0808 801 0340
Survivors' page
| This is the page for women and men abused by clergy, ministers or church leaders when children or adults. Your thoughts, views, pictures (photos/artwork) and poems should be heard and seen. This page is our voice, your voice – survivors’ voices. Never to be silenced again. We look forward to hearing from you. |
 |
|
Boundary Violation
Two poems by Marlene Marburg
"I think that these kind of violations need to be acknowledged.
Although they seem small episodes, they undermine a person's whole relationship with the Church and with God.
And as with other more serious offences, they impose on the survivor shame and suspicion which struggle to find freedom in God's loving desire."
Marlene Marburg
1. assent
a contagion of shoulds
from childhood to marriage
infects my whole self
i am lucky - the church tells me
what is best - the Pope, the Priest, the Nun
i would not dare contradict
their plans for me and heaven
i deserve to go to hell
but i am lucky
i can go to see the Priest
tell him i don’t feel anything
and he can hold me
and kiss me on the lips
and i will think his motives are holy
because Priests know better than i
2. Ascent
So I return to the place of hurt;
the garden, where we sometimes sat;
the wooden bench facing inward; the house
like a square peg hammered on a hilltop.
Today, the smokeless chimney is thrust
stiffly into a soft and powdery sky.
From the other side of the aging black fence,
a black gum tree drops lucent black clouds on the grass.
The paint peels from the cross, and underneath,
it wears a petticoat of pumice and crushed granite.
The plaque of verdigris is etched,
It is finished.
The garden is wintry this early summer;
shaded in the umbrella of currawong song
There is a kookaburra somewhere nearby,
lifting the mantle, cursing my memory.
It might have been beautiful; Iris and Salvia,
and red ballerinas on the flowering gum; perhaps
roses, even black beauty.
I might have bent over to smell them.
As it was, the fragrance was sour.
What is love anyway? I asked.
I imagined the letter he never wrote;
the reply that should have said, I wronged you.
He is dead to me,
dead to all. Now
the place where I sit is newly stained
with the solid vows I embody.
I get up, shift my meditation
to bark and fallen leaves.
There, on the ground,
I put my fingers into shade;
feel the blades of grass.
I cut whorls in the soil,
disturb the mulch and tiny souls.
Again I hear the currawong, the being song
of kookaburra, the joy as it laughs.
Dead arms around me decompose;
and rise in the wings of a Lark Ascending
soft feathers in the creases of myself,
stroking the soft and powdery sky.
Survivor's art
 |
 |
 |
 |
| The Challenge | Monument to Instability | Rising | The Soul's Turmoil |
Survivor's poem
Martin Ridge is a retired Garda who investigated many cases of child sex abuse in Donegal, Ireland. These experiences affected him very profoundly .
He is a supporter and advocate of survivors and a member of Vote of the Faithful Ireland.
He is also co-author of 'Breaking the Silence', exposing
one of the most horrific series of child sex abuse cases in Ireland. See our News page for more.
Here is his poem:
Silent Pain
Silent pain that reigns within
My wish it would be forgotten
It weaves and ebbs like an eel
In a stream
Oh! But it is sad and rotten.
Like a tailor's needle with sharpened edge
That pulls through cloth forever
That is how you gored my childhood dreams
With your shameful acts of terror.
If my mind had wings that could fly and fly
Oh! I would let my pain fly away forever
But Alas, Alas there is no gleaming glow
That could erase the trembling pain of terror.
It’s like a slashing sword in a swirling wind
Where you gashed me with your reign of terror
Like a raging bull trapped in your ring
Where you speared and gored forever.
Like a thief in the night you robbed at will
And left scenes that won’t be forgotten
One’s dignity is a precious thing
That you destroyed, tore up, and up on it, left trodden.
Survivor’s story
By Ann Kennedy - artist, photographer, survivor
“I am a clergy abuse survivor.
In my early twenties I joined a charismatic Catholic group. An American priest took me into a room to ‘pray over me’. He ‘laid hands on me’ not in the usual healing style … it was terrifying. I was a troubled young woman heading for years in the psychiatric system. He certainly knew whom to pick!
Nine years ago I reported him to his order. To my horror, they told me he’d been in a treatment centre twice to learn to ‘modify his ministry’. He wrote to tell me ‘he’d learned to shut the gates’, mmmmnnn!
“I went to the Archbishop who made many promises... ”
The religious order ignored my complaints so I went to the police. He faced a three hour interview but as there were no witnesses to my abuse and being so long ago no case resulted. He and the Order, the Marianists, denied it all. I went to the Archbishop who made many promises. He let me down on nearly all of them and nine years later, nothing has happened and no-one is the slightest bit interested.
During that time of challenge and finding my voice, my artwork was going very well. Funded by the Arts and Disability Forum in Belfast, I held an exhibition. But the artwork you see on these pages was to be my last. I developed a neuromuscular disorder and I now use a wheelchair.
So I took up photography. I passed my driving test at 54 after a year driving, gave up smoking (40-60 a day!), liberated myself from psychiatry and all their drugs and decided to LIVE.
What should I say that’s helpful? Never give up seeking Justice. Sometimes though, one has to ‘let go’ if it is too tough.
Never give up seeking fulfilment. Creativity in any media is so GOOD for the soul - and write your story! God gave us this beautiful earth. A slow walk at dawn by the sea with my two dogs makes me feel good to be alive.
It may be a long road but I hope you find pure joy in nature, which surely won’t hurt us, unless a tree falls on us in a storm! sic. ”
