Kristina Jones: Escaping the Cult: One cult, two stories of survival

Contents Cover Contents Cover Title Page Born into the Children of God Not Without My Sister Moving Memoirs eNewsletter Copyright About the Publisher

Title Page Contents Cover Contents Cover Title Page Born into the Children of God Not Without My Sister Moving Memoirs eNewsletter Copyright About the Publisher Title Page Born into the Children of God Not Without My Sister Moving Memoirs eNewsletter Copyright About the Publisher

Born into the Children of God

Not Without My Sister

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

Copyright

About the Publisher

Cover

Title Page

Acknowledgements

Family Tree

Berg’s Household

Prologue: Ants Are Bitter

Chapter 1: Moonlight and Star

Chapter 2: God’s Whores

Chapter 3: Fairytales and Thunderbolts

Chapter 4: Dances for the King

Chapter 5: Terror in the Shed

Chapter 6: Candles and Confessions

Chapter 7: Torn Apart

Chapter 8: Ruled by Fear

Chapter 9: From Russia with Love

Chapter 10: Mutiny at Tea

Chapter 11: Walking with Buffaloes

Chapter 12: The Devil’s Land

Chapter 13: Stirrings

Chapter 14: A New Wine

Chapter 15: Changing Tides

Chapter 16: Happy New End Time

Chapter 17: A Door Opens

Chapter 18: A Caged Bird

Chapter 19: The Urban Jungle

Chapter 20: The Prince Is Dead

Chapter 21: Reincarnation

Chapter 22: The Woman in the Mirror

Epilogue: Buckinghamshire, 2014

Author’s Note

To my co-author, Nadene Ghouri, thank you for your hard work and commitment to this project. With your help my story has been brought to life and I am glad I had someone to share this journey with.

To my wonderful husband, thank you for encouraging me to face up to my past. Without your love I could not have found the immense happiness I feel today.

This book is the story of my past, based on what I saw and experienced in my childhood. It was not written with malicious intent, but as part of my road to recovery. I hope that by sharing it I will help raise awareness of the long-lasting effects a cult upbringing can have on an individual.

In order to protect the identity of my loved ones I have changed names, places and personal information.

The hot acidic smell stung my nostrils and caught in the back of my throat.

I badly needed to cough. I knew showing any revulsion would result in violence, so I forced myself to take short stabbing breaths through my mouth.

Uncle Isaiah squatted low over the campfire, tossing a heavy metal frying pan back and forth over the flames. A horrible smell floated up from his ingredients. Half a dozen of us children sat in a circle in a small clearing cut from the dense jungle of tropical ferns and leafy plants. We had our legs crossed and our backs ramrod straight, as he had ordered. Tall trees in the canopy towered over us, blocking out the breeze and concentrating the smell.

My younger brother Vincent sat next to me. I could sense his body tensing but I dared not risk turning to look at him. I glanced at the kids opposite, checking their reactions. They stared at the ground or straight ahead, expressions compliant in the mask of submission we had all learned to perfect. They didn’t fool me. I knew they were thinking the same thing as me: How am I going to keep them down?

Earlier, Uncle had shown us how to make fire by rubbing sticks together. He seemed to enjoy seeing us struggle. My hands were sore and blistered from trying. Eventually the fire had ignited, and I felt very proud of myself as I watched orange flames lick at the heavy branches we had cut down and carried through thick bush. It was late afternoon but the temperature was still searing, made even hotter by sitting so close to the fire. Isaiah was crouched over with his back to me. Stubby, hairy legs poked from his khaki shorts, making me think of the scary spiders that ran out from under our beds when we swept the dormitory.

It was April and the start of the monsoon season in Malaysia. My muddy denim dungarees and baggy T-shirt stuck to me.

The jungle terrified me. I glanced over my shoulder to see if I could make out pairs of glowing eyes in the bushes, imagining that at any second a venomous snake might bite me or a snarling tiger would leap from the trees and seize me in its massive jaws. Swarms of buzzing mosquitoes surrounded us like a hive of bees, diving at my head in waves of assault. I had itchy red bites all along my arms; trying to swat them away was useless.

Uncle Isaiah stood up with a grin of triumph, the pan clutched in his hand. He looked over at the assembled group.

He got angry very quickly. So when he held out the frying pan and gestured to us to come and inspect it we did as we were told.

Several huge black ants sizzled in the bottom.

They gave off a sickening, chemical smell that hurt my nose. Most were dead and crispy, but a few were still alive, wriggling their spindly legs in a desperate bid to escape the heat.

‘Take,’ he ordered in a thick Irish brogue.

I tried very hard not to let him see me wince as I gingerly picked up a few ants, trying to avoid any that were still alive or burning my fingers on the hot pan.

‘Eat,’ he ordered.

I hesitated for a split second but the look on Uncle’s face was stern. I took a deep breath, put the ants in my mouth and gulped. I could feel their legs tickling my throat. I felt the vomit rise up. I took a big gulp and swallowed it back down along with the ants.

They were so bitter, so completely disgusting. Yet not a single child failed to eat a handful. My brother Vincent even managed to lie: ‘Mmmm, ants are delicious.’

Clearly happy with us, Uncle smiled. I knew this was all for our own good, so that we grew up brave enough to be allowed our superpowers. But I so hoped his smile meant the lesson was over and we could go home to bed. We had been marching through trees or collecting wood for hours, and my limbs were aching and sore.

His next instruction made me weep inside.

‘Next we learn how to fry grasshoppers. Go find some and bring them back for the pan.’

Without a word we did as we were told.

Half an hour later I was munching on a crispy fried grasshopper. They weren’t too bad – kind of nutty.

It was the famously sweltering summer of 1976, with the hottest recorded weather conditions in Europe since meteorological records began. The Cold War between the United States and the Soviets was at its height. The arms race dominated the news, with the omnipresent threat of a nuclear Armageddon giving kids nightmares. On the radio, Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ and the Carpenters’ ‘There’s a Kind of Hush’ dominated the airwaves. The hippy counter-culture movement that had begun in the late 1960s began to lose out in popularity to disco and glam rock, but not before the hippy ideals had swept up hundreds of thousands of youths around the world desperate to throw off the shackles of their parents’ more conservative post-war generation.