: When I was a little girl I was sold as a slave by my parents to a man many years older than me.  

I cleaned his house and cooked for him.  
I slept on the floor.
He beat me when he was drunk or angry; I was always afraid and in pain.
Then one day he let a friend of his into the bath while I was bathing. He grabbed by tiny breasts and starting trusting his finger inside me. 
It was indescribably painful and I fought him. The man that owned me held me down and shoved a filthy, splintered toilet plunger handle into my vagina and then put hot peppers and salt on my abrasions. 

Then he held me down while the other man raped me many times.
After that, the man who owned me sold me for rape every day. I was seven years old.
When I was fourteen he lost interest in me and put me out in the street. I had no education or skills. I could not turn to my relatives because I knew they would blame me for not being a virgin – I was dead to them."
I became a street prostitute and got AIDS. I look forward to the peace of death. I am fifteen."


Sasha: "My mother had a very hard time caring for us financially. She was unskilled and there was little work, and she couldn’t feed my sister and I. When I was fifteen, a man I knew said he could get me a good job in another country. 
He said my employer would get me a visa and pay my way if I would pay him back through garnered wages. 
I felt very proud to be able to remove the burden of my support from my mother. I loved her very much and intended to send her money to help my family as soon as I began working.

When I arrived at the appointed meeting place with my sponsor, I was asked to get in a truck with several other young women. We were told this was the first stage in our transportation to our jobs, and that we would get our visas shortly. 
Then we were locked in the truck, and felt it moving.
We were left in the truck for five days without food or water or access to a toilet. It was cold, and we had no blankets. We called out and then banged on the doors, but no one would speak to us or help us. Some of us became weak enough to pass out. 

When the doors were opened we were dragged out by men with guns who took us into a warehouse with sealed windows. We were all kept in one room with a few grimy mattresses and a leaking bucket for a toilet, which we had to beg to use.

They began raping us and beating us. We were punched and kicked when we resisted or even spoke. They burned us with cigarettes and stuck objects in our vaginas and anuses. In every way they let us know that to them, we had no free will, no identity, no human value.

This went on for two months. Two of the women died from perforations of the uterus. One woman tried to escape and died from the wounds they inflicted on her when they caught her – the local police brought her back. 
It is not possible to describe the horror we experienced. It is not possible to describe the suffering and terror and rage.
When they judged our spirit was broken, we were put into a brothel that was run like a high security prison. They told us that they would harm our families if we didn’t satisfy their customers, and that no one would know if we disappeared. Women who tried to escaped were tortured, gang raped, and killed.

It took me three years to get away. I can’t talk about how I did it without endangering others, but people took risks for me.
For a very long time I was hardly alive. I was convinced they would find me, kill my mother and sister, kill me, or worse, take me back.

Finally I got the courage to try and help my sisters in the brothel by alerting an international trafficking organization, but the brothel was no longer there. I think they moved it. Those women are still enduring hell on earth, without hope."

Petre: "This is not a story I thought I'd ever write. I am a survivor of trafficking, one of the few, and I do not ever dwell on those days. But when I read Sasha and Sarim's words, I wondered if people would think that theirs are extreme cases.

They are not. They are typical, and many are worse.

I was abducted at age fourteen by a monster in our neighborhood who had been watching me, as he watched other young, poor, at-risk children. He kept me in his apartment with another boy and raped us rectally and forced us to have oral sex with him. The pain was unspeakable. We were beaten with fists and shocked with electricity until we obeyed. The other boy was cut, but I was not because I was "pretty".

A third boy was brought to our apartment who couldn't stop fighting, crying, resisting. He was beaten and raped terribly until one day he disappeared.

We were sent to a larger house with five other boys to service mens' appetites. Here we were locked in a dirty room without a toilet and everyone was starved if any of us didn't cooperate.

Their were vicious dogs in the house who mauled "bad" boys on two occasions. This seemed to be entertainment for our captors. The boys faces were destroyed so they became servant slaves, not sex slaves. We envied them.

Eventually I became infected with HIV and they decided not to keep me. I was taken to the woods, I think to be killed, but my captor just left me there.

So I survived. I'm one of the exceptions.

Hear us."

I want to talk to my sisters and brothers about the great strength it takes not to feel ashamed and sullied and worthless, because we were treated so. We are conditioned by evil men to break our spirits, but there is a place inside you can reach to free your soul from the blows of their bestiality.

Every day in the slave house I thought:
You touch my body, never my soul.
Your abuse degrades you, not me.

This is our truth. This is our strength. It cannot be taken away.

Maybe this is another category. I want to write about the many women in my country who are prostitutes not because they want to be, but because they have no other option. They cannot get an education, work, or any opportunity for uplifting their lives. Isn't this trafficking, inflicted on them by their culture?

If I am not mistaken, women have been in this position not just in my country but around the world for centuries.

My mother was not a "golden-hearted whore" like men's fiction novels always pretend, or a bad person, either. She was a fine woman who had no other way to support herself and her children. She and the other women at her brothel loathed, UNSPEAKABLY, being forced to share this intimate act for money. At night she spiritually cleansed herself at Temple before coming home to her family.

How many people believe that most prostitutes want to be prostitutes? Can they be so blind?
K., Thailand
"All that I ask is that they are remembered. We were little girls no one cared about and adult men tore us with their cocks and made us sick we died got pregnant faded into dust. Sofia Arabell Pasha Safir Frida Honey Cheun Xi"

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