Beneath the surface of America’s political battles, a hidden war rages—not just against President Trump and the will of the people, but against the truth itself. Self-proclaimed allies, waving the banner of patriotism, claim to fight for “the people” and the president. Yet our years of monitoring reveal a darker reality: many of these figures are orchestrating unrest, fabricating narratives, and manipulating public trust to entrench their own power. This report begins the work of unmasking them.
In 2020, we trusted reporter Millie Weaver (and all those who promoted her) with our research on the decentralized affinity cells fueling modern unrest, only for her to claim it as her own, monetizing and distorting our work. Her betrayal, echoed by others posing as champions of truth, discredited our efforts and shifted focus to simplistic scapegoats like George Soros, shielding the true orchestrators of these movements. This report is driven by the urgent need to expose such deceptions and restore clarity.
The public conversation has been hijacked. Everyone points to George Soros, repeating the same tired refrain of “dark money billionaires” as if that alone explains modern uprisings. But we have been monitoring these affinity cells for years, and we know the truth: their expansion is fueled by a blend of foreign and domestic funding, orchestrated by what can only be called the fourth unelected branch of government.
Since 2017, we have tracked affinity cells—decentralized units driving modern protest and regime-change movements. Our records show how they plan, recruit, and expand through encrypted communications and cultural narratives, often posing as grassroots efforts. False allies, claiming to defend President Trump and the people, amplify sanitized narratives that obscure these cells’ true architects, allowing institutional sponsors and operatives to manipulate unrest unchecked.
The public narrative paints George Soros as the sole villain behind unrest, a deliberate distraction from a broader web of billionaire interests, foreign actors, and domestic operatives. These actors, embedded in a fourth unelected branch of government—agencies, NGOs, and think tanks—orchestrate affinity cells while posing as Trump’s allies. This misdirection shields their manipulation, preserving not democracy but their own control over the narrative and power.
This fourth unelected branch—operating through agencies, NGOs, and political operatives—directs unrest to sabotage Trump’s agenda, harm the economy, or incite violence. By crafting sanitized narratives, these actors pose as patriots defending the people, elevating themselves as “heroes” to flank the president while preserving their own power. Their hidden orchestration of affinity cells keeps the public distracted by chaos, shielding the deeper machinery of control. In reality, what is being preserved is not democratic continuity, but the continuity of entrenched power.
The fabrication and obfuscation of the true players behind modern unrest—ranging from financiers to political operatives—pose a profound danger. What is passed off as spontaneous protest, or dismissed as mercenary activity, is in fact a carefully cultivated structure: months and years of underground preparation, encrypted communications, and layered networks that can be activated at chosen moments for political, financial, or destabilizing ends.
It is for this reason that this report is written. Not for recognition or profit, but to restore clarity. Only by naming the authentic architecture of these movements—their affinity cell structures, their institutional sponsors, and the deliberate misdirection that shields them—can we begin to understand the scope of what is unfolding, and the risks it poses to the future of the nation. This hidden network—buried within agencies, NGOs, think tanks, and political operatives—directs unrest not just for ideological theater but for outcomes ranging from political sabotage to economic harm, even mortal violence. While others chase fame, fortune, or clicks by selling simplistic stories, the reality is darker: external forces have penetrated the highest levels of government, flanking the president himself. Their goal is not continuity of democracy, but continuity of control.
The public deserves clarity. What has been passed off as grassroots or billionaire-backed “activism” is, in reality, part of a sustained, well-structured campaign of decentralized mobilization, executed through affinity cells, institutional cover, and encrypted coordination. This report is not written for glory or money—it is written to set the record straight.
Public understanding of protest and unrest is dominated by linear explanations: participants are “paid,” protests are “funded,” or foreign governments are “busing people in.” These claims are not only inaccurate—they are strategically useful to the very networks they seek to oppose. By reinforcing false narratives, critics misdiagnose the architecture of modern activism and, in doing so, weaken the state’s ability to respond.
Modern decentralized activism does not function as a simple exchange of money for action. It operates according to the logic of steganography—a hidden message embedded within noise. What appears to be a sudden, chaotic protest is in reality the visible manifestation of months of invisible preparation: the seeding of ideas, the testing of small-scale actions, the use of cultural events as induction rituals, and the deliberate shaping of moral narratives. The true infrastructure exists beneath the surface, only surfacing when it chooses visibility.
For policymakers, this distinction is critical. Treating unrest as a mercenary activity reduces response strategies to tracing financial flows, surveilling transportation, or debunking rumors about “bussed-in agitators.” These efforts consistently fail because they target the wrong variables. The reality is that participants act out of ideology, identity, and moral obligation. They are not mercenaries to be bought off; they are volunteers who believe.
The failure of policymakers and analysts lies in how they continue to treat protest movements as if they were transactions, as if the critical question is always who paid whom and where the money came from. That framework does not capture the reality of what drives these networks. The true source of energy is not financial—it is the spread of ideas, the cultivation of affinity, and the work of cultural organizers and narrative engineers who bind people together into something far more resilient than a payroll. For years, resources have been poured into chasing receipts and tracing checks, but these efforts produce nothing more than shadows while the real architecture of movements grows unchecked.
The truth is that movements do not appear spontaneously. They unfold in arcs that are predictable if one knows where to look. There is always the planting of ideas, followed by cultural activation through festivals, art, music, and symbolic actions, then small proof-of-concept demonstrations that test both the participants’ readiness and the system’s response. Only after this foundation has been laid do the movements step into the light in ways that look sudden and overwhelming to the untrained eye. This has been consistent from Serbia’s Otpor! movement in the late 1990s, where students held small, almost playful “noise actions” months before mass demonstrations toppled Milošević, to Hong Kong’s “Be Water” uprisings in 2014 and 2019, where tactics like flash mobs and Lennon Walls of sticky notes were tested and normalized before full mobilization. Policymakers make the mistake of waiting until the eruption itself to take notice, at which point the networks have already built the muscle memory and momentum required to withstand repression.
When governments and commentators reduce unrest to the question of money, they do more than miss the point—they hand the movement a gift. By declaring that protestors are simply “paid,” they allow organizers to portray themselves as authentic, misunderstood, and dismissed by the establishment. This was exactly what happened during the 2020 Black Lives Matter uprisings, when dismissals of demonstrators as “outside agitators” or “funded by Soros” only strengthened the protestors’ sense of legitimacy. The oversimplification turned into proof, in the eyes of participants, that the system could not or would not understand their grievances. The same dynamic was at work in Ukraine in 2014, where claims that the Maidan movement was simply Western-funded failed to stop tens of thousands from taking to the square because they were acting out of their own convictions, even as foreign funding and influence were undeniably present.
The real engine of participation is not money but moral obligation. Movements are built by convincing individuals that their opponents are unjust, illegitimate, even evil. This moral framing makes action feel not optional but necessary, and it gives urgency that money never could. CrimethInc. publications in the United States have long stressed this, teaching young activists that their actions are not simply protests but moral resistance to systemic evil. The Serbian activists who studied Gene Sharp’s work framed Milošević as a dictator whose very presence in power delegitimized the state, making resistance not only justified but morally required. This moral language is what transforms passive observers into active participants, what makes them risk arrest, job loss, or worse.
The problem is that legal and security frameworks still assume there is a central command-and-control structure to intercept, or a financial transaction to trace. These frameworks were designed for unions in the 20th century, or for insurgent groups with clear leadership hierarchies. They are not suited for today’s decentralized networks where coordination is ideological, cultural, and digital. A Facebook group, a Signal thread, or even a meme can carry more organizing weight than a bank transfer. Movements operate through encrypted communication and cultural vectors—viral videos, hashtags, grassroots zines—that do not leave behind the kinds of transactional footprints policymakers are trained to chase.
The Occupy Wall Street encampments of 2011 are a case in point. Law enforcement wasted resources trying to identify who was “funding” the encampments, when in reality the occupation was sustained by volunteers pooling free labor, local donations of food and tents, and the shared sense of moral obligation to resist financial injustice. The money never mattered. What mattered was the cultural diffusion of the slogan “We are the 99%,” which became a narrative virus more powerful than any single act of financing.
Until policy shifts to recognize that the real infrastructure is narrative, ideological, and cultural—not transactional—every attempt to counter these movements will fail. Worse, it will continue to validate them, because misdiagnosis strengthens the belief among participants that they are authentic and the system is corrupt. The architecture of modern unrest is steganographic: what looks chaotic is carefully coordinated, what looks underfunded is strategically resourced, and what looks spontaneous has been in preparation for months or even years. To treat it otherwise is to walk blindly into the traps it sets.
Make no mistake, funding is indeed necessary to conduct these operations—without money there can be no travel stipends, meeting spaces, digital platforms, legal defense funds, or media campaigns. It provides the infrastructure, the communications backbone, the flyers, the livestream equipment, and the modest stipends that allow a handful of professional organizers to dedicate themselves full-time. But funding alone does not create a movement; it is simply the kindlewood laid at the base of a fire. The spark, the oxygen, and the spreading flames come from ideology, grievance, and moral conviction. Billionaire networks and donor consortia can supply the resources, but they cannot manufacture the raw human energy that transforms organization into mass mobilization. That energy comes from people willing to give their time freely, to risk their reputations or safety, and to act not for pay but for belief. In this sense, money is the accelerant—it builds the structures that can hold the flames—but the fire itself is the ideological will of the participants.
Attempts to confront these movements through linear cause-and-effect reasoning will always fail, and in many ways that failure is by design. The louder the establishment grows in proclaiming that there is no evidence of buses of protestors or no clear trail of paychecks funding them, the more the protestors themselves appear authentic to the public eye. The spectacle of officials scrambling to debunk simplistic claims reinforces the illusion that the movements are organic, grassroots, and righteous. Yet behind that illusion lies the most bitter irony: many of the very voices presenting themselves as liberators of America from communism and tyranny are the ones who orchestrate and manage these affinity cells. They build them not to free the people but to control the narrative.
It is always about control. By shaping these movements, they can later claim credit for channeling the outrage, for harnessing disorder, and for “saving” the country from it. They position themselves as heroes, carefully crafting a role where they stand as the indispensable interpreters of chaos. This gives them leverage to demand proximity to power, to insist they must flank the president, whispering in his ear under the guise of guidance and patriotism. What the public sees as moral resistance, these actors see as currency—proof that they alone can manage dissent, and therefore they alone deserve the spoils of influence.
The tragic result is that the presidency itself becomes surrounded not by loyal stewards of order, but by opportunists who have engineered the very unrest they claim to neutralize. They thrive on misdiagnosis, because so long as the state keeps chasing false trails of “foreign agitators” or “dark money,” these insiders remain hidden. They can burnish their reputations as guardians of democracy while the machinery of decentralized cells continues to operate in service of their own elevation. What is framed as liberation is in fact narrative capture, a carefully staged performance designed to justify the continuity of a hidden branch of power that claims legitimacy through unrest it secretly seeds.
Why else would they taint and discredit the work of the few who have selflessly and independently exposed these networks? Why else would they knowingly and willingly pretend that they—or someone else—solved the problem? It is the same logic that drives the orchestration of the cells themselves: narrative ownership. To control the story is to control the power.
The elevation of false heroes is not accidental. It is a deliberate strategy, perfected in Serbia during the rise of Otpor! in the late 1990s. The actual movement was built by decentralized student cells engaging in low-level, often risky actions—graffiti, pranks, and noise demonstrations—that tested the regime’s responses and hardened networks of trust. Yet when the revolution was retold, credit was redirected to a sanitized layer of international NGOs, democracy-promoting foundations, and their chosen “faces” of the movement. The young activists who risked everything were recast as footnotes, while higher-level figures, often with ties to Western backers, were placed front and center as the liberators. This was not simply revisionism. It was an intentional way to legitimize the influence of external actors and to ensure they could claim a seat at the table once the smoke cleared.
Today in America, influencers and operatives, posing as Trump’s loyal defenders, claim credit for exposing unrest while peddling sanitized narratives. Their simple tales of villains and heroes distract from the institutional sponsors—agencies, NGOs, and think tanks—behind the affinity cells. By elevating these false “patriots,” the true architects of unrest remain hidden, their control over the narrative shielding the machinery that undermines both Trump and the people.
This pattern—seen in Serbia, repeated in Ukraine, refined in Hong Kong, and now deployed in America—ensures that the public sees curated “heroes” rather than the architects of unrest. It is not about truth, but about continuity of control. Those who truly uncovered the hidden architecture are ignored or smeared, because their work threatens to unmask not just the protests, but the fourth unelected branch of government itself.
The elevation of false heroes is not a coincidence—it is a tested strategy. Serbia offers the clearest example. In the late 1990s, Otpor! was born as a student resistance movement against Milošević. Its real foundation was hundreds of small, dangerous actions carried out by affinity cells—graffiti at night, noise demonstrations, flash mobilizations—that hardened networks and tested the regime’s tolerance. Yet when the story was later told, the spotlight was shifted. International NGOs such as the National Endowment for Democracy (NED) and the International Republican Institute (IRI) stepped into the frame as the midwives of the revolution. They were publicly credited with “training” and “supporting” the students, their names woven into the narrative to suggest that the overthrow of Milošević had been orchestrated by benevolent Western institutions. This reframing was not an accident; it was a deliberate act of narrative capture. It legitimized the role of external actors and allowed them to claim proximity to power once the dust settled.
This is exactly the same dynamic we see today. Influencers, pundits, and media figures are elevated and credited with uncovering truths or leading movements they never built. They are amplified precisely because their versions are sanitized, simplified, and safe. Their stories omit the uncomfortable fingerprints of institutions and actors who prefer to remain in the shadows. That is why so many rushed to claim Millie Weaver “did the work” and made her the face of a narrative she never uncovered. By doing so, they covered the tracks of the actual architecture and replaced it with a consumable story that flatters both the audience and the institutions who wish to remain invisible.
The parallel is unmistakable. In Serbia, the NGOs and their chosen faces became the heroes of record. In America today, media proxies and influencers serve the same function. They occupy the space of recognition, while the true mechanics of affinity cells, encrypted networks, and institutional sponsors continue undisturbed. SERBIA—now isn’t that interesting.
Notably, these movements thrive precisely because they invert expectations: what looks chaotic is coordinated, what looks underfunded is strategically resourced, and what looks spontaneous has been engineered months in advance.
The methods we see today are not spontaneous, nor are they native to one country. They are the product of a long lineage of regime-change tactics, tested, refined, and exported across continents for more than two decades. Each generation of movements inherits from the last: the tactics, the narrative framing, the visual symbolism, and the networks of support that make sustained disruption possible.
It began in Serbia with Otpor! (1998–2000). What looked like a student protest movement against Milošević was, in reality, a carefully structured campaign of decentralized affinity cells married to centralized branding—the clenched fist logo, the humor-based pranks, the theatrical arrests. When the story was later told, international NGOs like the National Endowment for Democracy (NED) and the International Republican Institute (IRI) were celebrated as the midwives of revolution. They provided training, funding, and narrative legitimacy, ensuring that when Milošević fell, the credit would flow not to the nameless cells who risked everything, but to the institutions positioned to claim heroism. Serbia—now isn’t that interesting.
From there, the model spread. Through CANVAS, founded by former Otpor! leaders, the tactics traveled to Georgia’s Rose Revolution (2003) and Ukraine’s Orange Revolution (2004), where the same choreography was deployed: color symbolism, strategic occupation of public squares, humor-laden resistance, and coordinated cultural spectacles. Again, the pattern was the same: decentralized local action framed as “spontaneous,” with international funders and NGOs working quietly in the background.
By Ukraine 2014 (Euromaidan), the template was unmistakable. Protestors carried shields, built barricades, and occupied Maidan Square for weeks—methods directly traceable to CANVAS training materials. Western donors and NGOs played visible roles in the background, while media narratives presented it as an organic uprising. The “Be Water” uprisings in Hong Kong (2014, 2019) advanced the model further, leveraging encrypted apps for leaderless coordination, viral cultural tools like Lennon Walls, and mobile flash mobs that outpaced traditional security responses.
But this lineage did not stop at Eastern Europe or Asia. Western European nations—Holland, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, and many others—have faced similar disruptions. Networks that present themselves as grassroots environmental groups, anti-austerity protests, or pro-immigrant coalitions in these countries often trace their organizational DNA back to the same funding hubs. The tactics look local, but the strategic fingerprints are global.
By the time the playbook reached the United States (Summer 2020), it was already familiar. The shield walls in Portland, the branded murals, the mass occupations—these were not novel improvisations. They were iterations of methods tested in Belgrade, Kyiv, Tbilisi, and Hong Kong. The same infrastructure reappeared after the 2024 presidential election, when the “No Kings” mobilizations were rolled out after months of cultivation through webinars, union organizing calls, and training sessions led by Erica Chenoweth, Ivan Marović, Randi Weingarten, and Maria Stephan.
The scale of this operation raises a critical question: how much money does it take to sustain a global network of this kind? To operate simultaneously across continents, to fund training workshops, media platforms, legal defense, supply chains, and cultural production, the head of the snake would need no less than $3.8 billion annually.
And here is the most damning point: what false leader, what sanitized “hero,” could possibly marshal that kind of capital in a single year? The answer is none. The individuals who are elevated as the faces of these movements are not the financiers—they are the mascots. They are given credit because their stories are simple, consumable, and flattering to the institutions behind them. The real funders—the same billionaire pockets, the same consortia of foreign and domestic interests—remain in the shadows, disguising their power behind the myth of grassroots spontaneity and the mythology of heroic leadership.
This is the true continuity of control. From Serbia to Georgia, from Ukraine to Hong Kong, from Scandinavia to the United States, the playbook repeats. The movements appear new each time, but the architecture is decades old.
This introduction is only the beginning. In the coming parts, we will expose the specific tactics of affinity cells, the institutional players funding and directing them, and the false allies who claim to stand with President Trump while orchestrating chaos for their own gain. By revealing this hidden architecture, we aim to empower the public with the truth, dismantling the narratives that threaten the nation’s future.
To be effective against this INVIBLE ENEMY, it must begin with the acknowledgment that modern unrest is not mercenary but ideological, not transactional but narrative, not linear but steganographic.
Concluding Thoughts
The architecture of modern unrest is not spontaneous, nor is it explained by simplistic tales of “dark money” or mercenary agitators. It is the product of decades of refinement—an interlocking system of affinity cells, narrative engineers, and institutional sponsors operating under the cover of philanthropy and democracy promotion. Its lineage can be traced from Serbia to Georgia, from Ukraine to Hong Kong, and now within the United States itself. Each cycle repeats the same formula: decentralized cells on the ground, intermediaries providing cover and infrastructure, and international networks ensuring continuity of strategy.
The misdirection is deliberate. Soros becomes the scapegoat, influencers are elevated as false heroes, and the public is fed a consumable narrative while the real financiers and architects remain obscured. What persists is not continuity of democracy, but continuity of a hidden branch of power that seeks to own the narrative, dictate legitimacy, and secure its place flanking the presidency itself.
And this is the bitter truth: the very heroes you are told to trust—the ones who claim to liberate America, to defend it from chaos—are the ones who knowingly and willingly allowing these cells to thrive. They silence the truth and elevate sanitized stories, ensuring their own reputations are burnished while the machinery of unrest is left untouched.
Your heroes knowingly and willingly silence the truth. They invoke scripture not to redeem, but to amplify the punishment of betrayal. And some stand beside the president—not as guardians, but as the betrayers themselves.
Betrayal is the primordial sin—the act that predates murder, conquest, or corruption. It is the corruption of trust itself, the fracture from within, and it is always carried out by those closest to the heart of power. ~ Tore Maras
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