Escaping the Cult: One cult, two stories of survival

The week before Christmas I became almost as depressed as my father. Without the show to distract me my mother’s absence became unbearable. My father consoled himself and all of us with the constant reassurance that the three months were almost up and she’d be home in the New Year.

Then I found him crying in his room. ‘Jesus sent a prophecy, Natacha. Mom is doing such good work there that he needs her to stay longer. Maybe another three months.’

His voice cracked as he said the words. I ran over and hugged him, trying to squeeze him tightly with my arms to make him feel better.

Christmas Day was awful. We woke up to the usual regimented prayers and taped Mo sermons. Every child in the commune, whatever their age, got the same present – a packet of crayons and an orange. In the afternoon we were given special family time. Guy cried, my father snapped at him and Vincent and I tried to play as quietly as possible with our new crayons. Every one of us was completely miserable without Mom.

In mid-January some of our donors came for a visit. These were the owners of a nearby chicken farm who occasionally donated boxes of eggs to us. I don’t know if they acted out of pure kindness or whether they received something in return, but visitors to a commune were a rare event, and this sent many of the adults into a tailspin. How we were perceived by the outside world was paramount. Letting anyone walk away with the idea that The Family was anything less than perfect was to be prevented at all costs. Any kids who looked sick were hidden in one of the bedrooms. By then I’d put on enough weight to be deemed OK to be seen.

The Shepherd dispatched Jeremiah to go into town to buy biscuits and bottles of cola (things that were deemed system food and usually strictly banned). It was pure torture as we were wheeled out in our best dresses and presented to the visitors. My mouth salivated as one of our guests picked up a sugar-coated biscuit and dunked it into his tea. But I knew better than to ask for one, and there was no way to grab one in secret.

When they left we were all instructed to stand in the garden and sing them a goodbye song. As we sang two aunties were already scooping up the leftover biscuits, putting them in a lockable tin and into a bolted cupboard. When we came back inside there was nothing, not even a crumb to salvage.

The next day at breakfast I watched in horror as Vincent was dragged to the front of the dining room, had his trousers pulled down and was publicly spanked with the swat. Somehow, between the song and the guests leaving, he had managed to grab a half-opened packet of biscuits and stuff them in his pocket.

Perhaps what certain adults sensed in Vincent was his innate sense of justice. That may explain why so many of them struggled with him. Instead of sneaking off to greedily eat the biscuits himself he had distributed one each to the other kids in his dorm. His reasoning for doing so was sweetly innocent, but by the standards under which we lived it made him something close to a seditious agitator. As he gave each child their biscuit he had said: ‘We are children; we need biscuits.’

But if adults didn’t know what to make of him, other children loved him. He had a special depth of character that other kids sensed was important, even if they didn’t know why. If anyone else had handed out stolen biscuits they would have been reported or told on, but not him. He only got caught because he had two biscuits left over which he’d hidden under his pillow ready to eat during the night. Aunty Esther found them in a spot bed inspection. As Esther turned puce at this most heinous of discoveries Vincent didn’t flinch. Instead he calmly held out his hands with the biscuits on his palm.

‘If you don’t punish me you may have them,’ he offered.

For the deep-thinking little boy this was perfectly logical. But within commune rules attempting to bribe others was akin to mind poisoning, which is why he was made such a public example of.

My own sense of justice was beginning to be aroused too, by a boy called James. He was in his pre-teens and severely disabled. He couldn’t walk and made noises instead of talking. His head and legs shook uncontrollably when he moved and he always had a little line of spittle coming out of his mouth. Most of the other children were scared of him and didn’t want to go anywhere near him.

The adults said he was possessed by demons and told us that is why he was that way.

In the mornings James was washed and dressed, then tied to a chair to keep him still as he was force-fed porridge. If he refused to eat it an uncle would stand behind him, gripping his head and forcing his mouth open, while an aunty shovelled porridge inside with a spoon. Then his jaw was clamped shut until he swallowed it down.

If he wasn’t tied up he used to punch himself in the face or bang his head against the wall, so he was made to wear boxing gloves that were taped down so that he couldn’t take them off. Then if the weather wasn’t too scorching or wet he was put out in the garden for the day, usually tied to a tree. He often screamed out and made terrible wild animal howls. When he did that someone was sent outside to hit him. If he refused to stop they either shoved a dry nappy in his mouth or dragged him back inside to lock him in the tiny room where he slept. It was right at the back of the house, like a dungeon with a tiny barred window and no air conditioning.

The worst thing was when he had seizures and fell to the floor writhing and banging. ‘The devil is in him again,’ the adults would shout, rushing over to hold him down, punch and slap him and say prayers over him, urging the evil inside him to cast itself out.

I didn’t know what was wrong with him but I could see he was a boy, not a demon. James’s eyes were so confused and full of pain I didn’t understand how anyone could think he was bad. He reminded me of my earlier childhood friend Simon with his taped-up mouth.

He was a bit like a communal punch bag. Other kids were often tasked with feeding him and would get frustrated at him, following the adults’ lead by giving him a kick or a slap round the head.

His younger half-sister Claire was my closest friend. She and I were the only ones who were kind to him, holding his hands for a few grabbed seconds or whispering to him that he was a good boy and not to cry. Claire confided in me that when he was born the leaders accused her mother of allowing the devil into her bed, insisting that James’s disability could only be the result of an unholy union with evil. Claire confided in me that she sometimes wished he could just go straight to heaven to stop him suffering so much.

Early spring came, and with it the beginning of the rainy season. The pain of my mother’s absence hadn’t lessened, but I had learned to cope by blocking it out as much as I could, focusing instead on the males of the family by trying to mother them all.

But, lying in bed, I was often overcome with a sense of panic. Thérèse and Leah had never come back. Was my mom really ever coming home? Was Dad lying to me when he said she was?

When I thought these thoughts I struggled to breathe and my old shakes came back. Uncle Jeremiah seemed to sense my fear and played a huge part in seeing me through that difficult time. He always made a point of talking about her or praising me, saying how pleased she would be at how clever I had become or how she would like a picture I had drawn. His concern for me meant the world.

The air was sticky and the skies fat with tropical thunder when the gates finally opened and a beige sedan car with blacked-out windows drove in. It was just after lunch and I was filing back to class when I heard the sound of the engine.

My heart went tight in my chest. Could it be? I hardly dared move in case it wasn’t. Then I heard Vincent’s squeal of delight: ‘Mommy’s here!’

I broke away from the line and ran outside just as the door opened. For a second I barely recognised her. She was fat and round and heavily pregnant. As a joke she had put on a big furry Russian hat that made her look like a doll.

‘Mommy, Mommy, Mommy yaaaaayyyy, Mommy is here!’

By now Dad, Matt and Marc were outside too. We all threw ourselves at her at once. She giggled with delight, not knowing whom to hug first. My dad had carried Guy down from the nursery. He was wary and looked scared as my father held him forward: ‘Look, baby, your mommy is here. It’s your mommy. You know Mommy.’

Guy shook his head and clung around my dad’s neck.

‘Oh Marcel, why?’ she whispered under her breath. ‘My own baby doesn’t know me.’

He nodded wordlessly, biting down on his lip.

She was supposed to have come back from her mission compliant and uncomplaining. Showing any public signs of anger or regret at having been cruelly ripped away from her children could land her in trouble again. So, a bit like the forced cuddles we had to face after a beating, my mom too had to spend the next few days playing a pretend game, whereby she made out the pioneer camp had been a just wonderful time and how grateful she’d been for the opportunity.

On her first family day back at home she sat me on the bed with a huge smile. ‘I have something very special for you, chérie. I bet you will never guess what it is.’

With a dramatic flourish she presented the most beautiful, prettiest, most wondrous thing I had ever seen. It was a Barbie doll, dressed in Russian-style clothes. The doll wore an embroidered little tunic, black trousers, plastic lace-up boots and a little furry hat like the one my mom had.

I squealed with delight, kissing the doll. Mom put a finger to her lips. ‘Shhhh. Keep her to yourself. She’s your special toy, so look after her well. Please do not brag.’

She was giving me a tacit warning. As a rule we didn’t have toys. There were a few shared ones around but they were generally simple and educational, building blocks or alphabet games. Things like dolls were said to set a bad moral example and were a sign of rampant commerciality. My mother knew she was taking another risk by giving it to me.

I tried to hide my Barbie well, cramming her into the space between my mattress and the bunk frame. But I kept sneaking her out to look at her during the night. I was so mesmerised by her that I didn’t notice another girl had spotted me.

Of course, she complained about me. After breakfast next morning Aunty Esther came to take my doll away. I tried so hard not to give up her hiding place. ‘Where is it?’ Esther demanded, waving a warning fist.

I sat on the bed, shaking my head. ‘I don’t know.’ For the first time I was finding lying easy.

Esther pulled up the sheets, shook out the pillows, her eyes as manic as a bloodhound in pursuit of prey. ‘Tell me now, you naughty girl. Where is it?’

I shook my head, lips pursed, and refused to utter another word.

In the end it was inevitable she’d lift up the mattress to look underneath. With a triumphant shriek she brandished the doll in the air like a trophy. ‘This is going in the trash right now.’

She walked out, muttering curses about my mother. ‘What was the woman thinking, bringing such wordliness into the good Lord’s house?’

The unjustness of it all left me too full of impotent rage to even cry.

I put my hand in my sock and pulled out a little trophy of my own – Barbie’s fur hat.

Chapter 10

Mutiny at Tea (#u7e83eae7-0420-56e3-a892-eb831942ed33)

‘Go, go, go. The soldiers are at the door. They are right here. Move it. MOVE IT!’

I leapt out of my bunk, trying to adjust my eyes to the darkness. A cold wave of fear flooded through me but I knew I had to stay calm and follow the drill. I fumbled for my flee bag – a little brown satchel with stitched pockets that held a clean set of clothes, my torch and a tin of food. I sprinted out of the room, past the angry monkeys that lived in the garden, and towards the surrounding forest and the secret clearing that was our designated meeting point. Had the war begun? I ran as fast as I could, trying to keep up with the older children in front of me, leaping over fallen branches and tearing leafy vegetation out of my eyes. At the clearing I was relieved to see my parents and brothers there waiting.

‘Natacha. Thank God.’ My dad let out a sigh of relief.