I grew up in a valley

on the West coast of New Zealand's South Island.

Imagine the wildest, most beautiful valley you've ever seen.

Lush bush that merges from foothills into fertile farmland,

cut through by pristine rivers that snake down from the alps above.

And a lake that sparkles like polished glass

while the rainbows write color in the sky.

I grew up in the Gloriavale Christian Community.

Five hundred men, women, and children

living together and following the doctrines of Jesus Christ.

My grandfather was my hero

because he brought us to this land

and founded the community I loved.

Purchasing the two farms on either side of the river

was a smart move for our group.

We'd migrated from the East coast and needed livelihood.

I arrived at six weeks old, strapped on my papa's back

to what would be home for the first eighteen years of my life.

My cousins and childhood friends were like brothers and sisters to me.

We did everything together.

Camping was one of our favorite pastimes.

We snuggled in sleeping bags underneath the stars

and cooked damper on campfire ashes.

Now, earlier today we were asked to recall our happiest childhood memory.

My favorite is celebration day.

Imagine the coolest party you ever attended as a child.

My cousins, my friends, and I

would gorge ourselves on pink candy floss and drink way too much sugary soda.

There were clowns on stilts,

back-rides behind tractors,

three-legged races,

and a plane that flew over to drop lollies from the sky.

The men built us a hydro slide and a flying fox.

And on these days,

my granddad would decree a day off work for the entire community.

So the women stopped working in the kitchen,

and the men came, enough to form a festival.

And it was all free.

We didn't pay for it, because we didn't earn wages.

We didn't work for money,

we worked for the lifestyle

and for each other.

The money we made in our businesses was kept in a communal bank account.

That bank account built the hostels we lived in,

put clothes on our back,

and food in our mouths.

And I knew every single person in my community personally.

Not only did I know them,

but I knew their husband,

their wife, their children and their grandchildren.

We lived in communal hostels.

We worked together.

We went to school together.

We prayed together.

I was constantly surrounded by the people I loved the most.

And at night, I'd skip a couple of meters to my cousin's room

to socialize or play a deck of cards.

I loved working with the other girls in the women's realm.

I loved learning the sew, knit, spin, and cook.

Music was one of my favorite hobbies.

We were taught music in the first year of school,

so by the time I was 17,

I was competent on five musical instruments.

Think for a moment about a time you achieved something really important.

Remember how it felt.

Remember how proud you were in the moment.

That probably felt similar to the day I received my first school report.

It was the most exciting day of my life as a six-year-old.

I'd scored excellent grades

and even better personal comments from my school teacher.

So you can imagine my excitement when my grandfather took the school report

and read it to the 500 members of my community at dinner.

And then he said, "We don't want women like you."

My stomach dropped.

I turned bright red.

There was air being sucked in my nostrils,

but I couldn't breathe.

See, my school teacher had written in my report a sentence that read,

"Lilia demonstrates leadership skills,

which could be useful for when she's older."

And my grandfather humiliated me for hours.

And this would become a common theme throughout my life.

Afterward, I left the dinning room a changed six-year-old girl.

And what changed was my belief

I was worth anything more than what he sees I was.

And as a young girl,

I spent the majority of my time with womenfolk.

And because we home-birthed big families,

the sight of a pregnant belly made me feel at home.

My mum grew up with 15 brothers and sisters.

I have nine siblings.

I was seven years old

when I saw a newborn baby for the first time.

I took a scissors with both hands and snipped the umbilical cord.

My cousin was born blue because the cord was strangling him.

So after saving him,

the midwife did a trauma assessment with me

because I was 10 years old at the time.

And I held my aunt's hand when her next girl was delivered

on a mattress in the back of a van, on the way to the nearest hospital.

Dad was the active manager for one of the businesses.

My mum was the leader of all the women

and ran the entire domestic realm of Gloriavale.

I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.

Her job was demanding

and because Dad was often travelling for business,

she needed help raising the children.

So I changed dirty nappies,

potty-trained,

climbed out of bed in the middle of the night

to rock them back to sleep,

cleaned up spew,

knitted them warm clothes,

and helped wean them off breast milk.

I couldn't wait to grow up and marry a man

and have his babies.

My girl cousin and I talked about it a lot,

so it was a really exciting day for me

when I turned twelve and got my period.

Because I could finally fulfill my purpose in life.

And by the time I was 14,

I knew who I wanted to fulfill that purpose with.

His name was Willing.

It would be a worthy marriage.

I was the granddaughter of the church founder,

and he was the son of Fervent, one of the church leaders.

And one day I was sitting in class,

when Fervent bowled in the door, dragging Willing by the shoulder.

Willing had been disobedient.

I don't remember what he'd done,

it could have been that he combed his hair the wrong way,

spoke back to his father,

listened to music he wasn't allowed to listen to,

or read a book he wasn't allowed to read.

That didn't matter.

The punishment was the same.

Willing was ordered to bend over and pull down his pants.

And my stomach rolled

when Fervent pulled out the leather belt.

We were then told to watch

as Fervent beat Willing with it,

and I refused to look;

instead, I stared down at my desk and whispered, "Please God, make it stop."

Please make it stop.

In that moment,

my respect for Fervent's leadership

imploded.

I knew what he was doing was wrong.

They taught us so much about the love of God

that as I watched Fervent beat his son,

I thought that's not love.

And it wasn't love

even though after Fervent had finished beating his son,

he hugged him and told him he loved him.

That's not love.

I became suspicious of the laws we were being taught.

"Spare the rod, spoil the child," the leaders said.

My blood boiled when one wife brought her child to me

and showed me the blue welt on the toddler's back.

I gritted my teeth,

"How can anyone call themselves a Christian

and treat a child that way?"

"How can any parent treat a child that way?"

My friend Jubilant wasn't spoiled.

He was born into one of the least privileged families in our society

with no connection to leadership circles.

He was the jokester of our class,

always saying witty things to make us laugh.

Imagine

your brother,

one of your children,

your nephew and niece,

your daughter,

the one who makes everyone laugh,

the clown,

that was Jubilant.

And one day at soccer,

Jubilant made one too many jokes.

And when our teacher Nathaniel began to punch and kick him,

my stomach rolled again.

The game froze,

and we looked on horrified,

and I thought Nathaniel would stop.

But he didn't.

He forced Jubilant to walk

from the soccer field to the main building,

all the while punching and kicking him.

And Jubilant was sobbing,

raising his hands to shield his head from the blows.

And I thought

surely Nathaniel would be dismissed as our school teacher.

But the next day, he was back in the classroom with us.

And I thought,

"What's wrong with the people running this place?

I don't want to have children here."

Not wanting children was a sin that was forbidden.

My best friend Grace was an unwanted child.

Her mother had given her up at birth,

and her adoptive parents shipped her from the U.S to our community,

hoping that good influence would set her straight.

Excuse me.

She was a chocolate-skinned Mexican girl

who arrived in Gloriavale when she was 13,

just three years older than me.

I loved that girl more than life.

She giggled lots and made me fell safe.

So we became best friends

and spent as many moments as we could together.

And Grace brought personal possessions from the outside world:

music,

jewelry,

makeup.

These were forbidden.

And seeing them for the first time made Grace all the more special in my eyes.

Her rebellious spirit inspired me.

And over the years,

Grace would be punished many times

because she refused to be controlled.

She was 20 when she came to me and told me

the leaders had ordered her marriage to a man she didn't love.

She was sobbing,

trembling,

tears were streaming down her cheeks.

In desperation, she'd packed her bags,

hidden them under a tree,

called a friend on the outside to come rescue her,

but she was discovered,

taken before an inquisition of 20 men seated in a small room,

condemned,

forced to confess she was evil,

forced to phone her outside family and say she didn't want to leave anymore.

And I thought,

"Fuck them.

No one tells my best friend what to do."

So I wrapped my arms around her and I said,

"Don't listen to them.

You do what you believe is right."

Thankfully,

her adoptive parents came through.

They phoned Gloriavale

and threatened to send in the police if Grace wasn't allowed to leave.

The next day, she was gone.

And she now lives happily in Canada.

Excuse me.

After the incident with Grace,

I knew I had to leave too,

or I would be forced to marry a man I didn't love.

And I knew I had to take my little sisters with me,

or the same thing would happen to them.

I had one foot out the door already.

When I was 11,