Evidence of Change

Terraced rice field landscape near Sapa in Vietnam. Mu Cang Chai Rice Terrace Fields stretching across the mountainside, layer by layer reaching up as endless, with about 2,200 hectares of rice terraces, of which 500 hectares of terraces of 3 communes

As we reach the end of the two hundreds in our countdown the Council guided us to count 'until things get better', let us take note of the one-hundred sixty-five days which have transpired...and take comfort in their being now only two hundred more to go.

I see fruit of the changes.

I see it both in my heart and in my daily interaction with others.

The first was when I saw the head nurse of the surgery center's funny little metal bowl insert to her warmer she keeps her oatmeal plugged into all day in the sink, dirty.  I washed it. I put it next to the sink on a paper towel. And I took a pen and traced around the bowl, lifted the bowl, and drew a happy face in the circle with a heart. I had been alone in the break room and no one saw me. I wanted her to know she is loved and appreciated for all she does for everyone. 

The second was yesterday. I have had an ongoing problem with a nurse who brings the patient back into the operating room without checking first with me. The first time she did it, I let her and the charge nurse know my concern. And the charge nurse said, 'you like to give versed, I know!'

The first patient was also a nurse, and she was very calm and content talking with the nurse who rolled her back into the O.R. without telling me. Many anesthesiologists do this--it's their only time to eat or use the toilet in between cases. And the nurses hook the patient up to the monitors.

But I hadn't even met this patient or said hello, or even it is okay to proceed with the surgery!

Well this offending nurse's response was, 'you ALWAYS see the patient so it never crossed my mind you hadn't seen this one!'...it was a lie, a defense, and I read in her energy signature a harsh parent who gave her no option to negotiate growing up, so she simply decided to verbally and on the surface appear to agree and comply but in fact she did what she wanted too without making waves or calling attention upon herself. A military kid 'vibe'.

I asked her not to do it, to always check with me.

But the next case, she did the same thing. 

And this one was so medically difficult for an outpatient setting I almost cancelled. While she brought the patient back I was in a different O.R. talking with my boss, the head of our group and director of the surgery center--should we proceed?

Once the patient was asleep I spoke with the surgeon and also pointed my finger across the room AT the nurse and said, 'I almost cancelled the case this is a lot of pressure on me and I don't want to lose my license over it, it's not worth it!'

The surgeon, who is a father of four sons, and a good team player, changed the procedure to only a part of it. This was a patient who against his better judgement wanted to 'get everything fixed at once'--but due to swelling was going to put himself at risk for serious complication not usually able to be managed at a free-standing surgery center. 

I had to work hard to control myself from lashing out, and to stay in 'unconditional love' mode. I knew it was the only thing that would work. I had to focus on my energy and keep it in that frequency range and not let it go 'south'.

The patient did well.

The nurse came to apologize as I was in the recovery room waiting for the patient to recover and go home. 

I smiled and said, 'it was a hard day'. 

She relaxed. The heat she had been dreading wasn't coming.

I asked her if she has a phone number so we can text each other to communicate the status of whether the patient can go in the room or not? I asked how to spell her name--it was one that often gets extra silent letters--and thankfully it was the traditional spelling. As I entered it into my phone, I asked for her last name (I know lots of people with her first name). She was surprised -- a little fearful because of my being able to write her up I suppose--but she gave it. And then I put in the number and texted her.

I laughed and said during boring cases now we can text GIF files to each other!

She couldn't believe it!

She actually looked over her shoulder as she walked away, and said, in astonishment after a long pause, 'thank you for your grace.'

That's how we roll...Ross and me. Right action.  99.99999% of the time, whenever we don't trip up. And when we do, we apologize, just like the nurse.

same rice fields on mountain in Vietnam

Our two movie selections for the day, if you are interested, are:

1. ITNJ testimony from former CIA/M6 spy on pedophilia  (this group is taking down the pedophiles, the ITNJ--officially--all over the world)
2. Really Graceful youtube channel exposes tests of biological warfare on us without our consent pre-1970

Lake scenery with the forest in Saint Petersburg, Russia. Russia is the largest country in the world; its total area is 17,075,200 square kilometres.

Still waters run deep. 

Yesterday I was deeply troubled about what I read in this link:  https://www.bibliotecapleyades.net/sociopolitica/breakingthechain/svali-Articles.htm

Here is the first part that saddened me--I'll copy it:

Christmas in the Cult
Author: Svali
Published on: December 23, 2001
Related Subject(s): Adult child abuse victims -- Psychology , Ritual abuse victims -- Psychology , Christmas -- Psychological aspects

Christmas is a time when people think warmly of family gathered around the Christmas tree, sharing laughter as presents are opened and sleepy-eyed children excited see what Santa has brought. Adults share egg nog and cheer, and happy traditions are followed. But for the child raised in a generational satanic cult, Christmas has a very different meaning. In the daytime, the normal activities of shopping for presents and going to parties occurs, and the family may have a large “warm” gathering of its members in the day. But at night, things are quite different. The child who in the daytime looks forward to Santa and presents under the day, quakes with terror at the thought of what will come at night.

The winter solstice occurs on December 21, and this is one of the highest pagan/celtic holidays, since the “New Year” begins after this date for the cult. Special ceremonies are planned to ensure the coming of a new year filled with power, and the return of the sun’s lengthening days (many occult ceremonies are also based on ancient sun deity worship).

Added to this is the Christian holiday in celebration of Christ’s birth, which the occult group despises, and special ceremonies are planned to desecrate and twist the meaning of this day. For many families in the occult, the whole week from December 21 to December 26 is filled with activities, since family members are naturally gathered together, and there is no need to explain missed days from school for the children.

The cruelty surrounding Christmas and the solstice is intense. Children are often abused by cult members dressed as Santa; or a mocking of the nativity occurs with the end result that “Herod” succeeds in slaying the baby Jesus (with ritual murder of an infant occurring). The child may be sexually abused under a Christmas tree, and paraphernalia of the holiday are given a new and dark meaning.

Instead of a celebration of birth, Christmas for the child raised in a cult family becomes a time of horror and death. Programming may occur, with images associated with the holiday implanted, and the child told that seeing these images (such as a lighted Christmas tree, or nativity scene) will mean contact with “family” or other messages placed in under trauma. Children (and adults) may receive presents with hidden meanings that remind them of Christmas past and the trauma that is meant to bind them to “family”. A mock “holiday feast” may occur, but instead of egg nog and ham, the meal is gruesome.

These are just a few of the associations that occur in the dissociated alters of the child raised in a cult family, and why many survivors feel a mixture of anticipation and fear when the holidays come around. Added to this, once the child grows up, intense efforts by cult family members to recontact will occur during these holiday times at which all family members are expected to be present.

Panic and anxiety can occur for the adult survivor on these anniversary dates of intense trauma and rituals, and they may wonder why a holiday that is associated with good cheer for them means the desire to hide and cower. It can help if the survivor learns for themselves where the panic is coming from, and which triggers were placed in. This usually will occur in therapy, or from journaling. 

If a survivor has stopped contact with family members, then receives a flood of Christmas cards or gifts, they should be cautious, and aware that these items could be intensely triggering. A desire to “call and recontact” family members will often be awakened as a result, and the survivor will need to work through this in therapy.

Child alters often hold the most horrific memories, and listening to them, allowing them to process their trauma and fears in therapy, journaling, and art work can also help.

Creating new holiday traditions that feel safe can also help. Some survivors celebrate Christmas by doing things very differently than their family of origin to help reinforce that they are able to break free of all the traditions that their family held. And having outside support and safety help most of all during this time. Christmas is an especially difficult time for many survivors. But as adults, survivors can choose to break free from the traumatic meanings it once held, and to create a safe Christmas for themselves.

BAGAN , MYANMAR - SEP 04 2017: The Temples of bagan in Myanmar on September 04 2017 , The ruins of Bagan has 2,200 temples and pagodas

Here is the second part that saddened me:

A Day in the Life of Trainer
by Svali

*Trigger warning: This article contains graphic descriptions of cult activity. Please do not read it if you are triggered by reading these things. A lot of people have written and asked questions such as, “When did you go to meetings?” or “What about your children when you were in the group?”, and even “How did you divide the cult activity from your normal life?” 

This article is an attempt to answer these questions and to better promote understanding of how dissociation works in the person who is cult active. This “day” is based on over 12 years of therapy, and is a collage based on several different memories of what life was like roughly seven years ago when I was still active in the San Diego group. Hopefully it will help those who are support people and therapists understand better how severe the amnesia is between cult activities and daily life, and will explain how a member of an abusive and occult cult can be a kind Christian person in their day life. 

7:00 a.m. I wake up tired, as always. It seems as if tiredness dogs my steps even when I go to sleep early. I wake to the buzzing of the alarm clock, and get up. I am already dressed, because over the past two years my husband and I have started going to bed with our clothes on. We laugh and say it saves time dressing in the morning. I am in the uniform of every American housewife: baggy sweat pants and matching top, and tennis shoes with foam soles. I change into a nicer outfit for work.

I get my two children up and prepare breakfast, which is simple: cereal and toast. Afterwards they prepare for school, and I drive them to the small Christian school that they attend. I am the teacher for first grade there; my daughter is in fifth grade. I have a nagging headache that I ignore as we arrive at the school. 

8:45 a. m. School starts. I teach first, second, and third grade at a multigrade Christian school that my children attend. Before this, I had home schooled my children for several years. I was asked to substitute at this school when one of the regular teachers left, and soon was asked to teach fulltime. I enjoy teaching and I multitask well; I go from first grade to second to third, giving each activities to do. I have lesson plans set up for the whole semester. I am considered a kind and patient teacher; the kids like me and I like them, although I wish the headaches would go away. Sometimes by the end of the day, they are intense. 

3:30 School is out. My daughter has invited a friend home to play, so I remind them all to buckle up for the drive home. I am tired, but I also realize that it’s important that my children have an opportunity to reach out. I worry sometimes at their tendency to withdraw, and encourage them to have friends over. We practice riding our horse in the penned field in our back yard. My son comments, “Gee, Mom, you’re a lot nicer to me at home than when you’re my teacher,” and I laugh and say, “That’s because I don’t want to play favorites at school.”

5:30 I drive the friend home. Dinner is in the oven. At this point, my day has been exactly that of any other person who is not DID or in a cult group. This is because my presenters, or day people, have been out. They are kind, caring, Christian, and completely unaware that there is another life that I live. If you stopped me at this point and asked, “Are you involved in any activities at night?” I would have absolutely no idea of what you were talking about. I was created specifically to look, act, and be normal in every way during the day. You could follow me around all day to this point, and there would be absolutely no indication that I lead another life at times. The only hint is the headaches, and occasional bouts of unexplained depression that I can’t seem to shake. I have had both all of my life. 

6:30 My husband comes home and we all eat dinner. He and I have a good friendship, although we are distant in some ways: he lives his life and I live mine. We rarely argue or even disagree openly. I help the children with homework while he works on a business plan for a client.

7:45 A call comes, and when I pick up the phone, someone says, “Is Samantha there?” This is one of my code names, and I immediately switch. “Call back in a little,” I tell them. “Fifteen minutes,” the voice says. I send the kids upstairs to take their baths. 

8:00 The call comes again. “Samantha?” I instantly change. My voice goes flat, and I reply in a wooden voice. “Yes, what is it?” “Remember to bring the items we discussed tonight,” I am told. I then recite a key code to this person, who is the head trainer, that ensures that I will remember his message. I hang up after he does. 

8:30 I read my children a bed time story. They are very, very afraid of the dark even at six and ten years of age, and insist that a light stays on in their room all night. As the evening progresses, they become more and more anxious. “Mom, I’m afraid,” my daughter tells me. “Of what?” I ask. “I don’t know,” she answers. She says this a lot, and I worry about my overly sensitive and anxious young daughter. Deep inside, I feel that these fears aren’t normal, and that there is something wrong, but I don’t know why. My husband tells me I worry too much, and that our daughter picks it up from me. I stay with both children until they fall asleep. This is our nightly routine, and I feel it is the least I can give them. 

9:30 I get ready to go to bed. I have to get ten to twelve hours of sleep a night, or I am completely exhausted. Many times, I fall asleep reading to my two children. Just before falling asleep, I say to my husband, “Remember” and give him the code that lets us know we have to wake up later. He replies in German that he remembers.

1:00 am. My husband wakes me up. He and I take turns being the one to wake up the others. We don’t need an alarm, because our internal body clocks wake us up. I am in my sweats, I fell asleep dressed to make it easier when I rise in the middle of the night. I am finally me, I can come out now and see the outside world, not locked inside as I am during the day. “Get the kids,” he says in a low tone. I go upstairs and tell them, “Get ready, now.” They are up instantly, completely obedient which is very different from during the day. Quickly, silently they put their shoes on and I take them down to the car. My husband drives, I am in the passenger seat. He drives with the headlights off until we are on the road so we won’t wake our neighbors up. We live in the country on a dirt lane and there are few houses to worry about. My job is to keep alert, looking for anyone following us, to alert him if anyone is coming. Once we are down the road and turn onto the paved road, he turns the headlights on and we go to the meeting. “I didn’t finish my homework,” my son says. My husband and I turn briefly to him, enraged. “We don’t talk about day at night, EVER!” we remind him.” Do you want to be beaten?” He looks hurt, then the rest of the drive is in silence, the children looking out the windows of the car as we glide silently to our destination.

1:20 am We are at the first checkpoint at the military base. We drove in the back entrance and are waved through, the lookouts recognize our car and our license plates. They would stop anyone who wasn’t familiar or authorized to be there. We will pass two more checkpoints before coming to the meeting area. It is at a large field on a major marine base that includes hundreds of acres. Small tents are erected, and temporary bases set up for the night’s exercises. We come either here, or to one of three different meeting places, three times a week.

People are chatting and drinking coffee. There are a lot of friendships here, because everyone is working towards the same goal. The work is intense and the friendships are just as intense. I join a group of trainers, who I know well. “Looks like Chrysa is missing,” I say. “I bet the lazy b--- couldn’t get out of bed.” I am very different at night. I use words that would horrify me during the day, and I am very catty and mean. The others laugh. “She was late two weeks ago, too,” says another. “Maybe we will need to REPORT her.” He is joking, but partly serious. No one is allowed to be late, or sick. Or too early, either. There is a ten minute window of time when all members are supposed to report to meetings. If not, then they are punished if there isn’t a good excuse. High fevers, surgery, or an auto accident are considered excuses. PMS, fatigue, or the car not working aren’t. We drink coffee to stay awake, since even our dissociated state doesn’t stop the body’s protest at being awake in the middle of the night after a full day’s activities. I go to the tent to change into my uniform. We all wear uniforms at night, and we all have ranks too, based on how high we are in the group and how well we do.

1:45 am We start going to our assigned tasks. I have brought the log books with me, the “item” that I was asked to remember. I keep them hidden in a closet at home, locked in a steel box. These books contain data about different “subjects” that we have been working on. I go to the head trainer’s room inside a nearby building. I work with him, since I am the second trainer under him. He and I despise each other, and I suspect he would love to undermine me since I have made many cruel jokes at his expense. I am supposed to be afraid of him, and I am, but I also cannot respect him, and he knows it. I point out his mistakes to him, in front of others, and he often tries to get back at me.
 

1:50 am The room inside the warehouse-like building is set up to work on the subjects. It has a table, a light, and equipment. The room is apart from the activities going on outside, so that others will not be distracted by what we do here.

The subject is there, ready to be worked on. Another, younger trainer is there to help, and I tell her to administer the medication. We are working on medications to help induce hypnotic states, and are studying the effects of these medications, combined with hypnosis and trauma. The medication is injected subcutaneously, and then we wait. Within ten minutes, the subject is drowsy and his breathing is slower and heavier, but his eyes are open which is what we want. (I will not describe the rest of the session here, it is too painful for me to describe at this time. I believe that human experimentation is cruel and should be stopped, but the group that I was in did it on a continuous basis). We record information in the logbook throughout the session, and I have a laptop computer into which I am putting the information as well. 

We are profiling not just the medication, but also this person’s individual response. We have profiles that are very complete and thorough on this person, started when he was an infant. I can pull up a special profile that tells me everything about him: his favorite colors, foods, sexual preferences, soothing techniques, and a list of all the codes that will elicit a response from him. There is also a diagram of his internal world that has been created over the years. This subject is easy to work with and things go quickly. I correct the young trainer at one point, when she starts to do something too soon. “You have to learn patience,” I chide her in German. At night, we all talk German, it and English are the two ligua francas in this group. “I’m sorry, I thought it was time,” she says. I then teach her the signs to look for when the subject is ready. This is why I am a head trainer. I train the younger ones, because after years and years, I know human anatomy, physiology, and psychology inside out. Luckily, I caught this young trainer before she made the mistake; if she had made one, I would have had to punish her.

At night, mistakes aren’t accepted, ever. Once a child is two or three, they are expected to perform correctly, or they are brutalized. This continues into adulthood. 

2: 35 The session is almost over and the subject is recovering. The medication is quick acting and he will recover in time to drive home. I leave him in the care of the younger trainer and go to the coffee room to take a break. There I smoke a cigarette and having coffee with the other trainers. During the day, I have never smoked and coffee makes me ill, but here, at night, it is completely different.

“How’s your night going?” Jamie, a friend, asks. I only know her as Jamie, it isn’t her real name, but we all go by our nicknames at night. She is also one of the teachers at the school during the day, but we aren’t friends there. “Slow. I had to correct another stupid kid,” I say. I am not kind at night, because no one has ever been kind to me. It is a very dog- eat-dog and political atmosphere where the cruel win. “How about you?” I ask. She grimaces. “I had to march some brats around”, she says, referring to military exercises with children ages 8 to 10. Every night there are military exercises, because the group is preparing for the eventual takeover. The children are divided into groups by age, and different adults take turns teaching. We chat for a few minutes, and then go back to our “jobs”. 

2: 45 This is a short session. It is a “tune up” for a member who is one of the military leaders. I take his profile out and review it before starting. The head trainer and one other trainer are working with me. The hypnotic induction goes quickly, and he remembers his programming. It is reinforced with shock, and we check through all parameters. They are all active and in place. I sigh with relief. This was an easy one, and he doesn’t fight us. Afterwards, I am soothing and kind. “You did well, “ I tell him. Inside a little trickle in my stomach revolts at the use of brutality to teach. He nods, still slightly dazed from the session. “You can be proud of yourself,” I tell him, and pat his hand. He is given his reward afterwards, and spends time with a child. He is a pedophile and this is how he is comforted after his session. 

3:30 We have changed out of our uniforms, which are placed in a special hamper to be cleaned. My clothes, which were neatly folded on a shelf are back on, and we are all in the car on the way home. My daughter speaks. “I get promoted next week,” she says, her voice proud. “They said I did really well in the exercises tonight.”

She knows that I and the other adults will be at the ceremony to honor the promotions. “I’m glad,” I tell her. I am weary for some reason. Usually, I would be glad, but tonight, although it was a routine night, was hard. I have been feeling little cold trickles inside me lately, twinges of terror. Sometimes, I hear a child inside, deep inside, screaming, and I sweat as I work on children or adults. And I wonder how long I can keep doing this. I have heard of trainers who broke down or couldn’t do their job, and I also heard whispered stories of what happened to them. It was the essence of nightmares, and I shove down my own anxiety. 

4:00 am We are home and collapse into bed, instantly asleep. The children fell asleep before we got home, and my husband and I carried them to bed. We all sleep dreamlessly and deeply.

7:00 am I wake up to the alarm, tired. It seems I am always tired, and this morning I have a slight headache. I hurry to get the kids up and get ready to teach another day. I wonder if there is something wrong with me, since I seem to need more and more sleep and still wake up tired. I have no idea that the night before, I was up and living my other life. It may seem unbelievable to some readers that a person can live another life and have absolutely no idea, but this is the nature of amnesia. If programming is done correctly, it is almost undetectable and the person will be completely amnesic to their other activities. This is called dissociation, and it is present in most members of abusive, generational cult groups such the one I describe. 

Swedish Krona banknotes and coins (SEK), currency of Sweden

Before I describe the rest--Ross and I thank you for reading the two excepts--and also, we would like to invite our Swedish readers to let us know if it is true that in Sweden a large percentage of the population is paying with implanted chips under there skin for all of their items for which they would use a credit card?  We are concerned.

Dades Gorge is a gorge of Dades River in Atlas Mountains in Morocco. Dades Gorge depth is from 200 to 500 meters.

Back to the articles which made me sad, so deeply sad, all day, for this suffering. The horrible things done at night on Christmas? Just because the Luciferians detest Jesus? 

And for the 'Day in the Life of a Trainer'?  I wanted to cry. Here is an intelligent, loving woman who has children who are afraid to sleep--her whole family is living a double life! Involuntarily. They speak GERMAN when they do their cult things?! They wear uniforms?! They go to sleep in their clothes early at night--and have headaches and depression as the only signs of their nocturnal activities?

I read between the lines and realized her position as a teacher at her children's school--where there is another member of her 'organization' as a teacher there too--probably was pre-arranged by the cult just like Kerth Barker's parent's meeting, courtship, marriage, conceiving him after being drugged at a party, the home they moved to, and all his father's business dealings (unknown to the father the business was payback for the pedophilia acts the business contacts did on Kerth in secret)...was it to reinforce the training in the children?

The stark powerlessness of Svali and her intelligence moved my heart with her plight. 

And also, I thank her for the insight as to why she exposed so much about the group she was raised in:  she was starting to crack as a trainer. And trainers who don't do their job, who can't tough it out and torture program the people assigned to them--suffer a horrible fate. Worse torture? Being a human sacrifice?  I don't know. But it was bad enough to motivate her to write and get OUT of the organization.

I asked Ross if Svali was okay? I liked her. That military camp is between where I went to medical school and where I live now. It has a horrible vibe to it when you drive through it for seventeen miles.  It's so close to 'home'--that disturbed me too.

Ross told me Svali is 'not good'.  I sensed perhaps she went back to the cult? I don't know for sure.

And I had asked Divine Mother and Divine Father for reassurance that yes, they are aware of this suffering, yes, something is being done to stop it, and no time is being wasted in bringing this type of systematic torture and suffering to an end.

Ross actually interrupted me and gave me this message:

My darling, I am with you. Do not be concerned about the suffering. Just like for me, all (everyone out there) is okay and healed, too. On our side we are well, all of us. There are generations of healing among us and I am okay. 

He then showed me an image of him in white robes, and a headdress, smiling with a sheep under each arm. The sheep were the ones from yesterday's blog post, and they were filled with life and healthy and pain free. 

The message helped me to let go of the suffering worry, and to trust in the Divine Plan.

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA - MAY 5, 2018: "Reflection" public art to tribute to the memory of passed away two Australians during the Martin Place siege incident in December 2014. The flowers reflect the 200 flowers contributes to the victims.

Ross

What is 'suffering'? And 'torture' as Svali describes it in the link I have provided--all of her portions are excellent, well-written and something helpful to understand because it helps you get into the minds of our current world leaders and how they operate, how they were brought up.

It is endemic to the culture that you live, all of these things, which go on behind the scenes unnoticed.

(he dusts off his hands in a gesture--more for show than for dust)

It is coming unraveled, like a little thread that is being pulled on a knit sweater--and the entire network of lies and conspiracy are heading towards a screeching halt--right before your very eyes!

So bring out some popcorn and have fun watching the 'tower' collapse on itself, from its own mis-deeds and undoing.




clap! clap!

Aloha and Mahalos,
Namaste,
Peace,

Ross and Carla
The Family who is always here for you.