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7/29/2019 Strahlenfolter - Maryam Ruhullah - MkUltra Survivor - Www_ruhullaha_maryamkho_blogspot_de
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W E D N E S D A Y , 1 9 D E C E M B E R 2 01 2
Objective Truth
Open Letter
The following is an open letter from two of our members. Please
distribute it widely, to lawyers everywhere.
Dear Counsel,
As an attorney, you know how important the Constitution and the rule
of law is. We've just suffered through years of attack on the system
of laws and justice in which we practice.
Many lawyers are concerned about presidential signing statements,
spying on American citizens, torture, and other challenges to
American law and international conventions... As attorneys, we are
not swayed quite so much as some people by ungrounded emotions.
We have expertise in analyzing competing claims, weighing
conflicting evidence, and reaching logical decisions about what really
happened. Moreover, as lawyers, we know that people sometimes
cover up and attempt to hide incompetence, recklessness, or crime.
We have all heard people say that "everything changed on 9/11", as if
that were an excuse to disregard the Constitution as a "quaint",
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MkUltra Survivorsurvivorship, determination, success, faith, sufism, art, writers, poets, spirituality, hope, joy, prayer, truth,
social justice, human rights, peace, thinkers, doers, humanitarians, Mk-Ultra, sacredness, meditation,visions
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outdated document. Not many American attorneys believe that.
In fact, many high-powered attorneys have questioned the Bush
administration's explanation for 9/11 itself, including why the Bush
administration allowed the hijacked planes to inflict so much damage
on 9/11. By way of example only, the following lawyers have publicly
questioned the Bush administration's explanation for 9/11, or believe
there might have been a whitewash and a cover-up:
J. Michael Springmann, head of the U.S. consular official in Jeddah,Saudi Arabia, who witnessed first-hand CIA agents insisting that
terrorists be let into the U.S., even though their paperwork was
wholly inadequate
John Loftus, Former Federal Prosecutor, Office of Special
Investigations, U.S. Department of Justice under Presidents Jimmy
Carter and Ronald Reagan, former U.S. Army Intelligence officer, and
currently a widely-sought media commentator on terrorism and
intelligence services J. Terrence "Terry" Brunner, former prosecutor in the Organized
Crime and Racketeering Section of the U.S. Justice Department and a
key member of Attorney General Bobby Kennedy's anti-corruption task
force; former assistant U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of
Illinois
Francis Boyle, Professor of International Law at the University of
Illinois, Champaign, a leading practitioner and advocate of
international law, responsible for drafting the Biological Weapons
Anti-Terrorism Act of 1989
Burns H. Weston, Distinguished Professor of Law Emeritus and
Founding Director and Senior Scholar, Center for Human Rights, The
University of Iowa, Honorary Editor, Board of Editors, American
Journal of International Law
Richard Falk, Professor Emeritus, International Law, Professor of
Politics and International Affairs, Princeton University
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Mark Conrad, assistant professor of Criminal Justice at Troy
University; associate General Counsel, National Association of Federal
Agents; Retired Agent in Charge, Internal Affairs, U.S. Customs,
responsible for the internal integrity and security for areas
encompassing nine states and two foreign locations
Horst Ehmke, former Minister of Justice of West Germany.
Professor of law, University of Freiburg;
Ferdinando Imposimato, Honorary President of the Supreme Courtof Italy. Former Senior Investigative Judge, Italy. Presided over
numerous terrorism-related cases
The lawyers listed above, and many other legal scholars, have looked
at the evidence and determined that a new, unbiased 9/11
investigation is needed.
We invite you to go to www.L911T.com, the website for Lawyers for
9/11 Truth, and look for yourself.
Signed,Burns Weston
Distinguished Professor of Law Emeritus and Founding Director and
Senior Scholar, Center for Human Rights, The University of Iowa,
Honorary Editor, Board of Editors, American Journal of International
Law
William Veale
Former instructor of Criminal Trial Practice at Boalt Hall School of
Law, University of California at Berkeley. Retired Chief Assistant
Public Defender, Contra Costa County.
Home
To contact Lawyers for 9/11 Truth, you can write to us at Email @
L911T.com (without any spaces). If you are a lawyer, judge or
professor of law, active or retired, wishing to add your name to the
petition, please provide proof of your qualification to practice law
with your email. For example, if you are an Illinois attorney, you can
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send a link to the Illinois state bar's attorney database:
http://www.iardc.org/ardcroll.asp. If you are a New York attorney,
you can provide a link to this database:
http://iapps.courts.state.ny.us/attorney/AttorneySearch.
Currently, Lawyers for 9/11 Truth is not engaging in any formal legal
efforts as a group. Therefore, requests for legal assistance will
probably go unanswered at this time.
Posted by ruhullaha at 08:23 No comments:
F R I D A Y , 3 0 N O V E M B E R 2 01 2
Defeating Anguish
"And your creation or your resurrection is in no wise but as an
individual soul: for Allah is He who hears and sees (All things)." TheNobel Qur'an (31:28)
It was mentioned in my first published posting on this blog site, that I
am a survivor of Mk-Ultra. Although that statement took less than ten
seconds to type, the magnitude of the reality surrounding the facts of
Mk-Ultra go beyond the capacity of measurement where the damages
done to its living human subjects is concerned.
I do not sharing my personal experiemces and pains because I feel
sorry for myself. Self-pity, in my opinion, yields too much of ones to
the perpetrators who impose afflictions. There are of course days
when my spirit descend into a woeful state and I experience the
sensation of feeling detached and estranged from everything and
everyone around me. But, a determined spirit coupled with rigorous
exercise and prayer, emotional lows don't dominate too many of my
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days. There are also moments when in remembering some of the
extreme abuses committed against me, that I stand in the mental
disbelief that such callous and inhumane actions could have been
enacted on a functioning human life.
Posted by ruhullaha at 10:18 No comments:
Labels: Regeneration
T H U R S D A Y , 2 9 N O V E M B E R 2 0 12
Creative Expression
What Writing Means to Me The ability to express my voice and views
through writing has afforded me the opportunity for self-development
while indulging my need to have an interactive global theatre where Ican release my opinions on subjects such as social justice, human
rights, domestic violence, human trafficking and other such
important global issues in todays challenging society. Since my early
teens, I have been an active volunteer in a number of organizations
starting with volunteering with hospital when I turned sixteen years
old. Volunteer opportunities have allotted me a format where I
improved and utilized my writing talent while expanding the concepts
and principles, which I hold dear. I have used my writing talents
through volunteerism by creating fundraising letters, publicity
releases, published news articles, and making solicited contribution to
my faith-based newsletter. Since early childhood, writing has g iven
me a path for self-knowledge, self-expression and self-awareness.
Writing being a core essential of which I am has been my companion
during difficulties and joys. My talent has given me a place to go
when there were no ears around to listen to my woes. I do not write
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exclusively in one genre, I have written a little poetry, news articles,
fundraising solicitation letters and several creative manuscripts.
Since I view myself as a humanitarian, my writing serves a
fundamental functioning tool in having a place and vital method
where conveying my passions are concerned. In early childhood I was
forcefully separated from my biological family. That traumatic
incident and the situation that followed constituted where and why I
found my writing interest. As a young child isolated from the otherchildren in the household where I lived, solitude and silence became
the fertile soil where creativity germinated and where I learned to
look inwardly, beyond self and where I learned that there was an
existence beyond my own fears, confusions, uncertainties, sadness
and fragility. In the creative manuscript that I have completed, From
the Broken Glass to the Sheet of Ice, I travel through the emotions
of a young, six year old female child whose life took a sudden and
drastic change. A child ripped from her biological family, her richlycolorful and diverged culture, her gentile and privileged social
stratagem and perhaps the most traumatic element of the
experience, the intentionally and cruel techniques used to detached
those memories; while, unknowingly, leaving nostalgic residues still
swirled and dangled in the young girls mind like tantalizing bits of an
animated fairy tale. A fellow writer once asked me how I was able to
so effectively get into the mind of a fictitious child. Several years
ago, a journalist I know, who as a favor, edited a few pages of the
mentioned manuscript actually asked me if the child character in the
manuscript was being channeled. I, of course, assured the editor that
no such metaphysical or esoteric components were involved in the
structuring and composing my novel. One of the most gratifying
elements of writing for me is when this ability yields a published news
articles that addresses societal issues, which are important to me.
While living in St. Louis, Missouri, I was asked to write an article
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regarding the, Women in Black. Women in Black, is a movement
started by Israeli and Palestinian women who vigils monthly wearing
only black garments to make a statement against the occupation in
the West Bank and Gaza. Once the article was written and published,
I received a phone call from the founder of the University City,
Missouri chapter of WIB, Ms. Hedy Epstein, whose one word
communication to me regarding the article was, Powerful. Writing
allows me the opportunity to put into a tangible format whatotherwise might appear to be abstract reality. An example, of such
self-express ion can be found in the following phrase, which I wrote
years ago, At the time when I felt there would be no more of me,
there than was Thee. That particular cathartic express ion helped me
to identify with and then to express the core that I am. One way that
writing is important in my life is how it demands of me self-challenge.
On Friday, October 19th, 2012, I will attend a Presentation Luncheon
titled, Womens Roll: Essential for Sustainable Peace and Security.After attending this event, as a freelance writer, I will have the
opportunity to write an article and submit it to a local publication that
has published similar material written by me prior. In addition, having
the ability to chronicle such a socially pertinent event allows me the
privilege to absorb the significance of the luncheons thesis then to
contribute back to the broader community the presentations gist.
Since the luncheon will occur while many individuals are working, a
comprehensive published synopsis of the critical thesis assures that
the general community at large will have the opportunity to benefit.
Further for me, personally, in being able to make a creative
contribute, I am not exclusively, merely, a sideline spectator for the
passionate social issues that concern me; as well as not being simply
a sideline viewer in my own life. As life, void of a nine to five
responsibility, has opened, seemingly more of the preciously item
called time, I relish what becomes accomplishable with the advent of
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each day. Non-ass igned time, permits me to look inwardly while
asking the question, is my life still about goals and accomplishments?
Each new day offers the opportunity through my writing to speak from
the powerful position, which emits from the strength of being a
survivor. The Accomplished Woman my current work-in-progress
brings with it the inspiration of how to preserve and honor the true
self. The fact that I have endured suffering and exploitation yet
somewhere, still exist within me the knowledge of the gifted womanwho was subjected to the intentional disregard of her personal human
rights, yet, still, miraculously maintained personal values and the
propensity for social responsibility and justice. Writing is important
to me, as it has helped me to help others. I have received emails
from individuals who have thanked me for starting my blog. Some of
the blogs postings have given some readers the courage needed to
speak up regarding their prior abuses. When a survivor can reach out
and connect with others they feel less isolated and this is a majorcomponent on the path of healing. I have a very positive attitude
where life is concerned and I also get inspiration and motivation when
I hear a survivor realize that all experiences of life happen for a
reason. It is an insightfulness blessing and wisdom, which does not
blame
Posted by ruhullaha at 13:44 No comments:
The Acomplished Woman
The Accomplished Woman The train ride into London from
Cambridge, England on that pleasant spring day was quiet. I dont
recall speaking to anyone when boarding, nor do I recall becoming
engaged in conversation with others during the hour-long trip.
Although not giving at least casual acknowledgements to others as I
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journeyed through a day was unusual for me, in the context of my
personal reality, on that day, there was really nothing usualexcept
the routine habit of purchasing a daily newspaper. I had phoned ahead
to the Iranian embassy prior to taking a major advancement forward
where reclaiming my life was concerned. Understandably, I felt the
need to somehow feel out the atmosphere I was about to enter. Of
course, the thought passed through my mind: this would all be so
much easier if only my uncle were still alive. It was difficult to processthe fact that I was planning to walk into a foreign embassy and
declare openlyto total strangersthe bold assertion that I was the
niece of Irans most historically prominent cleric, the Late Ayatollah
Khomeini. A week or so passed before I finally mustered the courage
to pick up the telephone and set the appointment for my first vis it to
the Iranian embassy. During that week, I could be seen pacing the
interior of the small suite I had rented. After conducting an intense
internal survey, I found myself experiencing self-doubt, self-incrimination, fear, apprehension, and confusion. At the same time, I
began to question my own self-worth and motives. Some of the
reasonable and understandable questions manifested: Why are you
subjecting yourself to what will probably been a humiliating
experience? What are you expecting to accomplish from this action?
Should you be doing this? The people at the embassy will probably
think you are either opportunistic or unstable. After all these years,
you intend to just walk into a foreign embassy proclaiming a
consanguinity relationship with the Late Imam Khomeini? You dont
even know how many years it has been since you were forced from
your home. Come on! A struggling rationale flowed: In all actuality is
there anyone left in Iranor the worldwho truly cares? You will
probably be walking into a closed door, an indifferent bureaucracy.
Why on earth should the people in the embassy care? Then, again, the
question arose: Why are you doing this?! My enormous apprehensions
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were quickly put to ease when I was respectfully greeted on my first
visit to the embassy. I did not adhere to the tradition that a woman
covers her head with a scarf on my first visit to the embassywhich,
in hindsight, wasnt the most prudent thing to do. In not knowing
what to expect from the visit, I wanted to see what type of reaction I
would receive at the embassy when I arrived void of Hijab (the
Islamic head covering worn by women). When I entered the embassys
reception area, I was greeted with politeness and directed to take aseat. After a few minutes, the young woman at the reception desk
smiled and made a slight gesture, indicating with her right hand over
her head, that I had not covered my head. I responded by acting as
though I was surprised or confused. As I vaguely recall, I shrugged my
shoulders and mouthed the words, Im sorry. After thirty minutes
or so, the very lovely and gracious receptionist offered me a beautiful
headscarf. While she presented the Hijab, she stated that the scarf
was available to me, but only if I wanted to wear it. I smiled andthanked the receptionist, placed the Hijab on my head, and was about
to be reseated when an interior door leading from the reception area
opened. A diplomat named Mr. Shahid stepped forward and
introduced himself. Once seated inside of Mr. Shahids office, I
apologized for not hav ing been covered when I entered the embassy.
He assured me that that was an inconsequential matter, offered me
tea, and made me feel comfortable and welcome. For the next six to
eight weeks, I visited the embassy once a week and spent at least
one hour in discussion with Mr. Shahid, exclusively on the subject of
Islam. The conversations between this diplomat and myself were
confined to Islam for the first several weeks. The courage to bring up
my being the niece of the founder of the Islamic Revolution in Iran did
not immediately flow from my lips, not even after a number visits. As
I mentioned earlier, I was apprehensive, uncertain, and concerned as
to how my admission would be received. Initially, when I phoned the
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embassy in my enquiry, I asked about Islam. I told the person I spoke
with that I had recently converted to Islam and wanted to learn more
about the religion. It may have seemed that my enquiry was a ruse
since my major objective in making this connection was to unite with
my past; but actually, there was no ruse, since learning more about
Islam was a genuine secondary motive for visiting the embassy. After
a number of visits and discussions, I finally braved the question
regarding the separation between the Sunni and Shia perceptions ofIslam. When answering, Mr. Shahid alluded to the political expediency
for the separation; since the answer appeared to satisfy me, that
subject was never broached again.I had originally made the trip to
London, England at the suggestion of a doctor who was treating me
for what he called intermittent amnesia, an euphemistic term used
regarding a person who has been brutally tormented though medical
torture and mind control. How ironic that in that moment, on that
day, the term had placed a smile on my face and brought a bit ofrelief to my heart? After all, a two-word combination, a title, a
definitionhad been given to the uncertainty, which surrounded my
life at that time. I felt that this intellect, this edifice, and this entity,
which had been suspended and separated from its innate core, now
had a definition, an explanation, and then prayerfully, a path for
healing and memory return. The fact that a clinical association had
been given to the state of my inner bewilderment, my memory loss,
energized vital deeply buried ambers that were in fact, a forgotten
self. During my first visits to the embassy, I did not realize, had not
fully acknowledged, nor had not remembered or accepted the fact that
I was a survivor of a United States Government Human
Experimentation Program. I knew that something was wrong,
something that I could not quite put a finger on; but I knew that
whatever it was, that something could no longer be ignored. After all,
there were large periods of times in my life that I could not remember
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or grasp. Still, somehow, within this devastating reality, some very
minute yet significant kernels of recollection inside me would
occasionally stir, peak, and attempt to reconnect to what had been
intentionally severed memories. As a survivor, to this date, I critically
wonder how many medically unnecessary electroshock treatments
were administrated that could have caused a devoted mother to
forget ever having given birth? What was the hypnotic method
implanted that blocked talents, instincts, drives, and spiritualacumen? Where is, or what has happened, to the brilliant mind that
had once been extended an invitation to become a MENSA member?
How is such inhumane brutality still possible? Perhaps it was the third
or fourth visit to Mr. Shahid;s office, on a Monday afternoon, when,
after a prolonged deep breath, I was able to state, Mr. Shahid,
theres something I need to discuss with you. Although, three weeks
is not a lengthy amount of time for trust to develop between two
strangers, I have been treated with respect from the moment I firstentered the embassys door. For this reason, some of my
apprehension has subsided, and my courage has begun to peak. I
explained that the constant cordiality and warm atmosphere at the
embassy loosened some of my fears. As a result, I realized that by
delaying the presentation of the primary purpose for my visits to the
embassy, I was postponing what I so desperately wanted to do: regain
control of my own life. I further acknowledged that the longer I waited
to tell my truth, the more difficult it would become. On that beautiful
sunlit day in London, England, after accepting a second cup of offered
tea in Mr. Shahids windowless office of mahogany wood wall panels
and furnishings, I looked Mr. Shahid directly in his eyes and managed,
Mr. Shahid, let me preface what I am about to tell you by stating
how much I sincerely appreciate the time you have allotted to me
these past few weeks. Furthermore, you have been more than
gracious while I have been treated with such respect and have felt so
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welcomed. I smiled the words, and the exceptional tea served to
me during these visits should be a strong enough catalyst to help ease
my hesitations in what I need to discuss with you. After a deep
breath, and with an ingrained composure not totally understood, the
phrase, I have reason to believe that I am the niece of the Late
Ayatollah Khomeini, seeped from my lips. Upon hearing my
statement, Mr. Shahid did not flinch. He did not change the position
of his posture, nor did he stand in the gesture of having me ejectedfrom the embassy. Instead, he calmly asked, Would you be willing to
take a DNA test to that effect? I immediately responded, Of course
I would. Can this be done today? With a k ind and cordial smile, he
stated, We dont exactly keep DNA test kits here in the embassy,
but before we advance to that stage, I need to ask what you think we
can do for you here at the embassy. You can help me get custody of
my minor daughter and help me to return to Iran. Where your
daughter is concerned, we can look into helping you; but regarding
your returning to Iran, I will start the paperwork for your visa right
away. Ill need a visa to return to Iran? I naively questioned with a
look of surprise on my face. Your relationship to Iran is through a
maternal lineage. It would be only through a paternal lineage that you
would have a right to citizenship. But lets not get into such matters
now. What is important to know, though, is how long you plan to stay
on this vis it. At least six months. I cant imagine any time less
being beneficial. Would the requirement of wearing a Hijab be a
problem for you? Not at all, I assured the diplomat. I am
accustomed to wearing a Hijab when I leave the house. I think that
my illogical reasoning for not wearing a scarf on the first visit was
due to the fact that I did not know what to expect. I was unsure of
how I would be received, and I wanted to get a better feel of what I
was getting myself into. With a teasing smile on his handsome face,
the diplomat sat with his back flushed against the back of the chair,
d hi l d d I h I l f ll h
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crossed his legs, and stated, I cannot say that I exactly follow that
logic. Neither did I at that time, nor do I at this time. I honestly
confessed while observing the mental wheels turning as Mr. Shahid
attempted to process the Hijab tale. A moment later, with a smile
still visible, Mr. Shahid stood and excused himself for a few minutes.
Upon his return, he confided: I dont know if this information will
come as a surprise to you, but you probably have no idea how many
women have come through these doors over the years claiming to beyou. An amazing number! emphasized the diplomat. Each person
who has presented herself to this embassy had a great deal of
information regarding you and your situation. There was one young
woman who was so convincing that we actually believed her. We were
about to send her to Iran. Of course, this incident happened before
the current DNA test was developed. We were so sure of the womans
identity that we sent for Imam Khomeini. When Imam Khomeini
arrived, he took one look at the woman and stated, I dont know who
this imposter is, but she is not my niece. He did not ask the woman
any questions. He did not take one step toward her; yet he somehow
immediately knew that the woman wasnt you. Since the diplomat
was so comfortable with sharing this story with me and had asked
about a DNA test, I surmised that perhaps the test had already been
taken. The cups of tea previous ly offered and accepted could have
been the vehicle whereby the test was processed. I, of course, did not
mind that this test had probably been administered. After all, the
results of the test would be the proof of my exceptional assertion.
The direction of our conversation lead me to inquire, Mr.Shahid, did
you know that Imam Khomeini came to the United States before
returning to Iran after the success of the revolution, and he wanted to
take me back to Iran with him? After I posed the question, the young
male attendant who served tea during my weekly vis its entered the
room, refreshing my tea. I smiled toward him gratefully, not only for
th f h d t b t l f th t d d t f th t i
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the refreshed tea, but also for the moment needed to further contain
my composure. I looked directly into Mr. Shahids eyes and felt a little
stunned by the memory. How astonishing! How amazing! How is it
even possible that I had not thought about that excruciating night
until now? Wow! One of the most important people in my life suddenly
reappeared into my life, and I totally forgot about that night. Silence
instantly took over the room. It was a necessary silence for me since
in that moment, I attempted to process the reality of my unclesdeath, the years of being forced from my own life, and my
debilitating memory loss. The scent of a perfectly brewed and
exceptional tasting cup of tea, placed on an end table next to me,
grabbed the attention of my olfactory senses . Once I had taken
several sips of tea, I was able to continue. It was Christmas Eve. I
was living in St. Louis, Missouri, which is in the United States. Like
many Christmas Eves before, I was planning to attend Midnight Mass
with the individuals I had been led to believe were my biological
family. On that bitterly cold winter night, I had no idea that once I
entered the vestibule of the Catholic Church I would suddenly be faced
with such a v iable element of myself and of my past. Upon entering
the church, I overheard a male voice stating in a firm voice of
authority, I do not believe what you are telling me, and I will never
believe what you are saying unless I hear the words directly from her
mouth! He continued, If what you are stating is true then why dont
you bring my niece to me and let her tell me for herself that she
wants nothing to do with me, her faith, or her past. After hearing
these heated words, since I did not recognize the voice of the man
speaking, I had no way of knowing that the person being discussed
was me. When the other person in the conversation spoke, I
recognized the voice and was very surprised to find that person
engaged in such a combative verbal exchange at church, especially on
Christmas Eve. I have gained her trust, was the next string of words
I heard from the male voice I recognized You must understand that
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I heard from the male voice I recognized. You must understand that
its because of that trust that she confided to me that she had
rejected Islam, had accepted Christianity, and that she had no desire
or intentions of returning to Iran. I knew that the voice I had
recognized was a member of local law enforcement, so I quickened my
pace to enter the church wanting to respect whatever was occurring in
the vestibule. As I reached for an interior door that led to the body of
the church, I was surprised when the individual whose voice I knewstepped forward from a dimly lit corner of the vestibule, blocking my
entrance into the church. In accordance with family tradition, the
people that I unknowingly viewed as my biological family spent
Christmas Eve at the house of the eldest sister. Additionally,
everyone dressed up for Midnight Mass. A week or so before
Christmas, the family stated that the decision to dress casually for
Midnight Mass had been made for the purpose of giving
acknowledgement to the less fortunate. When I exerted the fact that I
had not voted on that decision, I was told that they all knew that I
would not have voted to dress down and that they did not need my
vote since I had been outvoted. So it was in the appearance of
everyday, casual attire that entered the vestibule of the church that
evening. Naturally, I believed that my being blocked from entering the
interior of the church was merely an action to give me the opportunity
to speak, so I smiled and said hello to the person preventing my
entrance. When my smile was not returned but instead was met with
a stern, unfriendly face, I became perplexed and immediately
questioned why any type of altercation would be occurring in the
church on one of the holiest days on the Christian calendar. I also
wondered how I could possibly be involved. Because of the member of
law enforcement who blocked me, I feared that something dangerous
might be happening. I was somewhat panicked when I looked at him
and he gestured with his head for me to look to the other end of the
vestibule Shockingly there stood my uncle the Ayatollah Khomeini
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vestibule. Shockingly, there stood my uncle, the Ayatollah Khomeini.
The Ayatollah was dressed traditionally, but somehow, I instantly
recognized him. The sudden and jolting reconnection with my
authentic past caused me to rapidly advance toward my uncle. As I
approached this cleric, I saw that a wide, caring, smile graced his
face. The next words I heard came from Imam Khomeini. He stated,
I thought you said that she had rejected Islam and wanted nothing to
do with her past? As I began telling Mr. Shahid this story, I was notaware of how long I had been in his office. Had I been in his office
fifteen minutes or fifty minutes? That notion of time never entered
my mind, and he never looked at this watch. I continued on with my
story. They said that you would not remember me, Imam Khomeini
said, as I attempted to further advance. The sight of his wide,
radiant smile and glistening eyes let me know how relieved and
pleased my uncle was to see me. That night, as I continued to
approach Imam Khomeini, the law enforcement officer, whom I had so
fully respected and trusted to this point and time, placed one of his
arms out, firmly stopping me from being able to advance. Well he
said with a smirk, we thought that she didnt remember anything
regarding her past. When we dangled you around her geographic
space these past few days, she did not intuitively pick up on the fact
that you were near. Thats at least something regarding the
effectiveness of the electroshock and other methods we used on her.
I briefly surmise that damage has been done to her perceptional
instincts. The fact that she did not know you were around these few
days means that we have dismantled some, if not all, of her
propensities toward clairvoyance and spiritual acumen. Whatever
damage weve done, she has little or nothing left of her brilliance or
talents to contribute to those nations who reside outside our
alliances. At this time, the mood in the church became very somber
and intense. The law enforcement officers indifferent and arrogant
attitude and behavior continued once he stated I must admit that I
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attitude and behavior continued once he stated, I must admit that I
was totally surprised by the fact that she seems to remember you at
all. We were under the impression that her mind was completely
amnesic where her past was concerned. What a revelation! he added
sarcastically. I guess we just might have to start the electroshock
treatments again. We nearly lost her a few times with that technique,
but since she obviously remembers something, more electroshock
should reset the amnesia. When I heard this callus statementpresented with such malice, I looked again at my uncle and saw that
his smile had been replaced with a stern posture. I had no idea that
my niece had been caused to suffer so, nor did I know that she was
being held in such low regard, he stated empathically. A thought
zipped through my mind so rapidly that it almost went unnoticed and
unrecordedthat thought being: You should have known! As we stood
in the vestibule, the physical distance between my uncle and myself
was less than twenty feet, although the footage seemed monumental
to me. As my uncle stepped forward, lessening the distance, he
stated, I see no reason why any of this torment and insensitive
treatment toward my niece should continue. We might as well leave
now, he said, as he extended his right hand to me. At that moment,
on that night, it was not humanly possible for me to process the
reality of all the things that had happened to me in my life to that
point and time. I only knew that instinctually, innately, every cell of
my body had the strongest propensity to be as close to my uncle as
possible. My body, mind, and spirit longed to reconnect with a sense
of being loved, valued, cherished, respected, and appreciated. Next, I
heard his firmly placed words, I truly do not want my niece to be
subjected to further violations or denigration; so, since I have agreed
to all of your unreasonable demands, there stands no mediating
reason why we shouldnt just leave now. The negotiating member of
law enforcement who stood in the vestibule like a diabolical rodent
with a satisfying grin on his face grabbed my right arm firmly and
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with a satisfying grin on his face grabbed my right arm firmly and
said, There is one thing on the agreement that you seem to have
overlooked. The government spokesman then waved a piece of paper
toward the Imam. The young man who had accompanied the Imam
stepped forward, reached for the paper, and gave it to the Imam.
After carefully reading the contents of the paper, the Imam shook his
head and stated with noticeable vocal anger, What is this! We
scrutinized the document given to us earlier thoroughly. This is notthe same document, nor are terms previously presented. Something
has been added to the original agreement, and I cant go along with
the addition. This addition was not a part of the original
negotiations. The government spokesman had a sinister look on his
face and tightened his grip on my arm, causing me discomfort. He
stated, Did you know that your beloved uncle played a role in your
first kidnapping? At that moment, hearing those words, I instantly
felt a deep concern for my uncle. Whatever was left of Khomeinis
niecewhatever was left of my parents daughterwhatever was left
of the woman who had the right to besomehow, I knew without a
doubt that whatever my uncle had doneand for whatever reasonhe
never meant for any harm to come to me. For a few minutes, I
cautiously stared at my uncle. I did not want to accelerate the
uncertain situation, so I s lowly lowered my gaze. The swirling sense of
betrayal I experienced in hearing one of the few people I had trusted
in this forced makeshift life, so coldly blurt out this possibly
debilitating phrase caused me to once again feel paralyzed emotions.
The next words I heard were from Imam Khomeini. Did she possibly
have that volatile information before now? How could you? I never
authorized such treatment. Did you give any consideration as to how
such information could affect her? With indifference, the spokesmen
replied, Instead of acting outraged, just sign the papers. That is all
you have to do, and she will be able to leave with you. I cant do
that, emitted the Imam with grave sadness in his voice. The
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that, emitted the Imam with grave sadness in his voice. The
addition is the one thing that I cannot put my signature on. After
hearing those devastating words, like a dream trapped in a shrinking
bottle, I realized that I would not be able to leave with my uncle, and I
shut down. There were no feelings of disappointment, fear, or dread,
even though I did momentarily wonder: Will they kill me now? Do they
have any further reason to keeping me alive? These questions flowed
through me with no more emotion than a person questioning what hewould have for dinner that evening. Once the questions regarding my
safety subsided, I felt claustrophobic. A sudden sensation of being
enclosed within an extremely narrow funnel hindered my ability to
breath. Like an embryo subjected to a physical lockdown, at that
moment, I did not completely exist. The next very vague awareness
for me in that church was hearing the Ayatollah instruct the young
companion standing next to him to accompany me into the interior of
the building so that I would not be able to see them leave. As the
reticent and humble young man began to walk toward me, he was
stopped. The large Catholic Church had two sections of double doors
which led to the interior of the church. I attempted to enter through
the doors closest to where my uncle was s tanding. I wanted to be able
to simply brush up against him, but was prohibited from doing so.
Instead, I was led away like a wounded animal into a selected pew of
the church where the law enforcement officers family members were
seated. After all, he was now a member of the family I had been
caused to believe was my biological family. After being seated for a
while, the spokesman sat down next to me. In the pew in front of
where we sat, I heard his six-year-old daughter softly and kindly
state, Thats not fair. They should not keep Aunt Madaline away
from her real family. Why are they doing that to her? She should be
able to leave with her uncle. Her words soon faded away just as the
prior activities did. The cruel actions made against me that evening
caused my uncles next concern: I sincerely pray that one day, she
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y y p y y,
can understand that I absolutely had no choice. As I mentally
transported myself back to the embassy, I could hear myself say, I
dont remember the exactness of what happened next, Mr. Shahid. I
only know that, to this day, I dont understand how I survived that
experience. I dont understand how, when my uncle was caused to
leave me behind in that church that night, I did not completely
crumble, experience a total mental breakdown, or dis sipate. Mr.Shahid then leaned forward, securing my attention, and confirmed,
Not only did you surv ive that encounter while remaining mentally
stable, but look how far youve come. Look how far you have come,
he repeated. And with the magnitude of all you have endured, you
accomplished coming here all on your own. No one helped you get
here, yet here you sit. Its more than remarkable that you survived.
Have I truly survived, Mr. Shahid? I confided. From where I sit,
you have done so with much grace and dignity. Mr. Shahid then
stood and apologetically stated, Please forgive me. I am so sorry,
but I have someone waiting outside that has been here for nearly
thirty minutes. Unfortunately, its not convenient for him to
reschedule at this time. He opened his office door for me then said,
Before you leave, allow me to mention how pleased your uncle would
have been to know that you understood the impossible position in
which he had been placed. Mr. Shahid, I understand that you have
someone waiting outside, but do you happen to know what it was that
Imam Khomeini could not put his signature on? While I was still in the
vestibule, the Imam stated that he had made some exceptional
concessionbut there was a specific point that had been added to the
negotiations that was impossible for him to sign. No, I dont know
the specifics, but I will attempt to locate that information since it
seems important to you. And if permitted, I will share it with you at
the next visit. Before escorting me from his office, the diplomat
asked if I was alright and in need of a car to take me to the train. I
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assured this obviously concerned man that what I needed was a little
time alone, adding that I might take a walk in a nearby park. As I got
closer to the front lobby door, when Mr. Shahid stated that he would
see me the following week; however, there appeared to be a tone of
questioning in his statement.It is strange that of all the things
forgotten or remembered in my life, one of the incidents that I most
vividly recall is a bee sting I received around the age of seven. Theintense, almost paralyzing and numbing pain inflicted by that
unexpected painful encounter with the angered insect, was somehow
in a parallel sphere with my emotional state as I exited the embassy
that day. Ironically, on that day, instead of submitting to the
propensity to take a healing walk through plush foliage, instead of
merging my spirit with the regenerative scents of freshly bloomed
nature, instead of caressing the sights, sounds and the majestic
hues, I acquiesced to the damaged ethos of an Mk-Ultra survivor. In
bypassing the enticement of nature, I sat on the local bus that took
me to the train, I s tared out of the window and noticed the botanical
magnificence passing before my eyes. I instantly wondered why I had
not taken the walk. Moments later, I sat in wonder of whatever had
happened to the spirit of the person who, as a child, collected
ladybugs on an index card then watched as the insect walked from the
card to her arm, just so she could feel the minute sensation of the
tiny creatures legs crawl up her arm. I sat puzzled, wondering where
the mimicking and playful follower of grasshoppers, the chaser of
butterflies,the taster of sunrise now resided.At my next visit to the
embassy, Mr. Shahid greeted me not only with his usual charm and
warmth, but also with a glint in his caramel colored eyes. He wore the
type of mischievous smile one might see on the face of a child about
to reveal a secret. Once I was comfortably seated in his office, he
hurriedly stated, After your last visit, I suppose due to the weight of
our conversation, I forgot to inform you that your uncle left you an
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inheritance, adding that the sum was quite substantial under any
monetary consideration. The enthusiasm and excitement expected
after hearing that a large sum of money had been willed to me was
not there. The stoic demeanor received by Mr. Shahid after his
announcement of the monetary benevolence seemed at first to
confuse him, until I softly seeped, I would much rather that my uncle
were still alive. Nodding in an empathic gesture, he concurred, Ican understand your sentiment. For a moment, after that exchange
between the diplomat and myself, neither of us spoke. We sat in
silence, both mentally and emotionally. I recognized, and then
inwardly acknowledged, an inherent need to reconnect with my linage.
I felt astonished at the fact that I had not rememberednor thought
about the event that had taken place in that church on that bitterly
cold winter night in December since its occurrence. This fact alone
caused nausea. How long the silence between the diplomat and myself
continued that day, I cannot say. But I do vividly remember what his
next words to me were. He sat more relaxed than either one of us
had been up until that point. You do realize that you have gotten to
this point all on your own. Amazingly, no one has helped you, and with
all you have endured, here you sit. After hearing his words, I
honestly felt no sense of accomplishment at that time. There was no
sense of achievement in having had endured physical and mental
torture, emotional and sexual assaults, mind boggling taunts,
humiliation, and probably the most painful experience of having been
separated from my son. What I felt or experienced was a state of
being partially anesthetized. There were no feelings of joy or hopeful
anticipation. The continuation of my staid demeanor did alert Mr.
Shahid to my dilemma; he, in acknowledgement of that fact stated,
You have been separated from your family, and as far as that is
concernedfrom yourselfoff and on, for over twenty years now.
Naturally, it will take a while for all of this to settle; but in the
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meantime, by your next visitor most certainly the one followingI
will have all the paperworkcompleted for your return to Iran.During
my weekly visits to the embassy, this diplomat never once looked at a
watch while I was seated in his office. He never demonstrated
boredom or impatience. He never caused me to feel that his status
was above mine. This reality contributed much to the strength that I
finally mustered upenough to revisit my past. However, I should also
give credit to the exceptional-tasting tea served. While seated in this
office, for the first time in years, I did not feel a sense of not
belonging. And by being treated with such kindness and respect, I
indicated, Mr. Shahid, before we go too much further, let me state
how much I appreciate the time you have allotted me during my
weekly visit
Posted by ruhullaha at 13:23 No comments:
F R I D A Y , 2 N O V E M B E R 2 01 2
Honoring the True Self
It is now August 23rd, 2012 which indicates that the year 2012 is
more than half over. On this Thursday, I look inwardly and question if
my life is still about goals and accomplishments. Since I am a survivor
of one of history's most inhumane and brutal exprimentationprogram, when it comes to the evaluation of my personal
accomplsihments I sometimes feel like a remote viewer. I wonder and
question where is the woman, the person who existed prior to being
subjected to vile and callous treatment. Is it poss ible to reconstruct
the undamaged self, the true self, the person who vivaciously strived
prior to being dismantled and disassembled? Currently, I am working
on a creative project which I shall enter into a writer's contest which I
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have titled, "The Accomplished Woman." The inspiration for this
manuscript is the fact that with all I have suffered and endured,
somewhere, still, exist within me the acknowledge of the gifted
woman who though subjected to extreme exploitation while
experiencing brutal intentional disregard for my human rights
miraculously maintained personal values and a propensity for social
responsibility and justice.
Posted by ruhullaha at 15:47 No comments:
T U E S D A Y , 1 3 D E C E M B E R 2 01 1
The Courage to Expose Pain and Exploitations
Never be without the remembrance of God, for His remembrance
provides the bird of the spirit with strength, feathers, and wings.-
-The Sufi Path Of Love--The Spiritual Teaching of Rumi
For a number of years now, I have been attempting to recovery
blocked memories which were stagnated due to a United States
Governmental human experimentation program, mainly, Mk-Ultra. A
brutal medically unethical project which parallels other inhumane
historical acts, such as; Slavery in America, American Indian
genocides, the German holocaust and many other extreme inhumaneactions. Although, I have survived and endured many traumas in my
life, somehow, I s till hesitate to expose my total truth; due to fear of
ridicule, not being believed, embarrassment and humiliation.
The truthful episodes of my life include the hallowed and the
hollowed. Somewhere, between the ages of five and six, I had been
kidnapped. Prior to age seven, the age of reason, I had been taken
f d l i f il d i I h d b
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away from a secure and loving family and environment. I had been
removed from the cultural, religious, economic and social status in
which I had been reared. Nevertheless, and despite these brutal
actions, by my seventh year, a most exceptional and extraordinary
event happened in my life; I experienced a vision of Christ.
A most magnificent and miraculous i llumination to descend upon a
child who had through Mk-Ultra, and techniques like hypnosis and
psycho driving, been hollowed.
The protective self, the misaligned ego, the horror of the usurpation
of the secular over the sacred.
I will share more of the fact of the vision in a future post. But for now
let me share a short poem I wrote with you.
An opened space in time, seconds not assigned, the moment freed,
found the spirit bound, in mournful eternity.
Thank all who visit my blog and may the New Year bring fulfilled
dreams.
Blessings,
Maryam Ruhullah
Posted by ruhullaha at 21:58 No comments:
T H U R S D A Y , 2 9 S E P T E M B E R 2 01 1
The Shed
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"Inch Worm, Inch Worm, measuring the Marigolds you and your
arithmetic you'd probably to far. Inch worm, inch worm measuring the
marigolds seems to me you'd stop and see how beautiful they are."
It was summer. A day of play and ease. I had heard often from
neighbours, from the adults in the household where I lived at thetime, "they really should cut down that unused shed, it's a danger, it's
not safe."
I guess I will always wonder why the adults, the neighbours, the
members of the block union did not follow through on the concern, the
hunch to have the vacant shed torn down.. A streetcar track ran
between and separated the blocks of Kensington Place and McMillion
Street, in this primarily,residential neighbour. The fact of a storage
shed once owned by a family who had recent moved away, still stood,
lurked about like a fathom.
"Boy! I wish they would tear down that old shed" I once heard one of
the children of the area say. "After all, ghost might hang out there or
something worse."
The amazement or the nostalgia of a community which had never
been touched by tragedy parallels that of a venerable utopia. The
crimes and horrors heard on the nightly news were events that
always, I surmised, always, happened somewhere else.
There was a four family flat directly across the street from the single
family house where I lived. It was alright with the neighbourhood that
a non-single family dwelling was situated in the center of the block on
this almost exclusive single family housing area. Since the occupants
of the flat worked in semi professional occupations they were
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of the flat worked in semi-professional occupations, they were
accepted. With three of the ladies occupants being school teachers
and their husband's worked in various fields like aircraft mechanics or
steel mill workers, they were not snubbed, after all, they were
respectable church goers. Historically, the same family had lived in
the mentioned flat for two generations now. So, when the unexpected
death of the patriarch of the family caused his wife to move with her
sister, everyone assumed that the tradition of renting only to their
family members' would be sustained.
The Harrison family owned the flat and had not rented to anyone not
a family member since the structure had been built. In this close knit
neighborhood everyone was somewhat like family. Everyone in the
4700 block of Kensington Place knew the other neighbor's on a firs t
name exchange. There was very little visiting in and out of
neighbour's home; but neighbours always, I mean always. spoke and
exchanged pleasantries on chance meetings.
When the new neighbours moved in, no welcoming committee greeted
them. After all, this was the first time someone not known by
someone else in the community had moved into this community for
over twenty years.
The woman of the new family did not work outside of the home andthe husband was in maintenance. They had one child, a daughter and
she was perhaps eight or nine. It was rumored that the husband
worked more than one job and was rarely at home. I heard that the
late Mr. Harrison had been the new neighbour's supervisor while
developing a friendship and feeling a little sorry for the cordial man.
It was said that Mr. Harrison had told his wife that the man had never
gotten a break in life and wanted to move into a neighbourhood
where his daughter would be able to attend a good school
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where his daughter would be able to attend a good school.
Furthermore, it was told that the man one day mentioned to the
tender hearted Mr. Harrison, that people did not think that a man
who cleaned toilets and mopped floors had dreams. It was reported
that Mr. Harrison promised the down-trotted man that if ever a place
in his flat became available, he would have an opportunity to move
his family into a better neighbourhood. Probably, Harrison never
believed there would be an opening in his building, but, still, life's full
of the unpredictable.
Consequently, when the humble janitor one day appeared on the door
step of the widow Harrison, espousing his respect and admiration for
her late husband while sharing his ambition for creating a better life
for his family, that staging seemed to have been the catalyse needed
by Mrs. Harrison to move with her also widowed sister who had been
pleading for her company. Displeased with the decision, the
community words were. "Well, we will have to keep a close watch on
that new family," so decided the block union board members as well.
Not surpris ingly, the new family never really passed the acceptability
test. The decision was made and upheld not to invite the young eight
year old girl to the Watkins' weekly, homemade ice cream party, after
all, too little was known about the family and especially since a man
had started vis iting the household often while the head of thehousehold was not at home.
When it was later learned that the frequent male visitor was the
husband's brother, the party invitation was still withheld when a
second questioned rose retarding,why the brother had so much time
on his hands since he was seen visiting during the day. as well as late
evening. How it was learned that the brother worked as a
independent handyman and wanting to make sure that his sister-in-
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independent handyman and wanting to make sure that his sister in
law and niece were safe and doing okay in the new neighbourhood, his
frequent appearances did not cause fewer questions.
How is it that close consanguinity shame can often sinks deeper than
that of the perpetrators? Could that factor hinge on previous denial.
The internal mental batting away of obvious facts and signs. The
escaped phrases which do not retract like the slivering snake's
tongue, "My brother could never do the things of which he was
accused. His so good with my daughter. He could never hurt a child."
After the new neighbours had been in the community for six months
or a little longer, unusual things began to happen, in this traditionally
predictable neighbourhood. The Parkers' pedigree Afghan Hound was
nowhere to be found one evening when they arrived home. Bill
Johnson's prized Motobecane Fly mountain bike was not in his
unlocked backyard storage unit the weekend of an amateur race. At
first, it just seemed too easy to blame the neighbour's brother; but
what was the other rationale.
An emergency block union meeting was called when the Smith's
lawnmower along with the O'Neil's most adorable Coton de Tutear
puppy vanished. Of course, the children of the neighbour were never
told what was discussed at the meeting. Unless, somehow, somethingwas over heard by curious little ears. The only thing known by those
who became the most affected by the new neighbour's sibling threat
was the feeling of totally powerlessness mingled with fear.
I, for one, suddenly, without fully realizing the fact, began to quicken
my gait when returning from the corner candy store with my daily
purchase of a Hostess cupcake. When the Stevenson's pet collie,
Colonel, the neighbourhood children's favored pet, one afternoon was
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Older Posts
Colonel, the neighbourhood children s favored pet, one afternoon was
not to be found, Kensington Place became forever changed. Like, an
undetected slow leak, gradually, the standards of the community
changed and deflated. After the brutal rapes one day of three
elementary school girls in the vacant shed, the previous question of
whose responsibility it was to tear down the storage facility was never
asked again.
The powerless often suffer from the procrastination and indifference
of those in the position of decision-making and authority. It is not
acceptable that daily humankind must lives with invisible stingers.
These stingers being criminal injustices such as, plausible deniability,
for reason of national security, and the arrogance which refuses to
answer for its crimes.
Maryam Ruhullah
"I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with roughest courage.
When they are real, they are not glass threads or frostwork, but the
solidest things we know. For now, after so many ages of experience,
what do we know of nature, or of ourselves? Not one step has man
taken toward the solution of the problems of his destiny." Ralph
Waldo Emerson
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About Me
ruhullaha
I am a survivor of Mk-Ultra. A
United States Government Human
Experimentation Program which
used unwitting human subjects for
a human behavior modification
program. In enduring the extreme
pain of having my mental state
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altered from excessive non-
medically necessary electroshock
treatments and sleep deprivation,
and other inhumane form of
torture, through the grace of God,
I survived. I pray each day that in
the wonder of my personal survival,
that I will be able to be of service
to others.
View my complete profile
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