Date: Sun, 20 Apr 2003 16:59:32 +0000
From: da cha <dachatv@hotmail.com>
Subject: Operation Queerbait Pt 15  Conclusion

BANGKOK  April 1, 2003

The rest is, well as they say, history.  A history that can't be told too
factually because revealing those facts might prejudice events still
unfolding in that region of the world.  And besides, I'm not so sure of a
lot of those facts anyway.   The fog that descended over me during that
period is thinning in spots, but still thick as gravy in others, leaving the
half lucid glimpses of reality few and far between.  Time may make it all
clear, but I doubt it.  The doctors think that the events that jolted me
into this new fantasy world may have been so traumatic that I'll never
completely return.  But it's not fantasy.  At least not to me.

The abortive raid, senseless in a way because they didn't know they were
targeting the wrong mark.  The unnecessary loss of life, 3 SAS operatives
and untold Iraqi police.  An unwilling mark, too drugged and unfocused to
offer any help.  A liability, actually, who may have added to the failure,
more attached to the other side than to those who trained him and put him on
this road in the first place.  And the aftermath of the raid, with the
complete collapse of the operation and withdrawal to safer quarters, leaving
me and Anthony completely on our own at that point.

And the Iraqi Army involved now, tearing through Ossira's organization,
indeed Ossira himself, with a vengeance as they followed orders to "rid my
country of these queers and those who have brought them".
Later reports verified the intensity and inhumanity of this effort as the
special police tracked us down and took steps to eradicate any threat we
might pose.

Apparently I was one of the first picked up, somewhere between the power
plant and Ossira's yacht, during the raid that went terribly wrong .
Apparently I was strung out on drugs and offered absolutely no help in the
attempt to rescue me, running half naked down a side street to elude my
rescuers.  Crowds formed and they were slowed to the point that the police
had time to react.  The resulting firefight didn't go well at all.
And of course there was no challenge in capturing me, a child could have
accomplished that given my state.  I don't remember my interrogation at all
Apparently I was detained in first one jail then another while the security
service tried to ascertain my background.  My carefully crafted cover came
apart in no time, and when they made me as an agent life went downhill fast.

I don't even know the names of the prisons I was held in after that.  I do
remember the beatings, the torture, and the rapes.  When they were satisfied
that I no longer posed a threat, and when they had all the information I had
to give them, the beatings and torture stopped.  Or at least abated.  My
social status as an American and as a homosexual still made me the prime
outlet for their frustration and they took every opportunity to strengthen
their self esteem by reducing mine.  I was an easy, and as time wore on, a
willing target for them.  The rapes that followed were much less rapes for
me than willing submission to them.  I had long ago unwittingly divorced
myself from my mission, my country, my dignity.  With the help of drugs and
my own hedonistic propensities I had let myself be degraded to the point
that, except for sex, nothing mattered.  Absolutely nothing.  I was aware of
nothing else.  And, as the doctors would later theorize, that one thing may
have been what allowed me to survive with sanity.

Although I didn't know it at the time, I crossed paths with both Jon and
Anthony during these prison crawls.  Once they identified Anthony, he was
quickly spirited out of the country, to a more obscure and religiously
fanantic group to the east.  He eventually ended up in Kashmir where he was
repatriated to the UK.

Jon was identified and taken to the border with Iran, where he was released
and told never to re enter Iraq on threat of death.  He has never been heard
from since.

I was castrated at Al Rasad, a mental institution in Baghdad, my signature
forged on a medical release statement.  It says that I respectfully request
sexual reassignment surgery and authorize the medical staff to carry it out.
   They had absolutely no intention, or ability, to finish the procedure,
but that of course didn't matter.  I had been rendered 'safe'and that was
all that mattered.  The recuperation was long and painful, made livable only
by the drugs they kept me on.

How I ended up in Bangkok is beyond me.  The debrief must have been as
frustrating for my rescuers as it was obscure to me.  Snatches are all that
remain of the months in Iraq, and hopefully are all that will ever remain.

My career as a agent is, thankfully, over and done.   Life, as I knew it, is
over.  The talented Thai doctors have done wonders with the botched
castration, but nothing can undo it.   The next step was by my own,
conscious decision, and I don't intend to look back.  They're experts at SRS
here, and with that and the help of the hormones I intend to look forward
and live life to the fullest as a complete woman.

To be honest, it's probably the role I've been seeking all my life anyway.

The end