On Tuesday, March 30, 2010, a man in the USA I had never met stole my name. I had never spoken to him. Never done business with him. Never crossed paths. I didn’t know he existed. And yet, he reached across oceans and screens and rewrote my life without ever seeing my face.
He registered a domain in my name, and built a digital execution chamber without consent, without contact, without cause. And with it, he rewrote my life like I was already dead.
He turned me into a villain in a story I didn’t write. That day, my name stopped being mine. It became a weapon. A warning. A digital scar I couldn’t scrub off.
He didn’t just impersonate me, he became my judge, my jury, and my executioner. All from behind a screen. No trial. No defense. No truth. Just a stranger with a keyboard and a vendetta I never earned.
I remember the silence afterward. Not peace, silence like the moment after a bomb goes off. When the dust hasn’t settled and you’re checking your body for missing parts. I lost jobs. I lost friends. I lost sleep. I lost the right to be seen without explanation. I lost the luxury of being unknown.
This book is what I built from the wreckage. It’s not polished. It’s not safe. It’s scarred, like me. Like you.
People need to know the dangers and loopholes in an unregulated world, where laws and rights shift across borders, and justice depends on geography. They need to see the thin, slippery line between ethical journalism and a witch hunt. Between truth-telling and reputation-killing. Between accountability and annihilation.
I’ve been abused. Beaten. Mocked. Cornered. Left behind. Online. Offline. In places that were supposed to be safe. By strangers. By systems. By people who knew better.
I’m not here to make friends. I’m not chasing sympathy or favor. I’m not asking to be liked. I’ve spent years shrinking just to survive. I’m done.
I will not hide. Not now. Not ever.
This is my story. My journey. And I’m telling it loud enough to be heard.
