37. Mind Control Wars: The Unseen Forces Shaping Chinese History

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 someone powerful enough to bend an era could itself be altered, the disturbance would never remain private. Once joined to power, it could enter history.

The subject of secret societies drew my thoughts further back into history. I kept returning to the French Revolution and to the eye depicted above the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, later widely associated with the “all-seeing eye.” I wondered whether it pointed to some deeper, less visible connection between the Revolution and secret societies such as the Illuminati.

Over time, the question widened. In another body of thought I later encountered, some believed that power could be influenced at a level deeper than politics—that non-human intelligences might interfere with key individuals through implants, manipulation of consciousness, or attachment by lower-dimensional entities, altering temperament, judgment, and consequential decisions. Conventional historical evidence could not establish such claims, yet they forced me to reconsider the scale on which history itself might be shaped.

Had the Illuminati, the Freemasons, or other secret organisations played a hidden role in moments of upheaval such as the French Revolution? If such influence existed, could it have helped prepare the ground for Napoleon’s extraordinary rise?

I had no answers. The questions remained like cracks that would not quite close. History reaches us after it has been recorded, selected, arranged, and interpreted. What was concealed, omitted, or never given a language of its own is harder to recover.

Years later, browsing Kinokuniya in Sydney, I came across Professor Song Yongyi’s Mao Zedong and the Cultural Revolution: A New Interpretation of Political Psychology and Cultural Genes. His cool, incisive analysis made me look again at some of the most powerful figures of the era through political psychology and inner life. I began to wonder what happens when a ruler’s private mental world might matter once it was joined to enormous political power.

What stopped me was his account of the “Great Leader’s” last wife.

According to the book, in July 1958 a group of leading Chinese doctors examined her and found no obvious organic disease. They did, however, report psychological abnormalities, including obsessive ideas and what they described as a “dual personality,” and submitted their findings to the country’s highest leader.

She later suffered from severe neurasthenia, insomnia, fear, and violent emotional outbursts. After treatment in the Soviet Union, she continued to report a range of physical symptoms. Two details caught me immediately. She described something heavy pressing down on her head - “almost like an iron helmet clamped over it.” During episodes of tinnitus, she felt as though insects were burrowing deeper into her ear.

I stopped at those two images: the iron helmet, and the insects entering the ear.

The descriptions unsettled me because they echoed cases I had heard about for years from quantum-hypnosis practitioners, healers, and people who has psychic abilities said they could remove implants. In some sessions, clients undergoing an “inner-vision scan” reported a helmet-like structure around the head, interpreted within that framework as an etheric implant used to interfere with consciousness. Others described something resembling a bone-conduction headset, attached near the ear and extending inward, which they believed could transmit instructions or disrupt thought.

Mainstream science does not recognise these explanations. What stayed with me was the recurrence of strikingly similar bodily sensations among people who had never met. I wondered whether they pointed to something our existing systems of knowledge had yet to understand.

One figure who remained especially vivid in my mind was Dr Ma Yuanze, a doctor said to possess what Chinese spiritual traditions call the “sky eye”—an ability to remote view beyond ordinary sight. In accounts I encountered, he worked with people who believed they carried etheric implants around the head or other intrusive energetic attachments and lower-dimensional entities. Some accounts attributed such implants to hostile non-human beings and claimed they were used for experiments on the human body.

These claims sit far outside conventional medical language. Yet they taught me something I could no longer ignore: the same anomalous experience can acquire entirely different meanings depending on the system through which it is interpreted. What one framework calls pathology, another may understand as interference, attachment, or intrusion.

An experience excluded from the prevailing scientific framework does not disappear simply because no accepted language exists for it.

Until then, whenever I thought about alien implants, spirit attachment, or mind control, I had thought almost entirely in terms of space—as though such interference belonged to certain places, certain communities, certain people at the margins of accepted reality. I had rarely thought to add time to the map.

If people today use terms such as “implant,” “consciousness interference,” or “spirit attachment” for experiences outside current scientific and medical frameworks, what of people who lived centuries ago? Might they have endured comparable disturbances of mind and body without the language to name them or any means of leaving an account?

Song Yongyi’s records brought that question into history for me. Their clinical descriptions, cold and impersonal on the page, cut into my previous understanding of the past. I began to wonder whether figures who had shaped entire eras might themselves have experienced disturbances of consciousness that we still do not know how to explain.

Their breakdowns were later absorbed into familiar categories - temperament, illness, fate, the pressures of an age. Those explanations may be valid. I began to wonder whether they exhausted the possibilities.

A sharper question followed: who draws the boundary around what medicine and science are prepared to recognise? Who decides which experiences may be admitted as real, and which are assigned to hallucination, pathology, or superstition - and therefore removed from serious consideration?

I found myself thinking of the square and compasses, the familiar Masonic emblem. Instruments designed to measure and define space, they suggested another meaning to me: to measure the world is also, in some sense, to draw boundaries around it. Every established system of knowledge develops its own vocabulary, classifications, and standards of evidence. Once those standards acquire sufficient authority, they shape more than the way we interpret reality. They also help determine which experiences are granted entry into reality at all.

Modern medicine depends on disciplined standards of evidence. Mental disturbance is assessed through observable symptoms, clinical patterns, measurable findings, and established diagnostic frameworks. That discipline guards against unrestricted speculation. It can also leave subjective experiences that cannot yet be measured by existing instruments outside the boundaries of what medicine is able to explain.

There was a darkly comic detail in the doctors’ 1958 assessment. Having concluded that she suffered from obsessive ideas and what they called a “dual personality,” they recommended, among other things, that she “take part in more cultural and recreational activities.”

History supplied the irony. Before long, the country’s supreme leader drew her into the cultural arena, first through Peking opera reform and then into the political heart of the Cultural Revolution, where she became one of its most influential figures. The doctors could hardly have imagined the scale on which their prescription would be carried out.

She was hardly the only powerful figure of that era whose psychological condition raised troubling questions. Song Yongyi also examines the mental states and personality traits of other senior leaders. Once serious inner disorder is joined to immense power, it ceases to be private. Power becomes an amplifier, carrying fear, paranoia, and hostility into institutions.

The Cultural Revolution revealed how devastating that amplification could become. Under coercion and pervasive fear, denunciation became a means of self-protection; finding enemies became a way to prove loyalty.

This was where my later encounters with theories of consciousness interference began to trouble me. If someone at the summit of power were suffering profound psychological disturbance—or, within another interpretive framework, implants, spirit attachment, or some form of interference with consciousness—the machinery of the state could magnify that private disorder across millions of lives. Once inner chaos acquires institutional power, it can become the disorder of an age.

I could not prove that such interference had occurred. The possibility remained a question. Were the phenomena described in UFO and healing circles peculiar to the present, or had similar experiences appeared throughout history under other names, scattered across records we had never thought to place on the same map?

A striking parallel emerged from a very different spiritual tradition. Father Gabriele Amorth, a longtime exorcist for the Diocese of Rome, believed that evil could work through individuals and spread outward to entire groups, even nations. He cited Marx, Hitler, and Stalin as examples, interpreting Nazism and Communist mass violence through that religious lens.

Reading him, I could not help thinking that his catalogue of Communist horrors had omitted one conspicuous figure—the man whose portrait still appears on China’s hundred-yuan note.

During the decades in which he dominated Chinese politics, the cult of personality reached extreme proportions. Successive political campaigns carried ideological struggle into workplaces, schools, neighbourhoods, and families. Denunciation and political classification, and fear, some people learned to injure others to protect themselves; persecution and violence broke others, driving some into madness or death.

The damage outlived the generation that endured it. Fear, insecurity, repression, and self-censorship entered family life and travelled quietly across generations, shaping many who came of age in the 1980s and 1990s.

When inherited trauma combines with authoritarian political culture, its effects enter ordinary relationships. They shape how people respond to power, handle conflict, speak honestly, and learn to silence themselves before danger has even arrived. The campaigns have passed into history, yet some of the psychological structures they created remain embedded in daily life.

By then, the question had become impossible for me to leave alone.

In the UFO and spiritual circles I encountered, many believed that implants, multidimensional entities, and other forms of interference could alter thought, emotion, even personality. What troubled me was the implication of power. Once someone so affected gained authority over others, the disturbance could spread far beyond the individual.

If these phenomena were real, I wanted to know what lay behind them—who placed the implants, what drove spirit attachment, and whether a larger structure connected the interference.

Hostile non-human forces were one possible explanation, though perhaps not the last. I also wondered about secret societies, state programs, and technologies capable of influencing thought. These possibilities belonged to different categories, and I could not fold them into a single theory. Yet they converged on one unsettling idea: perhaps consciousness itself is a territory over which power can be exercised.

If so, then beyond the wars we recognise—military, political, ideological—there may be another, less visible struggle over consciousness, will, and the human spirit.

That possibility changed the way I looked at history. Politics, economics, and military force remained real enough, but I could no longer assume they explained everything. Some of history’s madness clearly comes from fear, ambition, trauma, and cruelty. I began to wonder whether another current might also run beneath the surface, one for which we still lack an adequate language.

Perhaps history has never been shaped only on battlefields or in halls of power. Some of its deepest struggles may also have taken place inside the human mind.