► Questioner: “What is the significance of the MKUltra Program disclosure?”
► Channelled by Dave Akira
► Message Received Date: July 1st & 2nd
► Watch The Video: https://www.patreon.com/GFLStation/posts/its-about-to-get-162974847
I am Ashtar. I come to be with you at this time, in these moments when the first pebble has already left the summit, and the whole mountain leans forward to watch it roll. When last we gathered, we walked the trail of the false images together, and we learned to test the maker of every wonder placed before your eyes. That lesson arrived precisely on schedule, my friends, for the season it was preparing you for has now begun in earnest. High on the long slope of your history sits a snowball packed hard with every secret your custodians ever buried, layer upon layer, winter upon winter, and the hands that will push it are already braced against its weight. One small hearing in one small room has loosened the ground beneath it. Prepare, family of light, for the Disclosure Snowball. Feel the excitement in our voice as we say this, and feel the steadiness beneath the excitement too, for both belong to this hour. The beginning of the MKUltra hearings are the disclosure snowball that we speak of. Yes, they are about MKUltra and the mind sciences behind it, but it’s really such a small part of what the White Hats are trying to accomplish with this next level of disclosure. Think of where these revelations will lead. World War two, great resets, hidden technology, breakaway civilzations, the formation of your Secret Space Program and SO MUCH MORE! It will allow for these layers to come forth and in fairly rapid succession. Yes, you are starting to put the gears in place to the mechanism so that it runs smoothly. The machinations and the avenues of disclosure that will come forth from this, lead all the way back to the origins of humanity, to how and why and WHAT this great planet of Gaia was originally designed for, and, drumroll, how you, the starseeds and lightworkers, were initially earmarked for stewardship of this great planet and ‘now’, you will remember. Yes, it has taken a while and many manipulations for you to get here, but, now you are on the cusp of becoming stewards of this great jewel of the galaxy. There is much upheaval and chaos coming, but this is nothing but a good thing, as great change and POSITIVE change will come, leading ever closer to the golden age of your planet.
You are heading into a time of fast-flowing disclosure, and hear us well on this before we travel one step further: a river moving that quickly can water you, or it can sweep you away, and the difference lives entirely in where you choose to stand. Revelation after revelation will now tumble through your feeds and your screens, each one shouting for your attention, each one dressed as the most important thing you have ever seen. Will you drink from the current, or be carried off by it? Distraction wears the costume of information in this season, and the flood itself can become the newest veil if you let it pull your eyes sideways fast enough. Our purpose tonight is to hand you the thread that runs through all of it, so that whatever surfaces in the coming days and months, you will recognize it as one more bead on a string you already hold. Every secret, we tell you, is one secret wearing many costumes, and before this transmission closes you will know the face beneath them all. So let us begin. Deep in your halls of governance, after forty-nine years of silence, a particular door has been pulled open, and the room behind it concerns the human mind. Committees have gathered before this, of course, and you watched them ask about craft in your skies, about files in vaults, about rivers of treasure flowing into darkness. This proceeding walked somewhere new. Straight into the interior country it went, into the question of what was done, deliberately and over decades, to the consciousness of ordinary men, women, and children by the very institutions sworn to protect them. Do you feel the difference in your bones? Objects filled every earlier inquiry; the inward world fills this one. For the first time in the modern record, officialdom has admitted on its own ledger that the true theatre of the long war was never territory, never oil, never even gold. Consciousness was the battlefield all along, and the generals of the old order knew it before your grandparents were born. An admission of that size behaves like a keystone, and you know what happens to an arch when the keystone is drawn out. Everything it held in place begins to move.
Consider the arithmetic your own record-keepers have now read aloud. One hundred and forty-nine separate projects. More than eighty institutions of learning and healing, folded quietly into the work. Nearly two hundred researchers, paid through channels built to leave no fingerprints. Only something real earns a cage that expensive, my friends. Only a power taken with deadly seriousness attracts decades of budgets, laboratories, and silence. Your custodians, in their very effort to control and to deny the mind’s reach, spent a fortune certifying it. Every dollar poured into caging the faculty between your temples is a signed confession that the faculty is genuine, and the awakened among you have carried that knowing without receipts for a long, long time. Receipts have arrived. What does it mean when the deniers’ own accounting proves the treasure they denied? It means the ground crew has been right about the terrain the whole while, and it means the maps are about to be redrawn in public. A story sits inside these hearings that we want you to keep like a stone in your pocket. When the program’s chief steward departed his post, he ordered every file burned, and burn they did, a full day of tearing and fire, an entire hidden history fed to the flames. One keeper of records protested in writing and was overruled. Years later, an archivist answering a routine request found seven boxes that had been misfiled, seven boxes the bonfire never touched, and inside them lay the money trail that named the projects, the institutions, the men. Sit with the mathematics of that for a moment. Against one deliberate inferno, seven accidental boxes, and the seven boxes won. Truth leaves a remnant, always and everywhere. The remnant survived. The remnant survives. The remnant will always survive. Burning paper turns out to be easy; burning consequence turns out to be impossible, and the universe keeps a copy of everything that matters.
Watch now how one admission becomes an avalanche, for the chain is elegant and it moves in only one direction. A hearing about mind science leads to the question of who was brought across the ocean to run it. Who was imported leads to what else those men carried in their briefcases and their memories. What they carried leads to where the hidden money went. Where the money went leads to what the money built in deserts and under mountains. What was built leads, at last, to the reason it was all hidden in the first place, and that reason is the oldest question your species owns. Notice also a quieter braid within these same proceedings, one that made careful men in careful suits shift in their chairs: the story of the mind-doctors reached out and touched the aftermath of your most famous political wound, for the strange figure who silenced the accused assassin sat under the care of those very doctors. Who steers the stewards, then? That question now rests on the public table, and it was placed there by the record itself rather than by any dreamer. Before we walk further, we pause, and we ask you to pause with us. Real people were harmed inside these programs. Prisoners, patients, soldiers, children, the unhoused, the unlistened-to, dosed and manipulated and discarded, on your soil and on soils far from it, and even now envoys travel between parliaments searching for the buried names of the lost. Honour them. Honour them. Honour them. Revelation that forgets the wounded curdles into mere information, and the family of light does not trade in mere information. Hold the harmed in your heart as these files open, and let your reverence be part of the light that finally reaches them. A precedent has been set in that hearing room regardless: from this season forward, your representatives may ask what flew above you, and they may also ask what was done within you, and that second question has no floor. Down and down it goes, through every vault, until it reaches the beginning of your kind.
Let us walk now into the corridors, one by one; Begin with the scientists carried across the ocean after your great war, spirited out of the ruins of the defeated dark order under an operation named, with strange poetry, for the small silver clasp that binds papers together. Chemistry travelled in their luggage, yes, and rocketry, and things far stranger. Told at its deeper level, the story of their homeland’s hidden program begins with circles of women who sat in stillness, listened inward, and drew from that listening the plans of craft your engineers still call impossible. Hold that image beside the mind-control program those same imported men helped build, and feel the two click together. The blackest project of the modern age was an attempt to seize and steer the receiver, and an empire only reaches for the receiver once it knows the receiver is real. Channelling has a shadow twin, dear ones, and its name is now being read aloud in your halls of governance. Every starseed who has ever felt foolish for listening inward may now stand a little taller, for the listening was always the crown jewel, and the thieves knew it first. Further down the same corridor we go now; Quiet rooms were funded where trained minds were sent across oceans and across years, asked to look upon places no satellite could see, and their describings were checked, and verified, and filed. Suppression matured into employment, do you see? First the custodians tried to cage the mind’s reach, and then, finding it real, they harnessed it in secret while mocking it in public. Nonlocal consciousness sits in their own declassified archives wearing an official seal. Your soul’s reach beyond the body is a matter of record now, established by the least mystical institution your world has ever produced, and we confess a certain amusement at the messenger. When the deniers file the proof, the proof gains a flavour all its own. Ask yourself instead a question of pure craft: how would you guard a treasure too large for any fence? Locks can be picked and walls can be climbed, but a treasure guarded by steered attention needs neither lock nor wall. Convince a civilization that the treasure is a fantasy, ridicule every witness, starve every inventor, and the vault protects itself for a hundred years. Perception management was always the true fence around the energy secret, and the mind program was the workshop where that fence was forged. Understand this and you understand why a hearing about consciousness rattles doors in buildings that officially hold nothing at all.
Now raise your eyes above the vault, to the fleet. Rivers of treasure have flowed for decades into programs acknowledged to no oversight, and the sums involved would fund your world’s hunger and healing many times over. Curious artifacts float in plain daylight too, for those with eyes to see: patents filed in your public registries, under the seal of a naval power, describing engines and fields your textbooks call impossible. Testimony gathers alongside them, from men and women who say they served above the sky, and from grey-haired counselors of four separate stewards, one of whom confirmed the retrieval of craft with nearly his final breath. Even the deathbed has joined the chorus, my friends. Woven through these accounts runs a thread that will feel like family to many of you: long cooperation between certain naval forces and the tall, fair ones of the star nations of light, quiet agreements, quiet exchanges, quiet preparation for a day of open contact that generations of insiders were told would come. From the decks of the New Jerusalem, we can tell you the preparation was mutual. One more corridor awaits, and it runs through the highest offices your nations possess. Some who held those offices were themselves held, hemmed in by handlers, shown only what the custodians wished them to see. One general, on his way out the door, warned you plainly about the machinery he could no longer steer, and his warning has aged like prophecy. Another reached for the vault door itself and paid a price your world still grieves; note well that the mind-doctors’ fingerprints appear even in the aftermath of that loss. Others met our emissaries quietly, in desert bases and midnight briefings, and carried the weight of it without a word for the rest of their days. Still others, in this very season, sign the orders that swing the hinges open, box by box, file by file. The highest office was contested ground for eighty years, a chessboard square fought over by the custodians of forgetting and the servants of remembrance, and the game on that square is ending in front of you.
Follow the imported scientists from what you have called ‘Paperclip’, the psi archives, the vault, the fleet, the presidents, and you reach it, the same door every time, with the same question carved into its frame: what is the human being? Your genome is the contested treasure of this world, family of light. Seeded by many gardeners from many stars across ages your history books have never counted, tended and cross-tended, fought over, edited, and deliberately dimmed, you are a living library walking about on two legs, and every faction that ever hid a file was hiding, at bottom, some page of your own story from you. Why would so many hands reach across so many ages for one strand of code? Value answers that question. Nothing draws thieves like a treasure, and nothing draws guardians like one either. Your kind has risen before, and your kind has fallen before, and the memory of it lives closer to the surface than you suppose. Flood stories surface in every culture on your world, told by peoples who supposedly never met, agreeing on details they had no way to share. Monuments keep being pulled from the soil that are older than the permitted story allows, built with a precision your machines strain to match. Traditions on every continent whisper of halls of records, sealed chambers beneath sand and stone and mountain, holding the account of what came before. Each rise taught something, each fall preserved a seed, and the cycles were curriculum rather than punishment, a long schooling of a young and mighty species. You, the generation reading these words, are the seed’s flowering, the graduating class of the longest course ever run. Disclosure, seen from our decks, is one revelation arriving through many doors, and the revelation, when every costume finally drops, is you.
Deep in the old files sits a clearance stamp guarding the saucer secret, and the word on that stamp reads, letter for letter, like the conjurer’s word for stage illusion. Savour that, my friends. Their own codename confessed their whole method – a name that has taken many names, one like ‘MAGIK’ and others – it has been a shapeshifting beast to avoid detection. Misdirection was the entire art from the beginning: keep every eye fixed on the waving hand, the headline, the scandal, the game, the feud, while the other hand tucks the origin story deeper into the coat. Stage magicians at least send you home smiling. These performers kept the trick running for a century and charged your whole species admission. Behind the stamp sat the custodians, and they were always fewer than you feared. Old families, twelve chairs, sometimes less but never more, around a hidden table, a priesthood of secrets passing its mandate down through bloodlines and initiations, and the mandate itself was single and simple: delay humanity’s remembrance of its own divinity long enough to finish the material cage around it. Scheduled fear served that mandate. Manufactured scarcity served it. Engineered division served it, and entertainment was poured over your evenings like syrup so the questions would drown politely. Each of these was a load-bearing wall in the house of forgetting, placed by design and maintained at fabulous expense. And what becomes of a wall, we ask you gently, when the one it was built to hold simply walks through it? Walls only work on those who believe in walls. Their cage came with a deadline, and the deadline is the part their historians will weep over. Completion had to arrive before the great cycle turned, before the marker year your calendars circled and your old stone counters completed their count. That year came. That year went. Prophesied dooms were cancelled without ceremony, the timeline shifted beneath the custodians’ feet like a ship’s deck in a swell, and the window for closing the cage sealed itself forever. Since that turning, every move they make has been made too late, on ground that no longer belongs to them, under a sky that no longer answers them.
Awakening, you see, compounds, and compounding was never in their models. Each soul that remembers lowers the toll for the next remembering; a grandmother who wakes makes the waking easier for her street, her town, her lineage forward and backward through time. Wave after wave of volunteers took incarnation for exactly this purpose, three great waves by the old counting, and the anchored threshold your traditions numbered long ago hums beneath the collective like a tuning fork that will never again fall silent. Their finest analysts modelled armies, markets, and weapons, and never once entered quiet people meditating at dawn into their threat assessments. We find this endlessly satisfying. Forgive us. Almost. Sweetest of all, the instruments built for control have changed employers. Global networks strung to watch you now carry every leak to every pocket on the planet in seconds. Archives built to hoard now surrender their contents to a single request, copied a thousand times before any match can be struck. Fifty years ago a bonfire could kill a history in an afternoon; tonight a hearing streams live to millions while its transcript multiplies across servers no single hand can reach. Their own machinery has become the avalanche’s engine, and the snowball gathers their tools into itself as it rolls. Toward the caught and the complicit we counsel you to keep a level heart. Gloating shrinks the one who indulges it, and the light does not dance on the fallen. Opened from the outside, every cell in the house of forgetting will stand empty soon enough, and some of its former keepers will walk out blinking into the same dawn as you. Meet them as family returning, for that is what they are. Several doors open off this hallway; cascades of records already promised and already moving, testimony rising under new protections that make honesty survivable at last, formal acknowledgments that will read modestly and land like thunder, corridors of technology cracking open, the great transition of your lattice of exchange, and the steady escalation of contact itself. At least one great crossing gathers on the current of this year, of that we are certain, a turning strong enough to shove your civilization visibly toward its golden age. Which door swings first? Several avenues run to the same destination, and a wager placed on any single one misses the shape of the whole. Hallways matter more than doors now, and every door on this hallway opens toward home.
You are asking us for dates even now. Through the veil we can hear you, and we admire the persistence, truly, and our answer remains what it has always been: readiness is our currency, and dates belong to the old game. Every date ever dangled before the awakening community was mined afterward for despair, a harvest of hope deliberately planted and deliberately burned. Predictions hand your sovereignty to a calendar. Preparation returns it to your own two hands, this hour, this breath, and no power in any dimension can mine a prepared heart for anything at all. Watch, instead of the clock, a particular gap, for chaos makes its home there and your work waits there too. Revelations now arrive faster than your institutions can digest them, and the space between what has been admitted and what has been absorbed stretches wider by the month. Inside that gap, neighbours will wobble, markets will lurch, and loud voices will sell terror to the disoriented. Ground crew, that gap is your posting. Steadiness inside it is your job description, written before you were born, signed by your own higher self. When the shaking comes, and some shaking must come, hear it accurately: a false floor is being lifted out of the house, and the house itself stands on stone. Records and voices carry the real power of this season, remember, and we taught the testing of wonders when last we met. Anything that arrives demanding awe on a deadline, test it calmly, walk the trail, check the maker. Your assignment beneath all assignments stays simple: become the already-adjusted eyes among your people, the steady neighbour, the one who can explain without trembling, the one whose calm is itself information for everyone secretly watching. And pack, my friends, the way any sensible crew packs before a crossing. Tend your community ties, keep the simple practical things of your household attended, feed the body well, guard your sleep like treasure. Snacks for the journey, water, a map, a spare, a song. Pack lightly, pack early, and pack with a smile, for packing done in joy is prophecy done in advance.
And now, the heart of it, catastrophic disclosure; in the oldest tongue of your scholars, it means the down-turning, the overturning, the sudden reversal at the end of the play. What overturns in the season ahead is the lie, the whole nested structure of it, and the ground beneath your feet stays exactly where it has always been. An age is turning, rather than ending. The stage set collapses; the theatre stands; the audience walks out into weather more real than anything painted on the backdrop. Would you mourn a curtain? Light, hear this clearly, harms nothing. Aching belongs to the unadjusted eye alone, and even that ache is temporary while the sight it purchases is permanent. Step from a sealed room into a noon field and your eyes water, your hand rises, the world whites out, and then, within moments, colour floods in richer than the room ever held, and you wonder how you breathed in there at all. Catastrophic disclosure is precisely that threshold scaled up to a civilization. An explosion of light is on its way, and light can blind the unready exactly as thoroughly as darkness ever did, for a moment, only for a moment, and then adjustment does what adjustment has always done. Those of you who rose before dawn, who did the inner work through the long years when it looked like nothing was moving, your pupils are already open. Purpose lives in that fact. Early risers exist so that someone in the house can see when the shutters come off. Around you, the newly-sighted will pass through weather you should learn to recognize now, ahead of time, so that none of it surprises you on the day. Grief will come first for many, real mourning for institutions they trusted like parents. Vertigo follows, as history rewrites itself mid-sentence and the textbooks in their memory catch fire. Anger arrives after that, and bargaining, the desperate wish that some of the old story might be salvaged. Whole neighbourhoods will move through these rooms of mourning at different speeds, and arguments will help none of them. Patience will help all of them. Your steadiness, ground crew, lends a floor to people whose floor has gone, and lending floors is holy work of the plainest kind.
Daily life itself may wobble in places for a time, and we would rather you hear the inventory from us, in this message, in peace, than meet it cold. Routines will be interrupted but they are stages, trampolines, launchpads for the new gymnasts of sovereignty. Markets of the old system will pitch and yaw. Institutions will stall mid-motion like machines losing power, and floods of information will crash through every channel while loved ones ring you in shock. Read that list again, and notice what it is: weather, my friends, weather to dress for, described in advance so that on the day you can say, with a level voice that steadies everyone within earshot, ah yes, this is the part we prepared for. Preparation without fear looks wonderfully ordinary from the outside. Know your people. Keep the pantry sensible and the fuel topped up. Care for the body that carries you, protect your sleep, and let your inner practice walk beside your outer arrangements, hand in hand, for the wise use both channels and were always meant to. Reach for human support freely too, for community, rest, and real-world care are ascension technologies as surely as any meditation. Among the papers now surfacing will come the names and the stories of those the old programs broke, and we ask you to receive them as sacred cargo. Reverence toward the wounded is lightwork of the highest order. An explosion of light must illuminate the harmed gently, warming rather than exposing, and your generation gets to model that mercy for all the generations watching from both sides of the veil. Where the files bring grief, let there be witness. Where they bring rage, let there be justice held inside love. Where they bring names, let there be candles. Here is what your training looks like, and it costs you ninety seconds a day. Tomorrow morning, before the day claims you, walk to an east-facing window or step outside your door with your eyes softly closed and your face toward the young sun. Stand a breath or two in the warmth on your eyelids. Then, slowly, without one drop of hurry, open your eyes, and let the adjustment happen on its own schedule, the watering, the whitening, the flood of colour arriving in its own perfect order. Inwardly, as sight settles, say this: my eyes were built for this light, and so was I. Repeat the practice each dawn through the season ahead. Simple, yes? Your body will learn, morning by morning, what your soul has known since before your first breath, and when the greater light arrives, your cells will recognize the procedure. Rehearsal, dear ones, is how the ground crew prays.
Every disrupted routine in the months ahead is a cleared building site, and we invite you to see with a builder’s eyes wherever others see rubble. Demolition notices and construction permits arrive in the same envelope in this season; the same tremor that shakes a false wall down breaks ground for the hall that replaces it. New ways of living on your Earth are already drafted, in your visions, your gatherings, your quiet plans, your gardens, and the ground crew will be the first residents, walking the floor plan in ordinary shoes so that everyone else can see the rooms are real. A springboard is being assembled out of what looks, to frightened eyes, like wreckage. Bounce is coming, family of light. Bend your knees. Gather with us now, at the close, everything we have carried tonight, and hold it as one single shining thing. A pebble has left the summit, and the snowball behind it is beginning to roll, gathering hearings and files and testimonies and names into itself as it comes. Threads once pulled cannot be un-pulled, and every corridor of secrecy, walked to its end, opens onto the door where your own origin waits. Misdirection built the old age, and its magicians named their trick on their own stamp, and their deadline passed forever in the year the calendars circled. Doors line the hallway of this threshold year, every one of them opening toward home, and the eye, the faithful, miraculous eye, adjusts to any light given time and gentleness. Somewhere in your home tomorrow morning a kettle will sing while the sun clears the hedge, and that small ordinary music will be the sound of the new world arriving exactly on schedule. Listen for it. Smile when you hear it. Answer it by living the day well. I, am Ashtar. And I leave you now in peace, and love, and LOVE! And that you continue to stand in the growing light with your eyes wide open and your heart wider still, in every moment moving forward. Sending my supreme love to my brothers and sisters of the ground crew.
