Beyond Belief by Jenna Miscavige Hill Page A

specified manner, which LRH had laid out in “The Cleaning Course.” It had policies on exactly how windows and brass must be cleaned, as well as the exact sequence for cleaning a room. Every day, our beds were inspected to make sure we had proper hospital corners, which we all learned to do in a “how to make a bed” course. Even riding a bike required us to pass a course first.
    In addition to this tedium and minutiae, we had at least three areas that we were responsible for cleaning on a daily basis. In the event of fire, intruder, or earthquake, we all had an assigned duty, which ranged from damage control to evacuators, and we were drilled and timed thoroughly every week on these duties.
    Simply getting time off required an incredible level of accountability. If I ever wanted time off—if, for example, my mom was visiting Int—then I had to request it in a formatted proposal that required me to find replacements for each of my various responsibilities. We would only be granted permission if the requests were every other week, if our statistics were up, and if we were not in Lower Conditions. If all those things were in order, then my proposal would have to be approved by no fewer than four people.
    The list of duties and procedures went on endlessly, and the result of all this process, paperwork, and regulation was that there were no children at the Ranch—only little adults. At special events, we were dressed up in cute outfits and paraded in front of our parents and Int crew to make it seem as though Scientology was creating a normal and joyful childhood, when in fact we were all being robbed of it. Any sense of normalcy that existed did so because we practically were each other’s parents, taking care of each other when we were sick, consoling each other when we couldn’t sleep, disciplining each other when we acted out, feeding each other meals when we were hungry, and helping each other with schoolwork when we were confused. Yes, we were responsible for our post work, deck work, academic work, Scientology course work, and cleaning—but, more than anything else, we were responsible for each other.
    I spent most of my days just trying to keep my head above water, and nights were even worse. I was deathly afraid of the night. Often, after lights out, we’d hear coyotes howling outside, and although the doors were closed, I knew that the wilderness wasn’t far away. My huge imagination didn’t serve me well in the dark. Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night so scared that I would crawl into bed with one of my friends for comfort. The better nights were when I would dream about having days off with my parents, but even then, I’d have the disappointment of waking up to realize that I was still at the Ranch.
    Reassuring as it was to be closer to my parents, I still missed them terribly. While living with Justin gave me some support, he could also be a big brother in all the hardest ways. For my first several months on the Ranch, having him around had been crucial to how I adjusted to life there. By the time I became a Cadet, though, he was caught up with his friends and his own struggles on the Ranch, and he wasn’t always able to, or interested in, making me feel better. He wasn’t my parent, after all. Sometimes when I was upset, he would try to help, but other times he only succeeded in making me angrier.
    I didn’t blame the Church or my parents for what was going on at the Ranch. Instead, I blamed the adults who I thought were treating me poorly. If I could just tell other people what was going on, I was certain that things would change. It was hard to know just how much my parents had been told about what it was like for me at the Ranch. Because of comments they’d made from time to time, I knew they had seen photos of me working, so, on some level, they were aware I was doing physical labor. My father had occasionally participated in the Saturday Renos with other adults and witnessed