My mind could not accept this hard Dutch reality, imagining that there must have been some secret purpose in it all, possibly involving investigation and prosecution of the child-prostitution ring at the camp. Using more than half of my remaining money, I returned to Amsterdam on February 4, 1993 and declared at the airport that I had been illegally repatriated (16) and was re-applying for refugee status. Authorities put me up for the night in the secure airport holding facility. The next day, however, they advised me that the original decision by the Ministry of Justice would stand, that they would not allow me to enter the country.

 In lieu of repatriation, the Dutch allowed me to use my remaining money to fly to Belgium, where the hardest reality of all awaited me. It was a sick American refugee who landed in Brussels that day, suffering weakness and severe cardiac arrhythmia due to stress, possible poisoning, and probable electromagnetic assault with a deadly "biological process control" weapon (17). After completing my initial application for political asylum, I asked to see a physician, who sent me by ambulance to Van Helmont Hospital in Vilvoorde. My heart nearly stopped in the Emergency Room. The Danes had lied about my being hospitalized in their country. The Belgians made it happen.

 Jalilah, one of the two girls abused in the Netherlands, was probably in the same hospital. On my second day there, one of the social workers, using the lobby telephone, mentioned a young girl by that name. The room next to mine, I later noticed, contained drawings and decorations made by a child.

 Distressing symptoms, possibly the result of medical experimentation with psychotropic medications, marked my first week at the hospital. Strange occurrences led me to the conclusion that my oppressors were not far away. I mentioned to a hospital employee that many persons around me seemed to be Americans. She replied "If they weren't Americans, they wouldn't be here." A night nurse on the first floor treated me with contempt and refused to administer first aid after I stepped on a small piece of glass from a broken thermometer.

 I left Van Helmont on February 15 to pursue my asylum application, as instructed, at the "Little Castle" in Brussels. In comparison with Danish and Dutch refugee reception centers, conditions there were appalling. Though served by respectful staff persons, the meals were nutritionally inadequate. The sleeping quarters, large rooms containing about fourteen beds each with no locks on the doors, provided no security. Toilet facilities were distant and in disrepair. Showers were located in a separate building, through an alley with water dripping.

 That evening, about ten feet from my bed, a group of East European "refugees" -- probably CIA operatives -- played cards and engaged in raucous conversation, including a few words in English. They laughed about someone they called Jalilah. They seemed amused that someone had drunk "yellow cappuccino." I complained at the office that their behavior made me uneasy, asking to be housed with African refugees instead. The group disbanded.

 I slept fully dressed, not willing to remove my sneakers for fear they might disappear. At night, the mice came out of their nest in a locker less than a yard from my head. Awakening to find a rat advancing toward my bed, I scrambled to pull the edge of my blanket out of its reach. In the morning, still very weak physically and emotionally traumatized as well, I washed and prepared for my interview. In my weakened condition, the long wait in a crowded room was very difficult. Most of the time, there was noplace to sit down. My hands trembled. I nearly collapsed.

 After a perfunctory interview, Belgian authorities denied my asylum application, with no apparent acknowledgment of the issues. The decision, they informed me, ordered me to leave the country by February 22, 1993 and never again return to Belgium, the Netherlands, or Luxembourg. Like the one handed down by the Dutch Ministry of Justice in November, 1992, this decision has since disappeared from among my records, along with airline tickets, hotel receipts, and other papers.

 Michel Vandenhove, a staff person at the Little Castle, explained that I could file an appeal, but would have to stay at that facility pending a decision. I broke down, telling him that my health would not permit me to stay there, begging to be sent back to the hospital. He arranged my readmission.

 During my eight-month stay at Van Helmont Hospital, I experienced gastrointestinal disorders, deep venous thromboses, visual disturbances, anorexia, mental confusion, severe mental depression, ejaculatory disorder, and neurological deficits (for a time, I could write only with difficulty and did not have sufficient coordination to shave or brush my teeth). No-one helped me file an appeal of my negative asylum decision. A planned repatriation under the auspices of Catholic Charities could not be carried out. The pain in my legs was so severe that I could not even sit on the edge of my bed. The possibility of my remaining in Europe was not even under consideration.

 It is hard to say how much of this may have been the direct result of actions taken by American or other agents. The long-standing campaign to impugn my sanity was certainly part of the agenda. During my hospital stay, someone rendered an arbitrary medical diagnosis of paranoia, merely on the basis of my having claimed persecution by American government agencies (18). This spurious diagnosis -- an obvious act of malicious psychiatric discreditation worthy of the KGB -- haunts me to this day.

 On April 29, 1993, I posted a handwritten note above my bed at the hospital, declaring my intention to conduct a hunger strike until my human rights complaints were heard. Except for one small meal, necessary for a medical test, I ate nothing for 41 days. Threatened at last with transfer to different facility and force-feeding, I began to eat, but remained despondent. In August, I posted a note respectfully requesting to be transported to the Netherlands, where euthanasia is tolerated, and put to sleep. At no time did anyone offer legal representation or any form of effective advocacy.

 One day I saw, with her brother, the little girl known as Jalilah, whom agents of my country had degraded and exploited. This was the fourth country in which our paths had crossed. The children were in the custody of someone other than the man who had acted as their "father" in Holland. We didn't speak, or even give a sign of recognition. It concerns me, though, that their sister, whom I call "Christmas Angel," was not with them.

 On another occasion, I saw Jalilah sitting alone in a waiting area. She smiled at me, but seemed to be looking right through me. What was done to this child?

 I am very proud of having informed Dutch authorities of the shameful exploitation of these and possibly other children by heartless and satanically soulless Americans. Despite the risk and the consequences, I would without hesitation do it all over again.

 On October 12, 1993, hospital administrators turned me over to the Belgian police, who imprisoned me as an illegal alien without formal arrest, appearance before a judge, or legal representation (19). At St. Gilles in Brussels, prisoners were confined 23 hours a day, with no running water. After a day or two, the authorities transferred me to Merksplas, where I soon found myself in a prison psychiatric ward (I had no idea why). Most of the day, I sat at a table while schizophrenics smoking cigarettes walked around and around me. The smoke sickened me. Once a day, we were allowed to walk around a courtyard, but my endurance was very limited. A prison employee noticed that my skin had turned blue and ordered a jacket for me to wear. Through a hunger strike, I was able to secure transfer to a different medical ward containing only one other prisoner, a bulimic. Though prison staff praised him for eating all his food, I'm apparently the only one who heard him vomiting in the bathroom afterward.

 At the prison in Leuven, my third place of incarceration in as many weeks, a guard examining the contents of my wallet noticed an identification card from the State of New York, my employer from 1975 to 1988. Reading "Department of Mental Hygiene," he stupidly presumed that the card identified me as a mental patient, showing it derisively to at least two other prison employees.

 I had my first cell at Leuven all to myself. There was no bed, just a mattress on the floor. When I unwittingly retired before the appointed time, a guard entered my cell and shouted at me to get up. Despite a strong smell of insecticide, two fleas hopped onto my mattress. I killed one, but the other escaped. Sleeping without a pillow seemed, in that cell, to inflict particular stress on my arthritic spine. A bright light burned above my head. During my stay, Belgian or American agents stole some of my possessions, most of which have since mysteriously reappeared on this side of the Atlantic. The prison doctor injected me with psychotropic medication and wrote a note that she instructed me to show to her "colleagues" in the USA (20).

 On or about October 30, 1993, Belgian officials woke me at five in the morning, brought me to Brussels Airport, and offered me the choice of returning to the USA or returning to prison in Belgium. Like the Dutch two years earlier, they required me to sign a statement, this one consenting to repatriation. Realistically, was I in a position to object? What other options were open to me? I thus flew "voluntarily" to my native land, penniless and disheveled, not having had a haircut all year. Still weak and without a home, a much-resented "guest" in my former wife's home, seeing no hope and getting no help, I attempted suicide by swallowing a handful of Xanax pills on November 3, 1993. The hospitalization that followed put the finishing flourishes on a campaign of psychiatric discreditation dating back to 1984. Doctors now apparently regard me as a victim of Delusional Disorder.

 Throughout my final expatriation, I had been nothing but a prisoner of circumstance, confined in a hospital, and later in a prison, without the strength, connections, or resources necessary to determine my own future -- thoroughly disabled and disempowered by American, Dutch, and Belgian agents and their governments. In truth, considering America's obscene interference with my every sincere and legitimate effort, had I ever known real liberty or autonomy in any of my travels since 1991? Was I ever not a prisoner? Have you ever seen how a cat plays with a mouse?

 We are dealing here, of course, with professional mind-molesters, intelligence agents and psychological warfare experts and their associates. With no regard for human rights or concepts of dignity and decency, they routinely turn other human beings into toys, tools or weapons. In particular, my torturers and oppressors seem to derive special pleasure from corrupting innocent children, teaching them to serve what is evil -- sometimes sexually -- and to sneer at what is right.

 It appears that Dutch and Belgian authorities covering up the sex scandal in Rijsbergen may have spread malicious gossip to the effect that I, allegedly a psychiatric patient, was somehow responsible, possibly a perpetrator. In fact, I committed no crime, in Holland or anywhere else -- threatened no-one, endangered no-one, assaulted no-one, exploited no-one, molested no-one. I was, as always, the sane, upright, decent, law-abiding advocate for human rights and human dignity.

 Here I am now, trapped in America, a captive seized in heaven, held hostage in hell, trying to bear a sea of secrets in baskets woven of words, too poor and too sick to attempt another escape. I get no meaningful response here, find no effective advocacy.

 Something must be done about the United States of America. No nation should get away with such crimes as I have experienced and witnessed. No government should have this much influence over other sovereign states, this much power to corrupt and obstruct the processes of truth and justice. For humanity's sake, something must be done.

 A crying need exists as well for full and frank examination of Europe's inhuman refugee policies. The peace and security of the world depend upon the rule of law. Criminals and tyrants have always existed. When the best individuals and governments, however, wantonly abandon their professed principles and rationalize or hide their cruelties, civilization itself is thereby endangered. There is simply no excuse for the treatment I and others have received at the hands of nations we loved and trusted and turned to desperately for help. Such callous injustice reeks to heaven.

 Let all who read this demand that the United Nations, the United States of America, Denmark, the Netherlands, and Belgium address the issues I have raised, investigate my charges, prosecute the satanic monsters responsible for my ordeal, and provide effective remedies. Throw open the curtain that hides from the world's eyes the horrible hard reality of America's crimes and Europe's disgraceful and cowardly complicity therein. Let the truth at last be known. Let justice at last be done.