The CIA’s operations have resulted in toppled democratic governments, the installation of dictators, the kidnapping, disappearance, torture and murder of hundreds of thousands of people who dared speak up as well as the training and financial support of hideously evil people around the world. All of this to gain power, control and money and all of this done while our government labels anyone who fights back “terrorists.”
The truth of the matter is that WE are the terrorists and there is no organization on earth which terrorizes people so effectively as the CIA.
This book details 22 operations of the CIA and how they terrorized the world and is told from the first person perspective of the victims.
Why I Wrote This Book:
When I first learned of the events of October 7th and saw the corresponding actions taken by Israel and its’ western benefactors it blew my mind.
I’m not sure why this time was different, but I knew we were being lied to… I knew the media was providing cover and I knew I needed to get closer to the action and see this with my own eyes and. Find the truth and then share this with my audience.
This started a journey for me, one that led me down rabbit hole after rabbit hole. The more I learned and studied, the more appalled I became and the more disgusted I became with not only how my country was handling this current situation, but how for decades our government has employed misinformation, shadowy manipulation, outright corruption, military force and of course, the many operations of the CIA around the world.
These have resulted in toppled democratic governments the installation of dictators, the kidnapping, disappearance, torture and murder of hundreds of thousands of people who dared speak up as well as the training and financial support of hideously evil people around the world. All of this to gain power, control and money and all of this done while our government labels anyone who fights back “terrorists.”
The truth of the matter is that WE are the terrorists and there is no organization on earth which terrorizes people so effectively as the CIA.
I wanted to started educating fellow Americans, as well as everyone else, but wanted to do. It in a way that was not simply a lasting of facts and atrocities but that told the stories of the people whose lives these operations have destroyed.
I’ve selected 22 of these operations ranging from the 1950’s through the present. This in no way is a complete listing of all of the horrific operations from the CIA, it is instead a small sampling that shows the sheer evil that this agency has perpetrated as they terrorize the world.
Prologue
They called it intelligence. They called it defense. They wrapped it in the stars and stripes and handed it to us with a straight face, as if what they were about to do would keep us safe. But behind every covert operation, every euphemism for violence, and every secret war was a broken life. A scorched village. A mother clutching a lifeless child. A nation spun into chaos.
This book is not just history. It is testimony. The voices you are about to hear are fictionalized, but they are deeply true
They are the sum of eyewitness accounts, survivor testimonies, and history’s forgotten footnotes. They represent the crushed bones beneath the boots of the empire—the ones no president mourns and no textbooks teach.
This is a reckoning. May their voices be heard.
"A Monster Is Born"
Eleanor Hughes, former analyst, Office of Strategic Services (OSS), 1947
I was there when the shadows took shape—when a wartime necessity morphed into a permanent machine of secrecy and sabotage. We thought the Nazis were the enemy. We
thought the Soviets would be the end of us. But we never imagined that the worst thing we’d build after the war was a monster inside our own walls.
We were told it was temporary. After World War II, the OSS was dissolved—our wartime intelligence agency dismantled. Washington, real fear. The Soviets were everywhere, it was said. Paranoia spread like wildfire. Congress passed the National Security Act of 1947, and from its inked pages rose a shadow: the Central Intelligence Agency.
I was a young analyst then, 32 years old, working in a pale office off of E Street. My job was to compile intelligence, vet sources, and translate documents. I believed in America. I had served during the war and knew the cost of inaction. But what we unleashed that year wasn’t about defense. It was about domination.
The CIA wasn’t just about gathering intelligence—it was given the power to conduct covert operations anywhere in the world. With almost no oversight. No rules. No transparency. We didn’t just want to know what the world was doing—we wanted to control it. Replace governments.
Sabotage economies. Assassinate leaders. Test drugs on our own people. That power was intoxicating. And for some, irresistible.
I remember the first time I read about Operation Ajax—the coup in Iran. I was horrified. We had overthrown democratically elected leader because he dared to nationalize oil. We crushed a nation’s hope because it didn’t serve British Petroleum. And it was just the beginning.
By the time I left the agency in 1959, I knew I had been part of building a monster—one that would wrap itself in the flag whisper "security," and leave smoking ruins wherever it walked. I tried to warn people. Wrote letters. Spoke at hearings. No one listened. They never do until it’s too late.
But maybe now—through these stories—someone will listen.
Chapter One
Operation Ajax – Iran Coup (1953)
Operation Ajax, also known as the 1953 Iranian coup d'état, was a covert operation orchestrated by the United States' CIA and the UK's MI6 to overthrow the democratically elected Prime Minister of Iran, Mohammad Mosaddegh, and consolidate the power of the Shah, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. The operation, which took place in August 1953, aimed to reinstate the Shah as a powerful monarch and ensure Western influence in Iran, particularly regarding oi resources.
“The Sky Burned Green That Day”
Tehran, August 1953
Fatemeh Rezai, 19 years old, student nurse, University of Tehran
I remember the smell of burning tires before I saw the bodies. It was the second day of riots, and already the city stank of gunpowder, sweat, and betrayal. I was just a girl with a white uniform and trembling hands. And that week in August, I watched my country bleed out on the sidewalk while foreign ghosts pulled the strings.
I never wanted to be a revolutionary. I only wanted to heal people. Before everything fell apart, I lived in a small apartment with my father above a bakery on Hafez Street. He was a schoolteacher—stern, kind, with tired eyes from years of grading essays under candlelight. My mother had died from cholera when I was nine, and since then, it had been just the two of us. He used to brush the hair out of my face and call me his "little lioness." He was proud that I wanted to study medicine. Proud that his daughter would serve her country with a stethoscope, not a rifle.
Tehran in those days buzzed with hope. We had a real leader—Dr. Mohammad Mossadegh. My father adored him.
“He walks with the people,” he’d say, pointing at the radio when Mossadegh’s trembling voice came on. Mossadegh had nationalized our oil, stood up to the British, and refused to bow to the Shah. For the first time in decades, it felt likeIran belonged to Iranians.
And then, in one week, it all unraveled.
The rumors came first. That Mossadegh was soft. That the communists were taking over. That the army had turned. We didn’t believe it at first. But then came the mobs—men with sticks and banners screaming “Death to Mossadegh!” My father said they were paid thugs. I didn’t believe him until I saw one man switch sides in the same afternoon, wearing two different armbands
I was at the hospital when it happened. The city shook with shouting. At first, we thought it was just another protest. But then a soldier burst into the ER, dragging a man whose face had been shattered by a rifle butt. “They're storming the radio station!” he shouted. “The army’s turned!”
Gunshots echoed like thunder.
We worked without thinking—my hands covered in blood, sweat pooling down my back. One boy, no older than my younger brother, had been shot through the stomach. He screamed for his mother as I pressed gauze against the hole. I remember looking into his eyes—black, wide, terrified—and realizing he wouldn’t survive. The blood wouldn’t stop.
By evening, the word had spread: Mossadegh was gone. Arrested. The Shah, who had fled like a coward, was returning in triumph. I remember staring at the hospital wall, shaking, as one of the nurses vomited in the sink.
That night, I walked home under a sky choked with smoke. On the street outside our apartment, boys danced around a burning portrait of Mossadegh. They laughed and drank and shouted, but their eyes were empty. Something hollow had taken root.
When I opened our door, I found my father sitting still in his chair, a paper clenched in his fisT.
“They did it,” he said softly. “The Americans. The British.
They bought our revolution and burned it to the ground.”
I didn’t believe it at first. Why would America do this? Why would they destroy a democracy? I had thought America was the land of freedom. My textbooks said they fought for liberty.
“They want the oil,” he spat. “They want a puppet. And now they have one.”
Three days later, they came for him.
A black car pulled up as I washed dishes. Men in suits stepped out—SAVAK, they called themselves. One flashed badge. The other shoved my father against the wall. They said he was spreading subversive ideas in his classroom.
That he was inciting unrest.
He looked at me as they dragged him away, eyes calm.
“Remember what I told you, lioness,” he said. “Truth is worth bleeding for.”
I never saw him again.
I searched. For months, I searched. I bribed guards. I visited prisons. I begged bureaucrats. They all shook their heads.
Some laughed. Some looked away. One finally whispered that he had been “disappeared.”
I quit nursing school not long after. The university was crawling with informants. They arrested professors in the middle of lectures. My classmates disappeared, one by one.
We learned to whisper, to avoid eye contact, to keep our heads down.
Years later, I read a report from America, declassifiedecades after the coup. “Operation Ajax,” they called it. A joint effort between the CIA and MI6 to overthrowMossadegh and restore the Shah.
They admitted to paying thugs, bribing generals, infiltrating newspapers, and staging fake protests. They admitted to planting lies and using American dollars to drown Iranian democracy.
I stared at the document, my hands shaking. I remembered the boy in the hospital, crying for his mother. The portrait burning. The taste of ash in my mouth.
I am an old woman now. I live in a quiet part of northern Tehran. I have no children. No family. Just a photograph of my father, and the memory of a time when we believed we could stand tall.
People still argue about Mossadegh. Some say he was weak. Some say he was a dreamer. But I remember how the air felt different when he spoke. I remember the pride in my father’s face. I remember how, for one brief moment, we believed that Iran could belong to Iranians.
And I remember how foreign hands snatched it all away.
“The first casualty of empire is always the truth. The second is the soul of a people.”
READ THE REST HERE:
