Missing Women

A figure of a missing girl painted on a wall in Kalighat, one of Kolkata's red light districts.  The painting is part of Missing a nation wide public art project dedicated to the estimated tens of thousands of girls who go missing in India understood to be victims of commercial sex trafficking.

So many different faces, so many different eyes, expressions and lives.  Different cultures, different tongues, different constellations born into poverty, different storied.  Some sold into slavery.  Some forced to sell the one thing left they had to sell.  Women whose years fade beyond my age. Who have endured what I thank God I have never had to endure.  Who have tasted the insatiable appetite for sex, distinguished from rape only through the passing of a few dollars, sometimes less, and then minus commission.  Who exist only on the underbelly of the male of our species, often condoned by the retired matriarchs in their field.  Tired women who sell the girls whose nubile body’s are worth more than theirs.  Who were initiated through fear and broke through into resilience.  Women who now have no qualms about feeding off the next generation, the next cycle of discrimination.  Of power over.  Physically, economically, symbolically.

Girls wise beyond their years, tough beyond the fragility of their young skin.  Decades younger than I.  Fucked by hundreds if not thousands of men.  Some sold by their families, others stolen or tricked, trafficked and renamed.  Stuck in a profession of opening their legs because they never were taught how to read or write, because they were viewed as nothing more than a girl child, with no potential than wife and failing that hooker.  And if they tried to escape, if they refused to work, a thousand tactics could be employed to remind them they had no other hope.  No other choice.

Women who were married and widowed.  Women who were married and deserted.  Left with children to provide for, children to feed, by whatever means they found possible.  Women who numb the pain with cheap liquor and makeshift drugs, intoxicants to allow them to endure what they endure, until its no longer so horrific, that is of course until a client takes more than what he pays for – cigarette burns visible on chests, scars as signs of split eyebrows, bashed cheeks, broken bones.  Children who were taught that this is how the world works.  That this is their food and shelter.  That the definition of safety is different from the one you or I grew up with.  Survival of the fittest.  Torture to the weakest.  

Hearts that still shed tears, years later and only hours before the evenings work is due to begin.  Kohl smudged beneath the windows of the soul, with a depth only Kali knows the limit to. 

I bow down to each and every one of you.  I have no idea.  None.  Our concepts, terminology, ideas of Life are so different.  But thank you for your dance.  For being here.  For the gift of survival you have given yourself.  I cannot even comprehend the fortitude you have.  The strength of your spirit.  The lack of power you have over who touches you, how they touch you, when they touch you, where they touch you.  And even the word “touch” doesn’t qualify for what inter-action takes place.  Yet your internal power blinds me with its beauty.

May the shakti in you blind all those who dare to violate you.  May the dakini in you rise beyond your wildest imagination, until the internal reflects the external and its on your terms, your way.  Until you no longer need listen to customers haggle your price down to what is less than a cheap meal, change for a beggar.  May the grace of your Bodhisattva guide your liberation, not in some imaginary future life time, but right here right now.  For you dear sister, mother and daughter are not worthy of this patriarchal trade.  You dear sister, mother and daughter are sacred and precious, divine and I pray, one day – completely free.

The Story of Durga

So many countless women’s stories go untold.  Lost in the black hole of domestic abuse, sex abuse, trafficking and prostitution.  If the collective “we” knew more – would it impact their lived reality?  After all there is no real “collective” just a collection of powerful individuals like you and I.

Here I want to share the story of one woman, close to my age.  A woman who showed up to the workshop with no expectations.  No clear idea of what would take place.  Yet she was brave and spoke up.  She shared the twisted events in her life which led her to be a sex worker in Kalighat.  And in honor of her bravery, I will share her words with you.

Durga was married at the age of thirteen.  As is customary in traditional India, she left her family home and moved in with her husband’s family .  Yet hers was no fairy tale wedding, no match made in heaven.  Her husband (who was far older than her) would beat her daily, torture her, make her life unbearable.  Yet as a young girl she had no other options.  Before long her husband’s sister offered to help her. Admitting that her brother may well kill Durga if she didn’t leave him, so she would take her to Kolkata, find her a good job as a maid – a place she would be safe.  But Durga was tricked and instead of being a domestic help, her sister in-law sold her as a sex slave.  

Durga recalled that she was brutally initiated into the trade yet with no options left there was little she could do but that which she was told.  After a while one of her regular clients reached out to her.  He told her that he would help her find a better place to work.  Durga knew her situation couldn’t get any worse, so she trusted him and agreed.  He paid 400 rupees (about $5) “deposit” to take her to the cinema for the afternoon and then took her to a different red light district in Kalighat, where at least there she could work on her own terms.  Kalighat is where she has been ever since.  

A young girl married into violence, sold into prostitution, “saved” by a punter and now free to choose who she sleeps as long as she has enough food on the table. What other options do women like Durga have?  When they don’t know how to read or write?  Who never went to school?  Who could never face the shame of returning to their blood family?  And yet she was one of the lucky ones.  Many young girls are trafficked from Nepal or Bangladesh.  They are continuously reminded that they are illegal in India, that they have no legal documents, that they can’t speak the language and have often never even left their village of birth.  They are warned that if they try to leave they will be arrested or murdered.  I wish I could say I was being melodramatic – but I’m not.

Red Light Yoga

 

Early in the day I return to New Light.  The kids ring around me, orchestrate me into their games, sit me down and stand me up.  But today I’m not here for them, but for their mothers.  A car comes to retrieve me and take me to a four day workshop co-facilitated by New Light and a wonder fill woman who from now on I will call the story teller dancer.  As this is what she does.  She provides a venue for the women to heal through their bodies, to dance through their story.  She has dedicated her life to service work, offering her skills in the most difficult situations.  Committed to facilitating the movement of Joy.

The beauty of the workshop is that it is composed of so many different and holistic elements.  Its simplicity contains the key to its magic.  Good food, a safe place for the women to spend four days before they go home for the evening shift.  It consists of movement as well as the wonderful contributions from a ceramic artist whose studio is transformed into a haven. Here there  is a forum to discuss key health issues concerns – STDs, drug use, where they can obtain free condoms and the necessity that they insist on their use. Fresh fruits, chai and a huge lunch is served each day.  All of this – the art, the play, the conversation free from judgment, the shelter and food – are given staples to myself and my community, yet here they are both a novelty and a luxury.

I walk in not sure what to expect, but I spy Urmi sitting on the floor amidst the women and go and hug her.  She looks fantastic.  Full power.  A wealthy and educated woman, from the same city as the women she works with, and yet she was dealt a very different set of cards.  Yet like these women, in order to survive the work that she has thrown her heart and soul into, she knows the tricks of the street.  How to use her influence and connections to retrieve stolen children, to provide opportunities for those who would otherwise never have any, to convince those who would rather not know the details of what they would rather not see and as a result spare a little of their affluence.  For example, New Light recently opened a boys home, and Urmi found the perfect sponsor - the singer and song writer, Ben Harper.  The first words she says to me: “are you ready to teach?”  I grin in reply, and within minutes find myself in front of the sari clad women running through basic asanas. 

There are a thousand ways to communicate, a thousand ways to connect.  And right from the start my eyes and my smile are my greatest assets.  I’m deeply aware of the dynamics – of me being a blonde white yoga teacher, without direct experience of these women’s lives.  Years ago I did work for Oxford University’s Refugee Studies Centre on the impact of the conflict on the health of children.  One shocking but perhaps not surprising result was that both trafficking soared as well as the number of young girls and boys entering the sex trade. I was thrown into a situation which I hadn’t bargained for – working with trafficked kids, many of whom hid in fear, craved affection, were HIV positive.  It meant that when I arrived in Kolkata years ago it made sense that I would find my self back in the red light district, learning and seeing more of the horrors of this ancient trade – the trade of flesh.   I’m saying this because life may not be linear but it is cumulative:  What we choose as our profession doesn’t necessarily directly follow from our studies, but what we learn in both formal and informal education definitely informs what we do.  I might not be a sex worker, Indian or even a professional social worker but I know more than the majority of yoga teachers about the dynamics of the sex industry.  I’ve also intensely studied the challenges of “Development” – including that of an outsider coming in to share a project or workshop.  The importance of letting go of assumptions, of continuously adapting to what is needed – and to really listen to what is needed.

After yoga came massage.  It was simple, the women just had to take a partner and give a head massage.  Hair was untied and another layer of kindness fell over the room.  I found a partner and remembered the gift studying massage had endowed to me – the importance of a loving touch and the ability to immediately relief both physical and emotional tension.  The woman in my hands melted.  The time came for receivers to give but the opportunity I had to share this moment was to precious and with every inch of my being I continued the massage.  Later in the afternoon my partner found me and hugged my heart.  

Another moment which stood out from the day was that of applying herbal face-masks to one another.  A gentle touch, a powerful symbolism, that if these women have to continue in selling their bodies, today at least they can have the opportunity to be adored in a platonic and caring way.  Part of me wondered how wise this was.  That these women have to be tough to do what they do.  There is no space for softness; vulnerability could put their very lives at risk.  Yet after we simply looked into one another eyes.  A practice I do regularly in Acro Yoga classes.  Today was so very different.  Tears poured immediately.  There were no masks here.  Despite the strength these women endure life with, they are still women – incredible women.  They feel, they cry, they want (like we all do) basic human rights and under it all - a pure love.

The Child I Let Go

Deepa six years ago

One of my personal motivation to revisit Kolkata is around twelve years old.  Her name is Deepa.  She is the feature of much of this blog, named after her and her ability to open my eyes to more of the world.  Eyes which she was born without.  Over the years that I worked with Deepa, I was convinced that any signs of autism she showed were a result of her living conditions.  Deepa has spent the majority of her life in one room, filled with children with various states of physical and mental challenges.  Years ago I taught her how to walk on her own, how to feed herself and then how to speak.  This later skill was one that appeared to be deeply hidden, yet it was potentially her main ally in the world – her ability to connect when she was unable to see and at that point unable to be heard.  I had such an admiration for Deepa and connection that went beyond that of care-giver and child that I even looked into the viability of adopting her.  At that point I was told it would take minimum of three years but most likely five.   My hope had been to adopt her in order to find her a specialist school that would be able to cater to her needs and provide the conditions necessary to prevent her from moving further along the autism spectrum.  Yet three to five years was too long to wait.  She needed expert help immediately.  And with a heavy heart I whispered good bye not sure when or if I would see her again.

Today I made that return journey to Sisha Bhavan orphanage.  I walked down the familiar street, filled with butchers shops that spill out onto the invisible pavements, fruit wallahs, shoe wallahs, mosques and rickshaws.  Walking down these roads is a little like surfing.  You need to be continuously aware of what is going on all around you, predicting the trajectory and timing of people, rickshaws, bicycles, motorbikes and cars and find a way to flow between them. The impact on the senses is extreme.  The continuous noise battery my nervous system and I wonder if the whole of Kolkata does actually smell like a urinal.

 I arrived at the huge metal gate of the orphanage and banged at the door.  One of the massi’s (Indian worker)  opened it and grinned.  She has been there for years.  She motioned me to come in and said “Deepa - up” and pointed to the staircase.  Just like I do with Kolkata, I have always had a love/hate relationship with the massi’s.  Their harsh ways and words to the kids bordered on physical and verbal abuse.  And many times I couldn’t sit back and watch, and it was my persistent intervention which threatened to terminate my work at the orphanage.  

Yet in order to understand the dominant attitude of violence, its always necessary to look beneath the surface.  Just like the CEO bully’s his staff, who go home and bully their wives, who then shout at the children, who then kick the dog.  The women here who are employed to take care of the children are all from the lower castes.  They have become toughened by life and after some time of observing their own interactions, occasions of kindness were rare.  Many times I wondered to what extent kindness is something which is innate or which is learned.  Or indeed in which cases kindness can be perceived as a weakness, threatening one’s own survival.  Or perhaps what I perceived as cruelty was just an efficient way to get a very poorly paid job done.  Regardless of my relationship or view of the Indian staff, ultimately they work with the kids for life.  Foreign volunteers, like myself, come in for a few weeks or months, maybe a year and then we leave.  We can.  Therefore we do.  In the interim we either turn a blind eye to what we find uncomfortable or speak out but are unprepared to step up and do the work of these warrior women.  Women who are battling caste, gender, poverty and Kali only knows what else.

I took the stairs up to the room on the second floor.  It’s filled with small cots where the children spend a majority of their time.  Sometimes tied to the rails with cloths, other times they are laid on mats on the floor, where the massis and volunteers give massages to limber their crooked limbs.  I scanned the room.  The same kids were there.  Six years later and some hardly looked any different – almost as if they are in some kind of perverted Never Ever land.  A place where time pauses.  Deepa was in the corner.  Same pudding bowl hair cut.  She had grown taller. Clearly still not potty trained as her pants were dripping wet.  I went over and crouched next to where she stood.  She had her hands over her ears.  For such a sensitive blind child the noise of the room must at times be overwhelming.  I spoke to her and half hoped for a response.  Had she found her voice yet? But she continued as she was.  Without registering my presence.  Totally inside her own world – whatever that must look like.  I couldn’t even bring myself to reach out and touch her, or to change her clothes.  The love I have for her is so strong.  The pain at seeing her spiral deeper into autism as equally as strong.  I told her I love her.  That she is amazing.  And then moved away.

I feel on some level I was Deepa’s only chance of learning vital life skills.  On another, it is impossible to predict the extent to which her life circumstances have accentuated her condition, or what is simply playing out through her genes.  I saw other children who were babies when I last left, also born without eyes and also displaying strong signs of autism. Either way, Deepa is a light in a very dark place.  And with a heavy heart I will always be grateful for the chance to have shared the time that I did with her.  She has been an amazing teacher in how she sees and feels the world.  After going to greet the other kids, reading a story book with the girl with the most amazing smile and pulling two little boys who had rolled onto the concrete floor back onto the mat, I knew my time here has passed.  This is not my path any more. Part of me is amazed at what I did do. And I admire those who are able to be here now.  A place where there appears to be so little hope and so few rewards.  I picked up my bag, waved an invisible goodbye to Deepa, who was still standing in the corner, hands over her ears, and oblivious to all.

Later that night I messaged my sister who was eager to hear the news of Deepa. “I feel like I’ve failed” I told her.  She replied: “There is nothing you can do anymore.  Just let it go.”