Meet Justice

I sat on the bed and listened to the faltering words of this young girl as she tried to speak. She was crying. I felt the hot sting of tears begin to pierce my eyes but I struggled to hold them back. Maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe I should have allowed myself to cry, if only so this little girl didn't feel so alone.

She showed us the baby pictures. Her pregnant belly was huge, much too big for her 15-year old frame. Her baby girl was beautiful, weighing in at 7 lbs 11 ounces. She told us about the parents she chose to adopt her girl. They were an older, loving couple living somewhere in the South East.
"Walking out of the hospital without my baby was one of the hardest days of my life," she said, her eyes searching the floor for something to relieve her racing mind. "I've only seen my baby once since she was born, and she cried the whole time because she didn't recognize me."

She told us that her father had been molesting her since she was two years old. At age 14, her father raped her, gave her an STD, and got her pregnant. However, she was not alone in her pain. The same man had also raped her older sister, except her pregnancy ended in an abortion. There was more to this story. Her father also violently raped her step-mother, gave her an STD, and got her pregnant. However, "My baby brother didn't make it. My father killed him with the STD. I got to hold him in the hospital, but he was already dead. I still feel guilty that my baby lived when my mom's didn't."

She talked about her frequent moves from city to city. It seemed as if in each location, in each new school, that her past caught up with her. She was ridiculed for sleeping with her father and all sorts of malicious jokes. When she began to noticeably show after five months of pregnancy, she was given the option of abortion.

"I was in the doctor's office. My mom was there and my youth pastor came. I was sitting on the table when the doctor asked, 'Do you really want to do this?' I looked up at him and said, 'No. No I don't.' I was crying and went back to see my mom. I told her I wanted to carry the baby full-term and we both started sobbing in each others arms."

She told us how she hated herself. She felt everything about her was repulsive. She tried committing suicide, but was stopped by people who love her. It has certainly been a journey for her. After these years of struggle, she was confidently able to tell us, "I love my life now. Really. I'm so glad that I'm here."

Sarea, the woman who owns the recovery home the girl is living in, raised her eyebrows and explained with attitude, "I told those girls they had better not kill themselves or I'll kill them!" Then, she leaned her head back laughed for a good two minutes or so.
It was one of those situations that is gravely serious, but because the narrator is having a good belly laugh, it seems almost permissible. I cracked a smile but continued listening. This same situation repeated itself throughout the afternoon.

People always ask Sarea how she does it. How does she take care of these heavily abused girls, her ministry tottering on the edge of poverty and being closed down, and still dealing with her own struggles? How? One of the answers, I discovered, was humor. Humor, and hours of prayer.
Sarea, a woman entrenched in some of the most difficult and complex situations in life, has always lived by a simple faith and faithful prayer. Is there any better way to deal with what they've been through? All six of the girls in her house have been sexually abused at least twice, some of them permanently damaged by the inanimate torture devices of their abusers.

"The more time I spend with them the more their stories unfold. It's terrible." But she doesn't just laugh off these issues or "band-aid" over the situation. Her contagious joy opens even the hardest, darkest heart and allows God to begin the healing process. This is the beauty of her ministry and the necessity in these girls' lives.

We left the bedroom after talking to the girl. She was quiet and a bit shaken, but she smiled. It was a real smile too, because she was done with putting on a show. She is 16 now, but possesses more strength, wisdom, and perseverance than many older women I know. She is the product of grace and the result of renewal. That is the beauty of this ministry and the passionate heart of the woman who founded it.

The Passport has begun working with this ministry and each new story, each new admittance to the program, each new struggle, and each new triumph echos so deep with this issue. Sex trafficking isn't just in the city or among a certain social class. It's everywhere, as undoubtedly proved by Sarea's ministry. With out Atlanta Trafficking Campaign underway, we have begun to get to the bottom of many of these stories and realized, with great horror, that there is no bottom. Sexual exploitation is a voracious cycle with a rising number of victims.

We can spit out mind-blowing statistics for hours (believe me, we really can), but these girls aren't statistics. The victims aren't just the Hispanic immigrant girl, the African-American prostitute, the Asian masseuse, or the white teenage runaway living on the streets. They're real live, flesh and blood, living, breathing, but steadily dying humans right down the road from us. Or perhaps, they are next door. Or across the ocean. Or in our churches.

It is difficulty to take this issue upon ourselves. It is uncomfortable and dangerous. Sexual exploitation feeds off of lustful supply and demand. Where is the demand coming from, then?
We at The Passport don't have all of the answers. We are working on that, but also finding an active solution to this issue. The point is: we aren't the only ones fighting this. We want to get you (the reader, teacher, student, business man, graphic designer…whoever) involved to stop a problem that can no longer be ignored.

Our website (www.thepassport.org) has more information and we'll try to keep things posted on here is well.

Peace.

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