An ocean of despair consumes the grieving and for the rest of their natural lives the grief-stricken will share their war-torn anguishing memories for all the world to witness. That singular moment a child was taken from their parents’ arms far too soon is now imprinted in their character. Whatever progeny exists in these parents’ future will carry these moments. These anchors of dark imagery will hold them in this space. This despair is now seen down to their cellular level, will inform their DNA, mark them and then define them for future generations.
This is what the power of grief does. It changes people from the inside out.
The United States Government and its affiliate agencies know this and seem to hold toddlers or even 14-year-olds, especially girls, in fact all girls in contempt and the resounding crackle of brittle social media gunfire stands between this codified scornful legislation, and life.
Those who knew, knew.
Those of us who stood upon rocks when the storm was but a drizzle and announced to anyone who had ears to listen or eyes to see and an open heart and mind said, “They will take you and if they don’t take you, they will take all that is dear to you. They will murder it in front of you. They will devour it. And you won’t have the capacity to fight them.”
Those who could have been powerful agents to fight them suspended their own life to protect the girls. They had taken up arms to protect the future mothers of the world but were stopped short just as they made their move to go to war. They were big men, strong men and men with conviction and beliefs and men who intuited something fragile yet extraordinary, desperately needed shielding. They were cut off at the knees, tied to hospital beds, forced poisons were funneled down their throats and slammed into their bloodstream against their will. They threw punches, pulled the plugs out of the machines that entrapped them, grabbed their assailants by the necks, pulled off their pulse oximeters, yanked out their intubation tubes and made every attempt to return to their call of duty.
They died in battle.
A population controlled is not a population reduced. A population controlled moves through capitalism and is exploited and used for another’s gain. Controlled, the population becomes unaware they are being used for this advantage. Depending on their performance, they may even become immune to it.
A population reduced is an assault on the girls.
When the Chinese went for the girls, they did it openly. Female infanticide became law then normalized, then not, and there were policies put in place years later to make attempts to protect the female population moving forward.
But what is happening to our girls now in the USA is nothing like that. There seems to be a furious death march to reversing the miracle of motherhood, and cut short the magic and wonder of girlhood. This has been maligned, obfuscated, ignored and shrugged off in the wake of guilty verdicts of former Presidents and various other bread and circuses that capture user attention.
Although the heartfelt sorrowfully sympathetic posts pepper social media landscape when these 14-year-old girls are taken from us too soon, they are overshadowed by what social media was designed for in the first place: a looking-glass, mirroring nothing more than self-indulgence, an obsession with self-loathing, self-improvement and even secret contempt. Useful idiots or perhaps unknowing agents, deliver honeyed soliloquy, seizing users attention and diverting them from the critical crisis that no one is talking about.
We’re throwing away our girls and what’s left in these empty spaces is a population in deep denial, self-obsession, unresolved grief and now, decline.
It seems, anecdotally, the targeted are 14-year-olds specifically. Simply go to any search engine and type “14-year-old girl died suddenly”, and marvel in shock at the amount of hits that take up the space in your browser screen.
It’s at this magical age, at fourteen, that they’re no longer little girls with high squeaky, ear-splitting piercing voices and little bodies full of energy and faces full of wide eyed wonder, and at fourteen also not quite ready to leave her mother’s side. It’s at this profoundly wondrous and delicate age that she chooses to hang out with Mom and Dad, rather than go meet with friends; she feels awkward in her changing body, but not yet embarrassed by her parents’ attention in public, she’s started to look at boys differently and she hasn’t hit that rebellious streak yet that will ultimately shape who she becomes as an adult woman.
Fourteen is that delicate balance between girlhood and womanhood and is one of the most cherished in a woman’s memory. In seven years she will have passed her driver’s license exam and may be driving, graduated from college, may become married, started her first job, started a family, or she may have experienced adventures overseas. Fourteen is an age of reckoning, a launching point for a life not yet lived.
Fourteen launches her into freedom: freedom of expression, freedom of discovery, freedom to fall in love, freedom to live her true self and freedom to change the world.
It’s no wonder this age seems to be the target. Once the threshold of fourteen is passed, the girl is gone forever and nervous parents everywhere wonder what will become of the unrecognizable young lady now living in their midst.
When there is war, there is usually a population boom after it. Hence, baby boomers. But when the goal in this war is to reduce the population there is no recovery or boom.
There is only death.
It’s been a long goal, an open secret, a planned strategy and every method of spy craft has been put in place to obscure it. Reducing the population was once difficult, with an American resolve that kept the murderers at bay. This was easier to do before social media was introduced into society. This was no doubt planned out.
After all, at some point in our modern past it was shocking to hear of a child dying.
Now it is commonplace.
To change the course of humanity takes profound psychological and psychosocial skill. In the past when a child died, everyone knew why. “A terrible accident.” “Lost their battle with a long term illness.” “Abuse.” But now, hundreds of posts and media stories of 14-year-old girls dying suddenly, whether at home or at school or at play, clog up our search engines and our news feeds and none of the users who knew the child intimately, offering their thoughts and prayers of sympathy, are saying how she died.
It’s almost as if society has been told it’s impolite to talk about the culling of our girls or to even ask, “How did she die?”
The parents are quiet, almost as if they’re under some kind of gag order. But really it’s just grief. Grief has captured their words, muted them and paralyzed them with confusion and no doubt plagued them with one question day and night, “Why her?”
A parent does all they can to protect their child from harm. But when this unwieldy plan and lofty goal has snaked itself into our daily lives and worked itself into our subconscious a Mother’s resolve and a Father’s protective spirit can’t overtake it. As a result, the guilt carries the grief and like a cancer destroys parents from within. What comes after a young girl’s unexplainable sudden death is typically divorce, a dismantling of bonds, severed relationships, scattered families, soured feelings of trust and hope, and more death and destruction is heaped upon what was once something tightly knit, bound together by a promise.
We all remember the story of where Michele Obama’s hashtag #bringbackourgirls originated. For those who don’t remember, the story broke in 2014: we were told on April 14, 2014 a group of 14-year-old Chibook schoolgirls in Nigeria were kidnapped by a vicious gang, the Boko Harem. The girls were to be used as negotiating leverage so the gang could trade the safe return of the girls in exchange for some of their own prisoners held in captivity. This story gathered national attention, buoyed by Michele Obama and every news outlet from NPR to The New York Times covered it. Protests swarmed the streets at the time, a smattering of social media avatars flanked their images with “Bring Back Our Girls” and it became the tragic topic du jour amongst the water cooler class in 2014.
Where is the trending hashtag for our 14-year-old girls now gone from us forever? Where are the headlines calling for investigations into their sudden unexplainable deaths? Where is the outrage and concern from the citizenry? Where is the one leader with significant influence that could catapult this movement straight into the hearts and minds of every single living breathing American citizen?
Instead, our girls are dead and we remain silent.
The silence around the open murder of our 14-year-old girls is an affront and more than a mere insult. The wounds run deep. The appalling hubris of an open campaign to depopulate is almost cartoonish and laughable. It takes on something grotesque and unreal and out of focus. The manner by which it is ignored and every other talking point from outlier media to mainstream media to social media is put squarely in front of it, or in its place. This is off-putting, irritating and infuriating.
Our girls are gone and the bitterness has folded in and around all of us, enveloping us. We are awash with it, especially the mothers. The silent movement of emptying drawers, folding clothes, boxing memories and packing away bits of cherished mementos of a soul is mocked by an indifferent and self-involved petty society. The empty hallways, empty bedrooms, empty bathrooms once cluttered with her world, echo and reverberate into the empty chambers of a dark heart where her light once beamed. This emptiness is the all-consuming emptiness of an unforgivable act. No longer believing in blessings, but only the Sacred we wave away these trivial triumphs in a so-called life. For in the Sacred comes a deep-seated need for vengeance from the Divine, a sense of righteous revenge.
No longer living naively in that blameless space of crafted narrative the Sacred tells the actual truth in all its ugly and distorted visions and protestations. No longer opening palms in love and innocence, but closing them slowly and with a great resolve unlike anything seen in history, we are closing our hands into fists.
The girls are dead. They have been murdered.
Population reduction is your war. For too long you’ve been denying this while distracting yourself with trivial bullshit that doesn’t even affect you, distancing yourself from an inconvenient and uncomfortable truth, all the while calling for some kind of revolution in response to spoon-fed narratives of wrongs that must be righted somehow.
You want a revolution? You’re in one.
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