Her name is Nook. And she is no longer a prostitute. I met her on the first night we were out on Bangla Road, going from bar to bar seeing which girls would talk to us, play games with us, and who would be open to a different kind of life. It was the first decent conversation I’d had. Her English was great. I couldn’t wrap my mind around how a girl like her could get trapped in such a painful cycle. She went to university, had a child and a family who she said always took good care of her. She told me she didn’t enjoy her job. The following night we went back to the same bar and she was nowhere to be found. By the third night, when she wasn’t there I had just about given up on ever seeing her again. Here’s the thing- my team is tired. I am tired. Our days are long and the barhopping at night makes them seem longer. Home is so close–only three weeks away. Bangla Road feels so hopeless. It’s easier to look toward our own bright futures than to face the fact that some of these girls may never leave. We had been having a conversation with a girl who says she’s fine where she is because she knows her American boyfriend–James, the guy who works on computers in California– was coming back to get her at some point and provide for her for the rest of her life. It was time to leave, to call it a night and just move on. As soon as we were about to get up to leave, though, she walked up. Nook came back. I jumped out of my barstool and hugged her, saying I was happy to see her again. She said, “You came on my last night.â€� “What? Today’s your last day working?â€� “No, no. I leave. Today I pick up my pay and leave. This life is not my style.â€� I continued to ask her questions about the reasons for her leaving. “You know why I don’t like it? Because men come and you have to wait and see if they want to buy you. I am a human being. I am not an object.â€� I was amazed at what I was hearing. We exchanged contact information and I handed her information for SHE, the organization we are working with, and told her to contact them if she ever was in trouble. I squealed repeatedly and she laughed at my excitement. My eyes welled up with tears and she told me not to cry, to smile that she was moving on to a better life. I know she didn’t understand why I was so happy for her or why I told her that we loved her. I know she didn’t understand why I asked to pray for her and I know she didn’t understand who I was talking to when I did. I don’t know if she’ll stay away for good or if she’ll find herself in a bind and go back. I don’t know if she will ever understand why that short girl from the U.S. cared so much that she left. I don’t even know if she’ll ever even care about why I was there. But I know that there is hope. That no matter how tired I am, that God isn’t. And he isn’t finished with Bangla Road just yet.
