June 10, 2010
Phuket, Thailand
I lost it. I went to the bars last night and lost it. I didn’t see it coming either. I had been to this same bar three times before, the Penitentiary Bar. So, each night I greet the women with a smile genuinely interested in their stories and trying to hear their answers over the loud music. And last night was no different. I looked for BB first (pictured above). She is very sweet and her English is very good. But I couldn’t find her. So, I talked to Chicken (that is her nickname, still not sure why). She showed me her camera and we scrolled through her pictures. And it all became too much for me. Each picture was a moment that was captured where she was either drunk or with a client. She would point and say, “I am drunk, hee hee.” Or she would explain where the clients were from, Germany, France, Italy, Australia, Singapore. There was even video she proudly showed me of drunk moments of her and her friends and some clients on the beach. I had to stop the video. The video itself wasn’t terrible, it was the hopelessness I felt for her. I asked if she was happy, if the moments these pictures and videos captured made her happy. She didn’t understand what I was asking and apologized by telling me she was already drunk. Or rather, still drunk from the night before. She hadn’t slept, neither had most of the girls there which explained the coffee drinks they were consuming instead of the usual whiskey and coke.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I reached my saturation point of images and sounds. I didn’t want to see another girl being groped, or another girl dancing around a pole with a blank stare on her face, or hearing the girls enticing the men to come to their bars, or seeing men dressed as ladies (lady boys), or watching the faces of the men as they were approached and/ or danced for. About that time, BB showed back up. Her eyes were so red that I thought she had been crying. In my mind, I thought this was going to be a perfect introduction to a better way of life, to Jesus. I would comfort her and tell her it would be okay. But she was also one of the ones that was still drunk from the night before. In between sips of her coffee drink, she hugged me and held my hands and said she was sorry. I hugged her back and told her she was meant for more than this. I don’t know if she understood and the hopelessness still loomed large, but I told her anyway.
Another of her friends, Yay, leaned in on the conversation and the only thing that I could really understand was “I am a bad, bad girl.” She said it once and I awkwardly sat there unsure of what to say after that. In my head, I knew what I wanted to tell her but it seemed a little weird at the time. So, after the third time of her telling me her identity was one of a bad girl, I held her hands and told her “That isn’t your identity. Your actions may be bad, but you are a child of God. You are loved. You are worth it. You have value.” I know she didn’t understand me. She just kind of looked at me and smiled. And then walked away.
I told BB I would call her the next day for English class and an introduction to the SHE house (with hopes that they would find an alternative to their lifestyle and an alternate trade). She said that she didn’t know if she could come because she might be with a client again. She said again, because we called her Tuesday and woke her up. She groggily said that she was with a client. I think my face was red as I told her we would miss her and pictured her in some random hotel room with a random man. I awkwardly hung up the phone.
I was talking with one of my squad mates about our ministry here. I think we glamorized it a bit in our heads. How we would storm the gates of hell and rescue these women. There is nothing glamorous about it. It is awkward most times and heavy all the time. We might have stormed the gates of hell, but the rescue isn’t ours. And I think I know that, I tell myself that. I know just our presence can change things but being in it and seeing the hopelessness these girls live in is hard. And it is hard not to feel it and be overwhelmed by it. These girls have children. Chicken is 42. I can’t explain why she is doing this. Why any of them are. Except that this is the best way they know. Except that there is a very real enemy who wants to shield the truth. I just have to believe that awkward conversations and our presence is enough.
And it is …. (the next blog will tell you why).
