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This is my third book on experimental human subjects and microwave weapons. This book is a personal journey that began in 1994 and encompasses the current domestic Phoenix Programdirected at dissidents, security risks and potential enemies.Monarch: The Long Way HomeI Sacramento, Terry D’souzaII San Diego, Ramona AyallaIII San Antonio, Elizabeth NavarroIV Under the VolcanoV The Road Less TraveledVI Microbiology Rat RaceVII Watch Him RunVIII BacteriophageIX Time to Fight Back X California DreaminXI Ground ZeroXII End GameXIII Drink the Kool AidXIV ReformI Terry D’souza
 
I drove into Sacramento in the late afternoon, it was a hot day in July, and I was trying to finda house I had never been to. I took a wrong turn as usual and wound up back tracking and finallyfound the place. I was about to make an illegal u-turn on a busy street when a California StateHighway Patrol cruiser jumped in front of me and pulled the same maneuver I was about too. Ifollowed suit and found the right street, it was a cul de sac that went back about a dozen housesor so on either side. It looked like any town USA, a quiet suburban neighborhood of one storyhomes with manicured green lawns and cars in the drive way. I went down to the end of thestreet and turned around came halfway back, and parked in the street on the right. I had met theowner and his daughter the day before at University of California, Davis and he had invited meout to visit. Terence D’souza was my age and about the same temperament, though he was anengineer and I had studied business management and then microbiology. He answered the door and asked me to wait a moment then he emerged followed by his family and motioned for me tosit in one of a number of lawn chairs under an awning they had set up in the front yard. Terrycovered his hair with a blue scarf or handkerchief as did his wife and two daughters. He lookedyounger than his 42 years, dark brown eyes light brown complexion, short sparse facial hair made up a mustache and beard, and an expressive slightly oval face. When he spoke his eyestended to widen as if to ask me to share in his amazement at this life. Considering what we allwere going through it was appropriate and showed considerable restraint. He had been born inPakistan but emigrated at the age of four and though I prided myself on my bookishness andcomplete lack of southern accent he surpassed me. His wife was pale in complexion and hadsharp features that softened when she spoke, and though we had not met before she accepted meeven under difficult circumstances. His two daughters were in their twenties, the daughter I hadmet yesterday at the university favored Terry slightly in complexion but they were both beautifulyoung women, college graduates who were highly intelligent and devoted to their parents. Allfour members of the family covered their long dark hair with a handkerchief or scarf, as I wouldlater surmise was the custom of their religion. They were all even tempered, modest, and polite,which made them easy to be with and talk to. I was a little uneasy because I was a stranger fromTexas who was unsure of the mores of California, much less the Bahia faith. The situation wewere getting around to discussing was bizarre in nature and I wanted to move carefully and learnfrom them without offending or making them suspicious of my motives. It didn’t help myuneasiness that I was lonely and yesterday the oldest daughter Sarah had made quite animpression on me. She was studying her masters in aeronautical engineering and very attractive.I was offered food and drink as we sat in the shade of the front yard and waited for the sun toslowly fade. The water was sweet and cool the vegetarian food was covered in interesting saucesand spices that appealed to me. The women deferred to Terry in conversation and I faced himand gave him all of my attention. Yesterday initially I had focused my attention on Sarah andnoticed that this displeased him so after a few minutes I had addressed myself mostly to him.She seemed hurt or let down at the time and I felt I had made a blunder but did not know who tospeak to so I preceded to speak to them both as much as possible. It didn’t help that my neck was stiff and the muscles were fairly frozen in place from my illness and sleeping in my car. Ihad to turn my body back and forth to make eye contact with both of them. Tonight the body
 
language at their home was different, as was their dress, the sari, traditional robes that were lightand colorful. The proximity of where they wished me to sit was much closer to Terry than to thewomen of the family so I addressed myself accordingly without excluding anyone as much as possible. I waited for Terry to get to the subject at hand. Presently he said “Here they come,watch”. The neighbor’s cars came into the cul de sac in groups strangely each seemed to crossover from the right lane to the left to pass as closely as possible to his yard. They all made eyecontact with us that was not friendly. It was like people gawking at a very strange creature in azoo. Occasionally they would sound their car horns as they were even with his house. Severalof them lingered in their drive ways and watched us for a few minutes before they went inside.One of the neighbors who lived directly across the street came out and stood on the sidewalk andstared at us. His hand went to his nose like he smelled something bad as he stood there for about10 minutes, making the occasional exaggerated gesture. His stare was constant and his bodylanguage was both strange and slightly menacing. I had seen it all before, but this wasconfirmation. This family that I was sitting with so pleasantly was being targeted. The termTargeted Individuals had been coined by someone and had stuck. These people were all TargetedIndividuals or TI’s for short. Yesterday in Davis we had talked for several hours and I had triedto share as much of my accumulated knowledge with them as possible. Now I came to learnfrom them. “When did it start”, I asked. “Right after 9/11”, he replied. I did the mentalarithmetic in my head. It was July of 2004, so nearly three years had passed. His eyes grewwider and he held my gaze as if he still couldn’t believe it. His wife spoke in a soft voice, “Wedocumented over 200 instances of harassment”. She handed me a spiral notebook thatmeticulously documented the date and time of verbal assaults, vandalism, trespassing, groupstalking, false complaints to the police, the litany was very familiar to me. They had sufferedeverything from throwing trash in their yard to a physical assault against their youngest daughter  by two of the larger male neighbors. From the progression of entries in their notebook it wasconstant and escalating. The police would come out and take down their complaints but noaction was ever taken against the perpetrators. Quite the contrary, the family was treated withincreasing disrespect and disdain by the police who occasionally threatened the victimsthemselves with charges. In order to protect themselves the family had begun filming the perpetrators at their “work” and this was when the youngest daughter had been surround by two“perps” and punched in the face by a 6’2” neighbor. The police were called, they took down thereport and were initially sympathetic but within a few minutes a police woman showed up on thescene and took over. She took the girl aside and began blaming the young woman for the assault,who despite a bloody nose had retained her composure up to that point. When it became clear she was to be blamed and possibly prosecuted by the hostile officer she began to cry. After thisattack on the most vulnerable member, the very close knit family retreated further into isolationand fear, as this despicable form of psychological warfare is designed to make the targetedindividual do. After a cursory flipping through the pages of entries that formed the death of athousand cuts I shook my head and looked at Terry again. “Is it always like this?” “They arrivein groups when my wife and daughters return from school or work in the middle of the day”,“They don’t appear to have regular working hours”. “I’ve lived here in this house for 26 years
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CityGypsy

i keep drawing back to this document. thanks for posting it. horrifying.

reply01 / 28 / 2011
mudylafeet

the truth can be horrifying i guess :)

01 / 30 / 2011
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