A Modern Kidnapping on U.S. Soil

Dr Ingrid Rimland Zundel – Veterans Today July 24, 2011

By the time the New Millennium rolled around, Ernst Zundel and I had been engaged for several years in a precarious but emotionally rewarding battle for Freedom of Speech, so poignantly described by Dr. Robert Faurisson, acknowledged “Dean of the Holocaust Deniers” world-wide, as “…. the great intellectual adventure at the end of the Twentieth Century.”

We saw ourselves as Europeans of the classical tradition – pure at heart, splendidly accurate in what science had discovered, engaged in a noble endeavor, determined to win at all costs. That our rivals shrieked like banshees about to be castrated whenever we challenged the hoary argument of the “six million” did not matter to us, in the beginning.

We were used to be shrieked at – to be called all kinds of nasty names. Name-calling came with the terrain where even the bravest tread gingerly, as you do in a minefield that a hitherto unopposed enemy has strewn with explosives. We told ourselves that sometimes freedom is expensive. That was the price to be paid so that the people of the Western nations could breathe freely again and not have to look over their shoulder.

Twelve years ago, Fred Leuchter, dispatched by Ernst in the middle of his Second Great Holocaust Trial in Toronto, had gone to Auschwitz, looking for holes in the ceiling through which the hapless Jews, so untold Holocaust Survivors claimed, had been murdered with Zyklon B, by the millions. Fred didn’t find what he had expected to find – and Dr. Faurisson, that master of exactitude, coined four immortal words:

“No holes, no Holocaust.”

Instead, Fred found enormous holes in the traditional account of what was alleged to have happened.

It was a buoyant time. T-Shirt appeared, bumper stickers, cartoons, posters, articles. More articles. And yet more articles. All claiming victory. Forensic science had made mincemeat of a nauseating tale –but there was still no end to arguments. And why? Because out of the woodwork came scores of Chosenites who shrieked, as they had always shrieked: “You no-good effing racists! Prove it!”

We thought we had. What were they – dense? Bloated like ticks with false information? We didn’t realize, at first, this was war of a different kind – NOT war like any other war that had so far been fought!

After the Leuchter Expedition, filmed every millimeter for posterity, Ernst certainly thought that the battle was over. I remember I asked him at the time what else there was to be done, and he said: “Mopping up!”

Holocaust revisionism had reached a plateau – maybe some mopping up was needed, some polishing of arguments, defining terms, buffing statistics? You could argue numbers, or footnotes, or splitting yet another hair five ways – but, as I used to say when I came aboard in 1994, “Do you need to swallow a camel to know what a cutlet tastes like …?”

Both Ernst and I agreed that the Auschwitz details were grindingly boring after the main dispute was settled by forensic science. When one discovers after prodigious detective work that one single murder alleged to have happened did not, in fact, happen as claimed – what do you do? You try to nail down the liar and call his story bluff.

And you expect the relatives to be delighted – not turn on you and call you names. Right? Wrong. Not if you are collecting insurance on a so-called crime that never was.

We found ourselves in a strange bind. It is a platitude to say you cannot “prove” a negative. No murders by gassing had happened. We knew that much. That those who had a stake in claiming what they did would argue otherwise is understandable because a great deal was at stake. Who wants to be defrocked and shown up as a liar and a fraud?

Ernst’s hard-fought-for scientific victory slipped through his fingers like drops of mercury. I don’t think many realized why.

We all agreed that a gigantic fraud had been committed, but then – why preen oneself on one’s political “neutrality”? Why share our dearly bought platform with fraudsters, inviting our deadly enemies to speak at our conventions to make sure every obscure argument could still be aired for them? Why always cover both sides of the issues? There were no two issues.  There were no two sides. Science had spoken. That should have been enough.

A book needs to be written, a song be composed, a film needs to happen to explain why gentiles start squirming like spinsters the moment some oaf starts to call us some names.

That’s our Achilles Heel. We cannot bear to have our spirit impugned – we’d rather smooch with our deadly foes and fawn over their falsehoods and deceptions. Let not our neighbor think we might be “antisemites”, ohmygod!

That’s why there was never a draw. In fact, the war heated up.

Ernst and I chafed under the appalling situation inside Germany. Sack cloth and ashes for our blood relations – a Nobel Prize for Elie Wiesel who, to this day, insists he has a tattoo on his forearm that nobody has ever inspected. “I don’t like to expose my body,” he says.

As we began to realize, the Leuchter findings were not the end result. The were merely a means to an end – meaning: Lifting the guilt from our pathologically guilt-ridden brothers and sisters who had NOT gassed six million Jews, who had not even dreamed of such a grotesque idea – but who meekly agreed that they had.

THAT was the task at hand – regardless of how often and how pathetically that trickster, Elie Wiesel, moaned about smoke coming out of postwar-reconstructed chimneys, as admitted by Auschwitz curator Dr. Franciszek Piper to one of Ernst’s young Jewish friends who put on his yarmulke and got Piper to admit it on tape. That chimney had been “reconstructed.” As David Irving put it: “I’d like to hav e some ‘reconstructed’ money…”

I speak of disenchantment. I do not mean to minimize our Revisionist comrades’ research. They had done a magnificent job, putting nail after nail in the Holocaust coffin. That tiny handful of revisionists all over the world had demolished a gargantuan swindle – yet all that exacting labor for naught? If yet another Chosenite appeared and shrieked at them that they were Nazis, Racists, White Supremacists, the absolute scum of the earth – why, they would fall all over themselves to find additional data, more charts, more detailed footnotes, yet more and more obscure quotations –the better if it came straight from the horse’s mouth!

“All our mannerly pals need”, was my refrain to Ernst, impatient with the direction of Holocaust Revisionism, “is ear locks.”

Look, once upon a time I wrote a dissertation. I know where footnotes come from. I am with David Irving on that issue also – what is the point of quoting each other, or worse, quote yet another professional “survivor” who grins right in your face while lying through his teeth? How often do you have to dig up yet another archeological site and come up with yet another formless shard? What is the point of all that effort, all that sweat, all that money in bringing to the fore the evidence of criminal behavior – and keep on toadying up to the criminal?

Both Ernst and I felt that a course correction was called for.

I was still living in San Diego. Ernst ran his outreach operation from Toronto. That once pristine realm called Canada, asleep at the switch for too many years, by then was mired in a political cesspool, thanks to a bunch of Marxists of the reddest dye who palmed themselves off as Human Rights crusaders. They even had the gall, to my chagrin, to finger and attack my nascent website, baptized ”The Zundelsite”.

One thing led to another. We knew we did not need to be at the receiving end of endless unjust slander. There was no point in arguing what had already been argued to exhaustion. All the crucial information on the Hoax was neatly parked in cyber space, and folks with eyes to see and ears to hear could find out what we said – and didn’t say – about Auschwitz.

What I am telling you is that both Ernst and I essentially withdrew from the original “denial” battlefield. We were looking for a different venue where we could be pro-active. We wanted to find Spartans of the Spirit who would roll up their sleeves and map out where we needed to go.

After Y2K came and went and the world did not come to an end, our world together began.

We had no idea we were being stalked. My spouse is a romantic fellow, of a caressing warmth. He had made me a bench high up on our hill for my birthday, with a heart in the middle and a breathtaking view of the National Park called the Smokies. Up there, it was peaceful and heavenly quiet. No ARAs to plague us. No fire bugs to burn up Zundel’s house. We both are introspective souls, and we enjoyed our silences as much as we enjoyed our vigorous discussions. We wanted to regroup.

Yet every once in a while, Ernst would say quietly: “Every day is precious. Every day.” And one day, he added: “I know it will not last.”

I said that that was defeatist talk. He just took my hand, looking stubborn.

Onother day we drove to Maryville, a nearby town. There was a stoplight next to a prison. As we were waiting for the light to change, Ernst said while staring straight ahead: “That’s where I’ll end up. You’ll see.”

I hated that. I said: “Whatever do you mean? You haven’t done anything wrong. You are here legally. You are my husband. I am a US citizen. We have applied for a green card and have been tentatively approved. We are in the telephone book. It’s not as if you are some scruffy wetback from Mexico. They can just haul you into some dungeon, with nobody any the wiser!”

Once we came back from our morning walk, and there stood a girl by our driveway. With a camera. She turned her back to us as we passed by. There was no reason for her to be there, and to this day I scold myself that we did not confront her and ask what she thought she was doing.

We very seldom watched TV, so we missed the 9/11 morning drama until our meter man told us. Later, we were sitting in the kitchen, stuffing letters for our supporters. An iron fist got hold of my heart, and I could feel my face getting hot. After what seemed an eternity, Ernst said in a voice that was not his voice:

“That was a coup. Henceforth, this will no longer be a kinder, gentler nation.”

Ernst is a horse-and-buggy man. He has never, to this day, sent an email. He wouldn’t know what to do with a website. I used to run off articles for him that he would read at breakfast.

On the other hand, and this needs to be said and understood, Ernst has an infallible radar for things that are not of this world – that are, to use a fancy term, preternatural. I have often heard him say: “Why do I know these things? Where does this knowledge come from?”

About two weeks after the attack, Ernst started brooding on “the dust.” He used to ask three, four times a day: “Why so much dust? Somebody ought to analyze that dust…”

He talked about the dust, again and again, weeks and then months after the Twin Towers shattered.

He knew instinctively that there was something wrong with the official story – this long before there was a 9/11 Commission, before there were suspicious citizens groups, years before there was aggressive alternative media.

I printed out an article. It was written by “Anonymous” who blamed the Chosenites. Recall that, in the early days, all talk was of the Arabs. Today we know who wrote that lengthy, meticulously researched essay – a fellow by the name of Albert D. Pastore, Ph.D. But then, we didn’t know – and neither did the New World Order guys who somehow got wind of what Zundel had read.

Not written, mind you! Merely read! Not even officially published. Ernst merely ran off some 50 or so copies amid the clutter in our garage on our second-hand copier, gave it a blue cover, and sent it to some friends.

Ernst kept obsessing on “the dust.” It was at hand to think of Fred Leuchter, whom Ernst had sent to Auschwitz as a forensic sleuth, and who might be enticed, Ernst told me casually, to go and see if there was something he might find that would explain “the dust”.

Maybe our phone was bugged. Maybe Ernst sent that booklet to Fred – and maybe it was intercepted. He doesn’t remember he did, and I don’t recall details either.

Somebody must have clear freaked out. Remember the collapse of the official Holotale right in the court room in Toronto in 1988? Was Zundel unto something again? He had that reputation.

Several years later, after Ernst had already been taken into custody, a friend of ours who is a European diplomat with contacts within the UN, called me one merry morning and told me: “It was the blue booklet that did it!”

“They kept watching him,” explained our friend. “After you guys moved to the hills of Tennessee, they watched him. They were biding their time. When Ernst published that blue booklet, that was the last straw! That’s when it was decided to take him out for good.”

“Who decided?”

“Somebody at the State Department. At the highest level.”

“Who? At what ‘highest level’”?

“At the VERY highest level,” our friend told me, and that is all he ever said to me, though I pushed him and pushed him for details.

“Colin Powell? Dick Cheney? Maybe even Bush? Who?”

He wouldn’t say. He hasn’t told me to this day. He only added: “I have already said too much.”

You be the judge as to how it was done. Here are a few of the documents I have since secured and squirreled away. You judge for yourself what went on.

We had no idea we were being stalked. My spouse is a romantic fellow, of a caressing warmth. He had made me a bench high up on our hill for my birthday, with a heart in the middle and a breathtaking view of the National Park called the Smokies. Up there, it was peaceful and heavenly quiet. No ARAs to plague us. No fire bugs to burn up Zundel’s house. We both are introspective souls, and we enjoyed our silences as much as we enjoyed our vigorous discussions. We wanted to regroup.

Yet every once in a while, Ernst would say quietly: “Every day is precious. Every day.” And one day, he added: “I know it will not last.”

I said that that was defeatist talk. He just took my hand, looking stubborn.

Onother day we drove to Maryville, a nearby town. There was a stoplight next to a prison. As we were waiting for the light to change, Ernst said while staring straight ahead: “That’s where I’ll end up. You’ll see.”

I hated that. I said: “Whatever do you mean? You haven’t done anything wrong. You are here legally. You are my husband. I am a US citizen. We have applied for a green card and have been tentatively approved. We are in the telephone book. It’s not as if you are some scruffy wetback from Mexico. They can just haul you into some dungeon, with nobody any the wiser!”

Once we came back from our morning walk, and there stood a girl by our driveway. With a camera. She turned her back to us as we passed by. There was no reason for her to be there, and to this day I scold myself that we did not confront her and ask what she thought she was doing.

We very seldom watched TV, so we missed the 9/11 morning drama until our meter man told us. Later, we were sitting in the kitchen, stuffing letters for our supporters. An iron fist got hold of my heart, and I could feel my face getting hot. After what seemed an eternity, Ernst said in a voice that was not his voice:

“That was a coup. Henceforth, this will no longer be a kinder, gentler nation.”

Ernst is a horse-and-buggy man. He has never, to this day, sent an email. He wouldn’t know what to do with a website. I used to run off articles for him that he would read at breakfast.

On the other hand, and this needs to be said and understood, Ernst has an infallible radar for things that are not of this world – that are, to use a fancy term, preternatural. I have often heard him say: “Why do I know these things? Where does this knowledge come from?”

About two weeks after the attack, Ernst started brooding on “the dust.” He used to ask three, four times a day: “Why so much dust? Somebody ought to analyze that dust…”

He talked about the dust, again and again, weeks and then months after the Twin Towers shattered.

He knew instinctively that there was something wrong with the official story – this long before there was a 9/11 Commission, before there were suspicious citizens groups, years before there was aggressive alternative media.

I printed out an article. It was written by “Anonymous” who blamed the Chosenites. Recall that, in the early days, all talk was of the Arabs. Today we know who wrote that lengthy, meticulously researched essay – a fellow by the name of Albert D. Pastore, Ph.D. But then, we didn’t know – and neither did the New World Order guys who somehow got wind of what Zundel had read.

Not written, mind you! Merely read! Not even officially published. Ernst merely ran off some 50 or so copies amid the clutter in our garage on our second-hand copier, gave it a blue cover, and sent it to some friends.

Ernst kept obsessing on “the dust.” It was at hand to think of Fred Leuchter, whom Ernst had sent to Auschwitz as a forensic sleuth, and who might be enticed, Ernst told me casually, to go and see if there was something he might find that would explain “the dust”.

Maybe our phone was bugged. Maybe Ernst sent that booklet to Fred – and maybe it was intercepted. He doesn’t remember he did, and I don’t recall details either.

Somebody must have clear freaked out. Remember the collapse of the official Holotale right in the court room in Toronto in 1988? Was Zundel unto something again? He had that reputation.

Several years later, after Ernst had already been taken into custody, a friend of ours who is a European diplomat with contacts within the UN, called me one merry morning and told me: “It was the blue booklet that did it!”

“They kept watching him,” explained our friend. “After you guys moved to the hills of Tennessee, they watched him. They were biding their time. When Ernst published that blue booklet, that was the last straw! That’s when it was decided to take him out for good.”

“Who decided?”

“Somebody at the State Department. At the highest level.”

“Who? At what ‘highest level’”?

“At the VERY highest level,” our friend told me, and that is all he ever said to me, though I pushed him and pushed him for details.

“Colin Powell? Dick Cheney? Maybe even Bush? Who?”

He wouldn’t say. He hasn’t told me to this day. He only added: “I have already said too much.”

You be the judge as to how it was done. Here are a few of the documents I have since secured and squirreled away. You judge for yourself what went on.

We had no idea we were being stalked. My spouse is a romantic fellow, of a caressing warmth. He had made me a bench high up on our hill for my birthday, with a heart in the middle and a breathtaking view of the National Park called the Smokies. Up there, it was peaceful and heavenly quiet. No ARAs to plague us. No fire bugs to burn up Zundel’s house. We both are introspective souls, and we enjoyed our silences as much as we enjoyed our vigorous discussions. We wanted to regroup.

Yet every once in a while, Ernst would say quietly: “Every day is precious. Every day.” And one day, he added: “I know it will not last.”

I said that that was defeatist talk. He just took my hand, looking stubborn.

Onother day we drove to Maryville, a nearby town. There was a stoplight next to a prison. As we were waiting for the light to change, Ernst said while staring straight ahead: “That’s where I’ll end up. You’ll see.”

I hated that. I said: “Whatever do you mean? You haven’t done anything wrong. You are here legally. You are my husband. I am a US citizen. We have applied for a green card and have been tentatively approved. We are in the telephone book. It’s not as if you are some scruffy wetback from Mexico. They can just haul you into some dungeon, with nobody any the wiser!”

Once we came back from our morning walk, and there stood a girl by our driveway. With a camera. She turned her back to us as we passed by. There was no reason for her to be there, and to this day I scold myself that we did not confront her and ask what she thought she was doing.

We very seldom watched TV, so we missed the 9/11 morning drama until our meter man told us. Later, we were sitting in the kitchen, stuffing letters for our supporters. An iron fist got hold of my heart, and I could feel my face getting hot. After what seemed an eternity, Ernst said in a voice that was not his voice:

“That was a coup. Henceforth, this will no longer be a kinder, gentler nation.”

Ernst is a horse-and-buggy man. He has never, to this day, sent an email. He wouldn’t know what to do with a website. I used to run off articles for him that he would read at breakfast.

On the other hand, and this needs to be said and understood, Ernst has an infallible radar for things that are not of this world – that are, to use a fancy term, preternatural. I have often heard him say: “Why do I know these things? Where does this knowledge come from?”

About two weeks after the attack, Ernst started brooding on “the dust.” He used to ask three, four times a day: “Why so much dust? Somebody ought to analyze that dust…”

He talked about the dust, again and again, weeks and then months after the Twin Towers shattered.

He knew instinctively that there was something wrong with the official story – this long before there was a 9/11 Commission, before there were suspicious citizens groups, years before there was aggressive alternative media.

I printed out an article. It was written by “Anonymous” who blamed the Chosenites. Recall that, in the early days, all talk was of the Arabs. Today we know who wrote that lengthy, meticulously researched essay – a fellow by the name of Albert D. Pastore, Ph.D. But then, we didn’t know – and neither did the New World Order guys who somehow got wind of what Zundel had read.

Not written, mind you! Merely read! Not even officially published. Ernst merely ran off some 50 or so copies amid the clutter in our garage on our second-hand copier, gave it a blue cover, and sent it to some friends.

Ernst kept obsessing on “the dust.” It was at hand to think of Fred Leuchter, whom Ernst had sent to Auschwitz as a forensic sleuth, and who might be enticed, Ernst told me casually, to go and see if there was something he might find that would explain “the dust”.

Maybe our phone was bugged. Maybe Ernst sent that booklet to Fred – and maybe it was intercepted. He doesn’t remember he did, and I don’t recall details either.

Somebody must have clear freaked out. Remember the collapse of the official Holotale right in the court room in Toronto in 1988? Was Zundel unto something again? He had that reputation.

Several years later, after Ernst had already been taken into custody, a friend of ours who is a European diplomat with contacts within the UN, called me one merry morning and told me: “It was the blue booklet that did it!”

“They kept watching him,” explained our friend. “After you guys moved to the hills of Tennessee, they watched him. They were biding their time. When Ernst published that blue booklet, that was the last straw! That’s when it was decided to take him out for good.”

“Who decided?”

“Somebody at the State Department. At the highest level.”

“Who? At what ‘highest level’”?

“At the VERY highest level,” our friend told me, and that is all he ever said to me, though I pushed him and pushed him for details.

“Colin Powell? Dick Cheney? Maybe even Bush? Who?”

He wouldn’t say. He hasn’t told me to this day. He only added: “I have already said too much.”

You be the judge as to how it was done. Here are a few of the documents I have since secured and squirreled away. You judge for yourself what went on.

We had no idea we were being stalked. My spouse is a romantic fellow, of a caressing warmth. He had made me a bench high up on our hill for my birthday, with a heart in the middle and a breathtaking view of the National Park called the Smokies. Up there, it was peaceful and heavenly quiet. No ARAs to plague us. No fire bugs to burn up Zundel’s house. We both are introspective souls, and we enjoyed our silences as much as we enjoyed our vigorous discussions. We wanted to regroup.

Yet every once in a while, Ernst would say quietly: “Every day is precious. Every day.” And one day, he added: “I know it will not last.”

I said that that was defeatist talk. He just took my hand, looking stubborn.

Onother day we drove to Maryville, a nearby town. There was a stoplight next to a prison. As we were waiting for the light to change, Ernst said while staring straight ahead: “That’s where I’ll end up. You’ll see.”

I hated that. I said: “Whatever do you mean? You haven’t done anything wrong. You are here legally. You are my husband. I am a US citizen. We have applied for a green card and have been tentatively approved. We are in the telephone book. It’s not as if you are some scruffy wetback from Mexico. They can just haul you into some dungeon, with nobody any the wiser!”

Once we came back from our morning walk, and there stood a girl by our driveway. With a camera. She turned her back to us as we passed by. There was no reason for her to be there, and to this day I scold myself that we did not confront her and ask what she thought she was doing.

We very seldom watched TV, so we missed the 9/11 morning drama until our meter man told us. Later, we were sitting in the kitchen, stuffing letters for our supporters. An iron fist got hold of my heart, and I could feel my face getting hot. After what seemed an eternity, Ernst said in a voice that was not his voice:

“That was a coup. Henceforth, this will no longer be a kinder, gentler nation.”

Ernst is a horse-and-buggy man. He has never, to this day, sent an email. He wouldn’t know what to do with a website. I used to run off articles for him that he would read at breakfast.

On the other hand, and this needs to be said and understood, Ernst has an infallible radar for things that are not of this world – that are, to use a fancy term, preternatural. I have often heard him say: “Why do I know these things? Where does this knowledge come from?”

About two weeks after the attack, Ernst started brooding on “the dust.” He used to ask three, four times a day: “Why so much dust? Somebody ought to analyze that dust…”

He talked about the dust, again and again, weeks and then months after the Twin Towers shattered.

He knew instinctively that there was something wrong with the official story – this long before there was a 9/11 Commission, before there were suspicious citizens groups, years before there was aggressive alternative media.

I printed out an article. It was written by “Anonymous” who blamed the Chosenites. Recall that, in the early days, all talk was of the Arabs. Today we know who wrote that lengthy, meticulously researched essay – a fellow by the name of Albert D. Pastore, Ph.D. But then, we didn’t know – and neither did the New World Order guys who somehow got wind of what Zundel had read.

Not written, mind you! Merely read! Not even officially published. Ernst merely ran off some 50 or so copies amid the clutter in our garage on our second-hand copier, gave it a blue cover, and sent it to some friends.

Ernst kept obsessing on “the dust.” It was at hand to think of Fred Leuchter, whom Ernst had sent to Auschwitz as a forensic sleuth, and who might be enticed, Ernst told me casually, to go and see if there was something he might find that would explain “the dust”.

Maybe our phone was bugged. Maybe Ernst sent that booklet to Fred – and maybe it was intercepted. He doesn’t remember he did, and I don’t recall details either.

Somebody must have clear freaked out. Remember the collapse of the official Holotale right in the court room in Toronto in 1988? Was Zundel unto something again? He had that reputation.

Several years later, after Ernst had already been taken into custody, a friend of ours who is a European diplomat with contacts within the UN, called me one merry morning and told me: “It was the blue booklet that did it!”

“They kept watching him,” explained our friend. “After you guys moved to the hills of Tennessee, they watched him. They were biding their time. When Ernst published that blue booklet, that was the last straw! That’s when it was decided to take him out for good.”

“Who decided?”

“Somebody at the State Department. At the highest level.”

“Who? At what ‘highest level’”?

“At the VERY highest level,” our friend told me, and that is all he ever said to me, though I pushed him and pushed him for details.

“Colin Powell? Dick Cheney? Maybe even Bush? Who?”

He wouldn’t say. He hasn’t told me to this day. He only added: “I have already said too much.”

You be the judge as to how it was done. Here are a few of the documents I have since secured and squirreled away. You judge for yourself what went on.

So now you know that the Powers-that-be were freaked out very early – by what Ernst Zundel’s radar had picked up brooding on “the dust” in the spring-scented hills of Tennessee.

All this to prevent the distribution of a little saddle-stitched booklet that pointed a finger at the Usual Suspects? I do believe that our enemies freaked out. They acted on their fear – and thus transported Zundel back into the Vaterland where he is now the best-known dissident, much like that famous Russin nonconformist, Solzhenitsyn.

I believe there is a lesson there for the 9/11 warriors. They might want to borrow a page from the Revisionist crowd and the opportunities lost chasing footnotes and splitting hairs five ways. The crucial question was not EVER for Revisionists – nor is it now for 9/11 Truthers – HOW it was done. There is Building 7. What more does one need? The crucial question is: WHO did it – and WHY. Ernst lost his freedom. In seven years of prison, he almost lost his life. I might lose mine. You might lose yours. Why lose America because somebody calls you a name?

Since 9/11, it’s been ten years. Much work has been done, and much time has been lost. Wherever you look, good people play ostrich from fear. So what if someone calls you a “conspiracist” – and worse?! Consider the source. Consider how much is at stake. Is it not prudent to put all those scholarly egos aside – and ferret out the culprits?

Remember: Sometimes freedom is expensive.

Source

Video clips featured in this article are from a remastered DVD titled “Off Your Knees, Germany!” Available at cost – $ 5.- plus courtesy postage. Write for an order blank. ingridrimland@hughes.net

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