I read up on it today. Read about the fact that it's clear that justice will never be served for all of these little lives, whose spirits were so cruelly stolen from them either by physical, mental and sexual abuse.
Reading this book made my entire body weak. There are times when you literally can't read any further and you have to set the book down. Throughout its pages were account after account of how little girls were raped by three men sometimes, boys were beaten 'til they bled, punished in inexplicable ways by nuns and wardens, how they were forced to suck the dicks of grown, drunk or sober men, how the nuns would pull at their penis' when they would bath them, how they were raped, tortured mercilessly where because the situation was seen as so hopeless, some of them committed suicide at ages where death should never be an aspiration. I won't lie, even I felt a sense of hopelessness for these children, the sense that there really was no way out for them until they turned of age to be released from the confines of the those walls where they'd experience no love, no compassion, no praise and nothing else that children should experience and I can't for the life of me comprehend any of these abusers to be even half human.
I saw first hand, in this book, why people turn away from God. I understood his questioning about why God would allow everything that went on in those homes where one minute they are in church learning about Him and the next they are being punished in His name. I saw how terribly difficult it was to hold onto faith. How does a six year old child make sense of that? How does a three year old child understand that a moment of laughter or joy would be something to be left brain damaged over? I saw clearly how the behaviour of his so-called servants can so easily influence people's decisions of whether they were believers or not.
I thought about my own life. About the fact that I held onto my abuse like a crutch for so long. How once I thought I'd put it behind me, it was so easily brought to the surface again. How I really do now believe that I was at the end of it all, unfair. It sounds crazy to read that back. Even for me. I'll explain. I'd been made to suck a dick as a child. I'd been made to lay next to what is now a faceless adult and feel his dick placed between my thighs and pleasure himself. I don't know my age at the time. I do know that I wasn't anywhere close to being a teenager.
To this day, some of the memories are vivid as though it just happened yesterday and some parts, go from being a blur to non-existent. I'm not sure whether I willfully forgot the face of that person or whether I was only successful in burying half the memory. I don't know. I don't actually care anymore because none of it has any power over me anymore. But I do remember being the cruellest to the one who did neither of those things to me and when I say cruellest, I mean where the punishment didn't fit the crime. It might have been that the others, if I recall correctly were once off things because when I remember, I remember one setting of each incident and that in comparison to years of numbing touches and inappropriate caresses dulled what they'd done? If I compare the acts, I am now able to admit to whomever is listening, reading and to myself that I was most angry at the wrong person. Not because there was nothing to be angry about but because worst things were done to me by the two others. These things, I didn't talk about until the end of my marriage.
I got a reminder too of what a bond between siblings is supposed to feel like. When John made sure from the outside that his little brothers Davie and Robbie would finally be safe from any further harm, I was like, yeah, that's an older brother! They're not supposed to throw you in front of the bus because of greed for money. This book was amazing, to me.
I understand why Robbie wasn't very pleased to see that an investigation had begun. He knew that nothing or not much would come of it and that living through it again wasn't what most of these children wanted. Especially in vain. What they wanted to do was put that part of their lives in a box and throw it as far away as possible.
I can't speak for everyone. Just for myself. And the only reason that I even mentioned my own experiences was because reading this book? That was part of the effect that it had on me. But thinking about them didn't anger me. Reading what I was reading, appalled me. The only way that I was able to throw my box as far away from me as I could was to completely forgive. I can't even compare the level of our experiences but I can pray. And I can pray that these victims are one day able to forgive these abusers. It's a complete freedom from that piece of dark history that keeps drawing you back into that space, that time, that pain. But it's worth it because even if you're never able to claim that space in your life again, the life that still lies before you is yours to claim.
To Robbie, Davie, John, Marc and all of the children abused in those homes and every other home, whether it be a care home or a family home? I'm so very, very sorry.
Wherever you are, you in my prayers.
Sent via my BlackBerry from Vodacom - let your email find you!
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