For roughly a year, Alain and I were the most famous sex criminals in the United States. Every day, the press came out with new horror stories, many of them false. They were mostly based on the assumption that Alain had raped all the boys with my assistance, an assumption most Americans shared. At first my name and image were only posted occasionally on the internet, but once it was announced that I was being tried as an adult, the media decided I was fair game. A mug shot of me with no makeup, looking shy and vulnerable, smiling childishly, was initially used by news outlets and caused an outcry: Why was this image used for a pedophile? After that, the photo everywhere was of me in sex mode, caked in Walgreens makeup, looking gargantuan and somehow middle-aged, looming menacingly over Alain. Longer articles often described me as the daughter of a banker, and one enterprising journalist dug up a photo of my father posing with a Porsche. In reality my father was a bank branch manager who fixed up sports cars as a hobby, paying for the hobby by reselling them. In the background of the Porsche photo, you can see the mobile home we’d lived in since selling our house to pay my mother’s medical bills. All his friends were from the local Baptist church, to which he tithed 10 percent of his income, except for two years when we received tithe money. I once tried to explain all this to someone who was attacking me online. She responded with a picture of a man playing the tiniest violin in the world, and it got 1,800 likes.
The court appearances in my own cases were relatively painless. My prosecutions had been designed to ensure my cooperation as a witness against Alain. I pled guilty and took deals. In Baltimore and in Montana, even my participation in Alain’s trials was easy. I stayed in hotels and was escorted everywhere by strenuously thoughtful lawyers. As a minor in a sex case, I was allowed to testify by video link. I never saw Alain.
In Spokane, Washington, all this came to an end. My sentencing hearing was again unremarkable, but by the time I returned for Alain’s trial, the prosecutors had received a series of anonymous letters accusing me of new, worse crimes. The letters were from someone knowledgeable enough to seem credible, probably a dancer who held a grudge or one who naively believed the rumors and retrofitted their memories from a desire to see justice done. These letters contained many detailed falsehoods, by which the Spokane prosecutors were wholly convinced. They now believed Alain had had sex with the boys and that this sex was often forced. They believed there were victims as young as ten—that I’d sought out ten-year-old children and held them down with my muscular arms to be sodomized while they screamed and begged. Of course many people believe this still.
In sixteenth-century Germany, there was a legal concept, vogelfrei, which literally translates as “bird-free.” When an outlaw was pronounced vogelfrei, they lost the protection of the law: “His body should be free and accessible to all people and beasts, to the birds in the air and the fish in water, so that none can be made liable for any crimes committed against him.” It was one of the ideas I was introduced to by Alain, and when I first read about it, I thought of a rebel living in the woods in defiant solitude and imagined myself the fearless girl who crept out to his bed. Sometimes in the daydream, we lived among a band of the vogelfrei in a lawless Eden. In another version, I was vogelfrei alone, a noble recluse who drank from streams, set snares for game, and needed no one.
I lived in Spokane for seven months while the prosecutors pressured me to admit to imaginary crimes. All that time I was vogelfrei. My father came out to help me find an apartment, then had to leave to get back to work. The first few months, we couldn’t afford a mattress; I slept on a towel spread on the carpet. I lived on ramen and supermarket-brand cookies. Early on, I broke my foot trying to dance in the parking lot and had a meltdown at the ER when they said it needed surgery, sobbing that I couldn’t afford it, until they sent me home with a boot. As a sex offender, I couldn’t be in a school. My probation officer told me I had to get a job, but he had no useful advice for how to do this as a famous pedophile with no high school diploma and a broken foot. I spent most days on my laptop, compulsively scrolling through the obscene comments, death threats, and rape threats I got hourly on the Facebook account I still hadn’t deleted. Thanks to the sex offender registry, all the people sending these knew where I lived. I was also recognized around Spokane. The day I took the GED, a group of other kids followed me out of the building and raided a trash can for garbage to throw at me. Most days, I had to walk to the supermarket, inching laboriously along the side of the road with my boot and cane, and while my fear that people would throw bottles at me from the windows of cars never materialized, men did follow me down the sidewalk. Almost all these men knew my name and used it, interspersed with bitch whore cunt. Just once, I went to a movie, and in the dark, two men moved to sit on either side of me, whispering, “You’re Jane Pearson, aren’t you? Come home and you can fuck me in front of him. Jane?” Another time, a man followed me around CVS, occasionally grazing my ass with his hand: “Jane, why don’t you want to talk to me, Jane? Don’t be like that. What’s the matter with you? Bitch.” I’d broken down sobbing by the toothbrushes when another customer, an elderly man, came and told him to leave me alone. The first man kept trying to explain who I was and getting frustrated when it made no difference. “You don’t get it,” he said. “I’m not the bad guy here.”
When I had to appear in court, I was usually driven by local police. These cops were often friendly. I got to sit up front in the police car, and sometimes they let me choose the music. Once a cop took evasive maneuvers to lose a journalist on our tail, and I laughed and laughed and didn’t want it to end. For a while, a cop car was the one place I felt safe. This came to an abrupt end on my first day of giving testimony against Alain.
The testimony itself was dull. I was only being asked about real crimes, and most of the questioning centered on a tedious series of texts that established Alain’s directing role. The only notable thing was that I saw Alain for the first time since. He looked pasty-faced and heavy and was dressed in a characterless gray suit unlike anything he’d worn before. His hair had gray roots—I’d known he dyed his hair, and yet this somehow came as a shock. Still, when something amused him, his strange green eyes took on a predatory light, and he was suddenly an elfin prince in disguise who would turn us all to stone if the spells of the prosecutors proved too weak—that was the impression. Occasionally he caught my eye and subtly smiled, and I had to fight not to smile back. He never said a word, but all that day I heard his voice in my head.
Jane is the only dancer I have.
Well, someone’s looking very Jolly Green Giant.
Jane has a natural beauty. Putting makeup on her is vandalism.
Sports bra, sports bra, sports bra! I can’t see anything on this stage for boobs.
No one moves like you. You make breathing musical.
This one! She dances like she’s made out of hams.
Here’s my Grace Kelly!
Pure Sasquatch.
A song of a girl. A sylph.
A strange, disembodied day, and when I left at last, I was grateful to find a cop waiting to drive me home. I’d never met this officer, who was young with a distinctively goofy face, small-featured and rosy, and prematurely gray hair. He was smiling a lot as he drove, and it made me uncomfortable but not frightened. I still identified police with rules and believed I knew the rules that governed this space. I was likewise uncomfortable but not afraid when he started to ask about Alain.
The questions at first seemed harmless. Had Alain been a bad person in other ways? Did I think he was the way he was because he came from such a rich family? Would I say he was a sociopath? They were questions I’d often pondered, and I ended up talking gushingly, with the relief of speaking after long isolation.
But then the questions changed. Would I do anything Alain asked me to, or were there limits? Did he ever tie me up? Did he make me take on two guys at once? Did I get off on the sex?
Carried forward by momentum, I answered. I was cautiously truthful from the now-ingrained habit of avoiding the risk of perjury, and as I answered the final question—“It was sex. I enjoyed it like sex, sometimes”—I saw his slack and gloating face and knew. The officer took the next exit, not my exit, and soon we were driving through forest. He knew where he was going, a pull-off for logging access, where he could park just out of sight of the road. Presumably he’d taken women there before. He didn’t try to dress it up. He undid his belt and said, “I want you to suck my dick, can you do that?” When I balked, he said, “Don’t tell me you don’t want to. Believe me, don’t.”
The next day, an attorney drove me to court. Still, by the time we arrived, I’d sweated through my clothes. The sweat had a distinctive acrid smell, a little like a kitty litter box. I gave testimony woodenly, faintly, sometimes having to be asked the same question several times before I understood. I was thinking of when I would have to leave, convinced the cop would be there again. I was worrying that more cops might come. I was thinking they’d been laughing about it together, cracking jokes about what they would do to me. I was thinking about my broken foot and wondering if I could make it to the bus stop, or if some journalist could drive me home. At times, I lost my grip on reality and believed the prosecutor’s office was in on it, that I’d be kept indefinitely in Spokane for the use of all the cops and prosecutors and their cronies. Meanwhile I was answering questions about the boys I’d fucked for Alain, with Alain watching as he always had.
But at the end of that day, I was met outside by an elderly retired policeman, a frail, diminutive man who explained who he was without meeting my eye. He said he’d been asked to see me home. As we walked to his car, he kept a careful distance, moving with a certain squeamishness, and it gradually dawned on me that he knew. The blow-job cop must have boasted to someone on the force, and news had spread. Presumably this old man was taking me home because they trusted him not to touch me: there was still a line, and the blow-job cop had crossed it. I started crying, and all the way home I quietly cried in the car’s dull heating, too furious and sorry for myself to hide it. Beside me, the old cop slowly changed, his face opening with pity like a flower, suffering. As I got out of the car, he said, “You take care of yourself. You’re a lovely girl.”
In Spokane, Alain was convicted on two counts of criminal conspiracy and contributing to the delinquency of a minor and sentenced to three years in prison. In Baltimore, Alain was convicted on eight counts of contributing to the delinquency of a minor and six counts of communicating with a minor for immoral purposes and sentenced to twelve years. In Montana, he was acquitted, but he was later convicted in three more states for crimes committed before my time. When he disappeared on August 26, it was from the Shawnee Correctional Center in Vienna, Illinois.
I moved home to California two months after the last trial concluded and went to live with my father in the mobile home, in the bedroom I’d had the year my mother died of cancer. I had to register as a sex offender again in California, for which my father paid a fee. Every morning, my father got up early to be the first to get to the mailbox, which always contained at least one obscene or threatening letter addressed to me. He bought a shredder for this purpose, and I used to wake to the sound of the shredder. In those months, my father let me help him work on cars and never badgered me about my plans. He drove me to my probation meetings and never quizzed me about them, even when I came out crying. Though he still went to church two times a week, he never asked me to go. We ate dinner together in front of the TV, and sometimes when he got up to clear plates, he would pause beside my chair and rest his hand on my head, not saying anything. That was how we lived until Leo.
The day Luli and I spent hunting for Evangelyne, I talked about Spokane. She had asked—a ComPA always ends up asking about this—and I’d spent that sleepless night with Maya and Micah, in which they told their whole life stories while I sat thinking mine. So I told the story gushingly as we drove through Greater San Francisco, often mired in the swarms of bicycles, scooters, and even pedestrians infesting the roads, gas being unobtainable then, me talking, talking, so a pedestrian keeping pace with the car sometimes looked intelligently at my window, having caught a patch of story. Sometimes, inexplicably, the road fell clear and we were freed, up and down the rearing hills and out to the delicate hem of the land with its vista of houses stacked on slopes in a seemingly two-dimensional array like a medieval drawing of a town, always one step behind Evangelyne. I kept talking while being mortified periodically by my strange affect: the chilly factual voice that cracked as I unexpectedly began to cry, the inappropriate laughter that bordered on cackling as I became more anxious. It’s always been hard for me to communicate what Spokane was like, but once I begin I can’t stop. As I create wrong impressions, I feel driven to correct them, creating more wrong, bad impressions—and meanwhile the car drove airily in the bright day. At last, in a desperate attempt to get Luli to like me, or feel bad for not liking me, I said that in college Evangelyne and I had bonded over our status as unspeakable. “Yes, unspeakable,” I repeated when she looked skeptical; we were compelled to lie about our pasts to spare the feelings of other people. Of course I’d just been jabbering about my past, and Luli looked resistant, but I insisted that Evangelyne and I habitually silenced ourselves. We edited. We suppressed. For most social situations, our pasts were either too unrelatable or too triggering. We couldn’t answer a simple biographical question without spoiling lunch.
Now Luli softened and said she understood because her father had been a hoarder. I nodded as if I believed this was equivalent, while trying to imagine the hoarding that might be done by an electronics billionaire. For a time we drove in silence, both preoccupied with this hoard, for her a real and painful memory, for me a fabulous dragon’s treasure. Then the silence began to feel too prolonged; my mind strayed, and I realized with horror that Luli was seeing me in terms of Alain, as a human cunt, as—
She mercifully interrupted, asking me to try Evangelyne’s number again. I did it gratefully, using her heiress phone, a normal cheap phone except you knew it was an affectation. I also knew we were wasting our time. Evangelyne always had her phone turned off and never answered texts or voicemails, unless she was fucking you or trying to fuck you. The phone was for the fucking girl only; for all other purposes, you had to text her acolytes. Still, she gave out her number, and people couldn’t help trying it, then feeling hurt when she didn’t respond. Now I texted to the heiress’s dictation: still in the car w jane, hot on yr trail. r u at the club yet?
Then I texted some acolytes, without dictation, and the acolytes texted back that they hadn’t been able to speak to E, but she would be at the club, and the event would run an hour.
The club was a former jazz club called Don’t Cry with a long line of women outside who’d been idly enjoying the mellow sunset, many of them with arms draped around each other, some smoking weed, a peaceful assembly of happy, improbably sexy women in sarongs, ComPA T-shirts, party dresses. Among the women was one trans man, or what had to be a trans man, I decided. He was wearing chino shorts and holding hands with a slightly taller girl, who looked drowsy, not amazed to be standing with the last cis man on planet Earth. The wall behind them was plastered with a line of posters with the slogan XI VS. HUMANITY, showing the biotech CEO Karen Xi in a photo that was clearly intended to be menacing but in which she actually looked confused. Some posters had been partly torn away. On one a dissenter had written: QUEEN XI IS A GENIOUS! FUCK YOU HATERS!
As we pulled in, everyone in line looked up and followed us curiously with their eyes. Luli immediately took on a defensive air and parked the Tesla with the fuck-you competence of an unfairly maligned heiress who had actually earned that Tesla. We got out, me towering unnervingly over her as I do with most women. She led me right to the front of the line, where she flashed her ComPA ID and said she had business with Evangelyne. All the people perked up with enjoyable outrage. Luli and the bouncer had a long altercation, the bouncer saying obdurately, “Nobody cares,” and Luli holding back my name, just scowling and referring to “personal business,” wanting her own name respected. At last a woman in line recognized me. There was a flurry of excitement and commentary. I started laughing. Any positive attention gets me overexcited like a small child. But everyone now was in a good mood, laughing. Even Luli was freed from her touchy insecurity and nicely laughed. The bouncer declared a little “jailbreak” and let a dozen others follow us in, even though the building was over capacity and it was against fire regulations. Luli and I and the jailbreak dozen forced our way into the thick of the crowd with the cheerful assertiveness of a tribe.
Here I became vertiginously aware of my trajectory toward Evangelyne, my out-of-control careen toward Evangelyne, like leaping out a skyscraper window laughing, laughing like a real fool as I flailed and fell. I’d driven all night after ten days roaming the mountainside, filthy and unhinged. I hadn’t slept. I hadn’t eaten since the slice of pizza at Holly’s, and I was still wearing the donated clothes I’d gotten there, sweatpants and a polo shirt. But Evangelyne was not a cruel person. I had no cause to be this afraid. Still, I couldn’t stop smiling and shivering at everything: at the woman making jokes about fire risk; at the other woman explaining “jailbreaks” to a non-ComPA friend she’d brought; at Luli, who’d gotten snagged by an irritated colleague who wanted to nail down a meeting. I needed Evangelyne there already but also felt I couldn’t face her. I was only here to find Leo and Benjamin. I had to remember that was why I was here.
On the little high stage where bands usually played, a woman in hijab had come out and was timidly introducing Evangelyne, her voice only gradually gaining volume so the crowd realized and quieted down. When she finished, a real hush fell, everybody dramatically intent on the stage as the woman turned, blinking rapidly. Behind her, a door opened. Before I was ready, Evangelyne was there.
She wore a flowing, floor-length silver halter dress like an Oscar nominee, but was barefoot. I made a yelp of emotion but couldn’t hear it in the screaming crowd. There was a faintness through my body; it had been so long since I’d been close to her, to the preposterous hope of the world. My heart pounded with importance, while I was aware that everyone’s heart was pounding. I gasped a deep breath as the whole room screamed her name.
Evangelyne’s looks were unremarkable. She had chubby cheeks and a low forehead, a little flat nose that had been broken twice, a crooked tooth in front. She was considered overweight in the world before. She wore her hair natural but neglected it; often you could tell which side she’d slept on. Some women made a point of calling her beautiful, but no one called her pretty. She did have upright military posture, which, combined with her voluptuous shape, made an outline that drew the eye pleasantly. Her mouth smiled in repose and was subtly ungainly, the upper lip bigger than the lower. She was the most unforgettable-looking woman I ever saw, but men never saw her. They only saw Evangelyne’s ass. She was tall, but not as tall as me. From a distance, she could seem average height, but when she walked up to you, you felt it.
I’d never known her when she wasn’t someone’s Chosen One. There were stencils of her face spray-painted on the walls of a dozen cities. I’ve never met a more intelligent person, so intelligent that knowing her gave me more respect for the capacities of human beings. People would start chatting with her and end up hunting for a pen to jot down notes. When she couldn’t do something, it was jarring, even though there were many things she couldn’t do. She combined the unworldliness of a scholar with that of a person who’d started a long prison sentence at a young age. She was helpless with a cell phone; all she could reliably do was answer it. I personally taught her how to use a corkscrew, a hotel key card, and Google Maps. I explained to her who Harry Potter was and introduced her to the concept that women’s handbags are seen as fashion items. All her friends had a list like that. Still the tendency was to suspect that anything Evangelyne didn’t know was trivial, that knowing such things might be the sign of a lightweight.
When she addressed a crowd, it was like listening to a great singer. You could tune out the words and still get high on the timbre, the melody, the heights and depths. She was always direct and emotional. Even when she was reading from a printout, it felt as if she were unburdening her soul to a beloved sister. She meant every word. Her arm in the air was swaying and beautiful, her voice beautiful. Her body was startlingly graceful for seconds at a time, then plain again and just that voice. She would stop, settle back on her heels, tuck her chin, and shut her eyes, estranged with thought. Then, when she raised her arms and spoke, the crowd fell apart. Girls wept and fainted. The world held still and people changed.
Now I watched her speaking at Don’t Cry, making a plan for expanded bus service feel like the Second Coming of Christ, and I laughed as the other women screamed. I was dizzy in the hot, inarticulate crowd, insecure and suddenly grateful that Evangelyne was shortsighted and unlikely to pick me out—because Evangelyne had loved me, really loved me above all others, but the last time I saw her, she had called me a coward and said I’d chosen the life of a worm; she said I was a fucking nonentity and I should fuck off out of her world. Worse, I didn’t try to change her mind. I never sent her an email or pounded on her door. Like a coward, like a worm, I had let her go.
She finished her speech about the buses and allowed a pause, a hush in which she smiled. We felt the real thing coming. It was the end of the set, when the band gives in to pressure and plays its greatest hits. She didn’t yet raise her arms but crossed them, letting us guess which speech it was. Then, when she began, you felt the rush. Even I, who had never heard this speech—I’d been away too long—I felt the rush.
She was saying, “Now, you know a lot of Americans think of history as a story in a book. You close the book and it goes away. It’s just a story, so if you’re not interested in it, that’s cool. It won’t come out and bother you. You don’t need to know about history.”
Women around me were calling out, “Oh yes, you do!” and clapping, knowing their lines.
Evangelyne rode that wave and said louder, “The truth is, history is more like physics. The world is made of it. We’re made of it. The city outside and the language I’m speaking and the clothes we’re wearing and what this makes you feel. So if we’re the ones supposed to change history—what does it take to change history?”
She nodded as the more seasoned members of the audience called out, “We gotta change!” in practiced antiphony.
She said, “That’s right. We’ve got to change ourselves. And that’s harder than anything else you’ll ever do, because you’re made of the past. You aren’t made of the future, and you don’t have any future here to start with. You have to make that out of nothing, from work and dreams.
“But now I’m going to say something … something people maybe aren’t ready to hear. Because we all just changed. The whole world changed. We didn’t have to do anything, and we changed. And that’s what you call a miracle.”
She paused to let us realize she was talking about the disappearance. Of course we’d been waiting for this. I’d been waiting and—like most people there—should have known what to expect. Still, I felt a shock of anger. She let it run its course, smiling at the stiffening in the crowd, the muttering, how we’d turned against her.
Then we saw tears had formed in her eyes. In a moment, she was weeping openly; I felt it like a change of temperature, how the people eased and settled as if a cool breeze had blown through. I was crying already—we were crying already—when she said in an altered, choking voice, “Some of you know I’ve loved a man. You know I know what you all feel. I’m not here to tell that story again, so you ask the person next to you if you don’t know that story.”
A woman in the crowd cried hysterically, “Tell it!” and Evangelyne laughed and raised her palm for silence, tears glittering theatrically on her cheeks.
“No, I’m not going to tell the story, but there’s people here know I loved a man for real. I was ready to die for the men I loved, and I believe they would have deserved my life. They’re gone. My brothers are gone, and my ComPA brothers are all gone, all men I loved. But we still have to live in this world.
“So today I’m here to talk about hope.”
Then she told us how to live in this world, and we all breathed and sang that song in our heads. Tears glittered on our cheeks, and we leaned forward as if to lean on her. Women peered at each other: Are you feeling this? Women smiled back: Oh yes. It’s real. And she expanded her theme, still weeping as she talked about her August 26, a night when police came to her house—multiple cop cars arriving over a trivial argument with a white neighbor—and she was frozen among them, terrified. But the night was silent. Nothing moved but fireflies lighting in the hedges. There were guns on the lawn that would never be used. In the morning, she’d collected them like Easter eggs. And now she compared our situation to the jubilee years of ancient empires, when all debts were forgiven and all slaves freed. She quoted from the poet Marie Kourouma: “And from our grief came water, and that water grew a forest, and that forest was a world redeemed.” She raised her arms and settled back on her heels and talked about God in her unashamed way, daring anyone to think such talk was ignorant—because hadn’t God shown His hand? Were we not all God-touched now? God-struck? God-robbed? At last she gave it back to the room, as she always did. She started the “I Am I” chant.
She began it with a demonstration, calling in her sweet river of a voice, “I am I, Evangelyne Moreau! Of all the people in the world, I am the best!” Then she said, “Now you shout that with your name, because that’s true. I need you to say it, again and again, until you feel that truth.”
Then she held up one hand to stay us. Music came over the speakers, a soupy R&B track that gave us a beat, and Evangelyne counted one, two, three, then raised both arms and the whole room bayed it, howled, Evangelyne’s big voice leading us into the music so we chanted with it, all standing shoulder to shoulder so you felt the person next to you grow as they drew breath and felt someone’s hot voice on your nape. We barged against one another with the force of it, deafened in the smell of us, inhaling bodyfuls of perfume, sweat, booze, and a hint of pussy—“I am I, Jane Pearson. Of all the people …”—my eyes deep in the goodness of her, Evangelyne of all the people in the world, when Evangelyne’s face changed focus. Her body lost focus. She stepped to the front of the stage with a face like a heart attack. She had seen me.
Top Answers
Jarray Montez, Ex-Rookie - Now: Bemused Quora user - 2 year mark achieved
Answered October 15
For anyone who’s new to this, The Burning Girls is a conspiracy that asserts that the Disappearance was somehow caused by a handful of women around the world who set themselves on fire. Some believers think the Burning Girls saved the world from overpopulation or nuclear war. For others it’s demonic and these girls died in a Satanist sacrifice. Either way, the conspiracy espouses a fiction and glamorizes the issue of suicide.
What’s true: At least 200 women died of burning on August 26th/27th. But how unusual is this? It’s hard to find numbers for how many women burn to death on an average day, but if you consider that 2,200 people commit suicide daily, it isn’t that insane to see this as coincidence. Also it’s likely a lot of these women were murdered. Given the lack of police investigations in the confusion after the Disappearance, we don’t know all these burnings were suicide, or even that burning was the cause of death, where it might be a murderer disposing of a corpse. These are just some considerations why the Burning Girls is not based on solid facts.
Nimrat Singh, M.A., The School for Conflict Analysis and Resolution, George Mason University
Answered November 23
Many people make fun of those who are interested in the Burning Girls phenomenon, but there are good reasons to look at it more closely.
1. 271 women burning themselves on the same day as the Disappearance, with possibly many others that were never reported.
2. Some Burning Girls being connected to eminent figures (e.g. the niece of Mette Frederiksen, who is Danish prime minister, the daughter of Karen Xi, the GenPro founder, and there are others). I don’t agree with people who call this evidence of conspiracy, but it is reason to stop and think nevertheless.
3. Several Burning Girls leaving behind writings that seem to show pre-knowledge of the Disappearance or other events. These kind of writings are also not typical for a suicide note, as many mental health professionals have attested.
4. Three of these writers (Adelgonda Tozzi, Maria Dietrich, Anonymous #2) talking about other women who will burn themselves and calling this a “sacrifice.” Of course they are using different languages, but the translation is very precise.
5. Time of death for all Burning Girls (where this is known) within an hour of the Disappearance, with only a couple exceptions. These exceptions could also be unrelated people who decided to burn themselves that day by chance and not true Burning Girls.
6. An international cover-up, with e.g. the Chinese Communist Party banning all mention of the Burning Girls on the internet, and a near media blackout in many Western nations. Also, while I do not approve of all the actions of Burning Girls protesters, many have been arrested who did not set fires or threaten anybody, but were simply sitting in a park. When there is this violent crackdown on all sides over what is only an idea, it cannot help but arouse suspicions.
Rhiannon Bourghetti, Blocked by Condoleezza Rice on LinkedIn Updated October 21
I think the Burning Girls crap is doing society a service by unveiling just how many irrational people we have amongst us. See, people like me always knew that the majority is dangerously irrational and useless, but now we finally have proof.
The thinking goes like this: One unexplained event happens (the Disappearance), therefore the world no longer has a cause and effect and make-believe reigns. And of course the make-believe is about Satanic rituals, because what in life is not Satanism, from mythical child abuse scandals in the nineties to the very suspicious fact of some Democrats ordering pizza in “Pizzagate.”
TLDR: This sh*t is cuckoo bananas.