"Okay, I'll think about it. I'll call you again. It's been good to talk to you. Bye," he said, and hung up the phone.
I was sure I would speak to him again, but it never hap-pened. That night, he met with Angela Smith, aka Sue who was pictured with Davidito naked as a toddler in the Davidito Book. She was his mother's secretary and confidante for many years. Before the night was over, he had stabbed her, and put a bullet to his head.
I cried—cried for the loss of a friend, for the needless waste of life, and the despair he must have felt to go to such lengths to show his anger towards his mother, whom he could not reach. His was not the only suicide. There have been others of our generation, friends I knew and lived with, who could not live with the pain. A month after Davidito's death, Juliana wrote telling me that our sister Davida in Greece had died. I was heartbroken. I had been trying to get her phone number to contact her and invite her to England to get to know her family. I wanted her to know we cared about her and now it was too late.
These deaths spurred me on. In mid-January, I went to Cal-ifornia to speak on ABC News about Davidito. I wanted to speak the truth and tell what had happened to him—to me, to our generation. It was an emotional and difficult time, but something I never expected happened. As I walked into the hotel room where the ABC News crew were, I was greeted by Armi, my childhood friend. We hugged and talked together for the first time in fifteen years! That evening I also met Elixcia. She had flown from Washington to San Diego to be interviewed by ABC News. She was still fragile and devastated at the tragic loss of her husband, often burst-ing into tears.
I watched Davidito's home video he made the night before his death. All the anger and emotion he had sup-pressed for so long came flooding out. I could hear the anguish in his voice as he spoke of the lack of justice. He con-fessed that he had wanted to commit suicide for a long time, ever since Teen Training, and wished he had never been born.
"The goal is to bring down those sick fuckers, Mama and Peter. My own mother! That evil little cunt. God damn! How can you do that to kids? How can you do that to kids and sleep at night? I don't fucking know."
He sat on a table in his little kitchen, waving the gun that would kill him as he spoke.
By the end of it I was in tears. It was so unlike him, the timid boy I knew. I understood better his anger towards his mother when Davida, Sarah's daughter, spoke up and told her story. She claimed she lay in bed with Mo while Maria had sex with her own son. I understood why Davidito could not speak of this himself directly. It would have been too humiliating, too painful. His anger towards her was clear. She was not just an innocent bystander. She herself was guilty of child abuse.
I talked with Elixcia about what Davidito had said about Techi and Frank, and she confirmed that she knew about it. I got Frank's email address and wrote to him, asking him to come clean and to answer these charges. He never replied. Instead, Elixcia got a frantic call from Frank, who now lived in Switzerland. He had a new life now outside the cult, a good job as a businessman and admitting his past would be devas-tating. He could not do it.
What a coward, I thought.
There are many who try and hide from their past, but wounds cannot be healed unless they are exposed and treated. I found the courage to confront my father on the issues that have separated us and tell him what I believed he needed to hear. In an email I wrote:
This is not a discussion about your motives, it's about your actions and the effect it had on your children. For years I tried to share with you how I felt, how I knew the other children were feeling, and you always dismissed it and made light of it. This is what eventually led me to parting ways with you. The person who has sown the most division in our family is you. You tried to divide me against my mother, David and Kristina, then Julie against me, and now are you going to continue with your other children?
Dad had had previously denied to my mother that any untoward sexual encounters had occurred in the Family. I challenged him on my memory of walking in on him with Armi.
I said, "You were by far not the only one with Armi, but you were a part of it, a collective abuse of an innocent child and because of that, don't you think she deserves an apology from you?—And maybe more?"
In my father's reply he finally admitted it:
I truly am sorry that you suffered some gross encounters at MWM [Music with Meaning] that continue to haunt you. I honestly had no idea that you had been forced to do these things by Paul and others. Nevertheless, as your parent, I was responsible for your protection and care, and so I take the blame for not knowing about these goings-on. What sexual encounters there were between adults and children, I believed were very mild, and more along the lines of cuddling, not what you have described, which is so gross I don't even want to type it here. Yes, it was absolutely wrong, and thank God the Family put down strict rules many years ago to put a stop to it. What I, and no doubt many others, haven't fully realized, is that those who were unfortunate enough to be children in a Home where such excesses were practised are still hurting from it, even though it is so many years ago. So all I can say is, yes, I am truly very sorry and I am asking for your forgive-ness, not for what I did, but what I didn't do, to protect you at that time and be aware of what was happening to you.
Yes, you are right. I did have an encounter with Armi. I had forgotten all about it until recently. I don't remember the inci-dent you described, but I do remember another one in the stu-dio. I do remember that we didn't do much, and like she said, I didn't push myself on her. It may even have been her idea, I can't remember. But I do know that I never had any inclination to want to do those things. And that time with Armi was the only time I ever did, except after that Mene wanted to have a date, but from what I recall, we just lay together fully clothed and talked, as I really didn't want to do anything...I honestly do find the idea of adults having sex with children repulsive, and because of that I do empathize with you that your child-hood memories are tainted by those things, and I am truly sorry for allowing that to happen.
I accept that my father feels remorse, however, I do not believe his apology has gone far enough. He still does not accept that David Berg was a pedophile, responsible for destroying so many lives of our generation. He suggests that an eleven-year-old child asked him for sex—as if that justifies his actions—when he was the responsible adult who should have reported any sexual contact between adults and children to the police—not turned a blind eye to it.
What he wrote in this letter was more than he has ever admitted in the past, but the apology has come thirty years too late and too little. I do not believe my father is or was a pedophile, but he still supports with his money and protects the very leaders who instigated the sexual abuse we suffered. He mistakenly credits the Family with stopping the sexual abuse—denying his own daughter, Kristina, the credit and bravery she showed in speaking up and exposing to the world the terror we all suffered, which forced the hand of Queen Maria and Peter to conform. But pedophiles still remain protected by the Family, while the victims—their children—have been threatened and slandered.
Chater 26
Juliana
I was startled awake by a knock on my bedroom door. "Yes?" I answered, groggily glancing at my clock. It was 3 a.m. and a violent storm was raging outside. Through the peals of thunder, I faintly heard my friend
Tina asking me to open the door. I had a habit of locking my door at night, just in case. I got up to open it for her. What could she want at this time of night?
There was an apologetic look on her face. Two masked men stood behind her brandishing an AK47 and a machete. As soon as I opened the door, the muzzle of the gun rose to my face.
"You! Come now!" one of them ordered. I was in a skimpy T-shirt and shorts but I didn't have time to throw a robe over myself The intruders herded the two of us into the master bedroom where Dad and the kids slept.
They demanded money, and Dad pointed them to the briefcase under the bed where he kept his savings of $1000
. They prised it open with the machete and found the envelope with the money, but grew enraged when they pulled out the notes inside. The Ugandan currency averages 1800 Uganda Shillings to the dollar. This means stacks of notes. To their minds, a few crisp bills meant nothing.
"Where is your money?" they shouted furiously.
"That is all the money there is. Anything more I keep in the bank. Nobody keeps much money in their houses," Dad tried explaining to them.
They didn't believe him. The head burglar threatened to rape us women if we didn't tell them where the money was hidden. We pretended we didn't understand and they turned on Dad. One of the men held him down while the other raised the machete high in the air. They were going to hack his leg of unless we told them where the money was.
As the robber's arm lifted for the first blow, Dad cried out desperately, "Jesus, help me!"
I shouted, "Stop! I have money!" Perhaps the combination of our voices startled the robber, because he froze for an instant and then slowly lowered his arm and turned to me. "What did you say?"
"There's no need to do that. I have some Uganda Shillings in my room."
The promise of Ugandan money was something he understood. He jabbered with his accomplice quickly, and they split up. One of them stood guard over the room with the gun, while the leader escorted me to my room for the money. I gave him all my shillings, which amounted to no more than $10, but the amount of notes seemed to appease him. He then tore through my entire room searching for anything else of value.
Inspired by their success, they took the other two women one at a time to their rooms to rifle through their things.
They had been in the house for two hours and dawn would soon break. It was time to go. They told us all to go to our rooms and lie down on our beds. None of us left our rooms for another half-hour, waiting and listening, unsure whether they were truly gone.
Finally, we ventured out to look around. They had taken the video machine, mobile phones and stereo system. None of us could believe the ordeal we had just passed through. It seemed almost surreal. They did not find our music studio where the most expensive equipment was and they did not find the two young men sleeping in the house, which could have proved dangerous. But most amazing of all, none Of us had been hurt. There were numerous stories of people we knew who were beaten to within an inch of their lives, raped, or even killed during robberies. We had come out shaken, but otherwise unscathed.
Our story was reported in one of the Family news publications. Family members would be sure to question why God had allowed it to happen. Wasn't He supposed to protect His missionaries? A prophecy came out saying that we had been out of the Spirit and disunited, and that was why the enemy had been allowed to break through.
This scathing article stung when I read it. We were put-ting life and limb on the line to spread the Family gospel, yet the moment anything went wrong, we would be hung out as the dandy bad examples. We were on our own on this one. If we did well, it was all thanks to Jesus through the Family, but if anything went wrong, or we struggled in any way, we were the ones to blame.
* * *
Around this time, an email came saying my sister Davida was taking so much heroin, it was likely she could die any day. In a final act of desperation, her mother, Sotiria, had attempted to contact Dad through Family members in Greece. Davida needed urgent help, they said, and Dad reluctantly decided it was his duty to go and see if there was anything he could do. I was resolved to go with him. Somehow, I knew I could help her more than our father ever could. He was useless, from my point of view. He had not been a father to her thus far—he didn't even know her—what did he expect he was able to do? Rescue her from the clutches of heroin by preaching Jesus' saving love to her? Pretend to be a father to her now that it was too late? It was obvious to me, by the state she had deteriorated to, that it was far too late for all that.
The money I had raised for a ticket was stolen in the bur-glary. If I wanted to go, I had to use my emergency money—the money all Family members are required to have in case they have "flee." This was to be used only in emergencies. I was determined to go, so I promised the Home I would work to pay this money back.
Davida was the lost sister I had dreamed of meeting. I knew in an odd way, there was a connection between us, and that I had to help her. From the moment we met, we were inseparable; as if we had grown up together our whole lives. We roamed Athens together by day, and shared a bed at night as comfortably as a pair of Siamese twins.
Dad may as well have been part of the furniture; he was irrelevant. They were civil, friendly even, but the closeness of a father with his daughter was starkly lacking. That missing affection she bestowed on me; and for a brief period of time we both experienced what it would have been like to grow up with a close sibling.
Sotiria gave me the money for us to spend out, since she did not trust Davida not to use it on her next fix. Everything of value had been stripped from the tiny apartment and sold for instant cash. Davida was encouraged in these endeavours by her no-good boyfriend, Stavros, and their interminable condition. Her mother had to hide any cash she had, yet somehow, the two of them found it anyway. Money had been a struggle for Sotiria; everything she brought home from working long hours in the hospital had been eaten up by heroin.
Two weeks into the visit, Dad decided he was ready to return home. The visit had accomplished little. He had failed to make a connection or form any bond with his daughter. But I was not ready to leave and my sister begged me to stay, so I remained for a couple of months longer.
One day we went out into the center of Athens. I decided to get a tattoo as a remembrance of Greece and my sister. She left me at the tattoo parlour, saying she'd go for coffee and return after two hours. I nodded distractedly, studying the book of designs before me.
The artist took three hours to complete the tattoo of an ancient ornamental dagger that appeared embedded through my flesh. I put it on a place that usually remained covered. The Family did not endorse tattoos, but there was no official rule against it. It was my secret rebellion.
When I emerged from the parlour, my sister was nowhere in sight. I waited about for over an hour. Night was falling when she finally returned, stoned out of her
head. I was furious that she had lied to me and she saw I was upset.
"Julie, agape mor, I'm so sorry. I couldn't help it. I met some of my friends, and they wouldn't let me go till I had some." She clung to me, begging forgiveness. "But it wasn't heroin, I promise. It was only coke. Please don't tell my mum."
I didn't tell because it wouldn't have helped anything. She was shivering, and I took off my wrap and put it around her. As long as she stayed there in Athens, the drug environment would always surround her and she was not strong enough to resist it. I begged her to come with me to Africa. I would set her up in an apartment, I'd raise the money for her to live till she could get better and get a job.
There was a time limit of three months in which Family members could be out of their commune. Dad wrote reminding me my time limit was almost up. Sotiria and Davida begged me to stay and I begged Davida to come with me. They wanted me to leave the group, but at the time, this did not even feature in my mind as an option. I wanted to stay with my sister, but because of the rules, I had to go. A tug-of-war went on in my heart. In the end, I flew out, leaving my last $200 with Sotiria to go towards Davida's ticket, if she ever decided to join me.
After returning back to the grind of Family life, Dad broke the unexpected news. "Honey, Celeste has written to say she's decided to leave the Family." Dad looked distraught. Celeste had always been his favourite child, the one he doted on. The news rattled him to his foundations.
I was surprised. "Did she say why? It seems odd that after coming straight from Queen Maria's Home, she should almost immediately decide to leave the Family. Maybe all is not as it seems in World Services."
"Yes, I do wonder." I could see the doubt wavering in Dad's eyes. Celeste could never do any
wrong, and perhaps his daughter had seen something while she was there that contributed to this decision.
Celeste wrote me a personal letter a couple of days later, detailing her decision and vaguely explaining she could no longer agree with some of the Family's beliefs, nor did she want to raise her child in it. I wanted to know details. I wanted to know exactly what had brought my sister to this decision. I was twenty-one years old, and I felt I deserved to know. In my letter I wrote to her I said:
Basically I'm asking all this, cuz I've been evaluating my life of late, and what I'm really doing or accomplishing here, and yes, in the Family in general. But when I read your letter, and the whole "being fully persuaded in your own mind" thing, I realized, I wasn't. And haven't been for quite some time. And what I meant by you being the "strongest" of all of us was you being the most "sold" on the Family, seeing as you were in WS and everything, but if you found it didn't crack up to be all that, then that really got me wondering whether I'm the "dumb sheep" being led around by the nose.
Basically, if I've been sad for this long, I should look at the bigger picture and start to wonder, why? So I have been, and I find that the way I've been living has been one long attempt at convincing myself that I'm living for a noble cause. But I've been lying to myself, hence the disillusionment, the discouragement and lack of challenge.
Not Without My Sister Page 31
