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

outside the building. It wasn't. With smoke billowing from the building behind us, we

walked at least six blocks through the city, our nerves even more frayed by the

scream of fire trucks passing us by. In those moments, I was certain that I was going

to prison. Then George drove up, we piled into his car, and we all sped back to New

Haven.

The situation was horrendous; I did not feel protected, and the amount of non-

consented-to drugging I endured was beyond unreasonable, but it didn't seem like it

would be eternal. I presumed that, eventually, I would become an adult and could

simply leave without being bound by my captor and the bullshit misfiled document

showing that she had a “legal” claim to me until I was eighteen.

That would be changed by another explosion in New York. Approximately a month

before the 1993 bombing of the World Trade Center, I was asked to skip school and

come to New York City with my kidnapper. George ended up being the one driving,

yet again. He dropped us off near the building, and I walked into the underground

parking area with the recruiter.

She held a clipboard with official documentation and used it to easily get past the

scrutiny of the security guard and into an area of the parking garage officially

cordoned off "for construction." There, hidden away from the public in that area with the demolition crew I had met on prior occasions in New York and Connecticut with

their fake green card wives, I listened as they told my exploiter about their struggles.

They had been trying to place explosives up along the spine of the building next to the

elevators. Their problem was that they couldn't get up high enough along the shaft.

The design of the building meant they were physically blocked from getting the

materials into the higher levels. The recruiter informed them that they still needed to

stay on schedule in order to fulfill their side of the contract and for her to release

payment. They reached an unhappy agreement.

I began to lean against a vehicle as I listened to them discuss what would become the

trial run for the 9-11 explosions, while looking the relatively short distance to the

elevator in the corner. I pondered their issue and the area they had been working in.

Suddenly, all eyes were on me as they told me with panic in their voices that I should

not lean against the vehicle. There were explosives inside. Later, where we had been

standing could be seen in the post-explosion photos near the center of the wreckage.

In that case, I can reasonably confirm that no one in that group had been lying to me

– at least not on that topic.

By involving me in events leading up to 9-11 that implicated the government, even

though all I had done was stand there looking bored, that bitch had just classified my

life. There became no “legal” recourse and no way to truly escape my situation. I

would forever be a hostage because of one of the most embarrassing and obvious

coverups of our time. Honestly, it’s insulting.

It also meant that more funding would become available to clean up after me,

something that would become both an advantage for movement and activities, as well

as an albatross around my neck when it came to attaining reliably unobstructed

communication and in seeking actual freedom from my predicament.

Once in a while when I saw the opportunity to, I still kept trying to find help in

locating my mother and where I had been stolen from. It wasn’t easy. Our civilization

only gives lip service to protecting children, and that’s especially true in the U.S.,

where so many go missing every day. But now and then I’d send up little red flags, and

in a few cases, a glaringly obvious flare. When I turned sixteen, it was one of the latter.

A friend and I went to the Connecticut Department of Motor Vehicles to get my state

photo identification card. I was nervous because I knew my birth certificate was

fraudulent but up until that moment I hadn’t been the one signing the documents that

rode on it. Now, I was old enough to sign and still naive enough to think I’d end up in

jail if I used a falsified document, especially if I used it in a government office and for

something as official as an ID card.

So, my friend suggested that I ask the police officer who was standing outside doing

guard duty. He was a police officer, not a security guard. My being young, I thought

that meant he was actually aware of laws and how they worked. We approached him

and I explained that I was using a fake birth certificate, that I was illegally adopted,

and that I was there to get my state ID. I asked him if I would get in trouble with the

law if I used the forged document to get an ID. He gave me an answer that I would

later come to understand is standard among law enforcement. He said, “That’s the

name we know you as, so that’s the one you should go by until you find your parents.”

He didn’t open a case to help me find my parents. He didn’t insist that we go down to

the police station. He simply waved us into the Department of Motor Vehicles

building and pointed to where the line started. Within two hours (those lines are

long), I had a photo ID. I’ve been following his bad advice ever since. I’ve opened bank

accounts in that false name, with that false nationality. I’ve attended university. I’ve

taken out student loans and grants. I’ve gotten jobs. I’ve paid taxes. I’ve signed

contracts. I’ve used it to apply for residency, permits, and citizenship in other

countries since then. I’ve attained clearance levels with a false identity. I’ve broken so

many laws with my very existence because those who enforce the laws are the ones

who tell us to break them, thus entrapping us and making us criminals by default. I

have very little love for that system and the people who support it. They’ve made me

and countless others criminals before we even turned eighteen, all because they’re

too lazy and greedy for more population, to the point that they refuse to do their jobs

and help kidnapped children to find our parents.

Other times, actually every time that I signed my false name in that country, I would

send up tiny red flags hoping someone would notice. I would stop and pause and say,

“What’s my name?” out loud before thinking for a moment and then filling it in on

whatever form or sign-in sheet was in front of me. I did that in front of countless

officials, police officers, government workers, teachers, camp counselors, doctors,

clerks, secretaries, and receptionists. No one ever thought it was concerning enough

to start an investigation, even though I was praying one of them would.

And the one time in those years I genuinely spoke about my situation, instead of

advocating for others or gently attempting to trigger an investigation into my

kidnapping status? I was seventeen and in Northern California, where I had fled to get

a temporary reprieve. Unfortunately, I also managed to severely injure a tendon in my

foot, meaning I could barely walk and couldn’t work. So, I went to a youth shelter

there to sit and heal for a few weeks while I had no money coming in. One of the

requirements to be admitted to the shelter was a psychological evaluation. Because

they were limited in funding, the evaluations were done in an office at the nearest

state-funded mental institution. If nothing else, we can assume the psychologists

there had already seen and heard everything, and could reasonably handle assessing

teenagers.

I sat down in a chair across the desk from a female psychologist. She told me I could

open up to her and speak about anything. I assumed she was a professional and knew

what she was asking. I also assumed there were patient-doctor confidentiality rules

and I was safe to speak as long as I didn’t claim to be suicidal or a threat to others. So,

for the first time in my life, I risked speaking the full truth. Ten minutes into my

talking, that psychologist got up from behind her desk, walked over to the couch,

curled up into a ball on it, and became catatonic. Two male orderlies had to carry her

out. Later on, when I inquired about how she was doing, I was told she was taking an

extended several-month-long break from work to recover.

That moment taught me that if I spoke about myself, it would harm others. I learned

that sharing my thoughts, my pain, my experiences, my life - if I opened up and was

myself, if I sought healing or help for myself - that it would cause people to shriek and

crumble as if they themselves had been harmed. So, I went back to not speaking about

anything.

I spent the next three weeks sitting in that shelter, talking about cooking, music, and

things of no relevance at all to my own survival or the survival of those around me. I

had learned that frivolity is all this world can predictably psychologically manage

without breaking, so I kept my pain out of view while I coddled and entertained them.

Internal Sabotage and Entrapment

It’s part of a larger picture, a cascading failure

that plunges to the bottom and begs for the final exit.

Predatory banking, governance, counterintelligence,

and public manipulation

- when combined with the human need for group acceptance,

immediate needs, and short-term safety -

turn the population against itself and

catapult wars and internal pilfering

beyond a resource grab and into the grotesque.

Shortly after I turned eighteen years old on paper, my exploiter set me up for a short

time in Yale student housing intended for later-year students belonging to one of the

campus societies, housing not normally available to incoming first-year students who

were generally relegated to the dorms. Although it seemed odd to me that I hadn’t

been placed with the freshmen, there was hope in my heart that the situation was

somehow real despite my not having filled in an application (the recruiter did so much

of my paperwork for both drug trials and academic courses that it seemed possible

she had done it for this), and that I could finally start living a normal life by attending

university at eighteen as a traditional student. That hope would be short-lived.

What followed was her slipping me enough drugs, without my knowledge, that she

was able to convince me that I was eight and not eighteen. She then walked me over

to the office of a recruiter for a job opportunity that Yale students I had spoken to

rightfully deemed as "too dangerous and too much of a sacrifice." We sat down with a

military officer, went through a contract that was easily more than thirty pages long,

and I signed – because I thought I was eight and it was the quickest way out of the

building so we could go get the ice cream that had been promised to me.

If the officer in that room was not in on the con, he should have been fired for hiring

an eighteen-year-old who acted like an eight-year-old squirming in a chair.

We walked to Ashley’s Ice Cream, several blocks away and past the law school. That

ended up being the most expensive ice cream cone of my life. It was a crunchy sugar

cone with a scoop of cookie dough ice cream and a second scoop of mint chocolate

chip on top. I paid for it with my entire future. If I had known the real cost, I probably

would have savored it for longer.

We returned to the student apartment. There, the recruiter stole my bankbook and

told me to pack my things. I didn’t get to attend any classes that year, at least none I

can remember. But it would be the beginning of her collecting a paycheck for a job I

would be forced into without my true consent or the knowledge of how to get out of

it. I had been too high during the contract signing to even remember which

Department of Defense contractor or office it had been with.

I did visit one of their offices a solitary time that I remember. It was early on in my

work for them, and hidden in a silo beneath a larger structure in what may have been

the Florida Keys. I was heavily drugged for the journey, but I do remember The Keys.

Sitting in the passenger seat while we were driving between the islands, with me high

out of my mind was downright terrifying with the water on both sides.

I was allowed to enter the building, and then invited down into the silo. There, I was

given an employee manual to read. The one handed to me must have been at least 500

pages. They said I could skip to somewhere around 170. I wanted to tell someone that I

shouldn’t have been there, but I didn’t know who was in cahoots with the recruiter

and who wasn’t. Standing there, I had no idea who was a foe and who was a friend,

and I had no intention of finding out the hard way while trapped underground with

them.

My choice to remain silent made a certain amount of survival-level logic while in that

governmental-deceit-accustomed society and in that situation. But you have to

realize at the organizational level, at the functional level, at the level of oversight and

things actually working as intended - your own first-day employees being so

accustomed to levels of infiltration and exploitation within your halls that they can't

even take a reasonable gamble to find one legitimate and non-corrupted worker to

speak with and voice their concerns - that signals that you don't have a company

anymore, or a nation… not a functioning one.

So, while I was stuck there, trying to look like I belonged, I read the manual.

It’s worth noting that, while I barely skimmed most of it in my anxiety, I did read the

key points and titles, and came away with the gist of it, most of which I have already

shared with you:

1. Yes, I was a scientist, but my first duty was to the company. Company work

came first, and protecting their secrets was the top priority. Everyone who

worked for the company did the company work.

2. If I could manage to also do my scientific research during that, good for me. But

it was not a priority and there was no guarantee it would happen.

3. I was never to discuss anything when above ground / on the public level.

Obviously, I’ve broken rule three intentionally, and probably rule one both

intentionally and not. But they broke their side of the contract before I even signed it.

You cannot rule solely by fear, especially not while burning out the people you are

attempting to rule over. I’m too exhausted for fear.

They should never have let me sign the contract while obviously drugged in the first

place. They knew who I was sitting next to in that recruitment room. They trained

her. And they knew what she had been trained in, including drugging, subversion, and

coercion. Not checking to confirm if a new recruit is sober when sitting next to one of

the company snakes is reprehensible and irresponsible policy. I’d be amazed if

someone wasn’t getting a cut of the profits from that one.

By that point, I was already exhausted. In an attempt to take a break from doing

damage control for others, I started clawing back more moments of my life for myself.

Indefinite Detainment, Indefinite Wars

While the world slept, I was coerced into recruitment,

preparation, provocation, and exploitation of war

and people for biological, chemical, and nuclear

warfare research.

Knowledge goes nowhere in a world that turns away in fear.

I bore it alone.

I wept for the world.

The world never wept for me.

At that point, I was mostly being used for Human Resources scams so the recruiter

could still collect a paycheck in the name she purchased for me when I was three (I

get the feeling that birth certificate purchase was more for her than it was for me).

My work became primarily peripheral. I traveled often and I no longer had firsthand

knowledge of everything going on at Yale or in the East Coast counterintelligence

scene, but they would still drag me back in when I was needed, and I could still see

the results of their actions, even from across the country and then across the world.

In the moments I had to myself, I focused on trying to get my personal chains off. I

was tired of battling with the world to remove theirs. I went back to attempting to

find where I was stolen from. I hadn’t had any luck as a child, but now I was an adult,

so I thought that would give me more of an advantage. This time, I went with the U.S.

hospital listed on my forged birth certificate. It was all I really had to go on. So, I

called that hospital to request my medical records. The recruiter had told me I had

been born there and then spent most of the first year of my life in that hospital with a

series of medical conditions, including meningitis.

When I spoke to someone in that hospital’s records department, they promised me

they kept all records from the year I was born and they could get mine together with

no problem. The woman told me to call back the next day to find out the fee (it was

per page, so she needed to discover the number the pages first). I waited two days

because, if the recruiter had been honest, there would have been a lot of pages for

them to go through. When I called back, I reached the same woman I had spoken to

the first time. She had uncertainty in her voice and was being coached by an older

woman in the background. She told me that there had been a small file fire she was

previously unaware of and it had only affected the box with my medical records. The

hospital had no record of me. I thanked her and hung up.

I assumed the recruiter had gotten to her. It wasn’t until decades later that I found

out that’s how a lot of U.S. hospitals deal with adopted children when they call asking

about their birth records. If the hospital cannot find the records, they assume the

person was adopted by parents who chose to keep it a secret, and thus many of them

will give the “file fire” story. The system is set up in a way that children, both adopted

and abducted, are blocked and lied to about their origins. I wasn’t the only one caught

in the net. And, for once, the recruiter probably had nothing to do with the

subterfuge. The entire system is set up to bury its youngest and most vulnerable

victims.

While staying in New Haven, there were many times that I would find myself drugged

and approaching the exterior of the JFK airport, often with the recruiter by my side

saying things like, “Oh, wow! That architecture is so futuristic, we must be in a

dream!” Of course, I was supposed to agree with her at that point, “Oh, yes, I must be

dreaming.” I did it out of habit. Once in a while, I was drugged enough to actually

believe it, but often I was just trying to appease her and her seemingly psychopathic

insanity while I tried to find an exit in a country with no exit. In those days, the exit -

albeit a temporary one - was often a plane. Via that airport, she sent me all over the

country and the globe.

In my continuing - and often drugged - nonvoluntary service to the State and the

recruiter, still trapped in the situation with no hope for escape or regaining my

identity, I would visit prisons, foreign and domestic. The prisons were of varying

levels of what an honest person might call legality. I was there to engage with political

prisoners as part of the recruitment process. I walked through many prison doors,

aware of what I was doing, and saw horrific human rights violations while there. This

is a prison I walked through without them having prior notice, and without them

cleaning up the worst of the mess first:

My security access allowed me entry to the prisons, and thus most doors in those

areas, so when I was stumbling around on the wrong floor of a government building,

trying to reach a pool, and I saw a door with a security guard at the back of an

abandoned pool changing room, I decided to use that access to take a shortcut. I'd

done it many times before. I liked exploring. I liked getting away from people and only

hearing the echo of my feet in vacant halls. This would not be that.

The guard asked me if I was sure I wanted to enter. I said yes. He didn't look

convinced but he let me in. Inside the door was an elderly man, standing right by it as

if he'd been standing there for decades, and there's no doubt in my mind that he

probably had been, other than to rest and eat. That room was an old locker room. To

the right were showers (mostly broken, according to the man). In the center were

benches. In the front was a row of sinks.

I went through a doorway near the sinks and entered what was a kitchen area. There

stood several elderly women. They were sorting through food waste that had been

pumped in from above via what appeared to be a cafeteria food waste chute. They

treated me like a guest and offered me a clean-looking piece of bread that had been

torn or bitten before it reached there. I knew the offer was in kindness, and I

accepted the thing, despite being a bit of a germaphobe due to fragile health from

having been thrown into so many medical research studies as a child. Even sharing a

glass of water with a relatively healthy friend would often result in months of pain and

struggling with swelling, hives, and an overactive immune response.

Down the hall, past the kitchen, were the cells. They were dark and dirty. I didn't

invade the space too much to see. I just strained to look down that hall. An adult male,

a generation younger than the elderly in the kitchen, was in the midst of a sustained

emotional breakdown. His girlfriend/wife was not in a better place emotionally.

After someone took the piece of bread back from me, realizing I wasn’t actually going

to eat it, I sat down on a bench in the first room to wait to be released. My unexpected

visit caused the guard to call around internally to make sure I actually had

authorization, and it took a while to get an answer, so he left me locked inside for the

wait. The girlfriend of the man having a breakdown sat down next to me and began to

aggressively mother me. She insisted I wash my hands in one of the sinks, and she

stood over me like a mother would, scrubbing them for me. Then, she got out a comb

and began to attempt to untangle my hair...an unpleasant experience due to the knots

(my hair is brush-worthy - not intended for combs), her persistence, the amount of

time she spent (it was eternal), and the physical proximity. I felt uncomfortably

smothered.

When I finally escaped her, with a little assistance from the elderly man by the door,

he explained to me that she and her boyfriend were the children of the people in that

prison. That they were born there, and raised there. But, when she had her own baby,

with the expectation that she could also raise a family, the prison guards took the

baby away. I was the smallest person to have walked back in through that door. She

thought I was her child.

Of all the prisoners I met, her sorrow impacted me the most. If I could have saved her,

I probably would have brought her home with me and never let go.

The prisoners I met tended to leave me with a lasting impression. Something about

those moments highlighted their lives to me in ways that few other people in my life

ever could.

Another time, in another prison, I would meet an American who left me hating life,

and another time… well, let’s start with that one and skip the American for now.

I was drugged to hell for the journey there and can’t even remember what country in

the Americas we were visiting (I did know at the time, to be fair) but I know that

rumor of the particular underground prison made it to the surface and into a

newspaper at least once. It was situated beneath a government building in a city and

wasn’t a secret, although it was infamous. The prison itself was approximately six sub-

levels deep. I was with the recruiter for that one. She, as was usually the case, didn’t

enter the prison. She would often send me in and wait outside. Usually, I was there to

make contact with various political prisoners. This time, I was there as a favor and in a

different capacity.

They were having issues with the plumbing, especially in the lower sub-levels. They

were also having issues getting plumbers to enter the facility, either because the

plumbers refused or because the government didn’t want anyone to see what was

going on in the bottom floors. I was given an Ecstasy pill and sent to the bottom floor.

Approximately six levels down. What I saw when I got down there was disturbing. No

amount of drugs could have made it a good experience, although they did make it less

nauseating.

There was a pipe visibly dripping water down one of the walls, but that wasn’t the

main problem. The problem was the drainage, or the lack of it. A guard said something

about the drain pipes not working right because of how deep we were. Then he left

me with a shovel and a wheelbarrow in the shower room. The water and excrement

were deep enough to cover a person’s shoes. The political prisoners who were never

going to see the light of day, and who had clearly been tortured, were crazed,

depressed, and moved more like animals than people. They had also been using the

bottom of the shower stalls as toilets.

I started shoveling. I hate the feeling of being drugged, but as far as that moment

goes, I am incredibly grateful that I was on something. That wheelbarrow was filled

several times and carted away before the shower room looked like a shower room

again. The entire time I worked, I could hear the scurrying of one particularly insane

political prisoner as he moved in a hall to my right. I tried to talk to him at one point,

but we didn’t speak the same language and it’s unlikely that he would have been

comprehensible even if we had.

Eventually, I finished and a guard led me up to what was probably the second or third

subfloor. There, I waited to be released. It would be several more hours. While sitting

there, I observed the people around me, most of whom had zero interest in me and

didn’t speak English, anyway. They were depressed and irritable but not visibly

deranged like the people below. Then, someone who was probably around age

seventeen or so sat down next to me. He started speaking in English. We talked about

everything in those hours. He had been born in prison, a lot like me, but they had

never set him free. He seemed less depressed than everyone else, although still pale.

It turned out there was a reason for his uplifted mood.

He was part of a prison work program that allowed him to go to the surface

sometimes. There, above ground, his job was to join protests and movements to

initiate violence and give the police an excuse to round up the protesters. He liked his

work. It allowed him to meet people and see the sun. Any illusions I ever had about

Intelligence work paying well (if you’re not into thievery or blackmail) were killed long

before that. Hopefully, now, I’ve killed those hopes for everyone else too. It’s not

Hollywood. That kid was paid in sunlight.

By the time I got back to the surface, my skin had flared up in every way imaginable. I

went to a dermatologist and got a year-long prescription for antibiotics. I didn’t feel

clean even after that.

As for the American prisoner I would meet, that was in yet another prison and earlier

on. I don’t know what country that was in either, I never knew, and I don’t think I’ll be

able to find it in newspapers. I did try to pinpoint it later by researching the military

uniform I saw there, but there were a ridiculous number of countries with those

small-bill green hats and matching green uniforms in those years.

The recruiter was there for that one and I was let in through a door in front of the

building and past a secured gate, while she waited outside. I’m fairly certain I was

doing her job for her that day. After passing through the internal gate, I went upstairs

and was granted access to a hallway. I had a list of people I needed to speak to and a

pile of papers with me, including a carbon-copy receipt book. I wandered lost for a

bit. While the hall was locked on both sides, the prisoners were free to move between

the rooms. It seemed more like a converted building rather than having originally

been a prison. It may have been a school, factory, or office building first. A room on

the right was quite large. There were mattresses and clothes, including on a makeshift

clothesline, strewn everywhere. I was sticking to the edge by the door, attempting to

give everyone’s things respect and space.

That’s when I met the only person on that floor who spoke a high level of English.

After the fourth or fifth person I had attempted to speak to, they had sent me him. He

was a black man, possibly American, but not the American I mentioned previously

who would leave me traumatized. He walked me across the large room and we looked

out the back window as we spoke. Through the window, we could see the disused

courtyard behind the building. We talked about life for a couple of minutes and then

he took the list from me and we went through it, finding each person on it. Most of

their languages sounded European to me. I think one woman was Scandinavian. They

each wrote lists of things they needed and I gave them receipts to acknowledge that

the lists had been received. Most of the items were basic toiletries. They all seemed

aware of their situation and were trying to make the best of it.

Eventually, there was only one name remaining on my list. They told me I could find

him downstairs. I went to the far end of the hall and a guard let me into that stairwell.

The ground floor level was controlled chaos. The cells there were essentially a line of

cages. They were large enough to stand in but very narrow, and there must have been

fifteen in a row, at least. When I entered to walk along the cells, it seemed like every

single person in them was yelling and actively throwing ripped-up toilet paper against

the metal fencing those cage-like cells were constructed of. I asked prisoners where

the person on my list was, by using his name. They pointed to the end of the cells. At

the very end, on the right, sat the American who would force survivor’s guilt onto me.

He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t throwing toilet paper. He was sitting on the floor of his

cell, apparently meditating.

I handed him the giant stack of legal documents I had for him. No one else had

required a stack quite that thick. He signed the receipt and started going through the

papers energetically. He was convinced that he had a legal case and that the papers

would set him free. I don’t think he understood how few rights political prisoners

actually have or exactly what indefinite detainment means, especially when you’ve

been accused of spying in a third country.

He insisted I call someone for him. I said I would try. I did try. The recruiter

intercepted me on the way to a payphone (not that I would have had enough change

for that international call) and I forgot the number within the hour. His hope and

expectations, which I could not realistically meet, ate at me for…well, they left a

permanent impression. I’ve been in countless similar situations, and yet here I am

highlighting him. His hope is what killed me. No one else I met ever had that level of

delusional hope. Even as I write this book, I have zero hope that writing it will change

a thing. It’s simply an act of throwing something at a wall because if I don’t, I won’t be

able to walk away saying, “At least I tried.”

I continued to drag through life, absolutely exhausted and never knowing when I

would be forced into a dangerous assignment with no warning or proper read-in, or

at least not one I could remember once the drugs began to wear off. I tried to carve

out a small chunk of life for myself. I sought additional employment that actually paid

me and I got a tiny studio apartment for myself.

Frequently, the requirements for the paycheck my exploiter was collecting at my

expense would get in the way of my personal mediocre part-time work to pay my

bills. I would sometimes lose everything because, first, I would have to meet the

obligations of the job that paid the recruiter, often in locations far across the country

or the world. They were a long trip from where I had established myself and my

routine. I would miss part-time $8-an-hour work and not be able to pay my $250 a-

month studio apartment rent because I was halfway around the globe on a ticket that

probably cost someone $1000.

My trips were generally related to research, relocations, or recruitment. On one

occasion, I was sent to The Bahamas, high out of my mind. As I took boat after boat,

looking out on the seemingly never-ending blue water, I felt like I would never find

my way home. The scene in front of me, despite being beautiful, amplified my feelings

of loneliness and being lost in the vast expanse of this world. Eventually, I got onto

one last boat, a small motorboat with supplies, and headed to a U.S. research island to

deliver everything in the boat to a scientist who was there. I remember reaching the

shore and seeing his face. With the level of drugs in my system and as immediately

disturbing as his personality was, I’m both grateful and terrified that I don’t remember

the rest.

Another time, and not on my own, my sometimes-cohort was sent into foreign

territory for reasons I cannot figure out to this day. The combination of drugging and

not everyone being read in was a catastrophe waiting to happen. And it did happen.

We ended up in a street fight and extraction became a nightmare that didn’t occur

until a week after the promised time.

Back on U.S. soil, I began to find ways to earn an income on the side that could

withstand what I was going through. It wasn't enough to be comfortable but at least I

wasn't starving. One of the first places I learned about sporadic entrepreneurship was

on the road going between summer festivals. I managed to support myself through a

summer of travel. I figured it was a good start. Even that was cut short when the U.S.

government came calling, once again. I was needed in Phoenix. The bane of my

existence sent a car full of bounty hunters to collect me and make sure I got there on

time for them.

By the time we arrived in Phoenix, I was so tired of the antics of the drug-addled

bounty hunters that I happily let them steal my bag of belongings and hand me over to

a nicely dressed military officer who led me inside, with him apologizing the entire

way for having taken me away from my summer festivities. He informed me that a

woman they were holding in that facility had refused to allow them to do any more

testing on her until she saw me and that I was safe. I was so accustomed to being

dropped into random scenarios to play a role or perform a task that I didn't even

blink. I just nodded and went along, an ideal hostage as always.

We reached the hall with the correct observation room, and I looked through the

glass. On the other side of it was medical equipment including a large machine, but

more prominent in my view was the woman on the gurney. Her hair was long and

unbrushed to the point of matting. She was hunched over, hysterical, and clearly in

agony. I was walked into the room. There, I took her hand in mine. She spoke Spanish

and I didn't comprehend a word, but I stood there for several minutes, just holding

this tortured woman's hand. She pleaded with me, but I couldn't understand what she

was saying. Eventually, and too soon, I was led away.

They shipped me back east. I never did make it to the festival I had been on my way to.

Once released from further obligations in Connecticut, I found someone with a kind

ear and spoke to him about what I had witnessed in that locked facility. I wanted to

help the woman escape, but we both concluded that we would end up dead, in jail, or

in a mental ward for our attempts. The weight of the society that brought about that

stark reality began to feel like a pressure, consistently heavy on my chest.

Later on, when putting together the pieces and realizing that the only woman who

would face further torture just to see me was probably my own mother – and that I

had left her there alone to die in agony because the world would have fought me if I

tried to save her – that changed me.

It would eventually change my perception of humanity from deserving hope to something

else entirely.

As I’ve said before, they had to use political prisoners and prisoners of war because no

one else would sign the paperwork allowing themselves to become weapons research

test subjects. That said, domestic and ordinary prisoners are often coerced into

becoming medical test subjects within the U.S. prison system, primarily for

commercial pharmaceutical research, but not exclusively. It has been a persistent

issue for more than half a century.

There is a problem with the psychology behind research that requires testing on

unwanted or unvalued populations, and that psychology impacts the quality of the

pharmaceuticals produced. When a drug or other treatment is produced via unethical

means, care for the patient and concern about side effects are reduced. The lack of

care results in the formulation of a product that will not just do harm to the unwanted

and exploited group, but will also do harm to the end user, who will pay a purchase

price for that harm.

Image Source: California Law Review via University of California

“Prisoner subjects continue to be used in medical experiments. For instance,

between 2006 and 2008, a drug company called Hythian contracted… to enroll

criminal defendants in an experimental drug addiction treatment program. As part

of this program, state judges ‘divert’ drug court participants… into an experimental

treatment program called Prometa…The program involves thirty days of treatment

with three different drugs, none of which has been approved for use in addiction

treatment by the Food and Drug Administration. At least one Collin County, Texas,

participant in the Prometa program died; the court recorded the death as a

suicide.”

Text Source: California Law Review via University of California106

I have to admit that by the time the 2001 attempt at demolishing the Twin Towers

was made, with enough success to be plastered on the news for days on end, I

didn’t actually care, despite my having been there to observe the planting of the

explosives for the earlier 1993 bombing. I felt nothing. Name one part of humanity

that had not already failed me and everyone around me by that point.

Although, I will note that September 11th morning, before the towers went down,

one of the articles that was published in that day’s newspaper was a nod to the

Weather Underground Organization. That was the article that mentioned the

recruiter’s involvement in putting a bomb in the Pentagon. While the public may

believe every lie and alternative lie told to them, those who did the actual work still

got a tilt of the hat in acknowledgment, and as always, in the New York Times.

Somewhere in New York that morning, was a person looking up from that article

right in time to see the Twin Towers explosion. Somewhere near the Pentagon, the

same was happening, but with a different view over the top of the newspaper.

106 California Law Review via University of California, Experimentation on Prisoners: Persistent Dilemmas in Rights and Regulations, https://escholarship.org/content/qt81x6m9bt/qt81x6m9bt.pdf

Image Source: New York Times

“The New York Times

No Regrets for a Love of Explosives; In a Memoir of Sorts, a War Protester Talks of

Life With the Weatherman

Published: Sept. 11, 2001

‘Everything was absolutely ideal on the day we bombed the Pentagon.’”

Text Source: New York Times107

Yes, it was an inside job. That’s what happens when you let the people who hate you

and profit from you run your Intelligence services.

107 New York Times, No Regrets for a Love of Explosives; In a Memoir of Sorts, a War Protester Talks of Life With the Weatherman, https://www.nytimes.com/2001/09/11/books/no-regrets-for-love-explosives-memoir-sorts-war-protester-talks-life-with.html

Waiting in Ambush

It's like having a tiger walking free in a crowd,

and instead of a few people jumping on it,

or anyone getting together to trap it,

they all just pretend it's not there as their ‘survival response’

and it slowly eats its way through the whole crowd,

including them.

Sometime after that, I officially went to a university in California of my own volition,

with my non-paid work hours settling mostly into nights and the occasional random

trip. Between university, work, life obligations, and the forced unpaid work, I was

getting roughly two to three hours of sleep per night for years. It was not easy.

Everything I did took extreme effort, but I put the effort in, even if it was sometimes

at a snail’s pace.

The only major interference in my education came when I was applying to graduate

schools. I found myself railroaded back into the specialty I had been sent to countless

lectures on at Yale, and I ended up attending graduate school for it. I probably could

have fought a little harder and chosen another path, but I didn’t have enough of a fight

in me in those years. I was too exhausted.

I rose to the top of the class in my departments. My only struggles were in

mathematics (which I eventually caught up in enough to have a level of competency)

and ethics. After a lifetime of growing up on the inside of counterintelligence, I never

could entirely understand ethics from the traditional perspective, although I did try.

Among my straight As, those ethics courses always gave my grade point average a

slight ding. I had to settle for a 3.9 instead of a 4.0.

Image Source: Personal file, University Transcript108

Not that an A- is bad. It’s just not quite perfection, and I always aimed for perfection.

The worst part about those years was the money that would show up randomly. I

know, you’re thinking that shouldn’t be the worst part. It was. Free money isn’t free,

and it also wasn’t mine to spend. It would come in various forms, from an array of

government and NGO-subsidized offices that weren’t permitted to give those

amounts according to their own rules and the rules of their funders, and that I

generally wasn’t eligible to receive from. But the occasional random unsolicited check

would show up anyway. I’d call the issuing offices to make sure the checks weren’t an

error that I would have to repay or that would land me in jail if I cashed them.

Invariably, after some confusion and searching through their databases, the workers

in the offices would admit they had no idea how the funds had ended up with me, but

that they appeared authorized and it would be okay to deposit them into my bank, so I

did.

108 Author's Personal File, University Transcript

I was very tight on funds in those years, barely covering my main expenses, and I

needed dental work. So, at first, I accepted the extra payments as amazing luck that

would allow me to get a few fillings. I would quickly learn that would only cause me to

end up in debt. After a while, when the payments arrived out of nowhere, I would feel

a sense of dread instead of financial relief. By then, I had learned it meant I was about

to be sent on a job, no matter how exhausted I was, and the additional amount in my

account only indicated how much money it would take to fill up the gas tank of my car

to get there and back. The larger the check, the longer my hours of driving would be.

The trips were sporadic and unpleasant but mostly uneventful. I was primarily moving

protected war criminals around my region of the country, from safehouse to

safehouse when they felt unsafe, had problems with their location, or believed that

their cover had been blown. There was, however, one that I will never forget. He was

up in the Cascade Range, on a tiny side road off a mountain road. I must have driven

right by it at least five times before I found the turnoff. By the time I reached there,

later than anticipated, he was in full panic mode and had set the back portion of his

house on fire to “hide the evidence.”

I’d note at this point that I generally received the payments a week in advance,

meaning we were likely the ones to intentionally plan and trigger that panic that

made him feel like he needed to ask us for help in relocating.

I arrived in time to see flames slowly licking their way down the hallway that

connected what appeared to be an otherwise-detached back building with the living

room of the front building. I watched him calmly closing the door to that hall, as he

stood in his living room with several men he had called to rescue him when I was

delayed. As I stood there in that room, wondering how long it would be before we had

to run to escape the fire, I watched him stand calmly and assertively, making

decisions and giving orders. I got the distinct feeling that this wasn’t the first house

he had burnt down while standing in it.

He also looked familiar to me. I still wonder if he was the man I had met years ago

with the skin lampshade in his East Coast home. There’s no way to know for certain.

He’d had more than a decade to age by then, but how he held himself definitely

reminded me of that man.

Quickly enough, we all exited that building with our orders, piled into our vehicles,

and drove away. Did I mention that my kids were in the car during all of this? No one

had given me a chance to find them childcare before drugging me and shoving me

behind the steering wheel with badly written directions to that man’s safehouse. Did I

forget to mention that I gave birth sometime in the middle of all of the chaos of life?

Let’s take a little detour in the past and dive into a few moments of the years I haven’t

mentioned, to see how that first happened:

Recollections: Training

Endless decades of selling entire nations,

pulling the rug from under the people of those nations,

pumping generations for resources, impoverishing their children,

and displacing millions with ridiculous stage shows

all so you can get that next drug or adrenaline rush

is a bit much.

So is allowing a bunch of addicts to do so

and to lead the way.

It was the autumn of 1996. I’d had (mostly) free reign to wander the United States, in

feeble attempts to escape and to create a normal life, since 1994. When the recruiter

needed me, she would usually send the same group of bounty hunters to collect me

each time. By 1996, I knew them all by first name, would drop whatever I was doing

when they located me, and get into their car. There was no point in fighting the

inevitable.

My only wish was that she would just send me the payments directly instead of

spending it on them. I would have used the money on a bus ticket to where she

needed me, and the rest on dental. I was already struggling with the results of a

severely impacted wisdom tooth that had never been pulled, and that required an

expensive oral surgeon in a hospital setting to remove.

Image: Personal x-ray, 2016, taken shortly before the wisdom tooth (and the neighboring tooth it crushed) was removed by a specialist, at age 39, in Europe.

Image source: Authors personal records109

Unfortunately, the tooth would have to wait to be removed. The recruiter never

trusted the people she used. Not even the ones who had to call her family. I had tried

to explain over and over again throughout the years that I would have continued to

work for her willingly if she had given me a cut of the pay. She didn’t believe me. She

thought I would always be loyal and work for her regardless, because that’s how I was,

and apparently that’s how I had behaved.

I’d already had a similar discussion with her and one of her cohort members when

they were extorting a commercial real estate owner for 100% of his profits. When I

said that they should at least leave him with 5-10% so that he could feed himself and

keep his business functioning so that he could continue to pay them well into the

future, they both looked at me like I was a peasant trying to con them. They said he

had always found a way to pay and there was no reason to worry about that stopping.

109 Author’s Personal Medical File, Dental X-Ray, Age 39

Even more concerning, when it comes to the mechanisms that keep us trapped, when

I asked that same mogul why he allowed them to take him for everything, he cited the

need to keep paying his own mortgage. He was worried that if he did not comply, they

would simply steal his home using lawfare and he truly would have nothing. In that

moment, at least he still had a roof over his head. To him, it made sense. But to me? It

was just another small problem that could have been stopped in its tracks, preventing

the larger problems ahead by removing funding from the psychopaths. But I digress…

In the autumn of 1996, I was at a gathering in Illinois where some of the recruiter’s

colleagues had dropped me off. I met a man while I was there. He was a few years

older than me and had been a gunner during the Gulf War. He personally had around

100 kills, something he was usually very quiet about, but you could tell he was raging

internally. We hit it off and started spending all our time together.

A few days later, the bounty hunters showed up. It was clear that they were about to

pick me up and bring me somewhere, but then they spotted him. It turns out that we

were running in a very small work/social circle at that gathering. They knew him.

When he was at his post-war worst, he had taken up fighting in Las Vegas to pay for a

drug addiction (cocaine; he’d still go missing about once a month when I knew him,

and I would have to hunt him down to whatever hotel he was holed up in while going

through several thousand dollars worth of cocaine and crack over a weekend). The

bounty hunters had taken to managing his short-lived fighting career in Vegas and

bailing him out when he needed it. It had only gone on for a few fights before he was

too wrecked to continue. His ill-advised venture left him in rough shape. Despite

being short, it also left him in debt to the bounty hunting group by the end of the

experience.

Instead of getting me into the car, they went to town to make a phone call. When they

returned, they sat down with him and told him they would cancel all his debt if he

would babysit me. I sat there, silently by the fire, listening as I was traded for a debt of

around $20,000. This wasn’t the first time I was exchanged for money or favors, but it

was the first time I was so fully aware of the fact.

I didn’t even blink. I just left with him and pretended like it had never even happened.

I spent the next year with him, as a couple, and he took the role of the bounty

hunters, transporting me to where I was required.

One of the requirements was a course, Hostage Training for Women, on a military

base in the Pacific Northwest. I never had a chance in life, not at freedom, not at

normalcy, and not at the safe American white-picket fence middle-class life my

mother had been told I would receive. It was never going to happen.

Day one of the training would start with being crammed into a cell that was more of a

cage. There was not enough room to stand up. This wasn’t hostage negotiation

training. It was training for female officers who risked being taken as hostages. Thank

god I still had my mother’s charm, baby face, and smile back then.

Image: Roxana Teresa Claros Romero

Source: Desaparecidos110

(I’m not sure what I got from my father, but I can see him reflected so clearly in the

face of my son that there are times it has brought me to tears.)

Image: Eduardo Enrique Navajas Jáuregui

Source: Universidad National de La Plata111

I walked onto that small hallway with the cages on one side with women cowering

inside, and a young military officer at a desk on the other side, and I acted as if I had

just entered a celebration as the life of the party. In my mind, I had. I recognized so

many faces there that I hadn’t seen since military camp, since early days visiting a U.S.

military base when the bulk of those trafficked in through Operation Condor were

110 Desaparecidos, Roxana Teresa Claros Romero Detenida-Desaparecida el 7/4/77,

http://www.desaparecidos.org/arg/victimas/c/claros/index.html Alternative: https://robertobaschetti.com/claros-roxana-teresa/

111 Universidad National de La Plata, Eduardo Enrique Navajas Jauregui,

http://hosting2.unlp.edu.ar/derechoshumanos/verdatos.php?coddesaparecido=509

still being held on the base. It was like a homecoming to me. I didn’t care that there

were prison cells. I was born in a prison. It was the people I was so happy to see, who

filled the space. It felt like coming home.

Most women spent a week or two in that part of the training before they “got it right”

and could proceed downstairs to the next stage. But life and my mother had already

trained me to be a good hostage. They graduated me from that floor in less than

twenty-four hours.

The entire purpose of the training was to get the enemy to believe you were on their

side, sexually into them, or at least as human as they were. There was torture

involved. The goal was to get the torturer to stop and let you go. The tools we had to

use were the only things they believed a woman had back then - wits and sexuality.

The sergeant flat-out told us that he didn’t believe we could escape by overpowering

anyone. Later, I would argue that the training was useless. Because, honestly, by the

time I’m ever in a serious hostage situation beyond the one I was trapped in for life,

sexuality is going to have been replaced with gray hair.

But there, hanging from chains in that large ground floor space, I tried the tactics he

demanded. For some reason I felt that psychologically separating myself from the

situation would allow me to connect with the soldier who had been assigned to stand

in front of me (it was a bit of a conveyor belt type of situation, so each hostage spent

time with each soldier in the room). I was making myself dizzy trying. The pain only

intensified the feeling of separation between mind and body. Finally, when I was at

the far end of the room, and closest to the door, I was up against a soldier who

appeared emotionally weak. I took advantage of it and he released me. That was

graduation, but it honestly felt like cheating. I hadn’t found a weakness in a man. I had

found the weakest man in the room.

After being freed, I stood against the wall, as near as I could get to the door without

raising suspicion. Slowly, as the women were released, one by one, they came to stand

and huddle next to me. When eyes were no longer on us, I snuck to the door, leading

them, and we ran. We exited that large building and ran across the parking lot and

then through brush and trees, eventually following a small road into the housing area

of the reservation next to the base. We walked quietly down that road in the darkness

until we saw a house with a light on and knocked on the door. An older Native

American man answered and we begged him to call the police. He called someone.

About two minutes later, men from the base showed up and brought us back to where

we had just escaped from.

That’s the real reason I felt the training was pointless. Not that little quip I had above

about sexuality and aging. We hadn’t escaped. How is it successful hostage training if

you’re not taught an effective way to escape?

I was still a hostage.

I was probably already pregnant by that time. He disappeared shortly after the baby

was born. My second child came about quite the same way, several years down the

road, just without the hostage training.

♞ Stage 4: Detonation

It’s time to fast-forward to where we left off, right after that war criminal started the

process of burning his government-funded house down with kids sitting in my car in

his driveway. I’m sorry to ruin any illusion of competence in operations.

I continued to drag through life, one excruciating moment at a time, getting up each

morning, somehow. I had told myself that the best way out of the situation was to gain

so many postgraduate credentials that no country could turn me away when I finally

came crawling over their border.

Images: Self, Early 1990s - 2010s

Source: Author’s Personal Collection112

112 Photographs, Author’s Personal Collection

A series of events, overt manipulation, and opportunities arose, all pointing me in the

direction of England before my master's degree was complete. I knew from a

conversation I had listened in on between the recruiter and an eye doctor when I was

nine years old, and from conversations the recruiter had with me as well, that the

recruiter had intended that I spend some time in England to collect her second

passport, something she could not do from within the confines of the United States.

The conversation between her and the ophthalmologist was burned into my brain by

anxiety because she had talked about how I wouldn’t be able to drive in England due

to a lazy eye that she didn’t feel like chauffeuring me to multiple appointments to fix

with vision therapy. The ophthalmologist was reminding her that we were running

out of time to correct my vision problem. The recruiter had been putting it off until

the next year, pretty much annually, since I was four years old.

A weak left eye would be dangerous to drive with when pedestrians are on the left

side of the road, so they decided I’d be taking the bus while in England. I have spent so

much of my life trying to correct that vision on my own with varying degrees of

success since the time I was old enough to see myself in the bathroom mirror (it still

requires concentration to keep the eye straight, even to this day and after eight years

of treatment as an adult because the muscles are not as malleable and retrainable

when we’re older). It has cost me time, effort, money, and an unnecessary level of

awkwardness in social situations as I wonder if that’s the moment my concentration

on keeping the eye straight will fail, and many a blow to my self-esteem. And mild

amblyopia is a condition that is easily treatable in children with a ridiculously high

level of success. However, the recruiter wouldn’t benefit from it, so she didn’t bring

me to the appointments.

But back to her needing me in England, which she did believe she would benefit

from…

I pretended to go along the path she created for me to go to England, falling for each

suggestion and manipulation the recruiter presented, weaving them together as if

they had all been stretched out perfectly just for me and with no wrinkles in sight. It

was difficult. The person in England who had contacted me out of the blue to begin all

this admitted, openly in a moment of intoxication, that he was being compensated to

con me into going there. He also gave enough identifying details on who hired him. He

was actually in shock about the offer and for some reason, in that moment, I became

his confidant. Maybe because I was the only other person in the room who would have

an inkling of what he was talking about and he was bursting to tell someone about the

entire detailed absurdity of how they had taken advantage of his gambling addiction

and failed career, the invasive interview, and the hiring process. I’d never even

mentioned the recruiter to him by that time. She was still my dark secret. Back then,

he was the one who spilled it all.

I have to admit I took a moment and considered not continuing with him, but it was

the path that got me closest to my own goal of finding a way out and then finding a

way home. If it hadn’t been him, the recruiter eventually would have forced something

or someone worse my way. This was the same woman who had paid and coerced a

series of prostitutes to marry one of her sons to keep tabs on him and serve as her

proxy in manipulating him, as needed. At least the person she had chosen for me this

time was easy and far away from America (and not a prostitute).

I’m human. I sought comfort. And I didn’t think there was an actual escape route. I’m

still not sure there is. There are reprieves, yes. But escape? Even now, as I write this, I

can’t get them to give me the passport they stole 43 years ago. Just because I keep

trying doesn’t mean I have hope. I had accepted my situation, and he was the most

comfortable forced option in that situation. Much like I had done during the military

hostage training years before to escape and thus graduate from their program, I took

advantage of the weakest man in the room, the one most likely to mentally break.

When he couldn’t even contain that he had been recruited, I knew he was the one.

It took some effort to fall for the con, especially with eyes wide open and without that

one tiny thread of plausible deniability, of uncertainty, that helps to keep an act alive.

My eyes wanted to roll up into my head. My middle fingers wanted to rise. I was

already getting very tired of the recruiter still trying to guide my life as I was entering

my thirties. But I held back the words that went along with those feelings and allowed

the rage alone to drive me forward and past the exhaustion.

Finally, something happened that would give me an excuse to finish propelling

forward to England. There was an earthquake and tsunami in Japan. That happened to

affect an older designed nuclear power plant that had never gotten a notice about the

need for retrofitting their spent fuel pools. Possibly because about twenty years prior,

someone I knew had made sure the Nuclear Regulatory Commission never had to

notify the plant and fuel pool designers about the known issue.

Image: Fukushima Daiichi explosion

Source: National Public Radio113

113 National Public Radio, New Blast Rocks Japanese Nuclear Plant, https://www.npr.org/2011/03/14/134501905/crisis-at-nuclear-plant-adds-to-japans-woes

After having spent so much time in labs and assisting with infiltrating the anti-

nuclear movement, I knew where to look to find real-time radiation readings on the

West Coast of the U.S., and I knew the difference between normal readings and

concerning ones. As I sat in my house a mile up on a mountain range and in the path

of the Northern Hemisphere’s Jetstream, I packed my bags and waited. On the

television, there was a never-ending stream of reporters telling us the explosion was

safe and not actually nuclear-related. They used the wording “hydrogen blast” over

and over again and assured their viewers this was not the same or as concerning as a

nuclear explosion or meltdown.

Image Source: ABC News

“The previous explosions at Fukushima Daiichi reactors Nos. 1 and 3 were hydrogen

blasts caused by a buildup of steam in the reactor units.”

Text Source: ABC News114

114 ABC News, Japan Earthquake: Radiation Leaking After Fukushima Nuclear Plant Explodes, https://abcnews.go.com/International/japan-earthquake-radiation-leaking-fukushima-nuclear-plant-explodes/story?id=13131123

A few days after the original blast, Geiger counters along the top of the mountain

range started going off, one after the other. I put everyone’s bags in the car and drove

down off that mountain. The Nuclear Regulatory Commission - the same one that

allowed the spent fuel pool issues to continue unabated in plants with the same

design - was still downplaying everything to the public (they still are).

Image Source: Phys.org

“California is closely watching the crisis at a Japanese nuclear plant, but officials

downplayed the threat that a radioactive cloud blown across the Pacific could pose

for the US West Coast.

While radioactivity could reach the United States from the quake-hit Fukushima

plant, the levels would not be high enough to cause major health problems, said the

Nuclear Regulatory Commission (NRC).

Some experts disagreed, notably pointing to the west-east jet stream, but NRC…said

even the Pacific island state of Hawaii faced little risk.”

Text Source: Phys.org115

Image Source: Phys.org

“(Another source) cited the 1986 Chernobyl nuclear disaster to underline how far

radioactivity can travel. ‘The radioactivity spread around the entire Northern

Hemisphere,’ from the devastated Ukrainian plant, he said.

Harvey Wasserman, a senior adviser to environmental group Greenpeace added that

after Chernobyl ‘fallout did hit the jet stream and then the coast of California,

thousands of miles away, within 10 days. ‘It then carried all the way across the

northern tier of the United States,’ he continued.

...

115 Phys.org, U.S. West Coast: On Frontline From Nuclear Cloud, https://phys.org/news/2011-03-west-coast-frontline-nuclear-cloud.html

The NRC spokesman declined to comment in depth on possible scenarios for how

quickly or at what levels radioactivity could reach the US mainland.”

Text Source: Phys.org116

Why people pay for the service of being lied to in an emergency, rather than being

given honest information and guided on how to prepare themselves and avoid any

damage, even if it’s “only minimal damage” and will “only shorten their lifespans by a

couple of years,” I will never understand. It goes against the very principles of

survival.

With Fukushima to my back, I got on a plane in 2011 and left the West Coast for a let’s-

wait-for-the-possible-fallout-to-blow-over vacation. When I entered the plane, I

discovered it was inordinately full of mathematicians and physicists. Listening to the

conversations in those hours felt like sitting in a symposium at the Massachusetts

Institute of Technology (MIT). It was a beautiful final note to leave the U.S. on. I love

the sound of functioning minds and intelligence.

It would be two months before Western media would finally admit the original

explosions at the plant had been part of a major nuclear accident and not just a

coincidental peripheral explosion at a nuclear power plant for them to downplay the

dangers to the public. By then, it wasn’t even front-page news.

116 Phys.org, U.S. West Coast: On Frontline From Nuclear Cloud, https://phys.org/news/2011-03-west-coast-frontline-nuclear-cloud.html

Image Source: World Nuclear Association

“(Updated August 2023)

Following a major earthquake, a 15-metre tsunami disabled the power supply and

cooling of three Fukushima Daiichi reactors, causing a nuclear accident beginning

on 11 March 2011. All three cores largely melted in the first three days.

The accident was rated level 7 on the International Nuclear and Radiological Event

Scale, due to high radioactive releases over days 4 to 6, eventually a total of some

940 PBq (I-131 eq).”

Text Source: World Nuclear Association117

It reminded me of the early lecture by physicist Michio Kaku that I had attended with

the recruiter. He had said that sustained low-level radiation is the most harmful to us

on a cellular level. The sustained runoff from Fukushima looked like it would help us

find out if that’s true. I have to mention that if you want to punch a population with a

117 World Nuclear Association, Fukushima Daiichi Accident, https://world-nuclear.org/information-library/safety-and-security/safety-of-plants/fukushima-daiichi-accident.aspx

biological weapon, it might first help to hit them on the cellular level to make sure

they’re already weakened enough for a virus to take hold.

Maybe military and Intelligence would be just as invasive and damaging without the

lies and well-planned subterfuge. Maybe if the carte blanche right to deceit were

taken away, they’d state their real purposes and still fund and participate in wars all

over the globe.

But at least it wouldn’t lead to the utter confusion domestically and internationally,

resources and time wasted on responding to mistruths, dangerous “let’s wait and see”

pauses, and the countless victims swept under the rug and expected to keep the

secrets of their victimizers, even when those victimizers are opportunistic and

murderous thugs latched on to the government payload like parasites.

With the United States finally far behind me, one question I’d been biting back the

entire time I was there finally surfaced.

Shouldn’t the public of a nation factually know, without averting their gaze due to

fear of public ostracization and government eyes staring back at them, that several

rather pertinent parts of their military, including Intelligence, are the enemy they

were told was culturally and cruelly in opposition to them and their freedoms? The

same enemy they were convinced to give their own lives in battle to fight? Isn’t it

just a tiny bit sadistic to keep them that in the dark and self-deceiving to that

degree? They are paying taxes for it, after all.

Image Source: British Broadcasting Corporation

“Files released by the Central Intelligence Agency in the United States have

confirmed that World War II Nazi war criminals were employed by Western

intelligence agencies.

…former Nazi officers were employed by the CIA, in particular for their knowledge

of the Soviet Union.

A US Justice Department spokesman, Eli Rosenbaum, said the files demonstrated

that the real winners of the Cold War were Nazi war criminals.”

Text Source: British Broadcasting Corporation118

A few months into my stay in England (still a part of the European Union back then), I

began the process of procuring citizenship from the European country I qualified to

apply for based on ancestry, according to the documents I had been using most of my

life by that point. I did it so I could stay in England a bit longer. Once I had landed and

the jet lag wore off, every fiber of my being was screaming against even the thought of

118 British Broadcasting Corporation, CIA Admits Employing Nazis, http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/1301306.stm

the idea of returning to America. I didn’t like England, honestly, but I had just escaped

the U.S. and there was no way I was ever going to return to there unless in chains. I

would have rather survived eating the British cuisine of beans for breakfast. That’s

still true to this day, even though after eating their food for long enough, I genuinely

thought I was developing stomach cancer….but I digress.

The recruiter thought I was working on applying for her citizenship. She wanted me

to procure her exit from America. If I had been applying in any of a variety of offices

around the world, the standard requirement would have been that my citizenship had

to be piggybacked on hers because we are family on paper - that was why she had

always wanted to send me to England. She thought being there would be my

motivation to get a second passport for myself, and thus hers as well. Her own

documentation was too flimsy to start the process from within the United States

where the embassy’s documentation requirements were far more excessive. She had

to send me overseas to the country with the laxest embassy so I could do it for her.

That embassy, selected by her, happened to be in London.

While going through the stack of family records I had to attain for the application, I

started noticing some discrepancies. She married her husband near Washington, D.C.

when she was 18 and he was a 21-year-old Yale student, even though none of her

stories mentioned a D.C.-adjacent location in that time period. Her mother’s official

certified birth certificate looked like the woman had been allowed drunken after-

hours access to the records department to modify it, etc.

Fun fact: Her mother decided to change her own birth date. The first records show that

she was born on April 19th. The next records show that she had that date amended to

April 20th, Hitler’s birthday, with the help of the church via an updated baptismal record.

According to the dates on the documents, it looks like she made the change after the start

of World War II:

Image: State of Connecticut Birth and Baptismal Records

Source: Author’s personal records119

The recruiter’s mother-on-record had a little too much access to that records

department and had taken advantage of it for her own personal reasons while there,

leaving a trail leading right back to her in the process. Because of her proximity to one

of the weapons labs via her husband, she had been part of helping to bring the

families of German and Jewish scientists into the country to reunite them when the

government refused to do so officially. Because of that, she had made friends in the

records department and played cards with them weekly. One of them was the same

friend she asked for one last favor when I came onto the scene.

And, no, neither the records office clerk nor the recruiter’s mother did it for free. The

stack of cash the clerk had accepted for my forged document was substantial. As for

the recruiter’s mother, she already had two homes and two closets full of floor-length

mink coats by the time I arrived, despite her being a retired shop-girl who had helped

people with their perfume samples (although, knowing the family one does have to

119 Author’s Personal Collection, State of Connecticut Birth Records

wonder if she was drugging people with the perfume and then robbing them). That

mink collection was so extensive and well cared for that it spent a large portion of the

year in a secure cold storage facility. When I came to the U.S., she was given a limited-

edition vehicle with full white leather interior for her role in procuring documents at

that time. Not to digress, but I was expensive. That’s probably part of why I was used

so hard. Someone had to get a return on that investment.

Considering that dripping-in-diamonds human trafficker (albeit, mostly of willing

international migrants) was who the recruiter called “mom,” I can actually kind of

understand why, later in life when I asked the recruiter to babysit my child, her

“grandchild,” for a few hours in the evenings while I visited a university dental clinic

(all I could afford back then for dental care - they came with a significant discount if

you let the students practice doing fillings on your teeth), she told me she would only

do it if I paid her $20 an hour (which I did) and then still proceeded to complain the

entire time that I wasn’t properly compensating her enough.

But, back to England (or forward to England, in this case)...

Because of the discrepancies and the fact that the recruiter’s mother’s official birth

certificate in the records department had the recruiter’s mother’s own handwriting

on it where she wrote her preferred first name in sideways (pictured above), I started

looking at my own documents again. I decided it was time to check in with the

Department of Child Services. After all, when the recruiter was telling my origin story,

she told me that the mother I remembered prior to her was actually a State of

Connecticut foster mother. So, I called them to request my foster child file. I made

sure to give them both names I had gone by in the U.S. (if you recall, the recruiter

used a name change document to bureaucratically legitimize my birth certificate

which had no matching hospital birth record to substantiate it).

They were happy to oblige, although they took a while (it may be true that social

workers are overworked and overwhelmed). Eventually, they sent my abuse records,

which you’ve seen parts of earlier. They also informed me that I had never been in

foster care. They had no proof of my existence before the mention of me first came

across their desk when I was nine years old and a school reported that my seat in the

classroom had been empty for a while.

I thanked them, read through the abuse documents, and picked up the phone again.

This time, I was calling the Social Security Administration offices in the United States.

I asked them when I was first registered in their system. Again, I made sure to give

them both names I had gone by in the U.S. and explained the name change. They

informed me that I did not enter their system under either name until midway

through 1980. Three years after I was born and at a point at which I had already

entered the United States after leaving Argentina.

This was problematic for the recruiter’s story she had constructed about my earliest

years. She had claimed I had nearly a million dollars in medical bills from my time in

the U.S. hospital directly following my birth (a time and a birth that the hospital had

no record of at all, despite their keeping extensive records from that time period). She

also claimed the U.S. government medical insurance for impoverished children paid

the bill. In the years 1977-1978, in order for that program to cover the costs of a

medical bill, they required that the child have a social security number. According to

the Social Security Administration, I didn’t even exist in those years. I definitely didn’t

have a number back then.

I said thank you to the Social Security worker for that information, and I hung up the

phone. I went across the street. I bought a bottle of wine (I rarely drink and almost

never more than a glass). I came back to the rented apartment I was staying in. I sat

down on the living room floor. I drank that entire bottle. And I thanked every god of

every religion that there was a genuine chance that the recruiter was not my mother.

More importantly, I was grateful that my first mother, the mother I remembered, the

mother I had a connection to, the mother I always loved and missed every single day

of my life and always will, may have actually been my mother - and not just a foster

mother like the recruiter had told me.

A few days later, I picked up the phone again. I called the recruiter, informing her

with all sincerity that I could not complete the citizenship application in the

remaining time I had on my visa. I told her I was having some trouble with the

paperwork (I failed to note that I had also found out that there was a small and

previously undisclosed issue with the London-located consulate’s bureaucracy and

that I could only apply for my foreign citizenship and passport - and not hers).

What would happen next was almost as easy as that time the two Muslim roommates

"talked us into" walking right into their apartment. Except, this time, it wasn't two Muslims about to get entrapped. I was playing against my most formidable enemy, my

own personal (and unluckily for me) government-trained exploiter.

I told the woman who had darkened my entire existence that I did not qualify for a

traditionally extended visa and would need political asylum in order to stay long

enough to complete the task for her. She promised to call a friend of hers in the State

Department back in the United States, someone she had once attended Yale

University with. She was sure that they could contact someone in the correct office in

England to make it happen. That phone call happened in 2011.

On a morning months later, I discussed my case in front of an immigration tribunal in

England without legal representation present and on only a few hours of sleep. This

was several hours after successfully arguing my master's thesis with a panel of

professors over the phone at three in the morning.

As the representative for the Immigration Department spoke about how “Americans

don’t have human rights” before listing all the countries and regions with citizens

worthy of human rights, a thought flickered through my mind for half a second before

I focused on the courtroom again. If Americans do not have human rights according

to globally accepted norms and laws, is that why the world has been heavily using the

residents of that country as pharmaceutical and weapons research test subjects?

Six months later, I had been granted an impossibility – an approved human rights

application for a United States passport holder. Buried deep in the document, it was

deemed that if I returned to the United States, they might not let me leave again, if

they even allowed me to apply to reenter the US, to begin with.

Image Source: Personal Documents, Courts & Tribunals Service

“But I also have to consider any difficulties the Appellant might have in applying to

come back to the United States.”

Text Source: Personal Documents, Courts & Tribunals Service120

Sometimes, I wonder if my exploiter’s friend had taken pity on me, knowing what I

must have endured all those years under the tactics of the woman that we were all

more than just aware of in the political and intel communities, and that she kindly

120 Courts & Tribunal Service, First-tier Tribunal’s Determination, Author’s Personal Records

made sure those words were included in the decree. Even if she hadn’t, the document

was still enough.

Image Source: Personal Documents, Courts & Tribunals Service

“I am satisfied it would be disproportionate to return her to the United States and

accordingly, therefore, that to return her with her children would be a breach of

Article 8 of the ECHR, for all Appellants…

The appeal is allowed on human rights grounds.”

Text Source: Personal Documents, Courts & Tribunals Service121

That ‘friend in high places’ gave me my first genuine opportunity to experience

freedom. After a life of imprisonment and being a hostage, I just needed to learn how

to be free.

121 Courts & Tribunal Service, First-tier Tribunal’s Determination, Author’s Personal Records

Wartime Child Traffickers

The Government of Argentina and the Abuelas de Plaza de Mayo

In reality, governments do not change

simply because a spotlight is on them.

They know what to do in the spotlight

to allow themselves to continue, unabated.

They’ve perfected it down to the point

that it can be found in the wording

of any of their standard forms.

It took me several years to stop cowering in fear out of habit. I spent those years in

England, still being sent off on late-night excursions to questionable labs and medical

facilities. It felt so much like living back "home" with my abductor again that I thought the feeling must all be in my head, like a lingering sense that I couldn't quite shake off.

It wasn't until I took a drug test to confirm my suspicions, and it detected Rohypnol

and ketamine, that it truly occurred to me that what I was experiencing wasn't simply

exhaustion and a lingering memory. What I was feeling was a combination of my

situation and the familiar experience of significant and consistent drugging.

During those years, dragging through and trying to put my thoughts together

rationally despite the drugs clouding my mind, I finally looked back at the life I had

lived and what I had been involved in. It appeared like a nuclear explosion on the

landscape, only growing larger the further away I ran. When I had been in the center

of it, it felt personal and tangible. But at a distance, I began to understand what a giant

it truly was. I couldn't find adequate words to describe my relationship with it.

I completed my research on where I had been kidnapped from originally and found

the name and location of the Argentine prison that had been my earliest home. I

reached out to the “Abuelas de Plaza de Mayo” organization in charge of helping us

lost children to return home under the “right to seek identity,” as they called it.

Unfortunately, it was then that I realized that while I had escaped one mess, there

was another one there to greet me upon my exit.

They weren't ready to accept me back into their fold. They asked for my papers. I

didn’t have the original ones from Argentina, so I gave them the falsified ones from

the United States, assuming two things that were incorrect:

1. They actually wanted to find the children who were sent internationally.

2. They knew how to start the process and would look into the identity papers of

someone illegally adopted from their country to confirm if the identity was a forgery

or not.

That Argentine office never called the issuing North American Vital Statistics

Office to confirm if the forged birth certificate was valid or not. And as mentioned,

it's not valid, something that has caused me multiple issues throughout life and left

me with sporadically accessible ID. It has the very real discrepancy of being filed

several years after my birth and not until after I was trafficked out of Argentina.

That North American vital statistics office, in the time period in which I was born

and trafficked, always recorded births within weeks, not years. Because my “U.S.

birth record” was filed three years after I was born, and thus was placed in the

order and year in which it was received, and thus in the 1980 birth records book

despite having a 1977 birth date on it, it has triggered their fraud alert multiple

times over the decades. In addition, the hospital listed on it has never had any

record of my birth. Any of this could have been confirmed with a call.

I was in communication with that United States Vital Statistics Office at that time

(after a lifetime of them not being able to locate the document reliably, I tend to

make contact before, during, and after any official inquiries into it, primarily to

point them to the 1980 records book to make sure they can locate the document)

and confirmed that Argentina never contacted them to verify or inquire about the

identity. Instead, the Argentine office told me, within an hour of my submitting the

ID, that it was a beautiful ID and I should be happy for it. Then they quit

responding to me. That was 2012.

Things were fairly quiet for a few years on the American front until a series of

events caught my eye even from an ocean away. The recruiter’s younger son, who

was in Asia at the time, broke up with his then-wife. The wife took one of their

children (to protect the child’s privacy because he’s still fairly young, I’ll call him

Sam) and returned to Russia, where she was from. The recruiter was not happy

about this. She was in child-collecting mode and wanted the boy.

The recruiter already had one of her grandsons in her custody by that point (I’ll

call him Tim). The recruiter had used her son in court to remove custody from

Tim’s mother (one of her son’s previous wives - an impoverished American mother

who couldn’t win in court against that much money) and then the recruiter took

Tim for herself. He did not stay with his father even though that father had been

granted custody. Are you following so far?

Shortly after the Russian mother brought Sam, the first grandchild I mentioned

(there are many, but I’m only discussing these two), to Russia, she came down with

a sudden case of stage 4 cancer and died extremely quickly. Her son, Sam, ended

up in America with the recruiter. He did not stay with his father. Now, the

recruiter had two boys in her custody again, just like she had before me.

Within a fairly short amount of time, Sam came down with lymphoma (cancer).

Normally, this wouldn’t be concerning (other than general concern for his health).

However, the recruiter had a history of people developing cancer around her if

they fell into one of three categories:

1. People she was exploiting for cash and/or research.

2. People she did not like.

3. Family members, including those not biologically related to her.

The same recruiter who used to tell me stories about how she would inject mice

with cancer cells in the lab.

Not that the story about the mice was really enough to concern me, or even the

fact that the recruiter appeared to be the source of a cancer cluster in her own

right. I’d heard and dealt with a lot in my life regarding her; I couldn’t spend my

time panicked by all of it. But there was the issue of the recruiter’s ex-husband’s

demise still fresh in my mind. He had gone to dinner with her one evening (a very

rare event), and before the next morning, he was in the hospital with sudden acute

leukemia. One of the two primary causes of the condition is radiation poisoning,

and the recruiter had access to radioactive materials from her work. He never

recovered and he ended up dying within a few short months.

So, when I saw that Sam now had cancer, and I noted all the fundraisers for him

popping up on the internet, and the recruiter looked like she would be raking in

somewhere around $11,000 in funds just from what was published (an online

fundraiser plus an at-school fundraiser and possibly a third one by a school club), I

became reasonably concerned that she was making Sam into a cancer cash cow. It

reminded me of how she had used me in paid cancer research when I was a child

in order to collect the stipend money they offered to parents. It looked like she

was still up to her old methods of gaining an income at the expense of a child in

her home.

Image Source: GoFundMe

“...5 month chemotherapy treatment regime. …The main goal right now is to raise

enough money to get … and his grandmother a vehicle to travel to all of his

appointments. … truly appreciates everyone helping him out and supporting him

on his road to defeat cancer.

Text Source: GoFundMe122

I contacted the authorities in the United States because a child was involved and I

was an adult now. I felt obligated to. For once, they actually did something. They

removed Sam from the recruiter’s custody. So, the recruiter brought her son in

from Asia. She got him a plane ticket, paid for his attorney, and brought him to the

court to go up against Child Protective Services. The judge ruled in his favor and

handed Sam into his custody because he was the father. Then, he left the country

and left Sam with the recruiter. I don’t know what happened after that. I cannot fix

broken people and a broken system on my own. I’ve tried. I probably should have

tried harder, but honestly, I’m so accustomed to defeat. I mean, look at my life. It’s

122 GoFundMe, Hidden for Privacy

all been defeat when it comes to these things. I felt that it was a miracle that I had

even managed to get the child a short break away from the recruiter.

I went back to focusing on life around me and I stopped looking at anything going

on in America. It was too painful to watch.

This was the image that made me turn away in sadness. Remember when the

recruiter tried to get me to sleep with an exposed radium dial under my pillow

when I was so small? When she told me brain cancer was a wonderful thing to

develop and that I might get lucky if I slept with the radium under my pillow for

long enough? When I looked at this picture, with the plastic table dragged in from

outside to create the illusion of poverty, it wasn’t the plastic I saw. It was the

depression-era antique uranium plates that she had carefully collected over the

years and never served anyone on until she had those boys in her custody. The

same antique uranium plates the Environmental Protection Agency says not to eat

from due to potential radiation toxicity.

Image Source: Additional GoFundMe123

123 GoFundMe, Hidden for Privacy

The same plates that reliably set off every single one of her Geiger counters.

Image: Uranium Depression Glass Plates

Source: The Vintage and Antiques124

She was still playing her favorite at-home game that always made her smile when I

was little - child radiation Russian roulette.

124 The Vintage and Antiques, Vintage Set of 4 Green Cameo Depression Glass Vaseline Uranium Divided Dinner Plates Farmhouse Collectible Cottage Dining Serving Picnic, https://www.truevintageantiques.com/product/vintage-set-of-4-green-cameo-depression-glass-vaseline-uranium-divided-dinner-plates-farmhouse-collectible-cottage-dining-serving-picnic/

Image Source: Environmental Protection Agency

“Glassmakers used small amounts of uranium to create yellow and green glass

(Vaseline glass)...

…Do not use ceramics like… Vaseline glass to hold food or drink. They can chip,

and you can ingest particles of uranium with your food or drink.

…Do not take apart radium watches or instrument dials. Radioactive antiques are

usually not a health risk as long as they are intact and in good condition.”

Text Source: Environmental Protection Agency125

I also recognized the drink in her hand. She doesn’t drink milk, but she does

chelate when exposed to possible radiation contamination in food. I know. I

learned it from her when I was growing up. And I remembered because, with being

forced to eat the food she served, I felt it was better for my survival if I knew as

well.

125 Environmental Protection Agency, Radioactivity in Antiques, https://www.epa.gov/radtown/radioactivity-antiques

Image Source: Current Medical Chemistry via National Library of Medicine

“The removal of plutonium by chelating agents is of great importance… Similarly,

uranium is a radionuclide, which causes severe renal dysfunction within a short

time period due to chemical toxicity. It may also induce cancers such as leukemia

and osteosarcoma in cases of long-term internal radiation exposure. Investigations

on chelating agents… were initiated in the 1960's and 1970's.”

Source: Current Medical Chemistry via National Library of Medicine126

Every few years I would attempt to contact the Argentine NGO again, contact

other related offices, contact external trafficking NGOs, and contact offices within

Argentina’s government. In two separate cases, workers from within Argentina’s

government told me that I had the right to seek my identity without having to

show the documents from that identity first. One told me to sue the Abuelas

organization (the gatekeepers for the DNA testing) in court for that right (an

126 Current Medical Chemistry via National Library of Medicine, Chelating Agents Used for Plutonium and Uranium Removal in Radiation Emergency Medicine, https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/16305471/

attempt a human rights attorney in the Netherlands told me would cost more than

the purchase of a new house after she offered to write a “strongly worded letter”

for approximately $4000 U.S. dollars to start the process).

The most helpful Argentine government worker advocated for me directly with the

Abuelas. They chose to ignore him. Most of that happened, primarily, between 2015

and 2020. I went through one final round in 2023 and copied in around twenty

offices. The silence of their response had depth.

Unfortunately, as it turns out, they have a very standard policy of rejecting our

requests to seek our identities. I've spoken to other victims of theirs, all

international cases. They've used various tactics, including saying, "We're working

on it," for nearly a decade now in the case of a child they abandoned in an

orphanage in another part of South America.

The deceptive con they use most often is that they "cannot" open a case to search

for an internationally trafficked child's legal identity and documentation unless

that child somehow managed to keep a government ID and documentation from

the country they were trafficked from.

Images Source: Author’s Personal Emails (First Image: Automatically Translated to English, Second Image: Original Email)

“Unfortunately without the documentation we cannot start the file at CONADI.”

Text Source: Author’s Personal Emails127

They deny the right to begin a case to search. I've tried multiple times through

their various agencies and always get the same standard form rejection, stating

that they cannot proceed to help me locate my original government documents

from Argentina unless I can provide them with my original government documents

from Argentina first. This standard response happens regardless of how much or

little I explain or beg, or how many different ways I explain it.

127 Author’s Personal Emails, Correspondence with Argentina’s identificar@renaper.gob.ar

Images Source: Author’s Personal Emails (First Image: Automatically Translated to English, Second Image: Original Email)

“We ask you again to send us the following information:

- Attach the documentation that proves your identity”

Text Source: Author’s Personal Emails128

The government agencies and the NGO use the same form with the same

requirements and the same standard form rejection. It’s not left versus right or

NGO versus government. They work together, feed off each other, support each

other financially, and keep that entire country bound by their eternal political

back-and-forth theatrics while they bury the children beneath their feet. They do

it together, as a team.

128 Author’s Personal Emails, Correspondence with Argentina’s CONADI

Images source: Author’s Personal Emails (First Image: Automatically Translated to English, Second Image: Original Email)

“Automated response” only.

Text Source: Author’s Personal Emails129

To reiterate (probably because I’ve lived through this dismal interaction with them

so many times that I feel like it needs to be repeated at least half as many times as

I’ve dealt with them):

Their denial is always based on our lack of having the documents of the identity we

seek.

They only help us seek our legal identity and its documents if we already have that

identity and its documents. That's not ethical, legal, sane, or human.

129 Author’s Personal Emails, Correspondence with Argentina’s dudas@abuelas.org.ar

Image Source: Author’s Personal Emails (First Image: Automatically Translated to English, Second Image: Original Email)

“Do you have any information that proves the context in which your birth appears

to have occurred? That is, a birth certificate or certificate…

At least you could tell us in which country you were born and in which civil

registry you were registered... it is the minimum we need to move forward…”

Text Source: Author’s Personal Emails130

(I’d told that person the country of my birth was Argentina and the city most likely

Buenos Aires at least ten times by that point, and then they simply stopped

responding.)

If they had not erased our identities, if they had not trafficked us internationally,

we would still have the identity documents they now demand from us before they

will recognize us as humans with the right to seek our identities.

The majority of us were infants and toddlers when we were taken overseas.

Very few of us who went internationally (if any) retained an Argentine ID. Human

trafficking and illegal adoption of war orphans often result in the loss of our

identities from our original countries. This is an issue that most of us outside of

Argentina are well aware of.

130 Author’s Personal Emails. Correspondence with Argentina’s MGalanternik@mpf.gov.ar

Image Source: Public Broadcasting Service

“A worker with the U.S. Agency for International Development in Saigon, Bobby

Nofflet, recalled the tumultuous days of Babylift: ‘There were large sheaves of

papers and batches of babies. Who knew which belonged to which?’

The Babylift lawsuit argued that many of the children in the airlift were not

orphans, had been given up under duress during wartime, and that the U.S.

government had an obligation to return them to their families. Attorney Tom

Miller said that he brought Vietnamese birth parents into the courtroom to plead

for their children, but to no avail. Judge Spencer Williams eventually threw out the

Babylift case, declaring it to be 2,000 separate cases. ‘He sealed the records, and

told us we could not contact any of the Vietnamese families and let them know

where their children were,’ said Miller.

…Eventually only twelve children were reunited with their Vietnamese parents,

but only after many years and lawsuits.…For a number of Babylift adoptees, finding

their birth parents is essentially impossible, because no records exist.”

Text Source: Public Broadcasting Service131

131 Public Broadcasting Service, Operation Babylift (1975), https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/features/daughter-operation-babylift-1975/

Argentina, like many of the worst countries, simply and selfishly uses the excuse of

bureaucracy and horrific policies designed to intentionally deny us the right to

open a case, no matter what our situation is, so they can continue the war crime of

removing children from their group (UN definition of genocide, section E). When

that does not work, they resort to hazing behaviors.

Image Source: United Nations

“Article II In the present Convention, genocide means any of the following acts

committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or

religious group, as such:

(a) Killing members of the group;

(b) Causing serious bodily … harm to members of the group;…

(e) Forcibly transferring children of the group to another group.”

Text Source: United Nations132

132 United Nations, Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide,

https://www.un.org/en/genocideprevention/documents/atrocity-

crimes/Doc.1_Convention%20on%20the%20Prevention%20and%20Punishment%20of%20the%20Crime%20of%20Genocide.pdf

They believe they can abuse us and get away with it because we have no one, we

were sold to our enemies, and we do not have legal identification. They take

advantage of what they see as our weak position.

They fought me tooth and nail, refusing to let me have a DNA test to confirm my

genetic identity and compare it against their database of the victims and family

members of victims from the war I had been born into. The database they gatekeep.

Images Source: Author’s Personal Emails (First Image: Automatically Translated to English, Second Image: Original Email)

“The (genetics) bank only works with cases sent through CONADI or Abuelas de

Plaza de Mayo.”

Text Source: Author’s Personal Emails133

133 Author’s Personal Emails. Correspondence with Argentina’s info@bndg.gob.ar

I was left with nothing but waning faith. All the years of my life, despite being a realist

for the single necessity of survival, I had kept one fairytale alive – the belief that there

was good where I had come from, that there were souls and kindness in Argentina like

the beauty I had seen in my mother.

Giving up on the bureaucrats, I called the prison. After all, I remembered which cell

had been mine. They informed me that they did not keep records of the people in

their prison, ever, and that no one in their entire prison or criminal system did. In

fact, they claimed they didn’t even know which prisoners were there now. I’m not

sure how much of that was a lie and how much was complete and utter incompetence.

I’m not sure I even want to know.

Images Source: Author’s Personal Emails (First image: Automatically Translated to English, Second Image: Original Email)

“The organization does not have names of current or historical inmates.

I recommend that you approach a human rights organization that works

specifically with crimes against humanity and appropriation of people.

Penitentiary Attorney General's Office”

Text Source: Author’s Personal Emails134

They also like sending a person to other offices. I ended up with a chain involving

approximately twenty email addresses and every single office in it sent me to a

different one until I have gone in a complete circle several times. The list of email

addresses is in the supplementary portion at the end of this book.

With my sole fantasy, of their being humanity in Argentina, rightfully extinguished,

the light my mother had ignited in me that had endured so much finally flickered out.

All I could see was darkness.

When they taunted me and told me to ask my kidnapper for documents long

discarded.

When they called me a criminal for wanting my DNA tested.

When they told me that I would have to seek the permission of my exploiter and

get her to willingly admit to war crimes and international child trafficking in order to

have access to my own name, my own country, and my own life.

When they closed the door in my face after I had spent a lifetime crawling home

to it.

There are no words that can accurately depict how deeply that cut.

134 Author’s Personal Emails, Correspondence with Argentina’s info@ppn.gov.ar

To discover that my mother’s nation was full of turncoats, Prada-bag carrying money-

grubbing thieves in bureaucratic and radical attire who would sell their own children

and grandchildren for a peso and a pat on the head.

To discover that where I came from had no humanity or common sense. That my own

people are soulless morons, the people who I clawed out of a hole to get back to, the

people who I protected; those were the people who would happily light me on fire and

throw me under a bus to watch me burn.

I finally broke under that weight, and I let go. I stopped trying to protect anyone from

the danger they had chained me to long ago. Instead, I wrapped that chain around

their ankles too, so we could all go down together. I let my captor know that I had

blocked off her exit from the United States. While I was running, I had already

slammed that door behind me at the risk of my own flimsy documentation. While

getting my passport, I had exposed hers as a fraud in an attempt to protect myself and

Europe, the land I was standing in. I didn’t want her to gain unrestricted access to the

people and countries where I had been standing. Now, she knew.

Having spent so many years with the recruiter, I knew how truly deep her hate was

for the United States beneath the mask she showed to the public. I also still had vivid

memories of how panicked and trapped she had acted, like a caged animal, when I

simply switched out our drinks in the safety of a private kitchen so that she would

drug herself instead of me. I knew she would not have a subtle reaction to discovering

that her escape was blocked and that she had lost some level of control. It was

ironically hypocritical of her, considering she had done the same to me while

expecting me to remain calm. She had kept me trapped and bound to the crimes of

the United States government, with no escape route.

But she’s a psychopath. She has always lacked the compassion and awareness

necessary to comprehend that if you yourself cannot handle being treated a certain

way, neither can anyone else. It’s a part of the nature of psychopathy. To expect

anything different from her would be the same as expecting a cat to become a dog or

a dog to become a cat.

I didn’t know what damage she would do, but I hoped her actions would be adequate

in size that they would shake things up enough to alter the geopolitical landscape and

present another opportunity to seek my original identity and finally find some

resolution and peace for myself.

It was a gamble, but it was the only one I had remaining. I was down to rattling cages.

I still struggled with my guilt for others after telling her, even after I had spent

fruitless decades attempting and testing all standard, reasonable, legal, and ethical

routes to regain my Argentine documents and identity - my exit. As a supervisor of

endgame labs, she was the button I never wanted to press, because she was

dangerous and she had access to dangerous things. I had spent decades insulating

her, keeping her emotionally level, and protecting people from her on an individual,

national, and global level as much as I could manage with my access to her. It may not

have been a lot, but I had been doing something.

I had stood directly in the face of that fire to protect those who would never protect

me. I never wanted to undo all that work of mine. It had cost me everything. But, in

return for it, I needed one hand from humanity to reach back out to me to save me in

one little way - with a solitary document that was mine. A simple piece of paper

linking me to my mother. One so many have and take for granted. I needed mine

returned to me so that I could unentangle myself from the exploiter who would never

truly allow me peace or freedom.

My exploiter was the danger I had begged the Argentine authorities and the Abuelas

organization to help me escape, simply by doing their job, going through the

documentation they had, and/or running a DNA test - all within the scope of what

they publicly claim to do for the orphans they disposed of. Instead, they chose to

laugh and suggest I go to my state-approved abductor for my documents, as if I hadn’t

attempted that before.

They didn’t care about one of their discarded children, I wasn’t bribing them, and they

felt no pressure from a high enough authority, so they didn’t help.

On an individual level, we seem to understand that you should never leave a child in

the hands of their parents’ murderer, or gang of murderers, due to the likelihood of

severe abuse with the potential for death. But, for some reason, that common sense

leaves the room when the murderers are also government. In Argentina they pretend

to have common sense, so it is the richly paid and kept NGO - an organizational level

mistress for a governmental level perpetrator - that is allowed to decide which of

their child victims should have rights.

Was there ever any real doubt about how that would actually go?

So, I finally gave in and pressed the one chaotic button I had access to, the emotional

rage button of a woman who had a proven track record of effective sabotage,

subversion, and large-scale damage, both sanctioned and unsanctioned, within and

with the war machine.

Then I sat back, traveled Europe for a few years while working on much more ethical

jobs of my own choosing, and watched the world stage to see what would come of her

panic. I waited to see if she would overreact and go into a rage, destroying everything

within her reach, as I had known her to do.

Post-Nuclear Explosions

There are far-reaching implications

of coercive manipulation via deceit.

More than you’ll ever know,

because you were looking in

the other direction the entire time.

That travel started with a trip to Albania. My bladder was destroyed by the ketamine

that had been slipped to me without my knowledge (although I had become aware of

it after I took that drug test I mentioned previously to see why I felt so drugged, I still

hadn’t been able to prevent each subsequent drugging). I had to plan my trip in

several stages, mapping out the bathrooms all along the way, through the airports and

hotels. I even made sure my plane seating was a short distance from the airplane

toilets. It wasn’t quite a smooth escape, but I managed to get there, one bathroom

break at a time. Thankfully, my bladder would heal during the next few months and

years, for the most part.

In my half-decade of traveling and waiting, I slowly began to learn how to enjoy the

little things in life as I tried to adapt to being a part of a population that knew so little

of the backstage maneuverings that guided their lives. I spent those years primarily

along Mediterranean shores, working overtime at around 60 - 80 hours a week.

Finally being able to keep the profits from my work made a huge difference. The hours

were terrible but not overwhelming. I was already accustomed to working two jobs -

one for the bills and one for the person who was convinced she owned me.

I managed to reasonably spend the time and money necessary to deal with the reality

of kids to send to international schools, remote work clients who always needed me

to meet deadlines, my terrible health despite a healthy diet, weight, and exercise; and

everything else life throws at a person even when the view from the balcony is a

beautiful one. Oh, right, I worked a little extra to have a view of the Mediterranean for

around half of each year. I find that the water helps to wash away thoughts of most

things, including a self-genociding world, at least temporarily.

Still, memories and emotions were bubbling to the surface in my mind as I was slowly

wandering Europe, trying to blend into cities and tourist destinations known for their

large foreign populations. All that we had done, the damage, the manipulation, the

atrocities - they all kept coming to the forefront of my mind. I continued to seek ways

to repair them on a larger level, but there were so few people with whom I could

speak with or work together on those topics. Eventually, I simply sat there alone in

my own thoughts, consumed by them.

My dreams were often nightmares as the last of the drugs finally dissipated from my

system and memories I had tried to bury surfaced in full glory despite my attempts to

ignore them. Early on in my post-England travels, I woke up in the dead of night in a

temporary apartment near Greece, trembling so hard that it shook the frame of the

bed. In that moment, I finally realized the significance of what I had lived through and

just how closely I had grazed death in all those years. With memories of torture

shockingly vivid in my mind, I curled up in a blanket on the balcony and waited in

silence for the sun to rise. It was over an hour before the trembling ceased.

I appreciated being in countries where they did not speak my language because I had

so little in common with humanity that I didn't even know how to keep the flow of one

of their conversations.

Instead of engaging with people, I buried myself in work, sunbathing, and finally

attending to my shattered health. I spent a large amount of time with dentists and

dental surgeons. I saw a specialist in Rome for my spine. After six months of intensive

physical therapy, it almost looked and functioned normally. Not quite, but almost. One

of the physical therapists brought me into their office after roughly fifty

appointments and told me they had done as much as they could, but that my neck was

simply “bad.”

My spine had been oddly shaped, possibly from the time I was born and due to the

impact of my mother’s fall from the balcony when she was pregnant. Photographs as

far back as when I was eight years old show an unnatural lack of curvature of my

neck. Earlier photos might show it as well, if I had any.

Want to know an ironic part? Because my spine was so unnaturally straight, even as a

child, people assumed I was either snobbish or military. No one ever stopped to check

to see if it was an injury. They saw it as a sign of status or seeking status. To me, it was

just a constant dull pain that never went away and that invariably increased

throughout the day until it was an effort simply to hold my head up. Due to that, I

used to lean the back of my head against walls at any opportunity I got. And the public

perception of that? I was lazy or cool. Again, no one ever checked to see if it was

because there was something wrong. Shallow eyes only see shallowness.

As for the changing of the landscape I had anticipated, I stopped hopping around

Europe and I settled down by the sea in early 2019, remembering that the recruiter’s

cohort and their sponsors had plans for 2020. I’m glad I did so. It would have been

unfortunate to be in an Airbnb with only a week of food once COVID-19 lockdowns

hit.

As I scrolled through the panicked research papers coming out about the HIV-1 insert

in the virus, and as I looked at the familiar conjunctivitis forming in the corners of my

eyes and reappearing for months at a time, much as it had done when I lived with the

recruiter as a small child, I silently noted that the slow-moving illness appeared to

have come from the endgame lab my exploiter was supervising; the same lab that had

been planning a walking pneumonia and incurable illness hybrid since the early 1980s,

an illness intended to slowly and quietly creep into the population unnoticed and then

wipe them all out gradually.

Or at least, it was a likely possibility. Post-nuclear-era wartime attacks include an

intentional crafting of ambiguity that shields the perpetrators from direct

responsibility. Back when sitting in think tanks at Yale, I had been informed that

deceptiveness was necessary and intended to avoid triggering an all-out nuclear war.

Somehow, I don’t think the true end result is any better. In trying to avoid triggering

the use of the largest-reaching weapon of the past, we’ve made even further-reaching

weapons.

It was also likely that a biological attack would have come anyway. I’ll never even

know if my rattling of the recruiter’s cage had any effect on that at all. I’m okay with

not knowing. I’ve already dealt with enough guilt in my life.

And some things are simply inevitable, especially when no one stops them at any part

during nearly 50 years of planning and implementation. There were countless people

in those rooms over the years. Countless scientists, funders, war strategists,

government employees, and even civilians - all of whom never banded together to

stop their own demise. They had only worked in concert to destroy themselves.

Recognizing that reality, the last part of me collapsed, after a lifetime of battling the

population and government’s combined weight and demand for self and group

annihilation, and mine along with it, I had no remaining energy left to pointlessly fight

to save anyone.

I had already let go.

I felt that it was time to retire, with or without authorization. Authority no longer held

significance for me. I had watched so many people mishandle and squander it to the

point of infantilism. It had been embarrassing and critically painful to witness. I

allowed myself a moment of sorrow and tears for the damage they had done in their

recklessness and lack of care, and for all the victims I had personally touched.

As I walked away, I paused long enough to see the policy of secrecy at work, with

Intelligence batting down every single article scientists posted that mentioned the

HIV-1 insert in COVID-19. It was played out in real-time with countless witnesses on

Twitter. Those scientists were swarmed, harassed, and accused of “inciting fear”

simply for publishing research articles containing evidence of what they were seeing

in the lab.

Image Source: BioRxiv

“We found 4 insertions in the spike glycoprotein (S) which are unique to the 2019-

nCoV and are not present in other coronaviruses. Importantly, amino acid residues

in all the 4 inserts have identity or similarity to those in the HIV-1 gp120 or HIV-1

Gag. Interestingly, despite the inserts being discontinuous on the primary amino

acid sequence, 3D-modelling of the 2019-nCoV suggests that they converge to

constitute the receptor binding site. The finding of 4 unique inserts in the 2019-

nCoV, all of which have identity similarity to amino acid residues in key structural

proteins of HIV-1 is unlikely to be fortuitous in nature.”

Text Source: BioRxiv135

135 BioRxiv, Uncanny Similarity of Unique Inserts in the 2019-nCoV Spike Protein to HIV-1 gp120 and Gag, https://www.biorxiv.org/content/10.1101/2020.01.30.927871V1.full

The majority of the scientists caved under the strain. They were scientists, not battle-

hardened experts in fighting the military-industrial complex or in dealing with

psychological warfare.

Image Source: BioRxiv136

I focused on baking, art, and attempts to enjoy the little fleeting moments that make

life beautiful. Now and then I would check in to see commercial interests,

mismanaged governments, and organizations jumping onto the monetary incentives

and lower oversight that came with the emergency response to a virus that looked

suspiciously like one engineered to not be preventable by vaccines. I cringed as they

appeared to make the situation worse and reduce our limited options for health and

survival, all in their attempts to appease the short-term needs of their stakeholders

and the stock market while continuing in the tradition of lying to the public.

136 BioRxiv, Uncanny Similarity of Unique Inserts in the 2019-nCoV Spike Protein to HIV-1 gp120 and Gag, https://www.biorxiv.org/content/10.1101/2020.01.30.927871V1.full

They never learn that there isn’t enough money in the world to pay for a life that has

already been snuffed out.

Anno No Domini

In my own life, I stopped trying to block

your constant attempts at suicide by military and deceit.

I was tired of fighting you in so many of my failed attempts

to remove your blindfold and save you from yourself.

You clung to and fought for that blindfold

as if it were the child you had thrown

into the fire of war.

So here I sit along the water's edge, civilization to my back, the incessant hum of a

busy restaurant, and the inability of people to untangle themselves from the simple

magic that is lies, their cascading words almost drowning out the subtle sounds of the

forming of each crack in the structure that signals the inevitable collapse of a

civilization that bases its decisions on deceit.

It seems in these moments of decay, I have finally grown an appreciation for the

Argentine skills of poetry and genocide.

And yet, deep within the wreckage of my soul, that tiny solitary flame of hope ignited

by my mother long ago still flickers to life now and then, illuminating the dark, alone.

Carry the flame or leave it. It’s up to you.

It’s always been up to you.

As far as putting an end to the madness:

It requires untangling ourselves from deeply entrenched adopted lies, swallowing

down pride, and solving problems like adults, rather than the easy path to destruction

- one of following the irresponsible government lead of a 50-year-classification

approach of hiding all the bodies the problems cause.

If you like lists, try this one:

See predatory and coercive behavior.

Say no to predatory and coercive behavior.

Make reality-based non-coercive and non-coerced decisions.

Acknowledge mistakes have been and will be made.

Learning how to let go, move beyond that, and try again.

Take steps to insulate from getting caught in the trap of the damage of subterfuge and

coercion again.

Right now you’re thinking, “But we have to lie and support lies because the predatory

rules we allowed to be created are too strict/absurd to allow us to profit/function

otherwise.”

That looks like a great problem to learn how to solve.

And, no, it is not easy. Real cleanup never is.

That’s why we’re in the mess we’re in.

Supplementary Sources

Image Source: Nuclear Regulatory Commission137

137 Nuclear Regulatory Commission, NRC Staff Rsponse to Mary Marucci;s Request for Hearing,

https://www.nrc.gov/docs/ML2010/ML20101G333.pdf

Image(s) Source: Nuclear Regulatory Commission138

138 Nuclear Regulatory Commission, Memorandum for Atomic Safety and Licensing Board and All Parties, https://www.nrc.gov/docs/ML2006/ML20062J215.pdf

Image Source: p. 2180,  U.S. Congress via Google Books139

139 Reauthorization of the Federal Water Pollution Control Act: Hearings Before the Subcommittee on Water Resources of the Committee on Public Works and Transportation House of Representatives,

https://books.google.es/books?id=vBYSAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q&f=false

Image Source: Yale University Library Online Exhibitions140

140 Yale University Library, "Free the New Haven Panthers”: The New Haven Nine, Yale, and the May Day 1970 Protests That Brought Them Together, https://onlineexhibits.library.yale.edu/s/-free-the-new-haven-panthers-the-new-haven-nine-yale-and-the-may-day-1970-protests-that-brought-them-together/page/new-haven-panther-activism

Image Source: Personal File, State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services141

141 State of Connecticut Department of Children and Youth Services, Author’s Personal File

Image Source: Google Books Margarita Drago142

142 Margarita Drago - Fragmentos de la memoria: Recuerdos de una experiencia carcelaria (1975-1980) https://books.google.es/books/about/Fragmentos_de_la_memoria.html?id=Hh9kkGi9V1sC&redir_esc=y

Image Source: Google Books Margarita Drago143

143 Margarita Drago - Fragmentos de la memoria: Recuerdos de una experiencia carcelaria (1975-1980) https://books.google.es/books/about/Fragmentos_de_la_memoria.html?id=Hh9kkGi9V1sC&redir_esc=y

Image Source: Google Books Margarita Drago144

144 Margarita Drago - Fragmentos de la memoria: Recuerdos de una experiencia carcelaria (1975-1980) https://books.google.es/books/about/Fragmentos_de_la_memoria.html?id=Hh9kkGi9V1sC&redir_esc=y

Image Source: Google Books Margarita Drago145

145 Margarita Drago - Fragmentos de la memoria: Recuerdos de una experiencia carcelaria (1975-1980) https://books.google.es/books/about/Fragmentos_de_la_memoria.html?id=Hh9kkGi9V1sC&redir_esc=y

Image Source: National Security Archive146

146 National Security Archive, CIA report, “Counterterrorism in the Southern Cone,” Secret, May 9, 1977, https://nsarchive.gwu.edu/document/19868-national-security-archive-doc-2-cia-report

Image Source: National Security Archive147

147 National Security Archive, CIA report, “Counterterrorism in the Southern Cone,” Secret, May 9, 1977, https://nsarchive.gwu.edu/document/19868-national-security-archive-doc-2-cia-report

Image Source: National Security Archive148

148 National Security Archive, CIA report, “Counterterrorism in the Southern Cone,” Secret, May 9, 1977, https://nsarchive.gwu.edu/document/19868-national-security-archive-doc-2-cia-report

Image Source: Gerald R. Ford Presidential Library and Museum149

149 Gerald R. Ford Presidential Library and Museum, Document from Box 10, folder “Indochina Refugees - Orphan Airlift, https://www.fordlibrarymuseum.gov/library/document/0164/1505194.pdf

Image: Black Panther Party Documents

Image Source: Federal Bureau of Investigation150

150 Federal Bureau of Investigation, Black Panther Party, Part 23,

https://vault.fbi.gov/Black%20Panther%20Party%20/Black%20Panther%20Party%20Part%2023%20of%2034

Image: Partial List of Agencies Contacted in Argentina for the Right to Regain Identity

Image Source: Author’s Personal Documents151

151 Author’s Personal Documents, Partial List of Agencies Contacted

Image Source: CELS Centro de Estudios Legales y Sociales

“The coordinated repression passed through different phases:

-In the first, a centralized database was created on guerrilla movements, left-wing

parties and groups, trade unionists, religious groups, liberal politicians, and supposed

enemies of the authoritarian regimes involved in the operation.

-In the second, people considered political “enemies” at the regional level were

identified and attacked.

-In the third and final phase, operations were carried out to track down and eliminate

persons located in other countries in the Americas and Europe.”

Text Source: CELS Centro de Estudios Legales y Social152

152 CELS,Operation Condor - A Criminal Conspiracy to Forcibly Disappear People, https://www.cels.org.ar/especiales/plancondor/en/#

Contact

Web:

http://theendgame.xyz

Twitter:

@almanavajasc

Archive:

https://archive.org/details/@alma_navajas_claros?tab=web-archive

Unsecure email:

almanavajasclaros@gmail.com

(More) secure email:

mariavictoria1977@protonmail.com

Patreon (Discord access and patrons):

https://www.patreon.com/AlmaNavajasC

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