Chapter 1. The paper that infuriated the United Kingdom' rulers. I, PETRUS ROMANUS, a documented ...

It was the Holy Spirit who inspired this week, with such vehement sentences that they even surprised me.

They have already shaken this generation since I announced that God's patience was exhausted, and that those who conspired against his prophet would die for divine justice, just on the eve of the death of the Queen of England, who was wrongly persuaded to sign a third attack against me and my family.

I didn't suspect that the English were my main persecutors, but the Lord has revealed to me these days that it was English agents who planned to eliminate me by July, 2005 for a news article, then published on my website as TSUNAMI LESSONS.

In a brief press article, I outline the ideas of planetary equality that so irritate the scarce 7% cast that monopolize the world's resources, giving hope to the 20% that protect it--acting as foremen of a global slave farm, while fomenting wars, hunger and suffering to 73% of humanity.

I reproduce it below:

Tsunami lessons

Two years after the September-11 events another disaster, this time caused by what the intelligentsia of our time calls nature, has destroyed some of the favorite tourist attractions of the East.

As a result several of our most influential rulers and bankers have announced the beginning of a new era, in which the economic measures that have assured the misery and exploitation of the poor will be derogated.

Their well publicized philanthropy contrasts with the selfish mood reported in Washington hours before the Tsunami.

On December 23 Elizabeth Becker from The New York Times quoted some administration officials who told her that the food aid budget for the fiscal year that began Oct. 1 was at least $600 million less than what charities and aid agencies would need to carry out current programs.

As a result organizations such as Catholic Relief Services had to cut back programs in Malawi, Madagascar and Indonesia.

The unprecedented G-8 solidarity that the tsunami victims have enjoyed in the last few weeks are not mainly due to the attention that their suffering has inspired in the Western media, but to the unusual fact that their tragedy was shared by about three thousand citizens of the most prosperous nations of the world. The tsunami waves were unable to distinguish between natives and Europeans, credit-card holders and underpaid workers, tourists and servants, orphans and child abusers. Death imposed its overwhelming certainty over those who were told to live in the richest and most secure nations of the world and those who survived under the constant threat of hunger, humiliation and uncertainty. Not surprisingly a British journalist caught in the event described the attitude of the Asian Media as "stoic", for she could hardly understand the resignation of a people too well acquainted with death, and she, as many a journalist, failed to remember the 138.000 death-toll of the 1991 Bangladesh tsunami.

As in the 1755 earthquake and tsunami that destroyed the city of Lisbon, several writers have pointed out the possibility or impossibility of a punishing God. These speculations, already discussed by Voltaire and Rousseau, are more indicative of a growing sense of culpability amongst Western journalists. For decades the costal line of Indonesia, Thailand and Eastern India has been denounced as a prominent centre of child prostitution and pornography. According to the 2004 US State Department report on human trafficking, Sri Lanka, Indonesia and Thailand are all "source, transit, and destination countries for persons trafficked for the purposes of sexual exploitation". Andrea Bertone, the director of HumanTrafficking.org. reports that "in these areas there may be child sex tourists who either come on holiday and are situational child sex tourists, or either they are pedophiles who actually may live in the area". Just days after the tsunami a UNICEF official reported getting an unsolicited text message, asking what type of child would be preferred.

Once again the universe has underlined our fragility. In vain we seem to be great (Inutilmente parecemos grandes) writes the Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa, for in the face of destruction and decay we have learnt to lament the certainty of death instead of celebrating the miracle of living:

The sea lies; the winds moan in secret

In Aeolus captives;

Alone, with the tips of the trident, the vast

Waters Neptune picks on;

White sands are plentiful of small

Glows under the blinding sun.

Uselessly we seem to be great.

Nothing, in the far-away world,

Our sight recognizes in its greatness

Or it rightly serves us.

If here, from a gentle sea, I trace my depths

Three waves erase them,

What will do me the sea on the beach,

Saturn’s Echo?

Ricardo Reis, in "Odes"

Heteronym of Fernando Pessoa

London, 20th of January 2005

An article with truths that deeply offended the powerful that surround the British Crown.

Getting me out of their way me was the plan ever since, and its second attempt occurred when I returned by train with my ex-wife Coralie Jannin from France, after the funeral of her grandfather Ulysses Jannin, in August 2005

My home in Harroby Street, near Regents Park, Hyde Park and Marble Arch.

“Come out separately,” a gendarme told me after crossing the English Channel, sending me an individual with such a sinister aspect that just seeing his face made my blood run cold.

He asked for my documents, and, not happy with my French passport, he started asking me about my work. The gendarme, meanwhile, insisted my ex-wife to exit and leave me alone with that legal murderer. Inspired by the Holy Ghost, Coralie took offense and insisted on staying at a safe distance.

"Is something wrong?" I asked that bloodthirsty double O agent.

“You have the face of a terrorist”, he replied with a sharp look.

I chose to protect myself with a bit of British humor. "Yeah, I'm often taken for a Pakistani or an Arab," I said with a smile, appealing to his ugly stereotypes.

An unnecessary quiz dragged on for several minutes.

"Where are you from?".

“From Bucaramanga, Colombia”.

"Is it your town?"

"It's not a town, it's a city. We also have cities, you know?

“What do you do for a living? Where do you work?”

"At Harrods."

"In what store?"

“I am in charge of the haute-couture clothing warehouse for boys and girls.”

“Have you ever stolen one of those garments? They are quite expensive."

My patience was wearing thin, but even more so Coralie's, who faced Mr. Smart with such an angry look that he had no choice but to return my passport.

"You don't know how pleased I am to have been the chosen one," I said wryly as I said goodbye, elucidating the British virtue of restraining anger gracefully.

"I'm sure you'll be sorry to say that," sentenced that Jhonny English behind my back.

From that day on I felt watched, although now I see that I had been on their aim since 2003, when I published my first article on British history and politics.

My life in London went on at work or at home, reading and writing.

Every morning I walked back and forth from my flat to Harrods, along Hyde Park, and on weekends I read newspapers in several languages ​​in a famous café on Baker Street.

We frequented a Catholic church, with an upstart priest who avoided us. One day I went to attend his Latin mass, and an old man reprimanded me when he heard me whisper to my ex-wife a few words in French: “Quare loquuntur in domo Domini?”

Surely that man presumed that I didn't understand him.

"I didn't speak. I just whispered in the house of the Lord," I replied in English, and immediately led my ex-wife to the last rows of that temple.

Then I received invitations from pretended admirers of my writings, so that we could exchange electronic correspondence. I figured that if I answered them they wouldn't attack me, so I pretended friendship with a lady who was supposedly traveling from the United States.

I couldn't tell my ex-wife what was happening, simply because she wouldn't believe me. Educated in Cartesian rationalism, she never understood why I began to apply so hard for positions in nations such as Holland, Colombia and Germany.

"Who gets tired of London gets tired of Life," our co-workers used to tell me, quoting Dr. Johnson, as soon as they learned my intentions.

The date with my fake admirer was scheduled for July 7, 2005.

Of course I never showed up, but stayed home working. At the same time, in Bucaramanga, my father Flavio Hugo had a nightmare in which three loose bulls were chasing me through the London streets.

The cell phone rang several times, until I answered. “I changed my mind”, was my excuse to that female agent before saying goodbye, taking advantage of her icy silence.

Then the London attacks occurred, with security flaws that no expert has been able to justify.

Educated at Temple University's documentary school, I knew this was a unique opportunity, so I grabbed my digital video camera and went out to shoot in video Londoners' reactions.

The material I preserve--exception made of lovers who hug each other more than usual, corresponds to another normal work day.

Only now, I understand that such stroll to record life on video saved my skin. When I returned home I found some objects in a different place.

My nausea in the face of danger has guard me from several attacks.

Then I decided to go out alone as little as possible, and for almost a month I took the bus, avoiding my walks by Hyde Park. In the evenings I went with my ex-wife to the theater in the West End, or to concerts on the banks of the Thames, so I hardly spent an evening alone at home.

Then some police officers viciously attacked and murdered a young Brazilian from my age, with a face and physical build similar to mine: Jean Charles de Menezes.

The indignation of the civilized world and the inquiries to which the gendarmes had to submit, calmed the waters, until in November, feeling pressure that I will recount in detail in the series of novels by Marco Saint-André, I traveled back to Bucaramanga, my native city.

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