Sex was completely open and transparent in our world. The adults had no inhibitions about making love in front of us and actively encouraged us to masturbate and explore our bodies. As a result, our childish curiosity was exploited, although we were always told to never, never do it in front of strangers, or discuss it where they would hear. "The System hates sex," we were cautioned. "They think it's dirty and sinful." When the weather was very hot, everyone walked around in bathing suits or shorts. I didn't have any problem with running around in only my knickers, like all the children. By the age of five or six I was highly sexualized and extrovert.
My father never did anything to me in a sexual way, nor did I see him do anything improper at this time with my peers, but I assumed he knew what was going on. His best mate was a drummer, Solomon Touchstone, who would often go into town with us on Sundays for lunch at a little taverna overlooking the harbor. Like Dad, Solomon came from London and they'd speak together in fake cockney accents, joking about. Solomon was short—about five and a half feet—handsome, and all the women liked him. I liked him too, because he was fun, and would pay attention to me.
Sexual grooming was normal to us and happened everywhere. Everyone was always hugging and kissing and being affectionate with one another. To me it was just a game. But my openness and eagerness to gain attention, love, and approval was horribly exploited. Playful, friendly Solomon, my dad's best friend, was just one of the many men who exploited my natural, puppyish affection for him. When we were alone in his bedroom he would ask me to dance for him naked while he masturbated on the bed.
"You're so sexy!" he would moan.
Little wonder that in that video specially shot for Mo I have such a knowing-innocent look. I was innocent—but I was learning what turned men on. The only positive attention we received from the adults was when we did what they wanted, acted flirtatiously or were sexy. Children crave acceptance, and I was no different. We would be rewarded for being "yielded" and showing God's love. Being stubborn, saying no or being prudish was of the Devil and bad, and would get us in trouble. I learned quickly to act in a flirtatious manner to get attention, and didn't know how to act otherwise around men.
Another man who pursued us young girls was Peruvian Manuel. He and his German wife, Maria, taught us our dance routines. They were another childless couple. He had dark eyes and an intense, almost piercing gaze that made me feel uncomfortable. He always paid us girls special attention, especially Mene and Armi. Maria enjoyed performing lesbian acts with the women, and they both taught the girls to mimic their actions for t1-7 enjoyment of the men who would watch. Because I was younger, I was not included in many of the sexual acts that my friends were roped in for. I always counted myself lucky compared with them. But I did not escape completely.
One afternoon Peruvian Manuel came into Silas and Endureth's caravan, where Renee, Daniella, and I slept together in the back. I knew the caravan well and treated it as my second home. The red curtains were drawn. He told me to lie down, then pulled my panties down and spent some time kissing me—"This is how the adult women do it," he explained as he knelt over me and proceeded to rub himself on me, complete in all respects without full penetration, until he had an orgasm.
When I felt the sticky white stuff come over me, I was repulsed. I had never seen semen before. It felt disgusting and was messy. He took some tissues and wiped it off me then went into the small toilet closet of the caravan and cleaned himself up. I remained on the bed, dazed and confused. It was the same feeling as when you are in a nightmare: you want to scream or say something and nothing comes out. I had so many thoughts, questions and feelings but was unable to express them. Even when adults asked me directly what I was thinking, I always froze, my tongue rooted to the top of my mouth.
When I watched the adults having sex they seemed to enjoy it, so why didn't I? These men were trying to instil in me the knowledge that a little girl like myself would provoke the same sexual attention and arousal from a man that a woman would. My self-perception was distorted, and I had no concept of my own vulnerability or that I was different from the adult women.
Though in many ways we were expected to act like adults, we were still just little kids. At least once a week, Loveville would gather for a dance night, which would end up as an orgy. As usual, we were left to do our own thing while the adults—all those over the age of twelve—paired off for sex.
One night in particular, Renee, Daniella and I watched as the adults danced naked, groping each other. We decided to pull a prank, and took turns sneaking up behind a busy couple and pinching them on the bum. We thought it was hilarious when they gave a startled jump. By the time they turned around to try and catch whoever did it, we'd be long gone and giggling in the corner.
We weren't supposed to tell anyone outside the Family about our sexual freedom, as the adults called it. I was told that Systemites would not understand the truth and liberty we had, and I learned to lead a double life.
I remember singing at an orphanage one morning, and then having siesta time in our camper van before going to the TV studio in Athens to perform a Christmas song on a local TV show. We parked on the street, closed the flimsy curtains of the van and had what the adults called Love Up, or Cuddle Time.
My teacher Johnny Appleseed lay down beside me and stroked me while kissing me on the mouth. He opened his clothing and guided my hand to his penis and helped me to masturbate him. In the end, he finished himself off while I lay next to him. I was conscious of the others having sex around us. His eyes were closed, his mouth open while he panted and gasped. When he was finished he said a prayer.
"Thank you Lord, that we can share with one another your love," he prayed, and then he rolled over for a short nap.
The whole time, I was scared—he was my teacher—and also because there were gaps in the curtains. I could hear the footsteps of people passing by, and I thought that at any minute someone could look in and see us.
When it was time for our appointment, as if none of the afternoon sex had happened, the adults made up our hair and gave us a little pep talk. "When we get in there, remember to smile and show God's love. Don't worry about the cameras, like Grandpa said, just sing from your heart and think of the lost souls who will be watching."
We piled out of the van and into the studio. The TV presenter thought we were great and we pulled off a well-rehearsed performance. Of course, no one watching us would have had a clue what had gone on just an hour before behind the red curtains in the van.
When visitors came to the camp to stay with us, everyone dressed up a little more conservatively and I soon learned there were subjects we didn't talk about with "outsiders"—such as sex and our prophet Mo—and Mo Letters and Family publications such as the Davidito Letters would be tucked away from sight.
"Sweetheart, my parents, your grandpa and grandma, are coming to visit us from England," Dad said one morning, after receiving a letter from them.
"But we call Mo Grandpa," I said. "Is this another Grandpa?" "Yes, his name is Glen, and he's my Dad."
"Oh. I might get confused if I call him Grandpa too," I said. After a moment I had figured out how to solve the problem. "Maybe I'll call him Granddad, that way I won't get confused. Did I meet them before?" I asked.
"Yes, they met you when you were a baby when we were in London," Dad replied. "I've been wanting to witness to them. My father hasn't been saved yet, he's been stubborn, but maybe he'll pray this time."
Dad always talked about saving souls. He sincerely believed that without Jesus in their hearts, they were doomed to hell. Dad didn't want his parents to suffer such a fate in the afterlife.
When I met them, I noticed the difference in their appearance and manner immediately—how reserved they were, and the way Penny, Dad's stepmother, dressed was different from Family women. Her hair was cropped short and permed and she wore a long-sleeved blouse and trousers. Penny gave me a kiss on the cheek, but there were no hugs, though they seemed happy to see me.
"My, you've grown since we last saw you when you were just a baby," Penny said.
The evening they arrived Antonio prepared a delicious pasta dish and we sat together on one of the tables under the trees. Faithy Berg had come for a visit, and introduced herself to them and spoke glowingly of the radio show. Windy and Peter and Rachel played guitar and sang songs from the show. Dad sat beaming with pride, like he was a little boy again, at being able to show his parents what he had achieved.
The next day we accompanied them on a tour of the town, but what I remember most from their visit was the stories Granddad told of when he was a young man. He told stories about his escapades in Palestine during the war as a British army officer. "One time I woke up in the morning to find my bed had been stolen right out from under me," he chuckled.
My grandparents' visit and hearing Dad talk about his real mother made me feel special. I was excited that I had another family, my own flesh and blood that was separate from the Family. After Granddad Glen and Grandma Penny left, I wrote letters and sent them drawings and gifts of little things I had made, telling them that I hoped that I would get to see them again.
Perhaps all these family stories struck a chord with Dad. He wanted to know more about his mother and he received permission from Mo to make a trip to Poland to find his mother's relatives. He was able to track down a surviving relative in Krakow and came back with stories and pictures of my grandmother, Krystina. She looked so young and beautiful in her wedding photo with brown eyes and fine dark hair. Dad told me proudly that I got my singing voice from her. The sad ending to her story was that she got a degenerative illness like mad cow disease and died within months when she was just twenty-four years old. Dad was a little boy of three and a half and had no memory of her, but he idolized her just like I did my mum.
I knew then that Dad and I had a deep link—and understood why he never forced me to have a relationship with my stepmother Serena. I still talked about wanting to visit my mum in India, but Dad told me it was too expensive and he was needed for the radio show. He suggested instead I make a tape for them. I sang my favourite Music with Meaning songs and jingles while shaking a tambourine. When I forgot the words, Solomon Touchstone was there to coach me. I also quoted Mo Quotes and Bible verses. At the end I told Kristina and David that I loved them and to be "good witnesses for Jesus."
Before saying goodbye I said, "If I don't see you here, then I'll see you in the Millennium."
This was Dad's favourite line when I would talk about missing my family. He always said, "You'll see them again soon, if not here on earth, then in the Millennium."
The end of the world was going to happen any day and it would not be long before we would all be together forever. Whatever my dad said was true. He knew everything. He was also very important, as I discovered one evening we all gathered together for a big celebration. It was the anniversary of Music with Meaning and I was beaming with pride when I learned that we were going to honor Simon Peter—my dad!—as the founder of the show. Mo had declared it "Simon Peter's Day." I don't think my father could believe that this was happening and that he and his work was being recognized by the prophet himself. In a glowing letter Mo had even called him Saint Simon Peter.
Adoringly, I stayed by Dad's side the entire evening. When the "birthday" cake was brought out, Paul passed an envelope to Dad with a large sum of money. "Simon, this is for you, to spend in any way you like, along with a full week's holiday. It's your just reward for your hard work in the Lord's service. As you sow, so shall you reap. Praise the Lord."
There was a further reward to mark that auspicious event. Everyone got a three-day holiday. Of course they were all delighted with Dad and crowded around congratulating him and thanking him. He glowed in their praise and I glowed in his reflected glory as I stood beside him, hanging on to him and gazing up at him—my dad.
After our three-day family holiday Dad took Serena, who was eight months pregnant, to the island of Patmos for his special week's holiday while I stayed back with Silas and Endureth and my friends Renee and Daniella. When Dad returned, he showed me the pictures they took on their trip.
"We rode on a donkey. It was really bumpy, and I was sore after that for a few days." He chuckled.
"What else did you do?" I asked, wanting to know every detail of what he had done without me.
"Well, we went into the cave where the Apostle John received the Book of Revelations. Just think, it was the very place where he received in visions the final events before the End of the World!"
A few weeks later, on June 2, 1981, my half-sister, Juliana, was born in a little Greek hospital in Rafina. I couldn't *ait to see her. Solomon Touchstone drove up to the house, with Dad and Serena in the back of the car. The door opened and there was a cute little baby girl in Serena's arms, with her eyes shut tight.
Excited, I asked, "Can I hold her?"
"Sure," Serena replied. "Be careful."
She placed the baby in my arms gently. I thought she was like a little doll as I lifted her up. But as I did, her head hit the car door and the poor thing let out a mad cry.
"Oops," I said, upset. Serena quickly took her from my arms and comforted her. She didn't tell me off though, which was reassuring.
Dad gave me a hug and we all went into the house. "What's her name?" I asked.
"We're calling her Juliana Faithful," Dad said. I was so happy to have a baby sister. I watched as Serena changed the baby's nappies and nursed her. I even tried to nurse her myself—and got a few purple hickeys as a result. But because of the age gap between us, after the initial excitement of having a new baby sister, I saw her and Mariana rarely, except for Sundays. I preferred to spend time playing with Renee and Daniella. I was never jealous of our new addition to our family. I was Dad's first, and he assured me that no one would ever take my place.
Sundays were our Free Days and the only time I spent with Dad and our little family. I looked forward to Freeday, but dreaded the traditional afternoon Sunday fellowship. On one of these fellowships, everyone filed in to the big communal tent and sat down on rows of benches lined up in front of a television set.
Paul led everyone in a prayer and then announced excitedly, "This is a very special privilege. I have here in my hands a series called the Garden of Eden. Mo has allowed us here in Loveville to view these tapes, but no one must talk about it with anyone else or discuss what he looks like."
There was complete shock and silence, and then an excited buzz of conversation while the first tape was turned on. Except for a few trusted leaders, no one knew what David Berg looked like. His last name was never mentioned in internal publications and pictures of Moses David showed his face covered by an artist's drawing of a lion's head. This was done to protect his identity and whereabouts, as he was already a fugitive from the law. The media regularly printed articles about him—all of them negative—that raised public awareness and alerted government authorities around the world. All these cumulative reasons had led to David Berg—Grandpa Mo—living a shadowy life, guarded by his inner circle, who slipped from country to country with forged passports.
I was curious to find out what Grandpa really looked like and stared hard at the screen as his image came up. He had deep-set eyes, a balding head and a long, pale blond beard. He was dressed in a dark-brown robe, and around his neck he wore a great big yoke—the kind of wooden thing worn by oxen—hanging from a chain. He fit the perfect image of what I imagined a prophet would look like.
It was as if Jesus had appeared on earth. Everyone drew a breath, as they oohed and aahed.'
"It's such a privilege—"
"What an honor—"
"Praise the Lord!"
The room went quiet immediately Mo began to speak. When he talked "in tongues," everyone joined in. They raised their hands in the air when he did and followed his every move. I looked from one person to another, wondering what on earth was going on. I didn't understand what they were saying. I didn't know how to
speak in tongues. When they started weeping and crying, I wondered what I was missing out on. Sometimes, during united singing the atmosphere became emotionally charged and I felt a slight shiver, like goosebumps—had Jesus touched me? People said that was what it felt like. Everyone seemed as if they had been touched by Jesus watching those videos, and I wished that something would happen to me too—but it never did.
For the next few weeks, we spent many hours watching those videos. Mo preached on the Endtime, interpreting passages from the Book of Daniel and Revelations and explaining to us that a one-world dictator called the Antichrist would soon arise and usher in the last seven years on earth.
According to his calculations, Christ would return to earth in 1993.
Not Without My Sister Page 4
