At the invitation of friends, my wife and I went along to an introductory evening around what has been neatly named Sadistic Organised Abuse* in the House of Representatives. The abbreviation is SRM. 

We were there because there is a group of people who want to provide a safe haven for victims of SRM. 

In an almost hour-and-a-half-long presentation, we were taken into the background of abuse, manipulation and power. We were told about how forms and systems perpetuate that abuse. Examples of sexual abuse were highlighted. Take the Bolderkar in Epe in 1998, Dutroux in 1996 and more recently the Epstein affair. It also described how great the public outcry was and that in all cases it was quickly suggested, that it was the work of one perpetrator, at most two. 

Esther then came to speak. Esther told of having escaped from a cult dealing with SRM. She talked about her background and where she is now. She talks about what was done to her. She talks about abuse, exploitation, rape. And she also talks about having participated herself in the same thing she now wants to get out of. So Esther tells that she herself has also been abused, manipulated, seduced, damaged and killed. She is joined by one of the evening's leaders, a solid psychologist. This one talks about the nature of the damage, the many facets and messed-up life of a victim/perpetrator it produces and the road to recovery, the shame, the guilt and to the desire for death of victims. 

Until Esther herself spoke, I could hear it all disapprovingly. I was moved and angry. I did believe in manipulation and that there is a dark world out there. The introduction to the evening underlined that particularly clearly. But then Esther comes and sits in front of our group. She sits in front of us and she looks at us, she looks at me. I have to look at her and I realise that I dislike her. I look into her eyes to see if this is really true. I realise that she could actually be a great manipulator. And actually I want to believe that I can see that she is lying. 

Suddenly I realise how much people must have hated Jesus. How much they hated him. Everyone had their own little life, everything ripples, sometimes it pinches but basically life, however fragile, is 'ok' as it is. But then He starts doing miracles. Suddenly He tells us that His heavenly Father sent Him. That He is the Son of God. And just like then, someone now stands before me. A deeply damaged person with a story I have no place for in my neat life. Someone who tells of victimisation-and at the same time of being guilty. 

When we go home in the evening, I can do nothing but think of if there is any truth to her story, to her reality, that this goes much deeper than living with a shaken worldview. Deep down, I have to conclude that there are people who truly live in hell on earth. I can no longer persist in running away from what we agree on together. Instead, I must choose to look at the world with new realism and with a much deeper level of compassion and mercy. Because continuous impending doom is more palatable than having a witness in your midst.

Richard

Rotterdam