Born into the Children of God: My life in a religious sex cult and my struggle for survival on the outside
Natacha Tormey was born into the infamous religious cult known as The Children of God. Abused, exploited, and brainwashed by ‘The Family’, Natacha’s childhood was stolen.Born to French hippy parents attracted to the religious movement by the unusual mix of evangelical Christianity, free love and rejection of the mainstream, from an early age Natacha was brainwashed to believe she had a special destiny – that she was part of an elite children’s army bestowed with superpowers that would one day save the world from the Anti-Christ.Torn away from their parents, Natacha and her siblings were beaten on a daily basis and forced to sing and dance for entertainment in prisons and malls. Natacha never expected to live to adulthood.At the age of 18 Natacha escaped, but quickly found herself hurtling through a world she had no understanding of. Alone, and grappling to come to terms with an unbelievable sense of betrayal, she was stuck in a kind of limbo – confused and unable to feel part of either way of life.Natacha is one of the lucky ones; not all of her family survived the battle to shed the shame and pain of their past. To date over 40 ex-Children of God members of Natacha’s generation have committed suicide.All Natacha ever wanted was to feel normal, but escaping the cult was only the beginning. Shocking, moving, but ultimately inspiring, this is Natacha’s full story; it is both a personal tale of trauma and recovery, and an exposé of the secret world of abuse hidden behind commune walls.
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First published by HarperElement 2014
FIRST EDITION
© Natacha Tormey and Nadene Ghouri 2014
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover photographs © Kelly Sillaste/Trevillion Images (girl posed by model); Martin Barraud/Getty Images (group); Shutterstock.com (bus)
A catalogue record of this book
is available from the British Library
Natacha Tormey and Nadene Ghouri assert the moral
right to be identified as the authors of this work
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Source ISBN 9780007560325
Ebook Edition © July 2014 ISBN: 9780007560349
Version 2018-11-05
Contents
Chapter 3: Fairytales and Thunderbolts
Chapter 4: Dances for the King
Chapter 6: Candles and Confessions
Chapter 9: From Russia with Love
Chapter 11: Walking with Buffaloes
Chapter 16: Happy New End Time
Chapter 20: The Prince Is Dead
Chapter 22: The Woman in the Mirror
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.
Prologue
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.
