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Cult Friction

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FREEDOM FIGHTERS Anonymous' tagline: "Because none of us is as cruel as all of us" (Photo: Sam Comen)

Scientology, of course, has always thrived when it's under attack. Hubbard was keen to make sure that its enemies, whether real or imagined, loomed large in the lives of his adherents. He railed against "the forces of evil [who] have launched their lies and sought, by whatever twisted means, to check and destroy Scientology"—whether they be IRS agents, psychiatrists, or reporters, whom he dubbed "merchants of chaos." A pillar of the Church's theology is the existence of "suppressive persons," who must be avoided, or "handled," in the Church's euphemistic jargon. In 1967, Hubbard promulgated what he called the "fair game" policy, whereby anyone judged to be an antagonist "may be deprived of property or injured [and] tricked, sued or lied to, or
destroyed." (He later withdrew it, citing "bad PR.") Miscavige has chosen his own aggressive, protomilitant style, pumping up Scientology troops with talk of an "assault on planetary suppression" and the "global obliteration" of psychiatry, Scientology's bête noire.

Scientologists covertly infiltrated one critic's life, befriended her, and, an FBI agent later told her, framed her by using stationery with her fingerprints on it to send bomb threats to the ChurchIn keeping with Hubbard's fair game dictate, every time Scientology has been attacked, it has quickly struck back, which is what makes the current barrage against the Church so remarkable. Not long ago, anyone brave enough to publicly criticize the organization suffered dearly. Paulette Cooper, an investigative journalist whose 1971 exposé, The Scandal of Scientology, was the first mainstream book to criticize the Church, found herself subjected to what she described as a 15-year campaign of harassment. Scientologists covertly infiltrated her life, befriended her, and, an FBI agent later told her, framed her by using stationery with her fingerprints on it to send bomb threats to the Church. Branded a lunatic, she became suicidal, lost her boyfriend, and was down to 83 pounds when a 1977 FBI raid on Scientology offices in L.A. and Washington, D.C., turned up documents indicating she had been the target of "Operation Freakout"—a coordinated campaign to get her "incarcerated in a mental institution or jail, or at least to hit her so hard that she drops her attacks."

Fourteen years later, after writer Richard Behar wrote a blistering cover story for Time headlined "The Thriving Cult of Greed and Power," the Church unsuccessfully sued the magazine for $416 million and sicced six private investigators on Behar himself, obtaining his phone records and credit reports, and digging into his personal life. Likewise, former Scientologists who have spoken out have found themselves cut off from their families and worse. Alexander says his clients have received calls from people claiming that he ripped them off. He believes the calls were placed by Church members.

As recently as February, according to Miscavige's estranged niece, a reporter for a British tabloid received a vaguely threatening phone call after interviewing her. The reporter had contacted the Church's press office seeking a response to Hill's claims that the religion tears families apart. Shortly thereafter, he received a call from a stranger asking if his mother knew that he was working on a story about Hill. The caller then recited the writer's mother's home address. Soon after, the story was killed.

The journalist, a freelancer whom Radar has agreed not to name, says the story never ran because it lacked a celebrity angle. But he acknowledges that he received a troubling call and that his status as a self-employed reporter without the backing of a newspaper made it difficult to ignore. "If it weren't little old me, I wouldn't blink," he says. "But I have blinked, and there's not much that can be done about it."

Few expect the hackers behind Anonymous to blink. In fact, rarely has an opponent of Scientology so gleefully played into the Church's paranoia and xenophobia.

"It's not against their people or religion," says one Anonymous member who, predictably, declined to offer his identity. "We respect the right for them to believe what they want. We oppose their lawsuits and their bully tactics. Every religion goes through its stages of infancy. The Catholics had the Crusades, but for the first time in history, the common people have enough power to stop Scientology before it gets to that."

Given Anonymous' decentralized nature, it's difficult to gauge the individual motives of its members. Literally anyone with a computer can "join." And it's not just hacker nihilists: doctors, lawyers, and professors are involved, they claim. "Anonymous," says a member who calls herself Sarah, "is a collective group of individuals with no leader, who do anything they can and want."

A few days after Anonymous' "Message to Scientology" appeared on YouTube, powder-filled envelopes arrived at 19 Los Angeles–area Scientology facilities. The powder was harmless, but the FBI was called in to investigate. Anons interviewed by Radar disavowed the mailings and suggested the envelopes were sent by Scientologists themselves to discredit Anonymous—a tactic the Church had used against Paulette Cooper—and claimed that, as a free-form public movement, members have no control over every action taken in their name. Another wayward attack, according to "Sarah," involved someone faxing hundreds of pages with only the word "nigger" printed on them over and over again, to a number mistakenly believed to be affiliated with the Church. She regrets that, but says she's helped "successfully stop a lot of other people who had really stupid plans." The Church has denounced Anonymous as a "cyber-terrorist group" committing "hate crimes" and accused them of "bomb threats, death threats, and threats to burn down Church buildings."

"The Church can confirm that appropriate law enforcement authorities are investigating the criminal acts of Anonymous," Scientology spokeswoman Karin Pouw wrote in a 10-page response to Radar's questions. "[Anonymous] will not disrupt the Church's normal activities of serving its parishioners and the community." (Click here to read the church's entire response in PDF form.)

In a sign that they were more than just a passing Internet fad, Anonymous soon graduated from pulling pranks just for the "lulz"—anonyspeak for shits and giggles—to real-life, up close and personal activism. February 10 is the birthday of Lisa McPherson, the 36-year-old Scientologist who died from dehydration in Clearwater in 1995 while in the Church's care. She was allegedly in the midst of a psychotic breakdown, and the Church was reluctant to hospitalize her for fear that she would be treated by a psychiatrist. McPherson's death sparked a round of back-and-forth litigation and galvanized anti-Scientology groups. On what would have been her 49th birthday, Anonymous scheduled protests in front of Scientology facilities in 100 cities worldwide. They planned to wear V for Vendetta Guy Fawkes masks, hand out leaflets, and carry signs. According to Anonymous, 6,000 people showed up around the world. My first visit to Clearwater's eerily deserted downtown was on February 9, the day before the planned protest.

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MAGIC KINGDOM Saint Hill Manor in East Grinstead, the home of L. Ron Hubbard (Photo: Getty Images)
Invariably, former Scientologists do the same thing when they first leave the Church: They log onto the Internet and start searching. "Members of the general public know more about Scientology than decades-long members do," says Chuck Beatty, a 27-year veteran who worked for Author Services, Inc., the powerful Scientology organization that manages Hubbard's copyrights. As a rule, Scientologists are forbidden from exposing themselves to any of the dozens of websites—xenu.net, chief among them—devoted to exposing the Church's sordid past and nefarious nature. While much of the information has been available on the Internet for years, you once had to actively seek it out. Interest in the Tom Cruise video and media coverage of the Anonymous campaign has pushed this information out in front of a mass online audience, reinforcing the view that Scientology is a cult and cutting into its recruitment efforts. "Celebrities are gaining them exposure and ridicule," says Beatty, "but they're not gaining them members."

The Church has set its sights on African Americans, opening up a center in Harlem in 2003 and making a strong play for Hollywood supercouple Will Smith and Jada Pinkett Smith"Robert Vaughn Young once said the Internet is going to be Scientology's Waterloo," says frequent Scientology critic and journalist Mark Ebner, referring to a high-level defector. "And he was right."

Scientology's outlandish creation myth is a closely held secret within the organization—learning about it prior to reaching OT III is said to cause mental retardation or, by some accounts, death. But for potential recruits, it is a simple matter of Googling—or watching South Park—to learn that Hubbard believed an interstellar overlord named Xenu killed billions of beings in an attempt to thwart galactic overpopulation 75 million years ago. Their souls, Hubbard taught, infest Earth-goers and can only be removed through a hybrid of counseling and interrogation known as auditing, using an E-meter, or crude lie detector.

Faced with an increasingly skeptical public here at home, former members say, the Church has begun to target its recruitment efforts at communities statistically less likely to have Web access. In particular, it has stepped up its efforts in Central America, where, according to remarks made by Mike Rinder at a Scientology gathering in 2004, the first lady of Honduras is a convert. Critics point out that much of the anti-Scientology material available online has yet to be translated into Spanish, making Spanish-speakers an easier sell. The Church has also set its sights on African Americans, opening up a center in Harlem in 2003 and making a strong play for Hollywood supercouple Will Smith and Jada Pinkett Smith. At a 2006 gathering, Miscavige spoke glowingly of Kimora Lee Simmons's efforts to distribute a personalized edition of Hubbard's The Way to Happiness, featuring her image on the cover, to schoolkids in New Jersey. (Simmons's rep denied she was a Scientologist after video of Miscavige's speech became public. Watch the video below. Miscavige lauds Simmons' contributions to the church at 6:15.)



Even as Scientology comes under assault from outside forces, it is also, say former members, bleeding from within. "I see more and more people leaving and willing to speak," says Tory Christman, who worked in the Office of Special Affairs for 20 years and says she spent more than $200,000 on Scientology courses before dropping out in 2000. Christman left—or "blew," in Scientology parlance—because she has epilepsy and wasn't permitted to take medication for it; psychiatric and neurological drugs are a serious no-no. But after two decades of working her way up the Bridge, she was forced to confront the fact that even L. Ron Hubbard could not cure epilepsy.

"At the top ranks, there's a very high blow rate," says Beatty. "They can't take it anymore."

Indeed, Scientology faces an inherent conundrum: Adherents are ushered up the Bridge with specific promises that they will be able to leave their bodies at will, stop time, read minds, and never succumb to illness. As long as there's another level to rise to, former Scientologists say, it's easy enough to convince yourself that your magical powers are just around the corner (even if they were supposed to have already materialized). "I got in it because I thought the out-of-body experience was real," says Beatty. "And after 20 years, I found out, it's not. But by the time you've gotten there, you've dumped a couple hundred thousand dollars, or like me, 20 years of your life into it. You don't want to give up. It's a group fantasy."

To keep that fantasy, and the attendant revenue stream, going, the Church has had to come up with new ways to dangle advancements beyond OT VIII—ostensibly the highest level you can reach, according to Hubbard—without seeming too craven. In 1995, Miscavige announced what he called "the golden age of tech," which was essentially a claim that Scientology's auditors had been doing everything all wrong. "We just discovered a treasure trove of L. Ron Hubbard," Miscavige said, meaning that everyone needed to do their courses over. And pay for them, naturally.

But the coup de grâce of Scientology's campaign to keep its members motivated and their wallets open is a massive 380,000-square-foot Mediterranean Revival structure, occupying a whole block in Clearwater across from the Fort Harrison Hotel, known as the Super Power Building. Though the Church broke ground on the building a decade ago, and almost everything has been flawlessly in place on the exterior since 2004, it is still not completed. According to the Church's website, the Super Power Building will contain 889 rooms on six floors, a dining room that can serve 1,400 people, facilities for 1,200 staffers and 1,600 "parishioners," five miles of carpet, and 180 miles of electrical wiring. The Church has announced and ignored innumerable completion dates; it now says it expects the building to open in mid-2008.

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