I've thought about this long and hard. My torturers awoke me early this morning by broadcasting at me the sound of an animal in agony. My means of survival has always been the attitude that says "You push, I shove; you won't like what I'll shove; you won't like when, where, or how I'll shove it." So, here goes.
Those who have read "Hard Realities" on my web site at http://home.sprynet.com/gowebway/jhgraf know that I encountered in Europe the sickening use of mind-control in the service of child prostitution. In a letter dated December 7, 1996 to Ms. Judith Coelewij-Kolk of the Dutch Immigration and Naturalization Service, I provided further details of my European experiences. including background information, focussing especially on the sex scandal at Bethanie Camp in Rijsbergen, the Netherlands. Ms. Coelewij-Kolk never responded in substance to this communication. Dutch, Belgian, Danish, and American officials avoid the issue. I intend to provide you, in installments, with excerpts from this letter. The name that I believe may really apply to Jalilah will, for her sake, be represented here by initials only. P.S. This may not look right. The monsters are disrupting my formatting as I try to get it together.
Dear Ms. Coelewij-Kolk:
If I have correctly interpreted your letter of 28 November, you are inviting me to write again, particularly with regard to the sexual abuse by American agents of Jalilah (M.R.?) and her "sister," whom I call "Christmas Angel," at Bethanië Camp in Rijsbergen in late 1992 and early 1993. I have long wanted to discuss these matters with someone in authority. My trauma, however, past and ongoing, makes narration of events much more difficult than expression of opinions. I'll do my best. Please try to accept what I tell you. My country has experimented on innocent people, including children, for many years. Survivors are beginning to tell the story of Project Monarch, a secret military intelligence operation allegedly using mind-control techniques to induce multiple personalities in children, who can then be deployed as spies, slave-prostitutes (for the pleasure of the elite and for the entrapment of opponents), and even assassins. The mind- reading, thought-control, somatic disruption technology whose existence I have tried to reveal greatly facilitates such crimes against humanity.. . .
Our discussion about "safe countries" is really rather ironic. I have never been in a safe country. Because of my whistleblowing and the free expression of my political beliefs, satanic American agents have for years literally surrounded me everywhere I went, including Denmark, the Netherlands, and Belgium.
There are probably many examples that escaped my notice, but here are a few that I remember. A teenage girl with whom I had played badminton at Sandholm Refugee Center in Birkerød, Denmark turned up the next year as hostess of a TV show on New York Public Television. A woman who owned a pizza shop in Avenel, New Jersey appeared at Bethanië Camp in Rijsbergen in November, 1992, having in her custody a young boy named Stefan, about whom I shall have more to say later. Shortly before my forced repatriation from your country on 1 February, 1993, I noticed in Bethanië's dining hall a man whom I remembered from the Danish Camp. I call him "Ted Turner" because he reminds me of that American entertainment magnate. He did not have custody, however, of the little girl who had been his "daughter" in Denmark. I'll tell you more about "Cutie Pie" later.
The handsome "Kurdish" guitar-player who apparently had sexual contact with Jalilah at Bethanië after your government granted him a temporary residence permit may have been the same man I remember seeing at Sandholm blowing marijuana smoke out the hall window of his residence building. The very short "Kurdish refugee" called Hassan, who threatened me at Bethanië for paying attention to "someone else's fiancée," who got into a fight with another man in the dining hall, and who later appeared at the "Little Castle" in Brussels, bore a strong resemblance to a Cuban-American man I used to know in Union City, New Jersey, USA in the early 1970s. The strikingly beautiful young Russian woman with whom I danced at Bethanië's Disco may have been the same young go-go dancer who had moved from New Jersey to Canada after filing charges of some sort against her employers. I had seen her briefly in an American news broadcast in the summer of 1992, standing next to a woman I clearly recognized as a Czechoslovakian refugee from the Danish camp. I cannot call her an agent, however. She is more likely a victim.
The go-go dancer, stripper connection is well established, and may have something to do with the "Russian Mafia." In the summer of 1992, Uncle Charlie's go-go bar in Elizabeth, New Jersey, USA ( previously known as My Fair Lady ) had a man working there who later appeared as manager of the Purple Rain Coffee Shop in Breda. One day, I saw a beautiful young woman that I recognized as a dancer from Uncle Charlie's park her car in my building's parking lot and visit an upstairs neighbor of mine. The man she visited later appeared at Bethanië as Jalilah's "father."
It is worth mentioning that late in 1991 one of the dancers from My Fair Lady was brutally murdered, allegedly by a jealous boyfriend. More recently, there is Susan Walsh, a 36-year-old go-go dancer who returned to that profession in New Jersey after trying without success to earn her living as a writer. Ms. Walsh had done research on the striptease industry, the Russian Mafia, and the "Vampires," a satanic cult whose members drink blood. On 16 July, 1996, she left her Nutley, New Jersey apartment to make a phone call, and has not been seen since.
Nicholas De Noia was a close boyhood friend of mine. Most children have no realistic idea what they want to do with their lives, but Nick always knew that he was destined for show business. He studied dance and acting, perfecting at an early age his skills as performer, director, and choreographer. Early on, he specialized in children's theater and won an award for a series of TV specials. He managed the career of singer B.J. Thomas and was, for a time, the husband of actress Jennifer O'Neill. Then he became choreographer for the Chippendales, a troupe of male strippers. In April, 1987, shortly after winning a court case that would have allowed him to use the Chippendales name for his touring company, he was shot to death in his Manhattan office. The case has never been solved, but I have reason to believe that persons at my workplace, Manhattan Borough Developmental Services Office, and their associates in the law-enforcement and intelligence communities, had prior knowledge of the crime. One of the staff members at Bethanië in the fall of 1992, by the way, had on his car a bumper sticker proudly proclaiming that he was a Chippendale.
I have often used the word "cute" to describe the attitude and behavior of the contemptuous, satanic criminals that persecute me. They drop ominous hints and play sadistic games. The two trunks, containing important documents and other personal effects, that the Danish government would not help me obtain from Amsterdam's Central Station in the fall of 1991 did not find their way back to me until June of 1992. The documents, thank God, appeared intact, but several other items were missing, including three compact disks, original cast recordings of Broadway shows.
Someone had taken "Les Miserables," a show about a fugitive from justice (my enemies have falsely claimed that I am such a fugitive). "Les Miserables" also tells of a young girl cruelly exploited by the innkeepers in whose care she is placed. Also gone were "A Chorus Line," dealing with aspiring young dancers, and "My Fair Lady," about a speech teacher (I used to be a speech clinician). My three-disk Bob Dylan album, however, was still in the trunk. So was "Camelot."
At the time, I had never yet visited Uncle Charlie's bar and did not know that its previous name was My Fair Lady or that one of its dancers had been murdered. One does not need to be paranoid to draw a parallel between Jean Valjean and myself, between the young Cosette and Jalilah, or between the dancers in "A Chorus Line" on the one hand, and Nick De Noia, the young murdered dancer, or the young Russian woman on the other. Are you beginning to see what I mean about the "cute," satanic mentality of these criminals? They are true terrorists.
I saw Jalilah in four different countries. I may have heard about her even before that. In the summer of 1991, I distinctly remember hearing two of the agents who mentally torture me snickering about someone named M.R. If that is Jalilah's real name, she was already in the clutches of these inhuman monsters. The attached materials explain what I mean by "mentally torture."
On 12 September, 1991, I took the train to Copenhagen. Sandholm Refugee Camp was a playground for American and other agents, who engaged in various provocations. I didn't fully realize that the girls and young women used for sexual harassment or as bait in entrapment schemes were actually Feldhuren of the Fourth Reich, slave-prostitutes of America's military intelligence apparat. The incidents that occurred, however, were sufficiently shocking to have raised a suspicion. The most disturbing act of blatant sexual provocation was an incident in which a pretty eight-or-nine-year-old red-haired girl whom I call "Cutie Pie" assumed a sexually-provocative posture at the instigation of a "Kurdish refugee" named Tani. This same Tani also arranged for me to be present when a young adolescent blond girl French-kissed her toddler "brother," then left Building 4, apparently expecting me to follow. I can describe at least three other incidents, not quite so shocking.
A few days before my forced repatriation from Denmark on 19 December, 1991, I noticed that the girl playing with "Cutie Pie" was staring at me. I saw her again in the summer of 1992 on West Grand Street in Elizabeth, New Jersey, USA, where another girl told me that the silent, staring one "liked" me. This child was Jalilah. She and I were both victims of American mind-control atrocity.
American agents were well prepared for my return to Amsterdam on 19 October, 1992. In Central Station, unable to carry all my luggage at once, I had to leave some behind while advancing to the locker area with the rest. A Middle-Eastern man near the lockers agreed to watch my carry-on bag and another piece. When I got back with the rest of the luggage, the man was gone and my pocket stereo had disappeared from my carry-on bag. The next day, at Febo's on Damrak, someone stole my milkshake ( the proprietor was kind enough to replace it free of charge ). On 20 October, the same thing happened to a pair of gloves, while, back at the Hotel Nicholaas Witsen, someone entered and searched my room, stealing an important slip of paper. In a previous letter, I referred to the incident of 22 October, when a Middle-Eastern man distracted me while his partner, a tall, thin Englishman with a stovepipe hat, made off with my briefcase containing all the papers I had intended to submit to your government in support of my asylum application. Waiting at the police station to report the theft, I heard Dutch officers laughing about the CIA. The same day, another pair of gloves apparently disappeared from my hotel room, where a cockroach mysteriously appeared on the suitcase-stand. It was the only roach I ever saw in the Netherlands. It had not traveled with me.
During one of those days, a young woman passing me on the street asked "Are you hung?" This was sexual harassment. The word "hung" is used for a man with a large penis. My former employers, in or about 1980, took an illegal photograph through my window, using a telephoto lens, as I was preparing to hang up the coats of two young girls who were visiting my wife. The picture apparently showed me holding a thick wooden coat hanger in such a position that it looked like a large penis. My vicious employers then showed this criminal photograph to numerous persons and agencies, claiming that I had exposed myself to the two girls. This is just one example of the horrifying slander inflicted upon me. The monsters obscenely invade my privacy, then make up absurd lies about me. They have also claimed that I belong to the Ku Klux Klan. In fact, I belong to the Southern Poverty Law Center, a group that opposes the Klan. I cannot gain access to the records containing these lies, nor have I any recourse under law. I hate to imagine what garbage they have spread about me in Europe.
Not long after I took up residence at Bethanië, it became obvious that American agents were on the scene. Things disappeared from my room. Papers previously missing reappeared mysteriously. The "Pizza Lady" from New Jersey appeared in the camp. The East European boy with her, Stefan, drew swastikas on the ping-pong paddles. When I asked him about them, he said that the Nazis were "nice guys." My former upstairs neighbor from Elizabeth appeared with a woman and three children, none of whom had lived with him in New Jersey. The boy and one of the girls were obviously offspring of the woman. They strongly resembled her and one another. The other girl was Jalilah, an enchanting child who once again stared at me, as she had done in Denmark and in New Jersey. Without letting on that I recognized him, I complimented my former neighbor on his beautiful children. He asked me "Do you have gloves?" I'm not sure what he meant.
By December, the break-ins of my room had resulted in the loss of all but two pairs of support socks and the adulteration of my cologne. On 12 December, as I sat in the Purple Rain Coffee Shop in Breda, I heard the sound of a walkie-talkie near the entrance. Two officers of some kind, in plain clothes, one male and one female, came into the shop. They walked past me, and spoke to the manager, who, please remember, was the same man I had seen at Uncle Charlie's go-go bar in Elizabeth, New Jersey a few months earlier. As they spoke in Dutch, he looked sheepishly from one to the other. Before leaving, they gave him a sternly- worded message of some kind.
During Christmas, most of the other English-speaking "refugees" found someplace outside the camp to spend their holiday. I understand that Jalilah's "family" went to Germany. My guess is that those of us who had nowhere to go were the real refugees.
One day in January, the "Pizza Lady" said to me "I feel sorry for you." Looking at the "bright side of life," I answered that being in Holland was making me healthy again and that I was happier than at any time in the recent past. It didn't take long, however, to realize what she meant. A campaign of intensified harassment was in progress. As I walked daily along Ettenseweg from the camp to the Police Station, school children on bicycles, friendly and respectful at first, began to show contempt. Late in January, one of them shouted to me "You're a happy man, Sucker!" Teenagers in town also treated me disrespectfully. As I exercised one day with the camp's gym equipment, I became aware of the presence of an obvious American agent who resembled the actor Jon Voight. I said something to one of the "refugees" about Uncle Charlie's Bar in the USA. Shortly afterward, the "Jon Voight" person said to me: "You think this is healthy?" I replied: "Yes, I do." He said "I don't think so," then turned and walked out. Not long afterward, on the same day that Jalilah "fell" off her bicycle and scraped her face against the side of a building, a motorcycle rider, helmeted and visored, drove straight at me on Ettenseweg, veering away only at the last second and nearly hitting several other refugees walking in front of me.
Meanwhile, I had become aware that American agents were using young girls for sex. Sometime during January, on the bus from Rijsbergen to Breda, I struck up a conversation with an African-American man who said he was a teacher. Another bus, going in the opposite direction, stopped briefly alongside ours. Several young girls, about 10 to 12 years old, probably students of his, waved at him from the other bus. Looking at the teacher or at me, one of them used a strange facial gesture, shaping her mouth, frankly, as if she were performing fellatio. Later that month, Jalilah's sister, whom I call "Christmas Angel," made the same gesture at me as she passed my table in the dining hall. Still later in the month, she approached me and said "Play catch with me," in perfect, unaccented American English. I have no idea what she meant. By the way, I never heard Jalilah say anything at all.
I became extremely upset. The thought that my country would do such a thing was bad enough, but the thought that your country would let it happen was impossible to bear. A few nights before my forced repatriation, Stefan, the "son" of the "Pizza Lady," came up to me in the dining hall and said "You know, you can date those girls. Just say 'raspberry' (an Americanization of Rijsbergen?)." I confronted several Kurdish "refugees." One of them, Hassan not the one from Union City, but a different Hassan admitted that Jalilah and "Christmas Angel" were being used as prostitutes. The guitar player did not deny it. I informed the camp authorities, very upset and under the influence of electromagnetic "synthetic emotion." Yes, I was myself a victim of American mind-control, experiencing strong feelings of emotional attachment toward Jalilah. I must stress, however, that my behavior toward her and toward everyone else was entirely appropriate. I did not abuse, molest, or exploit her or anyone else in your country or in Denmark.
On the evening of 30 January, 1993, the Disco at Bethanië was dull. I got things started by dancing with the beautiful young Russian woman, my first dance since the 1970s. I looked silly, but I made everyone else less self- conscious, and the party became lively (a drama teacher of mine at the Catholic University of America had once said: "You will never get anywhere in show business until you are perfectly willing to make an ass of yourself in public" ). Jalilah, I noticed, was sitting silently with her "family," not dancing, not smiling, not doing much of anything. Then, a middle-aged Russian woman appeared at the door and beckoned to her "parents." Jalilah then got up and walked out. I followed her at a distance as she went to one of the residence buildings and entered the guitar player's room. I expressed my concern and indignation, first to a Russian or Ukranian man who was a chess champion, then to the camp authorities. Eventually, I saw Jalilah come back to the Disco, accompanied by a tall, blond-haired male staff person. Assured that she was all right, I went to my room. I had only one full day ahead of me in the Netherlands. On the morning of 1 February, Dutch police seized me and forcibly repatriated me. Camp officials had previously assured me: "We don't do that here."
I returned to Amsterdam on 4 February, 1993, but was not allowed to enter the country. Those who had used Jalilah and "Christmas Angel" for sex, however, were apparently still there. Some of them had received C-Status. In lieu of repatriation, Dutch officials allowed me to use my remaining money to fly to Brussels, where I developed severe cardiac arrythmias, probably as a result of assault with a deadly "biological process control" weapon ( please refer to my attached correspondence with Mr. Diederik de Bruijn of Amsterdam's Amnesty International office ). On my second day at Van Helmont Ziekenhuis in Vilvoorde, I overheard one of the hospital's social workers talking about Jalilah. She may have been there. 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. A night nurse on the first floor, for instance, 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 15 February to pursue my asylum application at the "Little Castle" in Brussels. In comparison with Danish and Dutch refugee reception centers, conditions there were appalling. The meals, though served by respectful staff persons, 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 three meters 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.
One day [at Van Helmont Hospital] I saw Jalilah and her "brother." "Christmas Angel" was not with them, and they 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. On another occasion, I saw Jalilah sitting alone in a waiting room. She smiled at me, but seemed to be looking right through me. What was done to this child? . . .
Ms. Coelewij-Kolk, I am not delusional, and I think you know it. Everything I claim is true. The things I have witnessed and experienced are an abomination in the eyes of humanity, not to be tolerated by any person of decency and good will. Please do whatever you can to bring the truth to light, so that justice may be done.
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