All That Is Bitter and Sweet_ A Memoir - Ashley Judd [44]
In a small round room, I met a group of about seventeen sex slaves. They had dressed up for me, as clean as they could be in their circumstances, equal parts excited and shy to have a guest. Mu Sochua offered a few words of introduction, describing me as an American woman, a Hollywood actor, who had traveled from America to meet them. I instinctively sat down and held the hands on either side of me. Then, I must have asked each person to tell me about him- or herself, perhaps inquiring what they wanted me to know about them, because by the end of our time together, I had scooted on my bottom around the circle, reaching out to each person as intimately as I could. I ended up hugging and even cradling each one as they explained how they became a sex slave and what their life was like. I didn’t know what else to do. Thank God my faith teaches me that listening is the beginning of empathy and, when followed by action, is a powerful prayer.
The most unforgettable story from that day was told to me by a transgender sex slave who had a frightening scar crisscrossing her face. She told me how, when she realized growing up that she was different from other boys, her family shunned her and she fled to Phnom Penh. She burrowed her head into my chest, sobbing violently, as she told me how she was broken in as a slave by a man who pinned her down and raped her while a dog mauled her face. She had contracted HIV. (In fact, most everyone in the room was HIV-positive, which was why Khemera had been permitted access to them.)
I have a beautiful photograph of her that makes me cry as hard as any ugly story I’ve heard, any image of despair I’ve seen. It is taken from behind me, showing a close-up of her face nestled in the crook of my shoulder. Her face is slick with tears, her mouth is open in a wide smile, her eyes are looking directly into the lens. She seems radiant, luminous, joyous—I believe it’s because someone listened; someone touched her for the purpose of love rather than harm. I wonder how long this moment of relief lasted for her?
The next thing I remember, I was holding hands with my transgendered friend, surrounded by sex slaves, walking with Mu Sochua out into the sunlight and through the streets of Svay Pak. As we walked, Sochua told me approvingly how radical and magical and defiant this act was, for the local pimps, madams, traffickers, and clients, who were no doubt watching, to see a government minister and a Hollywood star, their heads held high, taking up with human beings they thought they owned.
As I write this in 2010, the grief is as fresh as it was that day, knowing the majority of those I met in that small round room are still sex slaves. Their stories are known to Human Rights Watch, and posted on their website. I read and reread them, wrapping my mind around a reality that should be impossible.
Another iconic story from that day is one I would hear over and over again worldwide, differing only in small details. Later that day, we drove back to Phnom Penh and sat in a small, dirty community center that nonetheless carried a strong message of empowerment and resilience. It was a place where vulnerable, abused women could begin to form female alliances. I watched a session in which prostitutes practiced verbal skills through role-playing. They were learning how to introduce the necessity of a condom with their clients and teaching one another