Not Without My Sister

by Kristina Jones, Celeste Jones, Juliana Buhring

  One afternoon, I was given a few minutes to say goodbye to my mother, who was seven months pregnant, Kiron and Rosemary, then they were gone. I had lost my dad and my elder sister. And now I lost my mum, a brother and my baby sister. I felt numb and could not even cry. But I was angry with Joshua, and blamed him for breaking up our family. I had forgiven him time and again, but this was the last straw. I closed my heart to him completely.

  Chapter 13

  I had been a confident, outgoing child, but after Mum left I became quiet and withdrawn. I did not imagine things could get worse, but they did. It felt sometimes like I was suffocating with the weight of my suppressed emotions. I missed her desperately and talked to her all the time in my mind, wondering how she was and what she was doing. Was she sad without my brothers and me? They cried into their pillows at night, but I felt like stone inside and couldn't, as that would mean my acceptance of this frightening situation.

  I was now ten, and I could not help wondering the reason for it all. It seemed unlikely to me that God would approve of physical and emotional cruelty to small children as I had observed from every direction, especially from Joshua and the Home shepherds. However good and obedient we children were, it never seemed to end. Instead of behaving like a loving family—the happy, smiling face they presented to the world—behind our closed front doors, the Family created a cruel and hostile atmosphere, one driven by suspicion and paranoia. Every word sent down from Mo was an admonishment and a rant for us to do better. Joshua was no better. However hard I tried, it was never good enough.

  When I began teaching a group of four- to seven-year-olds I started to realize that the way I dealt with the children differed greatly to how the adults treated them. The adults' interpretation of the rules were inconsistent and constantly changing from home to home and person to person. For example, we were always instructed to peel apples as the skins carried germs. Then a new Mo Letter said that this was unnecessary as long as the apple was soaked properly with salt water. My six-year-old brother Jonathan was eating an apple for snack, when suddenly an uncle grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

  "How dare you eat the apple without peeling it first!" he bawled. "Disobedient boy! I'm going to teach you a lesson you'll never forget!" He dragged my terrified brother into the bathroom and beat him with a flyswatter. He had not read the new letter yet and thought Jonathan had defied the rules.

  Even though we knew it could lead to punishment for us, David and I were banging on the door. "Uncle—it's not what you think! He didn't disobey the rules. Please uncle!" But the sound of the whacks and Jonathan's screams continued. When my brother came out whimpering, he ran to Joshua, who was unable to do anything. Adults were not supposed to interfere with each other's correction of the children.

  I glared at Joshua, panting with frustration—what kind of a man was he? What kind of a father was he? But I could say nothing.

  When it was my turn to go on a "road trip," I was glad to be getting away. The commune was beginning to feel like a

  prison. Road trips were witnessing trips to areas that did not have any communes and could last for weeks. I went with a teen boy, Steven, and two adults—Auntie Esther, an Italian-American and Uncle Peter, an Indian national. Our bags were laden with thousands of posters to distribute and Heaven's Magic tapes to sell.

  After a long and tiring day knocking on the doors of shops and offices, we returned to our hotel room. There was a double bed and a mattress on the floor. Auntie Esther officiated over the sleeping arrangements.

  "The first night, I'll share with Steven," she declared, "and Nina, you can sleep on the bed with Uncle Peter. Tomorrow row night, we'll swap."

  I was worried. I could not stand Uncle Peter! He was always saying stupid things and scaring the younger children. He would accost me in the kitchen while I was cooking, or in the dark bend of the stairwell, lifting my top and pawing at my developing breasts. I always managed to excuse myself with some duty. Now there was nowhere to run.

  Help, I thought.

  I heard Auntie Esther and Steven pray before making love. They went on for hours as I gritted my teeth and tried to get to sleep. Beside me, Uncle Peter was becoming increasingly horny and inched over towards me. Suddenly, his hands were all over me, his erection rubbing into my bottom. Every muscle in my body was tense and I tried to pretend I was asleep. He turned me on to my back and his mouth assaulted me. He persistently tried to penetrate me and the more I resisted the more demanding he became.

  "I'm tired," I mumbled in protest.

  Uncle Peter made some strange noises then collapsed on top of me and fell asleep. He was too heavy to wiggle out from under, and I hardly slept.

  After the first night, I did manage to keep him at a distance for a few days. But then, one afternoon after witnessing, we headed back to the hotel earlier than usual. I was proud of my achievements that day. I was a good salesperson and had got rid of all the posters and tapes in my bag. I felt happy and relaxed, but his words chilled me to the marrow.

  Uncle Peter said, "Nina, you've done so well today, that we'll take an afternoon off!"

  I recognized a look in his eye and when we got up to our room, I realized I was not going to have a nap. My fears were confirmed when I stepped out of the shower and he approached me. I dodged when he reached out to grab me and let out a slight scream. I had never screamed in my life and I could not find my voice. He grabbed me then and threw me on to the bed with his hand over my mouth, saying "Shhh."

  "Why are you being so selfish?" His hot breath fanned my face. "The others have been getting all the sex while you keep denying me. I'm desperate and you're refusing to share with me!" He then implored more gently, "Come on."

  I could not breathe easily and he was hurting me. I tried to wrestle myself out from under him but he clamped my two hands down over my head.

  "No, no, no!" I shouted.

  "You little tease!" he said aggressively, taking both my wrists in one hand and cupping the other over my mouth. It did not take long for him to climax. Shaking, I rolled over and sobbed quietly under the sheet till I fell asleep. That evening when I awoke I went straight to the shower. It took many of them to rid me of his smell.

  The next few nights were no different and I found it hard to bury my disgust. I wrestled with the concept that if I found him repulsive, it was my own fault for not having enough love. I did not mind sleeping with some of the boys my own age, but I felt sick and it was painful when I had sex with the older teens and grown men.

  My best friend, Sunshine, was also unhappy and, when I got back from the road trip, we discussed running away together.

  "Where will we go?" Sunshine whispered.

  "England," I said confidently. "We can follow the stream down to the sea and find a boat bound for England. Then we'll find my mother—she'll look after us."

  "But we have no money for our fares," Sunshine said.

  "We can stowaway!" I said, grabbing her hands. "Oh, Sunshine it will be such an adventure! Let's start hiding our food now, so we'll have enough to last on the journey!"

  We made a plan and squirreled away little bits of food. We were confident that we could live on the fish from the stream and peanut-butter sandwiches. The excitement of planning it all distracted us from the daily drudgery of Home life.

  The night of our escape came. Still dressed, we got under the covers and waited. We were nervous but ready. When we were sure all the adults in the house had gone to bed, we got up, grabbed our "flee bags" and started to inch our way down-stairs in the pitch black. I thought of unseen wild animals outside—snakes and tigers—and started to quake. We reached the front door and slid open the first lock. The noise startled us and we stood frozen for a good ten minutes, while Sunshine waited for me and I waited for her to make a move. A slight noise in the house made us panic and, holding hands, we slunk back upstairs and into our beds, our dreams of escape and freedom just ashes.

  Then, for the first time in years, I had really go
od news. Joshua's parents, Nan and Papa, were coming to India!

  We made the long journey to pick them up at Bombay airport. We recognized Papa first, then saw that Nan was in a wheelchair. She was exhausted but cried when we greeted her with hugs and kisses. They had just spent four months in England with our mother and stayed for the birth of their new grandchild, Christopher, who was born in June 1987.

  When Joshua heard my new brother's name, he was livid. "Christopher! She has called him Christopher?" he seethed.

  "Yes, dear," Nan smiled. "He's a lovely little baby, a real sweetheart."

  But I knew without him saying that he was livid that Mum had named his child after my dad. It seemed a smack in the eye to him.

  One evening Papa walked into our room as we were reading Life with Grandpa. We had wrapped it in a new cover so that it could not be identified as Family material, I was very aware that I needed to keep it hidden from outsiders' eyes. When Papa walked in the room, I stopped reading.

  "What are you reading?" he asked, picking up the book and flicking through it. There were a few stories with graphic sexual images and strange scenarios and he stared at them shocked. He looked up and glanced at me, and I looked back guilelessly, though shaking inside. To me, these images were not "wrong"—these were the valuable words of God's prophet. However, I could see shock and disgust on Papa's face, and felt shame creep over me.

  Immediately, Papa took Joshua into the next room and I could hear their raised voiced as they quarreled. Afterwards, Joshua was tense and strained and it seemed that Papa and Nan might leave. Nan stayed in her room in tears for three days and we worried that we had upset her. I'd creep in and hold her hand, and take her cold drinks, but she seemed over wrought and could barely speak to me. But on the third day she got up, determined to give us an amazing holiday. They took us on excursions to the safari park, the zoo, and to see the other sights of the city. It was our first real holiday and we wallowed in it. I wondered why our lives couldn't always be like this—full of happiness, kindness, and fun without lectures and constant, harping criticism from adults.

  But Joshua didn't change. The kinder his parents were, the more morose and hostile he became. He did not allow us to use the toilet for hours; David held it in so long that eventually, to his embarrassment, he peed himself. Nan took him up an alley to clean him up. Later, she finally exploded at Joshua. "For God's sake, just leave them alone! They're just children! You're constantly nit-picking!"

  He just glowered at her and snapped, "He's old enough not to wet his pants."

  For the last night of their visit, Nan and. Papa said they would take us to eat at Bombay's grandest hotel, the Taj Mahal. We had a lovely meal accompanied by a string quartet. We chatted together and ignored Joshua altogether as he sat sulking through the meal. As we expected, he waved away the dessert menu.

  "Well, I'm having dessert!" Papa insisted and ordered the king of banana splits.

  As soon as Joshua left to go to the toilet, Papa pushed the amazing mountain of ice cream, cherries and nuts over and told us to tuck in. It was a rare moment of defiance so we quickly stuffed our faces while Nan kept watch. By the time Joshua returned the banana split was gone. When we took them to the airport, we were all in tears as we hugged good-bye. I was heartbroken to see them go. On the train back to Bangalore, I was silent. It was difficult to come down from the high of their visit.

  After Christmas, we received a bulletin that Grandpa Mo was ill again and Maria had serious problems with her eyes. A worldwide prayer vigil schedule was set up so that prayers were offered for their health at every moment of the day and night. When I caught the flu and was quarantined, I was told the sickness was because of some spiritual sin of my own. But when Grandpa and Maria became sick, it was the fault of the Family members for not praying hard enough. I remembered all the hours I had spent on my knees praying for them and I knew it wasn't because of any lack of desperation and sincerity on my part. I began to wonder if there was not some sin in them.

  My doubts seemed to be confirmed when I read about Mo's granddaughter, Mene, in a Mo Letter called "The Last State," which accused her of being possessed by demons for

  daring to question Mo. Mene had become disillusioned with her grandfather after seeing the standards he set for himself were different from those he expected of the Family.

  Why she would criticize him seemed clear to me. Members had to stick to a weekly ration of an eight-ounce glass of wine, while we read that Grandpa was always getting drunk. We were punished for using bad language, but in his Letters Grandpa swore four-letter words all the time. We could never get angry and always had to show love, while we read Grandpa's angry letters in which he ranted, belittled and tore people down. When Family members were ill, God was punishing them for their sins, and yet Grandpa was always sick. How could he accuse Mene of demon possession for having a few bad thoughts, when he depicted graphically in the Mo Letters how he was plagued with demonic oppression and hellish nightmares of monsters from the Nether-world?

  Like Mene, I had to pray against my mother's negative influence over me. Which meant that what I felt about her didn't count. I knew it was not natural to have to turn against your own mother because someone who didn't even know her said she was lacking faith. After my prayer of "deliverance," I had to choose a new name for my new self. Every year, a candlelit ceremony was held to usher in the New Year. Each member lit their candle and stated their resolution for the New Year. When my turn came, I stumbled through my pre-pared speech and announced that I had taken the new name of "Angel Dust." Though I paid them lip service, inside I was still angry that I had to denounce my mother for backsliding. Nothing made sense anymore.

  I was scared what would become of me and wrote down my fears in a diary. I invented a code that was indecipherable without the key, which I kept hidden in the back of my diary. It became my way of release and a secret area that was truly mine alone. I had to share my body with men—many of them complete strangers. My diary was something I didn't have to share with anyone.

  Many young girls were falling pregnant and this caused the rules to change. When a girl started her period, she could no longer have sex with a "semenating" male, and the men could only have sex with someone over sixteen, or under twelve. I was glad when I started my periods, as I became relatively safe, though I worried about what would happen when I turned sixteen. My friend, Phoebe, was about to have her sixteenth birthday and she confided to me her terror, as the men in the commune were queuing up like randy dogs in heat. I quietly sympathized with her. I was desperate to get away from these crazy communes with their irrational, sex-obsessed adults. I heard about a teen training center called the Jumbo opening up in the Philippines and worked up the courage to speak with Auntie Rose about going.

  "I miss my mum and I don't get on well with Joshua." Then I told her my deepest desire. "I miss my sister Celeste, and I heard she's in the Philippines at the Jumbo. I'm wondering if there's any way I could go to the Jumbo to be with her and others my own age."

  Auntie Rose replied, "Let me see what I can do."

  I waited and waited. Then just when I thought I could not stand another day, Joshua broke the news to us that we were going to England. We were secretly ecstatic and he was

  furious at having to leave the mission field! Excitedly, my brothers and I discussed the news together in hushed whispers.

  England seemed like the Promised Land. The idea of seeing my mother again was almost more than I could bear and I was tense and terrified, convinced that something would prevent it happening—as had happened before. "Jesus, let me go to England," I prayed nightly. "Please, please, make it happen."

  Chapter 14

  On March 27, 1988, at the age of eleven, I finally arrived back in England. I was unprepared for the weather with bare legs and sandals and a red polka-dot skirt and white blouse. England was now as much of a culture shock as India had been in 1982. Gray skies, no sun, no perfumes of the East.

  My b
rothers and I left Joshua's side and hurried our way through baggage and passport control, rushing to find Mum. was waiting at the arrival gate holding our baby brother, Christopher. She looked so beautiful-just the same, with her long hair and lovely beaming smile. I flew into her arms and hugged her and my two little brothers and sister, laughing and crying with joy. The two years and all the pain disappeared as I looked at her. We were back together and I couldn't help but fill with tears. I still loved her—she was my Mum. But as I sensed Joshua approaching, and saw Mum look up and her smile waver, I choked back the tears. I knew he would slap me, if not there in that public place then as soon as we were alone.

  We all piled into a van waiting outside and I asked Mum which commune we were going to. "No, we're going to a flat," she said. She had found a flat once she knew we were on our way back. There wasn't enough room for us all at her parents' house where she had been living. She was told that all the communes were full. No one wanted a pregnant woman and two toddlers.

  As soon as we got to the one-bedroom flat in Twickenham, on the leafy outskirts of West London, we showered and rested from the long flight. The air was tense and I knew Joshua had something on his mind.