Hard Realities

 Hard realities sink in slowly. The mind rejects anything that challenges its basic assumptions. Who is prepared to learn that America would abuse and torment its own people, and even thwart their escape to foreign lands? Who could possibly imagine that three of the best governments on earth would reject an American's application for political asylum, aiding and abetting the United States in violating its own laws, their laws, and international law? Who but the victim, stripped of illusion, educated by bitter experience, could accept such realities? The victim, then, must tell his story honestly and with conviction, trusting truth to act as its own prosecuting attorney.

 A whistleblower (1) who supports the human rights of all, I have never used or advocated violence. I am a lifelong liberal Democrat who demonstrated against the War in Vietnam, wrote letters in opposition to the Nixon Administration, and protested American policy in El Salvador. No nation has ever charged me with a crime.

 Nevertheless, because of what I believe, say, and write, because of what I know and have tried to communicate, my country has subjected me to seven thousand days of surveillance, defamation, persecution, terrorism, mental torture, and more, without recourse or effective remedy (2). The media will not reveal the truth of my experience. No lawyer will represent me. No major human rights organization will speak for me. No legislator will respond. No law enforcement authority will investigate. I am a non-person, ignored or rejected by all.

 I have charged the United States of America with multifarious human rights crimes dating back at least to 1982. Though generally dismissed with a condescending smirk, I have also made allegations of torture, starting in 1987, with an electromagnetic device. Among other capabilities, the torture weapon can read human thoughts (3). This is not a delusion. I am sane and very intelligent. The technology really exists (4).

 Discontented Americans often hear the advice "If you don't like it here, go somewhere else." The assumption that Americans are free to leave the country is universal. The hard American reality, however, is that those of us who know some of the USA's dirty little secrets can't leave.

 There is a new Berlin Wall, a new Iron Curtain. It is not physical, but virtual -- a barrier of surveillance, harassment, interference, disinformation, intimidation, and corruption that pervades and surrounds the United States and infiltrates the territories of other sovereign states. This wall is buttressed by the narrow-minded, mean-spirited attitudes and ridiculous "safe country" assumptions of "Fortress Europe" (5).

 Such a wall is deemed necessary by an American government utterly contemptuous of its own law, Constitution, and treaty obligations, a government that violates human rights with impunity, corrupts the agencies mandated to expose such violations, and deprives the victims of all recourse, all support, all relief, all escape.

 The United States is unquestionably the most powerful and influential country in the world. So great is this nation's economic and military power, so pervasive the influence of its diplomatic and intelligence forces, that countries deeply involved with the USA as military allies or trading partners are unwilling -- or simply afraid -- to do anything that would displease or embarrass American officials. However sincere the asylum-seeker, however well-founded his fear of persecution, if he comes from the USA, he is likely to be rejected, and may, in fact, be illegally repatriated. I was, three times, by three different European countries.

 My first attempt to escape from America began on August 28, 1991 with a flight from New York to the beautiful city of Amsterdam. Though disabled, I had with me about three thousand dollars in traveler's checks and a cashier's check for over eighteen thousand dollars (my share of marital assets after divorce). On or about September 3, I applied for political asylum in the Netherlands, explaining that American authorities had subjected me to persecution and mental torture because of my political beliefs and because of my having "blown the whistle" on police corruption.

 At the immigration office on Waterlooplein, tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to describe how difficult it was for me to leave the country I had always believed in, the nation for which my great-grandfather had died in the Civil War. The interviewer accepted my application. After officials fingerprinted me, one communicated a hard Dutch reality: "We have good relations with your government and we do not wish to do anything to jeopardize those relations." He instructed me to report to the Social Service office on the other side of Amsterdam. An official there revealed that the government had ordered him not to process my application further. The woman who next interviewed me had the same last name as mine (probably spelled "Graaf"). Verging on tears and probably intimidated, she explained that Dutch authorities would not send me to a refugee reception facility or provide me with housing, food, or medical care, would not help me obtain fresh medication for my hypertension despite my willingness to pay for it. Because of my national origin, the Netherlands thus withheld from me all the social services normally provided to refugees.

 Devoid of help or advice -- staff at Amsterdam's Amnesty International office had told me to seek psychiatric help -- I withdrew my application for political asylum on or about September 4, 1991. Before returning my passport, immigration authorities required my signature on an untranslated statement in Dutch indicating that my decision had been voluntary. I complained verbally of coercion, but signed anyway. They gave me seven days to leave the country, even though an American passport normally entitled one to a three-month automatic visa in the Netherlands.

 On the night of September 12, 1991, the train to Denmark carried my petition to a different venue, also beautiful, but even less hospitable. At Copenhagen's immigration office six days later, when the officer heard my request for political asylum as a victim of persecution and torture in the United States, he laughed out loud. I asked him why. He apologized and said "We don't get many Americans here."

 Once officials determined that my passport was genuine, they sent me to the Sandholm Refugee Center in Birkerød, about 20 miles north of Copenhagen. When the officers at Sandholm's front gate saw my passport and heard my request for asylum, they also laughed in my face. I told them that my own government had subjected me to persecution and torture while denying me the equal protection of American laws. They laughed again, brutally. This time there were no apologies. One of them emerged from the booth and led me to a small building behind a locked gate. On the way, he berated me, saying "Do you have any idea how much money this is costing? You're stupid, stupid!"

 I was asylum-seeker UDL 88-051.481, the last of several refugees registered that day (6). Hearing that two trunks to be shipped from the Amsterdam train station contained extremely important documents relevant to my case, Mr. Regnar Rasmussen remarked "We'll have to get those trunks." Perhaps they did, perhaps not. I never saw my trunks or the documents contained therein during my stay in Denmark. Both the police and the Danish Red Cross flatly refused to help me secure them.

 The next day, as instructed, I gave Mr. Poul Madsen all the money in my possession. He told me that the police would convert my American currency and traveler's checks to Danish currency and hold the funds on account, then use the cashier's check to open an account in my name at Bikuben Bank in Allerød. My asylum application, he said, would be processed under "normal procedure." The police would charge me for expenses, but not in excess of the interest earned by my money at the bank.

 No such account was ever established. As of September 19, 1991, my available cash totaled 1500 Danish Kroner (around $200). The bank claimed in November that the check had not cleared. The police displayed no interest or concern. In December, they gave it back to me, claiming that it had bounced. This was an insulting lie.

 Sandholm was a playground for American and other agents, who attempted to diminish my credibility by impugning my sanity. Other refugees, as well as Danish Red Cross personnel, questioned me repeatedly about my reasons for being there. Some of this was in earnest, but much of it represented attempts to provoke anger, instill fear or anxiety, or induce depression. Several persons told me, "off the record," that an American had little or no chance of obtaining asylum there. One said that granting me asylum would be like slapping George Bush's face. Persons who probably had no business being there also instigated sexual provocations involving several young women and at least two young girls. Though I was not fully aware of it at the time, American agents were engaging in unconscionable exploitation of young females.

 Mr. Madsen's assurance of "normal procedure" proved perfidious. On October 28, 1991, at the police post in the camp, Mr. Benny Nielsen, with the assistance of J. Kheir as translator, read to me the decision of October 25, 1991 by Erling Vestergaard of the Directorate for Aliens (7). This found my application "manifestly unfounded" and denied me any right of appeal, despite the explicit "formfilling" statement I had made and the documentation included with it. Mr. Kheir told me that my allegations, even if proved, would constitute only "light reasons" for granting asylum. Torture is a "light reason" in Denmark. That is hard Danish reality.

 I have since realized that the term "manifestly unfounded" generally refers to specious "safe country of origin" assumptions. The argument is that a free, safe, democratic republic never denies anybody the equal protection of the laws, never deprives anybody of life, liberty, or property without due process of law, always permits aggrieved individuals a form of redress, always provides a remedy. That such a government even permits its critics to obtain passports and does not hinder them from leaving their country, moreover, is considered proof positive that no asylum-seeker from such a place could possibly have a well founded fear of persecution.

 The reasoning is cute, but perverse. Besides ignoring documented reality, it discriminates on the basis of country of origin -- a flagrant violation of Article 3 of the 1951 Geneva Convention. Of course, the Danish Government did not have to worry about my documents. Most of these were conveniently out of my possession. The "manifestly unfounded" decision deprived me of the right to legal representation and appeal. Without my money, I could neither hire a private lawyer nor travel elsewhere in Europe.

 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.

 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.

1. In 1984 and 1985, I wrote to the American Civil Liberties Union and the New York State Special Prosecutor, respectively, revealing unlawful activities involving my employer, the New York State Office of Mental Retardation and Developmental Disabilities, and corrupt police, prosecutors, and intelligence agents.

2. My letter of January 24, 1996 to the Human Rights Bureau of the US State Department accused the United States and the States of New York and New Jersey of violating nineteen separate articles of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. It cited as well a pattern of stonewalling and evasion by federal law enforcement agencies. No response was ever forthcoming. A revised and updated version sent to Assistant Secretary of State John Shattuck on September 9, 1997 met the same fate.

3. For a discussion of this technology, see Gary Selden, "Machines That Read Minds," Science Digest (a Hearst publication), October, 1981. It appears to have developed from Robert G. Malech's 1976 device for the remote detection of brainwaves (US Patent Number 3,951,134).

4. See John St. Clair Akwei, "Covert Operations of the US National Security Agency," Nexus, Volume 3, Number 3 (April-May, 1996), p. 17. I have experienced everything Mr. Akwei describes, and more. This link leads to the text.

5. In its Resolution on the Asylum Policy of Certain Member States, dated June 19, 1987, the European Parliament had decried "the flagrant violations of human rights and international law perpetrated by border officials who, in particular at Amsterdam, Frankfurt, Copenhagen, and London airports, are forcibly returning ever increasing numbers of asylum-seekers to the countries through which they have passed previously or even those countries from which they have had to flee," and called upon Member States to desist from such practices.

6. See "Danish Refugee Intake Document" on this web site.

7. See "Danish Asylum Decision" on this web site.

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."

16. See the United Nations Convention Against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment, Article 3 and Article 13. In the absence of any impartial investigation regarding my allegations, how can the Netherlands possibly justify this forced repatriation? Note also that the Schengen Agreement, which permits deportation of asylum-seekers to "safe" countries, had not yet come into being.

17. See United States Air Force Scientific Advisory Board (SAB), "Biological Process Control," New World Vistas: Air and Space Power for the 21st Century, Ancillary Volume, June, 1996, pp. 89-90. Though carefully phrased in a "some day soon" tone, this document at least admits the possibility of electromagnetic weapons that can affect an enemy's somatic processes. Also mentioned is the ability to "talk to" the enemy -- to make him "hear voices."

18. In 1998, through a Privacy Act request, I obtained three documents from the US Embassy in Brussels. Two of these, essentially the same, claim falsely that I was brought to the hospital from the refugee center, not the airport, that my hospitalization was for both mental and physical illness, that I "ran away" from the hospital to the Little Castle on February 18 and had to be "escorted" back, and that an unnamed "attending physician" declared me to be paranoid (see "Belgium Defames a Refugee" on this web site). This absurd, defamatory disinformation constitutes flagrant psychiatric discreditation. The State Department processed my corrections and, after some suspicious editing, forwarded them to Brussels for inclusion in the records (see "State Department Corrections, with Significant Omissions"). How much more defamation exists, I wonder, that I have never been allowed to see?

19. See Detention and Coercion in Belgium on this web site.

20. See Psychiatric Abuse and Discreditation in Belgium on this web site.

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