The walk back from Patong beach is loud, busy, and fairly short. We pass hotels, restaurants, and massage parlors—-only one with a “no sex” label on the door. It’s become a fairly routine, but still jarring, part of our time here in Phuket. It was along this route that I saw her at first, though I couldn’t tell if she was a human or a mannequin. She was thin, shapely, and stoic. Her body was posed like a plastic model; she was posed like an advertisement. It was only when we got close enough to see her face that I could tell she was, in fact, a woman. Her haircut was cute. She had straight-across bangs that normally suit elementary children and hipsters well. The line of black shaggy hair hit just below her brow line.
I purposefully made eye contact with her. I wanted to look at her and smile. I wanted her to know she was, if just for a moment, seen and loved. I smiled at her with no acknowledgement in response. There wasn’t a harsh cold shoulder; no, there was simply no emotional connection left in her to give. Her eyes, beautiful as they were, stared back. Hollow. A frame of a woman was before me. A human mannequin. Displaying her body, rather than a particular style, to be purchased. It would be only minutes until she was, presumably, picked up to go service the lusts of the travelers and locals.
We went home. We talked to our contacts for a bit before spending some time cleaning up from the Christmas party. Walking to take out the trash, I saw the second woman. This woman was seated on a motorbike (not an uncommon site), but she was positioned oddly. She sat side-saddle on the seat. Legs crossed, arms crossed, head down, eyes darting. She sat in the shadow, ten feet away from the door of the church. Again, I attempted eye contact—a purposeful assault against the stronghold of shame. Personally, I needed to get a second look at her before I could rightly affirm what exactly I was witnessing. Her leopard-print skirt, highly makeuped face, and clinging lip-print shirt confirmed my suspicions.
My heart was grieved. I speak only three phrases in Thai, none of which would get me very far here. I walked back inside, and the Holy Spirit spoke gently to me: bring her a tea. I turned on the water to boil, ran upstairs to get some piece of Thai material about God that could be encouraging to her, and prayed with a teammate. My teammate and I (safety first, people!) walked outdoors three minutes later. To my utter disappointment, she was gone. Motorbike, woman…gone. I stood there, tea in hand silently protesting the whole situation. No, no, no, no. She was supposed to still be there! I was supposed to give her tea! I was supposed to show her Jesus’ love—a love that disregards, abuses, and neglects no one. No! Instead, I stood in front of the church with tea in hand, no prostitute in sight.
We walked down the road, back toward the beach. Maybe we could at least find the woman from earlier.
As we walked, we prayed. Pleading for God to heal this land. Begging him to bring sight to the blind and freedom for the captives. Asking him to bind up the broken hearts. That’s what he does, after all (Luke 4:18).
We walked the stretch of the road, nearly to the ocean front, before turning around. I wondered if people were thinking I might also be for sale. I was, after all, still dressed in my swimsuit, walking down the road at night.
It was eerie. Every massage parlor or second-story room with its lights on became suspicious to me. I wasn’t surprised when we reached the place where the first woman had been standing, now deserted.
In less than an hour, I’d witnessed the routine evenings of these two women. The hollow darkness of their eyes told me this abuse was not new. We walked home.
Oh Jesus, how Thailand needs you.
Oh Jesus, how we all so deeply need you.
