Seeing is Believing

Today I sat with some IJM staff for over an hour and listened to their stories from the field. It was one of those moments where all of a sudden you realize that you’re talking about something way more intense than you were intending. Like when you’re driving on autopilot and suddenly you’ve driven into an intense neighborhood and no one knows how to get back.

Right before close of business I knocked on their door with a simple question about a case we are working on. I needed to know what a certain brothel looked like for a story I am writing. I walked in, knelt near the computer and opened my journal, ready to get up again and move on with my task.

But instead, the staff member looked directly at me and said, “Kristy, the only way you are going to understand is if I show you.” It was a look I hadn’t seen before. Somewhere in his eyes I saw that he had already entered back into that place and he was urging me to follow. Hesitantly I grabbed the chair behind me and pulled up to his desk.

For the next hour I walked their past with them. I saw what they saw. I heard the voices. I smelt the cigarettes and the musty odor of confinement. Nothing else existed. I was back in 2008 and instead of spending my summer before college in Cancun with my family; I was I walking the brothel district of Haldia.

It was terrifying and fascinating at the same time. And then he looked at me again and asked, “do you need me to stop?” I hadn’t even noticed that tears were streaming down my face. They were reproducing themselves at an exponential rate. But like most pain, it was a silent expression. I tried to form the words, “no, please, I want to hear more.” But instead I just shook my head and whipped my eyes.

We continued on. I saw a room with twenty young girls locked inside with a gated door, like chickens in a pen. I was told they lived there, all sharing one twin-sized bed. Men would walk in, choose who they wanted, cross the tiny corridor and wait in the sex room.  And when they were done they would exit the curtain, reenter the bar area, enjoy a quick snack and get back in their trucks, which were fueling up and head on their merry way. But the girls… they never left. Once inside they never again saw the light of day or the stars of the night sky.

And that’s when I recognized her. A girl I knew well. My mind flashed back to the day before. It’s 2013 again and she and I are giggling and hugging. She is my friend now, a person whom I talk with, laugh with, cry with, and play with. She is my sister and I love her like family.

The reality of trafficking becomes a lot more real when it’s a person you know. When it’s someone you love. I love this girl for who she is as a person, for her dreams and for her sense of humor. And while I knew her story intellectually, it was as if I was a mother receiving the dreaded phone call for the first time. My face dropped and my heart sank. It was real. What happened to her was real.

Now I know I have theatrical tendencies. But just ask my much more practical siblings; one day in the aftercare homes will stay with you until you die. But now I say, one moment in those brothels will haunt your heart for eternity.

I will never, for as long as I live, forget that moment. 

Another staff member sitting in the room spoke up for the first time. Quietly, and with tears in his eyes he said, "It's hard. Our job isn't easy. And one day God will call me home but right now, we work."

I think what makes this job so hard is that it’s real. What happens to these girls is real. They actually suffer that much. They actually do get tortured, beaten, raped, mutilated, murdered and humiliated. And yes, they actually do enter into this as early as nine in some places and as late as 14 in the ‘much-more-sophisticated-civilized’ country like America.

But it was this staff member’s last sentence that pierced my soul. He chuckled at my tears, threw his hands up in the air and said, “Seeing is believing Kristy.”

And so I say to you now: I can’t show you those videos. I can’t tell you anything that would even hint at a specific fact or figure. But I can encourage you to believe despite them. We don’t all get to see. But we should act as if we have. Paul understood communal suffering better than any biblical character, second to Jesus. I know that many of you have sensed a growing passion in your heart for the victims of trafficking, and I seek now to water it. Please believe me when I say that the reality is so much more horrific than I could hope to explain. And the battle is bigger.

I have been reading about David in 1 Sameul recently. And one thing I have noticed is that David prepared for battle by practicing. As Christians we like the imagery of armor and ‘suiting up.’ But the greatest warrior in all biblical history used a sling and a stone. He knew how to fight because he had been fighting his whole life.  David defended whatever flock he was given like it was the arch of the covenant. You may not be in South Asia or the White House right now, but you have sheep near you (or you may have literal armies) but the point is, let us always defend because even the greatest King saves this world one person at a time.  

Simple Provisions

I always hear the phrase, “Don’t worry; He will provide.” But no one ever takes the time to explain what that means.

Mostly it feels as if God’s provision is more of a watchful eye than a guiding hand. But every once in a while, when I really need it, He comes down and squeezes really hard! J

It’s never big grandiose displays of power, but rather seemingly insignificant events placed in my life as a source of quiet encouragement and subtle care.

I’ve had lots of these encounters recently, probably because I need the reminders now more than ever. But my favorite are when they come in the form of auto driversJ

…

Some days I wake up and love life. Other times I dread even stepping out my door as I dramatically spiral into a well of self-pity. This was one the latter mornings. It took about 15 minutes to find a free auto. I even scowled at our poor gate guard on the way out. I forgot my notebook at home. And to top it off, I realized I only had a 500 Rupee note.

For those of you who are unaware, the exchange rate is about 50 Rupees to the dollar. This leaves the 500 Rupee note right around $10. The other helpful contextual piece of information is that one auto ride is exactly 7 Rupees. This results in an endless struggle for small change. If you see a one rupee coin, then you’ve struck gold; not because of its monetary value, but its convenient appeal, which is often more compelling. Trying to get cab drivers, rickshaw pullers, chawallas, etc to accept anything but exact change is one of the biggest headaches of living in South Asia.

So you can imagine my panic when I looked into my wallet and saw nothing but 500Rs. Tears started to roll in. I knew it was a matter of minutes before I would roll my eyes at the man shoving me from my seat, shout at the taxi driver who would hit us from behind, or throw my hands up in the air and reluctantly buy tick-tacks at a near by stand.

It was then that God stepped in, patted me on the back and lovingly told me to calm down. This divine gesture came in the form of a massive Prabaker-like smile. My auto driver looked into my wrinkled face and shrugged as if he knew everything. He then proceeded to reach over, grab my 500Rs, and count out change in 10 Rupee notes, handing me 49 bills!

It may not seem like a big deal to you, but that is the point. It was God’s simple provision. He knew my vision was starting to fade into a blurry grey, and so He simply reoriented my sight, restoring my faith in human goodness. I believe our greatest gift is being able to see God’s beauty in the crap of human failure.  And I believe God’s provision is when He defends and protects our right to see it.