South Africa fifty years ago

Mr. Mandela was in a prison run by the decedents of the white European settlers, who brought their own laws with them. The problem was there had never been peace among the tribes, and now the white people in power where jailing the tribesmen for fighting (or warring) and that was taking the strong young men out of their families and their tribes and others had to make up for the chores, etc. that had been their responsibilities. This is a recently surfaced memory of a time that ended up with me brutally beaten and savagely raped by the white guards at the prison; and hospitalized for 3 weeks, so I think I may never remember it all clearly.
Mr. Mandela was in solitary confinement, he could interact with the guards but not the other prisoners. He wasn’t confined to his cell for parts of the day. He said he didn’t know what to do about the situation with tribes other than his own. He thought some of the white laws were good laws but felt people like him, he rubbed his forearm to show his color, should have a say in what happens to them. I agreed. (I should say most people rubbed their fingers on their forearm to signify black or white, I don’t actually remember anyone using words for skin color, just “like me” or, “not like me,” or “like you.”)
Since I was white the guards and others told me they can’t allow the indigenous black people to vote or become part of their society because they were “savages” and warring all the time.
Uniting the tribes was Mr. Mandela’s dream. I noticed the men sang as they worked, so I decided to unite the tribes with a song. There were three tribes represented at the prison. The Zulus were considered the best warriors. They were larger and darker than the other tribes. I noticed all three tribes sang their own version of the same song. I could hear the similar sounding words. They almost sounded like harmonies. So I pointed it out to some of the men and got a few together to see if they could make the songs mesh somehow. So, under the heading of choir mistress, I gathered more and more men and told them what the white guards and others told me, that as long as they were warring, they would not get the vote, which was something Mr. Mandela thought was important. We all struck up a working relationship, something that had never happened among the tribes.
I was told I could only talk to the prisoners if I was giving them commands, so I figured out ways to get messages to the men who I thought would be influential to making peace.
Someone said some dignitaries, officials and their wives were going to visit the prison and someone else knew where we could get a piano. I told the guards we wanted to put on a concert for the dignitaries. I wrote a song about fear and frustration, almost the same as the song depicting my visit, in the movie, The Power of One. Of course Hollywood made me a boy, a girl couldn’t do the things I did. Yeah, right. The boy who played me had my attitude and gestures down pretty well.
Morgan Freeman’s character was the Zulu chief, in real life. That real man was twice Morgan’s size and he was much darker. The rules in the prison were cruel, like I had to call a man – boy. If prisoners spoke to me first they got hit by a guard, and I couldn’t object.
The night of the concert I was talking to one of my singers, Gino, and a guard said, “I’ll have to teach you a lesson,” so I left to conduct the concert, thinking he’d be slapped or punched or poked in the ribs with the nightstick. After I took off, the guard clubbed Gino, and split his skull. I realized something was wrong when Gino didn’t show up for the show, so as soon as the show was over, I ran back to where I left him and found him on the ground in a pool of blood, so I propped him up against a tree to try to stop the bleeding. I ran to get him water and as I was tending to Gino a guard pulled me away from the “savage.” So I got up, pulled away from the guard and yelled, “He’s not the savage. You are. Look what you did to him. He has a voice like an Angel.” Bad idea. I think I cried rape, because as I was being beaten and raped some of my friends from the choir came running. I said, “Father forgive them for they know not what they do.” A few of the white guards left me alone when I said that. My choir friends saved me.
I think they thought I was dead because I was thrown in the back of a pick up. I was taken to the hospital. Bits of my skull and scalp were coming off, I could hardly breathe and I couldn’t see.
The hospital kept me asleep for about 20 hours a day for the first week or two. I had a room right up front because the wives and sisters of the inmates were coming to visit so they could bring news of my recovery to the prison when they visited. Some of the hospital staff complained because it was an all white hospital. I told the women why it was important to settle things peacefully between the tribes. I said they should set up a system of negotiation while their men were in jail. I said women are better at that type of thing, anyway, and there would be no reason to change their system when the men got out of jail. I could see the extent of my wounds in the faces of my visitors. When my black visitors could talk to me without crying I knew I must be looking better.
The hospital personnel didn’t know what to make of it. They didn’t come in my room when I had black visitors. The Press came the second week and I told them I was helping a dying inmate who had been brutalized by the white guard for talking to me, when I was attacked by the white guards. I talked a little about the abuses the guards heaped on men who had been warriors. I said I thought it was unnecessary and degrading. I made sure everyone knew the black men came running to help me, and the white guards did this to me for helping an inmate.
In fairness, it irritated the white guards all along that I was doing anything at all to help the prisoners and to try to raise the consciousness of the people who dealt with the tribes. These were clearly people raised with rules that suited their society. The rules were different, but not wrong. The most evil people, I have found, judge others using criteria someone else taught them. Our values are often handed down from our extended family and from the society we’re accustomed to. It doesn’t mean our values are right and their values are wrong. It seemed to me the men who were tribal leaders had, at one time, questioned the logic of settling things with war, but that was how they were taught to settle things, so that’s what they did. Now that the Germans were taking over, they wouldn’t tolerate wars all the time and their solution was to jail the warriors – also wrong. So there was wrong doing on all sides, and the worst thing was that the German and English settlers did was teach their children that dark skinned people weren’t human, or deserved to be poor, or were born to serve white people. I found the black tribal prisoners to be more human and humane, giving, caring, and sharing than the white people I came in contact with. No one paid attention because they were taught not to.
While I was working at the prison I took up invitations to visit the cities that sprang up around the white settlements. It seemed to me everyone was trying to make the most of thier situation.
My compassion for my fellow man, no matter what color he is, was wrong in the eyes of the guards. They made fun of me every chance they got, so when the beating began the night of the concert, there was a lot of pent up frustration – they were teaching me a lesson; one I never learned.

Also, I should say that concert was wonderful. The songs were so melodious and rich, and the voices were resonate and strong. Having an audience made the men sing even better than I had ever heard them. There was an excitement and pride that was shared by the three tribes. It was glorious and moving. It put humanity in these people who were being exploited and I could see and feel minds being changed. Many in the audience were moved to tears.
The press had been told I was beaten during a prison riot started by the inmates, but the corrections that were printed included reports about the prison, so a lot of good came out of it. Eventually the police and even the government talked to me. I may have been asked not to return to South Africa.
By treating everyone as equals I was able to negotiate a lasting peace between the tribes. The arbitration system set up by the women worked. 15 years later the indigenous people got the vote.
Nelson Mandela wanted to see me before I went home. He was deeply troubled I had been so savagely raped, because, he said, “You were a virgin, right?” I was in my early teens. I leaned forward and said, “I still am. That was rape. Rape isn’t sex.” I smiled. He cried.

Mr. Mandela said the US was in for racial turmoil. I think he foresaw the young black teenagers being killed by police that’s happening now as a signal to white supremacists they can get away with murder in those cities. He said it would happen when I was older. He said the US was lucky to have me. Of course, the moocs saw to it that nothing worked out for me. They keep me alone and they make everything so hard for me it seems impossible. My prison without walls has become more and more difficult to negotiate over the years. Mandela could see that, too, but didn’t know what to do about it.
Nelson Mandela said he was going to be President of South Africa, and thanked me for making it possible to lobby for the black vote and to end apartheid. He was a kind and extraordinary man. Nelson became President in 1994. People like Nelson Mandela make this world a better place.
I wonder if the concert was recorded? I would love to hear it again.
The US has no right to keep me prisoner for being a good person. Freedom and justice for all? Just not for those of us who fight for freedom.
You can watch The Power of One for the basic story of the prison. Of course, I wasn’t a boy and I didn’t live in South Africa, I was just a visitor for a summer. I think my parents thought I was at camp.

About Grace Gardener

Here’s my dilemma. I’m being abused by the NSA. My rights as a US citizen are nonexistent. My right to privacy is long gone. They have put a homing device and a microphone in my stomach, supposedly attached to my spine so there will be bone conduction. I have an X-ray picture of it. I was told if I take it out I will be killed. I doubt it, but still, it’s not a good feeling. If I go to the ACLU to complain, my phone call will be intercepted and my meeting will be recorded. If I confide in a friend about what’s happening to me, she’ll be killed.
The NSA has brainwashed my daughters into not trusting me. They’ve been working on torturing them every week for the past 15 years. When I left in my RV they loved and trusted me, but now that I haven’t seen them in so long that now they’re afraid of me. When I was there, living with or near them, even though they were being tortured to hate me (that’s true), once they saw me again they were fine. But I can’t even call them. I know most of my calls are diverted, and I know when they try to answer, that’s diverted, too. But I don’t try hard and I can’t talk to them about anything meaningful because I know they’ll be tortured for many hours. And then they’ll be tortured, drugged and electrocuted to forget and when I talk to them again they’ll say, “It never happened.”
NSA Agents are doing the same thing to George Lucas. I was told no one really wants to hurt George, but they “have to.” But they think he’s a nice guy so they feel badly about it. Well that’s something, I guess. But the Government and other cults should not have round-the-clock accessibility to agents who are trained killers and have had their free will taken away through torture and electroshock. The best agents have had their personality split, so one personality takes over to carry out “orders” while the original personality watches helplessly. There’s a better way to run the military, and I was about to get through to put forth my ideas when the order came through to kill the three Generals who wanted to listen to me: and to kill six special agents who had been listening to me.
I listen to these guys and I wonder if they have any feelings at all? I know they do even though they’re not “allowed to.” They’re not “allowed to” complain, either, under fear of death. If they try to retire, they’re not de-programmed, they are killed!
I watched the Clint Eastwood movie American Sniper about Chris Kyle and I’m sure I commented on it a lot, but my readership has grown significantly and I know I’m monitored and it’s the guys doing the monitoring, who I’m trying to help. Even tough guys need a little help sometimes.
I wonder if the death of Cris Kyle, played by Bradley Cooper, was planned the way it was to get me to say something about it. Everyone in the NSA knows what happened. Chris was killed because he got out. Tragically, Chris seemed to be capable of healing himself with the help of his family and still he was murdered. The man who murdered him was under orders. True! I have many, many confirmations on that statement.
The judge sentenced Eddie Ray Routh, Chris’s murderer, to life in prison without parole.
The movie writeup says – “U.S. Navy SEAL Chris Kyle (Bradley Cooper) takes his sole mission — protect his comrades — to heart and becomes one of the most lethal snipers in American history. His pinpoint accuracy not only saves countless lives.”
Back to my dilemma, I can’t get in touch with anyone for fear they will be tortured or killed.
You think, “I thought the US didn’t torture?” Well we do. My daughters and I are born and raised here. We are good people, we’re exceptionally good people and the NSA has a HUGE problem with that. The people who give the orders want war and we want peace, and they’re making us the bad guys?
The only emails that get through to me are business and junk. Supposedly I get comments on my website that don’t come through, and I have to wonder if our military goes around killing anyone who tries to contact me?
My phone rings all the time but not here. This was true when I was in NJ, too. Nobody got through to me. The call is sent elsewhere and other people pick it up pretending to be me and the women pretending to be me are nasty bitches. If I call someone and straighten something out, I find out later that the conversation never happened, I was really talking to someone in the NSA, and I have to get back to square one. Most times things are so impossible, I give up.
I escaped my ex-husbands satanic cult only to find myself embroiled in the government’s cult. A much thicker, stickier web. They have kept my money from me so I can’t even get an apartment. That’s stealing, but they’re the military so nothing is illegal, not murder or theft.
I feel if I call someone for help he or she will be killed or badly hurt. Just being my friend or talking to me can get you sick with cancer or dead.

I think people who I have helped, or who have asked to help me, need to go to the press to tell them what a pickle I’m in . There are many people who have offered to help me over the years. Many have been killed. I don’t understand how a kid in a uniform can break into Steve Jobs’ house and inject his brain with liquid smoke, or some other carcinogen: and if he questions those orders his buddy will be told to kill him. They have to kill each other all the time. It’s so f_ked up I can’t stand it. Neither can the Agents.
They don’t realize that “under orders” is meaningless. If they’re caught they’ll be tried for murder.
Steve Jobs was a great man. No one, no politician, and no officer, has the right to murder any citizen, especially one who makes this country proud.

If you know someone in the NSA it’s your responsibility to let your congressman know what this country is doing to him. They’re being treated barbarically.
If you know my daughters please call them to lend an ear, because their memories are being erased in an attempt to make them cold and heartless and they’re suffering. Their memories are being erased and replaced with more horrible lies, and their ability to reason is gone. They used to be the smartest women on the planet.
If you know George Lucas do the same. The man we were both speaking with, who George considers a friend, ordered some horrific things done to George. They are trying to change his personality so he won’t like me, or so I won’t like him, like that could ever happen, but in the meantime his health and his mind will be suffering. Listening to him will be helpful. He also has a homing device and a microphone planted in him. His whole house is wired because he knows me.
If you’re a parent whose kid wants to join special forces let him know what he’ll be joining. I had someone with me get killed because he couldn’t kill his friend. I’m serious.
Watch the Manchurian Candidate, especially the part where people are being murdered, but the men see themselves at a flower show. That’s what it’s like. A Clock Work Orange shows how it’s done. And Mel Gibson’s Conspiracy Theory shows the aftermath. NSA guys read my books and my blog because I may be the only friend you’ve got.
I’d love to be able to take suggestions. I know I have to get all lawyered up, I’d like to sue the government for defamation of character and theft. That’s something I used to be able to do, but I’m powerless now.
What you can do.
God changed my name to Grace. I changed it legally in 2007. My slave name was Lynn. I was born Lynn Pezzutti, then I married Jay McDermott and I became Lynn McDermott, then I married Peter Mickelsen (now deceased) and became Lynn Mickelsen. Most of my friends in the entertainment industry think I’m Lynn Mickelsen.
So now I’m Grace Gardener, and while I’m not a slave, I’m a prisoner of the state.
If you’re a lawyer, see if you can get something going. I was thinking Amal Clooney could be very helpful.
If you know someone in the ACLU ask them to read this blog.
If you’re in my family, Doherty, Murray, Sullivan or Kelly and remember me from my Anti-War days and establishing Earth Day maybe there’s something you want to do.
Let the NY Times know I’d like this published as a letter to the Editor. Publish first, contact later.
Send a copy or link to your News.
Good Luck,
God Bless you.
Rise Up!
Think Peace.

THE NSA AND THE MOOCS WON’T LET ANYONE GET THROUGH TO ME. THEY MAY EVEN HURT YOU IF YOU TRY. See the pages in the tabs of this blog, Grace Gardener, and, A Little About Lynn Mickelsen. If you know me and I don’t get back to you, then the email was intercepted. Never talk to anyone claiming to be me without asking questions to be sure. All site posts beginning 4/1/16 will be on Grace-Gardener.org. I’m not doing this for attention. I have 107 broken bones, zero disks in my back, and I’m exhausted. I need to get through to the people who knew me for credibility: but the NSA blocks my every move. I have to have the same acknowledgement and respect for my judgement I had while I was a ghost director in Hollywood and when I was CEO of the Rand Corp. Rand has been able to keep my work anonymous and credited to other people so they can collect my pay and residuals. They figured as long as they’re erasing my memory, and taking credit for my inventions, music, acting and directing; they may as well keep the money I earned. Also, the money would be proof that I did the work, so they’ve kept me poor all of my life.
The reason the conspirators made plans in front of me was because they were assured I would “Never Remember” them, their visit and the things they planned. They talked in a kind of code that I have since figured out. I would have turned them in after the meeting had I been allowed to remember.
I have to operate the way I do to keep away from my captors. GRR taught me most of the tactics I use. (Now he won’t help because his memory of me is implanted.) I know it angers some corrupt NSA Officers, but it’s a fact that I was a prisoner and slave at the Rand Corporation, and the NSA helped and still helps to keep me that way. I have to make evasive maneuvers to keep me, my daughters, this country and the world safe. Meanwhile I have no where to turn. I still feel like a candle in the wind.
https://youtu.be/uw6CIxD1pHo
My name was Lynn Mickelsen while I was a prisoner in a blue house and slave of a “club” based in northern New Jersey. If you know me PLEASE DON’T TRY TO CONTACT ME THROUGH THE RAND CORPORATION OR ANY OF MY FORMER EMPLOYERS OR ANY CONTACT FROM MORE THAN 9 YEARS AGO. People who tried doing this are being killed. Some people know the cult know it with a name similar to The Builder Berg Society or the Skull and Dagger Society.
There’s a HUGE bounty on my head that the cult I escaped from has no intention of paying. The plan is to have me killed and then to kill the person trying to collect the bounty. I thought up the plan and the amount because I thought it was going to be the plot in a movie. I told the people who wanted the plan, “This is one movie no one will want to see.” In short, anyone who kills me will be killed within 24 hours and will never see a dime.
Now I’m RVing but I’m still a prisoner in that I can’t get in touch with anyone, and no one can get in touch with me, except in person.
I found out about the other life I’d been living during a grueling five-hour conversation I detail in my Book, ‘the Conversation’ The reason I knew nothing about my own life was because I suffered selective amnesia – induced by the cult that owned me – with drugs, torture and electricity. ‘The Conversation’ is available in paperback at Blurb.com. The ebook is free.
I worked nights and weekends naming products, bands and internet services, or anything else the “club” wanted me to do. I would wake up in the morning and remember nothing about the work and meetings, and I never received ANY money. I could only remember my 9 – 5 job at a bank. I’ve written the eBook, ‘Garden of the Light,’ as a lighter, inspirational compliment to the eBooks – ‘the Conversation,’ and, ‘the Truth about Lynn Mickelsen’ which are intended to shed new, totally different light on the current world situation and change the world for the better. Apocalypse is a Greek word meaning, ‘the Revealing of Ancient Knowledge.’ I consider the book, ‘the Conversation,’ as Apocalypse because it reveals the ancient knowledge. We’ll have World Peace once we abolish child abuse. My view of Apocalypse has no battle, no war, no army. I believe the knowledge in ‘the Conversation’ is enough to save the world.
The blog grace-gardener.org lists just some of the accomplishments I achieved as a slave, to let everyone I’ve helped over the past sixty years, who I am. I will finally claim my life!
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/380321
If you’re a George Lucas fan you may remember some of these strange stories that involve him.
I met George on the set of American Graffiti; we got engaged when the movie wrapped. I was taken away and George was told I was dead.
Five years later I was hired to figure out how to make Luke Skywalker’s farm vehicle fly. The people who handled me (owned me) forgot that I had worked for this director once before on American Graffiti and they told him I was dead. I arrived and solved Lucas’s problem for him and he tearfully remembered me and told me what had happened five years before. I stayed on the set of Star Wars long enough to name the Star Wars characters and solve another animatronics problem with Chewy’s costume. I was told it was time to leave and started to follow my jailers the way I had been programmed to, when George asked, “When will I see you again?”
I began to say, “Oh, you’ll see me again,” but I realized I wasn’t certain of that because once before, when we got engaged, I never saw him again. So I turned around and started walking back toward Lucas and I asked, “How about now? Can I stay with you now? Because I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again.”
George thought a second and agreed that I should stay. As I was walking back to him I saw his expression change and looked over my shoulder to see the man I had been following holding a gun on me. I kept walking because now I was sure that the story Lucas had told me about what happened five years ago, was going to happen again and I couldn’t allow that. Someone had obviously been playing with my life, and I couldn’t have that, so I kept walking toward Lucas and away from the man with the gun. Lucas’s expression changed again, this time his face was filled with fear and horror. I turned around and now there were three men holding guns on George Lucas. There was only about 20 feet of desert between us but I had to go with them in order to save Lucas’s life.
So, if you’re a fan of George Lucas you may remember someone being stolen off the Star Wars set at gunpoint. That was me.
Years later I was abducted and stolen from the Academy Awards. You may remember that incident – that was me.
Years later I was abducted and stolen from the Elton John’s post Oscar Party that benefits his AIDs foundation. You may remember that incident – that was me.
Years later Harrison Ford and George Lucas devised a plan to steal me off of the set of The Fugitive. This time I was shot with a coma drug. They used a hypodermic needle that went through my coat and slacks and into my thigh. Two bogus ambulance men came in a stolen ambulance and took me away.
The only other time I saw George face to face was during the making of Howard the Duck. George Lucas and Steven Spielberg made that ridiculous movie to try to rescue me again, in case you were wondering why they made that movie. I was supposed to see Lucas again on a set of Indiana Jones but this time it was George who was drugged and abducted. This makes 8 times George Lucas tried to rescue me.
I’ve spoken with Lucas on the phone only a few times over the past 40 years, and those phone calls and the conversations we had while shooting American Graffiti, are what makes up Yoda’s philosophies and Star Wars 7 – the Force Awakens.
The reason the people who owned me don’t allow George and I to get together is because they don’t want World Peace. War makes them rich. The greed of a handful of people keep the word in the turmoil it’s in.
The people in the entertainment industry know me as the woman with no memory and no name.
If you want to know more about me, check out my blog www.grace-gardener.org; or read my free ebooks the Truth about Lynn Mickelsen, and, the Conversation.
I‘m still trying to walk those 20 feet.

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