Dethroned
Published in

Dethroned

Unmasking The Last Of The Weather Underground

I know not only who some of the members of the WU, who included my family members but am a victim of their last plot and the attempt at the coverup. What nobody seems to realize is that in addition to the Black Panthers, WU members also worked with the KKK

Photo by Andy Feliciotti on Unsplash

As the globe recovers from the prospect of American Democracy going down in a haze of fur. horns and Confederate flags, here is another story of grotesque violations of constitutional rights and a terror campaign that has not ended.

Here is the high pitch, for any lawmen (or women) involved in the prosecution of genocide and crimes against humanity.

In 1969, my mother, Gail E. Haley, on the way to winning her first medal for children’s books (the 1971 Caldecott for A Story, A Story), went out on a bombing spree with “family friend” Richard Ballantine, heir to the publishing empire Ballantine Books, that end up, in the short term, killing a cop in San Francisco. He was a member of the terrorist group, The Weather Underground. My mom was fulfilling her dream of also being a killer on the side, inherited from her very old KKK family in North Carolina.

There is a lot my father never knew. Because at the end of their little first escapade, as escapees to England, courtesy of my father, they began to plot another.

Sounds Like, But Not Quite

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

The plot of this one is very “Death on the Nile” in fact. Here is the quick overview. Get rid o, f those people who ever “knew” by implementing the next “perfect crime.” Inspired horrifically by the fact that my father’s name had been stripped, of rights, by Hitler. In July 1933.

My father, according to the stories he told me, backed up now by historical record, fled Germany with his parents less than a week after Hitler took power and shortly after his 12th birthday.

Richard and my mother planned the human trafficking of her children out of London just after my 12th birthday, over Easter Break, 1979, and then our human trafficking out of the UK, three days before my 13th birthday.

That all was concurrent with the last known and connected crimes of the Weather Underground, in New York State circa 1980–1981 is also no coincidence. My mother even visited London again during this time, to meet with Richard.

Kidnapped

Photo by Sandra Seitamaa on Unsplash

On the ground, in Charlotte and Boone, N.C. my life for the next seven years descended to the basics of survival. The three of us, my mother, little brother and I were never supposed to survive. The DWIs, with us in the car, came fast and furious, and were just as speedily expunged from official records. My mother’s youngest sister was also married to a (Democrat) Assistant Attorney General of North Carolina.

There was no way I could get out. Or my father could come and get us.

When we did not die, from poison, firey road crashes, direct attempts on all our lives at various times, defended not by a little brother, who checked out, but me, the next idea was to “adopt” my little brother.

I was supposed to now drop out of the picture.

I survived high school, and got to college, where my immediate goal was to locate my father as fast as possible. When I finally got his address, in London, it was only after I found out that my little brother had been adopted (by my mother and now second stepfather, absolutely bought in to keep his mouth shut).

The Next Crime

I tried to reconcile with my father the first time in 1987.

There are many who will ask why it was not instantly successful. In fact it was. We wrote letters to each other that summer, and got on, well enough, until his girlfriend deliberately caused a fight. A fight which was also stirred by the help of Richard — who tacitly admitted the same in the last meeting I ever had with him 8 years later.

Regardless, I never stopped trying to find my dad. Through the nineties, I tried to keep tabs on him (in a world without the internet, or at least as broad a reach, social media and free international phone calls). In the late nineties, he dropped into an abyss. I was still in the United States, realizing that it was not just alcohol that made my mother who she was. There was something deeply disturbing, sociopathic, and continually aimed at me.

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

I moved to New York after 9/11, in the search for my father, his family, or anyone I could find who could explain what had happened to our paternal, immigrant family. I did find family members, all of whom remembered my father — and began to explain the rivalry between the survivors. My aunt Doris, wife of Peter Drucker, had remained silent on many of these issues when I finally tracked her down in 1997 from Washington. Sadly, I could not find my only other paternal cousin — child of my father’s middle sister and Theo Gastor, professor at Columbia.

In 2003, however, after I found my elder half brother, Frank, in the UK, thanks to a Guardian article about his mother’s newly awarded OBE, I thought I had finally found a bridge that would enable me to bring my father home. At last. To Germany, where he deserved to be. And to have a few years, as we both deserved, to get to know his daughter again.

Instead, my brother, Eve, and everyone involved in the first human trafficking, with the unique addition of my younger brother and a high school “friend” pulled into all of this, worked overtime to prevent the reunion of my father and I. He was kept prisoner, in poverty, and deliberately infected with a grotesque virus. He was finally murdered on January 20, 2012. Or Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

As I found out at the funeral, Richard was still involved even then. My nephew was bought an expensive flat right across the street from his house in London, in 2005, to buy his silence. Right as my father, per NHS notes I now have, was trying to go to the police, in Hampshire, as he was being held prisoner. I can prove that.

I even have a witness for that period of time, and other witnesses, now in several jurisdictions.

A crime like this never goes away. And it is never really escapable.

I was attacked — and by both brothers. I escaped with the help of a friend, to Germany where I have finally won both citizenship through a landmark German Supreme Court case, but am now trying to not only get a restitution bill considered by the Bundestag, but the perps in this crime finally prosecuted.

This is, no matter the labels, or familial relations, a grotesque anti semitic crime, deliberately carried out over decades, which has yet to be prosecuted. And most of the “network” are still alive, if not active in both the UK and the US.

Marguerite Arnold’s latest investigative work is currently on sale. Green II: Spreading Like Kudzu, is the inside story of the first European tender bid for the cultivation of cannabis in Germany.

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A commentary on the Zeitgeist of Our Times

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Marguerite Arnold

Marguerite Arnold

Marguerite has covered the legal cannabis industry internationally from Germany for over six years and is the author of several books plus a Cannatech geek

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