I'm struggling to come up with words to describe the Thailand sex trade. The weight of it is overwhelming, but we keep carrying a message of tangible and real hope. Instead of trying to explain an entire world of pain in a few paragraphs, I am going to share a few stories from these past three days.
Flower Girl.
I sat on a cement ledge waiting for my team this Friday.
It was almost 2pm and well above 90F.
An adorable, six-year old girl approached me from behind.
She wore a light pink dress with soft ruffles.
Her arms were filled with rings of flowers used in Buddhism to bring luck.
This same six-year old girl tried to sell me flowers later that evening.
It was 12am.
10 hours later.
And, one-third of her flowers were still strung on her arm.
She wouldn't be allowed home until they were all purchased.
She does this: Every. Single. Day.
It's a process called seasoning.
Like a marinating piece of chicken, they are preparing her for a life of prostitution.
The One Who Got Away.
A pot bellied man walks past a row of young prostitutes.
A woman in a tight, bright pink dress reaches out to him.
He stops.
She tries to get him to purchase her for the night.
He slowly sucks in another drag of his cigarette.
His eyes move intentionally up and down her tiny body.
He impatiently points to her and moves his finger in a circular motion.
She looks back at him, confused.
He continues to motion, now using his entire arm, until she realizes that he wants to see all sides of his possible purchase.
She anxiously twirls around and around in front of him.
He looks back unsatisfied and without a single word, shakes his head and walks away.
Her face instantly falters.
I watch her spend the next forty-five minutes assessing every inch of her body and trying to figure out what's wrong.
Glass.
Every night we see women dancing up high, behind thick sheets of glass.
They are not allowed out unless a man purchases them for the evening.
And even then, they have a strict curfew.
And even then, they are always being watched.
And even then, they are never alone.
These women are owned by a foreign Mafia.
Many of them wear numbers on their clothing.
This makes it easier for men to select their purchase for the night.
They are pieces of property.
They are purchased, sold, reused and tossed away when worn out.
They are human beings.
