My brothers and I stood there waiting uncertainly for another ten minutes. The older boys stood with ramrod-straight backs, outwardly calm but watchful and aware. I got the impression they were as worried as I was but that they were trying to look strong for Vincent and me. I followed their lead by holding onto Vincent’s hand, hoping it would make him feel better.
The uncle came back. My eldest brother, Joe, found his voice, politely asking: ‘Excuse me, Uncle, but please can you tell me where my father is? Is he here?’
‘Yes,’ replied the man. ‘He’s busy with his work in the Shepherd’s offices. You will see him later. Don’t bother him now.’
He gestured for us to pick up our bags and follow him. As we walked he explained that all children slept in age-related dormitories. The dorms were as follows: YCs (younger children), MCs (middle children), OCs (older children), JETTs (Jesus End Time teens), JTs (junior teens) and STs (senior teens).
I was put in the MCs and Vincent the YCs. ‘I want to stay with Tacha,’ he pleaded to the uncle but the man barely even glanced down at him before handing him over to the aunty who ran his dorm.
The MC dorm was crammed with over a dozen double and triple bunks, with extra trundle beds on wheels underneath the bunks. The uncle pointed to a bottom bunk with a thin foam mattress. On one wall there was a large freestanding cupboard with several drawers. He picked out a tiny drawer in the middle where I was instructed to store my spare set of clothes.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of anxiety. As I climbed onto my new bed no one spoke to me, although several children stared at me blankly. I felt wretched, wishing so badly my mom would come and cuddle me. I thought about Leah and Thérèse. With the optimistic logic of a child, a little bit of me had hoped they might be waiting for us in Bangkok. With the final realisation they weren’t, I cried myself quietly to sleep.
I was woken at 6 a.m. by a completely naked aunty ordering us into the bathroom with her. The bathroom was large, with a basic Asian style shower – an oil drum full of water in the corner, a plastic bucket and a jug to splash water over ourselves. The other kids still ignored me. They had hollow, weird eyes that made me feel creepy. I was too scared to say anything to them. After the shower we all dressed in silence and marched single file into the mess hall for breakfast.
After breakfast my schooling regime was explained to me. The routine here was much more regimented than it had been in Phuket. The day was a constant round of Word Time (studying Grandpa’s teachings), followed by Memorising (memorising Grandpa’s teachings), Jesus Job Time (housework such as scrubbing floors or washing dishes), School Work (which wasn’t academic but involved more of Grandpa’s teachings), preparing for the End Time and Quiet Time (forced nap time).
At all times children were forbidden to talk without permission. That was also the rule in Phuket but even the likes of Clay and Ezekiel, as terrible as they were, didn’t usually bother to enforce it. Here was different: I found to my cost that even a stolen whisper to my brother in the mess hall resulted in being sent ‘to the wall’, where you had to stand with your nose to the wall for up to an hour without moving. The first time it happened to me I got horrible cramps in my back and leg but when I moved I got a spank.
A few days after we moved in, the home began its annual ‘fast’. All communes in The Family fasted for three days leading up to Berg’s birthday, which was a day of ecstatic celebration for his followers. The entire house fell into what felt like a state of mourning. All daily operations, fundraising and events were cancelled. A few adults took care of the children and cooking in rotating shifts while the others spent 72 hours in prayer vigils, inspiration time and reading dozens of long letters from Grandpa. During the fast they were allowed to eat only liquid foods. I remember the large bowls of soup and a gooey pale orange mix of papaya blended with yogurt that sat on the counters in the dining room as the adults filed by us in complete silence, almost as if in a trance. Pregnant women and children were exempt from fasting, although we little ones had to spent extra time reading Grandpa’s letters and praying. Every evening the home would gather together for inspiration time, which was twice as long as normal. To me it seemed like endlessly dull hours of singing with the incants of praying in tongues floating through the house. It only served to add to my unhappiness at being there.
Within a couple of weeks I had begun to make friends – a boy called Noah and two sisters, Faith and Mary. Our friendship didn’t amount to much more than exchanging smiles or silently taking a place next to theirs in the classroom. But just being able to sit next to a child I knew wasn’t hostile helped me feel more settled. After a few weeks of being there I was beginning to sleep more easily. My all-pervading of fear of Clay was fading. My new bed was far from cosy but I took a certain reassurance in sharing the room with so many kids. That night I climbed in and fell straight to sleep.
‘Inspection time, MCs,’ the voice startled me awake. I could make out the silhouettes of an aunty and uncle who had come into our room. Disoriented, I thought for a minute they meant a tidy bunk inspection, and I was very confused as to why this was happening in the middle of the night instead of before breakfast like usual. I had clambered half-way out of my bed before it dawned on me I was the only one doing so. Two boys in the bed opposite had rolled over onto their fronts, faces buried in the pillow. My first thought was that they were going to be in trouble for ignoring the inspection. But then the aunty leaned over one of them and pulled down his pyjama bottoms as the uncle shone a torch. She took something and put it in his bottom. She pulled his pyjamas back up and moved to the kid above. I stared wordlessly as they moved methodically from child to child, repeating the process. No one was crying. As they reached my bed memories of Clay flooded back and I pulled the sheet up to my chin, shaking my head. The aunty looked surprised and turned to the uncle. He smiled. ‘She’s the new kid. Patience’s daughter. They probably didn’t have good cures in their old house.’
‘Ah, got you,’ said the aunty. She looked at me kindly. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Natacha.’
‘Hi, Natacha, I’m Aunty Rose. This is Uncle Zac. There’s no need to be scared, sweetie. We’ve come to give you all some medicines. You need them so you don’t get sick.’
‘I’m not sick.’
‘I know you’re not. Not yet anyway. But if you don’t take the medicine you might be. It’s good for you.’
‘Why?’ I was surprised at my own boldness.
‘OK, honey, have you heard of worms? Do you know what worms do?’
‘Yes, they live in the ground.’
‘They do. Some of them. But some of them live inside little children. They live in children’s tummies and they grow bigger and bigger and bigger until they give you a nasty tummy ache. I want to give you some medicine to stop the worms getting inside your tummy. It’s a lovely God-given natural cure to keep the nasty worms away. Can I do that?’
Still staring mistrustfully, I nodded silently.
‘OK. I promise it won’t hurt. Turn over, sweetie.’
With that she placed a large garlic clove inside my bottom.
She lied. I was so uncomfortable I couldn’t get back to sleep afterwards. Nor did it do anything to prevent worms. Loads of the kids had them.
Chapter 8
Ruled by Fear
‘Doe, a deer, a female deer. Ray, a drop of golden sun. Me, a name, I call myself. Far, a long long way to run.’
I sat cross-legged on the floor, gleefully singing at the top of my voice. Everyone was smiling and singing along with pure gusto. It was movie night and every occupant in the Bangkok commune we now called home was crammed into the dining hall to watch The Sound of Music. Movie night was our weekly treat. Talking was allowed, you got to sit with your family and everyone seemed to lighten up and be in a good mood. It was the highlight of my week and I loved it. If you’d been naughty you were not allowed to go. As a motivation to be good it was so effective, I would have done almost anyt
hing to be there. The Sound of Music was my favourite film in the whole world. I knew every line, every lyric. That’s because we watched it almost every movie night.
The Shepherds controlled which films were suitable for us to watch, based on their orders from HQ. Films had to be moral, suitable for children and with a Christian message. That limited the choice somewhat, as did the fact we didn’t have money to rent or buy alternative films. The only other movies I remember watching were Jesus of Nazareth and Heidi.
As we lined up to enter the living room, a Home Shepherd who was guarding the door had told us that only those who spoke in tongues would be allowed into the room to watch the movie. The door policy was usually either the tongues test or having to quote a verse from the Bible. Some of the kids made a real meal of it, throwing their hands up in the air theatrically to try to impress the adults with their spiritual talents.
One of the boys from the JETTs group went into show-off mode. With his eyes squeezed shut he scrunched his face and began shouting out in what we were told was the language of angels. ‘Sheeba dee ba dee ba deee. Hambala abahala eba.’ I watched him with disgust, appalled by what, to me, was such an obviously phoney display of spirituality. When it came to my turn I just clammed up. I always felt self-consciously stupid whenever I had to say anything in tongues. I think I knew even then the whole thing was ridiculous. But my reticence caused me to miss the first fifteen minutes of the movie because he wouldn’t let me in until I got it right.
Once inside and when the film started, there was still no guarantee you’d get to watch it. At regular intervals it was paused for a moral teaching and group discussion. Sometimes it took over three hours to reach the closing credits. But I didn’t care. Movie night was the most fun we ever had. And most importantly of all, I got to hang out with my mom and dad.
Our new routine was so strict that my parents were increasingly isolated from us, as were we siblings from each other.
At mealtimes we had to walk in single file and sit at communal tables with our age groups. Seeing my mother across the hall feeding a baby in a high chair was like a stab in the heart. My brothers and I had worked out a way of communicating through secret winks; getting an ‘Are you OK?’ wink from them cheered me up enormously.
Matt in particular looked exhausted, with big dark rings under his eyes. He’d been put on the ‘early birds’ programme, which meant getting up an hour before the other kids for extra study and prayer time.
The only quality time I got to spend with my family members was for a few hours on a Sunday, designated Family Time, when we were free to do whatever we wanted. Usually my brothers and I would pile into our parents’ bedroom, sit on the bed and talk, talk, talk – telling my parents all about what we had learned that week. Sometimes we played marbles, but given how tiny their room was we always ended up losing the balls under the bed, spending more time crawling under it to get them than we did playing.
My brothers and I were so desperate for their attention we all jabbered at once, trying to be the cutest, the funniest or the sweetest child. The competition was intense and the time so short that it was impossible to tell them the bad things – the beatings, the bed-wetting and the horrible children who picked on me. Family Time was always over too quickly. I tried so hard to be brave and not to let them see me cry when it was time to go back to the dorm. It wasn’t lost on us that Mom and Dad also battled hard to do the same as they kissed us goodbye.
There was a moment of family joy, though, with the birth of my brother Guy. I had been secretly hoping for another girl. I still badly missed Thérèse, but when Guy arrived, all pink and cute just like Vincent had been, I fell instantly in love with him. He was in the nursery with Mom so she was able to breastfeed him herself (as she had all of us), but she certainly wasn’t able to focus entirely on her newborn. New mothers were expected to share their milk and breastfeed other babies whose mothers were away FF’ing or fundraising.
Every day in the Bangkok house seemed to bring a set of strange new rules or procedures. Survival depended on adapting quickly. For example, using more than two pieces of toilet paper for a wee or three for a bowel movement got you a hard spank for being wasteful. The rationale was that we didn’t have money to spare and God expected us to be thankful for the gifts we had; therefore over-using a roll of toilet paper was deemed a very unspiritual and selfish thing to do. To ensure we got the point we had to go with the door open while an adult hovered over us. It was so humiliating. Even getting permission to use the toilet in the first place was a minefield. Children weren’t allowed to talk until spoken to so you couldn’t just ask outright. I was told to raise one finger in the air if I needed to pee, or two for a bowel movement.
Sometimes you held your aching arm in the air for ages, bursting to go but desperately trying to hold on until someone deigned to notice. If a teacher didn’t like you they often pretended not to see you on purpose, getting twisted fun from a child’s discomfort. Asking to go when there were lots of people about, such as in school or at mealtimes, was so embarrassing. I hated having to use my fingers to announce to a roomful of my classmates what it was I needed to do.
Some time ago Grandpa had stated in a newsletter that children should be able to go eight hours during the night without needing the toilet. Asking to go at night got you a beating, so the only option was to hold on as best you could. The agony of trying to sleep with a full bladder was awful. But if you wet the bed you got a beating too. It wasn’t much of a choice – ask and get hit, wet the bed and get hit. The first time that happened to me I spent a sleepless night on cold, wet sheets, ashamed and afraid, dreading morning and the inevitable public humiliation.
The initial sense of safety I had felt in the first few weeks after moving to Bangkok quickly dissipated. I began to show clear signs of disturbed behaviour. At dinner I stole a knife from the dining hall and hid it under my pillow until bedtime when I took it out and carved Clay’s name into the wooden frame of my bunk.
Uncle Titus caught me. Without a word he dragged me into the toilet next door and went at me with the fly-swat. He hit me so hard I fell over. He ordered me to stand up and he hit me again. I collapsed against the wall. This time as I struggled up he ordered me to hold onto the towel rail for support. I gripped the rail so tight my fingers went white as blow after blow rained down on my bare buttocks. If I cried out he followed with a harder hit. I bit my lip so hard my tooth went right through it, making it bleed. When it was finally over I couldn’t walk.
As quickly as a light switch turning on, Titus’s violent rage turned to gentle concern. He picked me up, carried me onto my bunk and carefully placed me on the bed. He stroked my hair, wet with my tears, away from my face and shook his head. When he spoke it was in a low, sad voice, as if he was the one who was in agony. ‘Natacha, I did not enjoy that. Why did you make me do that? Why did you put me through the pain of hurting you? Do you know why I just spanked you? I spanked you for Jesus. Jesus loves you. I spanked you for your own good and to help you become a better little girl. You were a bad girl but Jesus wants you to be a good girl. Together we are going to help you do that. Do you understand why I had to hurt you? It was to help you.’
I nodded.
‘Now give me a cuddle and say thank you.’ He had tears in his eyes.
Hugging the man who had just beaten me senseless was the last thing I wanted to do, but I wrapped my arms around his neck, placed a kiss on his cheek and mustered up a watery smile.
‘Thank you very much for helping me, Uncle Titus.’
‘Now let us pray to Jesus for forgiveness and thank him for this special time we have had together.’
It was normal to have to hug and pray with the person who had beaten you. They made out it was for your own good. If you refused the post-beating cuddle you risked another, so you smiled sweetly and said nothing. It was how the game was played.
So many of the adults seemed to take pure delight in their power to punish us, perfecting their o
wn versions of torture methods for children. Older children got what was called the board – a plank of wood drilled with holes. As it swung to hit you air rushed through the holes, which made it sting more. In a sadistic twist, children were often thrown into the shower first. The board on a wet bottom was excruciating. Many poor kids faced that at least once a week.
Aside from my three little friends I was not a popular child. I was skinny, with scraggly thin hair and freckles – an obvious target for bullying. There was a girl one year older than me called Honey. For some reason she took an instant dislike to me. Every day she found new ways to taunt me, whether it was nipping my arms as she brushed past, dropping my books onto the floor or kicking me from behind in class. She was an angelic-looking little girl with long dark curls and chocolate saucers for eyes. All the adults thought she was adorable. I don’t think I ever saw her once get the swat. But her skills as a manipulator meant she was certainly responsible for several other kids getting it.
One evening in the mess hall she picked up my dinner plate, pretending to smell it, then spat in it. This went unnoticed to anyone but me, of course. She gave me a little smirk of satisfaction. I glared at her, promising myself that this time I would have my revenge.
My opportunity came a few days later. It was monsoon season and during a break from the downpours the teachers let us out to play for half an hour. I found a large hairy grub on a bush and placed it in my pocket. After nap time I made sure I was the last child in the line, hanging back for just a few seconds – long enough to open her drawer and throw the grub inside. I spent the rest of the day feeling nervously self-satisfied. At bedtime I was really looking forward to the moment she discovered it. But she didn’t. I went to sleep disappointed, and by the time I woke up had forgotten all about it.
At lunch we were told to prepare ourselves to write an ‘Open Heart Report’ before dinner. Both adults and children did these once a week, although in other communes they were done daily. In theirs the adults had to fill out a form detailing the sharing, writing down the full details of who they had sex with and on what nights. They were supposed to write it all up in unexpurgated detail, saying what positions they did, whether they had full sex, oral sex or just foreplay. The reports were passed on to the Shepherds, who dished out any relevant punishments and sent edited versions on to David Berg. It wasn’t unusual for someone to later see their reports referred to in a Mo letter, either as good examples or through naming and shaming anyone who came across as a doubter.
Born into the Children of God Page 7