Julie Beal

A story about 9/11, and many of the anomalies of that day, is just what the activist community needs. The American military is investigating ways to control people’s belief systems, and even their hormones, by deliberately manipulating the form and content of the stories they hear. The mainstream media has long been in control of the dominant memes in society, and with such a constant barrage of propaganda, it is clear that we need as many counter-narratives as possible.

One such narrative is False Flag, written by Dick Croy; it tells the story of a man who dares to discover the most important facts of 9/11. Frank, who lost his daughter that day, is slowly awakened to many of the issues which were not dealt with in the official investigation.

We journey with him on his voyage of discovery, from ignorance, to disbelief, to coming to terms with the painful truths. This is a journey many of the readers of Activist Post will recognize, since many people’s eyes were opened by what they have learned since that terrible day in America. What happened lit their fire – it made them hunt down the information that’s missing in the mainstream media. In doing so, they dared consider what, to many, is ‘the unthinkable’ – the possibility that the people who are ‘in charge’ may not always have our best interests at heart, and could even stoop so low as to kill.

But many people just don’t want to know. It’s far easier not to know. As Croy explains in the afterword to False Flag, he heard of a woman who was introduced to the uncomfortable facts about 9/11, and complained, “Thanks for ruining my life!”

Most people, when faced with information which conflicts with their belief system, struggle with cognitive dissonance. They have already had their heads filled with stories from the mainstream media, all of which have helped shape their belief systems; so when the brain receives information which conflicts with those beliefs, it does everything it can to ‘make it fit’. The media has popularised the meme that government/corporate sceptics are ‘conspiracy theorists’, and has taught people to ‘switch off’ from certain subjects:

Denial

My picture of the world is set

in stone. And, as far as I can

see, I’m not alone. So don’t tell

me stuff to mess me up. Don’t try

to frighten or enlighten me.

Don’t shatter my reality!

I’m hangin’ on, I must confess.

Just lost my job, just flunked a test.

Don’t throw me in the wilderness!

Denial! Denial! It’s stronger than

a smile. When things get tough,

you’ve had enough,

(gunfighters’ fast-draw)

Just pull out that denial! (from False Flag)

It is the ability to transition through this denial (by doing the required research!) that allows people to finally accept there are consequences to corruption ‘at the top’.

Ironically, “We also seem to use storytelling to reconcile our conscious and subconscious thoughts – as, for example, when we make choices based on subconscious reasoning and then invent fictions to justify and rationalise them.” (Source)

Cognitive dissonance is another topic woven through the story False Flag, and as such, it helps people like me understand how others can be so blind to the corruption at the top, because I’ve been a lifelong skeptic when it comes to government and power. You see, I was nursing my newborn baby when I first saw the footage of the planes just ‘melting’ smoothly into the Twin Towers. I didn’t, and still can’t, believe what the pictures showed my eyes. I was already a committed activist, and my very first reaction was to shout out at the people at the top of the pyramid – because I recognised it as being a false flag too far; part of a campaign to make us believe we need ‘protection’ from terrorists in caves – radicals, extremists, suicide bombers … And yet people fell for the official story – hook, line, and sinker – even though the ones with the most power are the biggest terrorists of all.

Stories fill our lives, from those told to us by friends, to those we tell ourselves, and of course, those selected to be told by the media as the ‘news of the day’. The problem is, the media has been honing its propaganda techniques for decades now, and most of the stories we hear are re-tellings of corporate and government news-releases. We are told which ‘current events’ are affecting our lives; one event builds upon another, and narratives are formed, shaping our world views, and our understanding of how the world works.

Because of the potential power of carefully contrived narratives, DARPA is investigating the deep psychological effects that stories have upon humans, in an attempt to ‘win hearts and minds’, the sly way. Academics have discovered that stories shape our belief systems, our sense of identity, our choices, and our actions.

They alter our mental state, making us highly suggestible, especially when we empathize with the characters. Stories have physiological effects upon our bodies – brain scans reveal that when people read a story or watch a movie, “the same brain regions that are active in real-life situations fire up when a fictitious character encounters an equivalent situation.” In other words, our brains perceive, and react to, whatever the characters are experiencing, just as if it were happening to ourselves. (Source)

Stories can also trigger the release of neurotransmitters and hormones such as oxytocin and dopamine. Head of the ‘narrative networks’ research at DARPA, William Casebeer, commented that this effect is similar to having “a tiny hit of cocaine”. (Source)

This is the beginning of the “story wars”…

… the most troubling psy-ops imaginable. Humans the world over use universal story lines to understand the world around them, with the basic story mechanism of cause and effect, or problem; reaction; solution. Oftentimes it’s the classic story arc, of the hero’s journey. The deep, but subtle, effects of cunningly crafted narratives will feature more and more in our lives, so all you budding story tellers out there get busy! Tell us stories yet untold, let your imagination unfold – art of all kinds can tell a story, as it speaks from heart to heart. Songs, dances, videos, blogs, and fiction … they all tell stories and make a difference to the world.

As activists, you could send stories like False Flag to people you think may be able to open their eyes, and cope with our somewhat grim reality.

As Croy remarks:

The choir is being preached to with brilliance and passion, but it’s time to enlarge the congregation. Exponentially.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………….

(A short passage from False Flag, by Dick Croy:)

…… Anita had brought a fairly thick file folder with her which she held in her lap. When she saw me looking at it she asked me to hold any questions until after we’d talked to the McGuires. “Tom and Peggy are fighters,” she said. “They’ve asked family and friends to give them half an hour alone with us this afternoon. We’ll have a lot to talk about afterwards.”

We rode in silence for a moment, then she added, “I lost Alex years ago; I’ll never get over it but I’ve come to live with it. Now we’re losing hundreds more to cancer – and other illnesses – and the grieving starts all over again.” I told her I understood and tried to take in the city street scenes we were driving through. After no more than a minute or two of silence between us we stopped in front of a modest three-story brownstone on a quiet tree-lined street. There were some children playing, a few people walking, but a stillness here in front of the McGuires’ home.

Although it was in need of repair, which didn’t surprise me under the circumstances, it was undoubtedly a choice piece of real estate. Anita told me they’d bought it four or five years before 9/11 as a good place to raise a family: three children, all of them teenagers now. Before ringing the doorbell, Anita said, “I don’t expect Tom to be able to talk very long, so you’d better ask any questions you have as soon as you get the chance.”

Peggy met us at the door. She was a pretty woman, I guessed in her early 40s though her features and a general sense of fatigue about her movements and her smile made her appear older. Her red hair had a good bit of gray in it and her blue eyes were hard and steady but dim in some way. You could see how they’d once sparkled because every now and then the spark flared for a moment, usually in anger. But I’m getting ahead of myself; it took most of the hour we spent with the McGuires for me to notice all of this.

After her somber but deeply appreciative greeting, we followed Peggy down a hallway that opened on the left onto a dark spacious living room in which the drapes were drawn, then led directly to what would normally have been a den or study, maybe a sitting room. Now it was Tom’s sickroom, occupied by a hospital bed and all the paraphernalia of modern terminal illness. That and a crepuscular gloom that vases of flowers and children’s artwork did nothing to dispel.

Tom’s head was elevated to enable him to converse with us as he felt able to. He was connected to an IV drip and monitored by various electronic instruments but had no trouble holding our complete attention. We were there because Tom had a vital story to tell, and he was obviously determined to use all the strength he had to get it on the record.

He cleared his throat – painfully, it was obvious – and said in a dry raspy voice, “Fifteen years a fireman and I saw things that no human being should have to see.” He paused and Peggy held a glass of water to his lips. He sipped from it, then his eyes grew glassy with whatever it was he was seeing now.

“Everyone knows about the jumpers – saw them falling – but I doubt many can imagine what they looked like after impacting concrete. But they weren’t…that wasn’t the worst.”

He paused again and when I glanced at Peggy I could tell she knew what was coming. “I’d seen fallen bodies before – suicides, window washer from 40-some stories…bodies burnt to a crisp, that fell apart when we put ‘em in body bags. All in a day’s work. You knew what had happened to them. Tragic…but comprehensible.

“But what we saw that day I still don’t understand….If I wasn’t about to be carted off by the big C, I’d most likely lose my mind thinking about it.”

Peggy gave us – or me anyway, Anita was sitting on the other side of the bed – a look that was somewhere between one of apology and accusation, for what her husband was going through to talk to us.

Anita said gently, “Take your time, Tom. You don’t have to continue; we can come back later if that would be easier.” But we all knew, Tom included, that this was pro forma. The worst thing we could do for him right now would be to give him time. He had very little left.

“It was like a horror movie,” he suddenly croaked. “These…fireballs. They came out of nowhere, and when they caught up with someone, the body would just explode. Disintegrate.

I’ve never seen….There was one man, he saw it coming and tried to outrun it. The terror in his eyes. But it got him. Just like the rest.” Peggy motioned to us that Tom needed to rest now, which is an understatement. His face was bathed in sweat and his hands had started shaking. We quietly withdrew.

As we waited in the hallway for Peggy I gave Anita a look that must have conveyed my incomprehension because she just patted the file folder she was still holding and said, “Homework.”

A moment later Peggy came out and told us Tom was sleeping. She said for us to have a seat in the living room and brought in a tray of coffee, cream and sugar. I drank mine gratefully though longing for something stronger.

“Tom and I so much appreciate you coming out here to hear his story,” Peggy said. “No one from the newspapers was interested. He saw a lot of things that day that have eaten away at him, along with the cancer. If he were a little stronger he could tell you more, but I’m afraid it can’t be today.”

“We’re grateful too, Peggy,” said Anita. “Tom’s a courageous man.”

“They all are – or were, I guess I should say. The union says cancer deaths are off the charts, across all ranks of the department. Strapping, healthy young men – a few women too – in the prime of life most of them. Now they’re a cancer ward. Leukemia, non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, multiple myeloma…I’ve become quite the expert I’m afraid. Myeloma usually occurs in the 60s and 70s, not in men in their 30s and 40s. Tom’s doctor can’t believe it. He said you don’t expect something environmental like this to elevate multiple types of cancer.”

None of us said anything for a minute, then I asked, “You mentioned other things Tom saw. Could you –”

Peggy jumped right in. “He said cars parked along the curb were blowing up, like spontaneously. He;d never seen anything like it. And he learned later, from other firefighters, that temperatures under the Trade Center were so high that soil and glass and stainless steel were being evaporated – just boiled away – six weeks after they collapsed. He was told these temperatures were the same as during the nuclear core meltdown at Chernobyl.”

“So we’re talking about possible nuclear contamination?” I asked. Peggy just nodded, but Anita spoke up immediately. “Chernobyl-level temperatures six weeks after 9/11? Fireballs that vaporize human beings? Seems like a strong possibility to me.”

When we left the McGuires we were both so moved and deep in thought that neither of us said anything in the cab for a while. Finally Anita opened the folder she’d been carrying, and I took that as an opening for the many questions I had.

“So do you think it was a nuclear demolition, Anita? New York City was nuked by our own government?”

She sighed, and when I noticed her glance at the rear-view mirror, I did too to see if our black cabbie had overheard. His eyes were as big around as quarters. Anita didn’t give a damn if he was listening and neither did I.

“I don’t know,” she said wearily. “I’ll pull a Frank Nolan and say, “All I know is…” and I completed the sentence with her: “it was a controlled demolition.”

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