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There is no other way to put it. I am completely, unquestionably, one hundred percent fucked.
This non-fiction story is part of a series documenting my ongoing (mis)adventures. You can find previous installments on my Substack homepage. To receive weekly updates in your inbox, subscribe.
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Previously: In the last issue, I recounted my first few MMA classes, the mental benefits of martial arts for assault victims, and yes, the price of gouging an eye.
This issue starts here.
I arrive at location M* in the middle of the night. The place seems underwhelming.
A number of developments in my first week here.
I discover that one of my Apple IDs has been hacked. The hacking happened on the very day I was protesting in Canberra. The hacker changed my password and locked me out of the account. I go into panic mode and switch off location services on all of my devices. Then I become unsure, whether “Find my iPhone” was enabled on any of my devices associated with this Apple ID. In other words, it is possible the Chinese government has already traced me to my new location.
My point of contact at the Australian Federal Police sends me a message, letting me know that “this current line of communication with the AFP will now cease”. Briefly I wonder if this is because of a news article from June 15, 2024:
I text Drew, asking if the police cut him off, too.
No, he said.
The only other factor that changed, that I am aware of, is a tweet of mine. The day before the “ceasing-contact” message, I tweeted “@AusFedPolice you guys suck”, which was a comment on the police assault. (I was assaulted by Australian police during a protest in Canberra, you can read about it here if you haven’t already).
So the police cut me off because I said they suck, I conclude. I seem to always bring out pettiness out of people, or institutions. Is it because I myself am a petty individual?
During a Senate hearing in Australia, the case of myself and Drew being pursued by the Chinese state on Australian soil comes up. Senator James Paterson directs questions at AFP’s Assistant Commissioner Krissy Barrett, a blonde, serious-looking woman. She looks sensible, plausibly nice, and nervous.
AFP’s investigation into the foreign interference plot is still active, she says, and that the agency is "pursuing every avenue."
"We are very proactive in engaging with those people who are potential targets of violence in relation to this investigation," she says.
VIOLENCE. That is new information to me.
When Drew and I were first briefed about the case, back in August 2023, I was told that a foreign interference plot concerning me was disrupted; and the foreign agents were looking for my address. Drew was told the same, plus the fact that the foreign spies were raided. Neither of us were told that we were potential targets of VIOLENCE.
Barrett continues: "We did allocate a liaison officer to each of those potential victims, so that they had a point of contact directly into the AFP that could support them in a system through the investigation, and that continues."
As she utters this very sentence in the sanctity of the Senate, my line has recently been severed.
Kai* shows up at a friend’s. He has been in a traffic accident and lost his phone, allegedly. A reasonable number of days pass and he must have retrieved his phone or gotten a new one. I don’t hear from him still. His last word to me was “no,” when I asked him to hook me up with his scary-looking friends in Melbourne.
In summary, within one week, I find out that the man who I thought could potentially be “my man”, or “my dead man” – is alive, but bailed, ghosted. My previous assumption that the CCP only wants to surveil and harass me and drive me insane, was false. I was, or have been, a target of VIOLENCE. It is possible that the CCP has already located my current address. Meanwhile, I’ve been cut off by the one official entity that has been providing me with security advice and guidance, the Australian police. In other words, I am completely, unquestionably, one hundred percent fucked.
The obvious solution is to pack up and go to the airport. But I have just unpacked. Still jet lagged, I’m not about to drag my suitcases and go through customs again for the fourth time in one month. Besides, while the surroundings in M* are underwhelming, the gym isn’t.
It is a shame that I don’t have the freedom to describe in what ways M* is underwhelming. Is it the food? The culture? The religion? The people? The weather? The infrastructure? The scenery? The history? Could be any or all of the above.
So I decide to live with the known risk that CCP men could show up any minute now. I accept that the end may be drawing near. Even though I’ve faced this reality several times in my life, it never gets any easier.
I start drafting a will. This is not my first rodeo. Over the years I’ve drafted several versions, each one being more specific than the last.
The latest version can be summarized as follows:
If I die or disappear or become imprisoned, my agent is authorized to sell my words and the story of my life, pending sign-off from so and so (trusted, sensible friends). I want the proceeds to go to my family and friends, and anything that remains should go to a charity that helps educate underprivileged children from authoritarian countries or regions.
In my death I no longer wish to fight the regimes. I just want to save the children – after my own family and friends.
My agent asks whether I want to add an instruction for the scenario where I become imprisoned – I’d need funds for my own care in prison. Good point.
A friend with a law degree says I’d have to at least separate the scenarios where I’m dead and where I’m imprisoned into two documents.
My good friend Gabe offers to pay for a lawyer to make the documents legally binding.
I decide to leave the documents on the back-burner and focus on training for the time being. What's the point of trying to think while under the influence of overwhelming, unprocessed emotions? What good decisions could I possibly make? My priority should be to expedite the impact-absorbing process through rigorous body-movements, and once my nervous system calms down, I’d be able to think and plan and strategize more efficiently. This is my life hack.
So I spend entire days at the gym, punching, kicking, wrestling, throwing. This go on for a few days, then in one Muay Thai class, when we are warming up with shadow boxing, I catch myself thinking again.
I’m not supposed to think. Thinking is for later.
I’m thinking about the usual: that a superpower wants to get rid of me, and I am alone in a foreign place, among unfamiliar faces who’d gasp at the amount of injustice I’ve had to endure. That my punching and kicking, at the end of the day, are a joke compared to what’s in the arsenal of the superpower. That my whole life is a big fat joke, and I am powerless, helpless, absolutely defenseless.
Picture this: a dozen, maybe two, individuals in gym shorts and hand wraps filling a [size redacted] room. They’re throwing punches, kicks, elbows, and knees into the air, shuffling, pivoting, and dodging attacks from invisible opponents. They glide from one side of the room to the other, spinning around as if battling enemies from every direction. The sun is setting. Sweaty faces glisten gold. And then there’s me. I can barely keep my guard up – meaning, placing my forearms near my face to protect it in boxing. Halfway through a jab, my hand collapses to my side. My posture collapses. My whole being is collapsed. I stand still, making eye contact with myself in the mirror, and sigh. A coach walks over and orders me to wake up.
I’m paired with a jacked white woman for this class. I make the mistake of asking for her name. She introduces herself with an Australian accent.
Are you Australian? I ask.
Yeah, from Cairns.
Cool, I’m Australian too! I chirp, and immediately start thinking about how I’ve been assaulted and then dumped by the Australian police.
I’m about to cry.
It becomes obvious that I am crying.
I cry on and off the entire class.
The woman tells me to let it all out.
We’re drilling now. I hold pads for her. She kicks like she hates me. Even with the cushioning of the pad, I know my quads are going to turn purple tomorrow. In some perverse way, however, I’m grateful to the pain. I think It’s always good to match internal and external pain, or chaos, so the body stays balanced and the mind centered.
I am not encouraging self-harm, to be clear.
A couple years ago, when I first learned how to ride a bicycle, I practiced on a busy road that was way too dangerous for beginners. Accidents were had, nothing too serious. More importantly, I was fascinated by the soothing effect of the rides to my mind. Whenever I received shocking or upsetting news (there were a lot of those that year) and couldn’t stop fixating on the worst possible outcomes, I would go for a bike ride. Before the ride, the bad news would feel like the biggest threat to my well-being. But once I was surrounded by the chaos of traffic and the immediate danger of being hit, the news wasn’t even on my mind anymore. After the ride, I would have learned that the news was at best the second most shocking thing of the day, or even the hour, and thereby gain perspective.
Now I use fights to regulate my mind. After sparring, the emotional exhaustion is often so great that I feel compelled to return to logic and logic alone.
The Aussie woman kicks and kicks, and I cry and cry. At one point, a female trainer comes around offering me a hug. She’s freakishly strong and has a scary aura. I hear she was orphaned at a young age.
Stay tuned for more next week.
You're a good soldier in the wildly imbalanced war within the global nation-state caste system, Vicki. Please be careful.
And not in a good way