Not Without My Sister

by Kristina Jones, Celeste Jones, Juliana Buhring

  It made little sense to me. So I called them Uncle and Auntie, like the rest of the adults.

  My refusal to call my foster parents mummy and daddy was reported promptly, and I was taken in for a stern lecture and a paddling. So I called them whatever they wanted after that to save myself from further beatings. Though I had issues calling Joseph and Talitha mummy and daddy, I had no trouble accepting their daughter, Vera, as my sister. She had been my childhood playmate and I was very happy to be in the same group as her.

  When Dad first brought me to my new class they made a big show of attention towards me. In front of my father, I was given the instant status of "bellwether." The bellwether in our group would be in charge of overseeing the other kids and reporting any misbehaviour.

  The day after my dad left, I was stripped of my title, and it was handed over to Uncle Willing's daughter. The whole class was informed that I had "too much pride" for such an honor. Uncle

  Willing made it quite clear that so long as I was in that school and in his class, he would make sure I was given adequate correction. True to his word, he made my life a living hell.

  After our customary two hours of Word time and memorization in dye morning, we had school. The afternoon was for home economics, when we would be trained in one of the Home "ministries." A good Family disciple had to be a jack-of-all-trades. Ministry training was just a glorified name for being the in-house servant because all we ever did was clean, polish, wash, and scrub.

  I needed some sort of release from the drudgery—and writing gave me that. I turned one of my notebooks into my storybook and filled it with tales of talking bears, mermaids, and fairies. They always carried some hind of moral. Our teen helpers and Celeste, in particular, encouraged me, and would often read them out at bedtime to the rest of the group. I kept this book under my pillow and would write when I could not sleep. Some of the other children followed my example and that started the trouble. One boy decided to write a darker tale of a witch.

  When Uncle Willing found this story, he freaked out. Oddly, my classmate blamed me, saying he was encouraged to write it through hearing my stories. While I was in class one day, Uncle Willing raided my bed and found my book under my pillow. I was summoned before our three teachers—Uncle Josiah, Uncle Willing, and Auntie Hoseannah. They glared down at me with looks of fire and brimstone. My notebook lay on the table in front of them.

  They opened up a Mo Letter I had never seen before. It was called "The Uneager Beaver," in which Mo blasted a woman who had drawn a little kids' coloring book telling the story of a beaver who wanders around the forest looking for his name. Mo was furious that someone had the audacity to create anything that wasn't straight from his mouth.

  The letter took over an hour to read and when it was over, my teachers looked at me.

  "Who do you think inspired you to write these stories?" Uncle Josiah asked, pointing with disgust to my notebook.

  "The Devil helped you write these!" Uncle Josiah answered his own question.

  I could not get my head around that one. "But, I don't understand. Everybody's good and loving in it, and the Devil's not good and loving. So how did he inspire me to write good stories?"

  "They aren't good stories!" Uncle Willing said.

  "Are they God's Word?" Uncle Josiah asked.

  "Uh, no."

  "Anything that is not God's Word is evil and from the Devil. The Enemy likes to come in disguised like a wolf in sheep's clothing, so you think he's harmless and innocent. But look how your stories are already leading others astray. Look how this boy's story became more evil, and he was only following your example. The Devil is always looking for a way in and you've let him in through your stories."

  So far, everyone had encouraged me in my writing, and all of a sudden it was pronounced to be evil and inspired by the Devil. Because I was not God's prophet I would never be able to write anything. I could not accept that. I was proud to be the author—a credit I wasn't about to share with anyone, horns or not.

  "It seems you've had far too much time on your hands to listen to Satan," Uncle Josiah said. "After praying about what to do, the Lord has showed us that you'll need a number of punishments to remind you not to let your mind become Satan's playgrond."

  Uncle Willing rubbed his hands in glee. This was the part he enjoyed most. "You're going to receive a good paddling from the board. You'll be on silence restriction for a week, so you can turn your thoughts into prayers to the Lord. You can memorize all the verses from the section in The Memory Book on Daydreaming. You'll also miss all group activities and PE for a week, and spend those times reading the Word to help cleanse your mind."

  "To replace the words of Grandpa, God's mouthpiece and Prophet, is a severe offence, but as you did it unknowingly, we're letting you off with a very lenient sentence." Auntie Hoseannah clarified.

  As the sentence was "so lenient," I wasn't about to plead my case which would give them an excuse to add to my punishment for the offence of talking back. So I kept my mouth shut and swore I would never write again till the day I died.

  The next day, Celeste had to apologize for her bad example in encouraging us to write stories that had been demonically inspired.

  After that, they separated Celeste and me more than before. She was no longer allowed to help out in our group and, from then on, I only saw her infrequently.

  Once a year, Celeste and I went for a photo shoot. I would be dressed up in a nice outfit, usually the same strawberry-patterned blouse and skirt I wore for witnessing. We'd pose with big smiles for pictures to send to Daddy. Then I'd write a letter telling him all the lessons I'd learned and the things I enjoyed and how happy I was. After one of my teachers had censored it, it would be sent together with a letter from Celeste and our photographs.

  Dad deduced that we were happy and well cared for. Once a year he would send us a little micro tape in which he would talk to us, pray for us and tell us we would soon be reunited, if not on earth, then in Heaven. I always cried when I listened to them. I missed him and waited eagerly for the day he would come back for us. I was sure we would see him again soon.

  Most people living at the Training Center did not have work permits, and had to take a visa trip every three months. They would take an overnight train across the border into

  Malaysia or Burma, stay there a day or two, and return with a fresh three-month tourist visa.

  I looked forward to these trips and usually went with Celeste; they were my escape from a school that I saw as a prison. On one of these trips, the overwhelming question, which had burned through my mind like a fever for seven years, finally came out.

  "Why didn't Mummy want me?" I blurted out suddenly as we rode home in the back of the jeep.

  Celeste was taken aback by the abruptness of the question. 'What? Who told you that?"

  "Nobody ever told me anything. I don't know why she left me."

  "She did want you." Celeste looked at me for a minute. "She loved you very much."

  "Then why would she leave me?"

  "She was told to. She couldn't keep you... but she wanted to."

  I wept out of relief. My mother had wanted me... had loved me.

  "Told by who?"

  'Well, she was sick and she couldn't take all of you with her. Also Dad wanted to keep one of you." Celeste put her arm around me.

  "If he wanted to keep me, then why did he leave me too?"

  Celeste was silent for a minute, contemplating an appropriate answer. There simply was none. "He was told to as well."

  I began to see then that adults had as little choice as we children. We were made to give up our parents just as they

  were made to give up their kids. A feeling of helplessness washed over me. My every waking minute had been mapped out and scheduled; I had never been allowed to decide what to do with my time, much less what I wanted to wear, or eat, or say. Growing up wouldn't do me a bit of good after all. It wouldn't protect me from anything.

  One day, about a
year into our stay at the school, Celeste managed to take me out of my PE class for a walk.

  "Julie, remember how Daddy said he was coming back to get us?"

  "Yes, is he coming soon? I don't want to be here any-more."

  "Well, that's what I want to talk to you about." Celeste paused for a moment. "Julie, I think it's time to stop waiting for him."

  "What? Why?"

  "Because he's not coming back." The words hit me like a ton of bricks. She might as well have told me he was dead. "How do you know? Did he say so?"

  "I asked the shepherds, and they told me he's not coming back. If you keep on waiting for him, you're only going to feel worse."

  "You don't know! He's coming back; he said so! I don't want to stay here!" I burst into hysterical tears. "No, no, no!" My world was coming apart; the beatings, the humiliation, the loneliness would all be made right when Dad came back.

  "Julie, honey, please don't cry. They'll see you, we'll get in trouble."

  "I don't care" I lashed out in the anger of the moment. 'And don't call me honey, you're not my mummy! I don't have a mummy!" I don't have anyone. But I did not finish my sentence, because it wasn't completely true. I did have Celeste. I just never saw her. And she could not lift a finger to protect me. I let her draw me against her chest to comfort me. But all I could think about was being stuck in Thailand forever in a frightful eternity of endless beatings, school, devotions, and marching.

  The one time of year when everything seemed okay was at Christmas. It took nearly the whole month to decorate the school. We spent the week with our families or, in my case, foster family, and we'd have big feasts, activities, and dances.

  It was also the loneliest time of the year. Everyone would be reunited with their families and I'd think of Dad then. Mum had long since faded out of the picture. I did not remember her face anymore, and did not even have a photo-graph of her since I had been made to cut out my parents from every photograph in my possession. Although my foster parents tried to make me feel welcome into their family, and Vera and I were like sisters, it was painfully obvious that I was the only child there without parents. I'd sit in front of the Christmas tree and stare at it for hours while around me everyone joined in carols. My tears turned the Christmas lights into fuzzy balls of color and I thought they looked prettier that way, so I wouldn't wipe them away.

  My need for attention gave me some very odd ideas. One teacher was something of an amateur botanist and liked to describe the qualities of each exotic plant and flower that grew within our school grounds.

  "This looks like an ordinary hedge, but break off a leaf," he said as he plucked one of the light-green leaves, "and the

  white sap inside is poisonous." Milky white sap oozed from the severed stem. "If you touched this sap, and afterwards rubbed your eyes, you could possibly go blind."

  Go blind! The horror of the idea! Why, you might be attacked, and there'd be nothing you could do to defend your-self. You would not be able to get around without help; in fact, people would always have to care for you, or worry over you...

  ... and in an instant, going blind did not seem such a terrible fate anymore. Why, then, at least people would notice me. I plucked off a leaf and stared, mesmerized, at the thick white sap. Could go blind! Why, no one cared about me as a seeing child, perhaps they would care if I could not. Slowly I touched the sap, briefly hesitated, raised my finger and rubbed my eyes. I blinked a few times expecting a dramatic blackout.

  Suddenly, as the full extent of what I had done sunk in, I realized I really did not want to go blind after all. I waited for the worst but... nothing happened. Then I started to cry in a mixture of confused emotion. Half of me cried because I might go blind, and the other half cried because my experiment did not seem to be working. I ran to catch up with the group relieved that my rash decision had not produced any disaster. Nothing was better than an unknown something.

  I loved catching grasshoppers and beetles and bringing them home with me. I desperately needed something to belong to me. I'd tell my pet bug a bedtime story and drift off to sleep with a protective hand covering it. Inevitably, on waking the next morning the hapless creature was either dead or had escaped, and I'd mourn its loss until I replaced it.

  Not long after I turned ten the "Techi Series" of Mo Letters came out. Maria's daughter, Techi, was now nearly twelve and beginning to experience the roller-coaster of adolescence. She had a fiery little personality, which was apparent in all the Mo Letters where she engaged in lively conversations with Grandpa.

  Maria took it on herself to oversee the breaking of Techi. In the Techi Series, she was treated as the next potential Mene. Her questioning mind was seen as the voice of the Enemy trying to snare her with doubts. If she yielded to him, he could possess her. Techi's sessions of correction and prayer were recorded.

  The Techi Series marked a shift in the Family's policies and methods of teen training. It was called the DTR—Discipleship Training Revolution. Things started to tighten drastically. Every evening, we had to write daily Open Heart Reports. We had to log the smallest detail of our day, down to how many times we used the bathroom and how many glasses of water we drank. Every negative thought, all the lessons we had learned, any conversation we had with our peers, and a written reaction to all the Mo Letters we read had to be recorded. We were also encouraged to report on our classmates.

  Shepherds used this information to discover any doubts or potential character flaws, which they could use against you later. To write too little was very serious, but it was impossible to come up with a new lesson every day. I became a very creative writer, making up scenarios from which I "learned."

  Every week an adult would be paired up as our walky-talky partner and take us for a talk where we were meant to share our hearts, or bare our souls. It was assumed we'd be more willing to talk freely with someone who was not our immediate teacher. Everything we said was, of course, reported back to our shepherds.

  Two years into our stay in Thailand, Celeste and I were suddenly moved to the Sex-Vice Center, a "selah" or secret home where much of the Thailand leadership was based. I had no idea why we were moving; it all happened fairly quickly. Celeste and I were packed into the jeep and driven to a mall car park, where an uncle from the Service Center home met us. Before we were transferred to another vehicle, he sat us on a ledge in the parking lot for a talk.

  "How would you like to pick a new name?" he asked. "Um, no thank you," I answered politely. "I'm all right with my own name."

  "Well, in this case you don't really have a choice, honey, because you'll now be living at a selah home where every-body takes on a new name as a security precaution."

  This was not entirely true, because only Celeste and I were made to change our names. She had already changed hers from Celeste to Joan and I did not see why she had to change it again.

  "So, what name do you think you'd like?"

  "Well, I've always liked the name Claire," Celeste offered.

  "That sounds good. It suits you. So you'll be Claire from now on. What about you Julie?"

  "I don't know" I wanted none of it. I had always been Julie, and it felt like a piece of my identity was being taken from me.

  "Well, if you can't think of a name, we'll have to assign one to you. How about Anna?"

  That was the ugliest, plainest name ever. "Well, I don't really like it much."

  "Well, honey, we don't have much time. If you can't think of one, then you'll have to be Anna."

  Claire and Anna, Anna and Claire. I never got used to the sound of our new names. I cried quietly in the back of the jeep. Everything was out of my control. Where I went, what I wore, who I was!

  As we were driving, we were suddenly told we had to be blindfolded. Where we were going was a state secret!

  The jeep finally stopped and our blindfolds were removed. "God bless you, Claire and Anna! Welcome to your new home."

  My time there was miserable and lonely. Yet again, I cleaned, cooked and
washed the breakfast, lunch, and dinner dishes. The other half of my day I did school work and had Word Time. As I was ten years old, and the next child under me was six, I had,to spend my remaining time in the younger kid's group.

  It must have been obvious that I was unhappy, because four months later, I was allowed to return to the Training Center. Celeste remained behind. She was too high a security risk to leave. I only found out later that the reason we had moved was because her mother had stepped up the search for her.

  Much had changed while I was away. The school had been thrown into a state of red alert. The police had raided communes in Australia, Argentina, and France; kids had

  been taken away by Social Services; many adults had been arrested on charges of child abuse. A custody court case against the Children of God had begun in England. The Heavenly City School in Japan was under investigation, and everywhere the Family was being exposed in the media.