EBOLA NURSE GOES HOME TO MAINE & THEN DEFIES 21 DAY HOME CONFINEMENT

SHE WENT OUT FOR A BIKE RIDE WITH HER BEAU

WHO LOOKS LIKE HE NEEDS THE RIDE MORE THAN SHE DOES (a bit on the pudgy side)

but she is not contagious, not symptomatic,  and refuses to obey the “voluntary” quarantine. I think she’s a bit selfish. Here are my reasons:

I agree and disagree with what this woman is doing. First of all, her boyfriend needs the ride more than she does. 2nd of all it’s a VOLUNTARY QUARANTINE she is NOT breaking the law. She tested negative for the disease but that does not necessarily mean she is NOT a carrier of the disease and I BELIEVE she’s being selfish not to abide by the state law (Maine’s). I believe Christie has done a lot of terrible things to pple in tri state NYC area but this is NOT one of them.

She could still be a carrier and infect others while not showing symptoms and being affected by them herself. So before you comment and get all crazy about the constitution and our rights all I have to ask you is – is this woman thinking about the rights of others? I do not think so.

She is a nurse – not a doctor. We know a little about this contagious virus. Nurse Crotchet is acting ridiculously and I think she should be confined to her home until we know for sure she is not a carrier.

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I have met many folks from Maine
They are all weird
Self absorbed and RICH
ARREST THIS BITCH
and STOP HER FROM GETTING ANY MORE PRESS!
AND WHAT ABOUT STAYING HOME AND WORKING WITH THE POOR BLACK AND MINORITY PEOPLE IN AMERICA?
OH NO SHE WOULDN’T DO THAT
WE’D HAVE TO PAY HER WHITE ASS!
=================================================================

Nurse Kaci Hickox Defies Ebola Quarantine In Maine, Goes For Bike Ride

Posted: 10/30/2014 9:33 am EDT Updated: 10/30/2014 1:59 pm EDT

ROBERT F. BUKATY, Associated Press

FORT KENT, Maine (AP) — A nurse who vowed to defy Maine’s voluntary quarantine for health care workers who treated Ebola patients followed through on her promise Thursday, leaving her home for a bike ride.

Kaci Hickox and her boyfriend stepped out of their home Thursday morning and rode away on bicycles, followed by state police who were monitoring her movements and public interactions. Police couldn’t detain her without a court order signed by a judge.

kaci
Nurse Kaci Hickox leaves her home on a rural road in Fort Kent, Maine, to take a bike ride with her boyfriend Ted Wilbur, Thursday, Oct. 30, 2014. Image via AP.

Hickox contends there’s no need for quarantine because she’s showing no symptoms. She’s also tested negative for the deadly disease.

State officials were going to court in an effort to detain Hickox for the remainder of the 21-day incubation period for Ebola that ends on Nov. 10

It was the second time Hickox broke quarantine. She left her home Wednesday evening briefly to speak to reporters, even shaking a hand that was offered to her.
kaci presser

“There’s a lot of misinformation about how Ebola is transmitted, and I can understand why people are frightened. But their fear is not based on medical facts,” Norman Siegel, one of her attorneys, said Wednesday.

Hickox, who volunteered in Sierra Leone with Doctors Without Borders, was the first person forced into New Jersey’s mandatory quarantine for people arriving at the Newark airport from three West African countries. Hickox spent the weekend in a tent in New Jersey before traveling to the home she shares with her boyfriend, a nursing student at the University of Maine at Fort Kent.

kaci bike
Nurse Kaci Hickox leaves her home on a rural road in Fort Kent, Maine, to take a bike ride with her boyfriend Ted Wilbur, Thursday, Oct. 30, 2014. Image via AP.

“I’m not willing to stand here and let my civil rights be violated when it’s not science-based,” she told reporters Wednesday evening.

Generally, states have broad authority when it comes to such matters. But Maine health officials could have a tough time convincing a judge that Hickox poses a threat, said attorney Jackie L. Caynon III, who specializes in health law in Worcester, Massachusetts.

“If somebody isn’t showing signs of the infection, then it’s kind of hard to say someone should be under mandatory quarantine,” he said.

Ebola, which is spread through direct contact with the bodily fluids of an infected person, has killed thousands of people in Africa, but only four people have been diagnosed with it in the United States. People can’t be infected just by being near someone who’s sick, and people aren’t contagious unless they’re sick, health officials say.

Guidelines from the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recommend daily monitoring for health care workers like Hickox who have come into contact with Ebola patients. But some states like Maine are going above and beyond those guidelines.

The defense department is going even further. On Wednesday, Defense Secretary Chuck Hagel ordered military men and women helping fight Ebola to undergo 21-day quarantines that start upon their return — instead of their last exposure to an Ebola patient.

President Barack Obama warned that overly restrictive measures imposed upon returning health care workers could discourage them from volunteering in Africa.

But Maine Gov. Paul LePage, who canceled campaign events to keep tabs on the situation, maintained that the state must be “vigilant” to protect others.

State law allows a judge to grant temporary custody of someone if health officials demonstrate “a clear and immediate public health threat.”

The state’s court filing was expected Thursday, officials said.

kaci
Nurse Kaci Hickox leaves her home on a rural road in Fort Kent, Maine, to take a bike ride with her boyfriend Ted Wilbur, Thursday, Oct. 30, 2014. Image via AP.

If a judge grants the state request, then Hickox will appeal the decision on constitutional grounds, necessitating a hearing, Siegel said.

Siegel said the nurse hopes her fight against the quarantine will help bring an end to misinformation about how the Ebola virus is transmitted.

“She wants to have her voice in the debate about how America handles the Ebola crisis. She has an important voice and perspective,” he said.

___

Associated Press writers David Sharp in Portland and Alanna Durkin in Augusta contributed to this report.

——————————————————————————————————-
PIERS MORGAN – goddess help me – got it right FINALLY!

‘Selfless’ Ebola Nurse Kaci is actually utterly selfish. Three weeks in quarantine won’t kill her – and it might just save someone’s life

It’s not hard to take sides in the Battle of Ebola Quarantine.

In the blue corner, weighing in at over 300 pounds, is big, nasty bullyboy Governor from New Jersey, Chris Chriiiisssstttiieeee.

In the red corner, weighing in at less than 150 pounds, is kind, caring, gentle, heroine nurse Kaci Hickox.

At this point the fight would be stopped, right?

Scroll down for video 

Kaci Hickox has made herself a media sensation trying to fight against her 'unjust' Ebola quarantine.
Christie is the real hero, doing what any sane person would have when presented with a nurse with Hickox's background who had a fever upon landing from America

Kaci Hickox has made herself a media sensation trying to fight against her bola quarantine. But Christie is the real hero, doing what any sane person would have when presented with a nurse with Hickox’s background who had a fever upon landing from America

Christie is not a man who engenders much empathy these days.

Since Bridge-gate, when his vile staffers closed America’s busiest bridge to damage a political opponent, he’s seen his Presidential aspirations burn up faster than an Ebola fever.

But I’ve always liked his brash, tough-talking, no-nonsense style and on the issue of Ebola quarantine, Christie is 100% right.

Nurse Hickox, I keep being assured, is one of the most selfless human beings on Planet Earth. On the podium of public opinion right now she’d probably give Mother Teresa a run as Greatest Nurse in History.

Really?

Let’s consider some hard facts.

She has just returned from Sierra Leone, one of the most Ebola-ravaged countries in the world.

More than 4,000 people have contracted the virus there so far, of whom 1,341 have died. It is estimated 5 people an HOUR are currently being infected and that rate is doubling every 20 days.

On October 19, the World Health Organisation reported there had been 129 cases of health workers in Sierra Leone infected with Ebola, of whom 95 had died – an appalling 73% fatality rate.

Nurse Hickox, working for the wonderful Doctors Without Borders, spent the last few weeks directly treating Ebola patients, immersing herself at the sharpest, most infectious end of the very epicentre of this dreadful disease.

When she flew back to America on Friday, Nurse Hickox explained to screeners at Newark Liberty airport where she had been and what she had been doing.

Understandably, they took her away for further questioning and she had her temperature taken. It showed a fever of 101 degrees.

Now, imagine you’re Chris Christie – Governor of the State where an American nurse has just presented with a fever after treating Ebola patients in West Africa.ncompetent’ that…

A few days previously, there was a huge national outcry after another American medic, New York doctor Craig Spencer, ignored instructions to self-quarantine after also flying in from West Africa – and went around the city on the subway, using Uber cabs, eating in restaurants and bowling.

The day after he did all this, blissfully content in the self-diagnosed knowledge that he was ‘asymptomatic’ and therefore ‘not contagious’ – Dr Spencer woke up with a fever and tested positive for Ebola.

(It’s now emerged that he lied to officials, insisting he had stayed inside his home since arriving back in America. Detectives only discovered the truth when they checked his credit card statement.)

Nurse Kaci Hickox says she won’t obey Ebola quarantine

Chris Christie did what any sane, rational person would surely do in his position: he immediately ordered Nurse Hickox to be placed in quarantine while further examinations were carried out.

The conditions she was kept in were not exactly Four Seasons quality, granted. But nor were they anywhere near as bad as the horrific working environment she had endured in Sierra Leone.

Nurse Hickox was tested several times for Ebola and the results were negative. Her fever stopped and after 65 hours in quarantine she was allowed to go home to Maine.

She’s been asked to stay inside that home for the full recommended 21 day quarantine, but she is refusing.

Dr Craig Spencer was also astonishingly selfish, running around New York City, after returning from his heroic work

Dr Craig Spencer was also astonishingly selfish, running around New York City, after returning from his heroic work

Instead, Nurse Hickox has lawyered up, and hit the airwaves. She’s become a media superstar, a Joan of Arc heroine courageously battling the outrageous treatment of a cold-hearted political barbarian.

Nurse Hickox wants us to know she’s ‘outraged’, ‘demeaned’, ‘insulted’, ‘violated’ and ‘horrified’ by what’s happened to her.

It’s a ‘shocking breach’ of her human rights and an ‘assault’ on her Constitutional freedoms.

As her boyfriend Ted Wilbur put it, Governor Christie ‘messed with the wrong redhead!’

I predict a book, a TV mini-series – perhaps even a movie, with Jennifer Lawrence playing The Ebola Angel.

My own view is that Nurse Hickox, like Dr Spencer, is an exceptionally brave person whose work in West Africa has been quite astonishingly selfless.

In that sense, she is absolutely a heroine.

But as we saw with Dr Spencer, her behaviour since she returned to America has been equally astonishing – in its reckless selfishness.

If I were running this Ebola fight in America – and I am just as qualified to do so as the newly-appointed Ebola Czar – I wouldn’t trust America’s medics to ‘self-quarantine’ because as we have seen, they will either refuse to comply or lie about it.

I would make a 21-day quarantine mandatory for every single doctor and nurse who returns from treating Ebola patients in Africa.

No excuses, no exceptions, no succumbing to political point-scoring pressure.

Chris Christie’s instincts about this are spot on. He’s been bold and decisive as President Obama has dithered and prevaricated.

An Ebola epidemic would devastate America. Why on earth would anyone charged with trying to prevent it happening take any risk, however small that risk may be?

Nurse Hickox should stop her pathetic squealing, fire her lawyer, get off TV, thank her lucky stars she’s not got Ebola, and stay inside her damn home for the next couple of weeks to ensure there’s not a tiny scintilla of chance she could infect a fellow American.

This advice is not in any medical journal. It’s called ‘common sense’.

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The comments below have been moderated in advance.

I never normally agree with Piers, but this time he is spot on. Just imagine the consequences if there was an Ebola outbreak in the States. Shut up and stay at home, it is just common sense.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2812760/PIERS-MORGAN-Selfless-Ebola-Nurse-Kaci-actually-utterly-selfish-Three-weeks-quarantine-won-t-kill-just-save-s-life.html#ixzz3HhB7VWBe
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8 women accuse Jian Ghomeshi of sexual harassment/allegations of rape & his PR firm drops him like a cold Canadian

Sorry about the last part but I couldn’t help it. I spent a week in Toronto in the dead of Winter in 2001 when my mom died.

What was I thinking?

I just wanted to be someplace else

I should have picked a warmer climate

This case is getting worse the more this asshole talks. Why doesn’t he just shut up, I wonder?

Perhaps he is talking out of guilt

But he is a Muslim from Lebanon – this is significant because this is how Muslim men act towards women

They feel women are inferior to them as men.

If you don’t believe me just talk to one of them.

Yeah he’s cute but he’s deadly and he’s sick and he’ll probably end up in jail.

8 to 9 women have accused him of some sort of sexual harassment and he brushed it off as a revenge from an ex girlfriend?

This guy is scum.

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News / GTA

Jian Ghomeshi: 8 women accuse former CBC host of violence, sexual abuse or harassment

One woman, actor Lucy DeCoutere, alleges she was slapped and choked without her consent.

 

Lucy DeCoutere details the time she spent with the former CBC host and the shocking behaviour she says she encountered.

Eight women from across Canada now accuse former CBC host Jian Ghomeshi of abusive behaviour ranging from allegations of beating and choking without consent, to workplace sexual harassment.

The allegations the Star is probing range from 2002 to the present.

One of the women, popular Canadian television actor Lucy DeCoutere, has agreed to be identified. DeCoutere, who plays Lucy on Trailer Park Boys , recalls an incident in 2003 when she alleges Ghomeshi, without warning or consent, choked her to the point she could not breathe and then slapped her hard three times on the side of her head.

“He did not ask if I was into it. It was never a question. It was shocking to me. The men I have spent time with are loving people,” said DeCoutere, who, when she is not acting on the television show, is a captain in the Royal Canadian Air Force in New Brunswick.

Ghomeshi, 47, was fired Sunday from his job as host of Q , a flagship radio show of the publicly funded broadcaster. Ghomeshi has alleged in a lawsuit filed the next day that CBC made a “moral judgment” that his practice of a bondage-sadism sex life was wrong. He is suing the CBC for $55 million for defamation and breach of trust and the corporation has said it will “vigorously” defend itself against Ghomeshi’s lawsuit.

The Star has presented Ghomeshi, his lawyers and his public relations staff with the allegations in this story and they have yet to respond.

He met some of the women during his 2012 tour to promote 1982 , his best- selling memoir about a year in high school in Thornhill. Others he met at film festivals, at music or CBC events, or at the CBC workplace.

Two of the women who allege they were physically assaulted also say that before the alleged assaults in his home he introduced them to Big Ears Teddy, a stuffed bear, and he turned the bear around just before he slapped or choked them, saying that “Big Ears Teddy shouldn’t see this.”

One of the new women to come forward is a woman in her mid-20s who was a CBC producer in Montreal who dreamed of being on Q . He met her at one of his book signings. Ghomeshi allegedly took her to his hotel room, threw her against the wall and was very “forceful” with her. She said she performed oral sex “to get out of there.” The woman, who still works in the media but not at CBC, said she decided not to complain about his behaviour because she feared he was too powerful.

“I felt like Jian was CBC god,” she told the Star in an interview. She is the second CBC woman to come forward with allegations of sexual harassment by Ghomeshi. The CBC has announced they are investigating the first case, where Ghomeshi allegedly told a CBC staffer he wanted to “hate f—” her.

Generally, the stories the women have told the Star describe a man obsessed with his image and power, and someone who they say has little or no respect for barriers.

Over the course of the Star’s investigation, women who say they were victimized said they did not feel comfortable putting their name to the allegations. Some say they feared retaliation from Ghomeshi, online harassment and a negative impact on their careers.

DeCoutere said it was time for someone to speak publicly about the matter.

She first met Ghomeshi at a barbecue at a Banff television festival in 2003. They chatted and, in time, she visited Toronto and they had dinner at a restaurant on the Danforth. She recalls him telling her how famous he was and “how lucky you are to be with me.” They went back to his house in Riverdale. DeCoutere said they began making out and then she alleges he pushed her against the wall, choked her with his hands around her neck and then slapped her three times.

“That was something I had never experienced before,” DeCoutere said. She left his house shortly after that in a taxi. “It did not escalate; it stopped,” she said.

In addition to her work as an actor, DeCoutere is a captain in the air force and a training development officer, ensuring that people in the service are receiving appropriate training.

What follows are seven more cases that, including DeCoutere’s allegations, bring to eight the total number of women who have come forward with stories of abuse. Of these eight stories, four were included in the Star’s original story published on Monday. Four of the women have come forward this week.

Ghomeshi, in a Facebook posting Sunday evening, wrote in an emotional statement that he has “done nothing wrong.” He said it is not unusual for him to engage in “adventurous forms of sex that included role-play, dominance and submission.” However, he said it has always been consensual. His lawyers echoed this in the statement of claim filed as part of his lawsuit.

In his posting, Ghomeshi writes: “Let me be the first to say that my tastes in the bedroom may not be palatable to some folks. They may be strange, enticing, weird, normal, or outright offensive to others. . . . But that is my private life. . . . And no one, and certainly no employer, should have dominion over what people do consensually in their private life.”

In 2002, Ghomeshi, then 35, was the host of Play , a culture and arts television show on CBC Newsworld. He struck up a conversation with a woman who was roughly his age and invited her to a taping of the show. The first time she came to the taping at CBC headquarters, they ended the evening at a local pub and then he drove her to her car. She alleges that as soon as they were in the car Ghomeshi reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed her hair and “yanked it hard.”

“I was completely shocked,” she said. “He asked if I like it rough. Quite honestly I don’t remember what I said. I was so shocked.”

Though she regrets it now, she returned to a taping of the show two weeks later. He asked her to his home in Riverdale. Once there, she alleges that without consent he grabbed her hair and pulled her down to the floor. Then, she alleges, he delivered three sharp punches to the side of her head while she lay on the floor.

“I was crying. Just crying. He stood there looking at me and said, ‘You should leave.’ ” The woman said she called a taxi and left the home.

The CBC program As it Happens also interviewed this woman and broadcast an account of her allegations Wednesday.

In 2005, Ghomeshi, then 38, was at a Toronto music and dance event in a park in Toronto. He ran into a woman he knew from the arts and culture scene. The woman, 34, had gone on a few dates with Ghomeshi but they had never been intimate. They went for a walk when the event was over and, according to the woman, Ghomeshi attacked her while they were sitting on a bench. He began kissing her forcefully and then “put his hands around my neck and choked me.”

“He smothered me,” she said. She alleges Ghomeshi then grabbed her arms hard and “bit” her, then pushed her down on the park bench and “groped” her.

“I pushed him away. It really scared me. He was so aggressive,” the woman said. The next day, she said Ghomeshi contacted her and “acted like nothing had happened.”

“There was absolutely nothing consensual about what happened to me,” the woman said.

A CBC employee in her late 20s alleges that in 2007 Ghomeshi was sitting with her and other producers at a story meeting for his radio show Q . After their colleagues stood up and left, she alleges Ghomeshi leaned in close to her and quietly said “I want to hate f— you”.

Later, as the two were walking in to the Q studio, she alleges he laughed to her and quietly said, “Wasn’t that funny when I told you I wanted to grudge f— you?”

Three years later, she alleges that on his way out of the Q studio, Ghomeshi approached her from behind and cupped her buttocks.

The woman later complained about Ghomeshi to her union representative at the CBC, who told her he reported her complaints to a CBC manager and to the executive producer of Q . She did not file a formal grievance.

She says she was called to a meeting with Q ’s executive producer to discuss her complaints, whom she says asked her “what (she) could do to make this a less toxic work environment?”

To her knowledge, Ghomeshi was never reprimanded for the incidents.

The CBC announced Tuesday that in the wake of a Toronto Star story describing this woman’s allegations it has launched an investigation.

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Toronto police: No investigation into Jian Ghomeshi
Toronto police: No investigation into Jian Ghomeshi

In 2012, a CBC producer in her mid-20s attended a book signing by Ghomeshi in Montreal. She waited in line to have her book signed, and once standing in front of Ghomeshi, she recalls telling him that her dream was to work on his radio show, Q . He asked her if she would like to join him and his friends for drinks after the event, she says. She agreed, and later remembers meeting him at the lobby of the Opus Hotel, where he was staying. He arrived alone and embraced her, she says.

“This isn’t a professional meeting,” she recalls Ghomeshi saying to her on the way to McKibbins Irish Pub. Seated in a booth, she says he rubbed her legs with both hands, explaining, “I have anxiety. Touching helps.”

“The two worlds can co-exist,” she alleges he told her. “I’ve done it before.”

She remembers telling Ghomeshi, “I want to work for you, not date you.” She said Ghomeshi kept complaining that his eyes were dry and he had to get his contact lenses out.

They left the pub and went to Tim Hortons, where Ghomeshi bought a panini and later invited her to his hotel room, saying he had to take his contact lenses out.

“I feel like a big moron now,” said the woman, who is no longer with the CBC. “I should have seen it coming.”

In the hotel room, she recalls going to the bathroom and, as she was leaving it, discovering the lights were dimmed.

She alleges Ghomeshi roughly threw her against the wall and kissed and fondled her forcefully. She states that she then performed fellatio on Ghomeshi “just to get out of there.”

“I was saying to him, “I don’t want to do this, I want to work for you.”

As she was leaving the room crying, she says, she heard Ghomeshi say, “I’ll talk with my executive producer about you.”

The next morning she received a text from Ghomeshi. “Happy Thursday,” it read. She was shocked.

She says she did receive an invitation to a job interview from Ghomeshi’s executive producer shortly thereafter. In Toronto, she recalls, she was surprised to find Ghomeshi present at the interview.

Immediately after she left the CBC building, she says Ghomeshi texted her to say that she looked sexier than ever in the interview, and he invited her out that night for drinks.

She declined.

“I feel gross about the whole thing. I feel used,” the woman said.

In 2012, a fan of Ghomeshi’s in her mid-20s came to his book event in a small city in Eastern Canada. She stood in line to get her copy of his memoir signed, and she recalls him being overwhelmingly friendly, asking her name and many questions about herself. The next day, she received a private Facebook message from him containing his phone number and an invitation to call him.

The two corresponded online, and Ghomeshi allegedly introduced violent sexualized language into their conversation, assuring her it was all fantasy and encouraging her to participate through email, which she did. She says he invited her to visit him in Toronto. She came, she says, but wouldn’t stay at his house. They went out for dinner, then back to a dorm at the University of Toronto where she was staying in the room of a friend who was out of town.

She alleges that in the stairwell, Ghomeshi slammed her against a cement wall and she dropped her belongings. When she knelt to pick them up, he choked her from behind and struck her across the head. He demanded that she stand, and he marched her up the stairs into her friend’s empty dorm room.

She says he demanded that she kneel, then hit her repeatedly about the head while she stared up in shock. She asked him about bruising, and he laughed and replied that he knew how to hit her so there wouldn’t be any. He hit her again, and she stared in disbelief and shock. She remembers feeling that he then lost interest and left, hugging her on his way out of the building. She later sent him an accusatory email, and he responded by email. The Star has copies of the correspondence.

“it IS about sex,” wrote Ghomeshi in an email to the woman, asserting that she had consented, “it WAS. . . that you’ve decided to turn this ugly is disappointing. i wish for good karma into 2013.”

Also in 2012, another fan of Ghomeshi’s, also in her mid-20s, went to his book event in a small city in Eastern Canada. She stood in line to get her copy of his memoir signed, and when she stood before him, she recalls him asking her name and many questions about herself. She recalls that he wrote down details on a Post-it note, and later that evening he found her on Facebook and sent her his phone number and an invitation to get in touch. She did, and says she and Ghomeshi had dinner that evening, kissed and parted. They corresponded, and Ghomeshi allegedly introduced violent sexualized language into their conversation, assuring her when she failed to respond that it was all fantasy and encouraging her to participate, which she did. She recalls him assuring her these things would not happen in real life.

Ghomeshi invited her to visit him in Toronto at his house in Cabbagetown, she says, and she did.

When she arrived at his house and greeted him, she says Ghomeshi answered the door and stared at her. Without speaking, she alleges that he threw her against the wall and demanded that she get on her knees and perform fellatio. She alleges that when she kneeled down he struck her repeatedly about the head, “hard enough that (her) vision was blurred.”

She says he took his belt off, tied it tight around her neck, “yanked” it, and led her around by the belt. They had intercourse, she said, and during it she alleges he whipped her back with his belt and hit her about the head. She alleges he put his full body weight on her face during fellatio, to the point where she gagged, couldn’t breathe, and felt she would vomit. A subsequent encounter, she alleges, left her with deep bruising on her body.

She alleges that when she later confronted Ghomeshi and showed him pictures of her bruising, he told her that he found her bruises to be “hot.”

The woman told the Star that during this visit to his house she noticed he had a teddy bear in his room. She said he turned the teddy bear around so that the bear was facing away from them.

A woman alleged Ghomeshi began by charming her.

A woman alleged Ghomeshi began by charming her.

Last year, in 2013, a woman in her mid-20s says she had been on a few dates with Jian, but they never had sex. After they had been out of touch for weeks, she recalls Ghomeshi inviting her to his new house in Toronto’s Beach area because he “needed” to see her to discuss something important. When she arrived, she says Ghomeshi sat her down for an intimate conversation. She says he told her that she might be “the one” for him, that he “didn’t buy this big house to throw parties, but to raise a family.”

He then kissed her, she says, and while kissing he “pulled (her) hair so hard my neck flew backward, and when it did,” she alleges, “he smacked me.” She objected and asked why he did this. He laughed, she says, and explained to her that in order for him to build a future with her, he would need to see if they were sexually compatible, and she would have to “let (him) enjoy this the way (he) wants to.” She says that he then turned his teddy bear around on his bed, telling her the bear “shouldn’t see this.”

Ghomeshi began kissing her again, she says, and struck her in the face once more, harder than before. He pointed out his erection, she says, as proof that she was “the one” for him. He then allegedly demanded she kneel in a constrained position, allegedly grabbed her by the neck and hit her in the face hard, and allegedly engaged her in fellatio, forcefully. She says Ghomeshi bit her, leaving marks on her breasts, inner thighs and back. Later, Ghomeshi called her a degrading term. She objected, she says, and told him, “don’t talk to me like that.”

She says Ghomeshi shrank away from her at that moment, sulking. “You’re making me feel like a weirdo,” she recalls him saying. He then said, “You need to go,” and left the room. She dressed and walked downstairs, where she found Ghomeshi on his couch, absorbed in his computer screen, checking Twitter. She left the house, she says. He did not say goodbye.

Months later, she confronted him in an email, suggesting that details of his behaviour might go public. “i’m shaking as I read this,” he responded, “can we please talk?”

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HE GETS DUMPED BY HIS PR FIRM

Jian Ghomeshi dumped by PR firm over ‘lies,’ sources say

Navigator, a high-profile PR firm, dropped former CBC host after Star investigation detailed allegations of assault or harassment by at least eight women.

Two public relations firms said Thursday they had parted ways with former CBC host Jian Ghomeshi, in the wake of assault and harassment allegations from nine women.

VIEW 2 PHOTOS

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SARAH DEA FILE PHOTO FOR THE TORONTO STAR /

Two public relations firms said Thursday they had parted ways with former CBC host Jian Ghomeshi, in the wake of assault and harassment allegations from nine women.

Jian Ghomeshi was dumped by Navigator, the high-profile crisis management firm retained to protect his public image, because the company believed Ghomeshi lied to them, sources have told the Star.

“He lied to the firm,” said a source with knowledge of the situation.

According to the sources, until late Sunday night, Navigator was “buying (Ghomeshi’s) story” that it was a jilted ex-girlfriend who had manufactured lies that Ghomeshi was abusive. One source said the former CBC radio star had convinced the firm that there were no other allegations and there was nothing to be “concerned” about.

Then, as the Star reported between Monday and Thursday that at least eight womenwere making serious allegations of assault or sexual harassment against Ghomeshi, the firm decided at a series of meetings that it could not represent someone who, in their opinion, had lied.

News that Navigator, as well as publicity firm Rock-it Promotions, was parting company with Ghomeshi came Thursday, the same day a ninth woman went public with her allegations.

The Star was not able to determine if Rock-it dropped Ghomeshi for the same reason. A source with knowledge of the Rock-it situation said that the firm, which had been with Ghomeshi for two years (Navigator was a recent hire) was disappointed as more and more allegations surfaced.

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Jian Ghomeshi situation sparks intense online debate

“Here was a guy (Rock-it) believed in, and it didn’t turn out that way,” a source told the Star.

Both companies issued releases Thursday afternoon announcing they had cut ties with Ghomeshi, but neither said why.

Generally, firms that do public relations or crisis communications work ask that the client disclose all relevant information so that they can manage difficult situations with full knowledge of all details.

The Star’s stories revealed much more information than the firms or CBC were aware of. The stories included allegations of sexual harassment of two CBC employees and allegations of beating, choking and in some cases biting by six women Ghomeshi met over the past decade, including Trailer Park Boys actress Lucy DeCoutere. The Star is continuing to investigate allegations from more women.

Ghomeshi, who was fired by the CBC on Sunday, wrote in a brief statement on his Facebook page on Thursday: “I intend to meet these allegations directly.”

Rock-it has been with Ghomeshi since at least 2012, when it helped him promote his high school memoir, 1982. Debra Goldblatt-Sadowski, a principal of Rock-it, was running interference for Ghomeshi this summer when the Star was asking about allegations of abusive conduct by him toward women, sources say.

Goldblatt-Sadowski and her team were working with two lawyers from Dentons LLP in Toronto, the firm that has launched Ghomeshi’s $55-million defamation suit against the CBC. Dentons did not answer a request for comment from the Star on Thursday.

“Going forward, Rock-it Promotions will no longer be representing Jian Ghomeshi,” said a statement from the firm, a relatively small agency whose association with Ghomeshi had helped it grow over the years. Rock-it did not respond to questions from the Star.

Navigator is a firm known for helping high-profile individuals and companies perform damage control at difficult times. Navigator issued a statement Thursday saying “the circumstances of our engagement have changed and we are no longer able to continue.” Officials say they have a policy preventing them from discussing current or former clients.

The news comes as a second woman with allegations of violence against Ghomeshi publicly identified herself.

In a piece for the Huffington Post Canada, titled “Why I Can’t Remain Silent About What Jian Did to Me,” lawyer and author Reva Seth wrote about an incident more than 10 years ago when Ghomeshi was the host of CBC television show Play. She alleges that after a dinner date, Ghomeshi grabbed her by the throat, pulled down her pants and violently penetrated her with his fingers.

“My sexual interactions until then had always been consensual, enjoyable and fun,” she wrote. “I remember he gave me some weird lines about how he couldn’t tell if I was actually attracted to him or not, and somehow this was meant to explain his behaviour … He acted like it was all totally normal and came to the door to watch me go down the stairs and get into the cab.”

Seth wrote that one of the reasons she decided to come forward was that she feels Ghomeshi has a “pattern that has certainly escalated since I knew him.”

According to the Huffington Post piece, Seth first met Ghomeshi at a Loblaws on the Danforth in 2002, when she was 26, and agreed to go for dinner with him a few days later. She wrote that they hung out a few times over the summer, never doing much more physically than kissing.

The incident Seth described happened on a Sunday night, she wrote, after the two had a drink and smoked some pot. Seth wrote that Ghomeshi became “super angry, almost frenzied and disassociated.”

She didn’t do anything after the alleged attack because “it didn’t seem like there was anything to do,” she wrote, noting she was sharing her story now in the hopes that it will help others.

There is currently no police investigation into the allegations against Ghomeshi because no one has complained, Toronto police Chief Bill Blair told reporters Thursday.

“When these crimes are committed, we need a complainant,” said Blair. “We need someone to come forward and say, ‘This is what’s happened to me,’ and we will investigate that and we will do that as quickly and compassionately as we possibly can.”

On Thursday, Ghomeshi’s profile vanished from the websites of two Canadian speakers bureaus, Keynote Speakers Canada and Speakers’ Spotlight. A cached version of the Keynote Speakers profile says: “Known for his charm, wit and sense of humour, Jian Ghomeshi is a renaissance man for the 21st century . . .

“He tailors his talks to the audience, environment and objectives of your event and blends opinions and ideas with storytelling, personal anecdotes and lessons learned from experiences throughout his life.”

Topics Ghomeshi would touch on at an event, according to Keynote Speakers, include rethinking the Canadian identity and art, activism and media.

A cached version of the Speakers’ Spotlight website notes: “As warm and witty as he is sharp and serious, Ghomeshi brings class and craftsmanship to each and every engagement, whether he’s delivering a cultural keynote, hosting an event, or interviewing a person or panel of people.”

Neither Keynote Speakers nor Speakers’ Spotlight immediately returned requests for comment. As of Thursday evening, Ghomeshi was still featured on the website for All-American Speakers Bureau in the U.S.

Ghomeshi, who has already been dropped from hosting the Giller Prize literary awards on Nov. 10, cancelled late Wednesday afternoon a speaking engagement about arts and culture that he was set to deliver on Nov. 7 in Prince George, B.C., hosted by a local newspaper.

With files from Wendy Gillis

Kevin Donovan can be reached at 416-312-3503 or kdonovan@thestar.ca .

THE STORY OF RAPIST JIAN GHOMESHI

WHO THE FUCK IS “JIAN GHOMESHI”?

He’s a cute Brit/Lebanese dude from Canada who had his own TV show that he lost when he raped a woman

There are all types of rape – when a man yanks down your pants and sticks his fingers up your twat

that’s rape

it’s rape if you say NO

it’s rape if you push him away

and he persists

The woman didn’t want him to do that

It was rape

and now Karma is kicking in.

This is her side of the story

and below her’s is his

Below his side of the story is his wiki

read it all

you decide

I think towards the middle of his facebook description of what happened you can tell how guilty he truly is

when he blames the woman.

======================================================>

Why I Can’t Remain Silent About What Jian Did to Me

Posted: 10/30/2014 4:53 pm EDT Updated: 3 hours ago
REVA SETH JIAN GHOMESHI

Yesterday I went into the CBC building and for the first time in the six years that I’ve been back in Canada, I didn’t feel the pang of stress at the thought of running into Jian. Or see the giant image of his smiling face looming above me.

I debated all week whether or not to write this for all the same reasons that most women don’t publicly or even privately share similar experiences: judgment, online trolls, the questioning of all your other choices, the accusation that it wasn’t that bad, that it was so long ago, and the fact that I don’t have the time and ultimately, is there any value in adding my voice or story in a public domain?

The reason I ultimately decided to share this is two-fold: The first is that it shows a pattern that has certainly escalated since I knew him.

Additionally, I feel that while it is exceedingly difficult to publicly put your name forward and open yourself up to all of the accompanying criticism, if you are in the position that you can do so without fearing the ramifications in terms of your family, marriage, personal or professional trauma, then you should do it. Having this conversation can help build a public understanding of the complexity around these issues.

I’ve been married for 11 years to an incredible man. We have three kids, and I know that I am very lucky to be at that place where this feels possible.

I also decided not to write about this experience abstractly, as I had initially planned. I care deeply about my three boys, who are two, five and eight, and making them understand when they are older that a woman shouldn’t be made to feel ashamed of something a man does to her without her consent. I want them to understand that every women they meet is someone’s daughter, mother or sister and they need to remember that. Always.

I first met Jian in the late spring of 2002. I was 26 and after two years with the firm, was just leaving a job as a Bay Street lawyer (ironically at what is now Dentons, the firm Jian has retained for his case). I was about to start a job at Toronto City Hall as well as a Masters in Trade and Competition Law at Osgoode. I share this because one of the themes that his supporters seem to suggest is that the women now accusing him all wanted something professionally from him at the time or were somehow star-struck by him.

Not so with me.

When we met, Jian was hosting a show on CBC called “Play” that I’d never heard of before. I wasn’t overly into the music or arts scene and had been too young for the Canadian heyday of his band, Moxy Fruvous. My world at the time was far more about law and politics. The men I tended to date were also engaged on those fronts.

I met Jian at the old Loblaws on the Danforth on a weekend afternoon. We started talking in the water aisle. He was very funny and charming and invited me to come to a taping of the show (which I think was at the old Movenpick restaurant downtown). I never bothered to go to a taping, but I did agree to meet him a few days later for a week night dinner on the Danforth.

We met at the restaurant and it was fun. I remember he thought I was Persian (I’m South Asian) and I think we talked about immigrant parents, sex and shame, as well Love In The Time Of Cholera. After dinner I just walked myself home.

Over the course of the summer we hung out very occasionally. I went to a couple of parties with him and watched a movie at his house. It was all very low key. I was seeing other people and I’m pretty sure he was also.We never talked about anything related to BDSM and had only very casually fooled around — a bit of kissing.

The incident that changed everything was on a Sunday night. Oddly, I actually remember exactly what I was wearing and the purse I had with me. The evening started out fine. We had a drink, we smoked some pot and we hung out chatting. A while later we started kissing. Suddenly, it was like he became a different person. He was super angry, almost frenzied and disassociated.

I distinctly remember the jarring sense of suddenly being abruptly shaken out of my reverie. I remember thinking “what the fuck is going on here? What’s wrong with him?” Jian had his hands around my throat, had pulled down my pants and was aggressively and violently penetrating me with his fingers. When it was over, I got up and it was clear I was really angry. My sexual interactions until then had always been consensual, enjoyable and fun.

I remember he gave me some weird lines about how he couldn’t tell if I was actually attracted to him or not, and somehow this was meant to explain his behaviour. I called a cab and I left right away. In the car, I remember feeling sort of stunned, like I couldn’t wrap my head around what had just happened. He acted like it was all totally normal and came to the door to watch me go down the stairs and get into the cab.

So why didn’t I do anything?

This is the part that I think is so important to understand if we are ever going to change the context in which rape culture and violence against women is perpetuated. I didn’t do anything because it didn’t seem like there was anything to do.

I hadn’t been raped. I had no interest in seeing him again or engaging the police in my life. I just wanted to continue on with my life as it was. And even if I had wanted to do something, as a lawyer, I’m well aware that the scenario was just a “he said/she said” situation. I was aware that I, as a woman who had had a drink or two, shared a joint, had gone to his house willingly and had a sexual past, would be eviscerated. Cultural frameworks on this are powerful.

Equally important, however, was that it also didn’t feel like it was worth my effort. Most of my girlfriends had a story about an uncomfortable, sleazy, angry or even scary encounter with a guy. No one really did anything other than avoid them and tell their girlfriends to also stay away. And that’s what I did. I never intended to see him again. I felt fine. I was busy and I just put the night and him out of my mind. I ignored his calls and messages over the next few weeks.

It was maybe six or seven weeks later that I next saw him. My mom was in town to attend my call to bar the next day and she was staying with me. We were on our way out when the phone on my desk rang. Without thinking, I picked it up. It was Jian. I told him I couldn’t talk since I was going with my mom to get a bottle of wine for a dinner she was attending that night.

A short time later, Jian turned up at the LCBO on the Danforth. I remember being both annoyed, confused and creeped out at him for doing that.

I don’t remember much about what was said at the LCBO. We left the store fairly quickly. The next year I got married and moved to the U.K. It was only when I came back to Toronto in 2008 that I realized he was now a huge CBC star. We have never spoken directly since. He once reached out to me on Twitter with a “Hi” and I responded really neutrally, mentioning my three boys.

Last year while my husband was running for the Liberal nomination in Don Valley North, I ran into Jian at a Persian Community event. We were seated at adjacent head tables. His body language made it clear that he recognized me. He seemed angry. I avoided him and we left as soon as it was appropriate to do so.

This morning, I listened to Lucy DeCoutere on The Current sharing her remarkably similar experience and calling for women to not be afraid to tell their own stories and, if they can, share their names. After much thought, I decided to answer her call. I hope it helps in some way.

=================================================

JIAN’s story:

Dear everyone,

I am writing today because I want you to be the first to know some news.

This has been the hardest time of my life. I am reeling from the loss of my father. I am in deep personal pain and worried about my mom. And now my world has been rocked by so much more.

Today, I was fired from the CBC.

For almost 8 years I have been the host of a show I co-created on CBC called Q. It has been my pride and joy. My fantastic team on Q are super-talented and have helped build something beautiful.

I have always operated on the principle of doing my best to maintain a dignity and a commitment to openness and truth, both on and off the air. I have conducted major interviews, supported Canadian talent, and spoken out loudly in my audio essays about ideas, issues, and my love for this country. All of that is available for anyone to hear or watch. I have known, of course, that not everyone always agrees with my opinions or my style, but I’ve never been anything but honest. I have doggedly defended the CBC and embraced public broadcasting. This is a brand I’ve been honoured to help grow.

All this has now changed.

Today I was fired from the company where I’ve been working for almost 14 years – stripped from my show, barred from the building and separated from my colleagues. I was given the choice to walk away quietly and to publicly suggest that this was my decision. But I am not going to do that. Because that would be untrue. Because I’ve been fired. And because I’ve done nothing wrong.

I’ve been fired from the CBC because of the risk of my private sex life being made public as a result of a campaign of false allegations pursued by a jilted ex girlfriend and a freelance writer.

As friends and family of mine, you are owed the truth.

I have commenced legal proceedings against the CBC, what’s important to me is that you know what happened and why.

Forgive me if what follows may be shocking to some.

I have always been interested in a variety of activities in the bedroom but I only participate in sexual practices that are mutually agreed upon, consensual, and exciting for both partners.

About two years ago I started seeing a woman in her late 20s. Our relationship was affectionate, casual and passionate. We saw each other on and off over the period of a year and began engaging in adventurous forms of sex that included role-play, dominance and submission. We discussed our interests at length before engaging in rough sex (forms of BDSM). We talked about using safe words and regularly checked in with each other about our comfort levels. She encouraged our role-play and often was the initiator. We joked about our relations being like a mild form of Fifty Shades of Grey or a story from Lynn Coady’s Giller-Prize winning book last year. I don’t wish to get into any more detail because it is truly not anyone’s business what two consenting adults do. I have never discussed my private life before. Sexual preferences are a human right.

Despite a strong connection between us it became clear to me that our on-and-off dating was unlikely to grow into a larger relationship and I ended things in the beginning of this year. She was upset by this and sent me messages indicating her disappointment that I would not commit to more, and her anger that I was seeing others.

After this, in the early spring there began a campaign of harassment, vengeance and demonization against me that would lead to months of anxiety.

It came to light that a woman had begun anonymously reaching out to people that I had dated (via Facebook) to tell them she had been a victim of abusive relations with me. In other words, someone was reframing what had been an ongoing consensual relationship as something nefarious. I learned – through one of my friends who got in contact with this person – that someone had rifled through my phone on one occasion and taken down the names of any woman I had seemed to have been dating in recent years. This person had begun methodically contacting them to try to build a story against me. Increasingly, female friends and ex-girlfriends of mine told me about these attempts to smear me.

Someone also began colluding with a freelance writer who was known not to be a fan of mine and, together, they set out to try to find corroborators to build a case to defame me. She found some sympathetic ears by painting herself as a victim and turned this into a campaign. The writer boldly started contacting my friends, acquaintances and even work colleagues – all of whom came to me to tell me this was happening and all of whom recognized it as a trumped up way to attack me and undermine my reputation. Everyone contacted would ask the same question, if I had engaged in non-consensual behavior why was the place to address this the media?

The writer tried to peddle the story and, at one point, a major Canadian media publication did due diligence but never printed a story. One assumes they recognized these attempts to recast my sexual behaviour were fabrications. Still, the spectre of mud being flung onto the Internet where online outrage can demonize someone before facts can refute false allegations has been what I’ve had to live with.

And this leads us to today and this moment. I’ve lived with the threat that this stuff would be thrown out there to defame me. And I would sue. But it would do the reputational damage to me it was intended to do (the ex has even tried to contact me to say that she now wishes to refute any of these categorically untrue allegations). But with me bringing it to light, in the coming days you will prospectively hear about how I engage in all kinds of unsavoury aggressive acts in the bedroom. And the implication may be made that this happens non-consensually. And that will be a lie. But it will be salacious gossip in a world driven by a hunger for “scandal”. And there will be those who choose to believe it and to hate me or to laugh at me. And there will be an attempt to pile on. And there will be the claim that there are a few women involved (those who colluded with my ex) in an attempt to show a “pattern of behaviour”. And it will be based in lies but damage will be done. But I am telling you this story in the hopes that the truth will, finally, conquer all.

I have been open with the CBC about this since these categorically untrue allegations ramped up. I have never believed it was anyone’s business what I do in my private affairs but I wanted my bosses to be aware that this attempt to smear me was out there. CBC has been part of the team of friends and lawyers assembled to deal with this for months. On Thursday I voluntarily showed evidence that everything I have done has been consensual. I did this in good faith and because I know, as I have always known, that I have nothing to hide. This when the CBC decided to fire me.

CBC execs confirmed that the information provided showed that there was consent. In fact, they later said to me and my team that there is no question in their minds that there has always been consent. They said they’re not concerned about the legal side. But then they said that this type of sexual behavior was unbecoming of a prominent host on the CBC. They said that I was being dismissed for “the risk of the perception that may come from a story that could come out.” To recap, I am being fired in my prime from the show I love and built and threw myself into for years because of what I do in my private life.

Let me be the first to say that my tastes in the bedroom may not be palatable to some folks. They may be strange, enticing, weird, normal, or outright offensive to others. We all have our secret life. But that is my private life. That is my personal life. And no one, and certainly no employer, should have dominion over what people do consensually in their private life.

And so, with no formal allegations, no formal complaints, no complaints, not one, to the HR department at the CBC (they told us they’d done a thorough check and were satisfied), and no charges, I have lost my job based on a campaign of vengeance. Two weeks after the death of my beautiful father I have been fired from the CBC because of what I do in my private life.

I have loved the CBC. The Q team are the best group of people in the land. My colleagues and producers and on-air talent at the CBC are unparalleled in being some of the best in the business. I have always tried to be a good soldier and do a good job for my country. I am still in shock. But I am telling this story to you so the truth is heard. And to bring an end to the nightmare.

=============================================
I think he should stop writing this on FB – this is who he is below on wiki
Dear everyone,

I am writing today because I want you to be the first to know some news.

This has been the hardest time of my life. I am reeling from the loss of my father. I am in deep personal pain and worried about my mom. And now my world has been rocked by so much more.

Today, I was fired from the CBC.

For almost 8 years I have been the host of a show I co-created on CBC called Q. It has been my pride and joy. My fantastic team on Q are super-talented and have helped build something beautiful.

I have always operated on the principle of doing my best to maintain a dignity and a commitment to openness and truth, both on and off the air. I have conducted major interviews, supported Canadian talent, and spoken out loudly in my audio essays about ideas, issues, and my love for this country. All of that is available for anyone to hear or watch. I have known, of course, that not everyone always agrees with my opinions or my style, but I’ve never been anything but honest. I have doggedly defended the CBC and embraced public broadcasting. This is a brand I’ve been honoured to help grow.

All this has now changed.

Today I was fired from the company where I’ve been working for almost 14 years – stripped from my show, barred from the building and separated from my colleagues. I was given the choice to walk away quietly and to publicly suggest that this was my decision. But I am not going to do that. Because that would be untrue. Because I’ve been fired. And because I’ve done nothing wrong.

I’ve been fired from the CBC because of the risk of my private sex life being made public as a result of a campaign of false allegations pursued by a jilted ex girlfriend and a freelance writer.

As friends and family of mine, you are owed the truth.

I have commenced legal proceedings against the CBC, what’s important to me is that you know what happened and why.

Forgive me if what follows may be shocking to some.

I have always been interested in a variety of activities in the bedroom but I only participate in sexual practices that are mutually agreed upon, consensual, and exciting for both partners.

About two years ago I started seeing a woman in her late 20s. Our relationship was affectionate, casual and passionate. We saw each other on and off over the period of a year and began engaging in adventurous forms of sex that included role-play, dominance and submission. We discussed our interests at length before engaging in rough sex (forms of BDSM). We talked about using safe words and regularly checked in with each other about our comfort levels. She encouraged our role-play and often was the initiator. We joked about our relations being like a mild form of Fifty Shades of Grey or a story from Lynn Coady’s Giller-Prize winning book last year. I don’t wish to get into any more detail because it is truly not anyone’s business what two consenting adults do. I have never discussed my private life before. Sexual preferences are a human right.

Despite a strong connection between us it became clear to me that our on-and-off dating was unlikely to grow into a larger relationship and I ended things in the beginning of this year. She was upset by this and sent me messages indicating her disappointment that I would not commit to more, and her anger that I was seeing others.

After this, in the early spring there began a campaign of harassment, vengeance and demonization against me that would lead to months of anxiety.

It came to light that a woman had begun anonymously reaching out to people that I had dated (via Facebook) to tell them she had been a victim of abusive relations with me. In other words, someone was reframing what had been an ongoing consensual relationship as something nefarious. I learned – through one of my friends who got in contact with this person – that someone had rifled through my phone on one occasion and taken down the names of any woman I had seemed to have been dating in recent years. This person had begun methodically contacting them to try to build a story against me. Increasingly, female friends and ex-girlfriends of mine told me about these attempts to smear me.

Someone also began colluding with a freelance writer who was known not to be a fan of mine and, together, they set out to try to find corroborators to build a case to defame me. She found some sympathetic ears by painting herself as a victim and turned this into a campaign. The writer boldly started contacting my friends, acquaintances and even work colleagues – all of whom came to me to tell me this was happening and all of whom recognized it as a trumped up way to attack me and undermine my reputation. Everyone contacted would ask the same question, if I had engaged in non-consensual behavior why was the place to address this the media?

The writer tried to peddle the story and, at one point, a major Canadian media publication did due diligence but never printed a story. One assumes they recognized these attempts to recast my sexual behaviour were fabrications. Still, the spectre of mud being flung onto the Internet where online outrage can demonize someone before facts can refute false allegations has been what I’ve had to live with.

And this leads us to today and this moment. I’ve lived with the threat that this stuff would be thrown out there to defame me. And I would sue. But it would do the reputational damage to me it was intended to do (the ex has even tried to contact me to say that she now wishes to refute any of these categorically untrue allegations). But with me bringing it to light, in the coming days you will prospectively hear about how I engage in all kinds of unsavoury aggressive acts in the bedroom. And the implication may be made that this happens non-consensually. And that will be a lie. But it will be salacious gossip in a world driven by a hunger for “scandal”. And there will be those who choose to believe it and to hate me or to laugh at me. And there will be an attempt to pile on. And there will be the claim that there are a few women involved (those who colluded with my ex) in an attempt to show a “pattern of behaviour”. And it will be based in lies but damage will be done. But I am telling you this story in the hopes that the truth will, finally, conquer all.

I have been open with the CBC about this since these categorically untrue allegations ramped up. I have never believed it was anyone’s business what I do in my private affairs but I wanted my bosses to be aware that this attempt to smear me was out there. CBC has been part of the team of friends and lawyers assembled to deal with this for months. On Thursday I voluntarily showed evidence that everything I have done has been consensual. I did this in good faith and because I know, as I have always known, that I have nothing to hide. This when the CBC decided to fire me.

CBC execs confirmed that the information provided showed that there was consent. In fact, they later said to me and my team that there is no question in their minds that there has always been consent. They said they’re not concerned about the legal side. But then they said that this type of sexual behavior was unbecoming of a prominent host on the CBC. They said that I was being dismissed for “the risk of the perception that may come from a story that could come out.” To recap, I am being fired in my prime from the show I love and built and threw myself into for years because of what I do in my private life.

Let me be the first to say that my tastes in the bedroom may not be palatable to some folks. They may be strange, enticing, weird, normal, or outright offensive to others. We all have our secret life. But that is my private life. That is my personal life. And no one, and certainly no employer, should have dominion over what people do consensually in their private life.

And so, with no formal allegations, no formal complaints, no complaints, not one, to the HR department at the CBC (they told us they’d done a thorough check and were satisfied), and no charges, I have lost my job based on a campaign of vengeance. Two weeks after the death of my beautiful father I have been fired from the CBC because of what I do in my private life.

I have loved the CBC. The Q team are the best group of people in the land. My colleagues and producers and on-air talent at the CBC are unparalleled in being some of the best in the business. I have always tried to be a good soldier and do a good job for my country. I am still in shock. But I am telling this story to you so the truth is heard. And to bring an end to the nightmare. 

Dear everyone,

I am writing today because I want you to be the first to know some news.

This has been the hardest time of my life. I am reeling from the loss of my father. I am in deep personal pain and worried about my mom. And now my world has been rocked by so much more.

Today, I was fired from the CBC.

For almost 8 years I have been the host of a show I co-created on CBC called Q. It has been my pride and joy. My fantastic team on Q are super-talented and have helped build something beautiful.

I have always operated on the principle of doing my best to maintain a dignity and a commitment to openness and truth, both on and off the air. I have conducted major interviews, supported Canadian talent, and spoken out loudly in my audio essays about ideas, issues, and my love for this country. All of that is available for anyone to hear or watch. I have known, of course, that not everyone always agrees with my opinions or my style, but I’ve never been anything but honest. I have doggedly defended the CBC and embraced public broadcasting. This is a brand I’ve been honoured to help grow.

All this has now changed.

Today I was fired from the company where I’ve been working for almost 14 years – stripped from my show, barred from the building and separated from my colleagues. I was given the choice to walk away quietly and to publicly suggest that this was my decision. But I am not going to do that. Because that would be untrue. Because I’ve been fired. And because I’ve done nothing wrong.

I’ve been fired from the CBC because of the risk of my private sex life being made public as a result of a campaign of false allegations pursued by a jilted ex girlfriend and a freelance writer.

As friends and family of mine, you are owed the truth.

I have commenced legal proceedings against the CBC, what’s important to me is that you know what happened and why.

Forgive me if what follows may be shocking to some.

I have always been interested in a variety of activities in the bedroom but I only participate in sexual practices that are mutually agreed upon, consensual, and exciting for both partners.

About two years ago I started seeing a woman in her late 20s. Our relationship was affectionate, casual and passionate. We saw each other on and off over the period of a year and began engaging in adventurous forms of sex that included role-play, dominance and submission. We discussed our interests at length before engaging in rough sex (forms of BDSM). We talked about using safe words and regularly checked in with each other about our comfort levels. She encouraged our role-play and often was the initiator. We joked about our relations being like a mild form of Fifty Shades of Grey or a story from Lynn Coady’s Giller-Prize winning book last year. I don’t wish to get into any more detail because it is truly not anyone’s business what two consenting adults do. I have never discussed my private life before. Sexual preferences are a human right.

Despite a strong connection between us it became clear to me that our on-and-off dating was unlikely to grow into a larger relationship and I ended things in the beginning of this year. She was upset by this and sent me messages indicating her disappointment that I would not commit to more, and her anger that I was seeing others.

After this, in the early spring there began a campaign of harassment, vengeance and demonization against me that would lead to months of anxiety.

It came to light that a woman had begun anonymously reaching out to people that I had dated (via Facebook) to tell them she had been a victim of abusive relations with me. In other words, someone was reframing what had been an ongoing consensual relationship as something nefarious. I learned – through one of my friends who got in contact with this person – that someone had rifled through my phone on one occasion and taken down the names of any woman I had seemed to have been dating in recent years. This person had begun methodically contacting them to try to build a story against me. Increasingly, female friends and ex-girlfriends of mine told me about these attempts to smear me.

Someone also began colluding with a freelance writer who was known not to be a fan of mine and, together, they set out to try to find corroborators to build a case to defame me. She found some sympathetic ears by painting herself as a victim and turned this into a campaign. The writer boldly started contacting my friends, acquaintances and even work colleagues – all of whom came to me to tell me this was happening and all of whom recognized it as a trumped up way to attack me and undermine my reputation. Everyone contacted would ask the same question, if I had engaged in non-consensual behavior why was the place to address this the media?

The writer tried to peddle the story and, at one point, a major Canadian media publication did due diligence but never printed a story. One assumes they recognized these attempts to recast my sexual behaviour were fabrications. Still, the spectre of mud being flung onto the Internet where online outrage can demonize someone before facts can refute false allegations has been what I’ve had to live with.

And this leads us to today and this moment. I’ve lived with the threat that this stuff would be thrown out there to defame me. And I would sue. But it would do the reputational damage to me it was intended to do (the ex has even tried to contact me to say that she now wishes to refute any of these categorically untrue allegations). But with me bringing it to light, in the coming days you will prospectively hear about how I engage in all kinds of unsavoury aggressive acts in the bedroom. And the implication may be made that this happens non-consensually. And that will be a lie. But it will be salacious gossip in a world driven by a hunger for “scandal”. And there will be those who choose to believe it and to hate me or to laugh at me. And there will be an attempt to pile on. And there will be the claim that there are a few women involved (those who colluded with my ex) in an attempt to show a “pattern of behaviour”. And it will be based in lies but damage will be done. But I am telling you this story in the hopes that the truth will, finally, conquer all.

I have been open with the CBC about this since these categorically untrue allegations ramped up. I have never believed it was anyone’s business what I do in my private affairs but I wanted my bosses to be aware that this attempt to smear me was out there. CBC has been part of the team of friends and lawyers assembled to deal with this for months. On Thursday I voluntarily showed evidence that everything I have done has been consensual. I did this in good faith and because I know, as I have always known, that I have nothing to hide. This when the CBC decided to fire me.

CBC execs confirmed that the information provided showed that there was consent. In fact, they later said to me and my team that there is no question in their minds that there has always been consent. They said they’re not concerned about the legal side. But then they said that this type of sexual behavior was unbecoming of a prominent host on the CBC. They said that I was being dismissed for “the risk of the perception that may come from a story that could come out.” To recap, I am being fired in my prime from the show I love and built and threw myself into for years because of what I do in my private life.

Let me be the first to say that my tastes in the bedroom may not be palatable to some folks. They may be strange, enticing, weird, normal, or outright offensive to others. We all have our secret life. But that is my private life. That is my personal life. And no one, and certainly no employer, should have dominion over what people do consensually in their private life.

And so, with no formal allegations, no formal complaints, no complaints, not one, to the HR department at the CBC (they told us they’d done a thorough check and were satisfied), and no charges, I have lost my job based on a campaign of vengeance. Two weeks after the death of my beautiful father I have been fired from the CBC because of what I do in my private life.

I have loved the CBC. The Q team are the best group of people in the land. My colleagues and producers and on-air talent at the CBC are unparalleled in being some of the best in the business. I have always tried to be a good soldier and do a good job for my country. I am still in shock. But I am telling this story to you so the truth is heard. And to bring an end to the nightmare.

13 Real Life Haunted Houses And The Horror Stories That Go With Them

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

ENJOY!

 

13 Real Life Haunted Houses And The Horror Stories That Go With Them

Posted: 10/29/2014 9:33 am EDT Updated: 10/29/2014 11:59 am EDT

Photographer Seph Lawless is a master of the abandoned — his frames are filled with eerie portraits of shopping malls, factories, homes. All dilapidated, all empty, all but forgotten. He usually travels across the United States via hybrid vehicle, equipped with a camera and a knack for finding ways inside strange structures, collecting stories of his adventures along the way.

It shouldn’t be surprising that Lawless’ travel logs include more than a few ghostly tales. He is, after all, venturing through the detritus of tougher times. He was bound to stumble upon a few terrifying properties, left to crumble while the rest of us are too afraid to notice. Just in time for Halloween, Lawless has compiled the most hauntingly beautiful of the bunch in a book titled “‘13: An American Horror Story.

Essentially, the tome is a high quality coffee table book for the macabre obsessed. From Texas, Ohio, New York, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Kentucky, Wisconsin and Connecticut, Lawless shows off the real life haunted houses he’s visited throughout his work, and the slightly startling histories and personal stories that make them unique. Check out a preview of the publication, available in hardback and e-book, below. (All captions provided by the artist.)

  • Michigan
    In 1941, The Haught Mansion (Brush Park, MI) was used as a brothel for upscale gentlemen. Years later several dead bodies were found in the cellar of the mansion. Each body had been marked by a what appeared to be a perfect circle on the torso and chest areas.
  • Kentucky
    So the story goes, after both parents committed double suicide in the Sayer House their four small children raised themselves for more than a decade in this home.
  • Ohio
    The Nova House (Youngstown, Ohio) was the place where Benjamin Albright shot and killed his son by accident then killed himself and his wife after being struck with anguish and guilt in 1958. The home has been vacant ever since and still has personal belongings inside.
  • Michigan
    The Temple Haunted Mansion (Detroit, MI) was the home of a triple murder that took place in August 1942.
  • Texas
    The Hooley Haunted Mansion was home to several strange deaths throughout the 1970s when the mansion served as a bed and breakfast for passing transients.
  • Ohio
    The Milan Mansion has long been suspected as a home of witchcraft. The owner was a practicing witch known by locals as the Milan Witch, and is said to be buried underneath front porch.
  • Pennsyvania
    The Doll House Mansion (Philadelphia, PA) is an abandoned mansion full of nothing but dolls and organized metal saws and tools neatly displayed on metal shelves through out several rooms.
  • Connecticut
    The Bailey Mansion (Hartford, Connecticut) is the haunted house that inspired the popular television series “American Horror Story.”
  • Ohio
    This Cleveland home was where serial killer Michael Madison toutured and killed his victims.
  • Pennsylvania
    This is the Oliver Family Mansion in Chester, PA. The Oliver family went missing in 1898. The mystery baffled investigators and the family was never found but locals say they can see them in the windows of the mansion.
  • Ohio
    This is the Akron childhood home of one of the most notorious serial killers in American history, Robert Berdella (also known as the Butcher of Kansas City). In his prison psychiatric profile, Berdella spoke of his rough childhood in Ohio. Specifically, he mentioned his rape at age 16, an act that triggered his desire to move to Kansas City, and kill off everybody in the sex industry in the process.
  • New York
    The Cater House Estates in Buffalo, New York was home to the local sheriff Donald Caters when he shot himself. The home went into foreclosure in 1968. The house remained vacant and haunted ever since with locals alleging they hear voices coming from the house regularly.
  • Ohio
    This abandoned house in East Cleveland is where Serial killer Anthony Sowell hid victims’ bodies. The house is now demolished but locals would cross the street refusing to walk on the sidewalk directly in front of the house claiming that the home made noises.
  • Wisconsin
    The Tillmore House

All proceeds from book sales between December 1-31 will go to the Greater Cleveland Food Bank. For more on the pseudonymous Lawless,check out his Facebook page here. For more of our coverage of his work, see projects “Black Friday” and “Autopsy of America.”

CARTELS AND DEAD STUDENTS LITTER MEXICO

THIS HAS BEEN GOING ON FOREVER

DEAD STUDENTS

DRUG CARTELS

THEY ARE AS A PART OF MEXICO AS

HOT TOMALI’S

and I understand why they come here illegally but I think it’s high time

America invests in Mexico to get rid of these damn cartels

Legalize drugs and level these killer cartels. People will stay in Mexico and work.

Otherwise they will just keep coming and we can’t handle all these illegals.

====================================================

Mexico Is Looking For 43 Missing Students. What Has Been Found Is Truly Terrifying

Posted: 10/30/2014 12:30 pm EDT Updated: 10/30/2014 12:59 pm EDT
IGUALA

After a student protest in Iguala, Mexico, last month, dozens of young men were seenbeing hauled off into police vans. Then, they vanished.

One month later, 43 students from the Ayotzinapa rural teachers college are still missing and presumed dead. Instead of finding the students, authorities investigating the events of Sept. 26 have instead found other horrors: a string of mass graves, police working for drug cartels and government officials at the helm of a dark underworld.

The hunt for the students has laid bare the brutality and lawlessness in parts of Mexico still under the grip of the cartels, despite years of Mexico’s war on drugs.

iguala
Chairs with portraits of missing students are seen during a march for the 43 missing students in Mexico City, Oct. 22, 2014. (RONALDO SCHEMIDT/AFP/Getty Images)

Here are some of the disturbing findings of the Mexican government’s investigation:

Last Sighting Of The Students

The students — men in their late teens and early 20s — were studying to become teachers in rural Mexico at a college with a history of radical leftist activism, the BBC reported. That Friday, they went out to demonstrate against hiring discrimination and solicit funds for an upcoming protest march.

Witnesses have said that the students were in Iguala, a city in southern Mexico, when they came under fire from police.

By the end of the night, six people were left dead. The body of one student was laterfound with his face skinned and eyes gouged out, the New Yorker reported, “the signature of a Mexican organized-crime assassination.”

Some of the students escaped Iguala, but 43 of them have not been seen since that night. Survivors described their classmates being taken away by police, but authoritiesdenied they were in state custody.

When the students didn’t return and relatives and sympathizers took to the streets in protest, Mexico’s federal government launched an investigation.

The City’s Mayor And His Wife Allegedly Control The Local Drug Cartel

According to the investigation, Iguala Mayor José Luis Abarca Velázquez instructed municipal police to stop the student protests at all costs.

The mayor and his wife, María de los Ángeles Pineda Villa, are the “probable masterminds” behind the crime and are on the run from arrest, according to Mexico’s attorney general.

The investigation has led to allegations that Abarca and Pineda were the heads of a murderous personal fiefdom in collaboration with the local drug cartel — the Guerreros Unidos.

pineda villa abarca
Iguala Mayor Jose Luis Abarca and his wife, Maria de los Angeles Pineda Villa, at a meeting in Chilpancingo, Mexico, May 8, 2014. (AP Photo/Alejandrino Gonzalez, File)

After his arrest, the head of the cartel told investigators that Pineda — the daughter and sister of cartel members — is the “key operator” of the criminal network in Iguala. When the students’ protest risked disrupting an event launching her own bid for the mayor’s office, Pineda gave the order to “teach them a lesson,” the cartel chief told authorities, according to the Daily Beast.

Despite expressions of shock by the Mexican government, local residents say officials turned a blind eye to the couple’s gang connections. “Everyone knew about their presumed connections to organized crime,” Alejandro Encinas, a senator from the mayor’s Democratic Revolution Party, told the Associated Press. “Nobody did anything, not the federal government, not the state government, not the party leadership.”

Investigators Say Police Worked As The Cartel’s Hit Men

Investigators said that police delivered the 43 missing students to members of the Guerreros Unidos cartel, telling them that the students were members of a rival drug gang.

Guerreros Unidos hit men admitted to killing some of the students and dumping them in a pit — although their bodies have not yet been identified.

In custody, Guerreros Unidos members named at least 30 local police officers they said were working directly for the cartel. “I wouldn’t call these police, ‘police.’ I would call them hit men,” Mexican federal Attorney General Jesús Murillo Karam told reporters.

Dozens of police have since been arrested, and authorities said some have confessed to being involved. Iguala’s police chief is also on the run. Federal police officers have taken over law enforcement in Iguala, disarming the entire force.

iguala sept 26
Municipal police officers suspected of involvement in the students’ disappearance are taken to waiting transport at the attorney general’s organized crime unit in Mexico City, Oct. 17, 2014. (AP Photo/Rebecca Blackwell, File)

Meanwhile, a banner demanding the policemen’s release appeared in Iguala, signed by the Guerreros Unidos cartel. “Or else we will reveal the names of all the politicians who work for us. The war is just beginning,” the sign threatened.

The Cartel’s Control Likely Goes Far Beyond One City

The Guerreros Unidos cartel is thought to control drug routes in Guerrero state — where Iguala is located — and neighboring Morelos. And the collusion of local authorities in their operation likely runs far wider than Iguala.

Federal police have taken control of more than 12 municipalities in southern Mexico after finding “presumed links to organized crime” in their police forces, Mexico National Security Commissioner Monte Alejandro Rubido said.

The cartel is one of several regional splinter groups from the notorious Sinaloa Cartel to emerge around 2011, according to investigative journalism group InSight Crime. Violence has exploded as the gangs battle for territory, and Guerrero had the highest murder rate in Mexico in 2013, the group said.

Many, Many More Are Missing And Dead

In their search for any trace of the students, investigators have found at least 12 mass graves with dozens of unidentified bodies near Iguala. So far, authorities say none of the remains match the missing students.

The gruesome discoveries confirmed some of the residents’ worst fears — that the hills above the city were being used as a cemetery for the disappeared.

iguala grave
View of a grave discovered in Pueblo Viejo, in the outskirts of Iguala, Guerrero state, Mexico, on Oct. 6, 2014. (Pedro PARDO/AFP/Getty Images)

Already this year, 150 bodies have been found in secret graves throughout Guerrero state, InSight Crime reports, citing the state’s forensic office.

Across Mexico, more than 20,000 people have disappeared in the last eight years, according to government figures. Human Rights Watch’s Nik Steinberg, who has extensively investigated the disappearances, wrote in Foreign Policy earlier this yearthat if even half of the cases are verified, this represents “one of the worst waves of disappearances in the Americas in decades.”

“The evidence suggests not only that authorities have failed to investigate disappearances, but also, in many cases, that soldiers and police have helped to carry them out,” he wrote in a story published before the Iguala students vanished.

iguala protest
People protest the students’ disappearance in Guadalajara, Mexico, on Oct. 8, 2014. (Servando Gomez Camarillo/LatinContent/Getty Images)

In the meantime, the students’ families and supporters are holding out hope that they will be found.

“Today all Mexico resounds with the cry ‘They took them alive, we want them back alive,'” Mexican poet and former diplomat Homero Aridjis wrote in a recent blog postfor The WorldPost. “Mexicans are fed up with living in a pervasive state of corruption and impunity,” he said.

The students’ disappearance and the allegations of official complicity have broughtthousands of outraged protesters onto the streets of Mexico to demand their return — and justice.

iguala protest
Demonstrators protest the disappearance of the students on Oct. 17, 2014 in Acapulco, Mexico. (AP Photo/Eduardo Verdugo)

iguala protest
A student paints ‘Repressive State’ on the windows of the attorney general’s office in Mexico City during a protest for the missing students, Oct. 15, 2014. (OMAR TORRES/AFP/Getty Images)

2 LATINO STUDENTS IN MASSACHUSETTES GET SUSPENDED FOR POSTING A PICTURE WITH GUNS

THESE KIDS ARE TWO DOPES WHO DON’T DESERVE TO GET AN EDUCATION

“THE GUNS ARE POINTING TOWARDS THE FLOOR!”, THEY DECLARED, “IT’S UNFAIR WE ARE SUSPENDED”

SERIOUSLY? PELLET GUNS CAN KILL & THE PHOTO IS OFFENSIVE TO ANY PARENT AND FAMILY WHO HAS LOST A CHILD TO SCHOOL VIOLENCE. 

LEAVE IT TO 2 LATINO’S TO BE INSENSITIVE

THESE KIDS ARE SO STUPID THEY SHOULD BE EXPELLED.

I BELIEVE IT’S BEST TO ERR ON THE SIDE OF CAUTION SINCE THE SCALE OF IDIOT KIDS BRINGING GUNS INTO SCHOOL AND KILLING THEIR CLASSMATES IS CONSISTENTLY HIGH

IF I WERE THE SCHOOL I WOULD PISS TEST THESE TWO MORONS TO SEE IF THEY AREN’T ON DRUGS.

=———————————————————————————->

Students Tito Velez And Jamie Pereira Suspended Over AirSoft Homecoming Photo

Posted: 10/29/2014 11:10 am EDT Updated: 10/29/2014 1:59 pm EDT
Tito Velez and Jamie Pereira face suspension over this photo

A young Massachusetts couple was suspended from high school after one of them posted a controversial photo to social media.

Tito Velez and his girlfriend, Jamie Pereira, posed for a photo holding AirSoft guns prior to the homecoming dance at Bristol Plymouth Regional Technical School. According to WHDH, they posted the photo online Friday with the caption “Homecoming 2014.”

School officials perceived the photo as insensitive and issued suspensions to the teens. Officials said the students must be punished for causing a disruption.

“What it’s about is a [couple of] students engaging in an activity that created a total destruction of the school day,” Superintendent Richard W. Gross said. “They’re juniors in high school, and it’s proactive and they should know better and it scared students.”

The students say it’s unfair because the guns only shoot plastic pellets, and the photo was taken at home, not at school.

“This isn’t dangerous. You can’t kill someone with it,” Velez, 15, told CBS BostonTuesday. “We didn’t shoot anyone. We were pointing them at the floor.”

While supporters of the teens say that the school is overreacting, officials say the extra caution is necessary.

Gross told WBZ that, had police known about the photo, they would have cancelled the homecoming dance.

Earlier this month, a team of Harvard researchers published a study that shows mass shootings in the United States have surged in the last three years, occurring on average every 64 days.

 

ALLEGED COP KILLER ERIC FREIN IS CAPTURED W/O A SHOT FIRED

THE COPS  BROKE THEIR FAT BUTTS TO FIND A COP KILLER

WHOM THEY CAPTURED WITHOUT FIRING A SHOT

BUT THEY JUST CAN’T SEEM TO ARREST CITIZENS WITHOUT SHOOTING THE SHIT OUT OF THEM

REALLY?

=================================================================

Eric Frein Captured: Accused Cop Killer In Custody, Police Say

Posted: 10/30/2014 6:59 pm EDT Updated: 22 minutes ago
UNSPECIFIED - UNDATED: In this handout provided by the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), Eric Matthew Frein, 31, poses on an unspecified date and location. Eric Frein is being sought in the killing of State Trooper Bryon Dickson. (Photo by Federal Bureau of Investigation via Getty Images)

Eric Frein, the man wanted for allegedly killing a Pennsylvania State Trooper before going on the lam for 48 days, is in police custody.

Frein was captured by authorities Thursday, according to Pennsylvania State Police spokeswoman Connie Devens.

“I can confirm that we have taken Eric Frein into custody,” Devens said in an email Thursday evening. “No further information will be released or confirmed at this time.”

The arrest was reportedly made inside an abandoned airport hangar at the Pocono Mountains Municipal Airport. No shots were fired during the arrest but Frein was allegedly armed, according to FOX News.

An unconfirmed photo that allegedly shows Frein after he was taken into custody:
Authorities say Frein, a 31-year-old military enthusiast with extensive training as a marksman, ambushed two state troopers during a shift change outside the Blooming Grove barracks on September 12. Cpl. Bryon Dickson was killed in the attack. Trooper Alex Douglass was seriously wounded and remains hospitalized.

The first breakthrough in the case came in the hours following the shooting, when Frein’s jeep was found partially submerged in a wooded area, not far from the police barracks. Ammunition casings found inside the vehicle matched casings found at the scene of the shooting, police said.

Investigators say they believe Frein fled on foot. During the course of the manhunt there were numerous reported sightings of him in the wooded mountain areas, which are popular with tourists and law enforcement repeatedly claimed they were closing in on the fugitive.

On September 24, Pennsylvania State Police Lt. Col. George Bivens announced Frein had left a trail of used diapers and empty cigarette packs in the forests surrounding Canadensis, the village in northeastern Pennsylvania where Frein grew up.

The diapers earned Frein the moniker “Diaper Sniper” and the creation of hashtag#DiaperSniper on Twitter.

Another big development came earlier this month, when police seized a large cache of survival supplies and handwritten notes at a campsite in the area around Canadensis.

According to Bivens, the notes give a detailed first-person account of the deadly ambush.

One of the notes, reads, in part:

“Got a shot around 11 p.m. and took it. He dropped. I was surprised at how quick. I took a follow-up shot on his head, neck area. He was still and quiet after that. Another cop approached the one I just shot. As he went to kneel, I took a shot at him and he jumped in the door. His legs were visible and still. I ran back to the jeep. I made it maybe half-a-mile from the GL (game land) road and hit a road block. I didn’t expect one so soon — it was only 15 to 20 minutes. I did a k-turn a quarter mile from them and pulled into a development I knew had unfinished access roads. Hearing helos (helicopters), I just used my marker lights, missed the trail around a run off pool and drove straight into it. Disaster. Made half-attempt to stash AK and ran.”

Biven’s called the written account of the shootings “cold blooded and absolutely chilling.”

“I can only describe Eric Frein’s actions as pure evil,” he said.

None of the notes, Bivens said, suggest Frein knew either of the troopers he is accused of shooting.

The search for Frein heightened on Tuesday, when Frein was reportedly sighted at Buck Hill Falls, a private community in the Pocono Mountains. It remains unclear if that sighting helped lead police to Frein Thursday.

Police have not confirmed a possible motive for the shooting of the troopers, but have said Frein previously wrote about his hatred for police and had been planning an attack for several years.

“He has made statements about wanting to kill law enforcement officers and also to commit mass acts of murder,” State Police Commissioner Frank Noonan said in September. “What his reasons are, we don’t know, but he has very strong feelings about law enforcement and seems to be very angry with a lot of things that go on in our society.”

AMERICAN HORROR STORY: FREAK SHOW is filled to the brim with stellar actors it’s OVER FUCKING WHELMING!

JESSICA LANGE NO LONGER STANDS OUT AS THE LONG PROPER ACTRESS

SHE IS NOW SURROUNDED BY UNBELIEVABLY BRILLIANT ACTORS PORTRAYING WHACKED OUT CHARACTERS WHO ARE EQUALLY BRILLIANT

THIS SEASON IS OVERWHELMING EPISODE BY EPISODE

THE OLD CREW IS BACK FROM “COVEN” which in my opinion sucks so bad I lost the ability to breath for that season but KATHY BATES’ CHARACTER

HAS A MIDWEST ACCENT YOU CAN CUT THROUGH ONLY WITH A BUTCHER KNIFE

HER HAIR AND STATUE LOOK MANLY

AND SHE IS WEARING A BEARD

AND I CAN’T STOP STARING AT HER

“IS THAT REALLY KATHY BATES” – FUCK ME!

FINN WITTROCK, AS DANDY MOTT, could he be the MOTT APPPLESAUCE HEIR with AFFLUENZA?

IN ANY CASE THE LAST SCENE IN THE LATEST EPISODE WHERE HE KILLS DORA, THE MAID (PATTI LaBelle) by cutting her throat and his realization that he is capable of becoming EXACTLY like the love of his life,

TWISTY, THE KILLER CLOWN

Who may have or not been a pedophile

In any case, he could not and would not admit his dark capacity for murder and was taken by Mordrake

FUCK ME UPSIDE DOWN WITH THE CHARACTER

EDWARD MORDRAKE

This actor, WES BENTLY IS FROM FUCKING ARKANSAS AND HAS A PROPER ENGLISH ACCENT STRAIGHT OF OF Gothic Charles Dickens or even Edgar Allen Poe!

Now others are joining the herd and frankly the season is packed with talent; Jodie Foster might even direct an episode – I wish she’d star in one.

That’s cream cheese for me – Foster and Lange on the same plane – in that same space – omg it’s a gay drama moment!

So we go forward after Halloween to more horror and the appearance of LILY RABE – Fuck me man – She’s been in every AHS since the beginning. Now she is guest starring because she is in her own TV show – of course it’s a horror show – THE WHISPERS soon to premiere.

So now AHS is two for two – ASYLUM & FREAK SHOW

The moral of freak show really is ‘WHO REALLY ARE “THE FREAKS”?”

======================================================

THE TRUE MUSLIMS – AN AMERICAN SURVIVOR FROM SYRIA – THEO PADNOS, AN AMERICAN-GREEK JOURNALIST

FROM THE NY TIMES AND IN THE MEMORY OF MY LATE COUSIN HAIG NARGIZIAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WHAT ISLAM REALLY IS AND WHAT MUSLIMS ARE ALL ABOUT.

THIS MAN PETER THEO CURTIS/THEO PADNOS IS A SPOILED AMERICAN AND I SAY THAT BECAUSE HE HAD NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK HE WAS GETTING INTO WHEN HE WENT TO TURKEY AND THEN SLIPPED INTO SYRIA. HE THOUGHT HE WAS UNTOUCHABLE.

HE WAS CAPTURED AND FOUND HIMSELF IN A SIMILAR PRISON WITH THE LATE JAMES FOLEY. FOLEY DIED – PADNOS WAS RELEASED. I STILL THINK HE DOESN’T QUITE COMPREHEND THAT HIS RELEASE WAS NOTHING SHORT OF A MIRACLE. 

SEVERAL YEARS BEFORE MY COUSIN DIED, HE WAS TRAVELING THROUGH TURKEY ON HIS WAY TO MEET WITH A GROUP OF ARMENIANS GOING TO ARMENIA. HE HAD BEEN TO ARMENIA MANY TIMES BEFORE; HE WAS EVEN CONSIDERING TO LIVE THERE. HE WAS SO ARMENIAN AND LOVED EVERYTHING ABOUT OUR CULTURE. HE HAD BECOME KNOWN TO TURKS LIVING ABROAD AS “THE ARMENIAN WHO IS OPEN ABOUT HIS OPINIONS CONCERNING MUSLIMS AND ISLAM”. HE THOUGHT THE WAY I DO ABOUT THEM.

ISLAM IS A DISEASE

MUSLIMS ARE THE CARRIERS OF THAT DISEASE.

THEY INTERCEPTED HAIG AND INTERROGATED HIM FOR HOURS. THEY DELAYED HIM AND HE MISSED HIS FLIGHT TO ARMENIA AND PEOPLE ON BOTH SIDES OF THE WORLD WERE WORRIED ABOUT HIM.

BUT MY COUSIN STOOD UP TO THOSE STINKING LOUSEY BASTARDS. HE TOLD THEM OFF. HE RIDICULED THEM AND HE SPAT OUT HIS WORDS. HE DIDN’T CARE. HE HAD LIVED HIS LIFE AND WAS UNAFRAID IN FRONT OF THEM. THESE ANIMALS WHO SLAUGHTERED OUR RELATIVES A CENTURY BEFORE.

I WAS PROUD OF HIM. I AM STILL PROUD OF HIM AND I CARRY ON THIS TRADITION UNTIL THE TURKISH MUSLIMS GIVE EVERY ARMENIAN ALIVE TODAY RESTITUTION. I DON’T CARE IF IT’S 1 RUBLE, 1 CENT – IT’S AN ADMISSION OF GUILT FROM THE LOUSEY TURK GOVERNMENT THAT THEY MINDLESSLY AND RUTHLESSLY SLAUGHTERED 2.5 MILLION ARMENIANS – I REMEMBER IT WAS 2.5 AND SOMEONE BECAUSE OF ISRAEL OUR DECEASED #S DWINDLED TO 1.5 -

FUCK YOU ISRAEL IT WAS 2.5 ARMENIANS AND YOU HELPED THEM. YOU DON’T DESERVE THE LAND YOU LIVE ON AND IN FACT YOU ARE IN DANGER OF LOSING IT.

THIS IS THEO PADNOS STORY OF ISIS, TERRORISTS, ISLAM AND MUSLIMS. READ EVERY WORD. IT’S A TESTAMENT TO HIS STRENGTH AND ENDURANCE WITH THESE PIGS.

I HOPE 1 DAY I HAVE THE POWER TO STAND UP AND TELL THEM OFF LIKE MY COUSIN HAIG.

LONG LIVE HIS MEMORY.

RIP.

XXCAT

==================================================>

Photo

Theo Padnos. CreditAndrea Modica for The New York Times
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In the early morning hours of July 3, one of the two top commanders of Al Qaeda in Syria summoned me from my jail cell. For nearly two years, he had kept me locked in a series of prisons. That night, I was driven from a converted schoolroom outside the eastern city of Deir al-Zour, where I was being held, to an intersection of desert paths five minutes away. When I arrived, the commander got out of his Land Cruiser. Standing in the darkness amid a circle of men draped in Kalashnikovs, he smiled. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“Certainly,” I said. I knew him because he visited me in my cell once, about eight months earlier, and lectured me about the West’s crimes against Islam. Mostly, however, I knew him by reputation. As a high commander of the Nusra Front, the Syrian affiliate of Al Qaeda, he controlled the group’s cash and determined which buildings were blown up and which checkpoints attacked. He also decided which prisoners were executed and which were released.

He wanted to make sure I knew his name. I did, and I repeated it for him: Abu Mariya al-Qahtani. “You are our Man of Learning,” I added, using the term — sheikhna — that his soldiers used to refer to him.

“Good,” he said. “You know that ISIS has us surrounded?”

I did not know this.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Not to worry. They won’t get me. They won’t get you. Everywhere I go, you go. Understand?” I nodded.

We drove to a residential compound next to an oil field near the Euphrates. For the rest of the night, I watched as some 200 foot soldiers and 25 or so religious authorities and hangers-on from the Afghan jihad prepared for their journey.

There were bags of Syrian pounds to stuff into the cabs of Toyota Hiluxes, boxes of stolen M.R.E.s to load onto the truck beds and suitcases and water coolers to fit in beside them. And there was the weaponry: mortars, rockets, machine guns, feed bags filled with grenades and bullets, stacks of suicide belts.

By 4 in the morning, the packing was done. At dawn, the commander drove to the head of the column of Hiluxes and fired his handgun into the air. Within seconds we were gone, flying over the sand. There are roads in this part of Syria. We didn’t use them.

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A scene from a Nusra Front video of Padnos in Syria.CreditAssociated Press

I was now 20 months into my life as a prisoner of the Nusra Front: the abrupt departures, the suicide belts, the mercurial behavior of the Man of Learning, the desert convoys, the way I might be shot or spared at any moment — this was my world. I was almost used to it.

In October 2012, however, when I was first kidnapped, I used to sit in my cell — a former consulting room in the Children’s Hospital in Aleppo — in a state of unremitting terror. In those first days, my captors laughed as they beat me. Sometimes they pushed me to the floor, seized hold of a pant leg or the scruff of my jacket and dragged me down the hospital corridor. If someone seemed to take an interest in the scene, I would scream: “Sa’adni!” (“Help me!”) The onlookers would smirk. Sometimes they called out a mocking reply in English: “Ooo, helb me! Ooo, my God, helb me!”

Because there was no bathroom in my cell, I had to knock on the heavy wooden door when I needed the toilet. Often, the guards wouldn’t come for hours. When they did, they would bang on the door themselves. “Shut up, you animal!” they would say.

The cruelty of my captors frightened me, but my bitterest moments in those early weeks came when I thought about who was most responsible for my kidnapping: me.

I believed I knew my way around the Arab world. In 2004, when the United States was mired in the war in Iraq, I decided to embark on a private experiment. I moved from Vermont to Sana, the Yemeni capital, to study Arabic and Islam. I was good with languages — I had a Ph.D. in comparative literature — and I was eager to understand a world where the West often seemed to lose its way. I began my studies in a neighborhood mosque, then enrolled in a religious school popular among those who dream of a “back to the days of the prophet” version of Islam. Later, I moved to Syria to study at a religious academy in Damascus. I began to write a book about my time in Yemen — about the mosques and the reading circles that formed after prayer and the dangerous religious feeling that sometimes grew around them.

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Padnos in 2005 in Yemen, where he studied Arabic and Islam. CreditFrom Theo Padnos

At the beginning of the Syrian civil war, I wrote a few articles from Damascus, then returned to Vermont in the summer of 2012. Just as the Islamists were beginning to assert their authority in Syria, I began pitching articles to editors in London and New York about the religious issues underlying the conflict. By now, I could recite many important Quranic verses from memory, and I was fluent enough in Arabic to pass for a native. But these qualifications mattered little. The editors didn’t know me; few bothered to reply. Perhaps, I thought, if I wrote from Syria itself, or from a Turkish town on the border, I’d have better luck. On Oct. 2, 2012, I arrived in Antakya, Turkey, where I rented a modest room that I shared with a young Tunisian. I tried pitching the editors again. Still nothing. I began to despair of publishing anything and cast about for something else to do. Should I try teaching French? I wondered. Coaching tennis?

I spent my afternoons in Antakya walking up a mountain on the outskirts of the city and looking across into Syria. By this time, despite its aggressive bombing campaign against the opposition and the civilian population, President Bashar al-Assad’s military government was losing ground. The international community condemned Assad for his actions against civilians, but none that joined in the censure, including the United States, intervened militarily. On TV, Islamic preachers railed against the Syrian government: Those who helped it would have their flesh cut into bits, then fed to the dogs. The government, for its part, warned that in areas of the country under opposition control, fanatical Islamists, possibly in the pay of the Israelis, were sneaking in from Iraq and Libya. The main opposition group, the Free Syrian Army, founded by former Assad generals and considered moderate by many in the West, had taken over the two most important border crossings north of Aleppo.

One day as I walked up the hill outside Antakya, an idea for an essay came to me. Anyone who has lived in Syria knows how bitter the divides are between the pious and the secular, the Assad loyalists and the dissidents, the well connected and those who struggle to get by. It would be impossible to plot these divisions on a map, because they often run through families, even individuals. Nevertheless, by the autumn of 2012, a traveler might have oriented himself by them: Most who lived east of the mountain chain that runs from the city of Homs toward the Turkish border were Sunni opponents of the government; most who lived in the mountains or to the west were Alawite supporters of Assad.

As I walked, I envisioned myself traveling along these fault lines. I would stop into villages and interview people, telling the story of a nation with many identities, dissatisfied with them all, in trouble, wanting help. In the background would be a narrator in a similar situation.

My experience in Arab countries ought to have given me pause. After I published my Yemen book, I changed my name from Theo Padnos to Peter Theo Curtis, worried that the book might make reporting from the Middle East difficult. I knew how Westerners were often viewed. But I had done all my studying under the eye of military governments, in places where the secret police listened to every word uttered in every mosque. I had never set foot in a region where only a militant Islam held sway. Things are different in such places. Almost immediately, I fell into a trap.

One afternoon in Antakya, I met three young Syrians. They seemed a bit shifty, but not, as far as I could tell, more militantly Islamic than anyone else. “Our job is to bring stuff from here to the Free Syrian Army,” they told me. They offered to take me with them. Thinking I’d be back in a few days, I told no one, not even my Tunisian roommate, where I was going.

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It seemed to me that I had been walking calmly through an olive grove with Syrian friends, that a rent in the earth had opened, that I had fallen into the darkness and woken in a netherworld, the kind found in myths or nightmares.

We slipped through a barbed-wire fence in the middle of an olive grove. I looked back toward Turkey. So far, so good. My Syrian friends led me to an abandoned house that I could use as a kind of field office. The next morning, I helped the young men straighten up the place, cleaning the floors and arranging pillows in an orderly row on a rubber mattress. They sat me down in front of a video camera and asked me to interview one of them, Abu Osama. When we were done, the cameraman smiled, walked across the room and kicked me in the face. His friends held me down. Abu Osama stomped on my chest, then called out for handcuffs. Someone else bound my feet. The cameraman aimed a pistol at my head.

“We’re from Al Tanzeem Al Qaeda,” Abu Osama said, grinning. “You didn’t know?” He told me I would be killed within the week if my family didn’t provide the cash equivalent of a quarter kilogram of gold — which the kidnappers thought was about $400,000 but was actually closer to $10,000 — the sum to which he was entitled, he said, by the laws of Islam.

Despite the video and the ransom demands, these kidnappers were amateurs. That night, I slipped out of the handcuffs that attached me to one of the sleeping men. In the soft sunlight of the Syrian dawn, I sprinted past walls covered in graffiti, through a cemetery and over a median strip, then stopped a passing minibus. “Take me to the Free Syrian Army right away,” I said. “This is an emergency.”

When I arrived at the F.S.A. headquarters, I appealed to the officers in the most desperate terms. They argued a bit among themselves, then took me to an Islamic court, where a judge questioned me and remanded me to a cell that had been converted from a Turkish toilet. There were prisoners in the cells on either side of me. I poked my head through a food hatch. A 10-year-old boy did the same. “What did you do?” I said. He withdrew, and a middle-aged man, his father, I presumed, poked his head out. “What did you do?” I repeated.

A helpless grin appeared on his face. “We’re Shia,” he said.

“I see,” I said.

Ten minutes later, the F.S.A. officers returned, accompanied by my kidnappers, and I was trundled into a car and taken to an F.S.A. safe house. There I was placed in a hole in the ground. Was I six feet below the surface? Only three? I didn’t know. Officers threw dirt on me, laughing and shouting insults. Someone jumped down and landed on my chest. Someone else beat me with the butt of his Kalashnikov. One officer insisted that I reply to his questions by yelling out, “I am filth, sir!”

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Padnos at his home in New England last month. He is in the position in which he slept, on the floor of his cell, throughout his imprisonment.CreditAndrea Modica for The New York Times

A few days later, the F.S.A. transferred me to a group of Islamists, and I had my first lesson in how to distinguish Islamist fighters from the Free Syrian Army: The fundamentalists think of themselves as the vanguard of an emergent Islamic state. They torture you more slowly, with purpose-specific instruments. You never address them as “sir,” because this reminds everyone of the state’s secular military. When the Islamists torture you, they prefer to be addressed by a title that implies religious learning. For the younger fighters, “ya sheikhi!” (“o, my sheikh!”); for the older ones, “emir.”

The F.S.A., it turned out, had given me to the Nusra Front, or Jebhat al Nusra, which was using the Children’s Hospital in Aleppo as a headquarters and a prison. During my first days there, I couldn’t believe that what was happening to me was actually happening to me. My mind kept replaying the hours just before and after the young men I met in Turkey attacked me. It seemed to me that I had been walking calmly through an olive grove with Syrian friends, that a rent in the earth had opened, that I had fallen into the darkness and woken in a netherworld, the kind found in myths or nightmares. I knew there was a kind of logic to this place, and I could tell that my captors wanted me to learn it. But what exactly they wished to teach me, and why they couldn’t say it straight out but preferred to speak through their special language of pain, I couldn’t understand. When the emirs came to my cell, they often stood in a semicircle over my mattress, muttered among themselves, dropped a candy wrapper or a used tissue on the floor, spit and then left without saying a word.

One afternoon during the first week of my imprisonment, a group of younger fighters gathered in my cell. I was in handcuffs and lying with my face to the wall, as an interrogator had instructed. During the beating that followed, one fighter, apparently disturbed by the violence, asked, “Have there been orders to do this to the prisoner?” No one answered.

The leader — I’m not sure who it was, I couldn’t see — carried a heavy stick and a cattle prod. As I lay there, he hit me across the back of the head, then strolled around the room reciting prayers. When I heard his footsteps, I raised my hands to protect my head. In a deadened voice, he would say, “Bring your hands down.” I would remove my hands. He would thwack me across the back of the head. Instinctively, my hands would return to my head. He would shock me with the cattle prod. The electricity jerked my body about. My hands would end up on my chest. He would hit me again.

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Al Qaeda plays with its prisoners’ sleep because it wants to have a controlling presence in every second of their lives, even in the unconscious seconds — perhaps especially in those.

I’m not sure how long this beating lasted — perhaps an hour, perhaps only 20 minutes. Toward the end, I heard the leader approach and braced myself for another blow. It didn’t come. Instead, he knelt close to me and whispered in my ear: “I hate Americans. All of them. I hate you all.”

After this, I lost track of time. I dreamed that the fighters were rolling my body in a winding sheet and lashing my ankles together with golden straw. In the days after this dream, I thought, I have seen the winding sheet, so I must be quite far along in the killing process. But every time I asked myself if I was alive or dead, the answer came back, You are most certainly alive. I thought, The custom must be to wrap the corpses in the winding sheets before they are entirely dead. How peculiar. I didn’t know.

For several days, I lingered in this state. A pile of sandbags blocked the sun from the room’s only window. The electric light worked intermittently — a few hours here, a few hours there, then darkness. There were many mornings on which I woke unsure if it was day or night. I knew there was a point to my treatment, but I struggled to see what it was. Eventually, the logic became plain: Al Qaeda plays with its prisoners’ sleep because it wants to have a controlling presence in every second of their lives, even in the unconscious seconds — perhaps especially in those.

After a month or so, I realized that my captors did not mean to kill me, at least not right away. There was, however, no hint that the nightmare I was living in would end soon. When they spoke of my emerging from jail, it was as a crippled old man. When they brought me food — usually olives and a sweet sesame paste called halvah on a hospital tray — they threw it on the floor. “Eat, you swine,” they would say. Then they would slam the door. They slammed it with such force that after a month the door handle fell off.

The chief of the Children’s Hospital jail was a Turkish-speaking Kurd. He sometimes allowed a group of Turkish jihadis to lounge in the hallway outside my cell. Their job, as far as I could tell, was to call the dawn prayer and harass prisoners as the guards escorted them to the bathroom. Every morning, as I was led in a blindfold and cuffs to the toilet, they spat at me and slapped me across the head and shoulders.

One day, one of these Turks took a running start from the end of the corridor and landed a karate kick against my rib cage. Both of us ended up on the ground.

“I think they broke my rib,” I complained to a guard. “For no reason. I was blindfolded. This is not O.K.”

He reflected on this for a moment, then shrugged. “Yes, it is,” he said. “It’s fine.”

Something in this guard’s manner made me think I might be able to negotiate with him. He was in the habit of hitting me with a piece of PVC pipe every time he entered my cell. It stung, but it didn’t really injure me. “When you hear the sound of the key in the lock, you put your face to the wall,” he would say. I did as he asked. He hit me anyway.

One day, before he hit me, I made a point of expressing to him just how completely my face was pressed to the wall. “You’re going to hit me anyway?” I asked. “What are you doing, sheikh? Why?”

I peeked at him. He grinned. “I want to train your soul,” he said.

O.K., I thought. I must make him believe that my soul is receiving its training. After that, when he entered the cell, I would yell: “Sheikh! My face is to the wall!” Then I waited, peeked and inquired if he thought I was learning.

“A little bit, perhaps,” he would reply.

Soon he stopped hitting me. One evening, on delivering my tray of halvahand olives, he smiled at me. A few days later, after dinner, he brought me apples (it was late November in Aleppo) and tea. When he left, I thought, Apples, tea and no beating — progress.

But this guard was on duty only once every four days. Some of the other guards insisted on the face-to-the-wall routine. Some did not. None brought me tea or apples.

During much of the fall and winter of 2012, I felt I had fallen into the hands of a band of sadists. “You’re C.I.A. — they’re going to barbecue your skin,” the guards would whisper. Did this mean death by fire? During an interrogation session, the Kurd, who liked to be called Sheikh Kawa, nodded at a prisoner whose wrists were cuffed to a pipe just beneath the ceiling. His feet bicycled through the air. “You must let me down, for the sake of God! For the sake of Muhammad and God!” he screamed.

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One day, before he hit me, I made a point of expressing to him just how completely my face was pressed to the wall. ‘You’re going to hit me anyway?’ I asked. ‘What are you doing, sheikh? Why?’ I peeked at him. He grinned. ‘I want to train your soul,’ he said.

“This is our music!” Kawa yelled at me. “Do you hear it?”

That night, Kawa tortured me and told me that if I didn’t confess to being a C.I.A. operative, he would kill me. I confessed to stop the pain. “If a single letter of what you’ve told us tonight is untrue,” Kawa said as he led me away, “we will put a bullet in your head.”

Kawa tortured me again, but as December turned into January, I began to think that some higher Qaeda authority wanted me to live. If I lived, I could say good things — about the Nusra Front and Islam. I was then, and remain now, more than willing to say good things about Islam.

When religious authorities or higher-ranking Nusra Front members — anyone with bodyguards — came by my cell, I sometimes recited verses from the Quran. These were verses that I loved, and the visitors seemed pleased. But the net result of these recitations was . . . nothing. Eventually, one of the more educated guards explained to me that as a Christian and an American, I was his enemy. Islam compelled him to hate me.

“Does it really?” I asked.

Yes, he said. America had killed at least one million Muslims in Iraq. Anyway, the Quran forbade amicable relations: “O you who believe!” this guard would recite. “Do not take the Jews and the Christians for friends. They are friends one to another. And whoso among you takes them for friends is indeed one of them.”

I kept track of time by marking off the passing days on a calendar I’d scratched into the prison wall. It was January 2013 when the prison administration began offering me the opportunity to convert to Islam. Every day, the guards preached to me and recited the Quran. In Arabic, you don’t convert to Islam, you “submit” to it. “Ya, Bitar” (“O, Peter”), the fighters would say, “why haven’t you submitted yet?” For a while, I thought that if I submitted, my life would improve, but I soon learned that even conversion would not help me.

In the third week of January, they put another American in my cell. He was an aspiring photojournalist from New York named Matthew Schrier. (When he arrived, I realized my makeshift calendar was 10 days behind.) At first, Matt refused to learn a word of Arabic, hoping his ignorance would make the interrogators less likely to think him a spy. Then, in early March, the commanders placed a third person, a Moroccan jihadi they suspected of spying, in our cell. The Moroccan spoke passable English and was a ferocious proselytizer. He soon persuaded Matt to submit to Islam.

Matt asked for an English-language Quran. A guard gave it to him. A few days later, Matt said the magic words — “I testify that there is no god but God and that Muhammad is his prophet” — in front of witnesses. When word got around that Matt had converted, the younger fighters would point at him and say, “You, good!” Then they would point at me and say, “You, bad!”

But the conversion did not get Matt better food, and it certainly did not get him home. Once, one of the more volatile guards slapped him as we were being taken to the bathroom. “You, bad!” he said to Matt. “You lie about religion.” The guard nodded at me. “You, you Christian,” he said. “You, good.”

I learned, eventually, to deflect the enthusiasm of the proselytizers. “Allah has created me a Christian,” I would say. “It’s not my fault.” They offered their counterarguments: “If you were to die as an unbeliever today, Allah would refuse to admit you into heaven.” Once each side had its say, we moved on to other things — the war in Syria, or politics, or their favorite topic, Western girlfriends. These sessions soon followed a typical pattern: My guards spent the first 10 minutes trying to get me to accept Islam. Then they gave up. Then they asked if I could introduce them to single women from a Western country.

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The region of conflict.

During the spring and early summer of 2013, the Nusra Front moved Matt and me through a series of ad hoc prisons. We were held in a villa on the outskirts of Aleppo, in a shuttered grocery store, at a shipping warehouse and in the basement of a Department of Motor Vehicles branch. We had a rough idea of where we were, because the fighters who administered these jails sometimes arrested people from the neighborhood and put them in the cells with us.

Toward the end of July 2013, Matt and I devised a way to crawl out of a small window in our cell. As we planned our escape, we agreed that Matt would go first and, once in the open air, would help me wriggle though. On the morning of July 29, the first part of the operation went off without a hitch. But the second part did not go as planned. Matt managed to escape and eventually made it home. I remained behind.

After this, the Nusra Front was convinced that Matt and I were highly trained C.I.A. operatives. A highly trained C.I.A. operative in the hands of Al Qaeda is in deep trouble, the fighters explained. For much of the ordeal that followed, I was blindfolded; my feet and hands were bound for all of it. It lasted some 45 days. At the end of it, I found myself six hours by car from Aleppo, somewhere near the eastern city of Deir al-Zour.

In this new prison, I dedicated myself to making friends with the fighters who guarded me. As summer turned to fall, they began to give me adequate food, joke with me and take me outside to sit, in handcuffs and a blindfold, in the desert sun.

This was a homey prison. It consisted of four cells, each the size of a narrow toilet stall, each equipped with a padlocked, home-welded steel door with a food hatch. I couldn’t see the other prisoners. The merest hint of conversation among us was punished with beatings. Nevertheless, when the guards were playing with their guns or busy watching cartoons, we sometimes whispered to one another. At times, I sang. The Nusra Front believes, as many Muslims do, that Allah made song unlawful for Muslims. Yet no one thinks this prohibition applies to Christians. So I sang, sometimes loud enough for the guards to hear. Often it was “Desperado”; there’s a popular Arabic version. Even the guards, I think, liked that one.

By May of this year, after 19 months in prison, I had almost come to terms with Qaeda reality. I got along adequately with the jail administration. I had enough food and water. It seemed to me that I might someday be released or I might someday be shot, but that I had no power to affect my fate. To keep my mind occupied, I decided to write a story, set in Vermont, on the pages of a calendar I’d found in a house where I had been imprisoned. It was about love, home and religious enthusiasm.

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Pages from the novel Padnos wrote while in captivity.CreditAndrea Modica for The New York Times

I didn’t know it at the time, but the Nusra Front was losing its war with the Islamic State, the group often referred to as ISIS. From conversations with guards and other prisoners, I gleaned that the two organizations were about equal in strength and that under no circumstances would the Islamic State be allowed to touch the oil fields, the real prize in Syria’s east. But in mid-June, when I was allowed to watch TV for the first time since my capture, I saw a map covered in Islamic State logos. Soon, the Nusra Front stopped construction on a prison it was building next to my cellblock. “Why?” I asked a guard.

“You’ll see,” he said.

In early June, they took away all of the prisoners except me; I don’t know what happened to them.

June turned to July. Suddenly I found myself standing at the edge of the desert with the Man of Learning. He gave me a suit of jihadi clothing, told me to blend in with his fighters and promised me that once we got to Dara’a, a city near the eastern edge of the Golan Heights, he would send me back to my family.

We traveled in the same car. He talked to me about the difficulties of being amujahid, or Fighter on the Straight Path of God. One afternoon early in our voyage, he told me that the world misunderstood him. “It must be difficult when the whole world wants to kill you,” I said. “Plus all the problems now with ISIS. And Bashar al-Assad probably wants to kill you, too.”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s true. But ISIS are the worst. They have made me very sad.”

He sighed. His mood was resigned. Over the following days, he often tried to cheer his lieutenants by recounting a funny story or embolden them by heaping contempt on enemy commanders or imams. With me, he talked about my future as a reporter: I would become a specialist on Al Qaeda. I would be the first reporter to tell the world the truth about the jihad in Syria. “Yes, of course,” I said.

After our first conversation, he made sure that I was either in the pickup’s cab with him or in the truck directly behind his. For the next 10 days, our caravan snaked its way through the dunes. We dodged the patrols of the Syrian Air Force, skirted the government’s outlying military bases, sneaked past hostile Druze villages. And then one night, after traveling several hundred miles, our train of pickups and Kia Rios arrived at a ridgeline bunker about 20 miles east of Damascus. A detachment of Free Syrian Army soldiers held the position. They welcomed us, but with no special warmth.

Within days, Syria’s air force had detected our presence. It bombed the bunker. It killed a Nusra Front fighter, destroyed six vehicles and then — for reasons I have yet to understand — left us in peace.

During this time, in the early mornings before my guards woke up, I walked on the ridgeline by myself. I would look for planes and think about what would happen if I tried to escape. One morning, I ran into four Free Syrian Army soldiers. How lucky, I thought. If I could get them to promise not to hurt me, if I could persuade them to place me beyond the range of the Nusra Front machine guns, I would be free.

Yet how was I to communicate with the F.S.A.? At the outset of our journey, the Man of Learning told me that I was never to talk to outsiders. That morning, I decided to take a risk.

The F.S.A. soldiers were heating up their tea. “Hey!” I said to them. “What’s your news? Peace be upon you.” They returned my salaams. One asked where I was from.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t talk to you.” They gave me a cup of tea, and the five of us drank in silence. Then another soldier repeated the question.

“From far away,” I replied. “How about you?” They were all from around Damascus.

“Have you come to Syria for the jihad?” someone asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m a civilian, a journalist.”

“How long have you been with Jebhat?” he asked.

“Almost two years,” I said.

The four fighters stared at me. They mumbled among themselves, and then the lieutenant in charge told me not to say anything else. He motioned to me to follow him to a place where we could speak in private. When we were out of his troops’ hearing, he fixed me with a serious stare.

“You are American?” he asked. Evidently a rumor had reached him.

I nodded.

“During these two years,” he said, “you have been able to speak to your family?”

“Not a word,” I said. He kept staring into my eyes and narrowing his own, as if he was reviewing some painful fact or memory. Did he suspect me of lying? Was he angry at the Nusra Front? I couldn’t tell.

“I studied Arabic for two years in Damascus,” I said. “I love the Syrian people.” He nodded. “And no,” I continued, “no talking to my family for a very long time.” He nodded again, then knit his hands together behind his back.

“May God open the way for you,” he mumbled and walked away.

I returned to the F.S.A. troops. One told me that his unit had recently traveled to Jordan to receive training from American forces in fighting groups like the Nusra Front.

“Really?” I said. “The Americans? I hope it was good training.”

“Certainly, very,” he replied.

The fighters stared at me. I stared at them.

After a few moments, I asked, “About this business of fighting Jebhat al Nusra?”

“Oh, that,” one said. “We lied to the Americans about that.”

Back at the Nusra Front’s camp, I spent most of my time lying on a blanket in the sand, surrounded by five fighters. We snacked on M.R.E. junk food, tossed our candy wrappers into the wind and waited for the Man of Learning to issue orders. The fighters hardly paid attention to me. They had been away from home for a week, an eternity for young Syrians, and were anxious to find out what was happening back in Deir al-Zour. They wandered along the ridgeline, searching for a cellphone signal. When they got one, we got news: We learned that the Islamic State assumed control of the city in the days after we abandoned it, staged a handful of Hilux-and-black-flag victory parades and confiscated a car belonging to the father of one of the Nusra Front fighters.

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Padnos at his home in New England. CreditAndrea Modica for The New York Times

One evening, a foot soldier named Abu Farouk came by our blanket with a watermelon. The Islamic State, he said, had instituted a new law throughout Deir al-Zour province: Upon entering a mosque, all males over 13 were to repent. Good Muslims, the group decreed, should have battled the Nusra Front while it ruled the province. If the males of the province repented, they might carry on as before. But if they refused or if the Islamic State deemed their repentance insincere, they could be killed. Nusra Front fighters were to be shot on sight.

I was curious about the futures of the five people now responsible for looking after me. What if they retired from military life, I asked, went home and promised to obey the Islamic State in the future? Would the group still wish to kill them?

“Of course,” they said.

“Really?” I asked. “But why?”

“Because we are Jebhat al Nusra,” they replied.

I knew the answer to the next question but asked it anyway. “Your practice of Islam is exactly the same as ISIS — you admire the same scholars and interpret the Quran just as they do?”

“Yes,” they agreed. “All of this is true.”

“And it’s true,” I said, “that when you joined Al Qaeda, in the early goings of the revolution, ISIS did not exist?”

“Yes, this is so,” the fighters agreed.

“And now they’re hoping to kill you?” I asked.

They shrugged their shoulders. “Yes.”

“But the situation is absurd,” I said. “You’re like a guy on the street drinking a bottle of Pepsi. Along comes the Seven-Up salesman. ‘Wicked man!’ says the Seven-Up salesman. ‘How dare you drink Pepsi? You must die.’ Under the circumstances, it ought to be O.K. for you to reply: ‘I’m quite sorry, sir. But when I went into the store, there was only one brand of soft drink available. Pepsi. That’s what I bought. Where’s the problem?’ ” The foot soldiers, all in their 20s and early 30s, were regular cola drinkers and were happy I had put the matter in everyday commercial terms. Everyone laughed.

The real issue between the Nusra Front and the Islamic State was that their commanders, former friends from Iraq, were unable to agree on how to share the revenue from the oil fields in eastern Syria that the Nusra Front had conquered. On the one hand, I was pleased by this. It made the men despise each other. Had their armies reconciled, I would have become the prisoner of a reunited fundamentalist organization under the command of the stronger of the leaders, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi of the Islamic State. Even before the recent beheadings, I was unenthusiastic about this prospect. On the other hand, the violence had taken a heavy toll. For six months, I watched the number of young fighters responsible for me dwindle. This one had taken a sniper’s bullet between the eyes. That one had vanished in a checkpoint suicide bombing. Another had stumbled into an Islamic State checkpoint and was shot on the spot. On and on, from week to week, the blood flowed. I knew exactly why these young men were dying: because the commanders said they must. In addition, the fighters told me, both sides believe that 50,000 years ago, Allah decreed that they should die in exactly this way, at exactly this instant in history.

For the moment, however, the Islamic State seemed to have the edge in the recruitment battle. Many of the Nusra Front soldiers told me that over the previous months, their siblings and cousins had been fighting for the Islamic State. The pay was better. And the Islamic State, a stronger army, had won victories across eastern Syria and Iraq. Once, during my time in Deir al-Zour, the commanders put me in a cell with five disfavored members of the Nusra Front. These prisoners were accused of having defected or wishing to defect to the Islamic State. They denied this, but when the guards were far away, they told me that any Nusra Front fighter wishing to become an Islamic State fighter had only to make a few phone calls. He would be required to whisper certain words about the greatness of Baghdadi. In that instant, the fighter’s history would be forgiven. The next day, he would meet his new commanding officer in a mosque or a restaurant. He would be given a new name and a new cellphone, and his life would begin again.

During most of the summer, the siren song wasn’t especially loud, but by the time we reached the outskirts of Damascus, it was becoming stronger. It was clear, even to the foot soldiers, that our voyage was no “glorious operation on the path of God.” Its purpose probably wasn’t to retake the Golan Heights either, though rumors to this effect had circulated through the caravan. It was nothing less than an abandonment of the oil fields, the military bases, the prisons and everything else the Nusra Front had worked to control for some two and a half years. We had made a dash for our lives.

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I knew a lot of the Nusra Front’s operational details. I knew many of the more important fighters. I knew what went on in their jails. What if the Man of Learning were to decide that I knew too much?

That night as we finished Abu Farouk’s watermelon and were gazing up at the stars, I listened to the fighters musing about their futures. “Hey, Abu Petra,” they asked me, “what is Sweden like?” If they were to present themselves as Syrian dissidents to the authorities, what would happen next? Was I familiar with the procedures in Sweden for seeking political asylum? And what about Berlin, supposing they found their way to Germany? How long would it take for them to learn German?

I listened to their woolgathering for a while, and then some artillery rumbled in the distance. A silence settled over the group. As the fighters around me breathed their first sleep-breaths, I couldn’t help feeling that soon a commander would look at them and nod in the direction of incoming fire, and they would toss away their lives as casually as they tossed their M.R.E. trash into the wind. I worried, too, about this: What if the Man of Learning were to nod at me? I knew a lot of the Nusra Front’s operational details. I knew many of the more important fighters. I knew what went on in their jails. What if the Man of Learning were to decide that I knew too much? What if someone were to send him an email informing him that Abu Petra was actually Theo, and that Theo had studied in Yemeni mosques and written about the experience, like a secret observer? What would I do then?

In mid-July, the Nusra Front caravan finally arrived at a villa in Saida, a suburb of Dara’a. Every day, the Man of Learning told me he would send me home soon. “It will happen next Tuesday,” he told me. Tuesday came and went. The fiction I now maintained with the Man of Learning was that I was a journalist again, that he would explain himself to the West in an on-camera interview and send me back with the video on a flash drive. At night, when he returned from his daily travels, I would smile and say, “When, sheikh, is it going to happen?” He would grin. “Soon, soon,” he would say.

One morning in August, when the fighters guarding me were asleep, I took a bag of trash into a courtyard as I normally did. As I slipped out, a fighter, his voice thick with sleep, murmured, “When you come back in, close the door.” I did, and waited for him to lose consciousness. A half-hour later, having stuffed the Vermont manuscript deep into my jihadi trousers, I tiptoed out.

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The jihadi clothing Padnos wore during his last months in captivity.CreditAndrea Modica for The New York Times

By this point, I knew better than to seek refuge among the “moderates” of the Free Syrian Army. I asked a passing motorcyclist to take me to a hospital. At the hospital, a dour-looking man greeted me. “I am a journalist,” I said. “From Ireland. Please, you must help me. I love the Syrian people.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I am the F.S.A.” He admitted me to an inner room. “No one comes in here without my leave,” he said. “You can relax. You are safe.” I asked if I could contact my family. “Of course,” he said. The easiest way, he said, was for me to send an email. But the man with the computer’s password was away. It would take just a few minutes for him to get to the hospital. Did I need tea? Medical attention?

The F.S.A. soldier stepped out. Ten minutes later, he returned, beckoning me with the index finger of his right hand. He seemed to do it in slow motion, as a jailer might summon an innocent prisoner to his execution.

In the front hallway of the hospital stood a group of about 15 Nusra Front fighters, Kalashnikovs dangling from their right hands. No one spoke. A few seconds passed, and then someone said in a barely audible voice, “Come, American.”

They drove me back to the villa. They hit me a bit in the car, and then, on arriving in the living room where the guards had been dozing an hour before, they flung me onto the carpet. The Man of Learning sat cross-legged on a sofa. “Who has handcuffs?” he asked. Someone cuffed my hands. The Man of Learning grinned. “You are a Nazarene liar and a sneak, Bitar,” he said. “This afternoon, I will execute you by my own hand.”

I spent much of the following weeks locked inside a bedroom in the villa. The Man of Learning did not allow the guards to seek their revenge; he fired them and appointed more competent but kinder guards. As I waited for something to happen, I sat by a window and worked on my Vermont novel. Every once in a while, I watched Assad’s airplanes bomb our neighborhood. My mind kept circling back, as it still does, to the endlessness of the violence in the country.

Earlier, in March, the Nusra Front commanders in Deir al-Zour put a pair of Islamic State commanders in the cells on either side of mine. Because their religious learning was beyond question, the jail administrators allowed us to speak, provided it was about Islam. During this period, I occasionally brought up the “You killed my men, I must kill yours” logic in which the Muslims of the region seemed trapped. My cell neighbors were well placed to have an opinion. Abu Dhar, on my left, previously of Al Qaeda in Iraq, subsequently of the Nusra Front, lately of the Islamic State, had been a weapons trafficker. Abu Amran, on my right, had the same credentials and bragged of having been responsible for explosions that killed dozens — perhaps hundreds — of Syrians and Iraqis.

“But surely,” I said, “this violence is not good for Islam.” They temporized. In their view, the fight between Baghdadi and the Man of Learning amounted to mere childishness. Abu Dhar and Abu Amran were almost too embarrassed to speak of it. Yet the explosions and sniper killings that both groups espoused were justifiable — even wise. Assad was bound to slink away into the undergrowth. The battle against his forces was just a skirmish in the great global combat to come, in which the believers would prevail against the unbelievers.

“After we conquer Jerusalem, we will conquer Rome,” Abu Amran told me.

“No one is trying to conquer you,” I said. “Why do you want to conquer everybody?”

The conquerors had come to Syria in the past, Abu Amran answered. “They are sure to come again.” He spoke of the oil fields over which the West slavered, the archaeological treasures and the rise of Islam, which the world’s governments — all of them unbelievers, especially the Middle Eastern ones — could not abide.

“If Obama bombs the believers here, we will bomb you there,” Abu Amran told me. We have our Tomahawk missiles too, they said, referring to human beings. Over the last 22 months, I had stopped being surprised when Nusra Front commanders introduced their 8-year-old sons to me by saying, “He will be a suicide martyr someday, by the will of God.” The children participated in the torture sessions. Around the prisons, they wore large pouches with red wires sticking out of them — apparently suicide belts — and sang their “destroy the Jews, death to America” anthems in the hallways. It would be a mistake to assume that only Syrians are educating their children in this manner. The Nusra Front higher-ups were inviting Westerners to the jihad in Syria not so much because they needed more foot soldiers — they didn’t — but because they want to teach the Westerners to take the struggle into every neighborhood and subway station back home. They want these Westerners to train their 8-year-olds to do the same. Over time, they said, the jihadists would carve mini-Islamic emirates out of the Western countries, as the Islamic State had done in Syria and Iraq. There, Western Muslims would at last live with dignity, under a true Quranic dispensation.

During my discussions with senior Nusra Front fighters, I would force them to confront the infinity of violence that this dream implied. “O.K., perhaps you have a point,” they would say. “Anyway, we only want to dispense with Bashar. We must build our caliphate here first. Provided the West doesn’t kill us, we won’t kill you.”

“Will your caliphate have schools?” I would ask. “Hospitals? Roads?”

“Yes, of course.” But not one of them seemed interested in repairing the mile after mile of destroyed cityscape encountered during any voyage in Syria. Not one seemed interested in recruiting teachers and doctors — or at least the kinds of teachers and doctors whose reading ventured beyond the Quran. They wanted bigger, more spectacular explosions. They wanted fleets of Humvees. Humvees don’t need roads.

Photo

Padnos with his mother, Nancy Curtis.CreditAndrea Modica for The New York Times

One day in August, a guard told me about a picnic he recently had with his family in the Golan Heights. “The U.N. soldiers,” he said, “were close enough to reach out and touch.” During the following days, small groups of Nusra Front fighters, most of whom I recognized from my time in Deir al-Zour, carried away items from a pile of munitions — artillery shells, sacks of bullets, launching tubes for rocket-propelled grenades — that had been left on a concrete slab. In the evenings, I was sometimes invited to lounge near the weapons with visiting emirs. The United Nations’ role in the Golan Heights was occasionally discussed in predictable terms: The U.N. was an instrument by which world powers oppressed the Muslims of Syria. It was a tool of the Jews. I yawned during these discussions. Why must they always recite Qaeda company policy at me? I thought.

Not long after, a half-dozen top-level Nusra Front members arrived for a meeting. Most had the James Foley execution video on their cellphones. Did you see it? they asked me, laughing and waving their phones. Did I want to see it again? They were in a buoyant mood. “Hey, Bitar, you American!” they called to me. “You see what ISIS does to people? What if it happens to you? Would you like that?”

A few days later, on the afternoon of Aug. 24, the Man of Learning made an unexpected visit. “Get your things,” he told me. “We’re going to send you to your mama now.” I had long ago said goodbye to my mother in private nighttime telepathic conversations. I didn’t believe — I didn’t allow myself to believe — that I would see her again.

In my bedroom-cell, an attendant who had been kind to me helped me get ready. I stuffed my Vermont novel into my clothing and got into a Hilux with several fighters. A few miles from the villa, the Man of Learning directed my driver to stop. Buy Bitar a new tracksuit and a pair of shoes, he said. This seemed like a good sign. Would he be buying me new clothes if he meant to kill me? Later, as the Golan Heights rose up before the Hilux’s windshield, a fighter named Abu Muthana asked me to say goodbye to Nusra Front fighters in a video he’d record on his cellphone. I did so without bitterness. Abu Muthana’s friend Mohammed had made jokes about his inability to find a wife during the jihad. Abu Jebel had brought me extra dates during the winter.

We stopped under a bank of trees near the Syrian town of Quneitra. To my surprise, two heavy white trucks with the letters “U.N.” marked in black on their sides stood idling in the shade. “Get out,” the driver said to me. “Take your things.”

The Man of Learning asked me to approach the truck he was driving. “Hey Bitar,” he said. “Don’t say bad things about us in the press.”

“I’ll just say what’s true,” I said.“Very good,” he said. “That is fine.”

At the U.N. base in the demilitarized zone between Israel and Syria, an Indian doctor had me sit on a table. He asked the attendants to leave the room. He had me remove my trousers. With the gentlest, most silent, most breathtaking courtesy, he examined my body. That broke my heart. A representative of the United States government greeted me on the far side of the Israeli border. In the back seat of an immaculate dark-blue S.U.V., she put her hand on my shoulder. “It’s O.K. to cry,” she said.

I later learned that the Qataris helped engineer my release, as they have for others kidnapped in the region. But in those first moments, it felt to me that I had escaped from Al Qaeda by an incalculable miracle. I allowed myself to think, at last, that everything was going to be all right. Several days later, I received word that the Nusra Front had attacked the U.N. base where I had been so gently examined.

MEN WHO WORK IN OFFICES STILL DICK AROUND WITH THEIR PENIS ON THE JOB?

I CAUGHT YOUR ATTENTION WITH THAT HEADLINE

DIDN’T I?

Well don’t feel duped

The Huffington Post is at it again

EXPOSING Office Situations for what they are

Truthful accusations

Bordering on neanderthal animals

thumping their chests while crouching

and acting out

because a WOMAN IS IN CHARGE

of the office.

Oye Vey!

I would equate these types of dickie wonders with Not Sees but that would be too much!

or WOULD IT?

I worked in an office called LEVY FLAXMAN SOMETHING & WAXMAN (no joke -)

And there was an ADVERTISING DIRECTOR there named LESLIE whose wife was rich and had her own antique company in midtown manhattan in the late 80s. She was a dip – and i suspected she was a lesbian because LESLIE was always on the prowl at work. In fact his morning GOOD MORNING ALWAYS WENT LIKE THIS:

LESLIE: SO (to the office staff of typists pool of which I sat because I could not get an office in the production suite – cheap jews) “WHOSE GONNA GIVE ME A BLOW JOB TODAY!” 

NO FUCKING JOKE.

I LEFT THERE AFTER SIX MONTHS AND LEFT THEM A NOTE. I HAD TAPED EVERYTHING – They never came after me and gave me UI – it pays to be crafty.

THEY ARE NO LONGER IN BUSINESS – or I can’t find them although there is a LEVY FLAXMAN & ASSOCIATES which I’m not sure they are that company. Goddess help us all if they are.

But here are more juvenile antics courtesy of men in offices. I never watched the show THE OFFICE – but did they do this? Cause it’s gross.

=============================================================>

‘MAKERS’ Details The Absurd Things Pioneering Businesswomen Had To Endure

or what they still call “THE BUSINESS BOY’S CLUB” – AND YOU WONDER WHY I HATE MEN?

It’s no secret that American boardrooms have not been kind to pioneering businesswomen, and a new documentary sheds light on just how ridiculous things got as powerful women made their way up the corporate ladder during the 1980s.

In a conversation about “MAKERS: Women In Business,” which premieres Oct. 28 on PBS, director Jamila Wignot spoke with HuffPost Live’s Caroline Modarressy-Tehraniabout the lengths some women went to fit into the business boys’ club, which included wearing ties to look more like a man, learning to drink heavily and memorizing trivia about Australian rugby.

The honesty exhibited by the women interviewed in the film surprised even the director herself. One of the most egregious stories came from Sallie Krawcheck, who worked as an executive for Citigroup and Bank of America.

“When Sallie Krawcheck revealed that … photocopies of male penises were landing in her desk every morning — that was sort of her good morning message from the men in her firm — I mean, I wasn’t really expecting that level of candor,” Wignot said.

Though that kind of behavior was at its high in the ’80s, it still happens today, Wignot explained:

Business is the one space where it should be living up to this kind of meritocratic value system that we have — you work hard, you put up the numbers, you’re gonna get the rewards — and it’s not that because you’ve got to go to the bar, you’ve got to know what’s happening with the football game or whatever. So I think there is still a huge networking aspect to the way the business world functions that can, if you’re not that kind of woman, can leave you out.

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