For the past week we have been in Nepal working with an anti-trafficking organization. In the mornings we teach English to rescued and at-risk women for an hour and a half. After lunch we have an hour of quiet time to be prepared for our afternoon activities. Around 2 pm we head out to cabin restaurants and dance bars where many trafficked women work in order to talk to them.
Before we went out the first time, our ministry contacts told us these women are just like our sisters and daughters. They warned us of how hard it is to visit the restaurants and bars and the emotions that come with it.
“But,” they said, “if we don’t fight for them who will?”
A few days ago some of my squadmates and I had the opportunity to visit a cabin restaurant and talk with four women who worked there.
Our translator brought us down a flight of cement stairs in a large building just off the highway. We entered a completely dark hallway and turned right into a room that looked like a barn. About eight makeshift stalls lined the almost pitch black room laid in front of us. Four women brought us to the back right stall, the biggest of the rooms. As my teammate, Mel, and I squished into the corner of the stall we noticed a cockroach scurry past our heads.
The four women excitedly brought us hot Nepali tea and giggled to themselves as they glanced over at us. Our translator invited them to sit down with us and the bolder of the four sat down first as the rest followed her lead. We began to ask them about themselves:
“How old are you?”
“Where are you from?”
“What do you do for fun?”
“What is your dream?”
The more I got to know them, the more my heart broke.
They told us they were all around 22 years old, although to us they looked to be around 15. Later our translator told us they were required to lie about their age because a woman has to be above the age of 18 years old to work there.
All of the women were from villages far from Kathmandu and hadn’t been home in a long time. Afterwards our translator explained that many of these women may have been brought to work here against their knowledge and will. Men who own the restaurants and bars will go into villages and tell parents that they have good, honorable jobs for the daughters if they let them come to Kathmandu. Families will be convinced their daughters will be doing other work, but once they are brought back to the restaurants and bars the chance of escape is little. Even if women can escape, families will often not take them back because they are ashamed their daughters worked in this sort of business.
There was a bit of a silence when we asked the women what they do for fun before one of them answered. She explained that they don’t have free time. She went on to say that sometimes, if they are lucky, they can ask their boss if they can see a movie at the theater next door, and he might say yes.
All of the women but one said they didn’t have any dreams. The one who did told us she wanted to own a restaurant just like this one some day.
As I sat next to these four women and listened to their stories, I saw my sisters. I felt the pain of knowing my sisters were trapped and didn’t know any better. Emotions stirred in me of wanting to fight for my sisters as I hugged them goodbye.
Even though we most likely won’t return to that restaurant, I trust the Lord in what He is doing there. Every restaurant and bar I dedicate to Him and trust Him to set free and completely redeem the women inside. I constantly have to rely on His strength because of how hard it is to fight for my sisters.
But if we don’t fight for them, who will?
