INDOCTRINATION ISN’T NORMAL?

          Just in case one hasn’t noticed, the title to this chapter is portrayed with a hint of sarcasm. The reason I say “a hint of sarcasm” is because (and I’m sure many will agree) many people who have been indoctrinated, don’t know it. Isn’t that a scary thought? Not knowing you were being mentally tortured in such a way that most people deem as loving, caring and justified.

          Whilst most people wouldn’t agree that indoctrination is mental abuse, I strongly oppose to their arguments, which are as follows:

 

          “We only want the best for our child.”

          “I must teach my child morals.”

          “My child will learn to worship God, so he can have eternal life.”

 

          The list of justifications goes on.

          The question I ask is; how can this not be mental abuse? Brainwashing people in to actually believing that there is an almighty creator that you must worship, otherwise you go to hell to burn for all of eternity. Not only is this mental abuse, I would go as far as to suggest that this can be deemed as child abuse.

          I challenge any one reading this book to explain to me how this could not be deemed as child abuse. To actually let your son or daughter imagine burning in hell, being tortured by a grotesque supporter of malefactors, so he himself can repay them in a worse manner than the most noisome and barbaric fashions imaginable.  This, my fellow humans, is brain washing at its absolute finest. One can’t help but be absolutely disgusted at such a thought.

          Imagine going back to the age of 5 years old �" maybe even younger �" being all defenceless and bare to the new, already hostile world that we reside in. Imagine being constantly advised that you will go to an insufferable destination if you do not act in a way that someone (or something) wants to act. Not only will you let your young active imagination run absolutely wild beyond all comprehension, you have now got the thought of death on your side. Don’t get me wrong, educating your child about religion is fine, but to mentally torture them in such a way that causes them psychological anguish is completely abhorrent to any decent human being.

          I have not had the pleasure of becoming a parent, but when I do have the privilege of holding my new born in my arms for the first time, I will make a promise to said child. And that is to never teach the child what to think, but teach them how to think. Teaching someone how to think is the most crucial part of being a humanistic being that is capable of making critical decisions later in life.

         

          With all the above being said, I have been one of the many people out there who has had the dishonour of being indoctrinated as a child. In my case, I wasn’t indoctrinated by my parents. On the contrary, they were fabulous, and still are, fabulous people. Of course they told me about God, and said I should believe him, but they never mentally tortured me; that was their friend’s job.

          Steve* was a close friend of the family and as much of a fundamental Christian as most other extremists out there. Obviously he wasn’t as extreme as present day groups such as ISIS or the Westboro Baptist Church �" but he was what I liked to call, a passive-aggressive extremist. Is there such thing as a passive-aggressive extremist? Of course, not. I only use this term to merely compare him to the more well-known fundamentalists we know world-wide today.

          Steve* would babysit me as a child whenever my parents worked �" and in my parents defence, quite rightly so. He had been friends with my parents as soon as they moved up to the beautiful county of Fife from London back in 1972. He showed them the many things Scotland has to offer; including Christianity. This actually makes me wonder what my parents would be like if they never met Steve*. But I do know that everything I am about to tell you about him in this will make perfect sense in light of introducing them to theistic practices.

          I am sure that there many occasions when Steve* would be on one of his many attempts to brainwash me; however one in particular comes to mind. And, I do the reader the courtesy of guessing correctly that my parents never knew about anything that follows, until it was far too late.

         

At the mere age of 6 years old, extremely fresh faced, and with huge ears, I played with my toys. I was playing the toy that gave a fantastic manufacturing attempt to the likeliness of the car from the movie, ‘Ghostbusters’. It was by far my favourite toy; to be able to push it around the living-room area while giving out the tediously verbal “nee-nor” siren sounds, on my way to an imaginative haunted house to bust some ghosts, was simple fantastic to my imagination. And when I got to the fantasy destination, I would pull the car up, get out of it, get my proton pack on and get inside the house to catch poor Slimer.

 

Now, as one can imagine from reading the above few paragraphs, my imagination was extremely vivid, and somewhat radiated in lucidity. So it isn’t hard to imagine young Stewart being brainwashed in a very easy manner. If only I was strong willed. But what child is strong willed? None that I know of. The imagination of children may be over-active, but that’s what makes it perfect to be drawn in to such hypocrisies if this is forced upon us. 

Anyway, while I gleefully played with my Ghostbuster vehicle, Steve* simply sat on the horrible, off coloured couch, watching my every move. He checked the time and stated, “Your mummy and daddy won’t be home for a couple of hours and I don’t want to hear you make too much noise.”

I was never one for referring to my parents as ‘mummy and daddy’, even at such a young age. I actually found it quit humorous. Especially since they always asked me to call them ‘mum and dad’. I simply laughed at Steve*, at which moment he launched himself off the chair, grabbed me by the arm forcefully and dragged me over to the couch. He sat me upon his knee, and I vividly remember the feeling of sweat on his jeans through my cotton bottoms, making the back of my legs moist. He lit up a cigarette and blew a mushroom of smoke in to my perplexed face.

Still holding my arm, I remember crying, telling him he was hurting my arm. He gradually let go, advising me to keep quiet �" which I did. I always did what I was told. Although I may not remember the words exactly, I will do my best to recite his exact words at the time, while his breath burned my nostrils. The stench of cigarettes and coffee shook my very being.

 

“Stewart, God doesn’t appreciate little brats like you. Do you know where little brats like you go? They go to hell. Hell, for f**k’s sake. And when you go to hell you will be subject to the worst pain imaginable. The devil will meet you, and he will rip your skin off your bones until there is nothing left. Then all of you skin regrows, and the process happens again. And then when he gets bored of peeling your skin, he will begin to burn you while pulling your eyes out very slowly.”

 

As one could imagine, I cried inconsolably at the thought. This terrified me beyond the point that my mental capacity can handle.

Anyway, he silenced me, telling me not to tell my parents because God wouldn’t be pleased. (I was a young child, therefore I believed this rubbish). It was that moment when I felt the agonising torture of his cigarette being put out on my chest, as his free hand reached for my crotch.