As
the first Charity Sunday of the new year grew closer, I wondered what
cause I should support this month. Then I happened upon a chilling
column by Nicholas D. Kristof entitled “How to help girls endure
the unendurable”. I can’t link to it because it’s behind the NY
Times pay wall, but if you can access a copy, go read it.
The
topic is pretty difficult to stomach: the rape and sexual abuse of
children. In particular, Mr. Kristof is retelling some of the
horrific stories of youngsters in Kenya. The World Health
Organization estimates that close to one third of all women worldwide
have experience physical or sexual violence, with a much higher rate
in developing countries. One survey found that for the majority of
women in the Kibera slum in Nairobi, their first sexual experience had been a
rape.
Kristof’s
Op-Ed concludes with a plea to pass the International Violence
Against Women Act, and in general for developed countries to do more
to fight sexual abuse and gender violence world wide. However, he
also discusses grassroots efforts to support the victims, in
particular the Kenyan charity Kara
Olmurani. Founded by a woman minister who was attacked and raped by
multiple men on the way to her own wedding, the organization runs a
safe house for sexually abused young girls. Not only do child rape victims often
suffer terrible injuries, but if they manage to physically recover, they
may have nowhere to go. They are sometimes evicted from by their
homes by shamed relatives. They may live in justified fear of further
violence from their attackers, who are likely people from their
community.
Kara
Olmurani provides shelter, protection, physical and psychological
sustenance to support the process of healing. It’s a tiny
organization, addressing the problems of a specific city, but I
believe that every bit of compassion and caring is worthwhile. And
the more people become aware of the problem of child rape, the more
likely it is that we can reduce its frequency, and help bring the
perpetrators to justice.
So
– this Charity Sunday I will donate two dollars to Kara Olmurani for
every comment I receive on this post. I also hope you’ll share the
existence of the organization with your friends and family. For most
of us, Africa is very far away. Still, the courage of the
organization’s “little warriors” is universal.
I
don’t have any stories that include childhood sexual abuse. Indeed, I
don’t write much about their early years. Having had a loving and
supportive childhood myself, I tend to confer the same on my
protagonists.
I
do have one short story that captures one of my heroines in her
teens, before the events of the novel in which she originally
appeared. When we meet Ruby Maxwell Chen in The Heart of the Deal,
she’s in her mid-twenties, a ruthless businesswoman heading an
international commercial conglomerate. The short story “Shades of
Red” I wrote later, wondering what Ruby had been like at nineteen.
If
you’re interested, you can find this story in my boxed set Bound
and Breathless
(https://www.lisabetsarai.com/boundandbreathlessbook.html)
Excerpt
“Sex
with strangers? For money? You’ve got to be insane, Ruby!”
Jane’s
Delft-blue eyes are wide with disbelief. Her horrified protest is
loud enough to trigger tolerant smiles at neighboring tables. This
is, after all, worldly and decadent Amsterdam.
“I’ve
already hired the window. For tonight.”
“But
it’s dangerous!”
“Oh,
please! There’s 24 hour video surveillance. The police practically
outnumber the tourists strolling around the district at night. Every
cubicle has an alarm in case things get dicey. The landlord showed me
how it worked.”
“But
it’s so degrading! Once a man pays you, you’re obliged to do
whatever he says. You’ve got no choice.”
I
sip my cappuccino. My lipstick leaves a crimson crescent on the china
cup.
“Nonsense.
I’ll be the one in control. I was watching the women last night.
Anyone whose looks they don’t like, they send away. The men are the
ones who are desperate, vulnerable. They want us so much, they’re
willing to pay to satisfy their desires.”
Jane
shakes her head. “If your father finds out, he’ll be furious.”
“How
would he find out? You wouldn’t tell him, would you?” I put on a
stern face, not too different from his. Cowed, she lowers her eyes.
“Of
course not. Still, you know how he is. It was tough to get him to
agree to this trip at all. We had to really lean on the culture
aspect.”
“I’m
old enough to make up my own mind.” My friend’s red-gold
ringlets, backlit by the afternoon sun, make her look like a
Botticelli angel. I relish the thought of corrupting her. “Come on,
Jane! We’ve been doing nothing but high-minded museums and
libraries and concerts for the past three days. I just want some
fun.”
“I’m
afraid you’ll get more than you bargain for.”
“I
certainly hope so. Look, why don’t you join me? Last night I
noticed quite a few windows with more than one girl. The cubicle has
a double bed, and you’re so gorgeous, I’m sure you’d be
popular.”
“Not
a chance. Freddie would break up with me in a second.”
“What
Freddie doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
Jane
looks insulted. “Freddie and I have a relationship based on honesty
and trust. I’m not going to do something sordid and risky like that
behind his back.”
I
wonder if Freddie has shared with my poor friend the fact that he has
propositioned me, under pretense of being drunk, at more than one
party. Innocence, I decide, is bliss, at least for sweet, loyal Jane.
“At
least come around with me to the sex shops, to help pick out a
costume and some toys.”
“I’ve
got a miserable headache.” Jane sounds peevish. I worry briefly
that she somehow caught my thoughts about her beau. “I’m going
back to the hotel to lie down. Will I see you tonight, before – I
mean, are you going to have dinner, or what?”
“I
think I’m too excited to eat. But I’ve got to take a shower and
do my makeup, and that will be easier in our room.”
“Okay,
see you later. Be careful.”
“You
know me. The coolest of the cool.”
But
I’m not. In fact I’ve been obsessed ever since last night, when
Jane and I wandered through the red light district, staring at the
women who waited behind the glass in their rose-tinted rooms. We wove
our way through clumps of nervous, intoxicated men who were all
staring, too. I could smell their sweat, underneath the beer and the
pot smoke. I could feel their lust. It infected me.
They
barely noticed us, two teenagers in jeans, although the tight denim
in my crotch was so wet, I half-expected they’d catch my scent and
turn to me. They had eyes only for the bodies displayed in the rows
of windows lining the canals.
Some
of the women were ripe, blond, Slavic-looking, their breasts
exploding out of their lace brassieres. Others were slight,
deliberately child-like in Gidget-inspired bikinis or brief plaid
kilts. There was a Brazilian beauty with golden skin and
coffee-colored eyes; a voluptuous African princess with strings of
ruby-hued beads dangling in her ebony cleavage; a serious-looking
brunette wearing dark-framed glasses who sat, shapely legs crossed,
like a secretary waiting to take dictation.
Some
of the women posed. Others danced suggestively, or made lewd gestures
at their prospective customers. There were masked women in leather,
snapping riding crops against their boots. There were women whose
pierced nipples and labia showed clearly through their translucent
garments.
Men
clustered around the dimly-lit windows like moths hovering by a
candle. Mostly they’d just look, inflamed by the mere thought of
all this available flesh. Sometimes I’d see a hushed conversation
through a half open glass door. Such conversations might end with the
man turning away, disappointed, rejected, or perhaps simply unwilling
to pay the asking price. Other times the door would open wider, just
enough to admit the supplicant. Then it would close and the red
velvet curtains would be drawn, hiding the rest of the dance.
Those
curtained windows drew me. I couldn’t stop imagining what might be
going on behind them. I knew it was a straight commercial transaction
in most cases, a workman-like blowjob, or a quick, bored fuck. Still,
I imagined occasional revelations, epiphanies, ecstasies –
meetings of strangers pre-destined to be lovers, brief but unbearably
intense conflagrations of lust, lewd and mystical connections that
would live in his memory, or hers, long after the curtains were flung
open again.
I’m
nineteen. I’ve had enjoyable but ultimately frustrating sex with
two boys my age. I know that, practical as I am, I’m a bit of a
romantic. Otherwise, I would not have continued to roam the red-lit
alleys long after Jane gave up and went back to the hotel in disgust.
As the Oude Kerk chimed two AM, I wandered up Molensteeg and down
Monnikenstraat like some horny ghost. The crowds had thinned. The
curtains were mostly drawn. Some of open windows were empty, aside
from the signs: KAMERS TE HUUR. Windows for rent.
Please
do leave a comment. Every one will help heal the soul of an abused
child.
