This is a letter I am having published in the winter issue of "mission magazine." This letter was not written for shock value- this letter was written to share someone's story.
I will never forget the first night we met. I remember the suffocating humidity the notorious summer heat brought with it, like the pit of a furnace that was inescapable. I hope you did not think I was rude for staring at you when we first met. Friend, you were standing on the street of a red- light district and I had never seen a young boy like you before. Remember how I stood before you frozen? I can not help but think how silly this American girl was. I will never forget your frail body, the purple bruises on your arms, and the look of absolute desperation on your face. Someone had dressed you up in a tight pink dress and stilettos. I walked away the first time because I didn’t know what to do. I don’t think you realized I was standing across the street watching you dance. Dear friend, why was someone making you dress like that? You told me they were making you do it so you would have food to eat. But your body was so emancipated; I have wondered if they ever fed you. They drugged you didn’t they? I could see it in your eyes.
I was supposed to be stoic. “Stay calm and discrete” I told myself when I saw what they were doing to you. But as I noticed you sit down, curling your knees into your chest, and the stream of tears that smeared the hot pink make-up someone had painted on your face, I could no longer restrain myself from coming to you. When I sat beside you and put my arms around your tiny waist, I did not mean to cause such a scene by crying. I remember the warmth of your body as you learned into me, like a cub seeking refuge in its mother’s protection. I held you so tightly like I was never going to let go. Do you recall how the tourists lined down the street, gathered around, and watch me hold you? Why did that woman take a picture of us? That look in your eyes pierced my heart, when you looked up at me and didn’t know why I was crying. I spoke words rapidly over you as I cradled your grotesque body on display for the world. I was praying to God that He would take your life or deliver you from this place.
Young boy, this is why I was crying with you: because in realizing your suffering, part of me came alive. As the death of winter yields the lilies of spring, so in your brokenness I saw the true face of humanity. Unlike other boys who are consumed with their little league games, you little boy only worried about surviving through the night. Like the lamb before the slaughter, you were the innocence of this world spit upon. It was in your eyes that I saw the depravity of mankind. In the middle of a street where thousands of women sell their bodies, I was crying for the world.
I was supposed to come to Nana that night dispensing hope to those I encountered. I was supposed to be the light in the dark; I was supposed to be the stereotypical American who fixes the world. How ignorant I was. But you my boy were the Christ; you were the innocence ravaged and degraded. Your body was scarred with the desires of man’s flesh, and your eyes spoke of the raw wounds where salt was rubbed into in an attempt to break your strong spirit. I knew though that you had not been defeated.
Do you want to know what is wrong with people? No answer I give can justify what has happened to you. The best explanation I can give is that we all long to have the heart of a child. There is something beautiful about the undefiled perspective that is so fascinated by the world. But the world is not what it seems, something we all discover. It is the absence of innocence that drives some to rob it from others.
You didn’t want me to leave that night. I remember you called me “mother.” I had to leave I told myself that night. I thought I would be putting you life in greater risk if I stayed. I still tell myself that before I go to sleep now and see your face. I felt dirty that night I went home. It was as if I for a moment was able to carry your brokenness. I could not cleanse my body of it. I still haven’t.
And it is for this that I must apologize. I was so angry at what those people did to you; but now I wonder if I was just as guilty for walking away from you that night. Beautiful boy, like Pontius Pilot, do I also carry blood on my hands for deserting you? Maybe the problem with the world is not only the cruelty that drives some to rape an innocent child, but also the apathetic that do nothing. Maybe the problem with the world is that too many people overlook the importance of improving the quality of one life.
Beautiful boy:
In the darkness of death, my heart has been resurrected. Your pain will be my fire in which your story will be retold. In what seemed to be the silence of God, your voice will be echoed eternally.
Caroline
wordmadeflesh.org
nightlightinternational.com
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