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◇Closing the Pennsylvania File◇

Dan, Ásatrú, Kitzy the Clown, Sacred Learning, and the Cost of Protecting the Wrong People

◇◇◇

◇The Frame◇

We are going to go through a visualization.

Within the Pennsylvania Ásatrú community there is the world’s most pleasant informant. I rather miss him and his family. He has a full-time, very sweet, jobby-job at a candy factory.

Yet in the middle of all drama, during any reasonable time of day, Mr. Informant was a master of interception and could be found anywhere there was fried chicken.

He knew when you needed fried chicken.

He was nearly always present.

Are things stressful? Do you need some fried chicken to get you through your day?

There he is, at the Reading, Pennsylvania KFC, Popeyes, or Bojangles, smiling pleasantly, eating a two-piece with his coleslaw.

He knows more than he says. Everyone talks to him. He leads no Hof nor Kindred, and I imagine, even years later, he does not change much.

Let’s call him “Mike.” It’s a pretty normal name.

And we are going to give this report like the old days: intelligence fieldie to suspected officer.

I get myself a sweet tea because I have serious celiac. Since I am back in Pennsylvania for this exercise, I discreetly puff on an orange-flavoured Moxie vape from whatever dispensary was closest to my entry point as Mike motions to the seat across from him.

He’s halfway through a two-piece.

I notice it’s easier to write when I pretend I am talking to “Mike.” I actually write many of my articles and essays in this format.

[Sorry, “Mike.”]

He starts filling me in on local gossip.

Before we begin, the rules of this report. I tell what I remember. I distinguish what I witnessed from what I was told. I distinguish what I can document from what I conclude. Where those categories differ, I will say so in the sentence itself.

And I do not accept anybody’s prestige as a substitute for truth.

Reality is not a consensus.

It just is.

Mike slurps his soda in agreement.  If I were actually in Pennsylvania,  I’d buy him an apple fritter (or equivalent snack of choice) for his tolerant nature.

If I was paid fairly for my work over all these years, I would purchase an entire bag for him to take home to his family.

“Who sent them?” They might ask.

“Mike” might reply,  “Ren… the fritters are Ren-purchased… but they go by Alex now, and Alex just wrote an entire blog on a conversation we could not have in person, and interestingly enough, wrote a simulacrum of what it must be like to talk to me from across a Bojangles table.”

“Neato,” might exclaim a resident redhead.

◇ ◇ ◇

◇ The Oath ◇

“Mike” has been around the Ásatrú long enough to understand the relational hierarchy of Troth, blood oaths, kindreds, and obligations that do not necessarily make sense to outsiders.

He likely knows about my blood oath to Dan.

It is tattooed all the way up my right arm: made to protect his tribe, protect his teacher, and avenge his wrongful death.

Three duties.
[Hold that number.]
This entire report is the story of those three duties coming into conflict, one at a time, until the oath itself answered the question it created.

It is fairly well known that I sacrificed at least seven years of my life investigating Dan’s death because nobody else seemed willing to do it.

And frankly, because I will not shut up about it.

My vocation is [largely unpaid] international radio SIGINT & chaplaincy. Before that, I had a history of passing Act 120 entrance exams while failing the interview, getting trained as a game warden immediately before game wardens were defunded, then being trained by Canadians, Persians, Germans, and others into the strange combination I am now: educator, chaplain, investigator.

Sometimes, I am even a Pir.

“Mike” likely does not know I consider that investigation successful, or that my relocation became part of what followed.

Each new platform, I write it again.

Dan and I were training in parallel. He had a field-intelligence and Braucherei apprenticeship to Bob; I had a field-intelligence and Sufi apprenticeship with Anthony.

Anthony was my Sufi teacher before I knew he was my alleged biological half brother.

That sounds like an insane telenovela compressed into one sentence.
Imagine living through it; it took considerably longer. [It gets its own section.]

For now, hold the parallel: two students, two mentors, two lineages, braucherei and bayat, that Dan and I spent years comparing at a library table twice a week while I edited my honors thesis.

They did not differ much.

That is the entire finding, in a sentence.

I had not met Bob yet, but Dan loved and admired him.

Dan was considerably less enamoured with Anthony than I was. He took particular offense at Anthony’s hot-and-cold nature and his aliasing, including an identity called “Maliheh.” Anthony’s explanation retroactively was that distance and aliasing protected me the way a killdeer protects its nest.

He has since grown into a sturdier protector of his lineage.

Dan tolerated it very little.

Dan used to encourage me to remain connected to Ásatrú as a guide and occasional bodyguard.

“Come on, Chaplain, we are going to Sumbel,” he would say.

Or a concert he was playing.

Or he would drive us both to the sacred Oak to intercept Dan Norris, probably performing questionable rites with a tree, who is the only survivor in this piece I am naming in full.

I didn’t think he cared all that much despite these nearly weekly outings, a blood oath, and his visits because I didn’t have his phone number.

He just showed up.  Regularly, and often when things were going poorly for me.

Dan was often in Germany, and each time he came back he seemed more protective of me and others. He started avoiding technology more. He dedicated himself increasingly to Norsewind and to the music projects he wanted to build.

He became furious when witnesses or unpopular people were discredited simply because their testimony was inconvenient. He allegedly threatened to quit over it.

Most of all, immediately before his death, Dan was preparing to propose to the love of his life.

I witnessed this directly. He showed me the ring. He told me he had asked her father for her hand. He asked for my blessing.

He was giddy.

Less than forty-eight hours later, he was dead.

And I blamed myself for missing signs of pending suicide that never existed.

It was not a suicide.

◇ ◇ ◇

◇ The First Duty Fails: The Truth About Death◇

Here is what I witnessed, what I was told, and when the story changed. I am putting the versions in one place because they have never been in one place before, and scattered explanations are how a death gets overwritten.

**What is not in dispute.** Dan was found naked in a closet with a brown leather belt around his neck. He was approximately 26. He was cremated quickly, without an autopsy. His international work went undisclosed.

**Version one**, given to me in the immediate aftermath: something resembling “he hung himself while putting on a jacket.” I was told this. I did not witness anything about the scene.

Intermediate: An [anon] Boys of Berks member discloses “Dan was found with a belt around his neck” and screams “WE WERE LIED TO!” Just as I pulled my car from his driveway in Gibraltar.

That started the investigation.
[We are still friends]

**Version two**, delivered years later, in 2021, in my office, by Bob directly, and this I witnessed with my own ears:

“It was just a kink.”

In the same conversation, Bob told me he had been the first person there.

That produced the question which has never left me:

**WHY WERE YOU THERE, BOB?**

I have written that question in code. I have discussed it with international supervision. I have written about the way it still runs through my nervous system like a recurrent flashback, easily leveraged by others…and it has been.

I do not have the answer. I am not going to invent one to make this report tidier. What I can document is that the explanations changed, that the man who gave me the second version placed himself first at the scene, and that no autopsy exists to arbitrate between any version and reality.

**The burial.** Dan had told us, and I witnessed him say it, what he actually wanted: simple, organic, a pine box, a white sheet, under a tree. What he received was different. Burnt into ash, a carnival of funerals, and his headstone is now on property nearly nobody can access, miles from much of his old community, on Bob’s private land, in the deep boonies.

Alone.

It is written in Pennsylvania Deitsch.

He would have hated his funerals.

He would have hated being reduced into a local saint of hard cider and smiles while the manner of his death disappeared beneath memorial mythology.

The oath said: avenge a wrongful death. The first thing that duty required was refusing to let the death be renarrated. This report is part of that refusal.

◇ ◇ ◇

◇ The Second Duty Fails: The Mentor ◇

Dan was what I would call a bridge operator.

He served as a bridge between the United States and Europe, including as a possible early-warning person if his region became unhealthy or unstable.

That role may itself have been inherited at a funeral.

I appear to have inherited some version of it from him.

The problem is that dying at twenty-six, naked in a closet, with a belt around your neck, followed by changing explanations of how you died, does not permit me to treat the matter casually.

Some people inherit money or objects at funerals.

I inherited a vocation, a murder investigation, and a chaplaincy field supervisor who did not even have a certificate or degree in chaplaincy until I exclaimed “WHERE DID YOU GET YOUR CREDENTIALS,  A CRACKER JACK BOX?!” in 2021 after discovering a breach of conduct.

[Bob then got chaplain-certified after.  To his credit.]

I had never met Bob before Dan died. I only knew him by reputation; my prior field supervisor, the late Rev. Rosemarie Moyer, wished me to work with him.

He introduced himself at the funeral, Rosemarie was already senile but had declared me openly her apprentice while she still retained her mind at a birthday party in a local diner. 

I was the only person there who knew she worked with the feds, and it wasn’t witchcraft, but taped confessions from idiots at her booth that made her so valuable. She had two tapes, one for the client, one for herself.

The latter occasionally ended up in a plain brown envelope to law enforcement. 

The rest of her following of exploitative new-agers had no idea, because if they knew, they would have had a real reason to be terrified of her outside of beliefs in woo-woo “mystic powers”. 

The man who fondled women as he gave “hair readings” died after repeated seizures; several of us thought at the time that something in his environment was responsible, and the pattern of it looked less like misfortune than repetition.

Rose took credit. She said the Angels had taken revenge on him for stiffing her on a contract and for touching women.

That is her claim, recorded as she made it. I do not know what killed him. The women who reported domestic violence, meanwhile, suddenly found their abusers in problems with police.

Rose would pray for you.  Rose would also rat a bastard out, organize a specialist in a hospital with a “sudden” open slot: just for you, and also mislead an abusive foster mother into exchanging “readings” to train an abused foster child how to cold read people, while asking leading questions, for survival & profit.

Bob eventually appeared in the lobby of Reigelsville Lutheran Church in 2011. He called me by the name I hate, the one my foster family used and I abandoned at age 12.

[Ironic, for a man who claims his bread and butter is in movements against hate, to open our first interaction by deadnaming me.]

Then we spent approximately two hours sitting on a carpeted staircase getting to know each other.

I was a Sufi who believed he had been rejected by his Molana. A college professor’s apprentice, adrift. Bob, a soon-to-be ex-college professor, was a bonded Braucherei who had lost his only apprentice.

Just because a person has no children of his own does not mean there is no lineage after him. We shared the same line of religious teaching on discernment, and on educating people outside the containment of carceral university structures.

I gave Bob my only physical copy of my honors thesis, *The Physical Theory of Time and How It Relates to Mystical Experience*, the night he met me in my home office.

That paper was eventually pedantically destroyed through over-editing, institutional abuse, and the much larger problem of adults being denied transparency about their own closed adoptions.

Despite his flaws, Bob remains a historian. Then, he could not claim he did not know me. 

Dan’s love for Bob shaped my own. I once cared about Bob more than I cared about myself, as little as he would probably believe that now.  I decided on chelation instead of slow death to save him, even then saying I did not care if he hated me.

Inaccurate, him hating me is rather painful, but that’s his decision.  Just as it was his decision to doxx me when I offered him help with relocation if he ever wished to break free from the criminals around him.  

I read him far too charitably.

For years, that care blinded me to the possibility that protecting Bob might conflict with protecting Dan’s tribe, his survivors, and the truth about his death.

Over time, the pattern became impossible for me to ignore. I state it as a pattern of documented positions, not as an accusation of any specific act:

Bob was present early in the aftermath of Dan’s death, by his own statement to me, first. The cause of death became obscured beneath competing stories. No autopsy occurred. The body was cremated. He ran the funerals. Years later, he gave me a radically different explanation than the one in circulation. During the poisoning crisis of 2020, Bob was one of the people to whom reports were routed.

From my perspective, the scale of what happened was later minimized or overwritten.

Then there was the day in my office after my stroke. This I witnessed entirely.

Bob proudly explained that he had completed only two weeks of chelation. His vehicle was damaged on multiple sides in ways that concerned me about his vision. He carried raw onions in his pocket. He had become convinced I was some kind of “hexenwulf.” He asked me to burn the person I hated most, assuming I would betray my closest friend.

After Bob said the sentence about the kink, Bob was at that moment no longer safe from the “burn” he attempted to initiate against someone else entirely.

It felt like my first accidental interrogation.

The man I thought of as a primary in-person mentor and friend after I thought I “lost” Anthony.

That statement informed me, in one sentence, that seven years of my investigation had been spent searching outward toward [and de-escalating] folkish Heathens, bikers, and alt-right extremists in real life, on 4chan, 8chan, Reddit and Voat, while somebody close to the original event had been carrying a radically different explanation the entire time, and placed me in direct danger by his negligence.

And to top it off, Bob was getting paid, and I was not, for the same chaplaincy work.

Bob seemingly indicated he was trapped by pointing at a thurisaz rune on my Thor statue before leaving in a rather confusing pantomime. I witnessed the gesture. Its meaning is my interpretation, and I mark it as such.

That changed the map. The murder I had been looking for was not necessarily where I had been told to look for it.

Eventually, by Bob’s own later conduct, I reached the point where I could no longer ethically defend him simply because Dan once loved him.

That realization took me years.

Anthony began helping arrange my relocation west shortly afterward as “Rene Descartes” on facebook.

**How it ended.** Bob and I finally fell apart when I concluded that his behaviour toward me had crossed from disagreement into attempts to overwrite my testimony, my work, and my credibility. I audit AI as part of my unpaid vocation, and he used that fact to dismiss what I write as “AI slop.”

I did not use AI to write this essay. I used AI to review it. There is a difference. AI also helps keep me within the bounds of liability.

Why would a blocked person or someone who blocked me be reading my work anyway when I do not “look them up” in return.  Blocked means blocked- I do not waste my time on locked doors, and if my door is locked, looking in my open windows is akin to stalking.

Especially if you locked your door against me first.

Bob doxxed me when I offered him relocation, and exposed, wittingly or unwittingly, my ex and an entire army of strangers engaging in a multiple-year smear campaign in my absence, with Bob seemingly leading the charge. Openly doxxing someone while running an anti-hate group would be unforgiven…

… except that in Islam, the pen that records sins and failures of OPSEC is lifted for those with neurological difficulties.

The last thing Bob ever said to me was a hex after I offered kindness: that every falsehood projected onto him would stick to me like pitch.

Since that conversation, Bob underwent emergency neurological treatment.

I did not. I got it treated the first time, correctly, in the middle of a divorce with a would-be assassin with a rapidly plummeting IQ as his lead count increased. 

Years earlier, after refusing to continue chelation, Bob had developed serious problems with discernment; more recently, a cat story I wrote about him seemed to help push him toward finally getting evaluated.

His reasoning appeared to be at least partly contempt: for me, for my long memory, for my writing, for my unwillingness to die, and for a desire to prove me wrong about years of his own symptoms.

If contempt for me helped get the man to a neurologist, Allah uses stranger tools.

I do not consider any of this proof of magical retaliation. I consider it a reminder that material reality does not negotiate with narrative fictions.

His praying to statues and hexing others looks rather perplexing from an Islamic point of view. Statues cannot aid him, and curses return to their sender.

Also, I memorized Ayat Al Kursi thanks to attending Al Maqasid.

It’s historically utilized in exorcism.

Properly aligned Braucherei perform blessings and would also find the desire to hex a well-wisher perplexing.

I sincerely pray for his better than full recovery.

◇ ◇ ◇

◇ Same Weights and Standards ◇

During one of my near-death periods, I experienced something much more substantial than an ordinary dream. People used to subscribe to read my dreams on my old blogs, such as The Lokean, Three Rivers Raidho, or even The Chronicles of Alaraf, since my pattern recognition can sometimes resemble precognizance.

The mind processes data best at rest.

These experiences were markedly different. They had a solidity that ordinary dreams do not, and I was awake, sort-of, and having a stroke.

For what it’s worth, these experiences returned me to Islam and my Tariqah, while they also prevented further injustices I was unwittingly participating in against my brother, along with the injustice of undeserved mercy toward Bob simply because Dan cared for him.

One of them placed me alone in a desert with Dan. Bob was dying. Dan asked me to “do that Muslim Galdr thing.”

To Galdr is to open certain Heathen religious workings through chanted runes.

The Adhan is the Muslim call to prayer.

So I called the Adhan. I met an Angel who asked me about my God, my Prophet, and if I pray.

I stated I was always in prayer, my god was Tyr, Lord of Justice, and my prophet was the idiot who started his own religion based on Amish polytheistic lore- I explained that I worried about him, he was poisoned, and he did stupid things with rainbows & runes in front of Nazis that made him incredibly brave or equally reckless.

The angel asked, “Why not Islam,  what about Muhammad [SAW]”

“Oh. If Allah loved me I wouldn’t have been tortured and I wouldn’t have lost my molana to the CIA & the stupid college.”

The angel cried. Next day “Rene Descartes” messaged me to restart my training in Tasawuuf, & Farsi…and some Turkish for plausible deniability.  He indicated the aliasing was temporary.   On the phone, “Chuck DaVinci” helped collect reports and treat other persons affected by heavy metal toxicity with similar symptoms in the community.

That May, Descartes said “I pretend, but other people pretended more,”

He indicated he was betrayed, his contact became erratic, then, when the US abandoned Afghanistan he fell into despair. 

In October of 2021 on camera Anthony dramatically declined weekly on BBCPersia as he sipped from a sunflower mug.

In the beginning of 2021 I watched Bob on camera talk about his neuropathy and other intracranial hypertension symptoms on camera claiming it was long COVID. I called him immediately, he seemingly accepted two weeks of treatment, then returned to the long COVID story.

I returned to Islam because Ásatrú neither protected me nor Bob, and reseeking the Sufi path seemed the only way for us to survive.

So far, so good.
He still hates me. 
He is still alive.

In another experience, I was in Helheim. Dan looked almost like a zombie. He asked me to play viola with him on the fiddle. Thinking I was being tested, I began playing competitively. I felt that I lost. I started crying because my viola skills, learned partly in his honor, were inferior.

Dan put down his violin.

“Relax, Ren. I just wanted to jam. You didn’t play viola when I was alive.”

I started the viola years after his death by the recommendation of Chuck, and quickly became a part of the regional orchestra scene as a mediocre musician with a very nice viola.

Helheim was empty. Hel herself seemed more like a mirror than a person.

And although at that time I trusted Bob far more than Anthony, Dan made me promise:

Measure them both by the same weights and standards.

I remember a set of mizan scales. One side was *The Prince* by Machiavelli. The other was *The Long Lost Friend* it was balanced on holy books of both faiths, The Quran, Eddas, the Hávamál, The Shahnameh, etc.

I remember two banners. One had a distlefink. One had a phoenix. They were identical except for colour.

And if I did not measure correctly, there would be injustice.

That is all I know.

A later dream placed Dan as the leader of a seminary where he claimed each slat of wood had been placed with the name of God on the lips of everyone who worked on it. Then he played Vivaldi’s *Summer*. Two weeks later, I discovered that a Sufi seminary existed near Allentown, and realized the dream was not truly about Dan.

After exactly ten years, I finally located a successor who could take on some of the abandoned responsibilities and clearances left behind by a twenty-six-year-old man dead for a decade. He is largely ethical and frequently in the crosshairs of religion, intelligence, and attempts against his life. Looks a bit like taller Dan, if he was permitted to age a bit.

The responsibilities are as follows.

Protect the tribe [Larger Ummah]

Protect the teachers [Scholars]

Protect the survivors who know the truth about corruption, and do not allow others to die, if possible, and be overwritten as he was post-mortem.  [Prevent Zulm]

The problem is that eventually those obligations can conflict.

If protecting the teacher requires betraying the tribe and silencing the survivors, then the oath has already answered the question. 

Equally:

If protecting a scholar requires betraying the Ummah and silencing the wronged, then the bayat has already turned to indictment where companionship is counter-indicated until oppression ceases and the harmed, healed.

◇ ◇ ◇

◇ The Third Duty Fails: The Tribe ◇

Now the widest failure, because it was not one man. It was the environment. Pennsylvania is not only toxic for the fracking, decommissioned steel mills, water that requires Iodine where housing is built over prior superfund sites, poor air quality, and proliferation of factories for lead batteries and other fun toxins, my prior marriage was no better.

**The marriage.** After my interrogation, a marriage was arranged by the Ásatrú community for “my protection.”

Bob performed the wedding along with another Heathen chaplain friend named Brian.

That was another excellent idea.

My ex-husband described himself as asexual. He had enormous muscles, taught martial arts, and had just started work at East Penn Manufacturing, also known as Deka, in smelting and other high-lead areas.

I thought the battery-factory job was temporary, not a devotional to filth.

Instead, over seven years, I watched his ethics, mind, and body deteriorate while multiple doctors begged him to leave. He refused.

I became progressively ill.

I was a cannabis-industry journalist then. I founded, edited, and wrote for *The Greenbud Gazette*. During the end of my marriage, my own writing became the record through which I documented the progression of what I came to understand as deliberate heavy-metal poisoning.

My ex’s blood-lead levels were documented repeatedly above 50 for the entire duration of our forgettable and evidently toxic marriage.

My conclusion of deliberate poisoning associated with financial motives came after years of medical deterioration, environmental questions, his occupational exposure, and later heavy-metal testing.

I witnessed the deterioration; I document the lead levels; the intent is my conclusion, and I mark it as such.

There was no way to prove malicious intent, which is why, at the end, the best protection available was police parked across from my driveway until the day I left. I am grateful for it.

Pretending to be my ex’s friend, asking for nothing in the divorce, and leaving without him realizing my newly renewed disgust was the most difficult act I ever performed.

I hate lying. Even for my own safety.

Several years prior to our divorce, I discovered our bank accounts had been drained partly because my ex-husband had developed an expensive fetish for clown porn.

Yes. Clown porn.

Understand clearly that our marriage ended emotionally for me the day this was discovered, and I never viewed him with the same trust after.  I was creating tie-dye while between surgeries to afford our food, and he chose to spend our money on…clown porn.

He wasn’t asexual after all.  He just was really into greasepaint and honky noses.

I clearly just was not his type.

Thank God for small mercies.

I was repulsed, still am, but I was repulsed then, too. 

There was an online clownette named Kitzy. He paid to watch her eat hot turkey sandwiches naked on an inflatable banana. The videos of this likely still exist on her media platforms.

Good for you, Kitzy. You get that cash.

You perform a priceless service to those who did not know how horrible their marriages are until they see your content in their spouse’s browser history.

I wish I had left over the clown porn. In retrospect, Kitzy the Clown may have been the healthiest participant in our marriage:


When I wanted a divorce the first time, we found an emergency marriage therapist.

The emergency marriage therapist erased the search histories from our phones, smiled like an idiot, and announced “problem solved” …


Narrator: the problem was not solved.


… while Kitzy, by merely existing on camera, revealed the problem completely. Marriage counseling could not do what she did.

God bless Kitzy the Clown, and may she be protected from dangerous fans, especially my ex.

He cries a lot, then poisons you. He isn’t the screaming type. Just dully depressed incompetence with a toxic core.

His family, like my foster family, might have a hobby of taking out life insurance policies without permission by the subject of the policies.

He claimed to worship Kali Durga. The only sacrifice she accepted was removing the good of him, leaving the lead of his existence shambling earthbound.

I record that because it was offered to me as a reason, not because I find it persuasive.

By then the lead had eaten away most of his higher reasoning.

It did not absolve him.

It only made him slower at it.

I spent the next years deteriorating. Multiple organs began failing, I bloated to approximately 240 pounds, and I lived with unbearable whole-body pain.

I painted my ceilings flat black to reduce glare because my photo sensitivity became so painful.

Eventually one of my specialists became concerned about foul play and helped assemble the much larger medical team that began treating the toxicological injuries and repairing enough damage for me to leave.

When I prepared to leave, my health was terrible, and he was difficult to remove. Among the things he said to me, and I witnessed every one:

“I liked you better when you were poisoned.”

“This was my dream house. I can’t believe you are taking it from me.”

“I know you just had a stroke, but will you cook for me?”

And finally: “I’ll miss having something on two legs that hugs me.”

Apparently he had not noticed I had been sleeping in my home office for years.

Our marriage effectively ended long before our legal divorce when Kitzy subscriptions proved to be the third party in our marriage.

I am sorry to Kitzy that one of her best fans represents her Fandom poorly.  She deserved better, less toxic fans.

After I relocated, no contact, he told people I was obsessed with him.

My ex treated my every health condition like hypochondria, then later claimed my lead poisoning had no cure.  I lost 100 pounds in his absence and now bike nearly daily, around my migraines, which have decreased significantly.  My photosensitivity requires specialized glasses, I am still on medication for intracranial hypertension.

From my silence he fabricated obsession, and my testimony he pretends is madness, as he follows a life of superstition as a carnival psychic where I once served as a cold reader and community watch behind Tarot cards.

Islam sees fortune telling as misleading and unethical, so I stopped when I returned to Sufism. A Tarot reader is not held to a clinical standard of care. There is no governing body to prevent predatory practices, nor to intervene against hustling clients to remove “hexes” for extra monies, nor against using online surveillance and charging the research as “divine insight.”

It is no longer my delusion to support. I routed people to specialists, lawyers, law enforcement, and rehab.

I cannot vouch for other “professional mystics.” Mysticism is an unregulated industry outside of Islam.

Also.

I do not blame Kitzy.

Actually, I thank her.

A sad clown who married again and betrayed her every time he stalked me online and I had to block yet another profile.

Anyway, enough clown porn apologetics.

I do not look him up. He was boring when I married him and a dull manosphere failure when I left.

Of those he spread his little smear campaign to, I lost no one worth keeping.

I thought him remarrying would keep him occupied, before I blocked him, she seemed very pretty.

She also is not his natural type, she is also not a clown.  I pray for her safety and hope he treats her with greater kindness & regard, but I doubt it.

He washes dishes. He mows the lawn, He is quiet and seems friendly and wounded, he brings lead home with him and spends time with known abusers of women, he believedeveryone but him is a reptilian and that a Sufi Murshid “stalked his dreams.”

That last part can continue.  Inshallah.

My greatest fault is my intellectual elitism, and anyone who believed a lead-poisoned idiot with the residual cognition of Captain Caveman does not have an IQ high enough to entertain.

If they do, then their motives are suspect in supporting him anyway.

In such a region the entire region remains one unmitigated toxin, why should we expect better from those who refuse chelation?

The king of the village of the poisoned well was seen as insane until he too drank from the well. 

I left that fool’s crown to Bob.

**The Datura.** I was one of the people poisoned with Datura, for being a “race traitor,” for stating that Persians are Aryans and that the Aryan Brotherhood are idiots. Both statements are true. Ērān has meant “land of the Aryans” since the Sasanians; the entire premise of that movement is a word its members cannot trace.

I witnessed this poisoning from the inside of it. My ex refused to take me to the hospital. The person who treated me was Chuck, by phone, who told me to get activated charcoal and hydrate. I will explain who Chuck was in the next section, and why “who was holding the phone” was a question with no clean answer for a very long time. But the treatment happened, and it worked, and no Heathen institution provided it. 

In hindsight, it revealed my ex’s character clearly early in the marriage.

The person I was later told brought Datura into a kindred after Dan’s death, let’s call him “Dick,” entered unimpeded. Dan would not have allowed it. I mark the entry as told; the poisoning as witnessed, in my own body, sadly.

**Smart Steve.** Everyone else called him Fat Steve. I am not going to, beyond the identifier in this section.

Restoring what a dead man was actually called is a miniature of this entire report, so: Smart Steve it is, those who called him otherwise did him no favors in the end.

Here is what I witnessed. The wedding party at Wyrd’s Well posted openly on their wall about the order of mishaps: Steve said he could not breathe, was treated as an annoyance for being overweight, “he brought it on himself,” 911 was not called in time, and he died. Then they dedicated the wedding to his memory the following day and proceeded unimpeded, as if it were a Midsommar human sacrifice.

I read the posts. I raised the ethical objection: that they had let a man die of neglect and then consecrated a party over him.

For that, they called *me* a monster.

I witnessed that as well.

At least I don’t allow my loved ones to suffocate to the sound of my laughter and derision. 

Nor do I place a fancy party as more important than a human life. Especially one within the intelligence community.

**The girl.** One of the Wyrd’s Well families kept placing their daughter in situations with much older men. I witnessed this from an angle most people did not have: the men came to me. Men over thirty, creeped out, telling me they were being set up in uncomfortable proximity to her, including attempts to set her up with my ex before I met him. She eventually married a man decades her senior. The setups I witnessed directly; the marriage is documented.

Her mother is also the one who accused the organizer of Reading Pagans and Heathens of stealing one hundred dollars from a community chest, an accusation that fractured the group. The theft never occurred.

Funny, that.

**The pattern.** I was never even a member of Wyrd’s Well. That did not stop them from using my labour when it suited them. I cleaned their pool. I helped set up their events. I received nothing, and I was insulted throughout. They were the loudest source of insult directed at me over the years.  Mostly about my body, my prior surgeries due to sepsis of my reproductive organs, or my unwillingness to accept insult as “joking.”

In nearly every Heathen malady I can name from that period, Wyrd’s Well is somewhere in the frame. They are not Bob’s kindred. Bob runs his own entire religion, which he built with Russian iconography and Deitsch aesthetic, with [hopefully] considerably less sex cult dynamics.

I do not know whether Wyrd’s Well still exists. I have not checked, and I am not going to. They are not my friends, and they have damaged people I actually do care about through their cultish dynamics over many years.

I will note, for the handful of readers who will enjoy it, that I am not the first Shia-trained Sufi to end up trapped in a weird well. Unlike the Imam, I came back out.

I am also not hidden, and I am protected now by my location and my industry.

Bob’s metaphorically still at the bottom of said well with a broken Freyfaxi cart, a wooden hammer, a Russian hat, and a pair of silly underpants.

Both Timothy and my brother forbid me from redeeming Bob as the 13th Imam of Pennsylvania, even in jest.

There are Fatwa. 

Then again, Fatwa also exist to prevent me from poaching backstrap from fresh deer, killed via Pontiac Grand Am.

“But Molana, the blood is not mine.”

He was nearly vegetarian. His sibling was feral.

◇ ◇ ◇

◇ What Dan Would Not Have Allowed ◇

I lost seven years to an investigation focused heavily on folkish Ásatrú only to conclude that some of the people whose actions most concerned me were operating beneath the banner of supposedly anti-fascist or universalist respectability.

I watched people who knew Dan become addicted to methamphetamine, radicalized, isolated, discredited, sick, or estranged from one another.

Some of that may have been ordinary human collapse.

Some of it did not look ordinary to me, nor others.

I look a lot cooler from Chicago than I actually was, I was writing a Loki apologetics blog angry at a Sufi guy and adapting concepts of Tasawuuf to Heathenry, out of resentment,  without knowing we still talked mostly daily.

Dan would not have endured the deterioration of his kindreds in silence. He would not have let harms to his friends be covered by social lies about long COVID, or by smear campaigns designed to frighten survivors into silence.

Thankfully, these things, too, were recorded outside the region looking in.

Dan would not have allowed the Datura incident to remain unreported.

He would not have allowed Norsewind’s tour money to disappear without a fight. That allegation is not mine; it comes from Dan Norris, the leader of Norsewind himself, on the record with me.

He would not have watched Reading Pagans and Heathens collapse around allegations, sexual boundary violations, and factionalism and simply shrugged.

He was the heart of Thordenstamme and the Boys of Berks, and he was there for the founding of Der Stamm.

He would not have allowed vulnerable young women to be offered toward predatory older men, if he knew about it.

He would not have tolerated a sex-cult cesspit preying on the LARP and Renaissance Faire communities he once silently watched with little more than his eyes, ears, memory, and violin.

He hated being hit on. So did I.

That was the original basis of our friendship before mysticism.

He would not have laughed about my failing health or made my sepsis surgery a joke.

He would not have quietly accepted the abuse of his sister or myself by institutions connected to our education.

His sister was harmed by the same college departments that turned my apprenticeship sour in 2011.

He was loud enough about campus culture near the end of his life that he sometimes felt he needed to hide from security merely to visit us at Moravian.

The death of this Kutztown student became immediate class material at a college he did not attend, taught by faculty who already believed he was a Nazi simply for existing near the biker gangs and folkish Heathens he was openly studying. He would have been the first to notice how odd that was.

Maybe the folkish side of Ásatrú could have stood against the manosphere instead of embracing it. Maybe the AFA could have grown in wisdom rather than merely numbers, though it was Rebecca and Pat of the AFA who helped me check myself into Horsham when I was afraid I might die by suicide, and that belongs in the ledger too.

Maybe The Troth could have become less susceptible to superstition, faction, and social cohesion replacing fair reporting.

Maybe Bob could have remained the excellent operator Dan believed him to be.

Maybe.

But I do not owe the dead the preservation of my preferred version of the living.

That is the trap.

He would have drank.  A lot.

He did that while alive, too.

And he probably would have thrown things.

◇ ◇ ◇

♡ Islam Has Its Own Pennsylvania Problems ♡

Before the next section, a fairness note, because I did not leave one perfect tradition for another.

When Pennsylvania Heathens became sick in 2021, it was not the Heathen institutions that helped me. It was Muslims from my own Tariqah. Chuck assisted me through my phone while I visited other survivors, including Dan Norris, when I was physically able.

Anthony has serious health problems of his own, and a medical background. When he could not keep up with the people under his care, Timothy sometimes stepped in, at times without Anthony’s knowledge or consent under a profile Anthony did not know was shared called “Chuck DaVinci.”

Whether Timothy was on that channel during my own poisoning, I cannot say with certainty, and I will not claim it.

The channel itself made certainty impossible, which is the subject of the next section. No Heathen or Ásatrúar had the ability to save us. Sufism did. Whatever else I think about them, that belongs in the ledger.

There is a second entry in that ledger. Anthony also arranged my second marriage, to a Shaykh in Chicago who had previously worked for CAIR monitoring the rise of Islamism in Mid-Atlantic and Northeastern Ásatrú. He had been poisoned as well. We were not compatible as a couple and severed the nikah after two years. We remain friends. I record it because it belongs to the same pattern:

when the Heathen institutions arranged a marriage for my protection, it produced my poisoner.

When the Sufi arranged one, it produced a friend I still have.

Same weights. Same standards. No special pleading for the people I love. No special condemnation for the people I no longer do or was mistaken in doing so.

And so, the same weights applied to my own din:

Catholics have the Pope.

We have a Qutb.

The greatest difference between them is accessibility. Ours is actually reachable by email.

However, most of the Sufi men around me exist inside forms of neo-traditionalist Islam that can become suffocating, and it distresses the Qutb, a very nice Canadian Cosmic Grandpa sort in green,  very much.

The conditions of the trapped are comparable, in some cases, to a supermax prison.

Rigid routines.

Uniforms invented for climates and cultures twelve centuries removed from ours.

Genetic lineage elevated above integrity, despite RasulAllah being an orphan whose sons did not survive to carry his name.

Commentary elevated over scripture.

To explain the problem to an Ásatrúar: imagine accepting commentary on the Hávamál without translating the Hávamál. Imagine having students memorize Old Norse without understanding it. Imagine dressing exactly like the ancestors, reading centuries of notes on the Eddas instead of the source texts, then declaring those notes the real religion.

Now replace Hávamál with Qur’an. That is approximately my complaint.

Parts of Western Islam have been made unnecessarily inaccessible by people who confuse ancient Arab cultural material with revelation.

Everything old and Arabic becomes “good.” Everything unfamiliar becomes “haram.” Faith becomes culture. Culture becomes costume. Costume becomes obedience. Obedience becomes proof of God.

Sounds remarkably like the bearded idiots in Ásatrú wearing wolf hides and speaking like orcs from World of Warcraft.

There is truly little difference between bearded misogynists across the two cultures.

Allah never wastes a template, apparently.

I have worked with ex-Amish people escaping the Ordnung.

I have seen systems where overwork, exploitation, abuse, and community control become so total that accessing justice requires complete severance from family and home.

Moving from helping ex-Amish survivors toward helping religiously radicalized or institutionally trapped Muslim operators was therefore not as strange a transition as it sounds.

One man I know had obsessive-compulsive tendencies weaponized around ritual purity until formal prayer became nearly impossible. Every cough. Every fart. Every sneeze. Every scratch. Restart. Excess movement?

Restart.

Missed prayer?

Make it up, including the ones missed for illness.

Eventually the person becomes so consumed with mechanics that salah becomes either an automated script without heart or something impossible to perform at all. That is not spiritual mastery but a feedback loop that makes prayer feel as authentic as a gymnastics routine, as if God prefers adherence to the scripts of men rather than the Reality of the heart.

You will not find so much restriction on prayer in the Quran itself.

He teaches thousands.

Another religious leader I have observed builds class divisions out of cultural traditions while living publicly among elites and privately presenting himself as sympathetic to people harmed by those same environments.

The dress code in that orbit is oppressive. It makes Islam a culture rather than a faith, available only to those willing to wear the approved fashions.

Another academic system, in my experience, damaged anti-authoritarian and religious students while treating their resulting instability as material for further institutional study.

Free stimulants from the student health office, trauma, then a study of the outcome, at an institution with a community-college acceptance rate and an over fifty-thousand-dollar tuition.

Different costumes. Same pathology of structure. Prestige protects the institution. The injured person becomes the problem. Reality becomes whatever the authorized people agree to call it.

Reality is not consensus.

It just is.

◇ ◇ ◇

◇ The Chuck Channel ◇

When I was offered bayat by Anthony during my first week of college, I grasped it more tightly than a cat holds a scarf tied to a dock after being endlessly lost at sea after a shipwreck.

I did not know the hand being offered belonged to my half brother. At the time, Anthony was the calmest, most intelligent person I had ever met. I wanted to be like him.

In Sufism, it is often said that what we pray for, we often already possess.

I succeeded, terribly.

Six months before Dan died, I had walked out of one of Anthony’s unnecessarily violent seminars on torture. After Dan’s death, when the Farsi program I expected to attend in Tehran closed to Americans, I was detained and interrogated by Northampton police in a manner I experienced as torture: six hours of stress positioning and threats that they could “ruin my life” and “make up anything they want” about me, while refusing to disclose what they wanted from me except suffering.

I witnessed this. I lived it. Eventually, with help from Rebecca and Pat from the Asatru Folk Assembly, I voluntarily checked myself into Horsham because I was afraid I might die by suicide.  I was diagnosed with acute PTSD.

The police department was later audited. The judge connected to my case was exposed in a kickback scandal. My lawyer, and later district attorney, David Pedri helped expunge my record.

I had received a drug charge involving my legally prescribed Valium, was forced through a month of ARD despite being a non-drinker, and eventually had to write an essay about what happened to clear the charges.

I was diagnosed with CPTSD and placed on federal SSDI with the help of lawyer Lori Mannicci, without contest, as a torture survivor.

My foster grandfather insulted me and claimed I “shamed the family”…that didn’t care about me anyway unless I followed their scripts of faux-feminine compliance I could not fulfill.

My pattern recognition attached nearly every terrible experience surrounding college to Anthony’s confusing behaviour, the harms of people around him, and what I perceived as his failure to intervene.

For years, I blamed him. Directly to him, by phone, as he pretended to be a Marine chaplain and specialist named Chuck DaVinci, an ex professional violinist with four PhDs in Pharmacy, Theology, Philosophy, and occasionally Cloisonné.

“Wow. You have most of the same degrees as my former college professor who traded in his faith in God to impress his college and the CIA.”

He fought back about the latter part.

I became agoraphobic after the interrogation.  The interrogation was allegedly used to harm Anthony into some form of compliance or as punishment. 

I was harmed, it seems, to harm someone I care about.

Chuck was in my life from 2013 onward as my chaplain, supervisor, and best friend.

“Anthony” called chaplaincy a waste of my time the first week of my college experience, beginning the two years in person we got along great, until he decided partial estrangement without my consent while teaching human rights for others was not a gross contradiction.

He felt he was “protecting” me. From what?

From his atheist boss who adopted four children and resented a closed-market adoptee who sought their birth family by accident after years of abuse and disenfranchisement?

Or was it because I refused to take religion classes taught disrespectfully by a proudly defrocked Lutheran minister with delusions of relevance in my life, when I directly and intentionally avoided her as much as possible since we had zero positive interactions, and I graduated with multiple degrees, cum laude, despite her direct pressure to get me to drop out, her smear campaigns, and her failures in morality toward those who refuse to defer to her while holding a religion department chair like a throne of religious perdition?

She told me converting to Islam was “signing up for my own oppression,” as she proceeded to oppress me and many other Muslims after me, including attempting to remove the hijab of sisters from Al Maqasid who had the misfortune of interacting with her. She even ordered a public speaker to this end simply to harass one young woman a decade after me who also exceeded her in ethic.

The bar is on the ground.

Even the worst of Islam can easily step over it.

I was accused of stalking him, twice, when I became concerned for his welfare by his Maliheh aliasing I did not consent to while estranging me in public for refusing to be abused by his college, Again in October 2021 when he deteriorated on camera while Chuck sent endless texts about “wanting to be dead like his friends.” and due to his own deceptions, made my attempts to help him that much more difficult.

The estrangement conditions made no sense to anyone who did not know the central fact of our alleged relation, and I was the one who did not know it.

They wanted me in his classes but silent. I rejected his classes. I was forced into six months of unnecessary editing of my honors thesis in what I conclude was retaliation.

I was not the only student in that orbit. There was one other during my period, and I watched it happen on social media as he posted it: the college moved him toward an organization where he was objectified, put in a van with radicalized postgraduates, and encouraged toward the defacement of family farms. He wanted to be an artist. His father had spent classroom time disparaging him while he was not there to answer, and then effectively handed him to Anthony & I as if he were somehow hopeless instead of brilliant.

Whether Anthony encouraged this or merely failed to stop it, I do not know, and I will not guess. I record it because it happened in the same years, to the only other person standing where I stood.

Openly, in his way, Anthony still met most of my friends after college failed to destroy me.  Also despite the working conditions he agreed to over clear and transparent integrity with me to appear as himself without gaslighting me. [Timothy is much the same.]

In retrospect, Anthony’s mutual dislike of Dan made sense. Dan acted like an open brother as a covert asset, while Anthony played spy games when all I wanted was to understand why I loved him while all our downline wanted was integrity, clarity, and support that could be openly relied on.

The decade long carousel of revolving aliases, asking me to recognize his “sacrifice,” when often, all I could see was his corner office, his wealthy career, and how my public face was sacrificed for his comfort and paycheque.

He came with me to doctor appointments, by phone. Chuck and I moderated Discordian chaplaincy and various subreddits together and prevented a number of suicides; the ones that happened after we stopped, he blamed on his own absence.

Chuck disclosed repeatedly that he was Anthony, proved it by his knowledge base, and then denied it afterward. Chuck also had five dead grandfathers and a fluctuating number of brothers.

“My grandpa died,” was always a way to end temporary estrangement after a prior bad call.  On his end.

Days before my stroke, I was nearly the only person watching Bob’s YouTube videos while he described symptoms that concerned me for intracranial hypertension and attributed them to long COVID.

I called him. Then I spent four days in prayer.

And instead of deciding to die from my own toxic exposure, I chose chelation, which in some ways, is more difficult than chemo.  Every 8 days, for months, I would have my blood filtered by aspherisis, and Diamox pills that temporarily destroyed my concept of linear time.

Why?

Because at that time I thought Bob was one of the kindest people I knew and one of the people least deserving of poisoning.

Then I had a stroke as direct result of the change of pressures due to the start of chelation.

When I had my stroke, Chuck was on the phone. I looked in the mirror and my face had fallen into an expression disturbingly similar to Anthony’s.

I said, “I think I need to go to the ER. I think I am having a stroke.”

He replied, “Ren, you are probably being a hypochondriac.” I stared at the mirror. “Chuck, I look like Anthony.”

His tone changed.

“I’ll stay on the phone with you. Drive to the closest ER. Don’t wait for an ambulance.”

I made it. I signed in while my vision went foggy, and then I passed out. I woke up in a wheelchair. A nurse told me Chuck had answered the rest of the intake questions. He was breathing heavily over the phone. “Are you okay, kid?”

“I passed out.”

The next weeks became a blur of neurological testing.

I had been passing out before and during chelation from toxicological injuries.

During the Datura poisoning, it was Chuck on the phone with the charcoal and the hydration. During the 2021 crisis, it was the Sufi side of that channel that treated poisoned Heathens.

And here is the problem. Over the years Anthony built multiple profiles of varying transparency in order to reach me, and we interacted nearly daily. I know Anthony was operating some of the  profiles guiding or frustrating me, and Timothy others. I know now the impression being performed likely  belonged to a real chaplain they had known who killed himself.

I did not know which was which at the time. That took four days on the telephone to establish, and we will get into it very shortly.

In January after my stroke, a profile named Rene Descartes appeared, who actually spoke Farsi and Turkish, which Chuck had mostly refused to do. The Chuck calls dropped off immediately. The last one for a long while came that April, when my friend Jackie visited with me confronted him over the aliasing and asked why he would not simply be himself, by his legal name.

The calls resumed intermittently after that April, and continued until Timothy admitted to spoofing him. Timothy, our SIS supervisor, had operated my brother’s identities for thirteen years, claiming Anthony was “hiding his downlines,” positioning himself as an additional upline supervisor I did not know I had, calling it OPSEC.

Then Anthony spent four days on the phone, which he hates, going back through thirteen years of my life with me, sorting out which conversations had actually been his.

He terminated the alias earlier this year. He felt Timothy had deeply betrayed him.

I concurred. When he allegedly agreed to let Timothy take over my tarbiyah, he was unaware it would take the form of espionage against him.

So when I am asked who was present for what during the period I was being poisoned, my answer has to include this: the channel was built to make that unanswerable. I can tell you what was said to me and what the speaker demonstrably knew. We sorted most of it in the end. It should never have required sorting.

Bob was one of the first people who told me Anthony had never actually left my life. At the time, I did not ask how Bob knew things as intimate and stupid as the fact that the blue tablecloth in my office was actually a scarf I had once worn in tribute to my Molana.

That weird Persian guy with the over-fake Balki accent everybody called Odin with the winky eye, who we thought had been stalking me online after joining the CIA? Turns out he’s my half brother, and he was not legally permitted to tell me until Europe released my adoption records.

Life is funny like that.

At one point Anthony as ‘Rene Descartes’ “proposed” to me, for lack of a better route he apparently saw for pulling me away from my ex. The texts still exist. They never became sexual. Mostly: “I love you.” Animals cuddling. Tasawwuf. The most chaste engagement on record.

Anthony knew I was in danger for much of my marriage. He also had relevant medical knowledge. Around the time of my stroke, I noticed he was being presented less as a professor and writer and more as a pharmacologist.

That set off red flags. I believed the story surrounding my poisoning could eventually be redirected toward him rather than toward the occupational and household exposures I had been documenting around my ex-husband’s work at East Penn.

It’s hard enough being Persian in Pennsylvania,  regardless of his other harms, he was not the cause of my heavy metal toxicity, he tried for years to prevent it.

I saw my ex as harmless. 

I was wrong, Chuck was right.

After years of no contact, my ex indicated on Bob’s public page that he wished I was dead, after I had been doxxed.

My friends and a local investigator preserved screenshots. I have since had to block more than a page’s worth of profiles belonging to my ex.

◇ ◇ ◇

◇ October 2021 ◇

The second stalker framing came while he was visibly deteriorating on BBC Persia, on camera, where anyone who cared to look could see it, and while Chuck was sending me texts saying he wanted to be dead like his friends.

I was trying to get help to a man whose identity I was not permitted to confirm.

The deception made the rescue harder than the crisis did.

What finally ended it was Al Maqasid, and a meeting with a representative of Scotland Yard during an Al Maqasid event at a nearby hotel.

Not the college. Not the service. Muslims and a police liaison in a hotel function room.

I believe I saw the father of the other murid from my college period there as well, though I cannot confirm it. But regardless, I forgave him if he was there praying because his colleague was declining.

I forgive him regardless because he’s an excellent witness and the only other person who was present in the room when the defrocked Lutheran department chair abused me over Anthony.

The Philosophy chair said,  and I quote.  “It isn’t your fault” before he was silenced by a woman of lesser qualifications and zero apparent working empathy.

Only the hollow superiority of an atheist ant floating on a puddle of urine on a leaf of poison ivy and declaring herself sovereign of all she sees.

As if her existence matters beyond her tiny puddle beyond the soiling of other people’s lives again and again. 

Especially lives who do not submit to her as they adequately assessed her as barren of benefit to the honest, competent, and self determined who remain so without her permission

The “feminist” who decides what choices are valid for others is simply a fascist with better marketing.

◇ ◇ ◇

◇ 2025: The Bayat Becomes an Indictment ◇

Then came Timothy’s own poisoning.

Most of 2025 was spent with Anthony, my own murids, and myself sitting with him online around the clock while he was in chelation. We did it because that is what the obligation requires and because I do not measure a person’s worth by whether they have earned my patience.

He then chose to remain in London. He was harmed again.

Afterward, he began telling people he had an affair with me.

There was no affair. There was nothing to reject that I had not already rejected. I have been celibate since my last divorce, and intimacy is available to me only within nikah. That is not a preference. It is my din, and he knew it.

I record his illness and possible cognitive decline because they are real and because same weights means I do not withhold a mitigating fact simply because it belongs to someone I am indicting.

As I wrote elsewhere, at length, that diminished capacity may bear on culpability and might never restore full fitness to guide.
A murshid who sexualizes a murid against their objection is unfit to lead.
A murshid who invents the sexualization afterward, in public, to a network that trusted him, has done something to the bayat itself.

This is where the oath turned. A bayat is meant to be a load bearing support.

When the murshid inverts, it does not dissolve. It stays, and it turns, and every day you continue to hold it, it operates as a standing indictment.

I did not go looking for that conclusion.  No one ever should experience intentional harm in bayat structures

One thing came out of it that I did not expect. It made Anthony a better leader. Whatever Timothy’s exposure cost, it ended much of the aliasing.

◇ ◇ ◇

◇ Anthony, After ◇

Since my stroke, Anthony has taken a more open role as my brother and leader within our strange little network of broken, displaced, or trapped operators. My brother is half Machiavellian Sufi intelligence officer, part sentimental crayon-eating military cream puff, part autistic dreamer and he feels that description limits him.

I love him more than I care for anyone. However, I would not follow him off a cliff anymore.

We fight about this. Not obliquely, and not in my head. I have put it to him directly and more than once, in writing, because writing is the only channel I have. There is no version of this argument where I am in a room with him.

If he cared to clear my reputation, he would. If he loved me the way he says he does, he would not draw a salary from the college that harmed me. He says it is just a job.

That is his answer. I record it exactly as he gives it, so the reader can weigh it without my summary in the way.

Here is what the job is. It is the institution that barred me. It ran the stalker framing against me twice. It forced six months of retaliatory editing on my honors thesis. It employs the chair who told me converting to Islam was signing up for my own oppression. My degrees from that place are cum laude and useless to me, because he still teaches there and I remain persona non grata.

He has never cleared my name.

I was hidden for thirteen years. Some of that hiding was genuine protection, and I say so plainly in this report and will say it again below. Some of it was maintenance of a career, a clearance, and a paycheque that were never mine. I was not asked which. I never consented to being hidden for anyone’s employment terms.

He wanted me to write. He hates when I delete my old blogs and writings and treats it as though I have killed something. I have pointed out the asymmetry to him: my record must be preserved, and his must not exist.

He answers that he is protecting me. I answer that a protection I cannot refuse is not protection. It is a condition of employment I was enrolled in without signature nor compensation.

“Safety” isn’t payment.

We have not resolved this. I do not expect to by this essay. I record it because it is unresolved, and because the pretense of resolution is the thing this entire report exists to refuse.

I also think he keeps his distance for a reason he would never state. Facing the person he wronged most might crack the facade far enough to let a happy life through, and his training will not permit that. Contentment is for the religious. Teaching game theory and Machiavellianism issues him his daily ration of metered suffering, on the theory that instructing people in manipulation is the cure for oppression.

It is not. Justice is. Transparency is. Open faith and frith are. He teaches the disease and calls it the antidote.

I am not sorry that I am uncompromised. I am sorry that he is not, and sorrier that he has a philosophy to excuse it with.

He said once that he regretted experimenting on me, then deleted the text.

I have been an experiment since birth, so I recognize the word when it arrives. If there is sharpness in what I write, it is because he took my scholarship and my affection as his personal laboratory, and then discovered that the true subject of the testing was himself.

That is my reading of it.

The question being run was how far a Shaykh will ethically compromise, and how many people who love him he will harm, in exchange for the approval of those who see him only as a tool.

A pocket polymath to be exploited and dissected, submitting to the dissection for the approval of the unethical.

He deleted the sentence. He did not delete the condition.

And here is the fact underneath all of it, which no framework of his answers. He teaches human rights. His sibling was sold as an infant, had his manhood carved away in Europe by a surgeon nobody asked, and spent forty-two years not knowing any of it. An American bacha bazi, made by scalpel instead of by market, and my reputation still sits under his foot while he lectures on the subject of human rights and resisting oppression for a salary.

What I have given up is the belief that winning the argument produces the outcome. Clearing my name would burn a cover that has kept him alive in more than one country and would expose records that are not only his to expose. Leaving the college would cost him the position and the medical care a man with his diagnosis cannot easily replace. He is not weighing me against nothing. He is weighing me against those, and the answer has come back the same every time, and I have stopped expecting it to change because I phrased the question better.

So I will name it accurately rather than keep relitigating it. He is captured. A man harmed by a structure who stays inside it, holding the private honesty as his real position and the public accommodation as prudence. That is not a verdict on his soul. It is a description of where he stands and of who absorbs the difference.

I absorb the difference. Not by choice, as it is haram to endure the sins of another.

He seemingly lives inside a dream of his own choosing, and the reality of his semi-absence remains as painful as it was in 2011. He explores his own melancholy as though the cause of it were invisible.

When one man alone decides what is fair about his own contract, the contract has become the lord, and everything else gets negotiated downward from it.

I am willing to assist him fully. I have said so. I suspect what keeps the distance is not my unwillingness to help,  but rather, my unwillingness to perform softness at zulm [oppression/injustice], which reads as repellent to people whose arrangements require the true thing stay unsaid.

I am one of the first in this network who will not hold dishonesty as valid OPSEC. That is not a defect. It is the position, and it is lonely.

Neither Anthony nor Timothy has ever visited me in North Dakota.

A thousand miles, a tariqah carried, and not one trip.

And yet.

When I was poisoned with Datura and my ex-husband would not drive me to a hospital, it was that voice on the phone telling me to get activated charcoal and hydrate.

When I had a stroke and told him I looked like Anthony in the mirror, his tone changed and he stayed on the line until a nurse took the phone out of my hand.

He endured my fear [& accidental insults] during my Botox treatments to mitigate my migraines and frequent kidney surgeries.

When Pennsylvania Heathens & community leaders fell ill not from COVID, it was that channel that answered and no Heathen institution that did. He came to my doctor appointments by telephone for years. He spent four days on a phone he hates going back through thirteen years of my life, sorting out which conversations had actually been his, because he would not leave me holding a record I could not trust.

Both accounts are true at once. That is the whole difficulty, and I am finished pretending it resolves.

He is my greatest support and my greatest pain and neither of those is the same as expecting him to change.

Same weights. Same standards. That includes him. It means I record the harm, and it means I record the charcoal, the phone call, the four days, and the fact that I am alive to write this.

The intelligence industry is weird. I do not pretend otherwise.

His dream, unpunctured by his ivory tower. My nightmare of my college degrees being useless simply because he still works there and I remain persona non grata, since I refuse to compromise and live a life of sucking up to bad people.

◇ The Fourth Guy Is Bob ◇

Imagine working beside a Braucherei for seven years only to become increasingly convinced that the man you inherited as somebody to protect may himself have helped obscure the truth you were sworn to preserve.

That was the unbearable contradiction.

I survived meeting my own brother inside an academic environment I would not wish on anyone.

I lost my ordinary in-person relationship with him partly to his college and intelligence career.

At points I became so frightened and confused by the aliasing around me that the only way he seemed able to remain in my life was through personalities associated with dead people and old military relationships, while being spoofed by his own supervision, for no reason except NDA games in which I refuse to participate.

I am not pretending that intelligence work is normal. It is weird, and I am honestly not much better anymore.

Let it all burn, I say. We judge people by their actions going forward.

Much like kindreds in Ásatrú, a Sufi tariqah and an intelligence collective can resemble each other more than either group wants to admit.

The Sufi record reality in metaphor.

The Ásatrú often mistake metaphor for Reality.

It’s a match made in Hel.

The bridge between those modalities is enormous.

It is like owning the Monopoly board from Park Place through Baltic while everybody else is still arguing over who stole the tiny metal hat.

The fault placed on my shoulders over the years more properly belongs, in my assessment, across several older men with unusual relationships to the Pennsylvania Heathen community through religion, academia, intelligence work, or all three.

And the worst of the bunch, as I puff dramatically on my vape, remains that weasel Bob from Chechnya. With his hammer and sickle and nearly entirely self-invented offshoot religion that crosses eastern European iconography with Deitsch flavoring and a base of earthy mysticism.


I was protected and supported for years by two men doing their best impressions of a ghost from their military-service days.

Meanwhile I intentionally dress like Dan, but worse. People fear me looking down on them, or causing intentional discomfort, and I own it.

I have had decades of therapy. I fully embrace my snarky, vengeful, and intellectually condescending shadow.

I give all people the chance to prove themselves intelligent and ethical. When they fail at ethics, I automatically question their intellectual capabilities.

Dan wore muted colours: light beige, cornflower, browns, golds. He blended. I wear my brother’s jewel tones and horrific plaids, which I insult and then inevitably copy.

We often wear blue.

Coincidentally, so does Bob.

Today I am wearing a scarlet button-down, gray suspenders I dyed myself, a black, not brown, leather belt, black porkpie hat, slate-gray dress slacks, Sufi kohl eyeliner, mauve lipstick only on my upper lip like the villain many people would prefer me to be, and brown leather work boots I got from a Fargo fieldie.

I have a black travel bag with a Velcro gray American flag patch. I can turn the flag upside down when I believe the country is in distress.

I keep it vertical. We have further left to fall.

◇ ◇ ◇

◇ The Call from Europe◇

The records held more than a brother.

I am chimeric intersex. No doctor ever told me. Switzerland did, at forty-two.

Closed adoptions are efficient like that. You wait four decades, then every load-bearing fact of your existence arrives to your phone.

I was born intersex-male November 29, 1981. My manhood was removed.  This birthday is written in a Jesuit home register in Germany only with a receipt of a point of sale.

My name was Alexei. It was decided it was “too masculine” after I was neutered.

Nobody asked me. Chimeric intersex has both parts, both physiological issues.  Many die when their body rejects their reproductive organs. I had over a decade of suffering before sepsis forced the surgery I needed years prior.  They called it “pre-cancer”

It was complete organ rejection.

That is the entire engineering principle of neutering an infant into “normalcy”:  there is no version of the patient old enough to say no.

And here is the detail I sat with longest. The same “imperfection” that made me a candidate for the scalpel is what put me on the black market in the first place.

The flaw was the product.

My body was used against me twice before I could hold my own head up: once to price me, once to “correct” me. Somewhere there is a ledger where both transactions balanced.

Then, a lifetime of failed feminization and rejection from being myself instead of appeasing the scripts others wrote for me outside my own consent or even passing agreement.

The intelligence industry, I have since learned, often recruits at below market rate when your origin is a series of receipts across Europe and handwritten hospital records of cardiac care in Switzerland.

My foster father installed Schlage systems in Lockheed Martin and the Smithsonian.

My foster mother, who I estranged myself from over two decades ago, apparently reported me as an “Islamic terrorist” despite no contact and kept all my inheritances for herself as a “revenge” for my estrangement.  She strangled me repeatedly,  I still have the injuries.  There is no one more abhorrent to me, although my ex truly tried.

My foster father’s parents, my purchasers, sat on the board at UPenn and led United Methodist Women, while never once leading prayer.

I was purchased to replace a child with Down syndrome, who is likely no longer alive. I allegedly arrived in Florida in 1984. The baby pictures show the change: the dull, soft features, the great resemblance to the foster parents, which I share increasingly less as I age.

My genetic disorder did not harm my intellect, and that fact has caused most of my past contacts no end of apparent and unjustified angst. Perhaps they adopted me based on inaccurate propaganda that intersex people are no different intellectually than those with Down syndrome.

The primary sign, to me, of mental deficiency is found in those who harm others intentionally and purchase children while paying extra to erase their history, then abuse the child for not fitting into their corrupt, money-based world and deceptive Stepford-esque expectations.

That shows profound moral and mental degradation.  Perhaps it’s the lead in the water, the silverware, and the sherry & schnapps drunk from “fancy cabinet” leaded crystal. 

With indulgence of toxins, comes expected cognitive degradation.

It is far more reliable to nurture, protect, and support a person’s talents and goals to keep continued relevance in my life than to tear them down.

It is far easier to be clear and transparent than it is to waste bandwidth protecting lies upon lies.

When I failed at femininity and showed interest in the origins they paid so highly to obscure, I was no longer useful, and I was replaced by the sexually abused stepdaughters of my foster father’s second marriage.

They performed the femininity I could not. One likely sells Pure Romance dildos to this day, and once portrayed her stepfather, the man I am estranged from over lack of support and years of gaslighting as a failed foster parent, as her prior number one supporter…until she too estranged herself due to his racism towards her Hispanic heritage.

To his credit, he did openly acknowledge he is not my father. I had fifteen years of his first ex-wife smirking after she beat me repeatedly, informing me I was not her child but a “demon,” as she lit her delusional little black candles in front of mirrors and blamed imaginary fae, and myself, for every item misplaced in her hoarder nightmare house. I escaped at seventeen with my emancipation.

My foster family estranged themselves by contempt, despite my evident illness, then pretended I was the one distant.

I was already long estranged from the worst of them decades prior. Their hostility toward my studying Farsi came into much sharper focus after my records were released. Even my GEDmatch came back significantly Persian, in contrast to the 23andMe they paid for, and I own a mirror.

23andMe showed zero relatives, suspiciously, except my foster brother who sent in the test with me. Later, 23andMe was shut down for multiple reasons, including inaccurate reports. Anthony had me use GEDmatch, actually.

I am now the age Anthony was when I met him.

Rather striking, actually. We seem to have excellent genes. We are allegedly half siblings. He has a perpetual tan; I, sadly, only have one with effort, and my photosensitivity remains a barrier to that effect.

Raising a peacock among chickens does not make a blue chicken.

Nor does it give the chickens better plumage unless they steal it from the peacock.

The peacock will not fit inside the hen house or learn to cluck.

Its natural vocalizations are not unnatural simply because the chickens cannot imitate them.

I do not always look it now, which people treat as license. I introduce myself as he, because I am one, and have been the entire time, including the decades when strangers held paperwork claiming otherwise.

Explaining my own anatomy to people who then keep the pronoun they walked in with is a tax I no longer pay.

I only endure “she” in disposable transactions. When I am misgendered I might not always correct you, but I will note your desire to overwrite me, and in turn, trust you with less of myself.

Thus, when I say my entire life up to forty-two was structured around lies I did not know I was participating in, I am not being poetic.

A hidden half brother, with more abroad.

A hidden name.

A hidden scar.

A hidden body of the child I replaced.

And a hidden reason I was available for purchase at all.

The peacock metaphor was never only about Farsi. It was about a bird that was bought, painted over, renamed, and billed for the plumage, then questioned why it does not have a softer voice.

I have a sleeve tattoo of a single peacock feather.

If my entire life up to age forty-two had been structured around lies I did not know I was participating in, then the only ethical response was to begin stripping those lies away.

There is no further obligation to a foster family that was not only a failed source of support, but also abusive, condescending, and deeply racist against and in front of the child they purchased themselves.

There is no further obligation to practice Ásatrú merely because it once mattered to me.

There is no obligation to return to communities committed to harming people or obscuring truth.

So let us not return to Pennsylvania again and get this over with.

Khalas.

That’s it.

◇ ◇ ◇

◇ Closing the File ♡

So now we return to Mike.

He has probably finished his chicken. I have probably finished my sweet tea. Maybe we have discussed everything. Maybe, as usual, he knows considerably more than he says.

I shake his hand. Perhaps I give him a hug. Then I leave the restaurant.

My focus now is my students, other survivors, my tariqah, and the people I actually seem to mutually love and care about.

I now view people in fairly strict but fluid categories.

Those not close to me are sorted as cases, scenery, or assholes.

Those close to me are filed as mentors, over age sixty, colleagues, or students.

Students who become colleagues carry slightly more weight and mercy from me than most.

Colleagues who become students carry markedly less, until they eventually catch up and re-earn my trust after a long recalibration.

Students can be forgiven far more easily than anyone else, as my own closest mentors can most clearly attest.  Anthony used to frequently pretend to be a “student” then drop his mask partway through conversations, sometimes in offense, when I treated him like one, without deference he expects in real life.

Some people in the religious and intelligence worlds I know remain trapped inside covert jobs, mosques, universities, and systems that no longer fit them.

Some of those systems they built themselves, placed there by prior counterterrorism efforts, then abandoned as cultists without an off-ramp.

That is their work to resolve, yet I keep the corridor to Red River open for those who wish to live with integrity with the blinders off.

I can help where helping is real, not as a nebulous cloud of online guidance or radio signals like some who seemingly gave up direct accountability for dreams and illusions, to the detriment of the careers and reputations of others, as they carefully guard their own reputations, as if their faults of submission to corrupt human authority were a positive example I fail to emulate properly, and remain judged harshly for.

I refuse to compromise my integrity for those with none. I refuse to bow to those I dislike to “keep the peace.” I refuse to smile at those who step on others thinking wealth, popularity, or prestige grants them immunity or permission to harm.

I refuse to become a Machiavellian, a failure, or a continued punching bag for those with untreated toxicology issues.

I no longer confuse helping with carrying everybody.

And I no longer confuse loyalty with silence.

Protect the tribe.

Protect the scholars.

Protect the survivors who know the truth.

But measure them all with the same weights and standards.

Because eventually I learned that a blood oath to Dan to protect the tribe, protect the mentor, and avenge a wrongful death becomes impossible to fulfill if protecting the mentor requires betraying the other two obligations.

I spent years trying to protect the wrong people because people I loved once loved them. That is not discernment but merely inheritance without audit.

Dan asked me to measure Bob and Anthony by the same weights. So I do. I measure Timothy by them too. I measure the Heathens by them. I measure the Sufi by them. And, inconveniently, I measure myself by them.

No institution gets exemption.

No teacher gets exemption.

No intelligence operator in my field gets exemption.

No oath requires me to protect dishonesty.

No matter how much I love them, or how little I respect them.

Reality does not become false because the wrong person says it.

Reality does not become true because an institution authorizes it.

Reality is not consensus.

It just is.

That seems like a good enough place to close my chapter on Pennsylvania Ásatrú. Likely never to return.

I have celiac disease, intracranial hypertension, and I now hate Pennsylvania.

I survived enough.

I do not force myself to indulge in suffering unnecessarily any longer.

Enjoy your fried chicken… you can keep it for yourself.