On October 31, 1991, I composed a communication to the United Nations Committee Against Torture, charging the Netherlands and Denmark with refusing to comply with the UN Convention Against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment (8). There followed, on November 4, a complaint against Denmark directed to the UN Human Rights Committee (9). Both were mailed from the post office in Allerød, and the Danish police received copies (10). I have never been able to obtain any information regarding their disposition. United Nations reality can be hard, indeed (11).

 Denmark denied my application for a temporary residence permit on humanitarian grounds. On the morning of December 19, 1991, police pounded on my door at Sandholm. They made me dress and pack -- without shaving, brushing my teeth, or showering -- and took me to an office in Copenhagen for processing prior to deportation. For the privilege of having my rights violated, Denmark charged me more than two thousand dollars (12). The day before, Danish officials had informed the US Embassy in Copenhagen of their intention to repatriate me, slanderously describing me as "apparently deranged" and "hospitalized" while conveniently neglecting to mention that I had sought political asylum (13).

 Two Danish police, one named Jensen, accompanied me on the TWA Ambassador Class flight from Copenhagen to New York. They gave assurances that my family and my former wife had been informed of my arrival and that someone would meet me at the airport. No-one did, but something strange occurred after we disembarked. A page, repeated at least twice, advised that "Passenger James Henry" should report to a "TWA employee in white." Henry, of course, is my middle name. I called this to the attention of the Danish policemen. After inquiring, they took me to a desk where an official asked me a series of questions apparently designed to establish my nationality and my sanity. We then proceeded through the regular Customs checkpoint without incident. Although I made it clear to the agents there that Denmark had forcibly repatriated me in violation of my human rights, the Danish policemen smoothed it over, assuring the agents that they had "checked with the Embassy." As soon as my exhausted body and my five pieces of luggage were outside the terminal, the Danes disappeared (they had mentioned going to some location that included a heliport).

 United Jersey Bank honored its cashier's check without dispute. The money financed my stay in the United States and my two subsequent attempts at obtaining political asylum. Obviously, the Danes had withheld these funds from me in order to prevent me from hiring an attorney and remaining in Europe.

 The trunks containing my documents and other personal effects, having allegedly arrived in Copenhagen from Amsterdam on the very morning of my deportation, did not find their way back to me until June 3, 1992, after I paid two hundred dollars for shipping charges. A stereo microphone, several compact disks, a small electronic keyboard, a pair of hiking boots, and possibly other items had been stolen. My files, though obviously examined, appeared intact.

 Throughout the first nine months of 1992, no person or agency, domestic or foreign, proved willing to provide guidance or advocacy. Having spent much of my money, not knowing where else to go, I returned to the Netherlands on October 19, 1992. In contrast with my 1991 experience, which involved no criminal interference, American agents in Amsterdam were waiting for me with a program of harassment that included several acts of petty thievery.

 It started at Centraal Station on my arrival from the airport. My baggage consisted of four or five pieces -- too much for me to carry all at once. Leaving some of it on the terminal floor, I advanced to the lockers with my carry-on bag and one other piece. In the locker area, I encountered a Middle-Eastern man who claimed to be "waiting for an Englishman." He agreed to watch my carry-on bag and the other piece until I returned with the rest of my luggage. When I came back about five minutes later, he was gone and my pocket stereo had disappeared from my carry-on bag.

 The next day, October 20, I stopped for a snack at Febo's on Damrak. After ordering a milkshake at the counter, I turned and walked over to the automat windows to select a sandwich. By the time I returned to the counter, my milkshake was gone (the proprietor was kind enough to replace it free of charge). That day or the next, in a similar incident, someone stole a pair of gloves. Back at the Hotel Nicholaas Witsen, someone entered and searched my room, stealing a slip of paper containing the phone number of somebody I had met during the flight. During my first three days in Amsterdam, another pair of gloves disappeared from a suitcase in my hotel room. One day, as I walked from the hotel to the tram stop, a woman walking past me asked "Are you hung?" (a sexual reference). I said nothing.

 The most portentous incident occurred on October 22. Seeking help from non-governmental organizations, I carried a briefcase that contained, among other documents, a few papers intended for submission to the Dutch Ministry of Justice in support of my asylum request. Just outside Centraal Station, on the way to the tram platform, I met, and briefly chatted with, a tall thin Englishman wearing a stovepipe hat. At the platform, I set my briefcase down on the bench and stood next to it. A Middle-Eastern man approached me from the opposite side and called attention to the back of my coat. Someone had spat on me! I started to take off the coat in order to clean it. By the time I turned around again, my briefcase was gone. Waiting at the Amsterdam Police Headquarters to report the crime (14), I heard Dutch police officers laughing about the CIA.

 Once again, I found myself facing an asylum application process without most of my documents. I nevertheless registered in Amsterdam as asylum-seeker number 163502 and reported as instructed to O.C. Bethanië in Rijsbergen, a beautiful little town not far from the Belgian border.

 To my great surprise and delight, Bethanië was more like a college campus than a refugee camp. I had my own room, complete with color TV. Meals were excellent, and the recreational facilities included a well-equipped exercise room. I could travel by bus to Breda, the wonderful city where Van Gogh was born. Because the Dutch did not confiscate my money, I was able, within reason, to enjoy the community, including the Purple Rain Coffee Shop, where I could partake of a wonderful medicine (marijuana) that my own country would have put me in jail for using. Despite continued shenanigans by American agents trying to diminish my credibility by impugning or destroying my sanity, I was contented there, more secure and closer to happiness than at any time in many years. I got stronger every day.

 I got my briefcase back, with a few items missing, but not until after my interview with the Ministry of Justice, which I faced devoid of legal representation -- the lawyer never showed up -- and nearly bereft of documentation. My copy of the resulting negative decision, dated November 17, 1992, has since disappeared. To the best of my knowledge, it did not deny that my fear of persecution was well-founded. It merely stated that the Netherlands is a small country, that the Dutch simply did not have room for me.

 Unlike Denmark, the Netherlands granted me legal counsel and the right of appeal. I appeared before a Dutch court in Den Bosch on December 16, represented by Mrs. C.H.A. Huisman. The Court's decision, never translated into English, listed nearly all the issues I had raised. I had no idea on what basis my appeal was rejected (15). When Mrs. Huisman met with me on January 25, 1993, she stated frankly that my nationality was "the problem." Confronted with my vigorous insistence that such discrimination violated both the Geneva Convention and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, she became impatient, terminated the interview, and had no further contact with me.

 As in the Danish camp a year earlier, agents at Bethanië Refugee Camp in Rijsbergen engaged in harassment and provocation. Petty thefts like the ones in Amsterdam began to happen in the camp. I told a woman -- a "refugee" who was really an American agent -- that, in spite of everything, I was happier there than anyplace else. Not long afterward, as I walked along Ettenseweg from the camp to town, a group of school children on bicycles passed me. One shouted "You're a happy man, Sucker!"

 The harassment progressed to terrorism. On New Years Eve in Breda, as I sat waiting for a bus, two men with Irish accents stood about eight feet away, facing me. One said "We'll get you the way we got [unintelligible]." They later chatted with me as if it had never happened. In January, as I exercised in the camp's gym, an American agent commented "You think this is healthy?" I replied "Yes, I do." He said "I don't think so," and walked away. Not many days afterward, on Ettenseweg, a motorcycle rider, helmeted and visored, drove straight at me, veering away only at the last second.

 My final week at Bethanië found me distracted by a shocking crime. In the camp were two young girls, apparent victims of mind-control programming. "Refugees" -- really, American agents -- were using them as prostitutes. One, a ten-year-old known as Jalilah, had been at Sandholm in Denmark the year before and also in Elizabeth, New Jersey, that summer. The man presenting himself as her father had lived one floor above me on West Grand Street in Elizabeth, while Jalilah may also have lived somewhere in the neighborhood (this was one of several such "coincidences"). Soon after their arrival at the camp, the "father" had asked me "Do you have gloves?" Too upset even to plan my next move, I reported the abuse to camp officials.

 Upon hearing in October that the Danes had sent me back to the USA against my will, staff at the Dutch camp had assured me "We don't do that here." On February 1, 1993, however, they did exactly that. Dutch Immigration Police seized me and once again forcibly deported me to the country of my torturers.

8. See "UN Committee Against Torture Complaint Against Denmark and the Netherlands" on this web site.

9. See "UN Human Rights Committee Complaint Against Denmark" on this web site.

10. See "Notes by Danish Immigration Police" on this web site.

11. I had taken pains to inform Danish and Dutch authorities that the electromagnetic mental torture perpetrated by American agents was continuing even within their territories, but they took no action. Unlike the United States, both these nations have agreed under Article 22 of the Convention Against Torture that individuals may complain directly to the UN Committee. Both have also assented to the Optional Protocol of the International Covenant, which likewise permits such individual communications. Several letters during 1992 to the UN Center for Human Rights, demonstrating my interest in pursuing these complaints, went unanswered. So did one from Holland and one from Belgium. I submitted an updated human rights complaint against Denmark dated March 9, 1996, an updated torture complaint dated March 10, and a human rights complaint against the Netherlands dated March 11. Their reception went unacknowledged, nor did the UN render any judgment regarding their admissibility. In March, 1997, I sent new updates. I wrote again in February and March of 1998. Since then, I have sent e-mails and faxes to the UN seeking information, without meaningful response (see "Summary of JH Graf's Contacts with United Nations" on this web site). A letter of doubtful authenticity, dated May 31, 1999, on the stationery of the UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, bears the signature of Carmen R. Rueda (for Francisco Aguilar Urbina, Chief of the Support Services Branch). I believe this is the same Carmen Rueda whom I saw in 1998 at the Perth Amboy, New Jersey district office of Congressman Robert Menendez, where she presented herself as a congressional aide. The letter claims that "no communication coming from you has been registered with the Committee [Against Torture]." It does not say that my correspondence was not received -- only that it was not registered. Someone should be asking why it was not registered, why its reception was not immediately acknowledged, where it is now, and why this matter should not be taken up immediately. Is this simple incompetence, or a coverup -- an international human rights conspiracy? This letter bears no postmark. It appeared in my mailbox on June 26, 1999 (twenty-six days after it was written). The 26th of June is the United Nations International Day in Support of Victims of Torture. This sort of timing is typical of satanic American "psy-ops."

12. See "Final Accounting and Expulsion from Denmark" on this web site.

13. Telegram 91 Copenhagen 8790, which the US Embassy in Copenhagen sent to the Secretary of State on December 18, 1991, reports this incident. In 2001, pursuant to my request under the federal Privacy Act, the State Department agreed to attach my objections and corrections to this document.

14. See "Briefcase Stolen in Amsterdam, Recovered Too Late for Asylum Interview" on this web site.

15. Mrs. Huisman never responded to my letter of January 29, 1996 asking whether any rationale other than presumed discrimination could account for the Court's negative decision. In 2001, a newsgroup contact graciously translated the relevant portions (see "Additional Comments Regarding Dutch Court Decision" on this web site). My earnest and respectful seven-page letter to the Court on October 16, 1996 produced an insulting response dated October 28 from President A.H. van Delden that confirmed its reception and stated, without further explanation, "It seems good to inform you that I see no possibility, nor any reason, to take further action."

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