Dear India, 

I am an American, which means I begin most of my sentences with the word I.  I am a single, Christian woman, 28 years old, and I’m very tall (6’1” – that’s about 1.85 meters). 

You are a country, home to 1.18 billion people – the second most populous country in the world and interestingly the most populous democratic country in the world.

Your primary religions are Hindu (80.5%), Muslim (13.4%), and Christian (2.3%). 

You declared your independence in 1947, making you about 63 years old.

You are also very tall.  Your area is about 3,287,240 sq kilometers or 1,269,210 sq miles. That’s nearly 5 Texases, or 13 Oregons (my home state), or 822 Rhode Islands. 

It’s nice to meet you. 

I’m writing because I have a lot of questions.  I have decided to get an expensive, laborious education to answer some of my deepest darkest queries, but quickly realized that a Masters in Theology is really just teaching me to ask better questions.  

I’m also discovering that a Masters in Theology means you have to actually master something. Ridiculous, I know.  And last year in particular, the wrestling match that ensued between Christian History, Biblical Hebrew, New Testament and me nearly drew blood. I stood up, dusted myself off and resisted the urge to give my fancy education “the bird.” But, like in all wrestling matches, fist-fights and verbal warfare between good friends, I was eventually able to laugh it off and register for another over sized load of classes. In doing so, I have come to another realization… I am a glutton for punishment.

Forgive me as I spend the next few months asking questions and telling you cute anecdotes that betray my grave ignorance.  I’d like to blame my naivety on being an American, but the reality is, being an American (at least a middle-class, well-educated American) means I only have myself to blame.  I am hoping that these letters will remedy such ignorance.  

Love,
Sarah

Dear India,

A friend of mine asked me, “Why India?” She wanted to know why, out of the 6.8 billion people in the world, I choose to write to a country, and why, out of approximately 195 countries on our planet, I chose India to be my pen pal. 

I told her, “India chose me.”

A less esoteric answer, although perhaps more confusing, is “Natalie Grant.”

Natalie Grant[1] is a singer/songwriter.  I was listening to her CD Awaken and was particularly struck by two of her songs.  One, “Held,”[2] is about being held by God when everything you thought you understood is taken away.  The other, “Home,”[3] was written after an experience Grant had in India.

The story behind “Home” goes like this.  One day Natalie Grant was watching the TV show Law and Order.  The theme of the episode was trafficking.  She, like many Americans, didn’t know that slavery still exists in the world, let alone America – “the land of the free and home of the brave.”  So she got online and googled human trafficking.  Attempting to absorb this information overwhelmed her.  But rather than swallowing what she had learned and going on her merry way, Natalie got up and did something.  Within a few months she and her husband were in the red-light district of Mumbai, India, to see firsthand what slavery looked like.[4]

"I was walking down the street in Mumbai, in broad daylight, when my eyes locked on a little girl, maybe 6 or 7 years old, peering out of a cage, looking at us on the street below. It was beyond my imagination," said Grant on her website. "I'll never forget that moment. That was her life. Every day people walked by, and they didn't even notice her."[5]

A cage.

After visiting you, India, Grant started The Home Foundation[6] to provide homes for girls who have been rescued from the commercial sex trade; homes that would provide the physical, mental and spiritual healing necessary for these young women (as young as preschoolers) to live productive lives. 

I learned all of this in one afternoon as I sat in my room and listened to Awaken over and over.  What absolutely ruined me was this picture:

Grant visited the home in Mumbai her foundation had established.  After singing so much she had begun to lose her voice.  These two little girls in the picture, once treated as property to feed sexual addiction, laid hands on Natalie to pray for her healing. 

Ruined. 

I keep this picture on my desktop, but can’t stand to look at it often, as my heart tears every time I think of the horrors children suffer because of our addictions.  My heart is further ripped when I see how fully God heals the broken.

Why India?  Why did I choose you to write to?  You were the first introduction I had to the cause that would propel me through school and through life.  The prevention and awareness of human trafficking is my purpose.  Trafficking is in every country, including the United States, but it was Natalie Grant’s walk through Mumbai and the work she began that first caught my attention.

So in many ways, you chose me.  I am discovering how similar you are to my own beloved nation.  And seeing the hurt you suffer, the help you provide and the hope you count on causes me to reflect on ways my own country can battle the addiction, hatred and poverty that feed the sale and use of humans as objects. 

India, I’m praying for both of our nations and the men, women and children throughout the world who are no longer seen as people, but as property.

Sarah

Dear India,

I am trying to remember my first memory of you.  I think it might come from the first movie I saw in theaters without my mom or dad.  The movie was The Secret Garden, which came out in the US in 1993.  The movie (based on a book, of course) is about a little girl living in her uncle’s English castle trying to “find herself” with the help of a servant boy and the girl’s sickly cousin.  But you come into the scene fairly early.  You see, the little girl was born and raised in India by parents who loved to party, neglecting the child. At an extravagant soirée they were hosting, the parents were killed by a giant earthquake. But before the devastation, the movie portrayed an exotic scene of elephants, jingling dancers and brilliant lights. These sights and sounds were absolutely foreign to me. 

Now that I think of it, pachyderms, belly dancers and party lights were as odd to me – the preacher’s daughter growing up in the western United States – as living in a cold, dark castle with a whiny, dungeon-dwelling cousin and a cockneyed boy meant to serve my every wish.

I have been feeling a bit like an old lady lately, and not just because I reminisce about movies I saw back when it only cost two dollars to visit the theater…excuse me, theatre.  Watching my younger brothers have serious girlfriends, get married and then father my parents’ coveted grandbabies while I remain hopelessly single, struggling to lose weight, and realizing that 28 is REALLY close to 30 leaves me breathless.

When a friend suggested I get in touch with someone named Amy who works with International Justice Mission, I was excited to think about having an older woman speak into my life about all the activities, programs and missions I can be involved in when I grow up.

Amy is in fact an undergraduate student.  I did not discover this until we got together for coffee.  Meeting a cute, 21-year-old who’s deeply involved in raising awareness about sex-trafficking, volunteering (only 15-20 hours a week) in an HIV/AIDS home and getting her bachelor’s in social work/philosophy made me not only feel old but behind the game.

Over lattes, Amy and I talked about family, faith, dreams, and devastations.  Two hours passed and I walked away knowing that momentary contemplation of age and weight do not adequately reflect who I am and where I’ve been (although perhaps what I’ve been eating).  I understood what is more important: God has created us to weave into one another’s lives like a magnificent tapestry.  An afternoon with Amy meant discovering the similarities we have despite the few years we have between us, and that resulted in both of us excitedly repeating the phrase, “me too!” There is something powerful in a shared understanding of emotion and experience. 

You came up in our conversation.  I told Amy about these letters and how desperately I want to know and understand you, and through this better understand myself. My first impression of you may have been of a foreign and exotic world, but in writing to you I hope to find not the differences but the similarities between us. Perhaps my need to know and be known does not make me a solitary creature but one in a chorus of people singing out, “ME TOO!” 

Many blessings,

Sarah  

Dear India,

Recently, I dropped off cupcakes at some friends’ house, not intending to stay. In fact I was hoping they weren’t even home so I could deposit the treats on their front step and leave without any interaction other than a sugary “I love you and am thinking about you.” But they were home. While the three little boys finished their movie and inadvertently smeared chocolate frosting on their faces, I stood on the porch and answered my friend’s questions about my life recently.

As I answered these questions, I found tears in my eyes. I had hoped that I was done with crying for a while.  You see, all week I’ve found myself becoming emotional, especially when telling anyone about my heart for trafficking. This stems from a blow I received recently. I shared my vision with a group of people about helping to build awareness of trafficking through you, India and I was made to feel small.  I was essentially told that if I wanted someone’s support, I should think bigger; maybe I could partner with a congresswoman and change legislation in the US or maybe I could build a house in a foreign country to rescue slaves.

(sigh) A tear just escaped as I type these words because the hurt has been so great. You see, there are many issues in my life that feel overwhelming at times. Some of them I’d like to share with you in future letters. And it’s true that in this particular season, I have to be purposeful about staying centered and focused. But being told that asking questions wasn’t “enough” … well, that just hurts.

There are those who sacrifice everything to establish homes for rescued slaves and who work in nonprofits that push for better legislation and they do commendable work.  But I am not called to do those things. I am sure that I do not know what my future holds, and I would be blessed if my future included more active, hands-on activities to help with preventing trafficking on an international scale.  But right now? Right now I am a student, a small-business owner, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a dog-walker, a roommate and occasionally a cupcake deliverer. And like I said in my first letter, I am learning to be a better question asker.

This season of tearfulness will pass (hopefully soon). I write to you about it not for sympathy, but to say I realize it is possible that I could be doing more… but I honestly believe I’m not supposed to do more.  I am supposed to be me. I am supposed to surprise a young family with a delicious dessert after a day of studying, spending time with my family, taking the most wonderful dog for a run in the park and having many conversations about life, love and the pursuit of happiness.

After letting me cry on the front porch, my friend held me. I didn’t realize how much I needed a good hug. Sometimes the simplest things are just what we need. Just as my friend was able to do nothing more than ask difficult questions, listen and embrace, I offer my arms out to you, India. I want to hear about what makes your heart heavy. I want to know what causes you to smile even though you’re in pain. Writing these letters may be a simple gesture, but it’s what I’ve got to offer at this point in time. Some people may not consider these letters “enough,” but I send them with great love, respect and hope for the future.

Sarah

Dear India,

I have a dream…

The first time I heard Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. speak this phrase, I was very young, and confused by why my cartoons were being interrupted by old footage of an African American man telling us about the thoughts and visions he had when he slept. 

Nickelodeon, a popular children’s television network, has a show called Nick News with Linda Ellerbee.  Linda Ellerbee taught me more about the world than anything I learned in school – particularly about Black History Month. In February the US celebrates 28 days of leaders and events who have helped our country in the process of overcoming slavery and racism.  Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. is one of the most well-known figures in this battle, giving his very life for the equality of all people.

When King called out, “I have a dream…” he spoke of what he hoped for America and what he believed was possible through great effort and the laying aside of pride and ignorance.

I had a dream… 

In a vision that literally came to me while I slept, I saw the possibilities available to me through a similar effort of hard, sometimes dangerous work that would stretch my own comfort zone and that of those around me. 

It started in Sunday school.  Christian education in Protestant churches when I grew up was known for coloring sheets, storytelling through flannel boards and puppets, and the sharing of animal crackers.  In my dream, I was an assistant teacher in a Sunday school class.  After the kids left, I was helping the primary teacher clean up.  I was picking broken animal crackers out of the carpet and using a paper towel to wash the tables that came up to my knees.  I was okay with doing this work.  I’m 28 and am working toward a PhD in theology, but service is good for the soul.   

I had a handful of crackers in my palm and moved to deposit them in the trash can when the primary teacher - a middle aged man, bald and fat - picked up the can and moved it out of my reach.  I wasn’t really in the mood for games.  Kids are exhausting.  “Come on,” I said.  He grinned mischievously and moved the trash can farther away.  After jerking me around the room a few more times, I had had it.  I threw the crackers on the ground and shouted, “I don’t have to take this!  I almost have a PhD!” I stormed out. 

It’s okay to laugh at this point because my outburst accurately betrays the narcissism I'm usually better able to hide.

Back to the dream. 

In the next sequence I was in a meeting with a bunch of women.  We were trying to organize a women’s ministry program.  When it was my turn to offer my opinion, I hesitated.  The woman in charge, irrationally frustrated by such a lack of competence, shouted, “Next!” 

Similarly frustrated, I stood up and said, “I don’t have to take this!  I almost have a PhD!”

Oh, me.

Sequence three.  I am in my car, angry as can be about being treated poorly when I just wanted to find a place to serve.  I drive to a baseball field where my family is spending the day.  After hunting them down, I settle onto a bleacher and notice that on the horizon are three gigantic, black tornadoes.  I stand up, point to the impending disaster and say, “Shouldn’t we get out of here?”

My dad instructs us, “Everyone get up, go to your cars, and get to safety!”

I hustle to the parking lot.  I can’t seem to find my car.  I go to a nearby parking garage and scour the cement building floor by floor as people are exiting in a massive hurry.  Still, no car. 

In a corridor, I come across two little girls.  They are holding hands and standing in the chaos as people and vehicles rush by them.  I see a group of adults huddled farther down the way, and I ask the girls, “Where are your parents?”

They tell me they don’t have parents. 

“Who takes care of you?”

They shake their heads and tell me, “No one does.”

I realize that the people I see standing not too far away are not just bystanders, they are captors.  These girls are human slaves - the kind trafficked from one country to another to serve in the illegal sex industry. 

I tell the girls, “Come with me.  You will be safe now.  I’ll take care of you.” 

I turn around and there’s my car.  The girls get in with me and we drive away.

I had a dream.  And I have a dream.

I have known since I was 9 years old that I would spend my life living out my faith in service.  I’ve tried lots of ways to make this happen.  I’ve been a camp counselor, Christian education teacher for all age groups, youth pastor, college pastor; I’ve volunteered in retirement homes, organized retreats, and spoken at revivals.  These things have not been a good fit for me, although I enjoy aspects of all of them. As a result of so many experiences, I’ve settled on a career as an academic, proving true HL Mencken’s statement, “Those who can – do.  Those who can’t – teach.” 

This dream I had, though, showed me something that I wasn’t ready for.  Going through the motions is pointless if there is no greater purpose as I saw when I dreamed about cleaning the Sunday school classroom and participating in the women's meeting.  My purpose is two-fold; to create awareness about the colossal issue that is human trafficking, and to train people to provide healing for each of us who have been hurt by a broken world. 

I have a dream. 

Americans have made great strides to abolish racism.  However, we are a people tarnished by a period of legal slavery, a stain that marks us long after our united states made the owning of another person illegal.

We set aside 28 days for Black History awareness.  It’s unfortunate and perhaps telling that we gave this topic the shortest month of the year.  What is more unfortunate is that we talk about slavery as if it were in our distant past. 

History?

Slavery is still rampant in the world.  Slavery is as prevalent in the United States of America, where "freedom for all" is our mantra, just as much as it is in Indonesia, Africa, Russia and India. 

An estimated 27 million people are currently held in captivity today. 

Boys.  Girls.  Men. Women.

I have a dream. 

I dream of a day when all Americans know that slavery exists.  

I dream of a day when our children are no longer at risk of being taken from their neighborhood parks and sold to men and women for sex. 

I dream of a day when mothers are not forced to sell one child to feed another because food and water are too scarce. 

I dream of a day when men and women no longer seek sex with prostitutes, many of whom are forced into that industry after being pumped with addictive drugs.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said it best:

“And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

"Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

Praying for this dream to become reality, in your country and mine,

Sarah

Dear India,

I’ve been doing research and arranging interviews in order to tell you about a friend of mine who found her daughter after the girl had been lost to the sex-slave industry. I’m finding that I don’t always have a stomach for the “stories” I come across concerning this issue, especially when the stories have shaped the people in my immediate circle.

Feeling particularly overwhelmed by the depravity of the human condition after reading an email from my friend, I sat down to pray. My mentor uses the term “centering oneself” to describe the process of taking deep breaths and refocusing on the things you have decided should be your center. For me and those like me whom have committed ourselves to a life that reflects Jesus Christ’s sacrifice for our sins, centering myself means being quiet, emptying myself of my own desires and wishes, and asking God what I should be focused on.  And listening. Hearing seems to be the most difficult part, as God does not seem to speak as often as I would like.

As I “centered” myself on this particular occasion, I actually heard from God. But my “hearing” was more like “feeling.” I felt the word joy, and I thought of my dog.

My dog is not actually “my dog.” My family bought him for my dad, but as I house-trained him and let him sleep in my bed as a pup, he bonded with me. Now that I have moved out of my parents’ house, I have to make special trips to see the furry two-year-old. His name is Spot. It’s ironic that his name is Spot as he is a Weimaraner, a German bird-dog known for their solid grey coats.  A spotted Weimaraner would not be a Weimaraner at all.

I love Spot. Taking long walks with him makes my heart full. It would be accurate to say he brings me joy.

But what is joy? During a crisis of faith several years ago I halted everything in my life to pursue the answer to this question.  I was able to come up with a tentative answer – tentative because I reserve the right to adjust the answer as my experiences grow in number.

Joy is the process of reveling in the moment while at the same time recognizing that the moment is just that: a speck of dust on the road that is eternity.

Perspective is a key part to experiencing joy. If I find myself facing a dark corner focused solely on slavery, I lose myself. This is one reason I’m engaging in correspondence with you, India. By looking beyond my own borders, I hope to gain a better understanding of what goes on in the world and at home.

Spot loves chasing birds, he loves being chased by friendly dogs, he loves sitting for treats, and he loves me. He is simple and warm and beautiful and is not concerned with the yesterdays or tomorrows. 

I, however, have a responsibility to look toward tomorrow and to remember the past. While joy is a gift, it is also a responsibility. I hold in one hand the history of slavery and the apparent future if we continue on the path of ignorance and apathy we seem to be on. In the other hand, I hold my niece’s smile, my mother’s laugh, the smell of fresh-cut grass, the taste of dark chocolate, the warmth of walking into a coffee shop erupting with the essence of roasted beans, and the embrace of loved ones.   

Joy is not to be confused with happiness. Happiness is fleeting.  Joy is being able to experience happiness while recognizing that we live in a broken world. For those of us who believe there is more to life than this present life (an afterlife) this understanding of the temporary should be even more tangible.

My friend who I will tell you about in the next few weeks has a beautiful laugh. She has certainly cried many hard tears over the travesty her family has endured, but she still laughs, not because she “forgets” she should be in pain, but because she takes time to understand the pain and understand that there is more to life, and even more to her situation than pain.  She has joy.

I am blessed to have many things that bring me joy; these blessings are the gift. The responsibility comes in choosing to recognize the gifts for what they are. So I take Spot on walks and drink good coffee and spend time with my loved ones, reveling in moments.

India, the more I learn about you, the more I love. It is becoming apparent to me that writing these letters is not just for the purpose of asking questions but for letting you be part of what gives me joy. Thank you for that.

There are many difficult things to uncover when learning about human trafficking, but maybe you can continue to help me learn about the beauty of humanity that makes slavery such a travesty.

Blessings,

Sarah  

PS: Here are some of my favorite pictures of Spot. 

1. This is a picture of my dad and Spot the first night we brought him home. 

2. This is Spot looking for birds. He was about four months old.

Dear India,

I see God in trafficking.

By “seeing” God, I mean training our eyes to recognize the fingerprints of God on all of creation. Even when a piece of creation has been manipulated to look like less than it was intended, God is still there.

I see God.

I see God when a child runs to his or her father’s embrace, knowing he or she is safe from the world.

I see God when a mother lets her children stand up for themselves and make their own decisions.

I see God in the quiet streams that weave through hidden forests.

I see God in the powerful waves that toss large metal boats around as if they were pieces of straw.

I see God when a person who has plenty gives to one who has little.

I see God when a person who has little shares what could be his or her last meal.

I see God in the broken and bruised, and I see God in the ones breaking and bruising.

When a person narrowly misses being victimized, I see God.

When a person is most intimately abused, I see God.

When a person, out of brokenness, takes another person’s innocence, I see God.

When a person, out of brokenness, looks at pornography, I see God.

When a person, hurting for love and affection, walks into a predator’s trap, I see God.

When a person, before finding grace, takes advantage of another, I see God.

I have many questions for you, India, but today I make a statement:

I see God in trafficking. 

Perhaps we can begin to “see” God in an infinite number of ways.

Perhaps we can see God in one another.

Seeing God in you,

Sarah

Dear India,

How does religion affect you? How do religions and people of religion look in India? Is there equality for various religions, not just in law but in practice?

Often, I study in my school’s café where I can sit next to a constant supply of coffee and see my friends and professors as they wander through during long class days. When I am reading or writing, I catch pieces of conversations and often smile to myself over the running dialogue. Phrases like, “Pneumatological ecology,” “evolution of Damascene text,” and “Hebraic realism in theodicy,” are topics that a person who sits and listens might hear in the seminary. One conversation that comes up often is the difference between faith and religion.

Last week, I wrote about seeing God in the good and the bad of life, even in trafficking. There are many different religions in our world, and many perspectives on why evil exists and what an individual’s reaction and responsibility should be to such evil. But I think it’s fair to say that religion influences our cultural understanding of good and evil.

I don’t like the idea of being considered a religious woman. There is a stereotype in American culture that spotlights the long history of religious people who, in an effort to uplift their moral tenets, neglect to care for themselves and for their families. I prefer to think of myself as a person of faith.

The definition of faith is the act of believing in what you cannot see. As I am learning to see God in all situations, my faith does not lie in the belief that God is present in the face of evil. I believe this because I see it. My faith is in the mode of deliverance from the evil of this world.

Religion, in contrast to faith, is an institutionalized set of actions that correlate with what you believe. While I don’t like being considered a religious person, the reality is that I take part in a community that has created a formulaic lifestyle that reflects our faith in salvation through Jesus Christ.  I am religious. At the same time, living life in community helps affirm my beliefs in the unseen.

Simply put, when done well, faith influences our religion and religion influences our faith.

I believe there is hope for the men, women and children in the US, India and everywhere in between to be freed from modern-day slavery.

I believe in the possibility for healing and renewal in the lives of those torn from their loved-ones.

I believe in the possibility of preventing people from being kidnapped and forced into sex trafficking.

I believe… but I don’t always see how all of this is possible.  I have faith.

I must make sure my lifestyle reflects my faith, and I need help with this. I do need a community to fight with me, to believe with me, to hope with me.  And I am fortunate enough to have this: I have religion.

My prayer today, India, is that we will continue to let faith influence our religion, and religion influence faith, and that this will allow us to see each person’s intrinsic value.

Love,

Sarah

Dear India,

My great grandmother is dying. She’s ninety-two years old and with pneumonia, congestive heart failure, and liver failure; her body is tired. She is tired.

 Her name is Alice. And I love her.

She’s been in and out of the hospital for a few weeks now, but they finally sent her home to die.

Just nine months ago I was in the hospital for an entirely different reason. My first niece was born in the same hospital where I visited my ailing grandmother. One woman is sent home from the hospital to die. In another part of the hospital, another woman is sent home to live.

The life cycle seems particularly fragile to me right now.

In college, other girls would subscribe to magazines to have something delivered to their campus mailboxes. But I could always expect a two- or three-page letter scrawled in a frail woman’s handwriting. Grandma would tell me about her day, the books she was reading, her dog (a miniature poodle named Mo), and memories she had about her younger days. Everything reminded her of something in the past. She would also include clippings from magazines and journals she received from some pseudo-religious organization. The theme was “Think positive thoughts.”

We have a saying in America: Believe in the power of positive thinking. This mantra was my great grandmother’s religious practice.  Losing her parents, her sisters, her best friends, one of her two sons and her beloved husband marked her life with devastating sadness. But she always veiled this sadness by telling herself and us, “It’ll be okay.” She’d find a way to put a positive spin on it.

I haven’t had the chance to tell her about you or my efforts to learn more about the how’s and why’s of trafficking and the prevention of trafficking. And I won’t waste our last moments together doing so. Hiding something from her that is so important to me isn’t an effort to keep her from having to try to put a positive light on the horrors of slavery. I just can’t imagine wasting the small and fragile words, glances and prayers we have together on something she has no time to process.

Instead of worrying about how to tell a dying woman about slavery, I will continue to reflect on the things I love about my great grandmother. I will cherish the moments we had together. I will continue to keep the coveted letters in a special box. And I will do all I can to make sure the lives of my loved ones, especially the life of my nine-month-old niece, will not be tarnished by the pain of human trafficking and the sex-slave industry.

The life cycle is fragile. It is demanding. It is beautiful. And it is hard. Everyday lives end and lives begin. I hope I am still in the beginning of my own life cycle, but I realize I cannot afford to live as if I will always have a tomorrow.

I have today.

So today I tell those close to me that I love them. Today I listen for laughter. I pursue justice. I work for peace. I pray for those who hope and for those who have lost all hope.   

I’m off to take a walk with my mom and our dog, Spot. Blessings to you, India.

Sarah

Dear India,

I have heard stories about what the sex-slave industry looks like in India. I have heard it said that there are sections of cities where a person can walk into a building, mosey from cage to cage, and purchase a human as if purchasing a once-discarded pet.  This concept seems absolutely foreign to me and to many like me.

What has been the most difficult part about asking questions about trafficking, is hearing the stories that take place in my own country and even in my own state. I recently had the opportunity to sit down and have a phone interview with a woman I met a year and a half ago. After I had the chance to share my bourgeoning heart for human trafficking with a small group of people, this woman, AM, caught me in the hallway and told me a bit of her own story.

This story stuck with me, and recently I was able to have a proper conversation with this woman about the details of her family’s struggle. The family has given me permission to convey their experience in order to raise awareness about the dangers many Americans are blind to. At their request I am purposefully omitting some of the details that could identify them, and will only use their first and middle initials in telling the story. Furthermore, I will have to tell the story in two parts due to its length.

It starts in 1995. Husband and wife, BJ and AM, respectively, are raising four children in Portland, Oregon. The kids are homeschooled and the parents are active in Christian ministry. The third of these four kids is DS. DS was 13 in 1995, and was trying to find her place in the world – a difficult task for all adolescents. She is a good kid her parents love and adore.

One day DS packed a bag and, with her parents’ permission, walked the three blocks to her friend’s house for a sleep-over. AM and BJ later discovered that their daughter never made it to her friend’s home.

When they discovered DS was missing, the parents called the police. The cops interviewed everyone involved and decided DS was a runaway. But the family did not believe DS was a runaway; they believed she had been kidnapped.

After two weeks, the family was both anxious to find their missing child and exhausted from the horror of not knowing what had happened. But then DS found them. She just walked through the front door of the house.

AM told me that when DS came home, she stood before them sobbing, covered in bruises and hickeys. They were frantic to know what had happened to her – if she was alright. But DS locked herself in her room, too upset to talk. AM made an appointment for DS to see a counselor; she told me she regrets not also forcing DS to visit the hospital.

She had been missing for two weeks, and over the next two weeks DS saw a counselor and the family tried to help her adjust to being home. But DS was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and wouldn’t talk about her experience. There have been several times that DS has ab reacted, or relived a portion of her trials, and at one point told her mother, “Help me! They’ve got me and won’t let me go!”

After two weeks of being home, DS disappeared again. This time, she had left “voluntarily” and the police officially classified her as a runaway.

 AM began scouring the streets of Portland at this point. The mother, although advised against it by the police, searched for any sign of her daughter. In this pursuit, AM found a man who seemed to have inside information, and after she paid him $100, he told her he knew DS. Hungry for his next drug fix, he admitted he had seen DS’s abduction. He knew the two men who had pulled DS into their car. They were known traffickers, one of whom profiled children on the internet in order to know how and when to abduct them.  

The family was able to piece together the understanding that these men had kidnapped DS, tied her to a bed, drugged her, raped her, and after two weeks they let her go.

They let her go, threatening to hurt her family if she didn’t return to them. Apparently, this is a fairly common practice; it’s a technique to break a person and make him or her feel as if that person’s only choice is to choose sex slavery.

India, I’m running out of room and will have to finish telling you DS’s story later. I’m curious to know though, are the stories of sex trafficking in India similar? How do we prevent children from being exploited, manipulated and objectified?

Praying with a heavy heart,

Sarah