Читать книгу Not Without My Sister: The True Story of Three Girls Violated and Betrayed by Those They Trusted - Kristina Jones - Страница 12

‘Where are we going to live in Sri Lanka?’ I asked.

‘You’ll see. It’s a surprise,’ Dad said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Did you know that it was a Sri Lankan radio station that was the first to play Music with Meaning? It’s a beautiful country, and the people are receptive to the Lord’s message.’

When we stopped over at Karachi International Airport, I knew Pakistan was near India, and I gazed avidly out of the airport windows, through the heat haze across the Arabian Sea. The air smelled vaguely familiar, a mixture of exotic spices and gasoline, as were the intense heat and humidity. I was close but so far from the place where I had last seen my mother. I thought about my sister Kristina. If only we could have stopped off in Bombay to see them. Then it was time to board another plane to Colombo, Sri Lanka’s capital city and I was caught up with the excitement of arriving on an island in the Indian Ocean.

After the long trip, we stayed in the capital at a hotel resort for the first two days to rest up before continuing our journey. The air was hot and humid, filled with the fragrance of frangipani, the sacred temple flowers that were used in Buddhist ceremonies. You could see these trees everywhere, their brightly coloured flowers hanging down in bunches, the ground beneath them littered with fragrant carpets of yolk yellow, white, purple pink and red. My first day in this beautiful, exotic land was unforgettable. The first thing I noticed were black birds crowing loudly. They seemed to be everywhere. As I walked under one of the banana palms in the grounds of the resort, I felt something warm hit my head. To my horror, I discovered a crow had shat on me.

The journey to our new home was exciting. Dad kept saying, ‘Just wait, you’ll see.’ The anticipation was killing me. We crammed all our belongings into the air-conditioned bus we’d hired to take the three-hour drive into the mountains. It was all so different after the barren rocks and scant vegetation of Greece. Here, palm trees and the rich red soil of fields where black-skinned buffaloes toiled gave way to rounded slopes covered with tea plantations. With so much rain – the island is in the path of tropical monsoons and hundreds of inches of rain fall each year – we saw many tranquil lakes, which reflected the sky and the encircling high mountains. Everything seemed so peaceful, yet rich. I gazed at it all avidly, absorbing the sights and sounds.

Finally we arrived at the new home that Dad had found for us. It had been a farm, with a large colonial farmhouse and a few other smaller houses nearby. Dad took me round and showed me the large sugarcane field at the far end of the property, and rows of strawberries and green and red chilli bushes.

The main house was large, with a huge, vaulted living room with a white marble floor. Our little family got one of the best rooms, a big, airy bedroom with an en suite bathroom that the five of us shared. In the back garden of the main house we built a swimming pool, and within a few months I learned how to swim the breaststroke and the crawl. Dad established his studio as quickly as possible so his work could continue without interruption.

On our Freeday Dad and I would always do something fun together. Sometimes we walked down the mountain to the local town, which was twenty minutes away by foot. It was easy going down, but quite a haul going back up. All the women dressed in colourful saris and the men in lungis, a kind of long cotton skirt, tied in a knot at the waist. Their chests were bare, and gleamed in the heat and humidity. I tried not to stare, but I was put off by the sight of the women’s earlobes, which hung down almost to their shoulders. I whispered to Dad, ‘What’s wrong with their ears?’

‘Oh, they’re used to wearing really heavy gold earrings for special occasions,’ he explained. ‘The weight stretches their lobes. It’s quite common in many parts of the world.’

I liked being with Dad when we were just alone, because he acted different; he was relaxed and there were no rules to follow. We’d head out on our own to ‘seek adventure’ he would say playfully. We’d pack a little picnic lunch and set off on the mountain trails around us. The sights were breathtaking, with waterfalls tumbling down from sheer cliffs, rocky little rivers, thick undergrowth filled with birds and huge butterflies, and the most incredible ancient trees hundreds of feet high.

The leeches were the only things I dreaded. They would burrow their way into my socks and I would find at least three or four on each leg, sucking my blood. Dad showed me how to get rid of them by putting salt on them and they would melt away. I hated having to come home, because it meant going back to our commune routine. After a shower, we would join everyone in the main living room for Sunday fellowship, led by Paul Peloquin and Marianne. We always ended our fellowships with the Christian tradition of Communion.

One Sunday, Paul read to us a new Mo Letter, called ‘Come Union’. Mo had received a revelation that our fellowship ceremony had a sexual meaning. We were all one, and part of each other, body as well as spirit.

Do we have complete full communion? Come-union? Common-union? All things common Communion in the flesh as well as the spirit? How long has it been since you’ve given your body to someone, a brother or sister – or even a fish? Jesus gave his body even for the unsaved! Have you? Maybe you need to get liberated from your selfishness and fears – fear of love, fear of sex, fear of pregnancy, fear of disease, fear of commitment, fear of the future, fear of the unknown, fear of flesh!

Paul stopped reading and stripped off his clothes. Everyone, including the children, obediently followed. He broke out into tongues, ‘Haddeda, Shedebeda, Hadaraba, Shadbrada. Praise the Lord. Thank you Jesus–’ and the whole room suddenly erupted into loud chants and babbling, praising the Lord with their arms raised in the air.

I looked around in amazement, baffled at the sight of the adults with tears streaming down their faces. I could not understand the sudden outburst of emotion and euphoria.

I was young, but I had a seeking mind. None of it made any sense to me. What had stripping naked to do with showing dedication to Jesus our Saviour? Everyone sat together naked, arms around each other, while Paul finished reading the ‘Come Union’ Mo Letter. But worse was to come when Paul went on to demonstrate a new way to pass the wine.

‘“Now we have signified we’re all one body,”’ he read, ‘“the bread, and one in spirit, the wine. That’s why I like to drink from one cup, which is what they did. These Protestant churches that have a bunch of little tiny cups, they never get the point. And they’ve got the bread all broken up beforehand, so they don’t get the point of that either, that you’ve got to be one body. Boy, there’s a hot one for our Family! One in the flesh, one body, one spirit! Sexually as well, really one Bride of Christ, One wife, One Body!”’

Everyone partnered up, and the men were instructed to take a sip from the communal cup and pass it on to the mouth of their female partner. When the wine came round, my adult partner took a gulp and then fixed his mouth on mine. The warm, red wine mixed with his saliva tasted awful. For a seven-year-old this was as yuck as yuck gets, and I swallowed as little as possible.

Because Jesus had turned the water into wine in the Book of John, Mo had always said that it was permissible to drink alcohol, and in Greece wine was always served with food or enjoyed in the evenings. Now Mo admitted in a Letter of Confession that he was an alcoholic and had ruined his oesophagus and stomach through heavy drinking. But he blamed his drinking binges on those who had deserted and betrayed him.

‘See, I’m not like other preachers who hide their sins,’ he would write in his confessions. ‘I’m a terrible sinner, but God has chosen me to lead you. God still called King David of Israel “a man after his own heart” even after he had Uriah murdered so he could marry his wife. I’m just a man with many faults, but when I’m in the spirit, I’m God’s prophet and King.’

This show of openness and false humility was swallowed hook, line and sinker. Dad would tell me, ‘He’s so humble, if only we could be more like him.’ But slowly I began to see the glaring double standard, and that the adults seemed to readily excuse his indiscretions because he was ‘God’s anointed’.

Maria was constantly sending out prayer requests for his health and would blame us for our lack of fervency in prayer when he became seriously sick and unable to eat solid foods. We had to fast and pray for our prophet’s healing on many occasions. During these three-day fasts, no solid food, sex, or alcohol was allowed. Children like me who were under twelve were given minimal food, usually liquid soup, and the hunger pangs were just as difficult to endure as the long prayer and prophecy sessions.

Up until this time, our cook, Antonio, made wine by fermenting grapes in large containers. This meant that alcohol was free flowing. Some apparently could not hold their drink. One morning, on the day after an orgy, I could see that the adults were on edge as we were all summoned to the living room. Paul Peloquin rolled in, his face like thunder.

‘There is sin in the camp! The Devil has been allowed to get in!’ he roared.

I knew something must have happened to get him going like this and listened carefully. From his ranting, I pieced together that one of the men, Paul Michael, had done some ‘perversion’ in the bedroom with Endureth, the mother of Renee and Daniella. I tried to imagine what it might be. As his ranting escalated to the frothing at the mouth and arms waving level, I sat there terrified at what he would do next. I wondered why the children were in trouble too. I did not drink wine. I had been in bed asleep.

‘There has been too much partying and drinking, damn it!’ Paul shouted. ‘Antonio, I want you to bring all the wine containers here right now and line them up on this table,’ he ordered.

Antonio scuttled back and forth as he brought out every last wine bottle and container from the storage room. There were at least fifteen of them.

‘Is that everything?’ Paul yelled.

‘Yes, sir,’ Antonio replied, and sat down.

Paul picked up the first of the large containers. He could barely lift it off the table. ‘There will be no more drinking. Period! If this is what is causing the poison in the camp, then it’s going to go. And if you think I don’t mean it, then…’

In what seemed like slow motion, I watched him throw his arms back and hurl one container after another out on to the patio. The sound of crashing glass continued for ten minutes, as he chucked every last bottle out.

I looked in horror at the shattered glass and pools of wine that had seeped out into the garden. I wondered if Paul had thought about who would have to clean up the mess afterwards and how dangerous broken glass was.

‘We’re going to have desperate prayer and fasting,’ he shouted, ‘and no alcohol for the next three months.’

Fervently, everyone got down on their hands and knees, and took turns praying for forgiveness for the next two hours. The floor was hard, cold marble, and my knees began to ache and my legs tingled with pins and needles. I was relieved when the tongues and weeping finally died down, thinking that maybe we could get up and sit down again. But then the prophecies started. I tried to move into different positions to get comfortable, but I was scared that Paul might notice and single me out for punishment.

I had good reason to be scared. Paul thought I had disobeyed him during another public correction. Armi had been found with a note under her pillow that she had written as a prank, forging someone else’s name to the letter. It was supposed to be for a laugh, but jokes like this were taken seriously. All of us children were called into the living room for a correction. Paul told us to close our eyes while he prayed and to keep them closed as he read a Mo Letter. When he said ‘Amen’ at the end of the prayer, I immediately opened my eyes.

‘Celeste, how dare you disobey! You’re rebellious, and disobedient,’ he shouted. I did not know what I had done wrong at first, but then I remembered he had said to keep our eyes closed not just for the prayer but for the entire length of the letter. I tried to explain.

‘Stop talking back! Now go outside and stand against the wall NOW!’ Paul shouted.

Shaking like a leaf I went out of the room and stood next to Renee, who had been sent out earlier for not sitting still. After half an hour, he called us back and told me to stand and listen, or else.

Trying my best to obey, I stood upright, but, as the time wore on, my legs became uncomfortable and tired. I leaned the back of my leg on the couch that was behind me.

‘There you go again! Disobeying orders!’ The man had eyes in the back of his head. ‘You asked for it, Celeste. Let this be a lesson to all of you.’ He told me to hold out my hand and rained down blow after blow on it. The pain was so excruciating I could barely move my wrist for a week. That night I sobbed quietly as I fell asleep exhausted, hurting and angry at my unjust punishment and humiliation in front of my peers.

I hated unfairness and injustice, and like Paul, my teacher Patience had a terrible temper; she had very little of the virtue she named herself after. She would cuss and swear at us when we made mistakes or slap us across the face if we tried to explain ourselves. ‘Stop talking back,’ she would snap.

One time when she was teaching us to write in cursive, I struggled to follow her instructions. She slammed my book closed and shouted, ‘Are you bloody stupid or something? Stand in the corner now if you won’t obey and do it right.’

My mother would never treat me like this, I fumed as I stood against the wall for the next half hour. I often thought about my Mum…

I knew Sri Lanka was an island south of India, and I hoped that we could go to visit her and Kristina and David, or maybe they could come and visit us. Somehow it made me feel closer to them, living in a similar culture. I always imagined Mum would be just like my dad. He was never unpredictable, bad tempered or violent. This made me love him all the more. I never wanted to hurt or disappoint him and would do my best to obey him. On the rare occasions he did spank me, it was usually because he was expected to by another parent because of something I had done – like when I raised a tent peg in anger at another girl during an argument, or when I snuck my friend Koa some marbles when his mother had forbidden him to play with them. Dad never gave more than six swats with his bare hand or a slipper.

‘Sweetheart, it hurts me more than it hurts you to have to spank you,’ he’d say and he’d sigh. The way he said it, his face and tone of voice made me believe him.

‘Honey, you know Jesus died for your sins on the cross,’ he said. ‘He saved you, now you don’t want to disappoint him, do you?’

I shook my head as I imagined Jesus hanging from the wooden cross, nails making his hands bleed. I had watched Jesus of Nazareth, and the death scene was frightening. But the fact that I had disappointed my dad hurt more. After the talk he put me over his knee and counted out the swats. ‘One … two … three … four … five … six.’

I tried not to cry. Usually, I just braced myself and closed my eyes because I had my pride and did not want him to see me in tears. Dad never nursed a grudge. As soon as it was over, it would be as if it never happened. If only all adults could be like him, I thought to myself. He was my hero. No one and nothing could touch him. But that made it hard for me to acknowledge anyone else’s authority.

The monsoon season in the central hill country where we lived falls from September to November, so to escape the wet and cold, we packed up and moved to the Northeast coast of the island where the weather was warmer. The holiday resort we moved to was a collection of bungalows and a swimming pool five minutes away from the beach. Our little family stayed in our own small bungalow. Juliana – who by now was two years old – did not react well to the hot weather and suffered terrible heat rash. She was constantly itching and scratching at herself and making herself bleed. Serena covered her in pink calamine lotion to soothe her. I felt so sorry for her as she also had a bad case of cradle cap on her head. It was no wonder the she learned to swim early.

Three-year-old Mariana had a fear of water and refused to go in, but Juliana loved it. I often joked that she was like a fish, bobbing up and down in the water.

Every day was like a holiday – even school was fun as we sat round on Patience’s bungalow’s balcony and she showed us the shells she had collected and made into a collage. But we never had a chance to settle in our new hideaway. A few months earlier, the story had spread around that a Family member had spotted Mo sitting by the swimming pool of a hotel in Colombo. His cover had been blown, and immediately, Mo and his personal entourage left the island. In the endless reams of rambling letters he wrote to us, he always said that the Family was his biggest security risk, as they could not keep quiet. He was supposed to be our shepherd, our prophet who loved us and yet he showed such mistrust of his own followers and ran away from them. I wondered why.

Mo also frequently changed his views and opinions and yet we were supposed to obey his every word. We had fled the West to escape an atomic war and then, hardly a year later, Mo said his interpretation of scripture was wrong. An atomic war would not come before the Antichrist’s rise to power. Instead, Jesus would return first to rescue the saved to heaven. I was still worried, though, about what we might have to suffer in the Great Tribulation.

‘I don’t want to die as a martyr, Dad, or be tortured.’

He sought to reassure me. ‘It’s okay, honey, God will give us powers to defeat the Enemy.’

As if it were a state secret, he winked at me, then quietly opened his dresser drawer, pulling out a sock. ‘Look – this is our Flee Money to use to get us out of danger,’ he said, as he showed me two gold coins he’d hidden in the sock. Every family had been given a stash of gold to hold on to, under strict orders that it was not to be spent under any circumstance other than an emergency.

Just after my eighth birthday, in January 1983, civil war broke out between the Tamil Tigers, who were fighting for independence, and the Singhalese. Our resort was right in the middle of the fighting zone and we had to pack up the camp within days and evacuate. Over one hundred of us were divided into small travelling teams and flown out in an eight-seater military plane to the airport and tickets were bought for everyone. Our gold coins were cashed in to get out of the country to safety. Those who were crucial to Music with Meaning, were to go to the Philippines. The others went to India and other neighbouring countries. I had no idea where I was headed to – I had never heard of the Philippines – but I was happy that I didn’t have to say goodbye to any of my friends: Armi and Mene, and Renee and Daniella. Whatever happened, we would be in it together and that made the journey into the unknown just a little less scary for me.