LITMIR.BIZ

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       Ruled by Fear

      ‘Doe, a deer, a female deer. Ray, a drop of golden sun. Me, a name, I call myself. Far, a long long way to run.’

      I sat cross-legged on the floor, gleefully singing at the top of my voice. Everyone was smiling and singing along with pure gusto. It was movie night and every occupant in the Bangkok commune we now called home was crammed into the dining hall to watch The Sound of Music. Movie night was our weekly treat. Talking was allowed, you got to sit with your family and everyone seemed to lighten up and be in a good mood. It was the highlight of my week and I loved it. If you’d been naughty you were not allowed to go. As a motivation to be good it was so effective, I would have done almost anything to be there. The Sound of Music was my favourite film in the whole world. I knew every line, every lyric. That’s because we watched it almost every movie night.

      The Shepherds controlled which films were suitable for us to watch, based on their orders from HQ. Films had to be moral, suitable for children and with a Christian message. That limited the choice somewhat, as did the fact we didn’t have money to rent or buy alternative films. The only other movies I remember watching were Jesus of Nazareth and Heidi.

      As we lined up to enter the living room, a Home Shepherd who was guarding the door had told us that only those who spoke in tongues would be allowed into the room to watch the movie. The door policy was usually either the tongues test or having to quote a verse from the Bible. Some of the kids made a real meal of it, throwing their hands up in the air theatrically to try to impress the adults with their spiritual talents.

      One of the boys from the JETTs group went into show-off mode. With his eyes squeezed shut he scrunched his face and began shouting out in what we were told was the language of angels. ‘Sheeba dee ba dee ba deee. Hambala abahala eba.’ I watched him with disgust, appalled by what, to me, was such an obviously phoney display of spirituality. When it came to my turn I just clammed up. I always felt self-consciously stupid whenever I had to say anything in tongues. I think I knew even then the whole thing was ridiculous. But my reticence caused me to miss the first fifteen minutes of the movie because he wouldn’t let me in until I got it right.

      Once inside and when the film started, there was still no guarantee you’d get to watch it. At regular intervals it was paused for a moral teaching and group discussion. Sometimes it took over three hours to reach the closing credits. But I didn’t care. Movie night was the most fun we ever had. And most importantly of all, I got to hang out with my mom and dad.

      Our new routine was so strict that my parents were increasingly isolated from us, as were we siblings from each other.

      At mealtimes we had to walk in single file and sit at communal tables with our age groups. Seeing my mother across the hall feeding a baby in a high chair was like a stab in the heart. My brothers and I had worked out a way of communicating through secret winks; getting an ‘Are you OK?’ wink from them cheered me up enormously.

      Matt in particular looked exhausted, with big dark rings under his eyes. He’d been put on the ‘early birds’ programme, which meant getting up an hour before the other kids for extra study and prayer time.

      The only quality time I got to spend with my family members was for a few hours on a Sunday, designated Family Time, when we were free to do whatever we wanted. Usually my brothers and I would pile into our parents’ bedroom, sit on the bed and talk, talk, talk – telling my parents all about what we had learned that week. Sometimes we played marbles, but given how tiny their room was we always ended up losing the balls under the bed, spending more time crawling under it to get them than we did playing.

      My brothers and I were so desperate for their attention we all jabbered at once, trying to be the cutest, the funniest or the sweetest child. The competition was intense and the time so short that it was impossible to tell them the bad things – the beatings, the bed-wetting and the horrible children who picked on me. Family Time was always over too quickly. I tried so hard to be brave and not to let them see me cry when it was time to go back to the dorm. It wasn’t lost on us that Mom and Dad also battled hard to do the same as they kissed us goodbye.

      There was a moment of family joy, though, with the birth of my brother Guy. I had been secretly hoping for another girl. I still badly missed Thérèse, but when Guy arrived, all pink and cute just like Vincent had been, I fell instantly in love with him. He was in the nursery with Mom so she was able to breastfeed him herself (as she had all of us), but she certainly wasn’t able to focus entirely on her newborn. New mothers were expected to share their milk and breastfeed other babies whose mothers were away FF’ing or fundraising.

      Every day in the Bangkok house seemed to bring a set of strange new rules or procedures. Survival depended on adapting quickly. For example, using more than two pieces of toilet paper for a wee or three for a bowel movement got you a hard spank for being wasteful. The rationale was that we didn’t have money to spare and God expected us to be thankful for the gifts we had; therefore over-using a roll of toilet paper was deemed a very unspiritual and selfish thing to do. To ensure we got the point we had to go with the door open while an adult hovered over us. It was so humiliating. Even getting permission to use the toilet in the first place was a minefield. Children weren’t allowed to talk until spoken to so you couldn’t just ask outright. I was told to raise one finger in the air if I needed to pee, or two for a bowel movement.

      Sometimes you held your aching arm in the air for ages, bursting to go but desperately trying to hold on until someone deigned to notice. If a teacher didn’t like you they often pretended not to see you on purpose, getting twisted fun from a child’s discomfort. Asking to go when there were lots of people about, such as in school or at mealtimes, was so embarrassing. I hated having to use my fingers to announce to a roomful of my classmates what it was I needed to do.

      Some time ago Grandpa had stated in a newsletter that children should be able to go eight hours during the night without needing the toilet. Asking to go at night got you a beating, so the only option was to hold on as best you could. The agony of trying to sleep with a full bladder was awful. But if you wet the bed you got a beating too. It wasn’t much of a choice – ask and get hit, wet the bed and get hit. The first time that happened to me I spent a sleepless night on cold, wet sheets, ashamed and afraid, dreading morning and the inevitable public humiliation.

      The initial sense of safety I had felt in the first few weeks after moving to Bangkok quickly dissipated. I began to show clear signs of disturbed behaviour. At dinner I stole a knife from the dining hall and hid it under my pillow until bedtime when I took it out and carved Clay’s name into the wooden frame of my bunk.

      Uncle Titus caught me. Without a word he dragged me into the toilet next door and went at me with the fly-swat. He hit me so hard I fell over. He ordered me to stand up and he hit me again. I collapsed against the wall. This time as I struggled up he ordered me to hold onto the towel rail for support. I gripped the rail so tight my fingers went white as blow after blow rained down on my bare buttocks. If I cried out he followed with a harder hit. I bit my lip so hard my tooth went right through it, making it bleed. When it was finally over I couldn’t walk.

      As quickly as a light switch turning on, Titus’s violent rage turned to gentle concern. He picked me up, carried me onto my bunk and carefully placed me on the bed. He stroked my hair, wet with my tears, away from my face and shook his head. When he spoke it was in a low, sad voice, as if he was the one who was in agony. ‘Natacha, I did not enjoy that. Why did you make me do that? Why did you put me through the pain of hurting you? Do you know why I just spanked you? I spanked you for Jesus. Jesus loves you. I spanked you for your own good and to help you become a better little girl. You were a bad girl but Jesus wants you to be a good girl. Together we are going to help you do that. Do you understand why I had to hurt you? It was to help you.’

      I nodded.

      ‘Now give me a cuddle and say thank you.’ He had tears in his eyes.

      Hugging the man who had just beaten me senseless was the last thing I wanted to do, but I wrapped my arms around his neck, placed a kiss on his cheek

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