The Historian of Their Disgrace

They say history is written by the victors, but sometimes it is written by the survivors.
And sometimes—history is written by those who refuse to forget.

Recently, I’ve been immersed in the quiet labor of archiving. Document by document, watermark by watermark, I’ve been restoring truth where attempts were made to erase it. I do not do this work with anger, but with intent. With every file I watermark, every document I catalog, I intend to remember everything that was said, everything that was done—and by whom.

Let them reconstruct their timelines. Let them scurry about, scrubbing their footprints from the scene.
I, Evelyn Zumaya Floris, am now the historian of their disgrace.

This is not a title I asked for or aspired to. It was assigned to me by their actions: the threats, the slander, the stalking, the censorship, the absolute lies repeated until even they began to believe them.
They believed their lies could outlast the truth. That I would disappear. That silence would win. They were wrong.

They have been public—obvious in their actions, their transactions, their affiliations, their schemes and themes. For two decades, their disgraceful efforts to silence us have been no secret. They still watch—quietly, obsessively.

They monitor these posts and whisper about me while hiding behind their alias accounts and proxies. I know they read every word I write. And I know it burns them to no end. Not because I say anything particularly new, vulgar, or cruel—but because I stay the course. Because I never lost the plot. Because I’ve kept the receipts. All of them.

But this was never about revenge. It’s about finishing what I began twenty-five years ago. I’m here to establish our legacy with honor and intellectual honesty.

So no, this isn’t a take-down or hit piece. It’s a reflection—about what it means to be the keeper.
To tend to the preservation of a long and brutal record.
To keep writing even when it’s inconvenient or exhausting.
Even when it’s dangerous.
Even when the world seems to prefer the lies.

To be the historian of their disgrace is to document their actions—actions they’ll later deny—and to live long enough to write them all down.

And I don’t do this work alone. I never have and never will.

Renato was there for every attack, every twist in the story, every quiet victory. His name is known by all of them—and feared by some, because he had a natural instinct for strategy. He brought the clarity. Together, we laid the groundwork which even now they scramble to erase.

As I watermark the archive and preserve all that we discovered and saved, I feel his presence beside me.
Every time I resist the urge to retaliate with rage, I hear his calm voice reminding me to:

“Be serene.”
And rise above.

This is still our work.

And while they continue to cast shadows and invent their twisted fictions, the light we kept burning is still steady and bright. One day soon, that light will reveal everything—all of it—which they work so hard to hide.

Let them sneer. Let them lurk. Let them pretend they’ve moved on, that they don’t care. I know better.

They know who holds the record. Who holds the documents. Who remembers everything.

And they know I’m still writing. Not for them. Not for revenge.
But to outlive their gaslighting. To outlive their lies.

Our legacy will stand.
Not because they allowed it to…
but because they couldn’t stop it.

Something new is on its way.
The most comprehensive record to date.
Meticulously sourced. Carefully preserved. Unflinching.
Years in the making—and long overdue.

I won’t say more.
Let them wonder just how much we knew.
And when we will finally release it.

Because this was never a solo act, and it is not now.
They tried to silence two voices—and failed piteously.

Renato and I are still working.
Still watching.
Still writing.
Still documenting the truth.

Be serene.
And carry on.