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This is my third book on experimental human subjects and microwave weapons. This book is apersonal journey that began in 1994 and encompasses the current domestic Phoenix Programdirected at dissidents, security risks and potential enemies.Monarch: The Long Way Home
I Sacramento, Terry D‟souza
 II 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 BackX California DreaminXI Ground ZeroXII End GameXIII Drink the Kool AidXIV Reform
I 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 me
out to visit. Terence D‟souza was my age and about the same temperament, though he was an
engineer and I had studied business management and then microbiology. He answered the doorand 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 hairmade 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 learn
from them without offending or making them suspicious of my motives. It didn‟t help my
uneasiness 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. I
 
 
had to turn my body back and forth to make eye contact with both of them. Tonight the bodylanguage 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 cross
over 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
Targeted Individuals or TI‟s for short. Yesterday in Davis we had talked for several hours and I
had tried to share as much of my accumulated knowledge with them as possible. Now I came to
learn from them. “When did it start”, I asked. “Right after 9/11”, he replied. I did the mental
arithmetic in my head. It was July of 2004, so nearly three years had passed. His eyes grew
wider 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 that
meticulously 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 daughterby 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 daughte
r had been surround by two
“perps” and punched in the face by a 6‟2” neighbor. The police were called, they took down the
report 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 theassault, who despite a bloody nose had retained her composure up to that point. When it becameclear she was to be blamed and possibly prosecuted by the hostile officer she began to cry. Afterthis attack on the most vulnerable member, the very close knit family retreated further intoisolation and fear, as this despicable form of psychological warfare is designed to make thetargeted individual do. After a cursory flipping through the pages of entries that formed the
death of a thousand cuts I shook my head and looked at Terry again. “Is it always like this?”
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