It’s pouring rain. In a time of the most severe
drought this country has known in decades, there’s no room for complaining
about the wet and cold. We welcome the storm, although it does complicate our
objective.
We walk into the first brothel; only red lights
illuminate the shadows of utter darkness inside. The heavy smell of incense and
alcohol, along with the pulsing music, adds to the stifling atmosphere. It’s
hard to breathe in here. Nonetheless, I take a deep breath and follow my
friend, a seasoned veteran of brothel visits, into the obscure back corners of
the local. She walks quickly and
confidently, intention radiating in every bit of her being, a force to be
reckoned with. I mostly just listen and take in my surroundings as she talks
with woman after woman. I marvel at
her ease of conversation, as though she’s chatting with a girlfriend she ran
into at the grocery store, commenting on the storm outside and discussing the
difficulty of raising teenagers. For a moment it’s easy to forget that we are talking
with a woman taking a short break between clients; she’ll possibly encounter up
to 50 men this evening. But as I feel the shuffle of dozens of shopping men
brush by me, I am immediately brought back to harsh reality. I notice a group
of men fixated on a glowing television set, and avoid looking at the screen so
as not to be assaulted by the perverse images that are no doubt being
displayed.
We step back out into the cold, wet night,
breathing deeply of the fresh air and quickly make our way to another brothel,
and then another. Back on the street, my friend says to me, “Are you okay?
Would you like to do more talking?” I hesitantly agree, even though I am dying
to converse with these women. We step into the next brothel and agree to take
the upstairs while the rest of our team stays downstairs. Our male volunteer
remains in the middle of the brothel, praying while vigilantly watching over
us. His presence has a calming effect on me. We climb the rickety steps, taking
care not to fall through the unsecured planks that form a makeshift stairway,
and approach the first women. “Dale”
(Go for it), my friend encourages me
as I quietly walk toward the woman before us. I stutter over my words and
forget what I am saying. “Why I am so
nervous?” I leave the woman with a smile and an invitation to the Casa in her hands. The talking gets
easier.
While my friend and I stay near each other, we
venture into different conversations. I look into the eyes of each women, ask
them their name, invite them to our clothing sale this weekend, let them know
they are always welcome at the Casa.
As we chat, I’m vaguely aware of the men around me, staring, gawking really;
it’s highly unusual to see a gringa
in this place. Some women are open. It’s obvious they want to chat, and so we
do. Others are guarded, hiding behind the literal masks they are wearing,
barely peering beyond the cracked door of their room. Occasionally we’re interrupted
by men whispering in their ears and offering a price. One man enters a room and
shuts the door before I can offer the women inside a kind word and an
invitation. Many of the women I talk to are clearly under the influence of some
drug - a coping mechanism to endure what the brutal night may hold - violence, rape
or just the simple horror of giving themselves to man after man.
Some of the women agree to come to the Casa this weekend. Others hesitantly
accept an invitation but make no promises. Before agreeing to come one women
asks, “You’re not going to mention what I do here, right?” As the night grows
longer, each brothel is beginning to look the same; the puddles outside have now moved inside as the driving
rain continues in torrents, dripping through cracked ceilings and weeping
roofs. We spend several minutes inside each place, walking the cramped
hallways, waiting outside closed doors, unwilling to miss even a single woman.
Then we plunge back out into the stormy night, finding a brief reprieve from
the oppression inside even as we dodge
more pools of water and
comment on our soaked shoes.
I hold back tears most of the evening as the
question; “Is this real life?” reverberates through my mind. Yet, I am filled
with a strange joy. The dark places of this world exist and somehow I am privileged enough to walk in them;
in the brokenness of those around me, I see my own need reflected. In a
room of utter darkness, only light has the power to bring illumination, turning
despair to hope. Jesus was that light when He walked among the Earth, making
close company of prostitutes, thieves and sinners. He is still that light and He
changes everything.
As I looked into the faces of so many women
tonight, I couldn’t help but recall the faces of another group of women. Women
who once frequented the brothels, looking to survive, to support their
children, to escape their current reality, cursing the circumstances that had
contributed to their entrapment, believing they were worth nothing, yet hoping
against hope for a way out of this hell. They were much like the scarred and
broken women I encountered tonight. Yet, if you met them today, you would never
know. You would share a warm smile or a cup of tea while discussing the latest
sewing techniques or the price of thread these days. These are the women of
Sutisana*. These are women who have encountered the Light of the World in the
darkest of places and for whom everything has changed. And these are the women
whose transformed lives speak of a hope and a love so great that we cannot help
but continue stepping into the darkness.
“The light
shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.” John 1:15
* Sutisana, a social enterprise of Word Made Flesh
Bolivia, offers dignified employment to women affected by prostitution in El
Alto, Bolivia.
