Dear (name changed),

My answer to your last Email from March 31th 2026:

No, dear, I am neither strong nor weak. None of these labels truly fit me. I am simply trying to live and survive without being abused in any form, so that, in time, I may come to understand who I truly am. I never sought praise—only answers to the questions that have remained with me throughout my life.

You were fortunate, my dear, to encounter empathetic nuns during your time in the orphanage. The difference was that they were not shaped or radicalized by Nazism.

In post-war Germany, from 1949 to 1972, around 800,000 children lived in religious institutions, many of whom were subjected to severe abuse. In 1994, I founded an organization called Adults Abused as Children Worldwide. I had to close it in 2016 after developing sepsis following surgery, which brought me close to heart failure. By that time, more than 5,000 people from across the world had contacted me, sharing their experiences of abuse in various countries.

Among them was Senator Murray from Australia, who had himself suffered abuse in such an institution and was advocating for victims in his country. Then there was Paddy Doyle from Ireland, author of The God Squad, and later the movie The Magdalene Sisters, which further exposed similar injustices.

In 1999, I confronted the German government, demanding recognition of these abused children as victims. A round table was eventually established to investigate the issue. While the abuse was officially acknowledged, the same body—led by former Lutheran pastor Antje Vollmer—ultimately blocked any meaningful recognition of victimhood. As a result, there was no proper compensation and no adequate medical or psychological support.

Some of these children, myself included, were subjected to pharmaceutical experiments, while others were treated as clinical objects. One of many examples is that boys who wet their beds were fitted with electrical devices attached to their testicles. At the time, there was no understanding that bedwetting was often a consequence of severe emotional trauma and neglect, with lasting effects rooted in the amygdala and later manifesting as panic attacks.

Those who were forced to work for years received no compensation, nor were any social security contributions made on their behalf—what I can only describe as a form of enslavement. I should also tell you that I never truly believed in religion, even as a child. I was baptized Lutheran but was also required to attend Catholic church because of my father. I grew to resent both.

In German primary schools, we had weekly religious instruction. We were expected to memorize passages from the Bible and explain their meanings. One day, I was asked to interpret the verses: “Wives, submit yourselves to your husbands as you do to the Lord” (Ephesians 5:22), and “Wives, submit yourselves to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord” (Colossians 3:18).

At ten years old, my answer was simple: if a woman must be obedient to a man, then she is treated as a second-class human being.

Years later, I studied several major religions and came to see how they often create dependency and encourage blind obedience, reinforcing a divisive “us versus them” mentality. I also learned that texts such as the so-called “Eighth Book of Moses” are not genuine biblical writings but rather later mystical additions. To me, the Bible reflects historical accounts written by individuals interpreting earlier stories—often used to guide or influence others, sometimes toward unquestioning belief.

In my life, I divide people into two groups:

Those who help others unconditionally.

Those who harm others, in any form and for any reason.

This is why I have distanced myself from many people whose friendships came with the expectation that I adopt their beliefs as my own. I am an independent thinker. I seek evidence and understanding—not blind obedience. At the same time, I remain willing to adjust my views if the evidence shows that I may be mistaken.

For now, I will take solace in the renewal of nature, as spring quietly announces itself through wild violets, yellow broom, and crocuses in bloom. To me, this is the only truth that does not fade—unless we choose to destroy it ourselves.

In the hope that you can accept my understanding of life, I move forward with a tradition of my own. I have prepared a quiche Lorraine and baked sweet Easter bread for my son’s late arrival tomorrow, just as my grandmother once did—not out of religious belief, but as a quiet celebration of renewal and the return of life, a way to break the monotony of winter.

Much love and joy to you.

Sieglinde