All That Is Bitter and Sweet_ A Memoir - Ashley Judd [53]
We talked about her first time, the lying down with an alcohol-soaked stranger for money. One of her peers interrupted at this point and said, “You just smile and realize it’s business, and do what you have to do.” My farm friend smiled at me sadly.
Another of the women told us that she was a very young girl when she was first brought to the brothel. They sold her virginity to a German tourist who had taken Viagra to prolong his erection. In a chilling monotone, she described how he raped her so many times that her vagina was torn apart and she had to be hospitalized immediately after he left. Now, she slept upstairs with the other girls and women on mats on the floor. Each was forced to take as many clients as possible, day and night, and were given one day off a month. I picked up the strong alliances they were able to forge behind the scenes, even in this setting: a woman, for example, giving up her precious day of relief for another who needed it more.
Kate asked, “If you didn’t do this job, what job would you like?” It turned out they’d all had dreams, like any other young women. This was what they wanted to be: a policewoman, teacher, singer, doctor, flight attendant. And my farm friend? When I asked her she said, “I want to be like you.”
I weep, as if she were still whispering this in my ear.
My new friends wanted to show me their living conditions upstairs, which sounded like hog pens—no furnishings, eight to ten in a room, one bathroom shared by all. But the madam fiercely drew the line when they asked to take us upstairs. She went from the gregarious greeter behind the bar to dangerous disciplinarian in a flash.
It was time to go. As we hugged goodbye, my farm friend clung to me especially. She graced me with kisses on the neck that in local custom signifies respect and deference. Her desperate tears mixed with my own sweat. We clasped our hands in prayer and bade our farewells. I was filled with a nearly debilitating grief and guilt, swooning with panic as we walked out, leaving them behind. I had felt the same toxic emotional cocktail in Svay Pak and in the orphanages. I thought: I can’t leave my sisters in this bar. I am going to get them out.
I knew I couldn’t rescue every woman and child from every bar, karaoke club, beer garden, brothel, and other place of slavery. I couldn’t take in every orphan. Yes, I could advocate for them, I could cry out their stories from the mountaintops, I could help protect them from HIV/AIDS, unintended pregnancy, help them make water safe for drinking, prevent and treat other health disasters, and I could agitate for change, but I couldn’t personally rescue, educate, and provide for every sex slave, every child at risk of being trafficked.
These six, however, I could. And I would.
On the sidewalk outside, I realized Papa Jack had prevented men from entering the bar so we could visit in a relatively quiet space, devoid of customers. However, outside, men were queuing. The tableau I saw on the sidewalk seared into my brain: A white man was towering over a frightened girl. He seemed to fancy himself James Dean, arm coolly cocked against the wall. She sat under this false wing in a plastic chair. His hair was greasy. He looked down on her. I hated him. Only Papa Jack’s presence prevented me from confronting him. I wanted his name. I had a rapid fantasy about shaming him publicly in his home country. I wanted to hurt him.
I quickly made a plan to ask Dario to help me. It could not possibly cost that much to send these women back to their homes, to send the one to Denmark who had a cousin there, and pay for them to go to school. We would make a deal with them: We would provide housing, food, and educational funds plus a little petty cash until they graduated and had a way to generate income; PSI could check up on them, make sure they were okay.
I would be the avenging angel of the sisterhood, setting my sisters free.
I told my plan to