I stand in a crowded room full of strangers. They are complete strangers who were my friends, strangers who are my family. They are strangers who used to be me.
This is the hardest day of my life.
My little brother, my best childhood friend, my partner in adventure and crime, the co-star of every youthful memory I have, is being buried today.
My earliest memory is the day he was born. I was 2 years old, and couldn't be happier to have a new brother. Two months later he was diagnosed with bilateral retinoblastoma, a childhood cancer that affected both of his eyes. I remember endless trips to hospitals for radiation and chemotherapy, and my baby brother screaming when they administered eye-drops and medications.
As he grew into a boy, the doctors were confident they had defeated the malignant beast, and we had a pretty normal childhood. We played, we fought, we laughed a lot, his vision was slightly affected, but he was otherwise healthy and happy.
Our parents were very loving, doting, supportive and involved in our lives. The only thing they loved more than us was their religion. It was normal in our house to attend religious services three times a week, and to spend most of our free time studying the bible, praying, and trying to find other people to talk to about our religion. It was our "normal" and we were happy, we didn't know any better.
As the years passed, I grew up and started to question things about their religion, to investigate other beliefs, and cultures, and ultimately made the decision to leave their church. By making this choice, I became an orphan at the age of 29. I was disfellowshipped (the term Jehovah's Witnesses use for shunning or disowning) and have had minimal contact with my family since then.
They call me when someone in the family is sick or dying. This is how I found out my brother was sick. Again. Cancer had returned and the doctors gave him maybe a year to live. But my brother always had a temper, a fighting streak. He made it four years.
So here we are, the day of my baby brother's funeral and I heard from my dad this morning. He called to let me know that I am allowed to come to the religious funeral service at the Kingdom Hall (Jehovah's Witness Church) but, they are having a meal at my parents house after the service for friends and family and he wanted to make sure I knew I would not be welcomed there.
I stand here, and island among these strangers. Young women and men who were my best friends when I was a girl, their mothers and fathers who babysat for me when I was a child, and knew me before I could speak, aunts, uncles, cousins, they all walk past me. They offer condolences to my parents on my right, say how sorry they are to my sister on my left, and completely ignore me. Still, I can feel their eyes upon me, their disapproving gazes telling me that my choice to pursue a different religion has made me unworthy of their sympathy. Only my immediate family, especially my sisters, acknowledge me, they make small talk and even hug me, but the elders (leaders of the church) think this is going too far, and reprimand them for being "too friendly" with me. On any other day, it wouldn't have mattered. I am happy, I have made a good life. But, in this moment, on this day, they wounded me.
This wound I will carry throughout my life. It will make me stronger, more compassionate and more resolved than ever before that this inhumane treatment is not the will of "god" but merely mindless, blind obedience to a man-made cult. The cult that destroyed my family.
