"Finally, We're Being Heard"

For decades, members of an ultra-secretive Christian sect in Canada experienced abuse at the hands of those in power. Now, they're telling their stories-and I'm telling mine, too.

- Brianna Bell

I had my first panic attack inside a massive white tent while surrounded by hundreds of members of a church with no name. A bead of sweat dripped down my back. I was 17, and my red flip phone was hidden in the pocket of the shawl that covered my bare shoulders. The preacher droned on about salvation and deliverance from damnation. My father sat beside me in a full suit, seemingly unaffected by the summer humidity. On the other side of me, my grandmother nodded her head, meeting my eyes briefly and willing me to soak up the preacher’s words. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat, like a hummingbird fighting to get free. “I am not good enough,” I thought. If I didn’t follow the church’s teachings, I was destined to spend eternity in hell.

A breeze rustled the tent slightly, and I noticed a gap in the fabric—just large enough for a small person to squeeze through. My chest felt tight and my vision blurred. I lunged toward the gap and quickly crawled through the hole, nudging my hips until I was freed from the stifling tent. I didn’t look back, afraid I’d catch a shadow of disappointment on my father’s or grandmother’s face.

My family has been part of an ultra-secretive Christian sect for nearly a century. Every year, my grandmother would attend the sect’s annual community gathering, a four-day-long event in rural Ontario. The gathering, called “convention,” is a way for members to meet with each other and listen to speakers. Conventions across the globe are hosted by approved families who offer up their property for members to set up their sea of tents and trailers. Hundreds, sometimes thousands, of members of the insular group attend.