Cause and Effect

1) July 2012: I file criminal complaint in the Naples courts against Mac for electronic privacy violation. I report the crime to all relevant authorities. I report this to my chain of command.

2) September 2012- May 2013: In spite of the actions of a few bad actors in the Dutch military, I decide to continue to work closely with other personnel in the Dutch Navy whom I respect and like in order to support joint U.S. / Dutch joint capacity building operations. I spend a week aboard a Dutch Navy ship and work with the Dutch Special Forces. I accept an invitation to work with the Dutch planners in Den Helder for an upcoming mission.

3) May 8, 2013: Still upset about what Mac and his crew have done and frustrated with the ongoing harassment, I write a message to the Dutch Ministry of Defense on the website Rijksoverheid.nl. I write a similar message the following day to the MIVD open-source e-mail address, mivd@mindef.nl:

May 8, 2013 5:18 PM

Sirs,

My name is Dr. ********* ******. I am a researcher working for ******. In the normal course of my duties in Fall 2010, I met two of your field operatives on the ****** in Naples, Italy. Your personnel were ostensibly serving as liaison officers with the ********. However their subsequent behavior and the behavior of their support staff revealed their covers, as well as the tactics techniques and procedures of your organization. In doing this, your team violated my privacy. This was impolite and illegal.

Additionally it revealed poor tradecraft on the part of the operatives. I have attempted to deal with the problem locally but the results have not been satisfactory. This is why I write to you now. As I consider my next steps, I would like to have a conversation with someone from your organization to discuss what has happened and to find a way-ahead. I request an apology for the impact this has had on my life. I am currently in Den Helder on business and will return to Amsterdam for a planning conference on May 20. I would be pleased to meet with you during that time. Please let me know how and when this might be possible.

Sincerely,

*******

4) May 23, I meet with an investigator from the Dutch Navy, J. He is surprised and upset by the privacy violation, and he offers to look into the matter.

5) May- June 2013: I correspond with J. On June 21, 2013, he writes, apprising me of the developments in his investigation. Foolishly, I believe that this will actually result in people being held accountable for their criminal behavior.

From: J*******@mindef.nl
Date: Fri, 21 Jun 2013 09:57:06 +0200
Subject: RE: Follow-up

Goodmorning *******,

First I must apologize for not answer you in a earlier stage.
But now I understand this is a very delicate issue.
We agreed that I should investigate what was known of this case at top level of my navy. When I asked the justice department of the navy they told me they knew much of the case through information given by the LCDR. They did not know that you filed a criminal complaint at the justice department of Naples against this LCDR.
My navy is not pleased with this case and are willing to come to a solution and will inform me about the steps they going to take. This is just a small sitrep because I don't know much more at this stage.
I hope you doing well and I will come in the air when I know more.

Sincerely,

J******

Luitenant ter zee der tweede klasse oudste categorie
Coördinator Lokale Vertrouwens Personen (CLVP) CZSK

 

6) On June 21, 2013 the U.S. Embassy receives a message from a legal person in the Dutch navy, detailing a complaint from Mac and Sjors, with heavily bowdlerized personal e-mail messages from me in a clearly counter-intelligence operation designed to discredit me, and with the following language: "Both Dutch officers feel deeply harassed by Dr. ***** and it is very clear that her behavior has had an enormous impact at the lives of both men. They are afraid that their careers and their personal lives will be damaged by *****." A strange conclusion, and a stretch, considering that the only form of "harassment" from me may be considered the e-mails where I accuse these men of the privacy violations that they actually conducted. I do not approach either men, nor attempt to affect their personal lives. Even when I had the opportunity to cause trouble for Mac because we were both on the same ship in November 2012; Instead, I offered  him the opportunity to explain and apologize. These are supposed to be tough military men, and yet their own military characterizes them as baby-birds, crying to mommy because I made some honest e-mail messages about their bad acts.

7) On July 1, 2013 in spite of being the victim of a crime, in spite of reporting this to all appropriate authorities, in spite of this being an obvious attempt to discredit me because of my existing criminal complaint against illegal action, I lose my job. I am told that I have reported everything appropriately, but that the decision is partly because of the atmosphere resulting from the "Snowden" affair (Snowden first came forward in March 2013). In response, I write to my boss with the following: "You mentioned the environment of the "Snowden" affair and the heightened security perception within the U.S. There is one crucial difference: I was always the victim - never the perpetrator. Every action I have taken has been in response to the criminal acts that were committed against me. These actions have had deep repercussions in my life already and it seems a terrible thing that my life and work should continue to be affected by someone else's criminal behavior"

8) February 2014: I start collating my notes and logs, and begin to write out the details of everything that the Dutch intel folks have done, and the awful consequences - not only in my life, but also in Sjors' life. I intend to preserve the truth of what has happened here. I think that this sort of bullying is never acceptable - that there should be consequences for those who have behaved wrongly. I asked for an explanation and apology, and I was slapped back.
What could they have ever feared from me that I am not still capable of conducting? They have not removed my voice, nor my reason for speaking. Perhaps this is the only thing I retain, after all they have taken.

Let the birthday celebrations begin

Last night, my friend Shelly came over. We ate dinner, drank Prosecco, and then walked to Old Town Alexandria. We went to the Irish pub with the big fireplace and listened to an Irish singer (or a good approximation thereof) give some good and interesting renditions of "The Fields of Athenry" and "Who the fuck is Alice?" It was crowded, and we sang along and clapped. A stranger pulled me out of my chair and danced me around the room for a good five minutes until he was out of breath. Shelly and I came back to my place at around 0130 and crashed.
We were up again at 0830 for coffee, bacon, eggs and crepes with blueberries, and a walk around the block. The sun has finally come out and it was a beautiful day for a walk.
I dropped Shelly at the train station and drove West to Marie's house. Last month, for my birthday, Marie bought tickets for "Ariadne auf naxos", a Strauss opera. We had lovely sushi, great conversation, and then spent a couple of lovely hours at the opera.
It is my birthday this week. I am determined to see only the beautiful things in the world this week: to remember only the things I am grateful for. I am grateful for my friends.
I may have been unlucky in love, but I have been very lucky in my friendships.

Holiday

I don't want to be closed off and bitter. All throughout the experience with Sjors, I made a deliberate attempt to keep myself open. I didn't have control over what he chose, nor over the choices of his organization. I can't choose how my heart works but I can, to a certain extent, pick my actions. I've tried to remain truthful and compassionate. I've tried to be a good person, and to prevent the poison of anger and resentment from entering my blood.

Today was Valentine's day. It is no more difficult today than it is on any other day of the year. The pain is the same. I do not hate the holiday nor resent people who are in lovely relationships. I do not wish anyone else ill.

 I am alone. I wish I was in that alternate universe where Sjors chose differently. But I am not. I am here. I spent the day in the apartment. I talked to Marie and Corinne and mom on the phone. I worked on the proposal for John. I cooked and ate meals. I cleaned up after myself. I wrote more of the memories I have of Sjors. I looked and applied for jobs. I studied French. I rode the bicycle trainer for nearly two hours, watching "The Borgias", and "Helix" until my bum was sore.

I listened to Bach. Contrapunctus.

I know that I am more fortunate than most. I try to remember these things. I try to consider the people I've seen who struggle for survival. And I know that I am not hungry. I am not cold. But the perfunctory actions of life seem so burdensome when there is no soul.  I've dated. But I am unmoved by these men. It feels wrong to pretend otherwise.

At dinner the other night, John asked me, "do you believe that things happen for a reason?"

I answered truthfully, "I do not."

I wish I did not believe this. It might be better if this pain had a purpose. But it seems that its only purpose is to be carried in my chest like a parasite. Sometimes I wish I could put a hole in my chest and remove everything inside, stop the ticking of that fucking clock.

If there was a purpose in what Sjors did, if there was a reason why I have lost so much, I do not see it. I wish that I could.

Maintenance

Why didn't you have the balls to come after me on the streets of Pozzuoli or Amsterdam? You could have finished it cleanly. Don't you have training for that?

This is not a life. This is not living.

Without him. This is hell.

Driven

I began writing this last week.

I thought it would be impossible to talk about these things: to tell the story of Sjors and Hans and everything that happened with MIVD and Mac. It felt trapped inside. I didn't know if I could pry it loose.

Now it is loosed. I keep trying to work on my projects, but the words for this story pour out of me. I keep a document open so I have a place to dump them so I can return to my work projects. But the words accumulate and I have to relieve them once more. In the past week I've written 14,000 words. Everything I write, I pass to Marie. Witness to every event, she reads and comments on my recollections.

It is important to me to keep the fidelity of every memory, every conversation, every moment I spent with Sjors. I think this is because they tried to take them away from me. He lied, said it never happened. There is nothing worse that someone can do than to corrupt your memories. I will always hate them for trying to rewrite history.

I have a video that Sjors made for me when I was grieving the loss of Hans. He looks into the camera, speaks frankly about the difficult position he's put me in, and tells me that he loves me, he fears, forever. I couldn't look at that video for so long while Sjors was writing such awful messages to me. It hurt too badly. But I found it yesterday and watched it, feeling that this was a different person, a different lifetime ago.

Did you believe what you said then, Sjors? I have to think that you did. What the fuck happened to you? I would give anything to know the details of your side of this nightmare. What happened to you in August and September 2011 when they made you their boy again? Tell me that story and I'll buy you a beer.

I don't have the audacity to believe that anyone would give a shit about this story besides me. But I will write it down. I will put it all in one place. I will own this narrative.

Childless

This morning I finally made it into the doctor.
I resist doctors and I haven't seen anyone since I returned from Italy. Probably stupid but, oh well.
It became a matter of necessity when my medication began to run low. I needed refills - and this was the earliest they could fit me in.

For lack of better options, I returned to the doctor I used before travelling to Italy. As I walked from the Foggy Bottom Metro stop to the office, I had a visceral memory of the last time I was there. She'd implanted an IUD as birth control. I remember the pain of the experience and calling Hans on the walk back to the metro. I'm too sensitive for hormone birth control and I had a steady boyfriend - which made the IUD ideal. Hans and I weren't ready to have kids yet, although we were thinking about it. Truthfully, the idea frightened me.

Sjors and I started talking about having kids almost immediately after we started dating. It seemed so natural somehow. He brought up the subject. He talked about what they would be like, described their personalities and haircolor. He told me the names he wanted: Jullian and Lucian. Godawful names - but if they were boys, we would use them. If she was a girl, I wanted her to be Zadie. I started to think about it with greater frequency.  When I saw children on the base day care, something inside me ached. I had the IUD removed in May 2011 and, in the following month, Sjors' condom broke.

I didn't think I would ever forgive him for bullying me into taking the morning after pill. Maybe I never have. "We'll have lots of babies," he promised me.  

Months later, when he returned to MIVD and left me, I asked Sjors if he would donate sperm for me so that I could have his child. I would not request support or contact with him if he did not wish it. I would be a good mother. He told me he would not. Of all the promises he made and broke, this was by far the most difficult to bear. It has changed the world for me.

In Cameroon and Senegal, I watched women working challenging jobs in the sun with babies strapped to their backs and I envied them.

I haven't wanted to have children with anyone else. It was not merely an abstract longing for motherhood, I found. It was a desire for Sjors' children: little people with his eyes and his laugh and his sense of humor and boundless enthusiasm. In the years that have passed, I have never seemed able to let myself consider the possibility of having the children of another man. This pain has been a long time in dulling: this realization that I will not have children of my own. I have passed the ideal age for pregnancy and at some point it will not be possible at all.

My sister Corinne had her first baby last year - one day after my birthday. She's pregnant again, expecting another little girl sometime in March.

Tonight, I had dinner with a good friend and her husband, a couple who have tried unsuccessfully to have children since her bout with cancer three years ago. They've spent months looking for a surrogate. For just as many months, I seriously considered offering my own womb. It will not be used otherwise. I wish I had been able to do this for them. But I don't know that I would have the courage to face my own childlessness while I felt someone else's child grow inside me. I feel so impotent and angry that I cannot have what I long for - nor am I able to help them.

Owning the narrative

Every night I try to find him.

I grind my teeth. My hands ball into fists, and I grimace so hard it gives me headaches.

I wake myself calling out his name. Even now. Last night. And years have passed since I lost him.

You can tell yourself it doesn’t make sense. You can tell yourself to move on and forget. But there are some things that go so deep, you can’t escape them even if you know it would be better for you if you could.

I’ve tried to escape this more times than I can count, because there is nothing I can do to recover what was taken. The part of me that walked into hell to find him, the part that had faith that he would come back with me, did not survive.  

I am writing it down now. Bit by bit. I am putting it to paper. I have reams of notes and records and analysis. I kept everything. As an analyst, this is what I do. I seek data, I organize it, and I identify patterns.

History is written by the victors. I was not victorious. But if I write this, I win back a little of what they took.

There is something important about owning the narrative. I realized  this quite poignantly when Sjors lied about me in the internal Dutch investigation, and when that lie propagated and began to tear my career and life apart. Perhaps I even realized it before then, when Sjors lied to me about his work with MIVD, and began to lie to himself about the motivations for his decisions. There is power in story. By telling a story that persists, it becomes a truth in itself.

Whenever I tried to sort things out verbally with Sjors in those last moments of privacy we shared, he didn't want to hear it. He always shut me down. Maybe he didn't want another melody to collide with the tune he was busy humming. I see now that the last things I ever gave him were my memories. I sent him three or four e-mail messages describing what I remembered about us. I gave up the last sacred things I had of us. They are still sacred to me.

My friend, Marie, is my reader. She has always been my reader: the witness of the events that brought me here.  Strangely, she even met Sjors. And she tracked on the correspondence with Mac, and the improbable events that followed. So I capture one memory a day. When I'm finished, I'll sum them up and take a look and see what patterns I can see. I'll publish them in a book, perhaps. And the narrative, whatever I can make of it, will not be lost.