The Community

by N. Jamiyla Chisholm

“My husband is a believer, but I’m not,” she said. “It’s a cult. I believe York molested all those children like they say he did. I’d hear stories about him taking them when they started their periods. Mothers giving daughters as gifts for special privileges. Just like he did in Brooklyn, he rationed everything here. There are about a hundred of us on this compound, and it’s like we’re living in the 1800s. There’s no heat. Sometimes no electricity. We never leave the compound, and guards are always at the gates. I want to leave. The only reason we’re still here is because my husband is a stone-cold supporter, and he’s not alone. Many here are still trying to maintain York’s teachings, hold down the compound, even though he’s in prison. You can’t tell these people he’s wrong. His followers will hurt you if you do.” “What will you do?” I asked her. “There’s nothing I can do but pray my husband doesn’t learn I’m not a believer,” she said. “If my husband knew I was talking to you, he’d kill me. But someone has to tell the story. I can never tell more than I’m telling now.”