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The family of evil

I'd escaped once, but the past was coming back to haunt us...


Published by: Amy Thompson & Fiona Ford
Published on: 3rd February 2011

The call came out of the blue. I hadn’t spoken to Ricky for a year. ‘Sis, it’s me!’ he said. ‘Ricky?’ I gasped. ‘Oh my God! How are you?’
‘Great,’ he replied. ‘I did it!’
I knew exactly what he meant, and my heart soared.
We’d grown up in a weird cult. I’d broken free a year ago – and now my brother had, too.
Technically, Ricky Rodriguez, 20, wasn’t my brother, as we had different parents. But we’d been brought up together and had looked to each other for support. And boy, had we needed it…
My parents Sara and Alf had joined the Children of God cult, led by David Berg, who preached serving God by spreading love through sex – and not just consenting adults.
When I was two, men started touching me, and Ricky had been forced to have sex with women from the age of six.
It was a living nightmare.
Somehow, we’d kept each other going. He’d shown me there were people who were good and kind –  not sick, twisted and depraved.
Thankfully, when I was 19, me and Ricky had been sent from our home in the USA to recruit people in Hungary. For the first time, we’d been free.
‘I’m leaving, come with me?’ I’d begged Ricky.
‘I can’t,’ he’d said. ‘Where would we go? How would we get money? We don’t have any qualifications for jobs.’
True. We’d been home-schooled, and most people who left struggled to make ends meet. But I couldn’t go back to the cult.
So, I’d made a run for it, and lived on the streets of Russia until I’d tracked down my cousin Julie, another ex-cult member.
‘I’ll teach you how to dance,’ she’d smiled. ‘I do it in nightclubs. The money’s good and it’s fun.’
I’d never looked back. I’d saved enough to move to New York where I rented a flat. Now, I was talking to my ‘lost’ brother.
‘I can’t believe I can watch TV when I like,’ he laughed. ‘And… I’m marrying a girl called Elixia.’
‘Oh Ricky, that’s fantastic!’ I cheered. ‘You’ll have to visit – where are you living?’
‘Arizona,’ he replied. ‘You might have to wait for that visit.’
We kept in touch over the phone and by email. ‘I’ve got an apprenticeship as an electrician,’ he told me after a year of doing odd jobs.
‘You’ll do great,’ I encouraged. ‘Things are finally looking up.’
‘Looks that way,’ he replied. But, two years later, Ricky’s calls became less positive.
‘How’s work, Sparky?’ I joked one day when he rang.
But instead of answering, he started ranting. ‘I can’t get my head around it,’ he seethed. ‘After everything they put us through, they are getting away with it!’
David Berg had died at 85, and Ricky’s mum Karen was the new leader. They’d changed their name to The Family International and gone into hiding as the police began to move in on them.
‘They’re sick!’ Ricky continued. ‘They made a book about me for Christ’s sake.’
My mum and a woman called Angela Smith had been his nannies. They’d taken photos of him being abused and published them in their ‘childcare manual’ handed to cult members.
I shuddered at the memory.
‘We’re out of it,’ I said. ‘They’ll get what’s coming to them.’
‘Maybe,’ he mumbled.
Over the next two years, he tried to forget, but still kept bringing things up. ‘I can’t wait,’ he sighed, miserably one day. ‘I’ve got a plan.’
He wouldn’t tell me his plan but, a few days later, one of my sisters from the cult, Jamie, called. ‘Have you heard about Ricky?’ she asked.
Panic washed over me.
‘He’s dead,’ she gabbled. ‘He made a video. You need to look on the internet…’
Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stared at my laptop. Ricky looked mean and angry in the film. Weapons surrounded him – a handgun, a knife, an electric drill…
‘This is my weapon of choice,’ he spat, picking up the knife.
‘My mother!’ he seethed. ‘That evil… How can you do that to kids and still sleep at night?’
Sobs shook my body. I didn’t need to watch any more. Jamie told me everything.
Consumed with hate, Ricky had tried to track down his mum.
‘He’d thought killing her would put a stop to the cult,’ Jamie said. ‘But he couldn’t find her. The closest he got was finding Angela Smith, his old nanny.
‘They’d met, but he’d lost his temper when she’d defended what they’d done to him as “God’s will”.
‘That pushed him over the edge,’ added Jamie. ‘He stabbed her five times and slit her throat – then he shot himself in the head.’
He was 29.
I couldn’t condone what he’d done, but I could understand it.
They’d raped and beaten us, and put us through hell, all in the name of God. I wish Ricky, like me, had been able to find happiness. I hope now he’s at peace.
Davida Kelley, 33, New York, USA