The girls look young. They arrive in a flurry of jewellery and bright lipstick, with fresh faces framed by long dark hair. Sleek, glittering saris are draped over their pale brown skin. They congregate around a mirrored pole in the middle of the floor. It’s a dance floor, but nobody is dancing. Handfuls of men, some in groups and some alone, sit around the perimeter, plopped down on low-rise couches, facing inwards, staring. Cash flows freely from the men’s hands and the girls collect it, exchanging conversation for money. Right beside me, a bar attendant bizarrely showers a thick stack of ten rupee notes on one of the girls, like something out of a bad hip hop music video.
Two weeks haven’t yet passed since I stepped off an airplane into this teeming megacity. I’m here to work with an NGO called International Justice Mission. IJM rescues and rehabilitates girls who have been trafficked, exploited, and forced into prostitution — girls like these, maybe. But I’m not at the dance bar tonight because of IJM. I’ve been brought here unexpectedly by three local guys I’ve met recently in the neighbourhood.
We’re sitting on a low couch. Every so often I catch one of the girls’ dark eyes. Some of them regard me with mildly curious expressions — this bar is in the suburbs and doesn’t get many foreign visitors. Their faces display slightly more animation than the scared, blank faces I’ve seen in the footage of trafficked and exploited victims. I hope that these girls are here of their own free will. But I notice that several of the girls are remarkably faircomplexioned and bear different facial features — they’re Nepali. I’ve done enough homework on human trafficking in this city to know that Nepali girls who end up here don’t often come voluntarily.
The Bollywood beats are thumping so loudly I can hardly hear my acquaintance ask if I want a beer. Seemingly on cue, a rat dashes across the floor on the far side of the room, completing the scene.
I’m nervous, so I casually glance around to pick out the exits — just in case. Thick steel grating covers each curtained window. I pray that if one of the bar goons asks my acquaintances who their foreign friend is, they won’t inadvertently mention that I work for an organization whose name has just been in the local newspapers in connection with police raids at places like this one. I’m unable to relax until my companions finally rise to go. We head out into the warm night, and I learn that one of the guys in our group has a new contact in his mobile phone. The others explain to me that he’ll probably rendezvous with his girl of choice at a nearby hotel later that night.
My job here is to document IJM’s work in a city where an estimated 100,000 sex workers — more than 30 per cent of them children — reside. I can still remember, as a fresh TWU graduate, learning about human trafficking and modern-day slavery for the first time in books and magazines. Now I’m looking at the scourge up close. The often cited “27 million people living in slavery” statistic isn’t just a statistic anymore, because I’m seeing some of the faces behind it.
In search of story details, I find myself sifting through heartbreaking victim statements kept on file in the IJM office. Every girl rescued from commercial sexual exploitation has a story uniquely hers, yet common themes run through each one: crippling poverty, broken trust, abuse, and violence.
The suffering I read about is barely believable. I learn of the diseases that the rescued girls contracted during their enslavement. In one case, I read about a girl who was forced to continue servicing customers in the face of grievously deteriorating health until she was barely conscious. I read about the threats and verbal battering heaped on the girls by their oppressors, intended to extinguish any shred of hope or self-esteem to which the girls might cling. I listen to the IJM social workers talk about girls who have been rescued from the horror of forced prostitution but still cut themselves or attempt suicide.
My salvation from depression lies in stories of incredible hope and justice. I meet one young woman, for example, who was kidnapped and trafficked, spent months confined in a brothel where she contracted HIV, escaped, worked with IJM to have her former oppressor arrested, and now works full-time with IJM rehabilitating other girls who have been trafficked and abused. I’m inspired by my colleagues, too. IJM’s lawyers are but one example. They work tirelessly with the authorities to prosecute the pimps and traffickers who prey on young girls, acting in the courts as a voice for the voiceless. They’re not afraid to sacrifice personal safety.
One day, I arrive at work and the lawyers announce that a brothel keeper arrested three years ago has just been slapped with a hefty jail sentence. Their persistent battling in the courts has paid off. It may be a small victory, but it’s another baby step towards a healthier public justice system that protects the vulnerable.
Every girl rescued from commercial sexual exploitation has a story uniquely hers, yet common themes run through each one: crippling poverty, broken trust, abuse, and violence.
I’ve been in the country nearly five months now, and I’m sitting outside a brothel in the back of an SUV, with camera in hand. I’ve been waiting for hours. Suddenly, it comes — the signal that everyone has been anticipating. It’s show time. Police officers and IJM rescue workers pour from nearby vehicles and alleys, from the cracks between the buildings, rushing into the brothel with quick and quiet steps. A small crowd of onlookers gathers, but thankfully no mobs form — not this time. Minutes that seem like hours pass. I learn that I will not be allowed to leave the vehicle to gather photographs of the scene or document the operation, in case my foreign presence attracts any unwanted attention. I wait.
Finally, several young women emerge from the brothel. They are accompanied by IJM social workers. Almost as quickly as they’ve appeared, they are out of sight again, safely in vehicles. These girls have just been rescued from a brothel where, it is later confirmed, they were confined in prison-like conditions, verbally abused, incessantly beaten, and forced daily and nightly to have sex with up to more than 20 strange men for a few dollars each. Their pimp kept all their earnings. Today, the pimp is packed off in a police vehicle. It has been a successful operation. Careful planning has prevented tip-offs. Several girls have been rescued by police, and a particularly brutal perpetrator has been arrested.
A few weeks later I’m riding back from a train station near the red light district. I’m in the back of a minibus with a trusted local friend, recounting the story of this rescue. Many locals I’ve spoken with have no hope for trafficked women, but my friend is keenly interested in the issue. “So many women and girls are tricked or kidnapped and brought into the flesh trade here,” he says, telling me that he knows about the problem. “They are locked in rooms, beaten, and starved.” He becomes visibly riled as he is talking. “They are treated like animals. It is a disgrace to our society.” I nod my head. It is a disgrace to humanity.
Thirty-plus teenage girls are excited today. They won’t have to service customers, nor will they be beaten. Actually, these girls haven’t had to service customers for months. They live in a privately-operated safe house, and today my colleagues, the IJM social workers, are throwing a party for them.
Enclosed within a wooded compound, tucked away from the swarming city streets, the safe house is an oasis of peace in a sea of insanity. It’s a bright, cheery place. Its walls are covered by vibrant murals left by a team of American volunteers. I am greeted by one smiling young trafficking survivor as I arrive with the IJM staff. Walking up the steps, I reflect on the dismal condition of an overcrowded, chaotic, understaffed, and probably underfunded safe house that I visited previously. Comparatively speaking, the girls I’m with today are the lucky ones.
The girls have been practicing songs and dance routines. They are eager to please the guests; they exude satisfaction when we applaud. They dance, they laugh, they bicker, and they chat — they’re typical teenage girls. Yet they’ve endured so much. My mind drifts again, this time to thoughts of the greedy eyes that may once have watched some of these kids do different kinds of dancing in the bars and brothels. At the safe house they can dance purely for fun. They can also study. Some of the girls do computer training, jewellery-making, or catering, gaining valuable job skills that they can use to sustain themselves one day.
I know full well that the uphill road of rehabilitation is long and difficult after such severe abuse. Many rescued victims don’t make it; many return to the sex trade of their own volition. The girls I see still have so far to come. I watch them smile and giggle, and I pray hard that some of them will find wholeness. If they only knew that the lights in their eyes are bright enough to drown out all the lights in all the dance bars in the city.
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