Escaping the Cult: One cult, two stories of survival

I ran over and hugged them. My father carried a briefcase with our passports and birth certificates; he also wore a rucksack with food and useful items like rope, matches and sleeping bags. My mother had a smaller rucksack containing her and my father’s clothes, a first aid kit and a torch. Between us all we covered the basics we would need to survive for a few days in the wilderness or until we could reach proper shelter.

Everyone had faces turned towards the trees, scanning every shadow for signs of movement, preparing for the moment of attack.

‘Is this it?’ asked Marc in a scared voice.

I got into position, planting my feet on the ground a few inches apart, shoulders back, head sideways. Narrowing my eyes I tried to shoot a thunderbolt. Nothing happened. I summoned up all my powers of concentration and tried again, willing my eyes to work. Nothing.

Surely my superpower would be working if the war had really started?

For the next two hours we waited there in silence, tense and alert, ready for the order to disperse and run. When the soldiers attacked we knew what to do. The group would split up and run in different directions to confuse them. Some people would be able to get away but those who were killed early on would be doing the others a great service by allowing them precious seconds to escape. Families were told to separate, to let the strongest get away. But my parents were adamant that whatever happened we would stay together. Matt was to hold Vincent’s hand. Marc was to hold Guy’s. I was to hold my father’s. Under no circumstances were we to let go of each other until we found a hiding place.

If we survived the initial attack there was no going home afterwards – it was all-out war. That meant running through forests, hiding in caves, plotting rebellions – doing whatever we could to weaken the forces of the Antichrist until the final battle of Armageddon.

Eventually, Uncle Isaiah, an Irish former merchant seaman, took a few steps away from the group before turning to face us.

‘Stand down. Drill over,’ he announced. I wanted to burst into tears and hit him. Hours of adrenalin-filled anxiety, for what?

‘Well done everyone. Response time is up on the last drill. But there is plenty of room for improvement. When it’s the real thing we won’t get a second chance.’

We filed back into the house in silence. No war today, just more practice.

I was almost ten now. We’d just moved to Malaysia. It was 1993, the year God had told Grandpa the End Time would begin with the start of the Great Tribulation; that was the seven years of war that would be the precursor to the second coming of Jesus and the great and final battle of Armageddon. We woke up every day expecting, in many ways hoping, for it to start. It was our very reason for existing.

School lessons had pretty much been completely given over to war preparations. We were told that the Tribulation wars had already begun in many parts of the world. The USA and Europe, especially the countries of France, Germany and Great Britain, were already lost, and completely under the devil’s control. Famine and disaster had all but destroyed the great man-made cities of New York, Paris, Berlin and London. I remembered when Joy had shown me pictures of collapsed buildings and dead flowers. I felt really sad for the system people, especially the children. They should have saved themselves in time, but they didn’t. They didn’t listen to our prophet, and because of that their children would go hungry and live in war.

We prepared for the secret missions we might need to undertake during the long months of fighting. For example I was warned I might need to go undercover, pretending to be a policeman to get information. Or I might have to steal food from a supermarket, in which case wearing a disguise like sunglasses and a hat was important to fool the system cameras.

Aunty Sunshine gave us a special talk one day. She was Malaysian, and because she had a unique understanding of the world outside our gates, as she spoke the language, she was always chosen to go on the really dangerous missions to buy food.

‘Look, children. This is the wig I wear.’

It was a long mass of blonde curls. She bent forward, pulled it onto her head and stood up again, sliding it into place.

We were very impressed.

‘And these are my “systemite” glasses. These are very important so that nobody can see where my eyes are looking.’

She slipped on a pair of black wrap-around sunglasses.

‘And last, but not least, my hat.’

It was a blue cap with a plastic visor emblazoned with a red love heart and the words, ‘I love New York.’

‘I need to wear these things to blend in with the systemite people. Some of the nice gentle ones, the ones we call sheep, would not hurt me. But those we call the goats, the disbelievers and the decadent sodomite ones, might capture and torture me. If I didn’t have my disguise they would recognise me as one of God’s chosen ones and kill me. This wig, hat and glasses are Grandpa’s clever way of protecting me.’

Grandpa was increasingly concerned for all of us. He sent the children a special letter called ‘Victory in Babylon’ that warned about the forces of the Antichrist and the possibility of raids by authorities. He said we could be snatched away by government people claiming to help us. The only chance we had to survive in that situation was to remain absolutely silent and not answer any of their questions, no matter how nice they might pretend to be or with how much delicious food or fun toys they might tempt us. Grandpa was very clear – it was all a trap designed to ensnare us.

Impending death and destruction were everywhere. My parents talked about it constantly. I was anxious but it was so normalised I wasn’t that scared. I did start to think about getting killed again and wondering how much it would hurt. Would it be slow or fast? Would the killer taunt me and say horrible things? Or would they feel bad and say sorry? Would I get shot, raped, burned to death or stabbed? I went through every form of violent death I could think of, trying to prepare myself for how I would react when it happened.

When we relocated to Malaysia, Joe had to remain in Thailand at the Victor Camp. We had barely heard anything from him since his brief visit home. My mom was worried sick and didn’t want to move without him. I overheard her fighting with my dad about it in angry whispers.

‘How can we even think about going to a new country without our son?’ she argued.

Dad’s voice was reassuring but with a firm tone that didn’t allow for dissent. ‘The teens in those camps will be having the time of their lives, playing lots of sports and climbing trees. These are the things that boys of that age need to do. Besides, the war is coming. Maybe they will all be safer there.’

Mom was still recovering from her Siberian experience and I suspect she was too scared to keep rocking the boat. If we asked about her time there she generally fobbed us off with descriptions of deep snow and how if you didn’t wear a woolly scarf over your face when you went outside your lungs would freeze. Any deeper questions were batted away. I suspected some very bad things had happened to her but I knew better than to keep pushing.

In May of that year, a few weeks after we arrived, my little sister Aimée was born. Having another baby girl thrilled both my parents and lifted my father out of his depression. I was completely delighted to finally have another sister, especially as by now I assumed I had lost Thérèse forever.

The new commune was in Penang, an island off the coast of Malaysia, not far from the border with Thailand. It was a wild, untamed landscape with lots of fern-covered hills. Our new garden backed straight onto the edge of a large expanse of jungle, which was full of scary wild animals.

The commune was what was known as a ‘selah’ home, which meant that it was a small secret home that would pretend to be made up of normal families in order to fool the systemites. It acted as a kind of bed and breakfast for visiting members from Thailand, who needed to leave the country in order to renew their visas.

There were 30 permanent residents – four families and a handful of single adults.

Vincent was now seven and in the MCs (middle children) dorm with me. It was brilliant being able to share a room with him, but our joy at that was marred by our teacher, Isaiah. He was a madman, and as he had been in the merchant navy was obsessed with everything military. He ran our dorm like a ship – he was Captain, his three sons Sean, Seamus and Seafra were First Officers, and Vincent and I were lowly deck mates. As soon as we woke up Isaiah had us on physical duties, scrubbing the wooden floorboards with coarse brushes.

‘Swab those decks,’ he shouted. ‘I want her shipshape and battle ready.’

If we didn’t scrub fast enough he would snatch the brush from our hands and fling it at our backs. Normally you had just enough time to cover your head before the wooden brush slapped into your shoulder blades or, worse, spine.

If he was feeling particularly vicious he would force you face down onto the ground, grab your ankles in one hand and wrists in the other, then force them up over your back with your tummy pressed hard into the floor.

‘Time for a keelhauling.’

The pain it caused your stomach and organs was immense.

‘This navy runs on discipline. I’ll make sailors of you yet.’

Uncle Isaiah hated any sign of weakness or improper attitude. But most of all Isaiah hated Vincent. And that feeling was mutual.

We had been out on survival training for most of the day. Isaiah had forced us to march round and round in circles for over an hour, kicking our legs high into the air as we sang the battle hymn of the revolution, a favourite song of Grandpa’s.

‘We’re the End Time Army that’s conquering hearts and minds and souls for the Lord! Lift up your Sword! Look to Heaven’s Reward! We’re the Revolution for Jesus and David our King!’

Every time we finished the song and collapsed on the floor, legs trembling, he barked at us: ‘Get up, men. Again. Soooooldiers. March.’

It was ridiculous. I usually found some enjoyment in survival lessons. For one thing we were outdoors; secondly, I knew it was essential training and that any day I’d be putting the techniques into action. If I couldn’t light a fire or know how to build a shelter, then how would I help my family survive the Tribulation? I had never been a top student, but in survival I began to excel. The marching, however, was pointless, and we knew it.

Just as we were walking back through the garden Vincent spotted one of the monkeys that made their home in the trees. The monkeys were really terrifying – very aggressive and vicious. From what we could work out there seemed to be two tribes. At night they would have gang fights where they had loud and protracted battles in a never-ending turf war. We would peer out the window to watch them pouncing onto one another’s back, biting and scratching. Then others would appear from the trees, jumping on top until there was a jumble of monkey arms and legs kicking and hitting, all of them making the most dreadful noise – coughing, barking and screeching all at the same time. From the safety of the window we joked that even the Antichrist couldn’t make such a din.

Vincent dug me in the ribs and pointed at a monkey, who was busy poking a finger in its ear. ‘March, soldier. March,’ he said, imitating Isaiah in a mock Irish accent. ‘You have no discipline, soldier. Stop picking your ear and march.’

We both giggled. I looked away at the monkey for barely a second, but as I turned back Vincent was hanging in the air, his feet dangling like a ragdoll.

Isaiah had his thick hands either side of Vincent’s neck, whose eyes were wide with fear. I looked up at Isaiah. His face was contorted with fury, but he said nothing. He just continued to lift Vincent, who was making awful choking sounds, higher in the air.

‘Stop. Stop it, you are killing him,’ I screamed. ‘Put him down.’