He wore his hair long
and dark, pulled back in a ponytail. Through his leather jacket, shiny boots, and
youthful attire, his attempt to hide his age didn’t fool me. The street light
above his motorcycle, on which he was still seated, only enhanced his gray
hairs that shone through the dye. It was his eyes that struck me most; they
left me dumbfounded and perplexed. In later discussions, my teammates described
the look of disgust they saw (rightfully so), but for some reason, as strange
as it may be, I saw a glimpse of compassion, driven by his own heartache and
personal longing. Maybe its because I’ve been praying for my own heart of
compassion for the men I would meet here, but maybe he really was just another
one of those temporary male visitors, lost and searching.
As I witnessed
their conversation, the seconds passed in what seemed like years. The familiar
scent of jasmine filled my nose and I remembered the young girl that had come
to our dinner table earlier that night. Before taking our prayer walk through the
Red Light District of Chiang Mai, we had dinner at the night Bazaar, or the
night market, only a few blocks away. In the middle of our meal, a young girl
approached the table selling jasmine. She was going through a process calling “seasoning”. This meant that she was already owned by a brothel, and through
this job, they were prepping her for interaction with strangers. They were
preparing her to be a prostitute. She wouldn’t be able to return “home” that
night until she had sold all of her flowers, so as I was pondering how to
actually help her, I wondered if buying all of her flowers and sending her back
to the brothel early would really even be better. I offered her food, but she
declined. As I was racking my brain for a solution for her, her glassy eyes
looked around in fear and desperation and she slipped away. The hint of jasmine
lingered, and my appetite disappeared as quickly as the young girl.
We walked away
from the food area, and made our way through the market. A young boy quickly
caught my attention. He too was selling flowers. He too was being seasoned. He
too was a slave; a soon to be sex slave, and no matter how he felt, his
identity would soon be stripped and he would be transformed into a “ladyboy”,
sold as a woman.
The sound of her
sobbing brought me back to my senses and I realized that I was staring. Most of
my team was further ahead, but they had stopped at this point as well. The
chaos on the street continued, but for a few of us, the world had come to a
complete stop. It was like that moment when the world is running around in
madness, but the only sound you hear is the conversation that matters most – the conversation that’s plastered on the big screen, when everything else is
hushed to a silence so that you can hear the words in that pivotal moment – the
words that you never forget.
For
this little girl, her world had just come crashing down. I wondered if it was
her first time. I knew it wouldn’t be her last. Even if it was her first
experience, I knew that she would be sold as a virgin yet again. They would
send her to the doctor, stitch her back up, and resell her like she was new,
just to make more money off of her. This process would continue as long as her
body would allow.
She
too wore her hair long. It was beautiful and dark and flowed down her back. She
looked so young, so innocent, so heartbroken, so hopeless, alone, and
distraught. She stood in the arms of a woman next to the man on the motorcycle
and she was sobbing hysterically. The woman wrapped her arms around her, but
she had a smirk on her face and the other women simply snickered in the
background. They got their money out of her, and they knew that it was only a
matter of time before she would become accustomed to the business. She hid her
face in the woman’s arms, but he continued to speak to her.
“Are
you okay?”
“Are
you feeling any better?”
“I
hope it doesn’t hurt too bad.”
“Well,
at least you can go home now.”
I
wanted to run back, grab her out of their arms, and throw any amount of money
at them just to save her. I wanted to scream and tell her that she was loved.
You are precious! You are beloved! You are NOT
alone! You are still pure! You have a heavenly Father that has NOT abandoned
you, so don’t give up hope!
choked back the tears and kept the prayers flowing from my lips as we continued
to walk down the street. Less than a block later, I found myself laughing and
playing with two young boys who had been sitting on motorcycles outside of a
bar. They couldn’t have been older than two, and their smiles and laughter lit
up the darkness of the street.
As
we made the 30 min. walk back to the truck, I couldn’t stop thinking about the
man’s words. Compassion? Disgust? Heartache? Brokenness? Repulsion? Loneliness?
I wasn’t quite sure what to feel, but there was one thing I knew was true: it
was far too familiar. It was one of the two most disturbing conversations that
I knew I would never forget: both delivered by older men, both delivered to
silent, weeping, young girls, and both disturbingly unforgettable.
was in that moment that I felt the Lord calling me to tell my story.
no surprise to me that my compassionate heart hurts for others so badly
sometimes it could burst, but I don’t doubt the fact that I have been blessed
to witness more in my lifetime than most could ever dream. It’s easy for me to
sympathize with people because I have seen. I have walked the dirt roads,
stepped through their homes of trash, seen the eyes of hope in the weak and
dying, and worshipped with those who don’t even know what they will eat the
next day. Maybe it’s easy for you to read my stories and have compassion for
these people and pray for them, but I feel like the Lord has called me to share
my story for those that don’t find it so easy. For those that don’t get to see
the tears of the girls inside the bars, hear my story and know: they need your prayers.
Hear my story and know: this life is about so much more than we see on a daily
basis. Humanity is far from perfection, but our Savior is alive and well! So
read my story and know: there is freedom in the cross, there is freedom for the
captives, and prayer is needed by all, even those you least expect.
Exalted be God, the Rock, my Savior! He is the God who avenges me. . . who sets
me free from my enemies.”
In case the hyperlink doesn’t work, the next blog containing my story can be found here: http://amandahoward.theworldrace.org/?filename=i-am-1-in-3-and-i-am-free
