Hi everyone! My name is Jade. Jo so very graciously invited me to do a guest post about my experiences working with The SOLD Project to combat human trafficking. First, I want to thank her for the opportunity to share some of my experiences. Also, I just want to thank you all for your interest in combating this terrible injustice and for your efforts to help support Love 146 and the other organizations with which they’re partnered.
When we talk about the millions of children trafficked, our eyes glaze over because we can’t comprehend the numbers and we can’t comprehend the truth of each life and what each child goes through in the trajectory of their lives. Our organization focuses on prevention for a lot of reasons like “stop it before it happens.” But the truth is, for these kids, trafficking doesn’t begin with abduction or the first time they’re forced. It doesn’t even begin with the initial deceit. It begins long before that.
In northern Thailand, one of the principle causes of trafficking is poverty, where kids are lured to the big city with promises of well-paying jobs and money to support their families. The kids we identify as being at-risk all come from impoverished circumstances, and most have other hurdles: alcoholic or drug-addicted parents, abusive homes, etc. I can’t tell you every kid’s story. But I will tell you one.
I’ll call him Nong.
He came to the resource center,one of the new children in need of a scholarship, polite, humble, and shy. He didn’t speak any English, so my usual ice-breaker (a game of Hangman) wouldn’t work. So I invited him to draw with me, an activity I found I could do with the kids that transcends cultural and linguistic boundaries. His face lit up at the invitation and he immediately set out to draw pictures of his favorite football players, then copying covers of children’s magazines. By the time the other kids arrived, we were wrist-deep in pencil markings and eraser sheddings.
Later, he would hop on a bike and play with the other kids, while I heard his story. It began with his mother,who had been raped and contracted HIV from the rapist. She didn’t know she was HIV-positive until six months into her pregnancy, and so passed the disease onto her baby Nong. She managed to marry another man, and when she told him she had HIV, he said he didn’t care. He said he loved her, and that he would die with her. They had a second child together, a daughter. Due to precautions, this time, she was able to have this daughter without passing HIV on to her. But they were incredibly poor. So when she couldn’t afford to send both her
children to school, she chose to give the money and the education to her daughter, the one who wasn’t sick.
And so, a terrible twist of fate, an impossible decision, and here this little boy is. His mother died six years ago, and now he lives with his grandmother. With most of the kids, my concern is figuring ways to encourage them to stay in school. With this kid, it was gift for him to be able to go to school at all.
We were able to secure a scholarship for him, so that at the age of 13, he has the chance to go to school for the first time. He glows with the innocent excitement of getting his first school uniform. As we gave him a ride home after English lessons on Saturday, we asked him if he enjoyed his time there. He nodded shyly. We asked if he wanted to come again. His face split open in a wide grin and his nod was vigorous.
His smile is one I never forgot.
So the issue of prevention is not just about making sure kids never fall into the awful fate of sexual slavery. It’s about giving them a chance for life they might not otherwise have. This child, Nong, who otherwise might never have gone to school, was on a path where his lack of education would have left him no skills to sell, only his body. We can’t save him from his disease, but we hope we can give him a chance for a richer and fuller life for the days he has here with us.
When you run, know you’re running for kids like Nong too.
I blog at Tasting Grace (http://jadekeller.com). If you’re interested to learn more about the issue or to hear about my experiences on the ground, please join me there for the week of March 5-9. I’ll be doing a series of posts highlighting some of things I’ve learned since I got here. Hope you’ll join me there!
Showing posts with label Human Trafficking Awareness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Human Trafficking Awareness. Show all posts
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
It has everything to do with us
When my husband mentioned Human Trafficking Awareness Day to a colleague, she furrowed her brow, raised a skeptical brow. "Well, I've never heard of that."
Exactly the point of having an awareness day, don't you think?
We can't go a mile without seeing a pink ribbon. We're aware as we've ever been about breast cancer. We can add a dollar to a department store purchase to fund diabetes research and education. We can join a campaign to prevent childhood obesity. And if we're really feeling politically active, we can rally together in a walk or run or march for life or for choice.
But when we talk about the innocent, vulnerable babies already born, the children who face not the risk of obesity and high blood sugar, but a life of captivity and serial rape, we get blank stares. We get "Come on, how bad can it really be?" And, "It's a problem overseas, but that has nothing to do with us."
No, my friends. It has everything to do with us.
I used to roll my eyes when non-profit organizations would include "raising awareness" as part of their primary mission. It seemed like a fancy way to justify the existence of one more marketing person on payroll without really getting anything done. But I'm starting to see how difficult progress is in the absence of awareness. No one cares about fixing a problem they don't know exists.
So let's keep talking about it. Let's keep reading about it, sharing about it, looking it in the face, no matter how uncomfortable it makes us.
This Huffington Post article by Corban Addison is a good place to start:
Reality check: There are more slaves in the world today than were taken from Africa in the four centuries of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade--over 27 million. Of those, two million are children exploited in the commercial sex trade.::
Thank you again for your continued efforts to spread the word about the issue of modern day slavery and our efforts to abolish it.
Monday, January 16, 2012
More Than You Might Think
I sat wedged between an oval window and a gray-haired, gray-suited man. No use opening our laptops during the hop from Frankfurt to Zurich. There was barely time for the beverage service.
He folded his newspaper twice over and back. I reached for my book.
Even three chapters deep into Gore Vidal's The Golden Age, I struggled to follow the myriad of characters parading across the pages of the 1940s. Jet-lagged and meeting-weary, I read words, sentences, paragraphs, and reaching the end of the page, I knew none of it. I started to drift.
His voice startled me back to the open page. He ordered a drink in German. I don't recall what.
I looked back at my book, pretending I'd been immersed in the story and not in sleep. And there it was. A scene with FDR, an imagined look at the hours before Pearl Harbor.
And here I was. Only 57 years past Normandy. Flying over Strasbourg. Sitting next to a man who might have been a tall ten years old when the war was finally over, whose father might have "heil"ed Hitler, whose mother might have mourned, whose neighbors might have fled.
When our wheels touched down in Zurich, history didn't feel so far away.
::
"That was 1960?" I asked in disbelief.
"Texas," my husband replied. "The Cotton Bowl. And they've got the actual footage. It's awful. They aren't exaggerating this."
We'd heard the movie The Express (The Ernie Davis Story) was supposed to be good. And it was.
But it was hard to imagine that barely 50 years ago, when my father stood a tall ten years old, the Cotton Bowl's Most Valuable Payer wasn't welcome at his own awards ceremony. Because of his skin color.
When punches were thrown and slurs were shouted and signs were posted to keep people apart.
When equal opportunity was still just a dream.
A desperate, lay-your-life-down-for-it dream. So much more than a poster in the break room.
::
Martin Luther King Jr. wrote from a jail in Birmingham:
It doesn't matter which continent or century you pick. Our human history is ugly. It started with the garden, and we haven't let up since. But it has taken me a while (too long, in fact) to realize that our history--no matter how ancient--is connected, decade to decade, century to century, generation to generation.
It isn't just words in a book and multiple choices in a high school history quiz.
It's real. It happened. Some of it not very long ago.
I confess I have cared very little about history. I have paid only scant attention to the true stories that don't directly contribute to the plot of my own. In my apathy, I've stayed the "so-what?" student who studies to pass and not to learn.
And in doing so, I have been utterly foolish.
Because in this ancient and ongoing battle against self-destruction, indeed "we are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny".
Just because my daughter hasn't been sold into slavery,
Just because my husband hasn't been tortured for his political views,Just because my son hasn't been forced to fight a grown man's war before he turns eight,
Just because my faith is not currently cause for persecution,
I still don't get to be immune.
I still don't have an excuse for crouching apathetically in a caved existence.
So let's say I stand up and take note. Let's say I study and say out loud that this is injustice. What difference would it make in the world at large?
I mean, really, what can one mother do to rid the world of injustice?
I'd like to know how Alberta Williams King would answer, if she were still alive.
Perhaps her reply, shaped by the brokenness of outliving her own son, would inspire us.
Perhaps she'd shut her eyes to lock in tears, shake her head and repeat the question, "What can one mother do to rid the world of injustice?"
Perhaps she'd open her eyes, tears slipping toward her smile and say,
"More than you might think, my dear. More than you might think."
::
I can't tell you how many times in the past year I've turned this question over. I'm just a mom. When people ask me what I do, I tell them "laundry". Who do I think I am, that I could actually make a difference, to pull even a pail's worth from this ocean of injustice?
Honestly, I don't know if the little I do will make any difference at all. But I want to be rid of this ugly habit of mine--this giving up before trying. I want to believe that even the smallest steps matter, that the miles will add up. Will you join me in the trying?
Originally published at Mylestones in January 2010.
He folded his newspaper twice over and back. I reached for my book.
Even three chapters deep into Gore Vidal's The Golden Age, I struggled to follow the myriad of characters parading across the pages of the 1940s. Jet-lagged and meeting-weary, I read words, sentences, paragraphs, and reaching the end of the page, I knew none of it. I started to drift.
His voice startled me back to the open page. He ordered a drink in German. I don't recall what.
I looked back at my book, pretending I'd been immersed in the story and not in sleep. And there it was. A scene with FDR, an imagined look at the hours before Pearl Harbor.
And here I was. Only 57 years past Normandy. Flying over Strasbourg. Sitting next to a man who might have been a tall ten years old when the war was finally over, whose father might have "heil"ed Hitler, whose mother might have mourned, whose neighbors might have fled.
When our wheels touched down in Zurich, history didn't feel so far away.
::
"That was 1960?" I asked in disbelief.
"Texas," my husband replied. "The Cotton Bowl. And they've got the actual footage. It's awful. They aren't exaggerating this."
We'd heard the movie The Express (The Ernie Davis Story) was supposed to be good. And it was.
But it was hard to imagine that barely 50 years ago, when my father stood a tall ten years old, the Cotton Bowl's Most Valuable Payer wasn't welcome at his own awards ceremony. Because of his skin color.
When punches were thrown and slurs were shouted and signs were posted to keep people apart.
When equal opportunity was still just a dream.
A desperate, lay-your-life-down-for-it dream. So much more than a poster in the break room.
::
Martin Luther King Jr. wrote from a jail in Birmingham:
Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.
It doesn't matter which continent or century you pick. Our human history is ugly. It started with the garden, and we haven't let up since. But it has taken me a while (too long, in fact) to realize that our history--no matter how ancient--is connected, decade to decade, century to century, generation to generation.
It isn't just words in a book and multiple choices in a high school history quiz.
It's real. It happened. Some of it not very long ago.
I confess I have cared very little about history. I have paid only scant attention to the true stories that don't directly contribute to the plot of my own. In my apathy, I've stayed the "so-what?" student who studies to pass and not to learn.
And in doing so, I have been utterly foolish.
Because in this ancient and ongoing battle against self-destruction, indeed "we are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny".
Just because my daughter hasn't been sold into slavery,
Just because my husband hasn't been tortured for his political views,Just because my son hasn't been forced to fight a grown man's war before he turns eight,
Just because my faith is not currently cause for persecution,
I still don't get to be immune.
I still don't have an excuse for crouching apathetically in a caved existence.
So let's say I stand up and take note. Let's say I study and say out loud that this is injustice. What difference would it make in the world at large?
I mean, really, what can one mother do to rid the world of injustice?
I'd like to know how Alberta Williams King would answer, if she were still alive.
Perhaps her reply, shaped by the brokenness of outliving her own son, would inspire us.
Perhaps she'd shut her eyes to lock in tears, shake her head and repeat the question, "What can one mother do to rid the world of injustice?"
Perhaps she'd open her eyes, tears slipping toward her smile and say,
"More than you might think, my dear. More than you might think."
::
I can't tell you how many times in the past year I've turned this question over. I'm just a mom. When people ask me what I do, I tell them "laundry". Who do I think I am, that I could actually make a difference, to pull even a pail's worth from this ocean of injustice?
Honestly, I don't know if the little I do will make any difference at all. But I want to be rid of this ugly habit of mine--this giving up before trying. I want to believe that even the smallest steps matter, that the miles will add up. Will you join me in the trying?
Originally published at Mylestones in January 2010.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
When She Was Twelve: A Post on Human Trafficking
If you've chosen to help us spread the word through your writing, we
invite you to link up below with your post about human trafficking.
Thank you so much for joining with us in refusing to look away.
::
When I was twelve, I knew nothing of the world and its dark corners, nothing of tragedy. When I was twelve, tragedy meant Grandpa's cancer, Coach P.'s heart attack, and a vague notion of malnourished children continents away. When I was twelve, I cried because I bombed my balance beam routine, because I fought with my mother, because we were about to move five hours away from my best friend.
When she was twelve, home was a dark concrete corner of the world, and horror was her status quo. Taken as a child, sold as a slave, she wore the number 146. When she was twelve, tragedy meant being torn from her family, raped repeatedly by strangers, beaten by her captors. She was twelve, and the tragedy was that she wasn't the only one, not the first, not the last. There were and would be millions more.
Love146 History from LOVE146 on Vimeo.
I can't fathom millions. Bombard me with startling and horrific statistics, and I shut down. My first reaction is to look away, to turn it off, to plug my ears and sing la-la-la.
But the story of the girl with the number 146 stays with me. Because I can picture her there, a child for sale. I imagine her staring back through the glass, the life not yet gone from her eyes. The millions are a faceless blur, but this girl, this girl I can see.
When I consider the grave and overwhelming issue of human trafficking, how modern day slavery stretches across nearly every corner of the world, including my own, it is tempting to throw up hands, to stockpile despair, to hide my eyes. But when I picture her face, I can't look away.
Today is national Human Trafficking Awareness Day. Will you join me in the refusal to look away?
From the towering mountains of tragic stories, we mine tiny stories of hope. Of lives restored, of captives freed, of returning home.
You can help to multiply these stories of hope by partnering with Love146 in their efforts to end child slavery and exploitation through prevention and aftercare. Whether you choose to give directly, to run for their lives and raise funds, or simply to spread the word and raise awareness, even the smallest of steps can be turned into high hopes in the battle against human trafficking.
::
When I was twelve, I knew nothing of the world and its dark corners, nothing of tragedy. When I was twelve, tragedy meant Grandpa's cancer, Coach P.'s heart attack, and a vague notion of malnourished children continents away. When I was twelve, I cried because I bombed my balance beam routine, because I fought with my mother, because we were about to move five hours away from my best friend.
When she was twelve, home was a dark concrete corner of the world, and horror was her status quo. Taken as a child, sold as a slave, she wore the number 146. When she was twelve, tragedy meant being torn from her family, raped repeatedly by strangers, beaten by her captors. She was twelve, and the tragedy was that she wasn't the only one, not the first, not the last. There were and would be millions more.
Love146 History from LOVE146 on Vimeo.
I can't fathom millions. Bombard me with startling and horrific statistics, and I shut down. My first reaction is to look away, to turn it off, to plug my ears and sing la-la-la.
But the story of the girl with the number 146 stays with me. Because I can picture her there, a child for sale. I imagine her staring back through the glass, the life not yet gone from her eyes. The millions are a faceless blur, but this girl, this girl I can see.
When I consider the grave and overwhelming issue of human trafficking, how modern day slavery stretches across nearly every corner of the world, including my own, it is tempting to throw up hands, to stockpile despair, to hide my eyes. But when I picture her face, I can't look away.
Today is national Human Trafficking Awareness Day. Will you join me in the refusal to look away?
From the towering mountains of tragic stories, we mine tiny stories of hope. Of lives restored, of captives freed, of returning home.
You can help to multiply these stories of hope by partnering with Love146 in their efforts to end child slavery and exploitation through prevention and aftercare. Whether you choose to give directly, to run for their lives and raise funds, or simply to spread the word and raise awareness, even the smallest of steps can be turned into high hopes in the battle against human trafficking.
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