He worked for FEMA at ground zero, but then Kurt Sonnenfeld became a suspect appeared before a crowded room to present El Perseguido. Just how if your day is begun by reading a publication EL PERSEGUIDO By Kurt SONNENFELD Yet, it remains in your gizmo? Everyone will consistently touch. Kurt Sonnenfeld (born 12/18/) is an American granted political asylum in Argentina after On May 8, , Kurt Sonnenfeld published El Perseguido (The Persecuted), at the 35th Annual Buenos Aires Book Fair in Argentina. In the book .
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Therein, Sonnenfeld tells the history of his persecution at the hands of U. You are all exemplars of courage and the fight for justice. There has never been an independent commission officially assigned to investigate the horrible events that occurred on September 11,although independent commissions for tragedies of this magnitude are customary.
Sonnfnfeld the beginning, the investigation into the attacks sonnnenfeld the World Trade Center has been tightly controlled directly from the White House. And now almost all of the evidence has been destroyed.
Does anyone believe the official version offered as to what happened on September 11, ? There are many who say that the wildest conspiracy theory of all is the theory offered by the United States Government.
Kurt Sonnenfeld: an inconvenient 9/11 witness, by Gaia Edwards
Do you know that in the weeks leading up to the attacks there were several unusual evacuations of both towers? Do you know that the same security company also lists as government clients “the U.
Do you know that hundreds of government personnel were pre-positioned in New York City on September 10, preparing to do a large scale simulation of a terrorist attack to be carried out on September 12? It took only about 6.
The collapse of Building Seven left a curiously small and tidy rubble pile, and the buildings to either side of it were relatively undamaged. It had not been hit by an airplane and had suffered only minor injuries to its structure when the Twin Towers collapsed. Other federal agencies had offices there as well.
After September 11, it was discovered that concealed within Building Seven was the largest clandestine domestic station of the Central Intelligence Agency outside of Washington DC, a base of operations from which to spy on diplomats of the United Nations and to conduct counterterrorism and counterintelligence missions.
But there had not yet been justification strong enough to invade. Not until September 11, The attacks on the World Trade Center gave them the justification they had been seeking.
But the first casualty of all war is the truth. The reasons given for attacking Iraq were knowingly fraudulent. Intelligence documents that had been submitted as evidence were deliberately fabricated. There were no Weapons of Mass Destruction and there were no links to al Qaeda. We all know that the U. International law was violated. Again the media was manipulated, and some willingly played the role of accomplice. US news crews signed contracts with the military that limited what they were allowed to report, and a few reporters were even paid by the government to write stories favorable to the administration.
My book is not about conspiracy theories, but I do offer my theory. And my theory is that there was a conspiracy and I approach the subject from my point of view and experience. But mostly it is about the bizarre events that have happened and are still happening to me after my tour of duty at Ground Zero. I was at the world Trade Center. I was part of the official investigation.
Previously I had been an official videographer for the US government in critical or catastrophic situations. Immediately after the attacks on the World Trade Center, the entire area in lower Manhattan was sealed off to the public and to the news media.
But I never handed my tapes over to the authorities. Since then, over the course of the past seven years, I have been falsely accused, imprisoned twice in two different countries, tortured, put in solitary confinement, followed across two continents and slandered relentlessly in a campaign to dehumanize me so that no one will protest and to discredit me so that when I talk, no one will listen. Four years ago, the US embassy sent a note to Argentine officials to confiscate all of my possessions and documents and to remit them to the United States.
To this day, my wife, my twin daughters and I live in a closed world surrounded by threat and harassment. Saddam himself was nearly decapitated, too. When he was hanged in front of a mocking crowd, his vertebrae shattered and ripped a large wound through the side of his neck. But still the fighting continues. The region is more destabilized and resentments are strong. And hundreds of thousands of people have died in a war justified by lies and by fraud. More deaths and more lies are sure to follow.
Recently I saw photos, posted on-line by a German magazine, of an Iraqi boy only about three or four years old. He had been burned so badly by a phosphorous bomb that his skin had melted away.
You could see the white bones of his ribs, and he had no fingers, no lips, no eyelids. Almost none, if any, of the casualties were. They were babies, mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers, sisters and brothers, too. People who care and people who cry.
9/11 FEMA videographer at Ground Zero goes public
What is the cost of a war? Who pays and who gains? War is expensive, but the money has to go somewhere. War is very profitable for the very few. And somehow their sons always end up in Washington DC, making the decisions and writing the budgets, while the sons of the poor and the poorly connected always end up on the enemy lines, taking their orders and fighting their battles.
Many people have the hope that this will all end with the current administration. The legacies live on. I have Scarlett and Natasha, too.
And as unlikely as it once seemed to me, I have hopes, too. But its strange how memories keep sneaking up behind me, tapping on my consciousness and re-introducing themselves like some old forgotten friend. Sometimes when I walk past a fountain or a pond, I recall my father taking me to the lake when I was a child, throwing me high up into the air so I could splash down into the water. And after I grew up, going fishing with him at the same lake.
And when the sky of the late afternoon is particularly golden, I recall my mother and I driving in the mountains, just the two of us, stopping to pick up garbage along the highway. When the wind blows, I think of riding fast on motorcycles with my brother.
And when I listen to music, sometimes I remember all the long talks I used to have with my sister while she played her favorite records. And I always think about Mark, patiently teaching me the small details of television production or the big generalities of philosophy and religion. How I miss the people I might never see again. Sometimes I ache for them! And how I miss the mountains!
The smell of lavender in the summer, the smell of snow in the winter, the smell of pine logs burning in fireplaces all year long. The producer, Miguel, wanted a documentary portrayal of what life was like for them as they searched the streets at night for discarded recyclables to sell. It was almost midnight when we climbed into the back of their big communal truck to ride along with them to their homes in the villa, and everyone was in a good mood.
As we bounced along through the city, balanced haphazardly atop the mountain of cartons they had collected, we interviewed a precocious teenage boy. More accurately, we just let him talk and recorded it all on tape. But then he began to ask about me. What was I doing there? Why was an American working as a cameraman for an Argentinean television show? How did that happen? They were good questions, and I tried to answer them. But the camera was rolling, my Vari-Lite was burning, and our story was about his life and not mine.
And so to keep it brief, Miguel told the boy that I had once stepped into a time machine and traveled back in time.
And when I returned to the present, everything was different. I sonnenfelv that was a better explanation than I could have ever offered. Paula was talking on the cell phone. Scarlett was busily occupied sonnenfelf sugar packets and napkins and Natasha was immersed in drawing pictures with her finger in a little pool of water on the table. I just sat there, thinking, my arms folded across my chest, and watched through the window at the busy hustle on the street and the people as they walked by.
I looked at their eyes and tried to imagine what was their experience of life. Here is a businessman hurrying by. And there a doctor. And there, persegujdo a lawyer. A delivery boy, an engineer, a secretary, a waiter.
On the corner was a shoe shiner. On the curb a drunk. By God, by nature, by man, or by circumstance. What triumphs had catapulted them to their heights? What tragedies had knocked them to their depths?
El Perseguido – Cold Cases
And what surprises lay in wait to change their direction completely? We can never have that solace. Fundamentally, we are all terrified. We all decay and die, despite the illusions we sonnenfelx for ourselves.