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It was an ordinary night. As I drifted into a deep dream state, a familiar vibration began to move through my body. Then I felt myself separating from it. My consciousness rose slowly at first, then higher and higher, as though drawn upward by an invisible current. Eventually, I reached an immense field of light. It was unlike anything I had seen before—radiant, peaceful, and almost overwhelming in its beauty. The moment I entered it, I somehow knew where I was. This was Heaven. Within the light stood a radiant, winged being. I could not explain how, but I immediately sensed a familiarity between us, as though this was not our first encounter. For several moments, neither of us spoke. Then the being broke the silence. “Do you remember what we told you? Heaven has given you a gift…

s I reach the end of this book and look back across more than a decade, I realise that the journey has returned me to questions I once thought I understood. I no longer see them with the same eyes. For years, I searched for hidden truths and tried to understand the forces that kept them hidden. Eventually, a harder question took their place: once we have seen clearly, what does that knowledge require of us? I was once called a “lightworker.” The word has acquired a different weight for me. Light, as I now understand it, is a discipline: remaining answerable to conscience when truth becomes inconvenient or dangerous. If awakening means anything to me now, it is the refusal to let fear decide what kind of person I become. The years 2022 and 2023 were among the happiest…

The first thing you do in the apocalypse is kill off all the bleeding hearts.” The words appeared on my screen during a fierce argument in a preparedness group over the South Korean disaster film Concrete Utopia. What began as a debate about survival exposed a harder question: we had spent years preparing for catastrophe, but what kind of people were we preparing to become? By then, I knew how fragile ordinary life could be. The question was no longer how much food to store or which escape route to take. It was whether fear would strip away our conscience when survival was at stake. That question would eventually lead me from preparing to survive disaster to preparing to serve within it. During the pandemic years, the world seemed to grind to a halt. What began as a scattered outbreak…

Those questions about power eventually returned me to something immediate: what happens when ordinary people recognise that fear itself has become a form of control? In November 2022, I watched an answer take public form in China as young people began raising blank sheets of A4 paper. The pages carried no slogans, yet under censorship their emptiness became a language everyone could read. The movement began in grief after the Urumqi fire and quickly became something larger: a moment when fear remained real, but obedience no longer felt morally neutral. Two Countries Moving in Opposite Directions By 2022, Australia was dismantling the restrictions that had governed daily life for so long. Shopping centres filled again, restaurants reopened, and conversations turned to flights and holidays. The return of ordinary freedom felt almost physical, even as inflation and exhaustion followed us out…

History usually explains revolutions, wars, and political upheaval through institutions, ideology, and struggles for power. Yet beneath those visible forces I had begun to suspect another layer: secret societies, hidden networks, and forms of intervention that rarely leave a clear record. At first, the suspicion grew from symbols and fragments of history. Years later, after hearing repeated accounts of implants, spirit attachment, and interference with consciousness, I began noticing disturbing echoes in the psychological and physical symptoms of certain historical figures. Two lines of inquiry that had once seemed unrelated slowly converged. Could hidden power reach beyond political institutions into consciousness itself—through lower-dimensional entities, hostile non-human forces, or mechanisms we scarcely understand? And if so, what forces had been shaping the course of Chinese history from behind the visible stage? If the judgment, temperament, or consciousness of…

Some encounters leave the ordinary categories of belief and disbelief inadequate. My conversations with Holly, an American exorcist, led into a world of secret societies, ritual abuse, shadow beings, and the unsettling possibility that difficult truths may sometimes reappear as fiction. Yet beneath these stories lay a more intimate question: what happens when fear and hidden power begin to claim authority over the inner life? Holly’s story taught me that the deepest form of protection may be the freedom to approach darkness without allowing it to take possession of one’s moral centre. Contact in the Desert was held online that year. For several days, speakers appeared one after another in small, illuminated rectangles on my screen, discussing consciousness, anomalous experience, military secrecy, extraterrestrial life, and the unresolved questions that had gathered around the UFO field for decades. The…

In China, I had learned how political power could decide which questions were safe to ask. Contact in the Desert introduced me to a very different world—one where almost anyone could speak about the unknown. But freedom created a harder question of its own: who gets to decide what is true? As I moved among researchers, experiencers and alleged insiders, I began to see that every community draws boundaries around belief. The deeper challenge was learning how to remain open to the unknown without surrendering judgement—and how to disagree without turning truth into territory. In 2021, while the pandemic still shadowed the world, a recommendation led to an unexpected invitation to speak at Contact in the Desert, one of America’s largest gatherings devoted to extraterrestrial contact. It brought together UFO researchers, contact experiencers, and people who saw…

During the pandemic, Carla contacted me with an extraordinary story. A man I had once met briefly at the Shanghai conference, she said, possessed a USB drive containing classified material about the Xiaoshan Airport UFO incident—including records of an alleged encounter between the Chinese military and extraterrestrial beings. I did not know whether the material was genuine. What followed became an education in the dangerous territory between testimony and proof, secrecy and disinformation—and in how easily the search for truth can make the seeker part of the story. Just as the pandemic in Australia appeared to be easing, the country slipped into a second wave of lockdowns. Offices closed again. Those of us able to work from home returned to lives narrowed by screens, government announcements, and the limits of permitted movement. The UFO circle carried a different charge…

wakening begins with seeing, but seeing alone changes little. Knowledge may widen the mind while leaving character untouched. Its deeper test comes when conscience asks something of us, especially when standing beside another person carries a cost. Zhao Sile and the women she chronicled forced me to reconsider what I had once called awakening. I had spent years in UFO and spiritual circles where revelation was often treated as an achievement in itself. Their lives offered a harder measure: whether what we claim to know can enter the way we live. While following Hong Kong’s Anti-Extradition Bill Movement, I came to see that political awakening begins with recognition. I had learned what power could do when it sought total control. Censorship altered speech before silencing it, while surveillance, stigma, and collective withdrawal could isolate an ordinary person until…

In 2019, fire seemed to be everywhere. Forests burned across continents, while in Hong Kong another kind of fire was gathering in the streets: the anger and courage of people who feared that the freedoms shaping their lives were beginning to disappear. More than a million Hong Kong people marched against the proposed extradition law. Watching from Australia, I was struck less by the scale of the crowds than by what participation might cost them. Beneath the umbrellas were ordinary people choosing to make themselves visible at a moment when visibility itself could become dangerous. Something in those scenes unsettled the distance I had once kept from politics. Freedom began to feel less like an inherited condition than something fragile, sustained by people willing to defend it. In that year of burning landscapes and burning streets, a part of my…

fter the public storm, I began looking for somewhere to turn. The obvious doors were law, the media, human-rights organisations, perhaps even the international institutions created to protect people when power closes in. Yet each possibility led me toward the same unsettling problem: before anyone could decide whether I had been harmed, they first had to decide what kind of person I was—and whether the world I had been speaking about belonged within recognised reality at all. That was when I began to understand the deeper isolation of the UFO community. Its vulnerability came from more than ridicule. It occupied a space for which modern institutions had little language: too strange for politics, too contested for science, too fluid for religion, and too easily dismissed to command protection. What I was confronting was a question larger than my…

political storm does more than damage a reputation. It changes the light around people. Once association with me carried a cost, relationships I had taken for granted began to reveal their hidden terms. Some people disappeared; others drew closer for reasons I did not immediately understand. A few remained quietly kind when kindness offered them nothing in return. What stayed with me after the danger had passed was not simply who had stood beside me. It was the harder question the storm had exposed: what do we become when fear, ambition, loyalty and conscience are placed under pressure? I had spent years among people who spoke of awakening and higher consciousness. After the storm, those words carried a different weight. I began to see awakening as something tested in conduct, and discernment as the willingness to see others—and myself—more…

n enemy does not have to exist before a political campaign begins. Sometimes one has to be made. I did not understand this when Liu Boyang’s article first appeared. I thought I was facing distortion, defamation, perhaps an ugly dispute conducted in the name of science. Only later did I see how quickly a private accusation could become a political label, and how efficiently that label could teach others to retreat. What followed was larger than the destruction of one person’s reputation. I was being made visible so that others would learn the value of silence. The storm arrived before I could even announce the episode. I had just returned to Australia from Brazil, still carrying the dust and heat of Abadiânia with me and trying to gather what I had seen into language. I planned to record…

I returned to Abadiânia looking for rest and found a town in ruins. Only months earlier, I had come here seeking healing and witnessed things I still could not explain. Now the Casa was closed, the pilgrims were gone, and João de Deus—the healer at the centre of it all—had fallen under accusations that would destroy his name. What unsettled me was larger than the fate of one man. If something sacred had truly happened here, what became of that truth when the person through whom it seemed to pass proved deeply human? And as similar stories began reaching me from elsewhere, another question followed: what exactly was I witnessing—the exposure of false prophets, the corruption of spiritual power, or a wider campaign shaped by political forces that remained largely hidden from view? By mid-December, I…

The conference had been created as a place for people to speak. Almost immediately, it also became a place where people came to watch. The attention took different forms. Plainclothes officers sat quietly at the back of the hall. Strangers asked careful questions about who had organised the event and who stood behind it. At dinner, offers of “cooperation” turned into probing questions about foreign scientists, technology, and personal connections. Elsewhere, warnings about my safety arrived in voices that sounded almost protective. None of these currents was easy to read, and I could not always know who represented whom. Yet together they changed the atmosphere of the conference. Beneath the warmth of the gathering ran another reality: scrutiny, political calculation, private ambition, and the quiet contest over who might gain access to what we had created. My talk had barely…

The moment an idea enters the world, it becomes vulnerable to everything already waiting there. When I first imagined the Interstellar Civilisation Conference, I saw a gathering place: a room where people who had carried strange experiences in silence might finally sit together, speak openly, and feel less alone. I wanted to create a small public space in a society where certain questions survived mostly in whispers, private messages, and videos that disappeared almost as quickly as they were shared. I had not yet understood what would gather around that fragile idea once it became real. Goodwill came with ambition; political caution mixed with private calculation. Some people offered help freely, while others saw a stage, an opportunity, or a threat. In the end, the preparation revealed more to me than the conference itself. An ideal is tested by the…

Brazil had taught me to take grace seriously. Zhen would teach me to take its limits just as seriously. Her suffering was real, but so was her longing to be rescued. As more people tried to help her, I began to confront a harder question: what happens when compassion starts carrying the weight that still belongs to the person receiving it? Some work, I would learn, no healer or miracle can do for us. For a time, Brazil gave me the dangerous hope that a life could be handed back to itself. I returned from that country with the sense that something in me had quietly been set right. Work began to move again. Relationships loosened. The ordinary machinery of life, once blocked at every turn, started running with a strange new ease. I did not understand everything I had…

I went there seeking healing and found myself at the border between miracle and consequence, grace and responsibility. Whatever I experienced at the Casa, the harder lesson was practical: healing could not excuse me from life. If it meant anything, it had to return me to life with greater discipline, courage, and clarity. In that small healing town, prayer and blessing felt closer than they ever had before. I also began to imagine a world in which spiritual care might find a meaningful place within ordinary life — a possibility I would later learn to hold with greater discernment. In the hidden geometry of a life, what appears accidental often later reveals itself as part of a deeper necessity. I did not know any of this when I saw a Facebook advertisement for a crystal healing bed. At the time, what…

By 2018, I had begun to see a harder truth about the spiritual marketplace: it could speak fluently of compassion while leaving the wounded outside the door. Zhen’s emails showed me what happened when someone fell too far without money, access, or sustained support. Around the same time, I watched a healing method become, in another person’s hands, something to claim, package, and sell. What disturbed me was how little sacred language revealed about the person using it. Healing techniques could be taught, but the heart remained another matter. Without inner cultivation, even a sincere practice could be bent toward status, possession, or profit. By then, my weariness had deepened into a question I could no longer think my way through. Somewhere beyond the arguments, the courses, and the price tags, I wanted to know what healing actually…

One of the stranger lessons I learned in UFO circles began with a young man being mocked for claiming the wrong kind of alien ancestry. He said he felt connected to the Greys. Had he chosen the Pleiades, the reaction might have been rather warmer. The argument itself was trivial. What stayed with me was the instinct beneath it. In communities devoted to awakening and cosmic openness, beauty still carried authority. Human-looking beings invited trust; stranger forms had to overcome suspicion before they were heard. I would later discover, somewhat embarrassingly, that the same reflex lived in me. The Trouble with Being a Grey The argument itself began, as so many minor scandals in UFO circles did, with a conversation that was never meant to matter. It was a lazy weekend afternoon. I was chatting with an acquaintance from…