A Little Spy

Family photo taken in 1973, the year I was trafficked to Germany several times. This was the first communion (Catholic rite of passage) of the daughter of a nephew of my stepfather. She is wearing all white. The after-party was held at my parents' home.

Family photo taken in 1973, the year I was trafficked to Germany several times. This was the first communion (Catholic rite of passage) of the daughter of a nephew of my stepfather. She is wearing all white. The after-party was held at my parents' home.

The challenge was to leave the structure of the present and its triggers behind completely to focus exclusively on the past. Any heightened emotional charge is an indication that the present circumstances have come to invite you to return to the original cause of that charge. The veil of maya - referring to the deceptive nature of the world in the Hindu scriptures - will make everything seem so very real. Arriving in this world, our lives gradually unfold through various circumstances. When trauma occurs, we cannot possibly remain present. Whatever emotional charge needs to be subdued for the sake of survival will rear its head later on in different circumstances, when a subtle or blunt clue will awaken the trauma and the body/mind system launches itself into the story of the past, in the present. 

My charge was terror, and my story was training.

Training in a dirty lab/prison camp in Germany under the auspices of a Nazi doctor. Training in various things. In putting the puzzle pieces together based on what I was forced to learn, I found that I was trained to see physical traits in people and relate them to personality, addictions, tendencies, likes and dislikes. I was taught physiognomy to detect all sorts of things by observing someone. My eyes were pried open and I was made to watch many movies with people doing everything and anything, repeatedly, in different ways. There was a definite order to the scenes by which I started to see that if someone has this kind of nose their penis is likely shaped this way, and if someone has these types of creases under their eyes it is because they just masturbated, and if someone has this type of pallor with that type of hair and that type of belly it is because they are likely a pedophile who prefers boys, and if someone has eyes shaped this way they want to do it hard and rough. A lot of this training had to do with detecting sexual preferences so that I would be better able to please. But there was more. 

I was shown what it meant if the lips were this way or that. The doctor's own lips spoke of shyness, repression and a boyish emotional immaturity. Everything else spoke of his sadism. I was shown scenes and had to guess at the character's weaknesses. At first those weaknesses were easy to see. Then it became more subtle and hard to tell. What is the weakness of someone who smiles a lot? They are insecure. The stories grew ever more complex and the answers harder. The punishments for getting answers wrong was also a kind of training. Breath retention. Splitting. The spirit leaving the body.

This was training for my spirit to enter the body of the man, starting with the doctor who used himself as my guinea pig. Through my intense attunement I should be inside his mind and be with his thoughts at long distance. If upon questioning of my astral visits it turned out that I was wrong, more punishments/training.  

For most of the month or so that I was there, my movement was restricted. I was tied down to sleep, tied down to watch, tied down to be brainwashed, tied down to be experimented on. I learned to relax being tied down, but I could never relax when the other children cried and I could not get up to comfort them. 

I have to spare the reader some of the elements of this training. Suffice it to say that it was the most traumatic experience of my life.

My finals involved more programming so that I would experience strange, physically uncomfortable reactions if I should ever remember the doctor's (extremely ugly) face. I was repeatedly suffocated while being told it was because I was seeing his image. It was strongly suggested that I commit suicide in a particular way should I remember details of the place and procedures. This programming, like most of the training, was done through repetition, starting with a suggestion and increased to a level that the suggestion became an affirmation I would never forget - the B certain to follow A.

I do believe that my talent for creating programs and trainings stems from this this one month intensive, which was every bit the Ph.D. level course. I could appreciate how the structure of my programming made sense to my rational brain. Expansiveness was a survival tool lifting me above the experiences and their results, to look at the deeper systems that seemed even then extremely useful in some way. 

I am writing a book about a healing modality that I've developed. Without my childhood training I would have never mastered the skill to take an idea and pour it into a system that educates through experience. I've created many programs and trainings in these past years as the founder of Liberation Prison Yoga, that have benefited many and are certain to benefit many more. To the degree that everyone is traumatized, everyone will be able to benefit from this healing modality. Apart from teaching, it is my ability to apply this particular talent of creating programs and systematizing the healing work so that it can be effective on a large scale, that I love the most. 

I was returned home from Germany to my parents in Belgium towards the end of that summer in 1972. I remember less of the fourth grade I entered that September than any other school year. I do know that I was transported quite often to Germany that year as the newly minted sex slave to the elite, and also for refinement of my training in the dirty lab. I was given to some top politicians. The one I most vividly remember was reported to have had Nazi ties, even though he gained prominence after the war. He did his best to communicate well with me, speaking simply and enunciating phrases clearly. I learned a lot of the German language from him. I knew him by his first name only - let's say it was Kurt. 

I could not imagine that the American perpetrator who was like a father figure would have anything to do with the horror I had undergone in the dirty lab. The paradise of the Northeastern coast of the U.S. he had shown me stood in stark contrast with the testing and training of the following month.

On one of my trips to Germany, I was surprised to see my own American father figure instead of a German perpetrator. We met in a very official, very elegant building, in a room that had stuffed chairs and no beds. It was slightly confusing that he would see me in the same country where I had been spending so much time, but I expected it was a coincidence. Of course he would take me with him to the U.S. 

It slightly threw me off when one of his first questions was about the prominent German, Kurt. He obviously knew that I had spent time with him. I told myself it was because both men were part of the same network. Somehow my American must have heard. Then he asked me what Kurt's weakness was. 

I said that his weakness was that he sincerely believed that he was a good man. The American instantly smiled, pleased with me. For a brief moment I wondered if he shared my awareness that no man who has sex with children can also be a good man, but I don't believe that is what crossed his mind when he smiled. It was also not a truth I wanted to hold onto while with him, so I attuned myself and reflected the same smile as his, of someone who knows better than that anyone could be truly good. 

The American proceeded to ask about the weakness of another prominent German I had encountered in the past months. He switched to speaking in German with me and looked proud of me when I answered swiftly and fluently. 

The happier he looked, the more uncomfortable I became. I could not marry the extreme opposites I had experienced and ascribe both to him. He had personally taken me to his beautiful homes and educated me about food, clothes, nature, art, sailing, manners and more. He had repeatedly said I belonged in his family, in his class of people. I had not seen him for almost an entire year, certain that we were meeting because he was finally ready to take me with him and make me part of his family. 

"You know, I went through hell since we said good-bye the last time," I ventured, trying to ascertain that he had nothing to do with that hell, while my heart was racing. 

He looked quietly at me, not curious but slightly puzzled. Going what felt like against the natural flow of the meeting, I nervously described the lab and the tortures, as he looked on impassively. A silence followed. When he spoke, he said that I had received this special training so that we would be able to see each other. It was the only way possible way for him to keep me in his life. He smiled. 

I could have easily smiled back. But, when I had been brainwashed, I had vigorously fought through the muck of lies to retain a sense of myself.

"How, as a sex slave to other men, so I can come and tell you about their weaknesses?" I asked, overtaken by the same terror that had held me in its grip in the lab, which caused me to scream instead of speak. 

Immediately the American's mouth's corners turned down in disgust. I was angry, but the strongest feeling was terror over the idea of losing him. Just as I had done mentally during the worst moments in the lab, I asserted myself, but this time loudly. 

"How could you send me to this prison camp with that awful Nazi doctor? He drowned me every time I got a wrong answer. It's a miracle I survived!" I yelled. 

"He did that to make you strong," the American said resolutely, "but I didn't come here to argue."

He got up and headed out. I jumped up and cried "No!" running after him, grabbing his leg. 

"Please don't go. Didn't you come to take me with you? I'll be good, I promise," I cried. 

The American's face was a mask of pure disgust, looking at an annoying thing hanging on his leg. His special project was in ruins, her salty tears staining his pin striped suit.

"Let go of me!" he said sharply. "I never should have given you all the special attention I did. You are worthless, worth only the place life has already given you - the lowest of the low. Now let go!"

I heaved with deep sobs as he left the room, blaming myself for the heartbreak, believing myself to be the worthless thing he claimed. I was so upset that I completely forgot what started this perverted love story in the first place. 

The beginning of the story was that I saw his weakness. I saw his fear of being slow, not understanding. In the beginning of this story I was the cool kid, and he, in his late fifties, had shown me the little boy who got teased, who didn't belong. 

He had spent much time and energy proving to himself that this truth I witnessed in him was false. He had shown me what a big man he was and then sent me away to a prison camp, less to train me than to convince himself that it was I who did not belong. As a social engineer he was largely responsible for maintaining the hierarchy that is all about either belonging or not. He and whomever bought into the brainwashing and programming was in and anyone with a shred of integrity and independence was to be outcast.

The entire power system is set up exactly in this way. Even as more and more independent minds are trying to break through, many of these people end up falling for the power that will be offered them like a carrot on a stick, to tempt them into the group of those who belong, so they can finally find relief from being the outcast. This was the giant set up that led to only one conclusion, that I should blame myself for everything, so I could take on his sense of not belonging and not deserving. As a slave, that was my job. 

My entire life I carried this perpetrator's burden, deep inside believing myself to be unworthy to earn a decent living so that he could feel deserving of his billions, believing myself to be an eternal outsider, not belonging to any group, so that he could feel that he belonged to the family and class into which he was born. 

The healing of this extreme abuse has released much energy inside of me and I feel not only that I belong everywhere, I am finally ready to be truly empowered in every sense of the word, including financially. Yet I feel strongly independent and like it just this way. Any club that wants your soul as the price of admission is from the devil. 





Anneke Lucas