Day 1, Descent
Day 2, Confession
Day 3, By the Book
Day 4, Prayer
Day 5, Reduction
Day 6, The Elect
Day 6 cont., Mammon
Day 9, Angel
Day 10, Transformation
Day 11, Release
I am an ex-drug addict who has solicited prostitutes in my
day. I've also
masturbated and inhaled at the same time, and I have been
arrested more than
once in my life. I dropped out of high school, and I've been
under
psychiatric care. Oh yeah, and I owe the IRS roughly six
thousand dollars that they are well aware of.
In the language of Scientologists, the above information
reflects what they
include in their "Dead Agent Packs" — dossiers of all the dirt
they dig up on
people critical of their "religion." Often they disseminate
damaging
information like this to the friends, family, landlords, and
employers of
anyone who dares speak of — or worse, publish — anything
derogatory about the
"church." So what I'm doing here is Dead Agenting
myself before we begin, beating them to the punch.
Recently I spent two weeks undergoing an initiation to
Scientology for this
magazine. My experiences constituted only the beginnings of the
beginnings
of what this cult is all about, but it was enough to leave me
strung-out
with fear. watching my back, and wondering where the next
element of
harassment was going to come from.
Scientologists don't like it if you leave. Even if you leave
quietly. There is a saying adherents fondly quote: "The way out
is the way through." Deep thoughts passed on by decade-dead
megalomaniacal psychopath Lafayette Ronald Hubbard, in whose
writings church followers find a labyrinth so complex, so full
of elitist jargon and weird science that those trapped in it
cannot see that the way out is the way through — the fucking
door.
So, of course I had to join...
Deep in the churning bowels of Hollywood, just off the Walk
of Fame, I find
my gateway to the promised "Bridge to Total Freedom" — the Los
Angeles Dianetics Testing Center, where, for free, I can take the
Personality Test
and the Novis IQ Test.
"Is anything bothering you?" asks a fat, bespectacled,
pock-marked dweeb named Richard.
"Yeah, Dick," I mutter, mentholated cigarette dangling
from my lips. "I wanna quit smoking."
"Scientology can help you with that," assures Richard in
scripted mantra, through what I'd soon understand to be the
trademark Scientology sweat-on-the-upper-lip smirk. Richard
then tries to sell me a paperback copy of Dianetics — the
Scientologist's bible of "The Modern Science of Mental
Health," written by Hubbard, the self-proclaimed source of
all things Scientological. I balk on the book and get
cracking on the testing instead.
The tests take an hour, during which Richard, a 20-year
Scientology veteran,
performs menial janitorial labor around the center. My results
come in with
a "very good," respectably high IQ of 130. My personality
profile, however,
falls deep into the "unacceptable state," with my rock-bottom
scores
indicating me as being heavily "depressed," "unstable," and
"nervous," and
with a near complete "lack of accord" thrown into the psychotic
soup for
good measure. Naturally, that measure would be my willingness to
sign up for
the Hubbard Dianetics Seminar at the low, low cost of $125
(credit cards
accepted). It is a bargain that nets me a beautiful, hard-bound
copy of
Dianetics, as well as a paint-by-numbers style workbook.
With assurance from Richard that "Scientology could help"
repair my totally
fucked-up personality, we shuttle over to the menacing, big,
blue Hubbard
Foundation. Along the way, Richard regales me with
stock-in-trade anecdotes
of how Scientology is responsible for the successes of Tom
Cruise, John
Travolta, Nicole Kidman, Kirstie Alley. Isaac Hayes even lives
at the Celebrity Centre Manor Hotel, for crying out loud.
In a registration office at the Foundation I meet Ramaldo
Flores — a slick, six-year veteran who, glancing at my low test
scores, deems me "suicidal."
"Not to worry, though," he soothes. "You're in the right
place, with the right technology."
Acting quickly, Ramaldo ushers me up one flight to a
classroom where I meet
my supervisor — a brutally clean-cut robot named Phil with that
Scientology
smirk tattooed on his sweaty upper lip. Turns out that Phil had
"read Dianetics in the Navy about 20 years ago, and after
taking time to understand every word, Scientology changed {my}
life." Funny, he still looked like a sailor.
After devoting only five hours of my life to this cult,
somehow I have already signed my name, address, and phone number
to all kinds of seemingly irrelevant paper work. Tomorrow, I am
informed, my coursework will begin. In a collegiate daze, I
amble out across the parking lot, noticing troops of zoned-out,
militarily outfitted men and women marching around acres of
Scientology real estate with a malevolent glare in their eyes as
jarring as the afternoon sun.
Scientology may be one of the most dangerous and
well-financed cults in
existence. In less than five decades, it has crafted its own
strange brand
of mind-control techniques and cultivated a security and
intelligence
apparatus called the Office of Special Affairs (OSA), which now
rivals those
of numerous developed countries. Scientology also relies on the
obedient
labor of both grunt-level workers and the 3,000-plus elite
staffers who work for what the cult calls its Sea Organization.
These maggot legions actually dress in pseudo-seaman's garb,
including dark blue suits adorned with ribbons and nautical
lanyards, and hold ranks such as captain and ensign. This naval
obsession stems from Hubbard himself, who was known as The
Commodore. If you're already thinking "wacko," something on the
far side of Captain Crunch, wait — it gets better.
According to Scientology (and stemming directly from
Hubbard's "vision"), 75
million years ago, an evil ruler named Xenu implanted "thetans,"
or spirits,
in volcanoes on the planet Teegeeack (known more recently as
Earth). All
humans are made up of these thetans, which are basically good
but terribly
misguided little buggers. The problem, you see, is that things
called
engrams, which come from early traumas, cause us spiritual pain
and
unhappiness. We all got 'em; we all gotta get rid of 'em.
So what do we do? Simple counseling sessions with something
called an
E-meter — a crude lie-detector-type device that Scientologists
claim measures
mental energy, locating and ridding you of troublesome engrams.
Called
auditing, this process isn't cheap. At rates that rise rapidly
to $1,000 an
hour, you can become what's known as an Operating Thetan, or OT.
Still with me? Of course, Scientology doesn't stop there.
Hubbard, in his
deluded wisdom, devised ever more steps for the disenfranchised
to progress
through, including eight echelons of spiritual development,
denoted as
Operating Thetans I through VIII, along the "Bridge" to total
bankruptcy. Costs in this progressive scheme can sometimes reach
into six figures.
Day 2, Confession
Crazy. As I enter the Big Blue, I spot Richard smirking at
me. Then Ramaldo slithers toward me, waving. A girl I recognize
from the Testing Center acknowledges me, and some bizarre
skin-and-bones structure with a name sounding like Kelp extends
a hand, asking, "And you are... ?"
"I'm Mark," I say.
"Ahh! Mark Ebner!" he exclaims. Now how in hell does
Kelp know who I am? Could it have been those forms I signed?
Hmmm...
Phil dispatches me down to a screening room to view
videotapes on the life
and times of L. Ron and the process of Dianetics auditing — whereby the bad,
bad "reactive mind" is diminished toward the state of "clear";
where, as
Hubbard would have it, we all function in the pleasurable state
of using
only our "analytic minds" to the utmost, free of all those
silly, annoying engrams, or mental images of painful
experiences.
Yawn. At this point, I'll take painful experiences for a
ticket out of here, but...
Back with Phil, I must conjure up tales of my reactive mind
at play and record them on a work sheet, then duly turn it over
to him. Which of course means that my painful scenarios now
become the property of Scientology, Inc., no doubt to be used
against me later.
If you think about it, how clever in design is this
"religion"? Only by confessing painful, personal information can
you hope to be helped. At the same time, of course, you are
divulging private facts about yourself to organizations
connected with people who will have absolutely no qualms about
using them against you should you cross them. The Commodore
sailed a wacky ship, but the course he navigated seems ingenious
at times.
Day 3, By the Book
I finish my workbook assignments today in a roomful of old
folks, foreigners, and children (who would be safer playing in
traffic). Phil seems to enjoy reading my "painful experiences,"
but then, he gets a kick out of the E-meter, so go figure.
I am supposed to start my auditing sessions today, but Phil
thinks training
drills are in order first. I learned the auditing techniques via
workbook,
so it is now up to me to practice this form of dressed-down
hypnosis on a
sailor-suited rag doll seated on a chair across from me. When I
finish with
the doll, I have to practice the procedure again with another
"preclear," a sad sack named Rob.
Despite Scientology claims that it's not hypnosis, auditing
assuredly
mirrors the hypnotic induction therapy I've received in the
past. In 10 easy
steps, the preclear runs through traumatic experiences in his or
her life, repeating them aloud to the auditor again and again,
until they reach a state of "cheerfulness" about them. How can
this work? Try saying the word "ball" 50 times aloud, over and
over, until it doesn't mean anything to you anymore.
During our session, Rob admits to me that he "really enjoys"
these auditing experiences. Again and again, he insists on
relating tales of the humiliation he felt as a fat kid on the
baseball field. By this time I am praying only that I don't get
paired off with a dork like him in future sessions.
Prayer — that's the ticket, but they don't encourage that in
this religion.
Day 5, Reduction
More practice sessions. I am placed in an auditing room with
a woman who cannot follow the simple, repetitive format of Step
Six ("go back to the beginning of the incident and go through it
again") as I recount the loss of a dog while in a "trance." Her
misguided attempts at "reducing" the trauma of my incident fail
so miserably that I finally just fake finding a place of
cheerfulness and my session ends with a snap of her fingers.
Now I get to audit her, acting as though I were one of them.
Almost immediately, the woman begins crying over an incident
that happened in an airport or something; then later became
nearly hysterical over a sister who pissed her entire family off
by deciding she wanted to be a flight attendant.
Most counseling sessions involve some surrender of will.
Likewise all religions. Where Scientology moves from dubious to
dangerous is in the fierce possessiveness it shows for its
members.
Is Scientology a cult? "I'd say so," says the outspoken
Robert Vaughn Young, who ran Hubbard's public relations during
his 20 years in Scientology. "One of the primary characteristics
{of a cult} is something that excludes dialogue or any
definitions outside of the parameters of its own system of
information. Hubbard said it was a 'scientific method' that
could be tested, but if you say you want to test his method,
they consider you to be attacking."
The Creed of the Church of Scientology, written by Hubbard in
1954, states:
«We of the Church believe... That all men have inalienable
rights to think freely, to talk freely, to write freely their
own opinions and to counter or utter or write upon the opinions
of others.»
However, explains Young, "if you were to write something
saying Hubbard was a megalomaniac — well, see, the thing is, now
you are lying. You are free to utter upon the opinions of
others, but you are not free to lie. So they would say, 'This is
a lie, therefore you are not free to utter it, and now I am
going to sue you."
Scientology may litigate more, and more aggressively, than
any religious
outfit in the world. The OSA operatives harass people via a Fair
Game Policy (which Scientologists claim they discontinued, but
is alive and well), which licenses them to, in Hubbard's words,
lie, trick, sue, and/or destroy anyone who has been declared
"fair game."
After a Time cover story about Scientology ran in June 1991,
the church not only sued the magazine for libel, it also sued
former member Steven Fishman and his Florida psychiatrist for $1
million each for "defamatory" comments they'd made that appeared
in the article.
While the $416 million suit against Time is pending,
attorneys for Fishman came up with an ingenious way to fight
back: at a Christmas party held at the Scientology Celebrity
Centre, several celebrities — including Juliette Lewis, Kelly
Preston, and Isaac Hayes — were subpoenaed for depositions to be
given in the case. Not long after, Scientology lawyers dropped
their suit. The Time case goes to trial in January.
Meanwhile, the church is doing legal battle with alienated
former members
who have been posting on the Internet copyrighted teachings and
damning
testimonials about the church's darker side. Young, always
active on the
hugely popular Internet newsgroup, alt.religion.scientology,
predicts the Internet "is going to be to Scientology what
Vietnam was to the United States....This will be their Waterloo
in the end," says Young.
Day 6, The Elect
I meet my new auditing "twin" today — Steve, another human
skeleton. He seems
nice enough, but because he is "farther along the Bridge" than
I, he can
only audit me rather than it being a mutual session. So... more
subconscious subterfuge, at least until tomorrow.
With the afternoon free for me to be me, I decide to get away
from the mind matter of Dianetics and explore the Scientology
angle at — what better place — the Scientology Celebrity Centre.
Those who have the most freedom in the organization — enjoying comfort levels
and privileges made possible by the cheap labor of grassroots
members — are
the celebrities of Scientology. The list runs from the obvious
to the truly
absurd in personality. The humorless Tom Cruise, workout buddy
of
Scientology chairman David Miscavige, cuts the perfect Rondroid
profile:
humorless, elitist, defensive, basically emotionless, and angry.
Cruise's
past and present wives, Mimi Rogers and Nicole Kidman, are also
Scientologists. Said to be beyond the level of OTIII, here is
what Cruise has mastered off the set:
After achieving the state of "clear," joining the ranks of
about 50,000 who
came before, he is supposedly immune to illness and free of his
reactive
mind. As an advanced operating thetan (with his godlike
abilities fully restored) he can now create life; he can create
universes; he has cause over matter, energy, space, and time;
and he is free of the bonds of the physical — functioning
totally on the spiritual.
(Question: If Cruise is all that, then why couldn't he create
a hit out of Far and Away? Just asking.)
Other high-profile celebrities with Scientology ties include
Priscilla
Presley and Lisa Marie Presley Jackson, Anne Archer, Sonny Bono,
and Chick
Corea. Some may find it an uneasy relationship. Scientology
needs its celebrities — Hubbard called them Opinion
Leaders — and will go to lengths to keep them in the fold. When
the carrot doesn't suffice, Scientologists know where to find
the stick.
In the suit against Time source Steve Fishman, Scientology's
former head of
security, Andre Tabayoyon, filed a 60-page deposition declaring
that cult leaders keep special files on the stars that contain
supposedly confidential information derived during auditing
sessions. However, he went on, "the contents of such folders
have been culled and used against people. . .{as they could be
against} John Travolta {and others} should they ever attempt to
leave the Scientology organization."
The deposition was submitted to the court as part of a
dispute over who
should pay costs after Scientology withdrew its suit. The Church
of
Scientology submitted its own declarations, denying the contents
of the
affidavit and attacking Tabayoyon's credibility and knowledge of
events.
But sources interviewed by SPY confirm Tabayoyon's depiction
of a dichotomous world at Scientology's security-obsessed camp
in California, Gilman Hot Springs. He points to celebrities'
receiving perks like an apartment with a $150,000 gym and
private chef; a Mercedes convertible, two motorcycles, and a
motor home; and a $200,000 celebrity-use-only tennis court.
So celebs are given special treatment. So a couple hundred
thou doesn't sound like a huge expenditure for an organization
that is raking in untold millions annually. Except where do you
think the money comes from? From legions of lost souls who go
ahead and shell out every dime they can squeeze from their
credit cards. Not only that, but who do you think does
construction and upkeep on these celebrity digs? Yep, those same
scrubs.
On the other side of camps, like the one at Gilman,
out-of-standing members
toil in the Rehabilitation Project Force (RPF) to work off their
Scientology
sins. This practice of using labor as punishment — either for
breaking the
rules or failing to meet work quotas — is widespread in
Scientology.
Banishment into the RPF can last several months, during which
time members may not speak unless spoken to; must perform
menial, often degrading tasks; subsist on a diet of rice and
beans; endure terrible living conditions; and wear armbands
denoting their lowly status.
Robert Vaughn Young served 14 months. "It's brutal simply
because of the hard work you have to go through. There are
people over 50 in there, 65 even — working for a few days around
the clock, which we often did. I suppose if I had been 25 and in
the military l wouldn't have minded it so much physically. But,
in fact, if you're working slow, you're admonished and undergo
additional penalty even for the fact that you just can't do it.
They would say, 'Don't give me excuses. Just make it go right.'
For the life of me, I can't figure out why I was being driven to
the edge, other than as a point of control.''
Tabayoyon, in his sworn declaration, charges that RPFers at
Gilman helped build apartment cottages for use by the likes of
Cruise, Travolta, Alley, Edgar Winter, Priscilla Presley, and
other Scientology celebrities. Even more frightening is how
Scientology has taken the industry of celebrity and pitted it
against the entertainment business in an effort to influence
public opinion. Last summer, for example, Presley Jackson called
MTV and threatened to block its use of any of her husband's or
father's work if it broadcast a negative segment on Scientology.
MTV ran the story, but watered it down.
I drive up the stately entrance to the Celeb Centre and
explore the
well-manicured grounds, peek into the "two-star" restaurant, and
maneuver to the bookstore, where I inquire about the
Purification Rundown. After all, if I clear the body, the mind
will follow, and hey, I did come here to quit smoking, didn't I?
The bookstore clerk with the fixed stare gladly escorts me
through the mansion's ground floor to the registrar's office,
where I am greeted with vichyssoise warmth by Rachelle Shay.
She offers a confusing explanation of the difference between
Scientology and
Dianetics (Scientology being the tech-no-spiritual realm,
Dianetics the realm of the mind). Then she guides me through the
Purification Rundown, a daily regimen of vitamins (the niacin,
calcium, and magnesium cocktails), and oral shots of olive oil
to loosen my fatty tissue, along with a program of running and
sauna sweating, where it is suggested that I may experience acid
flashbacks — sign me up! — and recurring "sunburns" manifesting
the release of residual drugs and radiation from my system.
Rachelle hand-holds me as we pass through a vaguely comical
underground
"French" village, or what I would imagine as a downscale version
of La
Petite Monde at Euro Disney — complete with a tiny theater. The
Purification area is like a small health club with — my
god! — women and children lining up for potions and being
escorted into saunas. Vichy, France, ring a bell? I'll take
"Collaboration with the Nazis" for $2,000, Alex.
Back upstairs, Rachelle encourages me to sign up for the
Purif now. Total cost of the program, with discounts: $1,790.
Clear body, clear mind, clear spirit...clear bank account? The
hard sell has begun.
I tell Rachelle that my savings are prudently reserved, not
available for such an outlay of cash. No problem! She makes a
play for my credit cards, but they too are maxed out. No
problem! She simply gets on the hammer to a numbers guy named
Nick, who instructs her on which of my cards will be easiest to
get increases on, and she even dials my MasterCard 800 number
for me.
Following instructions, my card turns gold, and altough I can
use my new fortune now — I hang up and tell her I won't be
receiving the new card for a week. No problem! She strongly
suggests that I put the balance on my American Express card now,
and pay it off later, with my newly established credit line.
Still, I resist. Let's wait a week, darling, okay? Okay — in
the meantime she'll set up a physical exam for me. My doctor?
Nope, definitely a Scientologist physician. Forty bucks? Okay,
I'll bite. Been awhile since my last physical anyway.
At the rundown Angel Medical Center, I'm greeted by a
starry-eyed Anju
Mathur, M.D. She seems professionally delighted that I am going
to do the
Purif. Given my drug history, she insists I take an AIDS test as
well as a liver panel. You see, she explains, I will be sweating
in a sauna with other Scientologists, and she would not want to
endanger them with the risk of exposure because, "Sweat is a
bodily fluid." I wince as she thrusts a syringe into my arm that
will leave a bruise for weeks.
Call a Scientology organization and ask what it can do for,
say, asthma. A phone call to one of its outfits got a promise of
a "guaranteed" cure for the ailment based on L. Ron Hubbard's
"asthma rundown." Registrars will promise you a life free of
illness and psychological maladies. The promises, like almost
everything else, sound scripted.
A recently disaffected Scientologist (and established
entertainer) confides: "I was brainwashed from the second I
walked in because of the way they insisted I'd get better and
successful, and my stomach problems would be healed. While
spending nearly $35,000 on auditing, I was constantly sick, and
never got well."
Finally, she met someone who talked to her for hours and
taught her that
Scientology was a scam, that the tech does not work and that
Hubbard was not
God. She underwent a minideprograming, and she learned the
expensive trade secrets in the upper levels of the bridge were
science-fiction garbage. She was coached on how to get her money
back, and after protracted efforts, Scientology reimbursed her
in full to avoid publicity problems.
She's one of the lucky ones.
Another woman, call her Marge (most who leave the cult fear
further
harassment if they speak out against their experiences, and so
prefer to
remain anonymous), got roped in by way of her job. Her boss's
hard sell,
coupled with the articulation of the nobility of all goals
Scientological — "You are trying to go free, you are fighting
the biggest fight of your life" — almost cost her her health and
her sanity.
"Well, I got routed onto the Purification," explains Marge.
"I have never
done drugs in my life, yet I was on the Purif for almost five
months. It was a nightmare beyond my wildest imagination."
During her time on the Purification Rundown ("sweating out
toxins" in a
sauna), Marge suffered panic attacks, dizziness, and nausea. One
day, she
was found blue-lipped on the waiting room floor, hemorrhaging.
Instead of
taking her blood pressure or calling an ambulance or even a
doctor, they
explained away her bleeding as "restimulation" from
radiation she had absorbed from ultrasound testing she'd had
years before.
They attributed her panic to "a really bad event" she went
through "a long
time ago." she was remanded to the program, and when she finally
snuck off
to a noncult doctor, she was diagnosed with heatstroke and
anemia.
Hubbard's tech, policy, and doctrines are never wrong.
Anything adversely affecting the physical or mental health of a
Scientologist gets hung on that individual as something that
either happened to her in the past, or as something she brought
on herself.
Priscilla Coates, volunteer chairwoman of the L.A. branch of
the nonprofit Cult Awareness Network, calls this common cult
tactic "doctrine over person," meaning that doctrine never
fails, only people do. "Hubbard wrote the manual of justice that
still applies," she explains.
Day 10, Transformation
Intense sessions with Steve today. All my past misery and
suffering reduce to a chuckle. I even threw in a tale of
adolescent cross-dressing just to make him feel useful. With
that final purge, I break for a snack at the canteen, where they
sell black T-shirts with slogans like Psychiatry Kills.
Later, I am whisked to an examiner's office, where I finally
get my hands on the cans of the fabled E-meter. First I have to
write an essay about my experience, or "wins," with the seminar.
I whip off a page about my increased awareness of the Reactive
Mind and the need to eradicate it. A false-smiling fat lady with
piercing blue eyes hands me a couple of tin cans
alligator-clipped to wires attached to the E-meter.
She takes notes on my readings on the meter and on my answers
to her
perfunctory questions, repeating "Your needle is floating;
that's a good
sign. " Then she abruptly stops, signs me off on a few more
documents for my
dossier, and routes me back to the classroom, where I am
introduced as a
graduate of the Hubbard Dianetics Seminar.
My last day at the Hubbard Foundation. I meet with registrar
Joe Bueno. Joe
is a clear veteran of Scientology, rated OT V, or an Operating
Thetan privy to the most hideous of Hubbard's science fiction
secrets.
His commission-prompted plan is for me to stick with the
Dianetics side of
things: do my Purif there at the Dianetics Center ($2,000) and
proceed on
the Professional Dianetics Auditing Route, starting with a
course valued at $300. Okay, counting prior expenses, if I
continue on with this horseshit, I'd be in for close to $3,000
without even getting within bile-spitting distance of the
tens-of-thousands-of-dollars state of clear. Later, Joe. Much
later.
In the weeks after I walked from Scientology, my phone rang
all day with calls from various registrars trying to get me
involved again. My personal physician has since explained the
pricey Purification Rundown as "utter bullshit, pie-in-the-sky
stuff that is far from being physically sound. In fact, it could
be dangerous — especially the niacin intake, which can
cause...liver damage, especially to a liver as susceptible as
yours."
I'm also smoking more than ever now, but that's okay. Fact
is, many Scientologists smoke, emulating their late
chain-smoking source of their apparent sickness, L. Ron Hubbard.
Perhaps the most alarming aspect of this cult, brutal tactics
and financial
pressure aside, is its recent attempts to go mainstream. Through
fronts,
such as the Way to Happiness Foundation and Applied Scholastics,
Scientology
has targeted the classroom as a means to disseminate its
literature in a
get-'em-while-they're-young drive.
Other dubious organizations with ties to Scientology include
the ironically
named Citizen's Commission on Human Rights, the Concerned
Businessmen's
Association of America, and HealthMed — all of which spread the
word of Hubbard.
The city of Shreveport, Louisiana, for example, paid eighty
grand to send
about a 20 firefighters through Scientology's chemical detox
program before
an independent consultant labeled the regimen "quackery."
For hundreds of thousands of dollars and year upon year of
brainwashing, you get secrets and revelatory experience
tantamount to the understanding of a bad episode of Star Trek.
Except, that's not it. Out of Scientology since 1989, Robert
Vaughn Young likens his two decades in to a bad trip:
"There's a policy letter that Hubbard wrote where he just
says, literally, 'If you have the tech and use it, it will
protect you.' This is as close to the human shaman as you
can get. You can't be harmed. This creates...alters a state
of mind so that your judgment becomes so bizarre that
suddenly you believe you're invincible. You're immortal,
you're invincible, Hubbard is not wrong.
"Well, at that point, it's an incredible state that's
been created, that one day you will wake from and say, 'Oh,
my God. It was all wrong."'
Despite Scientology's well-masked attempts to infiltrate
mainstream institutions and thereby create more devotees to its
dangerous and nutty cause, Scientologists are losing ground on
some critical fronts. Recently the church paid out the biggest
libel award in Canadian history for defaming an opposing lawyer.
Church lawyers are having some success putting the clamps on
those who criticize Scientology and divulge its hokum online,
but the word about Hubbard's game has already been downloaded
onto the hard drives of millions. Scientology's leaders have
long flown the flag of First Amendment freedoms to promulgate
their views; now they want to cudgel into silence those wired
critics who try to do the same.
I attended one last Scientology function, called Auditor's
Day '95, which, in short, resembled a Nuremberg rally for the
'90s. No brown shirts present per se, but the lockstep
uniformity of 5,000 Scientologists packing the Shrine Auditorium
applauding to a slide projection of Herr Hubbard sent a chill up
my spine as cold as the one I felt when I saw those children
lining up for liquids at the Purification Center.
While waiting for the event to begin, I stood with a couple
of Scientology
women who asked a weasely OSA operative named Lazar what his
office was responsible for. "We beat up Suppressive Persons," he
said jokingly through the trademark smirk.
No doubt, after this article, I will be declared an SP, and
I'm certain my
Dead Agent Pack will be disseminated. This does not frighten me.
Heck, lie
and tell the world I am gay or annouce that my AIDS test came up
positive. You no doubt hold the threat of revealing sexual
orientation over the heads of more than the odd celebrity to
keep them from defecting.
I've seen your Dead Agent packets. Nice job you've done
slandering Priscilla
Coates of the Cult Awareness Network, an altruistic housewife
with two
parking tickets on her record. Lemme see...what about the Dead
Agent pack of
lies you created about ex-high ranking Sea Org Scientologist
Hana Whitfield?
Your libelous reportage in the ironically titled org-speak rag
Freedom Magazine falsely accused her of murdering her father.
Your tactlessness in publishing and disseminating alleged photos
of his dead body was also a sweet move in the name of religion.
As I ponder that creep Lazar's offensive joke about
Suppressive People, I am
considering challenging Chairman David Miscavige to a fist fight
but why
bother? He won't show up, for fear of getting served with a
subpoena. Keep
hiding, sailor boy, and don't forget to look both ways when you
try to cross
the information superhighway. And by all means, duck, as the
cult of greed
that Hubbard built, and you usurped, comes crashing down upon
you.