How To Become a Domestic Terrorist
Without even trying. Or actually being one.
If anyone’s going to be charged with domestic terrorism it would be me.
Just look at this subversive title. At first I misspelled it so I wouldn't get thrown off of Twitter. Then I changed my mind.
Just look at all the misinformation I’ve spread over the past six months by writing all these essays.
You will be labeled a domestic terrorist, too, if you share my essays, as I hope you will. Yes, I’m that subversive.
How about those Truckers?
Just ordinary citizens who believe in freedom. What will happen to them? What will happen if we find ourselves in a similar situation? Will we be willing to face the consequences?
Today, Friday the 18th, police have begun arresting the protestors in Ottawa.
The Epoch Times: “Large groups of police, some on horseback and some carrying assault rifles and what appears to be rubber bullet launchers, have begun moving in on protesters in Ottawa, backed up by armored vehicles.” You can see video of it here.
This after protest organizer Chris Barber and fellow leader Tamara Lich were arrested Thursday evening.
On Thursday, interim police chief Steve Bell told reporters that “If [the protestors] do not peacefully leave, we have plans, strategies and tactics to get them to leave.”
Under the Emergencies Act, law enforcement officials have the ability to arrest people for obstruction of roadways and disruptive behavior. Authorities also have the power to seize vehicles, freeze bank accounts, and cancel licenses.
Conveniently, Canada’s parliament cancelled plans for a debate about the implementation of the Emergencies Act, which was scheduled to take place today. If there was any doubt before, preventing parliament from debating the actions the police are now taking turns Justin Trudeau into a full-blown tyrant.
Trudeau claims, “we have heard you,” but he has heard nothing. He refuses to hear. He disdains his own citizens. It’s always the ordinary citizens who suffer the most in any type of war. We have so many wars going on right now.
Incredibly, across the great swath of north America, in what was just a few years ago considered the bastion of democracy, we find that anyone who dares to question the absolute authority of the governments of the United States and of Canada is being labeled a domestic terrorist.
We didn’t ask for this title. We are as far from terrorists as anyone could be—we are the antithesis of terrorism. All we are guilty of is doing our own research, gathering our own information and reaching our own conclusions. We want autonomy over our own bodies. We want to protect our children from corrupt pharmaceutical companies that are forcing a genetic therapy upon us; companies that value human lives only in as much as they can profit from them.
When I was in seventh grade, I had a wonderful science teacher. I wish I could remember his name. He was teaching evolution, and I had to write a report about it. This was quite a quandary since I grew up in a conservative Christian family and my parents’ stance was completely against evolution. More than that, my dad was, at that time, gaining a name internationally as a Christian writer, so it wasn’t an ordinary household by any means.
I told my dad about my problem, and he enthusiastically set about helping me to write a refutation of evolution in favor of creationism. Looking back, I realize my paper had nothing to do with my own beliefs, it was all influenced by my dad. I wasn’t old enough or experienced enough to make up my own mind about such things. That would come years later. However, I learned invaluable lessons about research and writing and about arguing an unpopular position. When the report was finished, I was proud of it. I’d even made meticulous drawings to illustrate my thesis.
I was also terrified. Not only did my report go against what my teacher had taught us, but every single one of my classmates agreed with him. To make matters worse, besides handing in the paper, I had to present it orally.
My dad encouraged me. You can do it, he said. I listened to him because both of my parents practiced what they preached. I had even seen them stand up for their faith in dangerous situations, one of which I will write about at the end of this essay.
And so, swallowing my fear, I stood up in front of the class and presented my report. When some students snickered and expressed derision, the teacher reprimanded them. He congratulated me for my bravery and said he respected my right to disagree. When my report was returned after being graded, it had a big A+ on it.
I very much doubt that would happen today. I would be labeled a white supremacist spreading misinformation and would probably get an F.
All About Philosophy puts it well:
“The popular media often portrays the creation vs. evolution debate as science vs. religion, with creation being religious and evolution being scientific. Unfortunately, if you don't agree with this label, you too are labeled. Regardless of whether you're a creationist or an evolutionist, if you disagree with the stereotype, you're condemned and ‘exposed’ as a religious fanatic who is secretly trying to pass religion off as science or, even worse, trying to disprove science in order to redeem a ridiculous, unscientific, religious worldview.”
The irony is that this absolute requirement to bow down to the State sanctioned Science has now turned into the new, one and only religion. I just wonder how long it will be before the Scientific Inquisition is instated.
I wasn’t too happy to read about Matt Taibbi’s excellent piece Trudeau's Ceausescu moment, since I’d been having the same thoughts and he wrote it first. Rats! Unlike Taibbi, however, I had a personal reason for making the comparison that went back to my childhood.
I cannot help but compare Trudeau to Nikoli Ceausescu, who also started his career as an idealistic charismatic leader but ended up hated for amassing wealth while instigating a reign of terror and poverty on the people of Romania. If you watch Ceausescu’s last speech, you can feel the discontent growing until it becomes a tidal wave sweeping across the crowd. Ceausescu’s face registers incredulity, he cannot believe what is happening. For a moment, he rallies, perhaps thinking that if he just keeps on talking in the powerful tone that served him so well for so long, he will surely overcome the wave and the people will once again do what they are told: bow to his will.
But the image and the words have proved false for too long. The people have suffered enough, and they turn on him.
So, what happened in my childhood to make me think of this? My family had our own encounter with Ceausescu as we traveled through Romania in 1967 when I was eleven years old. In those day, no one could have predicted that some twenty years later, on 25 December 1989, this seemingly indestructible dictator and his wife would be dragged before a firing squad and unceremoniously executed.
At least Trudeau learned something from history. He didn’t try to confront the crowds the way Ceausescu did.
Nonetheless, he is proving to be just as greedy and power hungry. As Dr. Malone observes in his latest newsletter, “Justin Trudeau has become a very wealthy man on his profits from the BioNTech/Pfizer and Moderna vaccines. He is invested heavily in the Canadian company that holds the patents for the lipid nanoparticles. The Canadian government is also profiting nicely off of these companies -from their patent royalties.”
After kneeling to BLM, an organization whose own leaders absconded with the funds, abandoning the people they had promised to serve, Trudeau now vows to do “whatever it takes” to shut down the Freedom Convoy protesters, invoking emergency powers.
It is hard to reconcile this new Trudeau with the leader of 2020 when he said: “While many of us are working from home, there are others—like the truck drivers who are working day and night. So please #ThankATrucker and help them however you can.”
In 2021, Trudeau voiced support for farmers in India who blocked major highways to New Delhi, saying: "Canada will always be there to defend the right of peaceful protest."
But as we’ve come to expect, our leaders can say one thing one day and the opposite the next and we are supposed to go with the flow. Because, as another tyrant, Dr. Anthony Fauci, has so famously imprinted on our minds, “The science can change,” and along with it, apparently, everything else.
Yes, it’s getting bad if Vladimir Putin can mock Biden’s administration for calling itself a democracy when it killed and imprisoned political protesters involved in the Jan. 6 protest/riot. We now find that our very own FBI orchestrated that event, yet of course the State press doesn’t report on that.
You could say our MSM is the new Pravda. The word pravda means truth. So many ironies these days.
At the same time as Trudeau awarded himself unprecedented power, justifying it by accusing Truckers for Freedom and their supporters as domestic terrorists, President Biden’s DHS announced a heightened terrorism threat, justifying it due to election and COVID 'Misinformation.'
It’s almost as if Biden and Trudeau are partners in a macabre dance, following the music in perfect unison, while their countries implode around them.
DHS’s bulletin could have been plagiarized from Ceausescu’s politburo. It states that Americans who seek to “exacerbate societal friction to sow discord and undermine public trust in government institutions” could be labeled as “dissidents and domestic terrorists.”
DHS issued its latest warning due to “an online environment filled with false or misleading narratives and conspiracy theories, and other forms of mis- dis- and mal-information introduced and/or amplified by foreign and domestic threat actors.”
“As COVID-19 restrictions continue to decrease nationwide, increased access to commercial and government facilities and the rising number of mass gatherings could provide increased opportunities for individuals looking to commit acts of violence to do so, often with little or no warning. Meanwhile, COVID-19 mitigation measures – particularly COVID-19 vaccine and mask mandates – have been used by domestic violent extremists to justify violence since 2020 and could continue to inspire these extremists to target government, healthcare, and academic institutions that they associate with those measures.”
No examples of U.S. extremists committing violence because of “vaccine or mask mandates” are cited.
DHS also includes anyone who discusses election integrity and voter fraud as potential threats.
The bulletin states, “Some domestic violent extremists have continued to advocate for violence in response to false or misleading narratives about unsubstantiated election fraud. The months preceding the upcoming 2022 midterm elections could provide additional opportunities for these extremists and other individuals to call for violence directed at democratic institutions, political candidates, party offices, election events, and election workers.”
The narrative is being solidified that no matter how much proof there is to the contrary, the measures inflicted upon us by our governments, such as lockdowns, masks and vaccine mandates have worked. The vaccines themselves are a great success! It is precisely because of these mandates and the marvelous vaccines that they are now allowing us this window of freedom. We should thank our benevolent leaders instead of questioning them.
Dr. Rochelle Walensky wants us to know that at any time they can reinstate these draconian measures. Just look at the careful language in her statement:
The CDC wants to 'GIVE PEOPLE A BREAK' from mask wearing and then 'REACH FOR THEM AGAIN' should things worsen. The CDC is assessing data and "WILL SOON PUT GUIDANCE IN PLACE."
If such policies become laws, it will be illegal to disobey them.
The stage has been set for the next act.
In 1967, my family did a crazy thing. We smuggled Bibles into Romania. This was a serious crime. In fact, it was an act of terrorism. My parents could have been imprisoned for it. At the age of ten, I had firsthand experience of what it felt like, as an insignificant nobody, to defy the full power of a totalitarian regime.
When my family braced itself to enter the Iron Curtain, we knew exactly who we were and why we did it. We were God’s servants standing against the forces of Satan. The Bibles we carried were precious and worth the danger of bringing them to my dad’s contact.
We’d been given the Bibles by Brother Andrew, whose book God’s Smuggler went on to sell over 10 million copies. Brother Andrew was from the Netherlands just like my Mennonite mother. Earlier in the year, we’d traveled to the Netherlands and spent time with Brother Andrew. He and my dad hit it off immediately. Both men loved nothing more than to court adventure and controversy. In fact, they laughed together about how they’d dreamed of being spies in their youth. By the end of our stay, Dad had committed our family to smuggling a suitcase full of Bibles.
And that was how we found ourselves embarking on our dangerous mission.
“They’re in the brown suitcase.” Dad pointed to a nondescript suitcase that looked like it had seen better days. “At every border crossing we’ll pray, and God will answer our prayers. This is a wonderful opportunity to learn to trust in Him.”
Dad patted the drab and well-used suitcase, packed into the middle of all the others. He gave each of us kids a good, long stare. “See? Here it is, plain as day. We aren’t smuggling anything. But just to be on the safe side, don’t talk about the Bibles or the suitcase, not even in our hotel rooms. Understand?”
I nodded my head along with everyone else when, in fact, I wanted to scream, that’s not making me feel any better, saying we’re not smuggling and then telling us we can’t talk about the Bibles—not even in private!
As we approached the first border crossing into Bulgaria, Dad stopped the car and prayed, just as he said he would, that the Lord would blind the eyes of the guards. This became a ritual before each crossing and checkpoint. Once, when we unexpectedly arrived at a surprise checkpoint, my dad actually backed the car up and parked so he could pray. Surely this looked suspicious, I thought. But we made it through without difficulty.
With the passing of each border and checkpoint, relief always drenched me in an exaggerated feeling of well-being. It was great to be alive, it was great to be here, I loved this country, I would never doubt again. Glory hallelujah!
I forgot about how how much I honestly just wished the Bibles would disappear, pleasantly surprised to see that the communist countryside was as lovely as any place we had been in the West, with forests just as lush and green, fields covered in wildflowers, and friendly people, the women dressed in long skirts and kerchiefs.
When we reached the towns, we began to see reminders of the people's “liberation” with the ever-present monument to the Soviet Soldier. We came to expect the many check points where we had to show our papers, or sometimes simply a man standing on a street corner who jotted down our license plate and time of passing. In every hotel and even in private homes, we were automatically registered with the police.
As we neared the border crossing into Romania, my fears grew in magnitude. The dour guards made the familiar and dreaded demand that we all get out. They searched our van from top to bottom and as they did, I became increasingly nervous. My stomach was in knots, and it took all my self-control not to throw up.
Just look normal, I kept telling myself.
They brought a special device to check in the tires, for what, I couldn’t imagine. A guard asked for my mom’s purse, shook out everything and tore out the lining of her purse. What he was looking for was a mystery. Then came the worst moment, the moment we always dreaded. Dad was commanded to open the back of the van. He did.
The guard motioned for my dad to take out all of our luggage. Then, to my intense horror, the guard proceeded to systematically open each one.
That was it. I knew I was going to die. I looked at my older sister, Janna. She didn’t look back but continued to watch bravely as the guard threw clothes onto the ground.
Then, the worst thing happened. My younger brother Jon, who was only seven, ran up to Dad and demanded in his loudest voice, “Did he look in the brown suitcase yet?”
We all froze.
The guard stopped his searching. “Brown suitcase?”
He then turned to the pile of suitcases and reached down to pull one out. That moment of reaching was an eternity. And then, it was all I could not to scream and cry in relief. He had grabbed the other brown suitcase, the one that didn’t have Bibles. He proceeded to inspect every item in the suitcase before discarding it in disgust.
The guard nodded at us to put the suitcases back and we hurried to clean up the mess and replace them. Nobody said a word until we were through the checkpoint and into Romania.
Then, the interior of the van erupted into whoops of happiness and relief. We had made it into the country where Dad would meet his contact. We didn’t have to cross any more borders. The incredible thing was that not once at any of the border crossing did a guard ever look in that brown suitcase. At some point, they looked in all of the others.
Romania seemed somehow darker and more oppressive than the other countries. Mom commented in the journal she kept that the people were the dourest we had ever encountered. The fact that the sunny skies grew dark with rain might have affected our perception. The rain quickly turned into a driving thunderstorm and Dad carefully navigated the slippery road, where we saw a terrible accident, a truck that had crashed over a steep embankment. Passing through the villages we noticed the houses were all set in perfectly symmetrical rows, each front richly carved and painted, while the other sides were drab and bare. It was like a creepy movie set, not real somehow.
The deeper we progressed into the country, the more oppressive our feelings grew. It was horrible to think that these people lived like this every day of their lives. They could never fully trust their friends and family. At any moment, they might be betrayed by someone who claimed to love them.
Late one night, we finally found a private home to stay near to Count Dracula’s castle. We hadn’t eaten any supper and the couple made us some tea. Mom passed out pieces of Swiss chocolate and I miserably thought that I just might die of starvation.
Appropriately, the next day we visited the castle of Vlad Tepes, of Count Dracula fame, imagining the thousands of stakes driven into the ground and the bodies impaled upon them. Vlad might have inspired modern stories of vampires, but to the people of this land he was a hero who had fought for their independence from the Turks. One person’s hell can well be another’s heaven.
“And then, everything’s so beautiful,” I said.
“Yeah, but in a devil way,” said Janna, her green eyes large and hypnotic. “Just watch out for vampires. They’re here, I can feel it.”
I shivered. My sister loved to frighten me. She was such a good storyteller, and I was such a good listener.
The legends of Count Dracula cast a spell upon us as we drove through the Carpathian Alps, the forests forbidding and mysterious, the grassy valleys so shining green it almost hurt my eyes to look at them.
Ceausescu happened to be making a tour through the towns and villages just as we were heading through the countryside, along a narrow road. He and his entourage were right in front of us, and it was slow going, as traffic was held back. Each village we entered, we saw evidence of the great leader’s passage, flowers trampled in the streets, banners hanging in disarray, the decorations on houses being removed. We continually arrived at the end of the show. Nowhere did we see signs of joy or continued festivities. It was an eerie feeling.
At last, we made it to Bucharest. We drove in dreaded silence along the wide empty boulevards past Palace Square. I pressed my face against the glass of the car window, looking out at the austere, authoritarian buildings made of cold stone.
We all know now what would happen to Ceausescu. But in those days, the powerful couple basked in glory, with no premonition that one day their greed and corruption would unleash a bloody revolution and they would die in disgrace.
Those future events were but whispers beneath the surface. All seemed solid and built to last forever. Monuments of vengeful soldiers towered over us, celebrating the Glorious Deliverance. We passed few cars on the wide avenues or pedestrians on the sidewalks. It was all so foreboding, so constrictive, making me feel as if I could not breathe but there was no obvious illness or object blocking my airways. This was a futuristic city straight out of a dystopian novel, but it was right now, right here.
This was where Dad would meet his contact and it seemed fitting that it should be such a soulless and imposing metropolis.
Dad had memorized the street number of his contact as it was too dangerous to have anything written down. We’d been warned that a journalist had written an article in an American magazine about a Christian leader’s activities here without naming him, but it hadn’t mattered. The man had been picked up and had disappeared.
My parents had asked on several occasions for a map of the city and found that there were no maps available to tourists. In fact, our asking was treated with suspicion, as if we must be planning some kind of covert operation. Which I guess we were. Several times Dad got out of the car to seek help from pedestrians. Each of them looked shocked at being approached, darting furtive looks left and right as they scurried silently on. One or two paused long enough to give short, mumbled responses that meant nothing to us, before rushing away.
We began to feel desperate. Because the streets were so empty of vehicles, we stood out as if we were under a spotlight on center stage. We might as well have had neon lights flashing on our van and a loudspeaker blaring: Subversive activity happening here; come and arrest us! We didn’t dare keep driving around and around, attracting attention to ourselves.
Finally, I don’t remember how, we found the drop off location, the streetlamps casting a pale light in the falling rain. We watched with trepidation as Dad walked down the sidewalk, the brown suitcase in hand. Perhaps it would be the last time I’d ever see my father. I imprinted an image in my brain of him disappearing into the gloom of the night, hunched over in the interminable rain, his coat slick with water, that horrible brown suitcase held tightly in his hand. Then Mom drove us off for some “sightseeing,” which was a joke since it was now a miserable, rainy night and there was nothing much to see anyway.
Tears stung my eyes. I was angry with my dad for doing such a crazy thing. He didn’t need to. It was just one suitcase of Bibles. How could it possibly make a difference anyway? What would happen if my dad disappeared? Our family couldn’t survive without him.
We came back an hour later to find Dad waiting for us. I was so relieved, I didn’t immediately realize that he was still holding the suitcase. I could feel anxiety emanating from my dad, but no one dared ask why he still had the suitcase. He put it back in the car, climbed into the driver’s seat and took off, looking this way and that.
“No one was there,” he said tersely. “I hope no one was following me.”
He would say nothing more.
Once we returned to Austria, we discovered that just days before our arrival in Romania, my dad’s contact had been bought out of the country for $7,000. This man had been a pastor and the director of a Romanian seminary. When the communists took over, he'd been demoted to janitor. The teachers at the seminary had been fired, some of them imprisoned. They'd been replaced by government workers who had tormented and abused the newly appointed janitor on a daily basis. The situation had become increasingly dangerous for him.
As we drove away, we knew none of this. After all, there were no cell phones in those days, no internet! For all we knew, the pastor had been imprisoned. I should have been concerned about him. Instead, all I could think of was that we were still stuck with the blasted Bibles. So much for God’s will! We'd traveled such a long distance, braved so many searches and interrogations. It was like God was playing a joke on us. Why would he do that?
I can’t think of many experiences in my life that were more disappointing and terrifying than that night in Bucharest.
Now, my dad had to come up with a new plan of how to dispose of the Bibles. He decided that we would hand them out randomly to people who might want them. God would lead us to give them to the right people. I hated this idea, but of course I couldn’t object. Honestly, I wished we could just ditch them by the side of the road.
Once my dad had a plan of action, his spirits rallied. “This must have been God’s will all along,” he said. “We can’t see the big picture. But God can. He knows exactly where these Bibles need to be.”
Handing out the Bibles opened doors to a world we wouldn’t have otherwise seen. One old man cried when we gave him a Bible. He didn't speak English, but he didn’t need to. Words weren't necessary to convey his feelings of gratitude and joy. A young man, an intellectual who wasn't a Christian, took a Bible out of curiosity. He promised to read it when he got to the countryside where he was being sent to work on a farm.
Another family led us to a secret meeting place, and we joined a worship service. When we revealed the Bibles, it was as if we had opened a treasure chest of gold and jewels. We were invited to the home of the pastor and shared a meal with his family. These families lived in drab apartment buildings, in dark, tiny spaces, yet they seemed so happy and thankful of every little joy that came their way.
My dad decided to give the rest of the Bibles to the pastor of that church. At last, the Bibles were gone. That horrible brown suitcase was empty.
We were relieved to make it into Yugoslavia, a place that seemed much freer than the other communist countries we had visited. And once we made it to Austria that sense of freedom was magnified. I had witnessed with my own eyes the oppression, the heaviness of totalitarian regimes. The fear they imposed. And I had seen the joy in people’s eyes as we gave them Bibles. I couldn’t imagine living in a place where I couldn’t read what I wanted.
American had its problems in those days, but nothing like Romania. At least in America, if you didn’t agree with something you could stand up and say so. You could even make fun of the president if you wanted to.
I have recently returned to the United States after having lived in Luxor, Egypt, off and on for almost three years. I was stuck there for four months during the pandemic and actually helped a friend escape from a mob of violent men on the way to the airport. Despite some crazy adventures, I loved living there for reasons too complex to discuss here. It was illuminating to live in a place ruled by religious extremism. I was told outright by my Egyptian friends, if a person denies Islam, they will be killed. No one dares to defy the rules. Religion dictates every aspect of people’s lives. Outward expressions of rebellion are rare and are stamped out quickly. Freedom does not exist in Egypt, especially not for women.
This oppression that people inflict on one another has been going on forever. We look at the Iron Curtain as a thing of the past, and Egypt as a country still living in the past. But how are either of these examples different from what we are experiencing now? Good citizens the world over have always followed the orders of their pundits and politicians, no matter the culture, no matter the religion. Those who opposed the status quo were labeled dangerous deviants.
And now, domestic terrorists.
If history has taught us anything, it’s that we don’t pay enough attention to it. It would be nice to believe that the Truckers will win. That Joe Biden, Anthony Fauci, Boris Johnson, Jacinda Ardern, the list goes one and one, will be exposed. But what is happening now is unprecedented. Since when has there ever been such a united group of tyrants worldwide, all saying the same thing in perfect unison?
I imagine the rest of these monsters are looking to Trudeau with great interest to see how his bid for power will play out. They are cheering him on—but cautiously, because while they are on the same team, they jostle for power amongst themselves. Who will come out on top and be the most feared and powerful dictator of them all?
Justin Trudeau sure is trying hard:
Compare his words to those of President Lincoln. When faced with a civil war, Lincoln could have used the opportunity to rouse the nation with anthems of “God’s Justice,” and “God is on our side,” as our leaders now invoke “The Science.” He instead chose these words, comparing the two sides:
“Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes his aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God’s assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s faces, but let us judge not, that we be not judged.”
As we now face the rise of dictatorships in our own countries and the prospect of being condemned as domestic terrorists simply for objecting to it, I think of those ordinary folks in Bucharest who cried tears of joy for receiving those Bibles. It seems like such a small thing. Why would the regime deem Bibles so dangerous? Because faith in anything other than the State was dangerous. Free thought was dangerous. Information was dangerous.
It is no different now. I might have had frightening experiences in Egypt and honestly, Islam, might not be my favorite religion, but if I believe in freedom, I have to gladly accept everyone’s right to believe how they wish. What I don’t have to accept is anyone imposing their faith on me.
If that makes me a domestic terrorist, so be it. Please join me in proudly standing for freedom.
And what about that brown suitcase? Did God really blind the eyes of the guards? I’d be interested to know what my readers think.
I give special thanks to my mom for keeping a journal of our travels. She loved history and because of her accurate journal, I am able to give dates and details I wouldn’t otherwise remember.