Not Without My Sister (17 page)

Celeste was only fourteen and still at the heart of the cult and vulnerable. Mum sued for custody of her, but that did not mean much as neither the authorities nor we had any idea where she was. The judge made Celeste a ward of court. Sam Ajeiman, who had left the cult in 1978—ten years before we did—worked with Mum to produce a booklet, "Searching for Celeste," and we went on a few radio and TV programs and did a number of interviews. Our aim was to ask for help in tracking her down. Through the UK Home Office, the police and Interpol had her details and were on the look-out for her, but they failed to locate her.
I was upset Dad didn't reply to my letters; instead he issued open letters and statements to the press. He accused Mum of selling her soul to the Devil and how dare she persecute God's Family? He claimed that there was never any inappropriate sexual contact between adults and children, and that he lived in the most loving Family he knew.

How could he still believe that?
Angry and outraged, I replied in an open letter to the British press, asking how Dad, Joshua and the Family could deny our experiences, and tell such blatant lies.
In my letter I wrote:

It was all I could do. Now we had to wait for Celeste to some-how hear the messages we were beaming to her in every way we knew, and respond.

Juliana

"You're not singing with your whole hearts!" He slammed his hand down on the guitar so suddenly my heart gave a little jump. What would he do this time? I never knew with Uncle Willing. He was unpredictable in everything; his tem-per would be set off by the smallest things, and usually when least expected. It was impossible to gauge his moods, and I was in no way an amateur when it came to reading our teach-ers. I feared Uncle Willing more than the rest of them. It was his eyes. They were wild. He always had spittle coming out of his mouth when he spoke, his nose had been broken so many times, it resembled a hawk beak, but mostly it was his beady black eyes and the crazed look in them.
Uncle Willing loved pounding out all the old Family songs on the guitar as we belted out the lyrics to his less-than-rhythmic strumming. The racket was deafening. He had the oddest habit of powdering the guitar neck and his hands throughout our "inspirations," when we had to sing wholeheartedly at the highest decibel level possible. To sing too, quietly meant you were not "entering into the spirit" and that could warrant punishment. Tonight he'd decided we were going to have an inspiration before bed. So we sat cross-legged on the floor in our pajamas, singing endlessly, and we were all tired.
"The next person who I don't hear singing loud and clear is getting the paddle!" he threatened. Before the night was over, he'd singled out three boys to get the board.
Uncle Willing liked administering the paddle. His face would distort into an angry grimace, his thin lips pulled tautly back revealing crooked teeth, his nostrils flared wide. It was the same face he made when he was having sex, so I wondered whether he enjoyed beating our naked bottoms. I thought it likely.
"You can be certain of getting two things here," he would say laughing and tapping the paddle against his palm. "Room and Board!"
Only a week after my dad dropped Celeste and me at the huge Bangkok Training Center I was given my first board by Uncle Willing for rebellion. My rebellion became apparent when I refused to call my new foster parents, Joseph and Talitha, "mummy" and "daddy." Although I was glad they placed me with a family I had known as a child, I was weary of having yet one more set of "parents" whom I only spent time with once a week when I was meant to show some kind of filial devotion. My daddy was coming back for me soon; he said so. Why should I get new parents?
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.