Trafficked Before My Eyes

Sometimes I think about those two children.The little boy and the little girl that ripped my heart that busy day at the metro. It was just my second day in the second largest city in the world of 10 million people...and it looked a little bit just like this (see second picture to the right). Somehow I heard it, though. A muffled cry and a whimper caught my ear. Surrounded by men in turbans and women in saris were two children, a little girl with porcelain skin, silky dark hair and almond-shaped eyes that screamed terror. A little boy, coarse hair and distinct African pigment. Held in violent grasps by two pompous, overweight men in curling mustaches. Dragging their little bodies across the filth of the floor, despite their pleas for help, determined to make a healthy sum of profit for their foreign imports.

A mechanical beep. The metro door closed and I was whisked off to the other side of the city, I stood in horrified shock as the city's skyline became a rushing blur.
Trafficked.

 And the reality of the 27 million other slaves in this world became that much more real to me.
Everything in me screamed to search the metro, the streets, the entire city for the children. But I knew I'd only find thousands of others just like them.
It's encounters like this that make it hard to answer the question, "Was your summer fun?"

No, no it was not "fun". We had fun...we made it fun, we learned to laugh when we waded in murky sewage water that soaked our pants and when urgent runs to the outhouse or nearest field could have been considered an Olympic sport at the speed we ran. At the end of the day, we'd laugh over situations that made a week of college exams seem like a vacation. We learned that if we didn't laugh, we'd cry.

But, I can't laugh about this particular story. No, this story is worth my tears and I hope it's worth your's, too, as we fight to end modern-day slavery through prayer, support, and obeying Mark 15:16. I wish I could end this story with a heroic act of courage, leaving us with warm hearts that all is well again. But I have to rest in the promises of Jesus, that He has the victory and that one day, all creation will witness His glorious return, including these children.

of ashes and beauty // India

         I won't forget. 

I will not forget the deformed beggars at my feet, pulling my salwars, "Didi? Didi?" Or the little ones who chased me down, begging for shoes. And then there’s the baby boy, merely three years old, waiting my awakening the first few mornings in the city, knowing that my breakfast was his; so patiently he stood in the shadows, little tummy rumbling. And the other child, the one who wrecked my heart...naked, curled in a ball, outside of a swanky Starbucks in the city. Moaning in pain and hunger, tears streaming, a pimp nearby watching his every move. Oh, and the child bride, placing her malnourished infant in my arms, "Take. I cannot feed." The rows and rows of sick, elderly women singing praises to the spirits of the dead as a corpse vanishes into flames on the Ganges’ shore. The father tithing his last rupee at the feet of Ganesh, crying out to a god made of plaster and painted in oil, forfeiting his daughter's life for the false hope of future sons to come. I cannot forget. 

 I will not forget watching the scenery fly before my eyes on the train, as if it were footage from an independent film. I can still smell it, too; the rank of human bodies, feces drying in the sun, spices culminating in the sticky air. I can hear the rats...the little scratches on the floor, squeaking for more crumbs, to devour the last of my treasured, American crackers- the little thieves that hid no more! I feel the crawlings on my skin, scratching, crying, and slapping them off. The stings of the pinchers, the utter irritation that I was never alone from humans nor creatures. What a blessing it is that I can now travel and no longer burrito my body in a sweaty dupata to shield off the millions of roaches darting and swooping above my head, eyeing my bun as a luscious nest to lay more. 

         I can still feel the eyes of men on me; that one night in Delhi when I fought my way to safety through the power of unceasing prayer...and ear-curdling demands, fists ready, to a taxi driver with intentions from a demon itself. And there were more; more demons and spirits swarming our room at night...inflicting fear, conflict, and bitterness; clouding the truth. Close my eyes and I can hear the mob around me, machetes inches from my face, threatening curses in a language not my own. The sheer scarf covered my cheek while whispered pleas were sent to the God of angel armies. I feared not for my life, but for the little lives I was yet to meet, who were anxiously awaiting my arrival! And I can feel the panic in my heart, for stories that I do not speak of.

But India is so much more than the sensory overload and the demons lurking.
         There are beautiful stories, beautiful places, and beautiful people with hearts that yearn for so much more than what the above paragraphs depicts of their home. The steaming chai and a welcoming host, touching your feet and letting you "take rest" on a bed of woven blankets. A warm mango to begin the day, a view overlooking sweet smelling tea gardens perched on the hills, scattered with tiny umbrellas, shielding the pickers from the rays.
         It’s the skyline of the world’s second largest city, decked with European architecture and marbled temples, the multicolored saris on the streets below, and slum children's laughter as they dodge the autos and rickshaws. The taste of fresh masala, seasoned with tablespoons of curry, tingling your tongue...monkeys flying from column to rooftop, carts of orange, purple, and pink leis, and the coolness of the gushing water from a well. The ears that listen so intently and the hearts that instantly love...the festivals, the markets of fresh fruits and vegetables, the rows of bags, laid open for the spices to waft in the air, mixing with the tangy scent of fresh mehndi on a new bride's body.

And the Himalayas, with snow peaks and rushing waterfalls! A pond of satisfied water buffalo, freely roaming and enjoying their reign. The plains of tall grass, tigers lurking, too. The bleak deserts. The winding, holy, river that flows with grace and strength, emptying old life into an abyss of a new world below. Fields of rice, the tops of emerging pineapples from the earth, mango trees, and shady banana groves. The dense, exotic forests covering the ruins of ancient temples that beckon forth the inner adventurer in all. 

This country is so beautiful when I see it through the eyes of the One who made it. Beauty rests in the ashes because there IS hope. Sin taints every street and village, but there is glory to be found when we know that all we see is temporary, a better ending is promised, and it is all a part of a greater story to be unfolded. I am just a vessel used in the unraveling.