Ripples of War

“Orphanage robberies." What did that even mean? The words weren't quite sinking in. Who would rob an orphanage? That hardly sounds like a lucrative racket. What's there to steal?

Then I realized what it meant. The horror of that thought washed over me, the full weight resting on my lungs causing me to exhale slowly: they steal the children.

For many of us, when we think of war, we only weigh the loss of military life. Don’t misunderstand, I have nothing but respect for our men and women in uniform. Their bravery and daily sacrifices are absolutely worthy of our support. I know and love a number of service members which is one of the reasons I hate war so much to begin with. Having a strong military that we never have to use is the best way to protect their lives too. 

But we must also be aware of the ripples of war; the subsequent effects; the displaced, scared, and vulnerable people caught in the crossfire. They are just like us. Their lives and stories are equally as complex and real as our own. And the love they have for their children, compounded by the pain they experience when they are in harm's way, runs just as deep in their hearts as it would our own. 

When communities are flipped upside down, children become easy targets for those looking to exploit them. Young girls are snatched from their mother’s arms when their villages are taken over; orphanages are "robbed" for their most precious assets; girls are stolen in the dead of night from refugee camps targeted by terrorists. Many are then divvied up among ISIL fighters, while others are exploited for profit, being forced to see upwards of 40 men a night. You begin to wonder how anyone could endure a life of such violent abuse, but that's when I learned that in some parts of the world the average girl will only survive 7 years of trafficking before injury and disease ultimately take her life. 

Thankfully there are a number of organizations working to rescue these children. I saw a photograph of a girl who was only 12 when she taken. My oldest daughter is about to turn 12. The hardest thing she has to deal with is finding time to practice her violin before she heads off to her swim meets. I couldn’t fathom knowing my child was experiencing such wicked and vile abuse. These mothers must feel so powerless.

I looked at their children and saw my children.  

And rescuing these girls is only half the battle. After that, teams of highly trained counselors must care for them. Sadly they've seen many victims return to their capturer's if they do not receive proper treatment. The trauma they’ve experienced is so great that many don’t know how to re-assimilate back into their communities, and even sadder still, some families will not accept them back. However, there are also some beautiful stories of truly astonishing strength that have come out of this darkness.

One was of a girl who was only 14. After her rescue, she was being cared for in a makeshift facility on the outskirts of town. She learned that the team who had recovered her was going back for more children the following day and she asked if she could go along. She wanted to be there to comfort the other girls as they were pulled out so they wouldn't be so scared. I cannot even imagine the amount of inner strength it must've taken her to do that. She quite literally used her own freedom and liberation to save others. 

At the end of the day, I truly believe that's what all of us want. Our aim is to help those who are suffering and protect the vulnerable. But it cannot be done merely with missiles. If we are gone once the rubble clears, then it is nothing more than virtue signaling to the rest of the world, and the oppressed are still no better off. We must be there to truly help them heal.

Empowering Exploitation

Originally published by the Dallas Morning News

“She looked so much like my daughter…”

That was the thought that kept rolling around in my head as I drove to work after an early morning coffee with a friend. We were sitting outside of a Starbucks in North Dallas, enjoying the beautiful fall weather and brainstorming about ways we could reach more women globally through our activism, when I saw this young girl walking through the parking lot.

She was probably all of 5-feet tall, with a thin frame and light brown wavy hair cascading passed her shoulders... just like my daughters. Her legs were tan but not in the fashionable way you’d expect in an affluent Texas city. As she walked her shorts crept up and down on her thighs, exposing a very defined tan line which was a deep red around the edges. I couldn’t tell if it was the beginning stages of a burn or the end of the healing process, either way she’d clearly been standing out in the sun for quite some time wearing those shorts. My daughter has a similar pair which she usually throws on over her leotard on the way to gymnastics practice.

The young woman had beads of sweat covering her face, but given the cool morning breeze, I knew it wasn’t from the weather. Her eyes were darting back and forth as she neared our table. I’d stopped talking to my friend mid-sentence and with everything in my being tried to mentally will the girl to come over to us. My silent prayer was that once she got closer she might pause long enough that we could offer her a cup of coffee, or something to eat. Anything to be able to talk to her. After all, here we were trying to think of ways to "love women better" around the world, all the while she was being “loved” the wrong way in our own backyard.

A few months back I had stopped at the gas station across the street from that Starbucks. I noticed a giant fishbowl of 25 cent condoms near the register. It seemed so odd to me, and when I made a comment to the clerk he responded with, “Yeah, they are big sellers here.”

“Here?” What did that mean?

It didn’t take long for me to start noticing young women standing near the lights at this particular intersection every time I passed. Often they’d be accompanied by a male. Unlike the usual panhandlers in that area they were never holding signs though. Just standing. Quietly advertising.

So when this girl, who was probably only 6 or 7 years older than my 10-year-old daughter, blew passed us without pausing as she headed towards the run down hotel behind Starbucks, my heart broke. I knew why her legs were so sun-kissed. I knew why her face was so damp. I wondered if she was ever in gymnastics. I wondered if her mother ever had to wrangle that beautiful wavy hair into a top bun before practice. How did she get here? She doesn’t belong here. No woman belongs here.

Women are being exploited on street corners and sold in back pages across the country because we claim sex work is all about agency and it can even be empowering. Perhaps to a select few, but let's not kid ourselves, those few are privileged. The ones who are truly choosing to sell themselves like property with clear and sober minds are not the norm. The average woman, or girl in many cases, is escaping abuse and pursuing addiction. She is stuck in a vicious cycle that makes her more vulnerable than any child should ever be. And she need compassion, not criminal charges. She needs rehabilitation, not a rap sheet.

In just a few years that girl’s young face will have aged by decades. She will no longer look like my daughter, but she will still be someone’s child. 

She will still be someone. 

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Post by Destiny