Mali

My name is Mali and I come from a small town on the outskirts of Thailand. I have a big family, with no money, so we are very poor. My father always beat my mother and us children when he is drunk. He is drunk every night. So every night, my mother takes us children outside to look up at the stars. She told me to dream about my future. I told her I wanted to be free of this life. I said I never wanted to have a husband that drinks. She slapped me and told me to not talk disrespectfully about my father. I never said it again. Instead, I’d look up at the stars and silently beg God for a better life. My mom was sorry she slapped me, she said I was her beautiful flower, that’s what my name means, flower. She said I was a blossoming flower and growing up so quickly. I told her I didn’t want to grow up yet because I didn’t know what I would do. I thought I had no hope but then one day a strange woman came to my door and said that I could work as a waitress in a big, fancy restaurant that many tourists come to. My father said he didn’t care what I did with myself, one less hungry mouth to feed. My mother didn’t want me to go, I could tell, but she didn’t say so because of my father. So I went. The strange woman said I didn’t need to bring anything, so I left without a baht to my name.

Traveling to the city seemed to take forever. I felt like I was going in circles, I’d never be able to visit my family on my own, I’d get lost. The strange woman finally brought me to the front of a building. It looked very nice. The sign said “Land of Pleasure” and I could tell from the outside that it was filled with men. We walked in the back way and I asked the strange woman when I was going to start working. She smiled cryptically and said I could rest for tonight, and I’d start tomorrow. Another girl, looking about the same age as me yet with worldly eyes approached me and asked me my name. I said it was Mali. She said her name was Isra. The strange woman told Isra to take me to my room, and Isra immediately took me, though despondently, by the hand and led me down the hall.

I saw the door had a lock on the outside, I eyed it with askance until Isra saw where my gaze laid. Without saying anything she opened the door and pushed me inside, coming in as well. The room was barren. There was a bed and nightstand. That was the room’s only occupants. She then closed the door and told me that I never should have come here. I asked her what she meant by this but then the strange woman was there yelling at Isra. When Isra didn’t come at first, she grabbed Isra by the hair and dragging her out. Isra didn’t even yelp.

When the strange woman came back, I was in the corner, fear well read in my eyes. The strange woman just looked at me and said I’d get used to it. Get used to what? I asked. She didn’t answer. She just left, closing the door. I heard her lock the door on the other side, and began to get scared. The only window was unreachable and not even big enough for my 10 year old body to fit through. I felt like a lamb trapped, just waiting for a lion to enter its cage.

I slept fitfully that night. Tossing and turning, dreaming about my mother and our nightly outings to look up at the stars. I was lonely. I was scared. I cried like a baby. I started to think that maybe coming to the city wasn’t such a great idea. The next morning, I felt a gentle hand shaking me, it was Isra. I asked if she as okay and if that strange woman got in trouble by the boss. She replied by saying the strange woman, Vanida, was the boss. Isra then left and returned, brining in a breakfast tray. The meal was measly, but my hungry belly ate it up greedily. Watching me as I ate, Isra stood there silently, returning all my questions in a monotonous tone. When I asked her about what she said about me regretting coming here, she said nothing. She snatched up my tray and left, closing, and locking the door behind her. I didn’t know what to do. So I laid on the bed and took a nap.

I was awoken by the Vandia, who grabbed me by the arm and took me down the hall to a bathroom. She had another girl, who looked to be about 15 years old, bathe me. I didn’t understand why I was being served, I said. I thought I was the one who was supposed to be serving. Vanida smiled the esoteric smile I now know well and said, you will.

The older girl bathed me in scents, scrubbing every crevice of my body. She then dressed me in clothes I know father and mother would never approve of, and took me back to my room.

I wasn’t disturbed until a couple hours later. A man walked in and I sprung off the bed, he said I didn’t have to move, I didn’t understand what he meant by this. He looked like a foreigner. From the United States or Europe. I was very confused when he closed the door and I heard the lock turn on the other side of the door. My hair stood up on the back of my neck, for I had never been in a room with a man alone besides my father and never with this much lack of clothing to cover myself with. I felt a sense of panic as he came over and sat on my bed. He spoke little of my language, but I understood that he wanted me to sit down on the bed too. At first I didn’t move, and then reluctantly I stepped closer, not knowing if I was sensing a genuine fear from here.

He scooted closer to me and begin to caress me and kiss me. I pushed him and jumped off the bed rushing to the door and began to bang on it, screaming for help. I heard him laugh behind me and I heard the man unzip his pants. I screamed louder and louder, but no one came. I then felt strong hands grip around my forearms and drag me to the bed. I pleaded with him, but his desire outdid my pleas. Forcing my legs apart he thrust himself into my body and when I tried to push him, he simply became more aggressive.

After an hour he left me. I laid on my bed half unconscious and in excruciating pain. I looked down and saw the blood on my sheets and cried for myself. The older girl who had gotten me ready came in a little bit afterwards with a bucket and rag, she cleaned me. I bit back fits of tears and screams. She said that was good. She said that I was strong. I said nothing. I remembered what my mother said about me being a blossoming flower. I am not. I am not pretty and clean, I am ugly and dirty. I am a wilted flower.

Vanida came in after and brought me food, she was smiling. I threw up. She left water and said I’d get used to it. I couldn’t sleep that night. I laid awake all night, trying to glimpse the stars in the sky from out my tiny window near the ceiling, but the city made them hard to see. I could barely see the stars. I cried.

The first week of my new occupation I tried to resist every man. There were 90. Vanida came in after the third day and beat me so badly, saying I would have to work double the next day.

After that first week, I no longer cried. When men came, I lay hopeless, counting the minutes until it was over. I showed no emotion on my face. The men would sometimes be mad that I didn’t show pleasure. They would hit me. I still lay there, as if I was in another world. Sometimes they would try to talk. I say I don’t want to talk. I say I just want to get it over. They try to ask my name. I tell them I don’t have one. I say I am no one. I try to block out the many times I had sex with dirty, foreign men. And as they are raping me, I do. But every night all their faces and the pain comes back and I fight back tears.

I see that back at home, I was free. Here I am a slave. A slave to Vanida. A slave to the hundreds of men who rape me. A slave to the world’s lust. I feel guilty for complaining about my life before. I wouldn’t mind being a drunk man’s wife.

Sometimes I think about killing myself, ridding myself of this life. I tried to with a butter knife. I slit my wrists. Vanida slapped me and called me stupid. She put bandages around them and made me work more. I now was able to socialize with the other girls and they always told stories. One girl tried to run away they said, and they killed her. I tried to run away. Whether I lived or die, I’d be free. They caught me. Vanida had my hair cropped short and shoved hot peppers on a stick into my intimate crevices that so many have known. I didn’t scream. I held it all in. It is what I do to survive. Vandia left with a smile, saying I was strong and I made good money for her.

My name is Mali and I come from a small town on the outskirts of Thailand. I have a big family, with no money, so I was blindly sold.

I am 10 years old.

I am no longer Mali.

I am enslaved.

I am a sex slave.

I am a wilted flower.

I am nobody.



Written by Adriana Moore

Capable of Creating Change

“Thou shalt not be a victim. Thou shalt not be a perpetrator. Above all, thou shalt not be a bystander.” (Holocaust Musuem, Washington, D.C.)

I strive to never find myself in a situation being the bystander, I strive to be the activist; the one getting involved and being the voices of those whose voices are silenced and oppressed. Last summer, I was able to participate in a two-day lobbying event in Washington, D.C. with an organization called Invisible Children in order to pass a bill that would make the conflict going on in Uganda more of a priority. We had meetings with our representatives of state and were able to step in and be the voice of child soldiers and sex slaves of Uganda. Seeing so many youth participating in this social act, made my adrenaline rush to make change in the world; I was so inspired. And when this happens, its like tons of light bulbs flick on in my head. On returning to Brazil, I had a plan. I was going to start a social justice club not only raise money to help fight injustice around the world, but to also spread awareness. So I did. Things didn’t exactly kick off so well, and at times I felt like this idea was hopeless, but those innocent kids yet to be tainted by the corruption of the world kept me going. I began to realize that it didn’t matter if I was the only one, or if the number of participants was less than ten. It’s not about me, it’s about them.

So now, second semester has begun and I tried doing things differently this new year. Instead of inviting random people, I thought about those whose qualities involve leading. And now, there are seven of us, yet we are a passionate seven. We are currently helping the school’s student government with throwing an event to raise money for Haiti, and we plan to do other things to raise money for Haiti relief as well. And so, as club plans have been forming, my plans have been as well. I plan to go to Haiti this summer with a group, where we can help in the relief efforts in any way possible. Whether its bringing medical supplies, clothing, or money to help rebuild, I want to do anything I can to bring a sense of hope to Haiti. “We have before us the glorious opportunity to inject a new dimension of love into the veins of our civilization” (Martin Luther King, Jr.). We are capable of creating change.

Children of the Favelas

It all started when I saw the gleam in her eye and the want to have attention in her face that I nearly swept her up and took her home with me…

Gustavo, a second-year student in MCUMI (www.mcumi.org) gave my mother, three of my siblings, and I the privilege of going with him to visit his family in the favelas, slums. I was so excited about making the trip because I have known Gustavo since I was six years old and he is like an older brother to me to this very day.
Nearly taking two hours, we first took a train, caught a public bus, and then walked up the mountainous roads to where he lived. I thought I’d get a heat stroke with the amount of energy I had to use to climb the steep hills with the hot sun blasting its hardest on my back.

It wasn’t until we finally got to his house did I believe that the trek all the way up there was worth it. While Gustavo and my two brothers, Sean and Christopher, went to go to a neighbor’s house I stayed and helped translate for my mom. As Bekah shot pictures of Gustavo’s 5 little sisters that were present, my mother, Gustavo’s mother, and I sat on a “couch” where all you could practically feel was wood. The house only had two, small rooms clearly not large enough for the amount of occupants living in the house.

Translating back and forth between my mother and Gustavo’s mother was tiring but I somehow found the energy to play with his little sisters who clung to me. Just playing American football with the girls and letting them hold my hands brought smiles to their faces as if they were given the world. One of sisters, Estella, was a rambunctious little girl with lots of energy who my heart nearly flipped over for. Even though she tried to run me over with her little tricycle and jump all over me the sparkle in her face at having a dose of attention from an outsider overwhelmed me.

I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for children…okay a BIG spot in my heart for them. They have a sense of love for me too. They pee on me, play with my hair, and somehow I end up carrying them EVERYWHERE; and I don’t make a big deal about being peed on or them messing up my hair, or having sore arms the next day because for one day or however long I’m with them I get to put myself aside. I get to put away all my dreams, wants, needs and think about their dreams, wants and needs. And in the end I am repaid more than seventy times for what I did just by the expression on their face; their smile that reaches up all the way to their ears, their eyes that shimmer with joy, and their sense of belonging.

Millions of children die each year because of their condition in poverty for all various reasons. Some die because their family has no means to pay for treatment of AIDS, some die of hunger, some die because of murder, but mostly I believe that the biggest reason why they die and suffer so much is because of the lack of love. We all say we love the little children, but actions speak louder than words. I’m sure that if we all participated in helping young children like Gustavo’s sister, Estella, she would live a longer, fuller life. Children all across the globe are born and die sometimes feeling unloved, and it’s a feeling that we can suppress and wipe away forever.

“Sex Slaves in Sacramento!” Global Sex Trade

“You heard my plea, ´Do not close your ear to my cry for help, but give me relief!´” Lamentations 3:56

The sex slave industry is a feeding monster that grows as it consumes; Who will stop it?

While reading about women who have been rescued from the nightmare of being forced into the sex trade, I was shocked to find out that one of the girls nearly my age named Catalina Suraez was a sex slave in my hometown of Sacramento. As a runaway who fell into the deadly trap of an older neighbor just when she was 9 years old, she was taken all over Latin America and the US, drugged and prostituted against her will. Thankfully, Catalina has escaped that world with the help of caring people, but you can imagine the scars that are left with some of these women who have been rescued. It’s something they carry with them forever, whether it´s still a burden or just a part of their past.

Sexual slavery is a morally wrong and perverse type of labor that is so broadly expanded. I can´t stand around and overlook it and I´m sure you feel the same. We must stand up and start fighting for the virginity of those who have yet to endure the revolting and repulsive lust that come to take away their innocence. Or what about those who have to succumb to the impious desire that so many people throughout the world crave? We can help.

What’s happening on our home planet:
Over 27 million people are in some type of slavery in the world, 80% of those who are trafficked are women while 50% are underage. Sadly, 75% of them are forced into sexual exploitation of some kind. Let’s take in those percentages and realize that this isn´t a “small” problem for a couple of organizations to tackle. No, this is a global issue that affects EVERYONE, me and you. Over 2 million girls between 5 and 15 have already been thrown into the sex market.

Many think this “secret” sex trade goes on only in other countries, but its also happening in the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. Oh yes...the free, new land of opportunities has been taking its fair share in endorsing the sex slave industry with plenty of money.

Why does the sex trade exist?
Well, first of all, girls of all ages up to young women are lured by pimps, organizers, brothel owners, and traffickers to go to an unknown place where they can “raise money for their families and have new opportunities.” Naive women of all ages are tricked into this all the time, not knowing that they have damned themselves into the worst kind of slavery that exists on our planet today.

The sex trade is a widespread business that pollutes the alleys of our beautiful United States, but also travels around our globe. So what about all the other “Catalinas” in our world?? As numbers and percentages have proven, many “Catalinas” desperately need our help. I hope and pray that our eyes and hearts will be open and we will realize that the magnitude of the situation. For a second, let’s reflect on our life; the bad and good that goes on. Now let’s try to imagine the life of a young woman or mere child who endures life as a sex slave. We must be the voice for those who are silenced. Join me in fighting against these horrible crimes against women and children. One great thing you can do is donate today, directly to the international Justice Mission. http://www.ijm.org/give. Life will never wait for us to wake up to help, and sadly, hers won’t either.

“Since he found her in the open country, the engaged women may have cried for help, but there was no one to rescue her.” Deuteronomy 22:27

“Surely one does not turn against the needy, when in disaster they cry for help.” Job 33:24

“How does God´s love abide in anyone who has the world´s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses to help? Little children - let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.” 1 John 3:17-18