Authors: Sibel Edmonds
Classified Woman (18 page)
I
n May 2003, during the height of the publicity and intense media coverage on the formation of the 9/11 Commission to investigate all the facts and issues related to the terrorists’ attack, I decided to contact the commission and offer my report. I prepared a short letter to introduce myself with my request that I be interviewed. I sent the letter to the commission’s two offices in DC, and after many follow-ups, I was finally able to speak with the person in charge of scheduling witnesses to be interviewed.
After confirming that they had received my fax and letter, the woman told me that due to limited time, they would not be able to schedule an interview session for me.
I asked whether she wanted the names of special agents and language specialists who could provide them with extremely important information. She declined my offer and hung up without waiting for my response. I shrugged and gave up trying. I had become numb to our government’s indifference. I was already drowning in my own battle, and considering the colossal failure of the Congressional Joint Intelligence Inquiry to investigate, address and get to the bottom of 9/11, I decided to not bother pursuing the so-called commission.
The summer of 2003 went by fast. I had already given up on the Justice Department’s Inspector General’s report; they had gone a year beyond the promised delivery date and didn’t seem likely to release anything anytime soon. I had lost my FOIA case due to the government’s secrecy tactics, which included classifying even the
list
of items in their possession. Of more than 1,500 pages of documents on my case, the judge ordered the government to release about 200 pages, which consisted of several copies of my own attorneys’ letters to them and their written responses, several copies of each article printed in the media dealing with my case, and numerous copies of public letters sent by congressional members to the FBI and Justice Department.
As far as my primary court case went, with Walton as the presiding judge, I couldn’t see a single reason for optimism. In addition, I no longer had an attorney and I was on my own.
Meanwhile, I called and e-mailed any organization I could find that dealt with whistleblowers and First Amendment cases, those who claimed to be fighting excessive secrecy and executive branch abuses of power. I needed their support and expertise, yet in spite of the fact that my case embodied all these civil liberties, not a single organization lifted a finger to contact me, call me back, or offer any assistance. (While it was a hard blow and a tough pill to swallow at the time, this experience helped me a great deal a few years later, when I formed my own coalition, network and organization to deal with and help government whistleblowers.)
My relationship with my family had ceased to exist. For their own protection and security we had to cease all contacts until … well, no one could even begin to predict. Every minute of every day I felt the pang, void, and longing. There was a hole in me.
Matthew as well lost two of his closest friends after the “60 Minutes” piece aired, one of whom he’d known for fifty years. Mostly, we had been deserted by everyone we knew. We had to borrow to meet the payment schedule for my legal fees and were under terrific financial pressure. Up to this point, we seemed to have lost every battle; it felt as though every viable channel pursued had stalled, and that every door we’d knocked on, from Congress to the courts, had been slammed in our face.
During our 2003 Thanksgiving dinner, with only two of us at the table, I had only one thing to be thankful for: my husband had stood by me and taken every blow delivered with such vengeance by our so-called Justice Department, our premier “law enforcement” agency and most injudicious judiciary.
One Sunday afternoon in December, a week or so before Christmas in 2003, I received from an acquaintance an e-mail with a link to an article. The sender thought it would be of interest. She was right.
The article was a very thorough piece written by
New York Observer
reporter Gail Sheehy on the relentless time and energy spent by four 9/11 widows in New Jersey to pressure Congress and the 9/11 Commission to do what they should have been doing from the start: get out the facts and truth on the 9/11 attacks and our failures leading up to them; bring about accountability for those responsible (whether through criminal acts, intent or incompetence); and bring about real reform rather than the cosmetic fixes put in place since 9/11.
The story was effective and touching on many levels. Here were four housewives—young mothers, grieving widows—who had chosen to do something about injustice and fight against the powerful in Washington, instead of burying themselves in their grief and outrage.
According to the story, these women had taken on some powerful senators and congressmen. They opposed and successfully replaced as chairman of the 9/11 Commission the infamous Henry Kissinger. They were urging people with information to come forward and disclose it to the commissioners; the list went on. How impressive. I respected their courage, persistence and resolve; I applauded their style. I utterly agreed with their assessment of what had happened, what had to be known, and what needed to happen next. Above all, their story made me reconsider my previous decision not to pursue the 9/11 Commission after my brief, frustrating interaction with it.
I sat by the fire and reread the article several times. It made me feel more determined than ever to press on with my case. I wondered if they knew about the commissioners’ response and attitude toward people with relevant information. I wondered what their reaction would be to the cases and issues I had encountered in the bureau that dealt with 9/11.
I would contact them directly and find out. I brought the phone to the kitchen table and dialed 411. I started with the group’s leader, Kristen Breitweiser. The operator explained it was an unlisted number. I asked her to try a second name, Mindy Kleinberg, New Jersey. Yes, she had the number. I quickly wrote it down, hung up, and dialed again. I didn’t know where to start or how to introduce myself. Mindy picked up on the third ring.
I told her my name and apologized for calling her on a Sunday. Then I went on autopilot and gave her a summary of my experience with the 9/11 Commission, the type of information involved, and my background.
She sounded truly appalled by what the 9/11 Commissioner had said to me. She almost screamed, “These bastards! They promised us, they gave us their word, that they would not turn away a single source, witness or document. I cannot believe this!” To my relief she was appreciative and extremely knowledgeable on various intelligence issues, cases and incidents related to the FBI and 9/11.
“I need to contact the other three, Kristen, Lorie and Patty, right away,” she told me. “Will you be available later this afternoon? I would like to arrange for a conference call and have them ask you questions and hear what those bastards have done. Would that be okay?” Yes, surely. We exchanged our contact information and she said she would be in touch.
Two hours later, I had a conference call with Kristen, Lorie and Mindy. Mindy asked me to repeat to the others what I had told her earlier. They reacted in the same way: they found it inexcusable. “What you told us is in line with other calls and reports we’ve received from various former and current intelligence and law enforcement employees,” Lorie said. We’ve had people from the CIA, FBI, FAA—you name it—contacting us and basically telling us of similar experiences with this commission.”
Kristen, the leader, got straight to the point. “We need to bring public attention to this. Of course, that’s assuming we’ll get the goddamn main media’s attention; so far they’ve been
disastrous
. Before that, we need to gather all those who have gone through an experience similar to Sibel’s and drag them with us into the commissioners’ office—and let them refuse to interview them if they dare!”
They wanted to know about the details. Most of those I could not discuss, due to classification. They asked for names of other witnesses related to my case; I preferred not to discuss them over the phone, especially after Sarshar had confirmed that mine was tapped.
Kristen suggested we meet right away.
We decided on the following Friday at two at the Hyatt Hotel in downtown Baltimore.
That evening I faxed them the letters and e-mail I had sent to the 9/11 Commission as well as the dates of the follow-up calls to their offices. I told Matthew about the conversation and our plan to meet. He thought it was a very good idea. I began to feel re-energized. I was glad I had made the decision to contact the Jersey Moms. I knew I couldn’t have done that if I were still represented by attorneys.
In this instance, I had to use my own judgment and common sense; to make a decision based on what I knew directly and perceived to be the case with the other party and
just go with it
. This is how I had lived my life before. From the day I began working for the bureau until a few months earlier, when abandoned by my attorneys, I had lived and acted according to restrictions and nonsensical rules and regulations imposed by the FBI, the Inspector General, Congress, my attorneys … there seemed to be more and more of them, shutting me down. As of this day, after talking with the Jersey Moms, I began a new stage in my battle—not just my own but in others’ too that soon I would end up joining. This was a beginning, another new stage; in some ways, another turning point.
That Friday I arrived at the hotel early. Around fifteen minutes past the appointed hour, I noticed two women walking toward me: Mindy and Kristen. While each was rather different, both had certain features in common: deep and very dark wells under their eyes and facial lines that screamed exhaustion. That made three of us. The hollows under my eyes seemed to have become permanent. I liked these women right away; I sensed a kinship in our fighting a no-win war: Davids against Goliath.
We hugged each other and sat. I spoke for almost an hour, telling them all I could. They listened almost without blinking, took in everything I said, and stopped me to ask detailed questions.
Afterwards we talked about other potential witnesses who had either been turned away or were too afraid to have even contacted the commission. They asked me if I would be willing to join the fight to bring these cases to light. I told them, “Absolutely.”
They asked whether I could get Sarshar to go to the commissioners. I would. They thought I had a better chance of getting in touch with former law enforcement and intelligence people, other whistleblowers. I agreed. We had about six months before the commissioners’ so-called investigation came to an end. We needed to get as many people to come forward as possible. That was our plan.
After New Year’s I contacted Sarshar. I had not heard from him since the previous January, when he had called to say that he had reported the case to the DOJ-IG in writing and had not heard back. He had been given the option of voluntary early retirement. He was thinking about it. His wife was not supportive of his taking a stand. She wanted him to walk away. Thinking of my mother—as well as most everybody else—I knew just how he felt.
I told him briefly about my meeting with the Jersey Moms. I asked him to contact the 9/11 Commission and ask to be interviewed. He knew a great deal.
He laughed. “Sibel, I contacted them last June. I wrote to them. They said they didn’t need any more information, and that they had more than enough witnesses and documents to make the case and issue a report.”
“What! Did you keep the letter, log the calls?”
“But of course; I worked for the bureau for over ten years, my friend!”
I asked him to meet with me and the Jersey Moms—to let them know. He explained that he had been threatened and harassed to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want any more problems from the FBI.
I called the Jersey Moms and told them what I had just learned, talking with Sarshar.
“We need to meet with him, right away!” Kristen screamed. “In fact, we need to have a reporter with us and have him go on record. Damn it, I want to go and puke all over these people—the commissioners’ investigators.”
“Slow down,” I cautioned, “he’s afraid. He’s a timid man with no support from his wife. He has taken a lot of shit in the past two years from the FBI. You go tell him the word
reporter
and he’ll move out of the state. Let me approach him and convince him slowly, okay?”
They agreed, but they also emphasized urgency. I asked them to give me a week.
I called Sarshar and left several messages. More than a week later, he called me back. (He didn’t have the heart to say no so he was avoiding my calls instead.)
After an hour of persuasion, he agreed to meet with them. I asked when would be the earliest he could meet with us. He said the following Sunday, January 18.
“Okay, you got it, Sunday it is.”
The moms would arrange for baby-sitters and get to DC for a late lunch on Sunday. They also called their friend, a female reporter who lived in New York City (whom I had met), and asked her to be present at the meeting. The reporter had to rearrange travel plans and catch the redeye to DC, but said she wouldn’t miss it for anything. I would pick her up from Reagan National Airport, near my house.
That Saturday we ended up getting three inches of snow that turned to sleet, and by Sunday morning, a severe advisory was issued. The roads, even parts of the beltway, were covered with thick layers of ice.
Mindy’s call woke me up at seven. She said the meeting had to be canceled and rescheduled. I asked her to hold while I checked my e-mails and voice mails. Sure enough, the reporter had left LA and would be in DC at eleven that morning.
I told Mindy, “Listen, it took me hours to persuade Sarshar; he can change his mind tomorrow. This woman reporter is on her way here. We have to have this meeting today.”
She argued there was no way they could drive that far and if I didn’t believe her, just go out and look for myself.
I had an idea. Putting her on hold, I went up to the bedroom and asked Matthew, “Can you be kind enough to drive Sarshar and me to New Jersey?”
He looked at me as though I had two heads. “You’re kidding me! Have you seen the conditions out there?”
“Matthew, I’m begging you … What if it’s only to Wilmington? That’s only two hours away … Please …”
He sighed. “Okay, we’ll go out there and try. If it’s too bad we’ll turn around and come back home. OK?”
I told Mindy about the plan. “Listen, get your ass down to Wilmington, it’s only an hour and a half from where you girls live. You have a four-wheel drive, let’s do this.”
After two hours of back and forth calls between the girls and me and Sarshar, we were finally set to give this meeting a shot. Matthew and I drove forty-five minutes from where we live to pick up Sarshar. Everything was ice. We drove 25 miles per hour on a major highway; the beltway was almost deserted. We pulled up in front of Sarshar’s house and before I even made it out of the car, he appeared and got in. Then we had to turn around and drive to Reagan Airport, where Matthew double-parked in front while I ran inside to find the reporter who had landed only minutes before.
I found her at the baggage carousel, having a major fit. The airline had lost her luggage. She was all over the flight attendant and the argument was going nowhere. We didn’t have the luxury of time.
I pulled the attendant aside. “What’s the best way we can resolve this? Can you track it and have it sent to this lady’s place in NYC?”
“Wait here for a minute.”
Five minutes later she was back; they had been able to trace the whereabouts of the luggage and placed instructions to have it onboard the first available flight to NYC. With that resolved we walked outside and waited for Matthew to reappear. Knowing her excellent but aggressive reporting style, I warned her. “Listen, go easy on Sarshar, understood? He’s very nervous and unsure, don’t freak him out; take it easy.” She nodded.
Two hours later, as we were approaching Baltimore, the reporter tried to get Sarshar to talk by asking him some general questions. After a few minutes, Sarshar eased up and started to answer. The reporter made her next move: unwisely, she pulled out her tape recorder. “Can I record this conversation?” Sarshar vehemently shook his head no and retreated into his shell. For the remaining couple of hours we rode in silence.
When we pulled up in front of the Holiday Inn in Wilmington, I spotted Kristen, Mindy and Patty out front smoking. We parked and went inside. For the next three hours we sat around a large table in the hotel’s dining room and talked. The reporter did not attempt to push the tape recorder again. The girls fired off hundreds of questions and took detailed notes, about the Iranian informant in particular, but also on many other issues and cases. I could tell Sarshar liked them and was comfortable.
In the end, the Jersey Moms told me they were going to contact the 9/11 Commission and set up a meeting regarding the turning away of witnesses. They asked me to participate. They also wanted to set up times for me and Sarshar to be interviewed. Considering Sarshar’s justifiable apprehension, I suggested we set up a meeting with Senator Grassley’s staff—all of us—to demand that they issue some sort of immunity for those witnesses and whistleblowers reluctant to testify before Congress and the commission.
This was just the beginning.
After the first
Washington Post
article on my case, a year and a half earlier, I had spent weeks fruitlessly trying to find contact information for the second FBI whistleblower cited in that article, John M. Cole, FBI Counterintelligence Operations Specialist in charge of Pakistan and Afghanistan. My (then) attorneys introduced me to Emmanuel (Manny) Johnson, a former veteran agent with the FBI counterterrorism division. After blowing the whistle and suffering cruel retaliation, Manny had resigned from his job at the FBI, set up his own private investigation firm, and once in a while performed investigative services for my attorneys. All he was able to find out was that Cole had resigned and left the city after tremendous pressure and attacks by the bureau following the
Post
article. He would let me know if he ever came across other agents from the FBI Washington Field Office familiar with my case. For over a year I did not hear from him.
One early afternoon near the end of January, I received a call from Manny. He wanted to arrange a meeting between me and a veteran counterintelligence special agent, recently retired from the FBI’s Washington field office, who had firsthand information related to my case. I asked him for this agent’s name and held my breath.
“Special Agent Gilbert Graham.”
“You mean
the
Gil Graham, in charge of FBI’s Counterintelligence unit on Turkey?!” The very same. “Do you know how important he is to my case? My God, one copy of every piece I translated related to DC operations was sent to him! He knows a lot!”
Manny laughed. “Of course; why do you think I’m calling you? I’ve known Graham for years. He contacted me a few weeks after the CBS piece aired and told me about his connection. It took me this long to persuade him to meet with you directly. He’s under retaliation himself …”
I asked him to set up the meeting ASAP. We agreed on a coffeehouse in Alexandria. I got there ten minutes early. At the counter, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and there was Manny with his usual wide, sincere smile. African American, of medium height, his eyes always appeared to sparkle with unexplained joy. With his domelike belly and shaved head, he reminded me of Buddha.
Behind him stood a strikingly handsome African-American man with pronounced cheekbones, over six feet two, muscular build and broad shoulders, dressed impeccably in a pressed suit and a crisp shirt. Graham and I had never before met face to face. He was impressive to behold.
Once seated, I started telling Graham about my case. He raised his palm to stop me. He said he already knew everything there was, at least most of it. It was his turn to tell me about his case, what he had blown the whistle on, and the connection to my case and what I knew (cryptically, of course).
According to Graham, back in 1997 he and other agents involved in counterintelligence operations (in which I too had become involved) notified HQ about Turkish targets targeting certain elected officials. Through various bribery and blackmail operations, they had hooked these officials and were able to obtain classified information and, in some cases, favorable contracts and votes from them. At least four well-known elected officials were involved in this scheme.
The illegal activities did not end there. State Department bureaucrats and Pentagon officials were also hooked. The targets were provided with highly sensitive classified documents and information. Considering the targets’ direct involvement in nuclear black market illegal arms sales and money laundering activities, this case, in Graham’s assessment, had to be transferred from Counterintelligence (geared only to monitor, not investigate) to criminal and Counterterrorism operations. The agents also believed that they had enough proof, evidence and direct information to get the Department of Justice to launch a criminal investigation of the U.S. persons involved, and perhaps even appoint a special counsel–prosecutor to the case.
While I knew his story to be true, I hadn’t known the grisly details.
Graham continued. “This was during the Clinton administration. The Justice Department, under Janet Reno, finally agreed to appoint counsel and move forward with our recommendations. There were some disagreements as to whether to pursue elected officials or appointed ones; they had finally settled on elected officials. But then we were hit by the scandals involving Clinton’s dick, so there it went, down the tubes; the whole thing was put on hold and set aside while the entire country dealt with who gave whom a blow job!”
I interrupted him. “You mean
permanently
?”
He shook his head. “No, for a while. Then it seemed to get back on a track a little, but then came the elections. With the Clinton administration gone and the new administration in the process of taking over, we didn’t hear anything back from the Justice Department. When we did, well, that outraged every single one of us, and led me to put my foot down. The Bush administration, AG Ashcroft, turned off the switch on the special prosecutor deal. Then, they chopped the operation into several pieces, with one of them going to Chicago. Finally, toward the end of 2001, they decided to close the criminal investigation angle. They shut down the DC operations and gave Chicago until January or February to get rid of the case and close it for good.”
“So, what was their excuse with you?” I asked. “What happened to you and your report?”
“Basically, same thing that happened to you. They first asked me to shut up and stop pursuing this. Then, of course, the retaliation began. After a while I couldn’t take it anymore; they pushed me to the point where I requested and filed for early retirement. Once that was done, I filed a case in DC federal court, pro se; the only way I could bring out the case, and the most viable channel, was the EEO [Equal Employment Opportunity Commission]. Now they are going after my filings, a lot of it classified with a black marker. Considering what they did to you,” he added, “and how afraid they are, I expect they’ll invoke state secrets in my case too; once they get away with yours, they’ll try it with my case. I believe your case is their ‘experiment’ case; if successful, they’ll use it right and left.”
I wanted to know if he would be willing to testify in court as my witness—if he would consider visiting the Senate with me and providing them with this explosive information. With twenty-two years under his belt, impeccable reputation and firsthand knowledge of what truly was involved in my case, I needed him on my side, prepared and ready to testify.
He sighed. “Sibel, that’s the most important reason I wanted to meet with you. Forget about pushing this via Congress, IG and the courts. They’ll eat you alive. There is no friggin’ way they’ll let even the tiniest part of this criminal conspiracy see the light of day. Do you understand? How can you even trust Congress? If they have shit on Grassley, Leahy, or whoever you think supports you, then they’ll use it against them. Man, I tell you, they have lots of shit on a lot of people. For instance,” he continued, “take your Judge Walton: How do you think they got him assigned to your case? Do you know what I did in the early nineties for the bureau? I ran background checks on federal judges. If we came up with shit—skeletons in their closets—the Justice Department kept it in their pantry to be used against them in the future or to get them to do what they want in certain cases—cases like yours, like mine.”
I asked him again if he would be willing to talk with the appropriate people involved in my case.
“Look, I initially contacted the IG. They didn’t want to hear about this case; no response from them.”
“You mean even after they started on my case, they didn’t ask you to go there and provide them with information on my issues?”
“No.”
I asked him one more time.
He sighed. “Sibel, do you realize how dangerous this is? Do you realize how much danger you’re in? Have you heard about the veteran CIA operative who came across a load of shit, similar to ours, and decided to get some congressional attention to it?”
“No.”
“He disappeared for a while, and finally his body was pulled out of the river here in DC; his hands were tied behind his back. They ruled it as ‘suicide.’ Do you want to meet the same fate? Even more than our filthy government, you should be afraid of what the involved criminals—the targets of our CI operations—are capable of doing to you or your family. Those are some nasty people, worse than the Italian Mafioso; they happen to be very well connected, on top of that. With the immunity they have from our government, they’ll take you out if you were to press on.”
I told him that I thought the chances of them “taking me out” would be far greater before the information was made public; afterwards, it wouldn’t do them any good. This was all the more reason to push and get this information out into the public.
Toward the end of our meeting, I was finally able to get a conditional consent from Graham. “Sibel, I will not volunteer any information. I won’t walk into the corrupt Congress and hand them information; however, if you get them to subpoena me, or even formally request me to go there and answer their questions, I’ll do it. I promise.”
I couldn’t ask for more. I would notify the DOJ-IG. I would let the Senate know. I would bring it up with the 9/11 Commission. I would urge them all to subpoena Gilbert Graham.
Before we parted, I asked him one more question. “Have you contacted the Nine Eleven Commission?”
He was thinking of doing that. Through sources, he had put the word out to the commission of his availability and desire to testify.
I would let the Jersey Moms know, and follow up.
Graham’s parting words were that my life and my family’s life were in serious danger: I had to watch out; and that the chances of our successfully bringing this out were slim to none.
Driving back home, I saw that my hands were shaking again, uncontrollably.
Soon after the ice storm meeting of January 18, the Jersey Moms began a flurry of calls to the commissioners’ offices. I started to push the Senate Judiciary Committee about guaranteeing immunity for current government employees who were willing to testify before the 9/11 Commission. Congresspeople and the commission kicked it back and forth. Who would provide immunity for witnesses? Each claimed it was the other’s responsibility.
I attended one meeting with the commissioners’ investigators and chief of staff initiated by the Jersey Moms. After much browbeating, they finally pledged that not a single witness would be turned away. That time we emerged victorious. The Jersey Moms had threatened to go to the press.
On Wednesday, February 11, 2004, I appeared at the commissioners’ office for my interview. Two of their investigators greeted me and asked me to follow them into the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. I tensed at the prospect of another claustrophobic, airless interrogation, but I was not about to give these so-called independent investigators another excuse to avoid knowing by refusing to go in, so I followed them.
One of them pulled out a digital recorder and we began. I gave them a detailed account of the blueprints case; the Iranian informant; “visas for money”; the link between certain actors in the nuclear market and terrorist-related entities, money laundering and illegal arms sales by certain foreign front organizations from countries considered our “allies”; and the forged signatures and tampering with documents related to detainees rounded up in New York and New Jersey by counterterrorism field agents.
I briefly told them about the involvement of certain elected and appointed officials—U.S. persons—with the target organizations, and named these individuals. When I mentioned one of those officials (an elected representative at the highest level), one investigator’s face turned crimson and the other began to cough spasmodically. They seemed startled. I gave the name and number of the case files and their location. I provided them with the names of relevant witnesses with direct knowledge of these cases. I concluded my testimony with what I had told the IG and Congress; I asked them to subpoena these specific documents, audios and witnesses to verify everything I had provided.
The entire session took over two hours. I was exhausted and apprehensive that they had not asked a single question, not even one. What kind of an interview was that?
Sarshar’s interview was scheduled for the next day. The entire session lasted about two hours, during which he provided detailed accounts of two very important cases. He had given them the relevant documents and the names and contact information for all pertinent witnesses, including the Iranian informant.
I was surprised that he had given out the name and address of the informant. Sarshar told me he had contacted the informant and told him about the 9/11 family members and the scheduled commission interview. The informant supported Sarshar’s decision and was willing to provide all the explosive information, including taped phone conversations and documents, but only if subpoenaed. The bureau had taken the informant off its payroll—just as they had gotten rid of Sarshar and threatened the agents involved with retaliation if they didn’t keep their mouths shut.
The next day, Friday, the girls and I took Sarshar to the Senate Judiciary Committee staff. They too thought the recent development regarding the Iranian informant was explosive. I agreed. We decided to drag Sarshar to the Senate and have him go on record one more time, with a separate entity, with that information.
We sat with the staff and spent the first fifteen minutes emphasizing the importance of Sarshar’s information, urging them to provide him and other similar witnesses with immunity. They needed protection. Afterwards we left Sarshar to provide the staff with his account, to go into the SCIF if necessary. Before leaving, Kristen turned around and let them have it. “You f—this up and I’ll make sure the entire media goes after your ass, you understand? We have been fighting for the truth and accountability for our husbands’ deaths. We are tired of this bullshit attitude, we are tired of you guys in Congress not doing what you were elected to do. I’ll come after you, I promise.”
One of Grassley’s staff turned red and blustered, “We won’t have this attitude in here! You have no right to threaten us.”
Halfway out and without even turning, Kristen shot back, “That was a warning, not a threat. You f—up and you’ll see what a threat really is.” With that she slammed the door. We both knew the futility of pushing Congress to do the right thing, to do what it is supposed to be doing. We’d been there, tried that.
During the three-month period between March and June 2004, I attended, along with the 9/11 family members, almost every single 9/11 Commission public hearing in Washington.
During one of these hearings, on March 24, just a day or two after then National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice had issued a public statement saying that the administration had received no specific threat or warning prior to the September 11 attacks, I had hooked up with the girls and a few other 9/11 family members for a quick coffee during a break. They were seething over Rice’s comments.
After the break we headed back to the hearing room at the Senate Dirksen building, took our seats, and waited for another infuriating round of dodgeball, otherwise known as Questions and Answers.
During the second break, I followed the girls outside, where we had to pass through a gauntlet of reporters stationed there to intercept commissioners and high-level government officials.
Kristen and Lorie stopped to chat with a few, so I continued on, until I heard Kristen’s voice yelling, “Okay guys! In addition to these officials you need to hear from others, those who actually worked on the front lines. Here is one person you need to talk to, all of you: Sibel Edmonds.”
I froze. What was she doing? Kristen and Lorie came over; one held my briefcase while the other pushed me in front of more than twenty reporters, all with lights and cameras. I had no notes, no prepared statements and hadn’t given a thought what to say in a situation like this.
Someone yelled out a question; I somehow answered it, briefly; then another. I went into automatic mode and blindly (I couldn’t see in the glare of the lights) began to answer questions for nearly ten minutes straight. Reporters closed around me. I managed to break away and almost ran outside, where I was stopped by Kyle, a 9/11 family members’ supporter and activist within the 9/11 truth movement community. He had a cameraman with him and begged me to answer a few questions on camera. That session continued for another ten minutes. From the corner of my eye I saw Kristen; I caught up with her and gave her an earful for throwing me to the wolves so entirely unprepared.
Kristen listened quietly with a mischievous smile. “You did good, Sibel. It’s about time for you to get in touch with the public. Today was the beginning.” She was right. I had only one channel left that had not been thoroughly pursued: the court of public opinion.
The following morning, all that changed. I was in several major U.S. papers and others in the U.K. The episode kicked off a media frenzy that lasted almost two months. In the weeks to come I was interviewed by at least twenty radio shows, almost all of them independent and alternative, which are much less biased.
My favorite, Amy Goodman’s “Democracy Now,” with national syndication, did the first and by far best and most comprehensive interview during this period. I was nervous, as usual in those days. The cameraman yelled “go” and we were on. Goodman had done her homework and within the first two minutes I began to relax.
After a short break she welcomed another guest who was joining us, Mr. Dan Ellsberg. This completely threw me. I had read about Ellsberg’s case when I lived in Turkey and greatly admired his courage and integrity, what he had stood up for, against all odds. He knew my struggle perhaps better than anyone. For me to be there with him, on the same show and receiving his compliments, was a rare honor. Ellsberg well knew the FBI and U.S. Department of Justice, what they could do to people who got in their way. He knew what it felt like to have his entire family threatened with prison or worse, to live day to day looking over your shoulder, never knowing what might happen next. He knew the American government.
After I got home I found my answering machine blinking. It was a message from Goodman’s producer: Ellsberg had asked him to pass on his phone number to me. I wrote it down and called him. We spent the next three hours talking. At one point he even asked if he could put me on speakerphone so that his wife, Patricia, could join us. Of course!
Apart from my husband, Matthew, this was truly the first time since my dark journey began that anyone spent this much time in an effort to give me courage, to shore me up. For too long my confidence had been at an all-time low; here was someone who understood the pain I had experienced and the dilemma I faced; who wholeheartedly supported my decision to fight rather than quit. Those three precious hours with Dan and Patricia helped to fill that hole—that void—left by the friendships and family ties I had lost; it provided me with the surrogate warmth of my father, his love. He and Patricia would soon become close in a way I can only describe as family. Ellsberg was not only my champion but someone who showed up to stand by my side. Matthew and I are fortunate indeed; this rare, lucky friendship is one of the best things to come from the worst nightmare time in my life.