I try to get used to the complete lack of privacy—not that we ever had much on the Farm, but it was never like this. We all shower together, boys and girls, in one bathroom after our exercise each day—only five minutes for all ten of us. The bathroom is, in typical Thai style, a single undivided room with a toilet in the corner and a cistern along the wall filled from a spout. The whole room, tiled pink from floor to ceiling, is the shower. We crowd naked around the cistern, passing the large plastic scoopers back and forth to rinse ourselves. Then we run out, grabbing towels and drying ourselves in thirty seconds. Uncle Joel is standing outside with a watch in his hand, timing us. If we are late, a demerit.
Each day I wake, not knowing if I will be on Silence Restriction for another day. Normally, Silence Restriction might go for a few hours or days at most. After two weeks, I stop wondering. This is my life now. I learn to communicate with my eyes and hands, or I speak to Uncle Steven. My initial horror and humiliation become my new normal. I realize I can adapt to anything, no matter how terrible. People stop trying to talk to me or expecting me to answer.
I do my best to fully submit and learn my lessons, to let my pride be crushed out of me, to become yielded to God. And I feel better in giving up control. It is up to Him now; I just obey.
After a full month on Silence Restriction, Uncle Steven surprises me during our afternoon open-heart talk. “We think you are ready to come off Silence Restriction,” he tells me. “You have really changed over the last month.”
I stare in shock. I’m not sure what to think. I’ve finally gotten used to fading into the background, calling no attention to myself, observing in silence. I’m actually nervous about speaking again. What if I say something wrong and get put back on Silence Restriction, or worse? How will I talk to the other kids in my group or in the Home after never speaking to them? I simply nod submissively and hand him my sign.
Now I deal with the stares all over again. People expect me to speak, but my throat feels glued shut after thirty days of disuse. Words slowly come back to me, but my voice sounds like a croak to my own ears. So, I remain quiet, speaking only when I need to.
A week later, Uncle Steven calls me aside. “We want you to be the Bellwether of the OC group,” he declares. The Bellwether is the most obedient sheep in a flock, the one who stays closest to the Shepherd; the Shepherd puts a bell around that sheep’s neck, so the other sheep will follow it.
After being the lowest of the low, I’m being elevated to the position of class leader, of head girl. The kids who weren’t allowed to speak with me just days before now must follow my instructions, and I must report on them if they disobey. After my month of isolation and breaking, Uncle Steven knows I have no competing alliances. He can trust me; I’m the last person to cause trouble.
Now that I’m off Silence Restriction, I try to make friends with the two girls in the group closest to my age, Clare and Marie, but under our smiles and small talk, we circle each other warily. No one can be trusted not to report a wrong word to the Shepherds. And I’m the Bellwether, so they know where my loyalty lies.
I join the OC’s weekly witnessing excursion, where we tell people about Jesus, pass out posters, and ask for donations. I’m excited to see a little of the city outside of our Combo walls.
I’ve been witnessing since I was three, but the sting of rejection never goes away no matter how many years I’ve been walking up to strangers on the street, asking them if they want to hear about Jesus. I’ve learned to ignore the pain with a big smile plastered across my face.
People need to hear about Jesus. How I feel is not at all important.
Chulalongkorn University in Bangkok is our regular witnessing spot. Twelve of us pile out of the van and are paired off into five teams with one or two kids and one adult. We walk around the sprawling campus, saying a little prayer under our breath for Jesus to guide us to the souls who will be receptive to His message.
I like it here. The crumbling stone paths and walls softened by shady rain trees and bright red hibiscus blooming in the cracks. Birds chirp as students sit alone on worn benches reading or in groups around tables, eating the yellow durian fruit that smells like stinky socks.
“Let’s talk to him,” my adult partner suggests. He points to a young man sitting at a picnic table, textbook in hand.
I follow my partner over, and at his nudge, I blurt, “This is for you” in Thai. The young man laughs in surprise and takes the color poster depicting an image of the Beast and 666. I learned the phrase during our Thai lesson yesterday; I hope I said it right.
My witnessing partner takes over, and even though I can understand only a few words of Thai, it’s easy to follow the conversation, because I’ve heard this same exchange thousands of times. Finally, my partner asks, “Would you like to ask Jesus into your heart, so that you can go to Heaven when you die?” I wait in anticipation. Will this be a soul we can write down in victory and boast about when we get home, or a rejection that we just wasted a half hour on? There is always a little unspoken underlying competition between the teams who go out witnessing.
“What must I do?” the boy asks agreeably.
I take his smiling nod for acceptance. Whew. I feel a sense of relief and happiness—this wasn’t a waste after all.
“Just repeat after me,” my partner responds, pausing every few words so the young man can parrot him. “‘Dear Jesus, please come into my heart. Forgive my sins. Help me to love You and others and take me to Heaven when I die. In Jesus’s name I pray. Amen.’”
The teen looks up, surprised that this is all there is to it.
“Now you are saved forever!” My partner congratulates him.
I beam a smile when the student looks at me, genuinely happy that this nice young man will be spared Hell’s fires.
My partner suggests, “If you want to know more, why don’t you give us your contact info? We have Bible study sessions every week nearby.”
I stare off, looking for our next target as the boy scribbles down his address.
I like witnessing to the college students in Bangkok. No one turns us away. They are all so friendly, greeting us, strange foreigners, with smiles and offers of durian, which I politely refuse, though I gratefully accept the slices of guava. Guavas here are huge, the size of a softball, and hard like an apple. Nothing like the custard-soft sweetness of the small guavas from our Farm.
On the drive home, I gaze out the window, enjoying the peaceful, lush campus, until we pass through the gates into the Bangkok streets, full of honking, belching trucks, scooters, and tuk-tuks.
I’m adjusting to the new people, routines, and my position as Bellwether. But during our nightly hour of family time, I notice my mother is unraveling. We sit together on her single bed in her small room and try to read picture books with Jondy and Nina to keep them entertained. When she hugs us goodnight, she whispers that she doesn’t want to be separated from us kids. I try to understand what she’s going through. My mother had been a leader at the Farm; now she’s not even a valued foot soldier, just a disgraced single mother doing whatever chores she is assigned to in the Home. When will she recover from what happened at WS? I watch her growing more and more unhappy and afraid, but I don’t know what to do.