4. A classic day in the RPF.

Basically, it consists in getting up early before everybody and going
to bed very late after everybody else. Fatigue is omnipresent. Just 7
hours sleep is not enough to compensate for a forced labor work in a
hell cadence. The person's resistance, even in good health conditions
begins to decay. At this rate, after a week of forced pace I would not
wish to my worst enemies (except Miscavige and other bastards) I felt
my strenghts lowering. Cramps becoming more and more frequent were all
the more painful since I had to continue running no matter what.
Aching all over, sweat had also become a fearful enemy. Florida's hot
and humide climate with the accelarated rythm of constant effort
provoked an important sweatering which was responsable for an
accumulation of bacterias. The thing was to protect ourselves from
potential wounds at all cost. No preventive measures was ever taken
and of course, no medicine, not even antiseptics or antibiotics were
allowed in case of injury or illness.

Actions stations would occur by 7AM. All I had was 5 minutes to be
ready; get dressed with a dirty black trousers, a dirty black
tee-shirt, and remember the black ribbon around the left arm. Well
well! like jews with a star sewn on their torn coat during the second
World War of evil memory... or like the red letter sewn on the
heroin's dress of a famous novel; The Scarlet Letter from Nathaniel
Hawthorne. Standing for adulterous, the letter A stigmatized the
woman' "sin" heavily reproved and socially condemned by puritan moral
prevailing in 17 Century Boston. Hester Prynne is sentenced for
adultary to be put in the stocks. She is to forever wear the symbol of
her sin, the big red letter A sewn on the bodice of her dress.

In the RPF, the dark ribbon is the representation of discrimination;
the illegal and arbitrary segregation of the person. The person is
plainly ostracized. It is the same thing really except that we no
longer live in 17th Century. Of course the RPF is contrary to the
Rights of Man, violates every Constitution and must be forbidden by
the Governments would they only bother to assume their
responsabilities and make proper legislation so that no intern prison
belonging to any group or "religion" call it a labor camp, gulag or
RPF be tolerated on their soils. I guess that the will of politics
would be awakened when a politician's daughter or son were to be be
ensnared by a cult and be interned in one of those camps or worse,
were to commit suicide.

The RPF illegal forced labor camp is all the more intolerable since
this humiliation is presented as an expiation for adept's so-called
"crimes" which is forced to accept his need for Redemption. On top of
that imagined by a perverted madman, sadistic and paranoid
schizophrenic guru.

But let's come back to the story.

As a precautionary measure, I always wore a clean tee-shirt underneath
the black and dirty one. Fortunately, I had a dozen tee-shirts in my
suitcase. Every night after the 30 seconds shower I coated my body
with talc in order to protect my skin against sweat. We all suffered
from heavy sweating. I recall this young woman terribly suffering from
an important infection which had been developing under her breasts.
Instead of healing, the wound had been expanding to such a degree that
purulent blisters had reached her navel. When I saw that infection I
told her: - Here, have some talc, take mine. She looked at me puzzled.

- I think you should wear a cotton tee-shirt under your bra in order
to isolate your breasts . That may help to stop the infection. I added

She answered that she didn't have any so I spontaneously gave her 2
tee-shirts of mine.

- You can wash your tee-shirt every night so you will always have a
clean and dry tee-shirt for the day after.

She had a sort of trembling.

- Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me? she asked.

With the passing of time, I realize how pathetic was this woman's
reaction. How was it possible that someone should help her? She had
lost the notion of solidarity! (something very present in regular
prisons or prison camps)

To me it was just a matter of assisting someone in danger; her
infection had definitely become too large to ignore it. Unlike others,
I felt compassion. In the RPF, it's every man for himself.

Among the 8 girls living in the same room I was the only one to offer
some help. But each girl was having her share of suffering, each girl
was trying to survive the best she could and then I had just arrived
to the RPF, therefore I was not weakening yet. I could still afford to
help someone...

We used to take a bus taking us to the Fort Harrison. That bus was
infested with coakroaches. First, I refused to sit down since the bus
was crawling with coakroaches which did not mind to step on us but
then with fatigue overpowering me I relinquished to sit down. Every
moment of rest had become a priority so we all just merely move our
hands or feet once in a while to dismiss bigger ones...

At the RPF "mess" (room in which meals are eaten in the Armed Forced)
it was a matter of feeding ourselves the best we could. Cereals in the
form of unappetazing porridges were proposed. To hold out and despite
my disgust in eating solid food in the morning, I reluctantly
swallowed every kind of soups or pigswills, as long as they had milk
in it. The RPFer in charge of bringing the food was warmly welcomed by
everybody since he had managed to find a milk gallon; I watched as he
was being applauded and sadly deduced that milk was not an obvious
foodstuff in the RPF.

"Muster" or "roll-call" would then take place. The shabby-looking
gulag battalion pastiched military muster for review or inspection.
Everyone is supposed to answer his name by " hi sir". Any delay, be it
one second, is heavily sanctionned. The sorry spectacle of four RPF
tottering columns was a wretched sight; twenty people struggling to
stand to attention looked far more as an East German extermination
camp than a glorious glittering "corps d'elite" Sea Org members. I
could not help thinking that it was impossible avoiding to relate the
cortege of mere shadows that we had become with the flashy group in
full uniform pictured in the cult propaganda magazine and supposed to
lead mankind on "the road of total freedom". Ironically, we were
emprisoned and carrying the same chains we had all come to set man
free from. Quite obviously, there was an horrendous bobby trap I could
not figure out.

The first standing order of the day was to clean the Fort Harrison
stairs (aproximately 15 floors) I was given a bucket, a floorcloth and
a twin, in this case a very young lady barely18 years old.

As we started to clean the steps one by one on our knees, she asked me
the reason of my RPF assignement. I answered in a relaxed off-hand
manner that since I wanted to leave the best way out I had come up
with was to violate the SO ethical code, that is to say never have
sexual relationship outside marriage.

- I went out 2 D (esoteric language for having sexual intercourse)

and you know what? I added, we didn't even have time "to materialize"
because they caught us just before we did!

She burst out laughing and she told me her story. Roughly, her
situation was the following; she didn't agree with some decisions from
up lines management, she stood fast and didn't allow herself to be
swayed,(thus sent to the RPF).

Being born in the cult, having known but the cult, perspectives
projected by her towards the exterior world were extremely reduced.

- I have no diploma, I could never work in the "wog world" (racist
term to signify everything that do not belong to the cult)

- Do you have any family outside? I ventured.

-Yes, my mother is in England. I don't know her and she is "declared"
(a person declared is a person arbitrarily declared a "supressive
being" by the cult: i.e ostracized) I don't have the right to see her.
Besides, could I adapt myself in a country I do not know with a mother
whose face I don't even recall? If I failed to get in tune everything
would be over for me. I have no choice; I must endure.

This lucid, clear-minded18 years old young lady, with her long blond
hair saying that she had no future outside the cult was deeply moving.
Suddenly, I realized the horror of isolation to which every youngsters
born and raised in the cult are abandonned to. They can't escape, and
how could they? They are prisonners inside of the life they will never
get to know outside ..

She glanced a fearful look at me; was I going to betray a confidence
she shouldn't have ever made? I reassured her with a smile.

- Don't worry. I won't say anything. Well, the outside world is not
that terrible you know, after all, I've come from out there!

I'll never forget her sad and resigned look. She said dreamy:

- Yes, maybe, who knows?

In fact, she was an Exec from CMO INT (high executive from the
International Commodore Messengers Org, very senior org in the cult)
She was to stand up for me once when one of the RPF warder took it out
on me with no apparent reason. She literally jumped on the bigot;

-If you don't leave her alone immediately I swear I'll remember you
when I get out of here and you know that I'll get out before you do!
(RPF warders are on RPF program too)

Anyway, the guy was nailed to the spot; not only did he forget all
about me but everyone kept a respectable distance ever since. It is
true that in the cult complex hierarchy CMO INT execs have almost
every power. Thinking it over, I think I gave her a little hope; it
was'nt that bad outside...

The day would continue with the cleaning and scouring of every toilet
of Fort Harrison building reserved to the "public" (scientologists
coming from all around the world for "services") We actually "liked"
to do it since it was deliciously air-conditioned inside and frankly,
compared to other RPF hardship, sponging up sinks had almost become
our idea of having fun! I only feared that someone should recognize me
in such a slave get-up, with a hand brush, bent over a bowl-shaped
part of a toilet.

A misfortune buddy almost fainted when cleaning a mirror; she stopped
dead staring at her own image with horror. Well, the poor girl didn't
already look well but now she had just turned green. We were all
looking dreadful, dirty, shaggy-haired and were quite in a bad shape.
The thing was to carefully avoid meeting our face. She started to cry.
She just could not afford to breakdown. She was putting herself at
risk by sobbing in front of scientologists. It was awfully "bad PR"
(bad public relation) . Suddenly one of us said with her nasal
Oklahoma twang:

-Well, what should I say? Look at me! I look like Frankestein whereas
you only look as if you had seen him!

Everybody laughed and the poor girl somehow pulled herself together.
She then cautiously kept avoiding every mirror reflexion. There was a
sort of solidarity but very rare and punctual. Relationships were
mostly lived in terms of power struggle. Orders were constantly
shouted, we were hustled from morning to evening, no slowing down even
in the sun, sanctions would shower on us:

- Take a lap! Take two laps! Take five laps! ( a lap consists in
running around the Fort Harrison garage ramp)

The mirror young lady had a hard time to follow the pace. She would
stumble over, fall, get herself hurt, and would always be behind the
pack (late) and I would tremble for her. RPFer's bosun ( warder) was
pretending not to see her. So I thought that she would be spared as
she was obviously of a frail nature. In fact, it's highly probable
that her fall was programmed. I witnessed an odd conversation looking
like bets in racecourses.

- That one, I give her 2 weeks!

- I give don't give her another week myself!

Well I will never know what happens when the person can't take any
longer ( maybe she's assigned to the RPF's RPF) for I chucked out
before it ever became my turn. I don't even dare to think about it...
There were the dangerous tasks to perform. The garbage detail was
particularly strenuous for the fair sex. Men would challenge us making
fun of our poor efforts to get up enormous and filthy garbage cans.
Some girls would exhaust themselves out in vain; I would just save my
strenghts protecting the best than I could my fingers, my feet, my
body in general. An accident might happen and no treatment would be
granted, furthermore there is no hospital in the RPF; there is not
even an emergency kit.

There was a definite lack of everything; salary already reduced to the
third part was suspended for the vast majority of the RPFers. So
everybody would soon become indigent. Suddenly, you can no longer buy
cigarettes (only unrestricted items allowed) your toothpaste, soap or
deodorant... Would you allow me to stress that women still having
their periods, find it extremely degrading not having enough cash to
buy a box of tampax. (Some women suffer from cycle troubles due to
stress and fatigue; same symptoms occured in concentration camps) At
least, this is what I could experiment for myself and I was utterly
happy to have some tampaxes in my car gloves locker. How humiliating
it is to find oneself in complete poverty when one has given away a
fortune for the cause and is subsequently working as a beast of
burden! What a despair it is to notice one is reduced to slavery
whereas one had come in pushed by the winds of freedom in order to
align in the ranks of those working so that man would be set free!

The end of the day would be a piece of anthology. As I said, there was
the special gulag training (5 hours training= 5 hours indoctrination)
Such a training was mandatory of course and consisted in a cortege of
forced confessions of imagined crimes and treacheries of every kind
(mental torture called O/Ws). By any means, I knew that before I got
there I had to restudy the same HCOBS & PLs (guru's nonsense) I
already knew by heart. Well then, I shall continue to act stupid; I
would spend hours on a 10 pages long bulletin called "Keeping
$cientology working" and pretended to be busy by turning the
dictionary pages which would allow me to remain seated most of the
time. You see in the RPF and other gulags, luxury is motionlessness.
The thing is just to remain in complete stillness. Moreover, RPF's
endoctrination is delayed but, who wants to think about it? Anyway,
two RPFers had noticed my little game and as they were up to the same
one themselves we would once in a while glance at each other in
beaming mirth! That's what being called " mutual out ruds" ( esoteric
expression meaning a negative conniving attitude, being a party of
sthg or someone)

At the end of the day, coinciding with the end of special gulag
endoctrination we were supposed to, well at least it was highly
encouraged to take the floor to say how pleased we all were and how
wonderful and fabulous it was to follow a convict's program without
forgetting to stress we were all thankful to hope that one day
Redemption would occur thanks to the marvellous technology of the best
friend earth had ever bore! I always refused to participate to this
farce where we had on top of that to applaud everyone's fantastic
gains! I would simply put a mongloid rictus on my face which actually
fitted very well on submission grounds and aproval of every nonsense
that could be heard. As long as I seemed to agree to the whole
masquerade and as long as I looked vaguely stupid, I knew I would be
allowed to vogue over relatively peaceful waters. Anyhow, I was
delighted I had done some theatre acting when I wondered; under the
false aspect of a tranquil lake, furious roaring fortieth currents and
other howling fiftieth wind streams were preparing devastating tidal
waves...

Nothing is impossible to a brave heart

Jacques Coeur's motto.

5. An escape; directions for use.

I have already described the main lines of my state of mind at the
time. Today, 10 years after I have complete remembrance of my escape
and I reproduce them as they happened.

The morning following my decision to leave I took my first risk. I
simply refused to get up at 7 AM because I knew I needed to make up
some hours of sleep. Nothing could make me change my mind and decided
to stick to what I had decided to do. I was kicked in the kidneys - I
was sleeping on a mattress on the floor- I was shaked like a rag doll,
insulted and threated but I refused to wake up. There was the girl
with the chest infection I had just helped among my torturers... I
instantly got back to sleep when they were gone and decided I would
only wake up at twelve. On the dot of 12 being fresh and alert, I
packed a quick suitcase with whatever civil clothes I had left; of
course I had to leave behind most of my belongings but again they
don't represent a thing when freedom is at hand. I took a great deal
of pleasure to dress me up with my clothes out of good quality, the
clean touch of my linen shirt over my skin, my well cut pants which
were luxury sensations after having been forced to wear a prisoner's
"outfit" ... Recovering my clothes was the first civil and laïque act,
the first step towards the recovery of my identity. I even pushed my
self claims by using make-up, use a hair style and perfume! high
crime! since perfumes are utterly forbidden by a policy letter written
by the guru Hubbard himself. Perfumes might have awakened a vague
impulse in this impotent and libidinous old man.

When I looked myself in the mirror, I was surprised; I had forgotten
how good-looking I was. I encouraged myself with a great smile, I was
ready to fight. Vauvenargues was right; the feeling of our strenghts
add to our strenghts.

I went out of this room; a twenty square meters room where we slept 8
people on the floor. I went out of the den; the sun was shining and I
remember I smiled when I saw the sky was so blue. I guess I had
forgotten how limpid a sky could be. Staff lodging was located a few
miles away from Flag Land Base (as they call it) I knew no one would
remain there on " duty hours", so I just walked away with my suitcase
and civil outfit praying God nobody would see me. I called a taxi from
a cabin outside. I continue to trust my luck and the cab came almost
immediately. The taxi-driver was young, smiling, and curly blond. With
a face like that, I thought he couldn't possibly be cursed with an
innate streak of evil and decided to stake one's all .

-Listen, I need your help . I need to go back to my country. I have
different things to do. Leaning on him I said that I would pay
whatever was necessary. He had this marvellous smile when he answered:

All right ma'm whatever you say!

I then perilously launched a whole detailed operation; he then parked
his car at a cafeteria where he did invited me to have a coffee. It
was a typical flavorless american coffee which nevertheless turned
exquisite on my palate in every respect; for it was the taste of
natural things normal people usually do when gathering together in a
common place to accomplish a social act. Today, I still have a special
fondness for untasty coffees.

-Now, will you say that again to me ma'm, slowly please?

My taxi-driver would repeat every sentence after me staring wide-eyed
at me and scratching his biceps. Once in a while, he would slap his
thighs to mark every step.- So, I get started or - Then, I wait for
you. Every time he understood something, he would swallow big gulps of
coffee. An adept running away from a sect to go back to her country
was perhaps more exhilarating than shadowing cuckold husband's wife.
Anyhow, he was extremely helpful to me; without his help, I might have
failed.

Operation: passport rescue.
- Wait for me here please. If I do not come back within 15 minutes you
can go to the police with this ID card (it was my sports club card)
and you tell them I am being kept without my consent: you tell them
the whole story. My taxi driver would stare at the ID saying: -Oh my
God...

I entered the Org (short for organization) a separate building from
Flag to see the HCO officer (personel office) He kept every staff's
passport in a safe. With a big smile, I explained I needed the
passport -oh just a mere formality! - to get my divorce. In a joking
tone, I said I was delighted with the rapidity of the Florida court
that only one more stamp was required, that I promised to bring it
back within the day, that I was summoned to appear before the judge
right this minute. Trusting my good spirits, he handed my beautiful
passport. I must have had a funny smile whose intention was much more
matching an polite invitation to go to hell than reiterating usual
allegiance. Seeming to understand, he stood still and I threw him a
perfectly blatant salute. A few yards away my taxi driver was waiting
for me.

- Go, go ahead fast!

Shooting off, he told me someone was running behind the car shouting
and making big gestures. - I've got my passport, I've made it! I
shouted

- Good girl he said, good girl!

Operation: car rescue.
I had a little car which was my unique space of freedom which I
wouldn't have abandonned for nothing in the whole world. So we got
inside the Fort Harrison garage, security gards did not recognize me
since there was probably a difference between the RPF rags I used to
have on and the tailor suit I was wearing. My car had to be pushed but
my taxi driver was behind the car and I was behind the wheel; we went
out hands down. I really had the luck of the Devil but I still needed
my briefcase locked in RPF premises. At this hour of the day, I knew
the bulk of the gulag batalion was attending to grand toilets
curetting activities under the warder's flood of insults. I just
needed a few seconds to take my briefcase and run. An RPFer was
standing there not recognizing me the first 2 seconds. He did
recognize me the last 2 seconds and without moving he tritely said:

- what are you doing? Because I knew that my car was 5 yards away,
because I had been successful at every previous "operation" ,I found
the necessary contempt to backflash, superbly arrogant:

-I am blowing! (meaning to leave the cult)

When I got into my car, I noticed that he hadn't move. He was supposed
to howl in order to drive a crowd of RPFers-by, yet he didn't move, he
said nothing. Perhaps he thought it was useless to intervene since I
was out of reach. Maybe did he envy my gesture and respect that choice
he knew a perilous one and of no return.

My taxi driver was so excited to witness such a successfull manoeuvre
in the very cult parade ground that he was just exhilarating. He was
shouting " yahooo, yahoo" revolving his left arm, was smoking with his
right hand and was driving with his left knee. As far as I was
concerned, I simply felt I was back to life.

- Taxi driver, bring me where I can sell my jewels!

Without flinching he took me to a kind of warehouse store. He
participated to the transaction as if he were a close friend of mine,
he bargained in my place. I had a beautiful set of Cartier earings and
necklace jewels I always wore under the SO uniform or the gulag
teeshirt. My steel and blue dial Rolex watch disappeared along with my
fine three gold collar... for a little more than the equivalent sum of
an international air plane flight! When I got back to the cab I
suddenly thought that fate would decide whether my taxi driver was to
rip me off the little money he knew I had. On the contrary, he took me
to a car warehouse where I could sell it for another pocketfull of
dollars. There again, he made the deal. He was there all the time
assisting me. At the end, I gave him the amount of money he asked
which was far from being excessive. He told me he was happy he could
help but if I had nothing else urgent to do he was apologizing to
leave me since he had to hit the road. I took his two hands inside of
mine, squeezing them for a few seconds, I felt a weakness rising
inside of me.

-You'll be allright now, he said.

I never felt so sincerely thankful for anyone before. I shall never
know my taxi driver's name. If he had cow boy's manners, he also had
the heart of a prince. You can't forget a prince who saved your life.
I bought my ticket plane. The following day, I was to leave this land
of nightmare where I had known but hostility, coercion, detention,
sleeping privation and lack of basic health care. Later on, late in
life, I was to know the humiliation of a vast lie, the shame of having
trusted and adhered to a huge scam. For the meantime, all I had left
was the despair I felt since I had sold everything I had in "church
donations" which in fact, weren't anything else than witchcraft's
practices (upper levels). I had given up everything in my life, a job
I liked, a country where I had been taking down roots, I had left the
man I loved.

The only thing I wanted was to remain alone. Simply alone and feeling
protected in my little car. I had found a calm place to park my car.
It was a very nice wooden pier in front of St Petersburgh bay. The
view was enchanting, the coast was sparkling out of thousands lights,
the deep blue night sky competing with a million stars, night was so
peaceful... I was living a revolution inside of me. I was by turns
thinking of drowning myself or committing mass murders. I spent the
night in a waking state; my hand very close to the car key. However, I
managed to relax; I put on a cassette. I closed my eyes. If I am asked
today the following question; "what is freedom?" I invariably answer
that freedom is when you are listening to Joan Baez inside a little
car on a starlit night in front of the Mexican golf just after having
escaped from a cult's gulag. The following day, I went to Tampa
airport. I immediatly asked to be put under the Consul's protection.
Police officers invited me to sit down in one of the customs offices.
They told me they would safely escort me to my plane and I had nothing
to worry about. I was offered coffee. They were telling jokes to each
other and I smiled. One of them asked me who or what I was afraid of.
A voice came to my rescue;

- Leave her alone, she told you, the lady's going home.

I was moved by this police officer's thoughtfulness. I nodded and
concentrated on my cup of coffee. Out of tactfulness, they left me
alone for a while. The one who had come to my rescue escorted me to my
seat in the plane. In a protective manner, he taped my shoulder saying
those words I shall never forget:

-You're not the only one, you know, running away from that bloody "
church of Scientology"

You'll be fine.

That is one of the most beautiful sentence I was ever told.

If reason builds a man, feelings lead him. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, La
Nouvelle Héloïse.

http://www.lermanet.com/cos/enggulag.html

Next parts will be posted as followups to this one