those who know Mr. Edwards as an AIDS outreach worker described him as tireless

and resourceful."

Text Source: New York Times59

It was when we first moved to the series of safehouses by Yale that I had seen the

change. They stopped planning and started acting on their plans with military-funded

AIDS research in a grouping of lab rooms behind a secure vault door on Yale campus,

in the lower level beneath the Law Library, and in a section not-so-creatively referred

to as “The Vaults” due to the overdone security door. There, they let me see the AIDS

primates. I believe the recruiter actually thought she was being kind to me in that

moment, letting a child see monkeys. The reality is that I was terrified that I would

either catch their disease or accidentally contaminate them in their vulnerable state,

resulting in their deaths. Sometimes, I wonder if I thought more like an adult than the

psychopath did, even when I was still a small child.

(If you attended Yale in that time period, you may be able to confirm where The Vaults

were located. Even if there has since been remodeling, they may still be there.

Beneath the Law Library was a space unofficially called “machine city,” a cafeteria

with multiple vending machines at the center. If you headed from there towards the

tunnel that led down to the other library, on your left was a smaller hall that led to the

hall with the vault door, which is impossible to miss if you’ve seen that door - it’s a

proper vault door with all of the mechanisms as if it were sitting in a bank. I believe

the left you take to get there is before the women’s bathroom, but it’s been decades

since I’ve been down there, so I could be wrong. It is, however, reasonably in that

vicinity and before you properly head down the tunnel.)

At this point, I would like to note to everyone who attended Yale and sent their

children there, that there was a lab with military-funded biowarfare research within

reasonable sneezing distance of that cafeteria, and it’s highly doubtful that they

59 New York Times, Once a Black Panther - Always a Cause, https://www.nytimes.com/1992/11/22/nyregion/once-a-black-panther-always-a-cause.html

warned students of the dangers. They never cared about any of us, not the rich, not

the poor, not the powerful nor weak, and not even those who close their eyes and

pretend there’s nothing there. There is no behavior or monetary amount that will

make you immune to a properly enacted endgame.

I was also there when they selected impoverished neighborhoods in New Haven and

systematically introduced the AIDS virus to them under the guise of assistance and

altruism as a needle exchange program. Between 1985 and 1986, I listened to the

recruiter and a work partner on the project, George Edwards, discuss it as we sat at a

smaller dinner table many nights.

Those two always made quite a pair. I can imagine them in their early days, him

playing as a strong Black Panther and her as a Weather Underground militant radical.

At the dinner table, with no one else there to observe other than me, they still had an

energy to them, even if the topics weren’t the theater of radicalism they showed to

their targets. As they aged, he continued to play the role of a Black Panther when

infiltrating grassroots organizations, right alongside her as she went into full-on

righteous and dramatic mode about being an anti-nuclear activist. But there in the

kitchen, away from the eyes and ears of their audience, they were excitedly discussing

infecting the Dixwell Avenue neighborhood in New Haven with AIDS. George, trained

by the Yale Drama Department, would be one of the pioneering workers and the

outward face of the program. He was the face the low-income black community in

that neighborhood would automatically trust.

Image: George Edwards, Fourth From Left

Source: Yale School of Public Health60

They were successful. By the end of that year, 98-99% of the participants tested

positive for HIV. The rate was so high in the Dixwell Avenue neighborhood (there may

have been two others; I was only brought along to that one neighborhood, so I can

only confirm the one) that it rocketed New Haven onto the top 5 list for cities and

towns with the highest AIDS rates in the country.

While their research is obviously buried, a nearby drug treatment clinic showed a rate

of 81.1% HIV positive status in black patients in 1986.

60 Yale School of Public Health, Public Health Pioneers, https://ysph.yale.edu/news-article/public-health-pioneers/

.

Image Source: U.S. Department of Health and Human Services via Google Books

“Of those seeking treatment for active intravenous drug use were Western Blot (WB)

confirmed HIV seropositive. …Significantly more of the blacks (81.8%)...were WB

seropositive.”

Text Source: U.S. Department of Health and Human Services via Google Books61

The New York Times also gave a subtle nod to the accomplishment. And, yes, it was a

nod. That’s one of the ways the New York Times is used, but I’ll get more into that

aspect later.

61 U.S. Department of Health and Human Services via Google Books, III International Conference on Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome (AIDS): June 1-5, 1987, Washington Hilton and Towers, Washington, D.C.,:

https://www.google.com/books/edition/III_International_Conference_on_Acquired/bKv9Li26MD8C?hl=en&gbpv=1

Image Source: New York Times