Kitabı oku: «Not Without My Sister: The True Story of Three Girls Violated and Betrayed by Those They Trusted», sayfa 4

CHAPTER FOUR Behind Four Walls

Our new house was not unusual for a well-to-do neighbourhood in Manila, with twelve bedrooms, a swimming pool and basketball and tennis court. Eight-foot walls surrounded the rented property with jagged glass on top to keep out robbers; but the walls also kept me in, shut away from the outside world, like a convent.

I had been used to playing in open spaces – the campsite, the farm and the beach. But here, on the outskirts of a polluted city, I felt caged with nowhere to escape from the constant noise and so many people living closely together.

When we first moved into the big house, our family of five stayed in one room on the second floor. Dad and Serena slept on a double bed, and the girls and I had a triple-bunk bed. As soon as we had settled in, our shepherds Paul and Marianne told us, ‘We’re now officially a World Services Home, and that means tighter security. Everyone is going to need to change their names.’

Later I asked Dad why. I couldn’t imagine being called anything but Celeste.

‘It’s a security measure,’ he explained. ‘The Family might recognize us on the street. New names will throw off anyone if they happen to see us or hear us talking when we’re outside. We have important work to do and if our enemies find out where we are, it would hurt God’s work.’

Now we had to hide just like Mo did, even from the Family that we were supposed to be servicing.

‘What about Rebecca, my middle name?’ I suggested.

Dad was pleased. ‘My parents chose the name Rebecca.’

‘And what about you? What’s your new name?’

‘I’ve chosen the name Happy.’

I thought Dad’s choice of name was very odd; but worse, he grew a handlebar moustache. I told him he looked awful, and to my relief he shaved it off soon after.

As a World Services Home, we were directly under Mo and Maria’s control. These operational homes helped to oversee and produce the Mo Letters, videos and publications for the Family. They stayed apart from normal communes and were financed by the tithes of the common Family members. Mo had introduced a 10 per cent tithe in the early 1970s on all income from litnessing, inheritances and Flirty Fishing. The percentage had slowly increased, and by this time an additional 3 per cent was levied for additional administration costs. If a commune failed to pay their monthly tithe on time, the penalty was excommunication until the debt was cleared.

The rules in World Services were tighter and there were more restrictions on our freedom. We were not allowed to tell anyone our phone number, address, or even the country we lived in. All personal correspondence had to be read by the leaders before being mailed, and all letters from the outside were opened before being handed to us. I was never told our address and the only phone in the house was in Paul and Marianne’s room.

Even though I had little contact with my mother, she knew I was in Greece and then Sri Lanka because of the videos we made that were distributed to all Homes worldwide. Now, I was not allowed to tell her anything. We couldn’t talk about the weather or what we ate in case it would give our location away. I wrote her a letter – another one of those sad little missives sent out into the unknown – but all I could say was that I was doing fine and learning lots of lessons. With my note, I sent her and my sister and brother some hand-made gifts that I had laboured long and lovingly over during school time. To my delight, a few months later I received a letter back from my sister. It didn’t have much detail but it contained a photograph of Kristina, aged about seven, standing on a porch with banana trees in the background.

It is impossible to express how I felt as I gazed at that photograph. The last photo of her I’d seen had been the snapshot Dad had shown me in Greece, of Kristina and me in a pushchair. This was of a grown-up girl with dark-brown hair down to her shoulders and beautiful blue eyes.

I treasured that picture and kept it with my other keepsakes in a little box. But why hadn’t Mum sent me a photograph of herself or written a letter? It was all very mysterious – but almost everything in my life seemed to be tinged with secrets.

Manila sweltered in the tropical sun and everyone walked around in their underwear or a sarong tied around their waist, even in the garden. Despite our attempts to keep a low profile, word spread round the neighbourhood that a group of foreigners had moved in. Our property was near a coconut grove and a local man climbed up one of the trees to peek into the ‘foreigners’ garden’. He was treated to the sight of topless women in sexy underwear. Next thing we knew, every man who could climb a tree did so to see for himself. This exposure was terrible for our security. Instead of putting on clothes, someone had the bright idea to make signs saying ‘Peeping Tom’. When a man was spotted up a coconut tree, the warning signs would be posted at every outside door. If a sign went up it meant that no one was allowed to go outside. When the all clear was given, the signs came down and everything went back to normal – or what was normal for us: adults having sex in the swimming pool, hanging up the laundry and playing badminton in our underwear.

Music with Meaning had been the Family’s ministry for five years, but when the media and government officials discovered that the show was a front for the Children of God, the radio stations dropped it. The Family had to adapt in order to survive. It was sad the day Dad completed his last and final Music with Meaning show. He took me down to the studio as he packed up his master tapes. I knew he was very disappointed to have to end Music with Meaning and like me, he disliked being confined to the house, but he told me he resigned himself to it as part of his sacrifice for the Lord.

‘I’ve been given a new project,’ Dad explained to me. ‘Grandpa’s asked me to write stories for children about life in his house, and about Davidito, Davida and Techi. The series is going to be called Life with Grandpa. I’ve never written children’s stories before, but I’ll give it a try.’ He always tried to remain upbeat, but he admitted that he would miss recording.

‘How will you write about them unless you get to meet Grandpa and the children?’ I asked.

‘They’ll send me all the information I need, and there’s a lot in the Mo Letters as well, some that haven’t been published.’

Ultimately, Life with Grandpa became a series of comics compiled in seven books.

With the Music with Meaning era officially over, our Home was also given another new project – to record a series of music tapes that we could sell to the public under the name of Heaven’s Magic. I spent hours with Windy learning harmonies and recording with Armi and Mene in the studio room. I looked forward to recording because it broke up the monotony of my day.

At the same time the Home was also given the project of producing colour posters that could be distributed to the public and we received new members from other World Services homes to work on this. One of them was Eman Artist. He was commissioned by Mo to illustrate the posters and a series of comics called Heaven’s Girl. Mo wrote of a dream he had of a young teen girl, ‘Heaven’s Girl’, who had superpowers to defeat the Enemies of God, the Antichrist police forces, in the Endtime. She was also an expert Flirty Fisher. Mo said Heaven’s Girl would be our role model, and like her we would become superheroes for God and that we would be able to call on God’s zap rays to destroy our enemies by blinding them. On the other hand, some of us would have to die as martyrs for the faith. I had no doubt that it would happen – and soon.

Eman needed a model that fitted Mo’s description of Heaven’s Girl. All the females in the house took turns posing semi-nude for him and photographs were sent to Mo for his approval. In the end, Mo chose his own granddaughter, Mene. He even said that she could be the one to fulfil the vision and lead us in to the Endtime. In one picture, Eman Artist drew Mene – Heaven’s Girl – standing with her arm outstretched with a rod in her hand, while the earth swallowed up Antichrist soldiers and army tanks.

Mene was now twelve years old, and a month later she disappeared. No one was told where she went. If someone ‘disappeared’, it usually meant they had gone somewhere secret, such as to another World Services Home or to Grandpa’s House.

One evening, I asked Armi, ‘Do you know where Mene went?’

She nodded. ‘She went to live with Grandpa.’

At this time too, the larger families of our Home were asked to move to other regular communes. Fiona and Antonio left to set up a commune in Manila with all their children. I also had to say goodbye to my friends Renee and Daniella who left with their parents, Silas and Endureth. Even though they remained in the same city it was as if they had moved to the other end of the earth. No contact was allowed between the World Services elite and the rank and file Family members. There were only four children in my age group now – Armi and myself, and Michael and Patience’s sons, Patrick and Nicki.

Although I was only nine, I was often entrusted with the care of the younger children on my own or with Armi while the adults had meetings, or during their Saturday-night movie – the one film they were allowed to watch a week. One evening, I was reading True Komix to my little sisters Mariana and Juliana before putting them to bed. For fun, I decided to play a trick on them. I slammed the book shut and sternly said, ‘Line up against the wall. You’ve both been very naughty and need a spanking.’

They were good little girls and, obediently, they did as I had said. Taking four-year-old Mariana into the bathroom, I put her over my knee, put my right hand on her bottom, and then spanked my hand. Immediately, she caught on to the joke that I was not really giving her a beating after all and began to laugh. I had a chuckle with her and told her not to tell her sister outside. ‘Okay,’ she whispered.

When I came out to call Juliana in, she was already sobbing. I expected her to get the joke too, although she was only three. I brought her into the bathroom. ‘Right, now it’s your turn,’ I said in my strictest voice.

‘No, no, please no–’ She started to get hysterical and broke out into a sweat.

I bent her over my knee and did the same as before. Only she did not get it. She screamed and begged me to stop. Immediately I stood her up and told her I was only hitting my hand and not her bottom. She kept crying and her heat rash became inflamed and her whole body slippery with sweat. I had seen her break out in the same sweat and hysterics before, when she got spankings, but for the first time I saw the panic and helplessness in her eyes. She was terrified at even the thought of another beating.

Ashamed of myself, I cooled her under the shower and then did my best to distract her and calm her down. Mariana told her that she did not get a spanking either, and finally she settled down. I felt terrible for what I had done and that night I made a resolution that I would never be physically violent towards children when I grew up, no matter what. For the first time, I understood that even children had a right to dignity and respect and saw how depraved and abusive the treatment the leaders meted out to us was. Hitting did nothing but damage a child’s fragile trust in those they looked to for love and care. I hated when I was hit across the face, knuckled on the head, or spanked, and I vowed that I would never forget.

Not long after this incident, our little family was split up. After Serena gave birth to her son, Victor, she was moved with the two girls to another World Services Home in a nearby subdivision of Manila. Victor was only three months old but he did not go with her. He was adopted by a childless couple in our Home.

I was never told the reason why Victor was given away or why Dad and Serena allowed their son to taken from them. We weren’t supposed to ask questions, but it was terribly confusing. It seemed to me that Dad and Serena were in trouble for something and this was some form of punishment. I thought that maybe after Serena left it would be just Dad and me again together, but instead Marianne told me,

‘You’ll be staying with Michael and Patience in their room.’

‘But why can’t I stay with Dad?’ I pleaded.

‘You’d be better off with Patience, who can take care of you properly.’

I resented this change. Patience was the last person I wanted to live with and I was frightened of being separated from my father, who was my only protection. But we were kept apart and I only saw him once a week, when we went to visit Serena and the girls for our Freeday.

On one Freeday, Dad and I watched a video compilation of the Benny Hill Show. In one scene Benny Hill was a news presenter and he did a play on the phrase, ‘Fish and chips’.

‘Ummm, fish and chips!’ Dad moaned, licking his lips. ‘Fish and chips wrapped in newspaper with vinegar. It’s the only thing I miss from England.’

‘Yuck!’ I exclaimed. ‘Dad, newspaper is dirty. All that ink comes off on your hands.’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘It adds to the flavour. One day, we’ll go to England and I’ll buy you English fish and chips,’ he promised.

It was the first time I heard Dad reminisce – or say anything positive about England. Mo often ranted against America and the West as ‘cesspools of iniquity’ and Dad believed that God would soon judge England for their ‘rejection of God’s children’.

Every word Mo said was taken so seriously, even down to his likes and dislikes. One of my jobs was to set the table for dinner, and one day I was instructed to lay spoons instead of forks and knives. After the meal, I asked Dad why.

‘Well, Grandpa said that all you need is a spoon.’ He went on to demonstrate. ‘You can scoop things up with it, and use the edge to cut. You really don’t need forks. The food just falls through anyway.’

‘But I like forks,’ I replied.

I thought it was ridiculous. We could not use black pepper, women could not wear jeans, and men replaced their briefs for boxer shorts, just because Mo expressed his dislike for them. Fruits and vegetables had to be soaked in salt water for twenty minutes – which made them taste awful; salt was supposed to kill the germs. Mo always boasted how frugal he was – his childhood in the Great Depression of the 1930s had left a mark on him. He could take a shower in a bowl of water, he saved stamps, and always made the most of a napkin, by first using it to wipe his mouth, then clean his glasses, then blow his nose, then finally to wipe his bottom.

Ewww, I thought when I read that. How gross.

He also declared that three sheets of toilet paper were all that you needed for a bowel movement. This became a Family rule. We were always threatened with the Scripture, ‘The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good’, and I did my hardest to fold carefully those three sheets to maximize their use. I was convinced that Jesus was there in the toilet with me, watching to make sure I didn’t use more than I was allowed. At this time I started to suspect that Mo lived nearby. His location was supposed to be top secret but I noticed that Paul Peloquin and Marianne often disappeared for a few days only to return with new rules, projects and ‘news from Grandpa’. Paul talked often about Mo’s household and would introduce new rules that he had picked up from his visits to their Home.

One evening, he announced during a meeting, ‘I want everyone to write down in order of preference who you would like to be on the date schedule with. You won’t be guaranteed that you’ll get the person you asked for, so put down your first, second and third choices.’ While the adults were given a choice, Paul arbitrarily decided my and Armi’s date schedule. We had to have a date – sex in other words – with both Patrick and Nicki, twelve and nine years old, once a week.

When Nicki and I were five years old at the campsite, I remember fooling around with him and mimicking sex like we had seen the adults do, and it was fun. I liked him. But being forced on to a schedule where I had to perform whether I wanted to or not quickly turned it into a duty. I resented being parcelled out without any consideration for how I felt or what I wanted.

Besides our dates with the boys, Armi and I were also scheduled with the adult men. Paul Peloquin would ask me to masturbate as he got off. He said it turned him on to watch me. I hated it, especially since I was afraid of him. I would imitate the motions as I had been taught, but felt nothing but fear that if I didn’t please him he would lash out in anger.

I had been taught that black was white until my normality was upside down and backwards – but there was some kind of inner spark of morality deep-seated in me that told me what was really right and what was wrong. Sex with men old enough to be my father – with anyone I didn’t choose – was wrong. Their touches were uncomfortable and awkward. It was an assault on my body that I had to grin and bear; I was powerless to stop it. I was trapped. Dad should have saved me, but he didn’t.

Jeremy Spencer worked with Dad on Life with Grandpa as the artist. He lived in the small, detached room in the courtyard that was built for the maid. On our dates he would play a tape of saxophone music. The routine was by now familiar – undress, pray, kiss and then give him a hand job. Jeremy would try to masturbate me but it just ended up feeling raw and hurting. I would move position so that he would rub a different spot, but I never understood why he – and the other men – kept on rubbing and rubbing. If I said I did not enjoy it they would accuse me of being prudish or proud. I just pretended to have an orgasm to get them to stop.

Because we were supposed to ‘be loving and share’, my protests were seen as rebellion which was the spirit of the Devil. Eman Artist worked directly with Mo he was treated as special and had the pick of any woman or girl he wanted. He was a short man, overweight, wore glasses, and had already lost most of his hair even though he was only in his early thirties. I had just started to develop breasts and they were tender. Eman liked to come up behind me and feel me up, or wrap his arms around my chest and squeeze me tight. It felt like he was suffocating me.

‘You’re hurting me,’ I would say, as I pushed him away.

‘You’re just little Miss Queeny, aren’t you?’ he’d snap back. ‘So proud, Queeny,’ he would mock, emphasizing the word ‘Queeny’. I hated that name.

I managed to avoid him for a while, but then the dreaded evening came when he asked me to come to his room for a date. I could not bear the thought of being alone with him. In desperation, I went to my teacher, Sally, and said I could not do it.

‘He’s horrible, pushy and disgusting,’ I told her.

‘Sweetie, sometimes it can be difficult to share but God gives us the strength to do it. Why don’t we pray together?’

She laid her hand on my shoulder.

I listened dejectedly to her prayer, feeling betrayed and helpless. If she was not going to stop it then no one would. She handed me her tape recorder and suggested I play some music and do a dance for the loathsome man. She even escorted me to Eman Artist’s room. I hated her. I hated the fact that I was being forced to suck the dick of a perverted, fat man who persisted on pushing himself on me when he knew I hated it. The worst part was the way he gloated. He had power over me and there was nothing I could do about it.

He smirked as he exposed himself. ‘Suck me off,’ he ordered. Forcefully he pushed my face down on to his penis until I gagged. But although he puffed and groaned, nothing happened. So he asked me to dance for him, directing me to wiggle and rub my bottom in a suggestive way, as he tried to get it on himself. He failed to climax and his impotence made him agitated and more demanding. After what seemed like hours, I stumbled out of his room and cried myself to sleep on my own bed. The assault was over, but the nightmare continued to haunt me for years.

I never thought of telling Dad how I felt about the incident, especially after one evening when I walked in on him lying on the bed half-dressed with Armi. Upset and dreadfully embarrassed, I left the room quickly. The thought of my dad having a date with my best friend deeply disturbed me. He did it too, just like all of them. Of course he wouldn’t rescue me. We never talked about any of my sexual experiences, nor did he ask me. In fact, I rarely saw him. He was completely stripped of all his parental responsibilities – he was my father in name only. I spent most of my time with Michael and Patience, who acted as my foster parents.

But to Michael, I was more than a daughter. Like all the girls, I walked around in little panties during the day. After a game of badminton with him, he came up to me and flicked my panties playfully.

‘You’ve been a good girl recently. As a reward we should have a date,’ he said.

I gave a weak smile, but inside I was screaming, Why? What sort of a reward is that? Your penis down my throat is no reward for me. That was the last thing I wanted. I finally reached my boiling point. I was tired of anything do to with sex. I was fed up of what seemed to be a never-ending hell. I decided to risk it – I figured I had nothing to lose – and I went to Paul Peloquin. ‘I don’t want to have dates anymore. It’s not fun, I’m sick of it,’ I said.

His face turned bright red. ‘That is the spirit of rebellion speaking in you,’ he shouted. ‘Go to my room and wait there.’

My stomach churned. I was in trouble. When he entered the room an hour later, Paul told me he had a letter to read me, called ‘The Girl Who Wouldn’t’. It was a stern Letter of Correction from Mo to a woman who had refused to have lesbian sex with Keda, one of his leaders.

Afterwards, Paul applied what the letter said to me. ‘You know that’s your problem. So full of pride and self-righteousness, thinking you know better than everyone else. Do you think you know better than God?’ He fumed. ‘It’s the woman’s place to yield to the man and given them what they need. It’s not about you. You’d better be willing to sacrifice and show a little more love, damn it. You’re yielding to the Devil, you know? Rebellion is witchcraft.’

I had to write a Letter of Confession and repentance, but inside I hated Paul. I hated being forced to have sex, with no way to escape from it. I started to have violent thoughts about him and wished he would die. I felt I was going crazy with so many bottled up feelings that I couldn’t express. Sometimes I would go outside in the early evening just to be alone for a few moments and daydream. One evening after a game of badminton, as the sun was setting I heard haunting music from over the high wall. I lingered and as moths fluttered, attracted by the lamplight that illuminated the court, I listened to the words.