“There are over 30 million victims of human trafficking and modern day slavery in the world today.” –US trafficking and persons report 2004

The legal system in Japan is a huge factor in keeping the sex industry in operation. The government of Japan has only recently acknowledged the problem, and began criminalizing the practice in 2005. Japan is still following the ‘Prostitution Prevention Law’, which was enacted in 1957.  There are many problems to be found within this law. The law simply states that it is forbidden to have “intercourse with an unspecified person in exchange for payment”. This is easily by-passed. When a man goes into the club he will sit and talk with the girl for a short amount of time before anything else happens.  Then, if the police come in, they can say they know each other; they are acquaintances. The only other law in place is that the girls working the clubs must be eighteen. Because of this, the majority of arrests are of under-aged girls. Even if the police shut down a club it does not matter because they have no way of tracing it back to the owner.  The Yakuza have organized everything in such a way that they will not be caught. If a club closes, a new one will open in the exact same spot under a different name.

Photo and writing credit: Kyle Jaster

We are on our way to visit the homes of some of the children we’ve been working with this week.

Sweet little Muskan, so shy and quiet, came to class dressed in a pretty pink dress today. The bold color is adorned with “sparkle,” making it beautiful in the eyes of any Indian female because ‘shiny’ makes any outfit instantly 70% better. Muskan’s dress is spotless, just like her. She’s a careful, obedient, sweet and shy little girl with a tender heart.

My senses are on overload as we walk, but I am comforted by my new friend. Her tiny little brown hand so gently tucked into mine, she looks up at me with her big brown eyes as we walk along together. It’s not long before a daisy chain is formed like a paper cutout—all precious little Indian girls … and me.

Dodging the traffic, we ignore the stray dogs and step over the trash. Muskan looks up at me again with some of the sweetest eyes that I have ever seen in my life. This time the friend beside her also looks up at me with curiosity, and together they begin to giggle. Their laughter is so precious and fun that I can’t help but join in with them. Together we walk, giggling away.

As we exit the first home, I notice her shyly standing to the side, watching and waiting to see if I will continue to hold her hand. When I reach out my hand, she smiles so tenderly, clearly pleased. On we walk … visiting many other homes.

Finally, we reach hers.

Squeezing through the narrow entrance, we are welcomed into the small turquoise room with a “Namaste.” Soon we learn that this is actually not Muskan’s family … but it is indeed her home. This family has taken her in. One large bed that takes up ¾ of the room now sleeps another precious little girl who has become my friend, all because she had no where else to go.

Muskan’s mother died some time ago, and her father threw Muskan and her siblings out on the street when he remarried. It’s assumed that the new wife just didn’t want to have anything to do with them. I find it hard to believe that my careful little friend has gone through so much and still has such softness about her.

Muskan has shown me love and kindness that will stay with me for years to come. She’s reminded me that no matter what our circumstances, there is hope. She’s taught me that sometimes it’s the simplest acts of kindness or sweet little giggles that can bring a great amount of joy to those around us.

I think I’ve learned just as much from the family who has taken her in.

By all “normal” standards, this family had absolutely no room or ability to sleep and feed and raise another little girl, and yet they took her in anyway. I don’t know how they make it work, but they do. I can’t help but wonder who is more blessed: Muskan by this family’s graciousness in providing her a new life, or the family by the preciousness that flows out of her tender, kind spirit?

This family has taught me that there’s always room to love one more. They’ve shown me that you don’t always have to have it all figured out … you just take things one day at a time. They’ve shown me an example of the power that love has to change and transform.

I wonder what the world would be like if we all paid attention to the opportunities before us each day to extend a hand, offer a smile, or feed a hungry mouth. Would we be the ones to change the world, or would we end up being changed?

I glance over to see which child she is referring to, and notice that it’s one of the youngest girls that captured my attention within minutes of walking through the door. She’s absolutely stunning, and yet there is a deep sadness that she carries.

I motion for her to come over, and without hesitation she crawls into my lap. Tenderly, she wraps her tiny little hands around mine and begins to play with my fingernails, slowly running her fingers over them. My heart swells. I find myself wishing that the moment would never end, that she would always have arms wrapped around her with a heart behind her to love her.

I don’t know what kind of abuse she’s already gone through, and I don’t know that life is going to be easy for her, but I do know that she is in a safe place now. I know that while no home is perfect, she now has people to take care of her, feed her, clothe her, teach her, and other children with whom to play.

Oh, that all the sweet little girls in the world would be so lucky!

I’m sad to say that I’ve heard the story so many times before … but usually the end is actually the beginning of a new story with details more horrific than are mentionable. All too often the story ends with rape, then forced prostitution and trafficking.

This precious little girl sitting quietly in my lap, so content to just be near me, is the same age as the five year old girl in Cambodia whose story broke my heart and left me a changed person just months ago. (read here) A labor of love has changed this little girl’s life forever, and spared her from more than we will ever know.

As I say my goodbyes and leave, Jasmine’s words ring in my ears. “If we love one another, we’re going to change the world.”

Right now they are sweet, young kids, with beautiful eyes and dark-colored skin, whom I am privileged to teach. They laugh with me, they stare at my crazy blond curls so unfamiliar to them, and they tease one another. They are kids.

My eyes gaze at them through the lens of my camera while their precious little hands carefully draw the figure before them.

“Little artists in the making,” I think to myself, not really thinking about the fact that society would say that very thought was ludicrous due to their social status.

Today they are simply fun, precious children in my art class … but I know that soon that will all change. My eyes will open to a reality that already exists.

Their little hands sketch and draw. We even get out the charcoal, and soon after, all of us have black fingers … and some of us have black smudges on our faces.

In my mind, I understand that these sweet little children are “underprivileged,” and yet I find that my heart is unable to connect with that word. Hearing their individual stories, though, and seeing their living conditions has the potential to change everything.

“Nothing can prepare you for what you will see and hear when we visit their homes,” Vanessa tells me. “It’s just something you have to experience yourself.”

I can’t wait for the first home visit tomorrow evening … and yet, I can. I know that this will not be easy. I know that it has the potential not only to change my perspective, but my entire life.

Strange looks and stares, and sometimes glares
Overwhelmed by so much that feels unfair

India is a nation that shuns Her begging children, while also endorsing it. Some of the street kids are forced to “work” on behalf of their parents (or owners, depending on the situation) while others are encouraged to beg because “it keeps them out of trouble.”

I walk outside and am soon approached by one precious little girl. Ratted hair and rags for clothes, her sweet little face is covered in dirt. I smile at her with all the compassion within me and she reaches her hand out to hold mine. Slowly we walk, hand in hand, her big, tender brown eyes staring up at me from time to time. My heart melts.

Meanwhile, the glares and stares intensify and I know that my simple act of love is unwelcome in this place. Crossing all kinds of cultural barriers, I have embraced one who has been declared “unclean” … and while it would be said that I might become tainted by interactions with her, she is in fact the one who is changing me.

Carefully I step over the mud puddles, doing my best not to slip and fall with the wet, mud-covered pavement that the rain has left. I look down, careful not to loose my footing on the broken, uneven stones, and I notice her feet. Worn. Filthy. … and barefoot.

My heart swells with even more love and compassion. I find that words are escaping my lips without much thought or consent.

“Oh, I just want to take you home!” I say.

Later in the day she finds us again, and before I even realize who it is, she has her whole body wrapped around my legs. It’s in that moment that I realize that while I would love to take her home and love her into adulthood, she is actually the one teaching me a thing about love.

The world has taught her that none can be trusted, and that foreigners are only for collecting money and things from. Yet here she is, loving me. Embracing me. With no concern at all for what others will say or think, she has opened her arms to me, offered me the sweetest little smiles in the world, and given my heart so much with her tender love. Truly she has changed my life much more than I could ever change hers.

“This is going to be a great trip,” I think to myself. “Already it’s going so smoothly.”

The plane from JFK to Delhi boards on time. As I settle into my seat, I realize that I am one of two fair-skinned individuals on the flight. “Gotta love cheap airfares,” I think to myself.

At this point, I have been up for 32 hrs, and I am completely exhausted. I am just ready to rest my head somewhere and sleep. Not long after finally dozing off, I awoke to screaming babies and a plane that had yet to move.

The pilot announces on the intercom, “There seems to be a problem with our plane. They have discovered a hole in the wall of the plane, and they are working to fix it. It should only be about 15 minutes. We’ll keep you informed.”

… 15 minutes turns into 15 more… and 15 more…

Four and a half hours later, and there is still no progress. Hot, musty air, screaming babies, and the slightly creepy man sitting next to me were not helping my sleep deprivation. I begin to remember all the inconveniences that can come with travel.

For a brief moment I think, “Why am I doing this?”

Now, if you know me, you know that it’s generally pretty easy for me to look on the bright side of life. I’m an optimist and can usually find the good in any situation. This particular situation, however, was not making it easy to be thankful and excited about the opportunity ahead. There was little that was pleasant or comfortable, and all I wanted was to sleep — or at least to know that the plane was moving and we were on our way.

I started to think more about that question, “Why am I doing this?” I mean, it would be so much easier to be sitting at home on a comfortable sofa, watching a movie with friends in a familiar, climate-controlled setting.

Then I remember, “I’m doing this because there’s a story that needs to be told.”

Fourteen hours later we landed in Delhi and went through security. I nearly missed my final flight to Kolkata (Calcutta) due to an unannounced gate change. Finally seeing a bed at my friend Vanessa’s house was a great relief.

Image: My bed (far right), in Vanessa’s home, next to her sisters and hers.

What can you do? Pray for him and for our Silent Images team of photographers headed to Calcutta in February. Email Elizabeth at elizabeth@silentimages.org for more details.

Yesterday we went to the killing fields. A horrific genocide has just ended here in Cambodia, and the wound is still fresh. While the killing ended in 1979, the leaders of these crimes were never prosecuted. Three have died of old age, I am told, and one is still living. It’s no wonder there’s little understanding in this society about the right to justice.

When we arrive, I pay for my ticket and walk through the gates. I am very aware that my heart is not ready to deal with what I am about to see.

Hiding behind my camera, I know that my coping mechanism is to turn my attention towards finding the best shot, the best lighting, the right lens, etc. As I walk closer, I am almost enjoying my attempts at perfect exposure, the use of a little lens flare from the sun, and a beautiful composition. When I get to the monument, the sight of 8,000 human skulls still does not shake me out of my “photographer” mode.

The other tourists and myself are all silent, trying to digest that these were once living, breathing, loving human beings who were brutally killed. It’s only later that I learn about America’s role in all this, and how it’s little known and certainly not talked about. From 1975 to 1979, a man who went by the name of Pol Pot led the Khmer Rough in  the evacuation of about 2 million people out of the city of Phnom Pehn, the capital. The wounded were forced out of the hospitals to make the trek on foot, and some were even wheeled in their hospital beds. I don’t think anyone had a clue what was coming next. Millions of people were brutally tortured, interrogated, and murdered. There was no mercy, not even for infants.

The latest estimates are that about 2.2 million people were brutally murdered in this genocide.

The 8,000 skulls before me seem like such a small number, in light of the end result, but I cannot seem to wrap my mind around what’s happened to even one skull that sits there before me. Knowing that my emotions would be too intense to fully process in the moment, I squeeze my way through the monument, camera in hand, trying to find the best angle. I even occasionally flash a half-smile to other tourists. It’s only later, back in my hotel room that my heart is able to process what it’s just seen and heard. There are many tears.

The skulls are arranged according to age, and the sign that reads, “from 15-20 years old” catches me off-guard. I am stunned. There are literally skulls piled on top of one another around this sign. What did they do that was so wrong? Why did they have to suffer such pain, and even death? Why were so many killed?

These are the same questions that the Cambodians are still asking today. No one seems to have answers.

I read about the physical suffering of many, the post-traumatic stress disorder of survivors, and the lack of justice to communicate to this nation that this genocide was wrong and will not be tolerated. A trial is still yet to be had. No justice has been brought.

A reporter for CBS news writes, “Underneath the suffering is a thirst for answers.” I find that I want answers for them just as much as they want answers. “Liberty and justice for all,” a phrase we Americans have grown up reciting, is surely something that I have taken for granted.

I look at her sweet little body and I am totally incapable of grasping what this precious little girl has already been through in her short life. When she should be tucked into bed and sung to sleep each night, she is repeatedly raped numerous times by many men each night. To make it worse, they’ve paid to be with her.

“We’re working hard to try to get her out,” Ali says. It’s a long and difficult process, and I can see the pain in Ali’s eyes when she tells me about this precious child.

Dateline did a report on the very place we stand, trying to tell the world the reality these kids live in. Formerly a major “brothel,” the building has become a meeting place where children’s programs are held and a national pastor and his family now live. Quite the transformation, if you ask me.

The common myth is that prostitution no longer exists in this particular slum area, but anyone who lives or works in Cambodia can tell you otherwise.

Seated just off the main highway only a short distance from Phnom Phen, the capital, there is easy access for both locals and foreigners to access the girls.

“You used to be able to drive down the streets and see these really young girls all dressed up with caked on makeup, obviously being sold for sex,” another friend tells me. “ … But now, it’s all just a little more hidden. They’ve gotten more creative, that’s all.”

There are a number of anti-trafficking organizations all based right here in Phnom Phen that are working hard to get these girls out. However, the system is so corrupt that every time they’ve done a recent raid, they show up to find everyone cleared out. Why? … Someone tipped them off. Someone from within the system … most likely a police member.

We walk around the slum to visit a handful of different people, kids swarming us every step of the way. They are more eager for attention and affection than any of the kids I’ve ever met in the U.S. Many of them don’t even really know what appropriate affection is because they’ve never experienced it, and while it often means casually redirecting their affection, I’m just excited to not be the “norm.”

What can you do? Pray for him and for a budding new ministry working in the slums where he continues to live. Hard Places Ministries has many challenges before them and appreciates all the prayers they can get.