Monday, July 14, 2014

there and back again (part two)

I’ve been reading about human trafficking for years. 
If there’s a documentary about it, there’s a good chance I’ve watched it and can recommend it to you. I’ve read books, I can name off some of the big name organizations focused on eliminating it and rescuing victims, I know that trafficking for labor and sex happens both in the United States and overseas. I’ve read of horrific cases that seem so dark and so riddled with evil that they almost seem fabricated–how is it possible for humans to treat other humans with such contempt? The same is true for hearing stories of children left to fend for themselves. How can adults watch children, five year olds taking care of one year olds, and not feel the overwhelming sadness of it? How can people watch and do nothing?
The difference for me now is after going to India, and being just minutes away from the Red Light District (though I never went it), I have more than stories and statistics.
I have people. 
I have relationships.
I have face-to-face moments I shared with tiny human beings who have personalities and are real people.
I have three little faces* looking up at me with dark, trusting eyes, and I hear that they watched their father set their mother on fire and that she died in front of them. These ones? These little ones, 7, 5 and 2, who still somehow smile and play–two boys and a little girl. She’s too young to remember, which is the only mercy, but the older boys surely must remember something. The oldest boy wakes up from naptime crying almost every day. All the kids protest, but he fights me with a particular distress. It occurs to me that maybe he remembers something.
It’s not a story. It’s not an impersonal, distant statistic.
It’s a reality, and it’s their reality.
It’s not “so many children are suffering with AIDS”, it’s our little Sultan*, who looks more like a three year old than a six year old, and more like a little elderly man with his missing teeth.

He sleeps most of the day, and was feverish and lethargic when I first arrived, but finally started school for the first time the last week I was there, and it’s an exciting triumph. He didn’t warm up to me too much in the time I was there, since he has his favorite “didi” (the name the children call us all: “sister”), but he did climb into my lap once to laugh at videos on my phone. He was so small in my lap. He has siblings, much older siblings, but doesn’t want anything to do with them and throws temper tantrums. I’m not sure why.
It’s not “ex amount of children are living on the streets alone”. It’s the fairest Indian boy I’ve seen yet, with bright blue eyes that make him look like more like a European. I find out that his funny little swagger and tough guy nature that causes him to lash out occasionally with his fists probably kept him alive while he lived homeless from two years. He’s about eight now. He’s so young. How is it possible?
It’s not “such and such children grow up in the brothels their mothers work in”, it’s this little one and the fact that her mom was swinging her into a brick wall by her hair in the brothels when the girls found her.

She’s been taken back by her mom twice, and if she comes a third time, Rahab’s won’t be able to keep her. Her eyes are huge and her smile is contagious. She’s so beautiful, even now with her short hair that had to be cut to help with the lice all the kids share, and I can’t fathom it as I look at her. How could someone look at this little doll and harm her?
And on and on and on it goes.
But even as I share here, I realize they could be reduced to stories. It almost feels sacrilegious or disrespectful to share, somehow. I choose to, still, because meeting them changed my perspective on things. What I previously categorized as an atrocity that was predominantly a woman’s struggle I now see as a dark claw that reaches past women to children, both boys and girls, and men as well. There is no cinematic glamor or grit about it and it should never be simplified with dramatics. Please understand me when I write the words that are so unflinching and so uncompromising: it was real.
And now that I know, now that I’ve seen, now that I’ve been there… now what?
What is the next step?
What can I do?
What can I say?
Sometimes I feel that sharing my experiences means that I should have an answer or a “lesson learned” or a sunny bow to tie everything up with by the end of the blog. I usually do. But this is heavy and today I don’t have answers… other than I know with every fiber of my being that I’ll fight this.
Satan is a nasty foe, but Jesus has already overcome.

*For safety reasons, names have been changed and faces are hidden

To read this blog in it's original format:

http://alizetigirl.wordpress.com/2014/07/08/there-and-back-again-part-two/

Used with permission from author. 

there and back again (part one)

No hobbits here, but I have made it back again after an eye opening several weeks. I think that I’ve been somehow avoiding writing because I haven’t been ready to process but I can tell it’s time. With some solitude and a little iced coffee, I suppose it’s okay to let the tears fall freely.

The Organization
First I want to share about Rahab’s Rope, wonderful nonprofit I was privileged to join in ministry. Started by Vicki and David Moore back in 2004 after Vicki heard stories of young women and girls being trafficked for sex, they have three locations in Bangalore, Goa and Mumbai. Additionally, Rahab’s has a store location in downtown Gainesville, Georgia where they sell products that the women create to generate revenue for the ministry.
God has shown them incredible favor and opened up opportunities for them in the darkest of places—their predominant position of ministry is directly inside the brothels and red light districts where they spend time teaching (both reading, English, trade skills and most importantly, about Jesus), loving and building relationships with the women that are enslaved. Rahab’s partners with International Justice Mission to actually rescue women, but they also don’t give up on the girls that are unable to leave, or even more incredibly, not ready to step away from the only life they know.
I can’t speak highly enough about the dedication and bravery of the long term staff that walk into places most of us would consider unthinkable and spend their time serving and loving those the world at large might consider unredeemable. To me, that is the very heart that Jesus had while he was on earth, and it is part of the beauty of our God—there is no one, no one, who can find himself (or herself) out of His sight or out of His reach.
I’ve never been more passionate about a cause in my life, and I stand 100% behind Rahab’s Rope, International Justice Mission and any group of believers who not only are dedicated to helping women in a tangible, physical, practical way, but also recognizes the need for the spiritual healing that only Jesus is able to offer.
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The Children’s Home: Mumbai
With specific numbers varying from source to source, it’s estimated that there are between 20 million (Hindustan Times) and 31 million (UNICEF) orphans in India today. Some children are abandoned by their families, some are orphaned by AIDS, some are ‘illegitimate’ children of commercial sex workers (CSW), some are HIV/AIDS positive themselves. Any way you choose to look at it, there are staggering amounts of children who are in dire physical need; it goes without saying that the spiritual poverty is just as devastating.
Partnering with local brothers, who are also pastors, Rahab’s is caring for about 75 children between the ages of 2 and 18, the help of full time national staff and short-term volunteers from the States. All of the children living in the home are either 1) orphans, 2) children of CSW and/or 3) HIV positive. Together, Rahab’s and the nationals have been able to arrange scholarships with different schools around the city so the children are able to receive an education, as well as a more stable living condition that is found at the children’s home. The little ones have their basic needs for clothes, food, shelter, health care, education, loving care and play met—and they learn about Jesus.
I’m not able to post most of the photos I took for safety reasons; some of the children are still being sought after by madams in the brothels and putting images of their faces on the internet is ill-advised. Rest assured, they are completely and flawlessly precious.
—–
Where I come in
As a short term volunteer I spent my time in the children’s home, predominately with the young 5 – 9 year old boys, doing VBS activities, helping the boys get washed, dressed and ready for the day, playing little games and doing lots and lots and lots of cuddling. It’s difficult for the kids to get enough one on one cuddles and attention that all children inherently need, and that is the most valuable thing I was able to contribute during my time. Love given to honor Jesus, no matter how seemingly “insignificant” or small, is never love wasted. It is the very heart of God.
——–
The Team

I also had a chance to meet other girls my age passionate about the same things as me, despite the differences in our backgrounds. There was a time where I would have said that two nursing students, a nutritionist student, a missionary kid/psyche graduate, a naval officer, an ex-elementary teacher and myself wouldn’t have anything in common, but we all shared a love for Jesus and a desire to be His hands in a world much darker than the one we grew up in. I can’t explain how encouraging and exciting it was to see these ladies in action each day, and to share a living space with them. We shared so much fun and so much heartbreak over the little ones and the experience would not have been the same without them.
Several of the girls are still over there and you can read more about their day to day activities and learn how to pray for them and the littles ones on their blogs:
Moments in Mumbai Kaitlin
The Scarlet Cord – Valerie
(To Be Continued)
To read blog in it's original format:
http://alizetigirl.wordpress.com/2014/07/07/there-and-back-again-part-one/
Used with permission from author.