Facing the Beast, page 2
It was as if a hex had been cast over everyone I loved, and over the entire culture in which I had, till so recently, felt so at home.
The nail in the coffin came on about June 19, 2021. I had posted a tweet warning that women were experiencing menstrual dysregulation—to say the least—upon having received mRNA vaccines. You don’t have to be a biologist to know that this is a serious signal of something going very wrong with a woman’s health. And it was obvious that if women were having horrible problems with their periods in 2021, there would be fertility issues—as there are—in 2023.
But after I posted this tweet, my world turned upside down. I was deplatformed from Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube. A wave of mocking news articles—centering on tweets that did not even exist, tweets I had immediately deleted as being badly worded—appeared simultaneously, in multiple languages, around the globe. Editors at the Sunday Times of London and the Guardian and the Daily Mail—editors who had commissioned my work for decades—ran similar hostile stories; some depicted me falsely as interested in QAnon (I barely knew what that was) and others as “unhinged.” Matt Gertz of Media Matters and CNN mocked my tweet, and did a hit piece on me, for my daring to speak with Tucker Carlson on Fox News about my concerns regarding women’s health. Former New York Times journalist Alex Berenson called me “batshit crazy.” And so on.
Overnight, my world closed. No editor who had formerly commissioned me took my calls or replied to my emails now. An investor in my company withdrew a six-figure investment. I was persona non grata. And it seemed like a blanket fiat. No one who used to invite me to the glittering events of yesterday dared to contact me; not a single legacy media producer would cross the invisible no-go line that cordoned me off from the culture as a thinker. I was radioactive, for telling the truth; for telling the truth about women, as I have always done; for telling the truth about women—related to something unbelievably important.
When the Missouri and Louisiana attorneys general successfully sued the Biden administration,2 we learned that this fiat had been so massive and so absolute because the administration—for whom I had voted—had coordinated with Twitter and Facebook attacks on “misinformation” online. The Centers for Disease Control (CDC), the Bureau of the Census, DHS, Twitter, and Facebook had all colluded to review lists that included my poor, brief, important, accurate tweet. Carol Crawford, “Chief, Digital Media Branch” of the CDC, on May 10, 2021, had sent out a “BOLO (Be On the LookOut)” alert about tweets and had included mine. I was put on a “misinformation” hit list. And so the CDC and the biggest tech companies in the world used the millions of dollars and gargantuan power at their disposal to close down my voice, along with other dissidents’ voices.3
“The below are just some example posts. We do plan to post something shortly to address vaccine shedding and I can send that link soon. Our census team, copied here, has much more info on it if needed. Also, we are standing up a BOLO COVID misinformation meeting and inviting all tech platforms,” wrote Ms Crawford.
My tweet, written in response to someone worried about abnormal bleeding post–mRNA vaccination, which Ms Crawford singled out, read: “Well hundreds of women on this page say they are having bleeding/clotting after vaccination or that they bleed oddly being AROUND vaccinated women. Unconfirmed, needs more investigation. But lots of reports.”
That warning turned out to be accurate and important.
America First Legal also filed a lawsuit, and in July of 2022, they published documents confirming that my tweet, along with other tweets from other commentators warning women about miscarriages and menstrual damage suffered after mRNA injection, was in the CDC’s “BOLO” email alert to tech companies.4
This global reputational attack proved to be both a heartbreak and an opportunity. My life completely changed. I thought that no one would ever want to hear from me again; but, paradoxically, conservative, libertarian, and independent news outlets and podcasters—a whole world of citizens who cared, as I did, about the Constitution, and about women and babies—sought me out. My life changed even more powerfully when in early 2022, the Pfizer documents were released via court order—the FDA had asked the court to keep them hidden for seventy-five years—and I was prompted by Steve Bannon on his podcast, WarRoom, to organize scientists and physicians into a phalanx of experts to read through the highly technical documents and to write reports explaining what was in them.
I was joined, rather miraculously, by the only person whom I can imagine running such a complex, important undertaking: Amy Kelly, the program director overseeing the dozens and then hundreds and finally thousands of experts who sought to join this historic undertaking. She is also now my company DailyClout’s chief operating officer. A petite, lovely woman with shoulder-length blonde curls like those of a heroine in an Edwardian novella, her steely mind and inexplicably effective organizational genius defy every stereotype. She turned thousands of experts into an unstoppable truth machine, capable of confronting and ultimately overcoming phalanxes and battalions of lies.
At last, 3,250 distinguished doctors and scientists, including pathologists, oncologists, radiologists, cardiologists, sports medicine physicians; registered nurses and nurse practitioners; biologists; lab clinicians; medical fraud investigators; biostatisticians; and other experts joined our project. These experts—all working as volunteers, simply for the sake of real science and medicine, and for the good of humanity—produced what I consider to be some of the most important journalism of our time: the eighty-four reports that reveal that Pfizer committed the greatest crime against humanity in recorded history; with a special focus on destroying the reproductive capacity of human females.5
“As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good in order to bring about this present result,” concludes Joseph, in Genesis 50:20.6 The highest levels of power in this country sought to silence me; yet I was sent by this cancellation on a journey that brought me new friends, new insights, new questions, and the privilege, along with Amy Kelly and these courageous volunteers, of alerting the world to a danger that put humanity itself in jeopardy.
Today Pfizer has lost 89 percent of its manufacturing demand, and at least a substantial portion of humans are going to survive its assault.
What readers will find in this book is a story of a world that changed, bit by bit, into its dark opposite. I am sure it mirrors many of their own stories.
On looking back, I see that I sought to describe three things. First, I wanted simply to be an accurate and reliable witness to a world in a state of degradation and, I hope, also to testify to seeds of its rebirth. In this task, I bore in mind a work by an “ordinary citizen,” a German scholar of French literature, Victor Klemperer, who kept a journal during the descent into barbarism of the Nazi years. It was published as I Will Bear Witness: A Diary of the Nazi Years, 1933–1941.7 When I read that book, I realized how important it was to have such journals, since they record indeed how fascism does not descend overnight, but moment by moment, loss by small loss. I was also very moved by and related to Klemperer’s stance squarely in the ideals of the Enlightenment—in his belief that culture and literature, the ideals of civilization, cannot be abandoned and must ultimately surely save us again. His faith in the ideals of the Enlightenment, and of a civilized culture, heightened his shock and outrage when those ideals were trampled before his eyes. I too feel, as I witness the destruction of our world today in the West, that we must cherish the memories of a civilized and literate society if we are to save one another and rebuild. So, one task I set myself was simply to, as Klemperer did, “bear witness.”
A second theme that drove the writing of this book was my slow-dawning realization that we were not in a normal time of normal bad human politics and normal bad destructive material choices. I realized gradually that the degradation taking place on the material plane simply reflected or manifested a much larger battle—indeed a spiritual battle; one between Good and Evil themselves, and that God—whom till now I hesitated to mention in public—was of course central to what we were witnessing; and He is central, I slowly realized, to whether or not we will survive.
Lastly—relatedly—this book is about how I realized that the pandemic, lockdown, and mandate policies strove to destroy human love, care, and intimacy; that it was human love, care, and intimacy that have saved us, individually and collectively, and that will save us again, if we are to be saved. And I discovered that it is only in human love, care, and intimacy, ultimately, that God lives, and moves in, and rescues, if they are to be rescued, our lives.
Will we live through this? I have concluded, as you will see, that that is up to choices we now make. The attack on humanity is far from over. Pfizer and Moderna may have crashed as stocks, as I write, in August of 2023,8 but on the near horizon are other existential threats to our liberty and survival, ranging from GMO mosquitoes bearing malaria released intentionally in Texas and Louisiana, to arson-set or negligence-enhanced wildfires that are destroying communities in Canada and Maui as I write, to explosive derailments on our transport systems, to grid outages, to attacks on our food supplies, to the rollout of a central bank digital currency worldwide that can track our spending and cut us off for “social credit” violations; to the debanking of dissident voices, such as Dr. Joseph Mercola’s, recently, by Chase Bank.9 A drumbeat of scary stories about scary COVID variants is audible as well.
Most alarming of all is the insistence by our leaders of a global adherence to a WHO framework that supersedes national sovereignty; if that goes through, anything can be done to us.
I have long been predicting that all of this would unfold, around now. My predictions of all these kinds of attacks, which I made in public over the past two years, are all coming true, and not because I am prescient. They are inevitable now based simply enough on my reading of past histories. The bad guys are not done with us. Their goal is still a global feudalism.
Despite these horrors, and these escalating dangers, I think you will find as you read that I believe that we are also are in a time in which we may witness and receive incredible potential blessings—and experience incredibly rapid evolution—depending on what we choose to do; morally, and as humans fighting for humanity.
This is the story of my cancellation, my survival, my witnessing of an all-out attack on humanity, and my stumbling into an awareness of what holds us and upholds us all.
And this is an account of the unseen gifts and energies and presences along our way; the help and resources—especially as they derive from within our own hearts, deeds, and consciences, human actions that apparently call forth angels—that I believe, in spite of it all, still can save us.
CHAPTER ONE
A Lost Small Town
In March 2020, my husband and I moved from South Bronx to a picture- perfect region in the country—the Hudson Valley—memorialized by painters and poets; it was a patchwork of green trees and yellow fields, majestic hillsides, storied waterfalls, and little homesteads dotted picturesquely on the slopes of sleepy hamlets.
Little did I know, when we moved there, that it would provide me with an illustration, in miniature, for the damage that the pandemic (or, shall I say, “the pandemic,” because, as I proved in other analyses, the data on which this story was told, was always compromised and unverifiable) and the reaction to the pandemic—did to our culture, and to our civic life.
And the damage that it did to our hearts.
Towns in our area look like Norman Rockwell paintings: there is Main Street, Millerton. It has a white nineteenth-century church steeple, and the super-cute and foodie-famous Irving Farm New York cafe, with its excellent curated coffee beans. It has a charming antiques mall, a popular pizzeria.
When you drive to Millerton, it looks like you are driving into the heart of archetypal America. Everything that Woody Guthrie songs memorialize, everything of which American soldiers dreamt when they were far away—all that is decent and pure—is to be found in Hudson Valley towns.
It sure looks that way, anyway.
But now I am obliged to maintain a fervent inner monologue, just so I can pleasantly go about my business in the local hardware store, in the local florist, in the post office.
Because an emotional massacre took place in these little towns, across America. And now we are expected to act as if this has never happened at all.
Psychically, though—emotionally—there is blood flowing in the streets. Bodies are stacked up, invisible, in front of the candy stores, the high-end wine stores, the pretty memorials to the World War Two dead; outside the farmers’ market on Saturdays, outside the tapas bars.
So, my quiet, internal mantra, is: “I forgive you.”
I forgive you, Millerton movie theater. Your owner, who was interviewed just before the pandemic, saying lovely things in a local paper about how the revamped theater would enhance the local community, posted a sign in 2021 declaring that only vaccinated people could enter. You needed to really hunt out the fine print to ascertain that you could walk through those doors if you were unvaccinated, but only if you were bearing a negative PCR test.
I forgive the young ladies who worked behind the popcorn counter for telling me that I could not enter further; that I could not sit down with other human beings in my community, to watch a film alongside my neighbors.
I forgive the young ticket-taker for telling me that I had to go back outside, onto the sidewalk; that I could not even stand in the lobby.
I forgive these young people who just wanted jobs and who had to discriminate in the most heinous and scarring of ways—scarring to me, but also to them, no doubt—in order to keep their jobs.
I forgive them. I forgive them for the mortifying scene they were forced to cause.
I forgive the movie theater owner for shouting at me defensively when I questioned this policy.
I forgive the elderly couple in the lobby; the woman who started shrieking at me alarmingly that she was glad of the policy and that she did not want me anywhere near her. I forgive her. I forgive her silent, embarrassed husband for his silence.
I forgive the employee of the Millerton flower shop who demanded of me, the moment I walked in, “Are you vaccinated?”—when I just wanted some nice-looking flowers, some artificial olive branches, perhaps, like those I had seen in a decorating magazine, to arrange in a vase in my study.
I forgive this employee for having to follow a script that must have been set out by the county or by the State for all the small businesses to follow, in some bizarre, coercive methodology, as this out-of-the-blue, un-American and inappropriate question was posed all at once somehow, in store after store, in my little town, and in the nearby towns, and even in New York City, during a certain moment in the bad year of 2021.
I forgive these store owners for stripping me of a great benefit of a free society—the immeasurable gift of liberty, of America: the right to be dreamy, to have some privacy, and to be preoccupied with one’s own thoughts.
I forgive this employee for intruding on my privacy in a way that was startling, ill-mannered, and entirely beside the point, given the fact that she was simply selling flowers, and I was simply trying to buy them.
I forgive her for the way this demand made my adrenaline levels jump, as they do when things are unstable around you. In 2021, you could not tell which employees in which stores would confront you, or with what tone, or when, with that urgent, bullying question—when you happened to wander in, just wanting some toothpaste, or a slice of pizza, or to look at some antiques.
Not expecting an inquisition.
I forgive this flower shop employee for presenting me with this abrupt, invasive question that each time made me, with my clinically diagnosed PTSD from a very old trauma, feel ambushed, violated, and humiliated, all at once. Surely this sense of ambush was felt by trauma survivors everywhere.
Are you vaccinated?
Are you? Vaccinated?
Are you vaccinated?
Are you naked? Are you helpless?
Are you mine? My possession?
The viral clip of the president of international markets at Pfizer, Janine Small, admitting to the European Parliament in October 2022 that the mRNA vaccines were never tested to stop transmission, should have made every one of these moments into sources of deep embarrassment and causes for self-criticism for all those people who inflicted these violations of privacy on others or who excluded in any way their neighbors, their fellow countrymen and women.1
They did so, it is clear now to all, based on arrant nonsense.
But meanwhile, I forgive them. I must. Because otherwise the rage and sorrow would exhaust me to death.
I forgive my neighbor who froze when I hugged her.
I forgive my other neighbor, who told me that she was making homemade soup and fresh bread, and that I could join her to have some, if I was vaccinated. If I was unvaccinated, however, she explained, someday she might consent to walk outdoors with me.
I forgive the monitor—what else could one call him—surely appointed by the local Board of Health, who told me that I could not go inside a church at an adorable outdoor town festival at the tiny forested hamlet of Mount Washington, to see an exhibit, because I was unmasked. I forgive him for the steely look in his eyes as he remained unmoved when I explained that had a serious neurological condition and thus could not wear a mask. I forgive the nervous lady at the table full of trinkets, who had apparently ratted us out to the Board of Health representative, when we were simply browsing outdoors, surrounded by fresh air, on a peaceful June day, our faces uncovered, at her table.
