THERE is a strange silence that follows when you encounter something so horrific, so deeply disturbing that words fail you.
The stories emerging about Global Ikhwan Services & Business (GISB) Holdings Sdn Bhd have provoked exactly that. Instead of outrage flooding social media, we see something darker: people rushing to defend this group on TikTok and Facebook, denying the reality of hundreds of children rescued from GISB care homes.
These children were separated from their families, forced into unpaid labour, and conditioned to believe that their suffering was part of a divine mission.
What is most alarming is not only the abuse itself, though that alone is harrowing, but also the fact that so many people, instead of grappling with this horror, are defending the group.
They treat the accusations as attacks on faith rather than what they truly are: exposures of systematic exploitation cloaked in religious language. The manipulation of faith to justify exploitation is not new.
History is filled with examples of leaders twisting religious devotion into tools of control. The medieval practice of selling indulgences, framed as spiritual transactions, was really a manipulation of the faithful for financial gain.
Now, centuries later, we see similar techniques in GISBH: unpaid labourers convinced that their exploitation is an act of religious sacrifice. This time, the victims are not just vulnerable adults, they are children.
While Abuya, the leader of GISBH, may not appear charismatic in the traditional sense to outsiders, within the structure of the group, his religious authority and the way he positioned himself commanded significant loyalty and control.
For his followers, his power stemmed not from personal magnetism, but from the belief that he was divinely guided, an embodiment of a higher spiritual authority.
This reverence for his perceived divine connection granted him immense control over the lives of his followers, enabling the exploitation that took place. It is a form of charisma that does not rely on personality, but rather on the manipulation of faith and religious doctrine to keep followers obedient. Examples of this kind of manipulation abound.
Take the infamous Jonestown Massacre of 1978, where Jim Jones led over 900 of his followers to their deaths, convincing them that their salvation required the ultimate sacrifice. Jones manipulated his followers using religious language, binding them to him so completely that they surrendered their lives.
Another more recent case is that of NXIVM, where spiritual and self-help language was twisted into a tool of control. Keith Raniere, the group’s leader, manipulated followers into unpaid labour, starvation, and even sexual abuse, convincing them it was part of their personal growth. Though not religious in a traditional sense, NXIVM shows how faith in a leader, regardless of the context, can lead to dangerous exploitation.
Closer to GISB’s framework are the Branch Davidians, led by David Koresh in the early 1990s. Koresh convinced his followers that he was a prophet, using this belief to engage in abuse and violence. The Waco Siege in 1993 ended in tragedy, with dozens of followers, including children, losing their lives, having been blinded by their loyalty to Koresh.
In each of these cases, we see the same pattern: leaders use religious or spiritual rhetoric to exploit their followers. The real tragedy lies in how easily such manipulation takes root.
Many of GISBH’s victims were brainwashed from a young age, taught that their worth was tied to submission and suffering. This was not faith, it was control.
Despite clear evidence of exploitation, defenders claim the group is under attack for its religious beliefs. When faith becomes intertwined with exploitation, loyalty often blinds people to the abuse.
Children born into these movements are indoctrinated from birth, knowing no other reality. This trauma becomes ingrained, affecting family dynamics, social relationships, and mental health for years to come.
Former members often speak of intense guilt and confusion, struggling to reconcile their past with their future. Their trauma reminds us that religious exploitation does not end with escape; the mental chains remain long after the physical ones are broken.
What makes this even more tragic is how people can make light of such grave issues.
I am struggling to understand how anyone could parody such exploitation.
The songs about Abuya, for instance, turn the suffering of real people into a spectacle. Parody and humour often emerge from discomfort, offering a way to distance oneself from the horror of the situation.
In cases like GISBH, where abuse and manipulation are at the core, humour desensitizes us, making it easier to dismiss the depth of suffering. Psychologists have noted that humour can act as a form of denial, allowing people to avoid confronting difficult realities.
In reducing the trauma to something trivial or funny, we not only trivialize the experiences of the victims but also allow ourselves to escape the responsibility of acknowledging the abuse for what it truly is.
But humour in these situations does not just minimise the abuse, it also actively harms the victims.
For survivors, seeing their trauma mocked can deepen their psychological scars, reinforcing feelings of shame and isolation. When society trivializes their suffering, it sends a clear message: their pain is not worthy of serious attention.
Research on trauma shows that belittling or denying a victim's experiences can severely hinder their recovery.
Parody in these cases is not harmless, it perpetuates a culture of silence and complicity that makes it even harder for victims to come forward. Such trivialization is dangerous.
It shifts attention away from accountability, turning the conversation into something light-hearted when it should focus on justice. The stories of children conditioned to believe their suffering was divine, of families separated, and of lives destroyed, these are not things to laugh about.
The victims of GISBH are not punchlines; they are survivors of a system designed to control them. Yet, in the face of this darkness, there is also hope.
Education Minister Fadhlina Sidek has committed to providing over 300 of these rescued children with formal education starting this month. This is more than just a step forward; education is a chance for these children to reclaim their futures after years of isolation and indoctrination.
Education is a powerful tool against the cycles of exploitation, and Fadhlina’s commitment is a critical step toward ensuring these children receive the care and support they have long been denied.
Reflecting on this brings me back to a student who approached me last semester, eager to research cults and their linguistic manifestations.
After almost every lecture, she lingered behind, wanting to chat about the different cults she had read about, their sacrifices and the lives forever changed by them.
Her curiosity about how these movements lured in the vulnerable, isolated them, and ultimately destroyed them was palpable. She was particularly fascinated by the way language was used as a tool of control, how certain terms and phrases manipulated followers into submission, how something sacred, meant to offer solace, could be twisted into a force of destruction.
Her research uncovered chilling stories of human sacrifices and the linguistic strategies that reinforced these acts. Words were not just expressions of belief, they were instruments of control, convincing followers to surrender their lives in pursuit of false promises.
The more we talked, the clearer it became: for many, the trauma of escaping such movements was as devastating as the indoctrination itself.
Escaping does not simply mean breaking free from physical captivity – it means reconstructing one’s worldview after the foundation of their faith has been shattered.
What we are witnessing with GISBH is not merely the exploitation of one group’s followers, but a reflection of a broader, dangerous tendency to romanticise faith-based manipulation.
In this instance, the responsibility does not rest solely with the leadership. It extends to the chorus of online supporters who have amplified the defense of this cult on platforms such as TikTok and Facebook.
We cannot allow the stories of those who suffered to fade into the background, drowned out by noise or turned into mere spectacle. The children rescued from GISBH’s homes were not simply workers; they were victims of systematic, religiously justified exploitation.
Media outlets such as Sinar Daily that courageously shared the testimonies of survivors such as Sabrina Bolivar, a former member of the group by birth. Despite her harrowing account, many continue to dismiss her experience as exaggerated.
The platforms amplifying these survivors' stories are doing essential work—not just sharing testimonies but demanding accountability. When faith is manipulated, it becomes a weapon.
As a society, we must do better. It is time to stop defending religious exploitation under the guise of belief and hold accountable those who twist faith for their own purposes.
This is not about attacking religion itself; it is about protecting those who have been exploited by those who hide behind religion.
The children of GISBH deserve more than our silence. They deserve our attention, our action, and our refusal to let their suffering be reduced to a punchline.
The voices of survivors must be amplified, not drowned out by parody or disbelief. These stories demand justice, not mockery.
If we are to break the cycle of religious exploitation, we must remain vigilant and challenge the systems that allow faith to be weaponised against the vulnerable.
The stories of manipulation are heartbreaking, but they also speak to human resilience. Many survivors find their way to healing, though the process is arduous.
Communities of former members and advocates have emerged, providing support and helping individuals navigate their newfound freedom. Through acts of solidarity, the trauma of religious manipulation can begin to heal, albeit slowly. But healing will only come when we refuse to look away. It will come when we listen, when we demand accountability from those who exploit faith.
The power to create change lies not in silence or spectacle but in standing in solidarity with those whose voices have been silenced for too long.
Dr Siti Nurnadilla Mohamad Jamil, Department of English Language and Literature, Abdul Hamid Abu Sulayman Kulliyyah of Islamic Revealed Knowledge and Human Sciences (AHAS KIKRHS), International Islamic University Malaysia. The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect those of Sinar Daily.