|Photo Credit: EpSos on Flckr Creative Commons|
My Facebook wall is filled with share after share of sex trafficking stories – looking for people to make a difference.
Jamie The Very Worst Missionary writes on her blog of the experience she had visiting SE Asia. Seeing first hand what happens to these girls:
He took us for a drive in a car with dark tinted windows, and it didn’t take long to get to a little karaoke bar on the side of a dirt road surrounded by a high wall, its big metal doors open for business. He and El Chupacabra went in for a bit, then texted Matt and I to join them. We found them at a small table with a bench on each side. A few teenage girls were seated around them, while a pretty girl with braces and chipped nail polish was pouring them drinks. And, there, pressed in against my hulking husband was a girl no bigger than my 13 year old. A tiny delicate thing.
The girl in the story is 13. The same age as my eldest. 13 year olds should be stressing about school, slumber parties and nail polish. Not rape and being sold to the highest bidder.
My new friend and neighbor Carol (who, by the way, volunteers at HomePlate every single week, not just once a month like my lazy ass) fights for human rights, against human trafficking and shares a wealth of information every day on Twitter. Follow her. Seriously. Your eyes will be opened.
And once your eyes are opened, you will need to help. If anyone has the antidote for the nausea occurring in the pit of my gut every time I hear another human trafficking story, I’d love to know what it is. Something tells me the desire to vomit will not disappear until this slavery problem is solved.