Authors: Sibel Edmonds
Classified Woman (26 page)
Twenty-four years later, after a nearly decade-long Kafkaesque journey, here I am, back to my original passion: journalism, reporting and exposing the truth, and working to inform and unite enough people to bring about needed “real” changes. Somehow my three life journeys had prepared and armed me with everything I needed for this new role. My linguistic abilities; firsthand knowledge and experience of consequences associated with U.S. foreign policies abroad; a long list of intelligence, law enforcement and congressional connections and sources obtained through my whistleblowing case; being an active party in several court and congressional cases in fighting for civil liberties, justice and accountability—all had come together in one place, and in a position where they could be put to good use toward a common cause. This is not a new journey but the continuation of three: converging, moving forward, out of darkness into light.
E
ven today, in early 2012, more than a decade since the start of my Orwellian journey that began with the FBI, I write these final words of a classified woman, not knowing if my story will ever see the light of day. In view of our present state of clampdown, all the legal experts tell me to expect more censorship, gag orders and retaliation against this book-to-be. Undeterred by their forecasts, I have written with one driving purpose: to shed light on the expanding darkness that slowly, by degrees, devours our liberties. Secrecy hates the light. Where power succeeds, darkness prevails. Their war is against us, if we dare to speak out; we get classified, banished, or worse. I am not naïve. I know the realities on the ground—only too well. Yet, if you are reading this, all is not lost.
My story is all our fight, every one of us. Otherwise, why bother writing? It is still my battle, yes, in many ways, but now I’m bringing it to you. This is about censorship and your right to hold government and power accountable for what it does in your name. It’s a war against cover-up and smothering truth in untold secret places. Once you see the dark side—whether catching a glimpse or being locked behind one of its infinite doors—you cannot go back, put it behind or pretend it never existed. You can try, but it doesn’t work. I tried to run away, to forget. I even tried self-induced amnesia; as happens with any trauma, though, it comes back, with interest, often disguised and in unpredictable ways. It never goes away. It can stalk you. In my case, I had come to a realization, an awakening, a moment of truth; I had to make a decision: How willing was I and to what lengths would I go to face this trauma and fear—to try to uncover its sources and perhaps find ways to conquer it? To what degree was I willing to seek the help of others?
When my life unpredictably veered into darkness, I was faced with those existential questions. In the beginning, I certainly did ponder running away, to quietly resign from the FBI, return to my previous life and work and never look back. At one point (more than one, in fact), I seriously considered dropping every course of action: every legal and congressional battle, and carry on with my life filled with fear—knowing, even, that this would probably continue for as long as I lived. In the end, though, a decision had been reached. I would face it, and tackle its sources as best as I could. I did, in fact, seek the help of others. That was the main purpose of my whistleblowers organization; and collectively, we tried to vanquish the darkness and its sources. Yet, during those crucial first few years, there didn’t seem to be enough of us. Precious few who had experienced this dark side were willing to come forward or even to acknowledge it. Relaying what we knew, informing others, and alerting the majority however we could at that time seemed next to impossible.
Things seem to have changed. Many more have come to see, experience, or be touched by the darkness that envelops our freedom. People are more aware, which is heartening: the more we know, the better our chances to conquer it, to reclaim what is lost or threatened. It will always be an uphill battle, of that there can be no doubt, but none of us should ever give up hope; too much is at stake, the price of silence too steep. Of this darkness, many have been touched; some have had the merest glimpse while others have been drowned. Whether facing prosecution, jailed, harassed and scorned, gagged, censored, spied on and threatened, or persecuted in secret prisons, those who know the darkness also know it is here—and expanding. Some know by now that going to the polls is an exercise in futility. The media too operates in darkness. Our choices are not a choice. A few know—and that number is growing—that even at this late hour, it is not too late to cry out, to inform, unite and fight for true changes: against fear and the power of darkness. They are the irate minority. They are growing. And I am with them, have been, and always will be.
Stephen Kohn and the National Whistleblowers Center—you became the catalyst to take on this project and the myriad obstacles in the way of its publication. Thank you for keeping me motivated and for all your support for this book. Without your support I might never have brought it to completion.
Rita Rosenkranz, my agent—thank you for believing in me and for lending me your support in challenging the establishment, convention and tradition to bring this book to publication.
Michael Wilde, my editor—you are the best editor a person could have. You gave far more than your stellar editorial skills to this book. You took on this enormous task with passion and as a kindred soul. Thank you for all your work and support.
Paul Jamiol and Linda Habib—I am fortunate to have your never-ending support, advice and guidance, but it’s your friendship that I treasure most. Thank you.
Matthew, my husband and partner—you rode this dark storm with me; and you are still here, standing by my side. I know you will be there to ride other storms surely to come, right by my side. You are the one person to whom I owe the greatest thanks. I am grateful to have you as my life partner.
My father—for teaching me the things that count the most in life: love, truth, fairness and the willingness to seek and fight for them. You are my conscience, in my heart and spirit, always.
My vigilant activist supporters—during the last ten years, you have put me back on my feet every time I was brought to my knees. Your endless support and belief in me has kept me going. I may not have responded to your many thousands of letters but I assure you I have read every one, and some more than once. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.