Silence.

The following post was written by my good friend, Jeremy Stanley, for an organization called GivMusic. You can check out GivMusic at http://blog.givmusic.com/

“No! You don’t understand me! You NEVER understand! I hate you!!!” she seethes in her native tongue.

She runs up the stairs, down the hallway, her loathing apparent in her rapidly shuffling feet.

The door to her bedroom slams shut.

A few moments later, a knock on the door. Her mother gently turns the door knob but it is locked tight.

On the other side of the door, she hears her mothers soft voice, asking her, ever so gently, to open the door.

No response.

Her mother slowly plods down the hallway, whispering to her father.

Hours later, stillness. Quiet. Her parents have long gone to bed.

The bedroom door creeks open. She glides down the hallway, down the stairs, breezes through the kitchen, shoving whatever food she can into her backpack, through the den, waits, listens, hears nothing… She nervously grabs hold of the door knob, takes one glance back, breathes a breathless sigh of uncertainty and disappears into the cool night air.

“They didn’t believe me” she thought. “They never believed me.”

She had made the seemingly idle threat to run away from home no fewer than four times.

Nervous. Terrified. Quietly defiant. These emotions overlapped one another, over and over, over and over, as she plodded down the moonlight streaked sidewalk. Night still fully encompassing, yet daylight assuredly on its way.

Night slowly turns into day.

Day envelops her, promising excitement, energy, a new beginning!

Which rapidly turns to dread. Hours roll by. She loses herself in questions. In regret. In anger. In sadness.

Sitting, quiet, alone, night beckoning once again, she looks up and sees a cute boy approaching.

“Hi” he says.

“Hi” she replies meekly.

Time rolls by. She pours her heart out to this caring soul, this angel.

He tells her his story. He also ran away. He lived in the city, in the streets. Until he found a family. They too understand. They love him, care for him. They all look out for each other.

“Do you want to meet them? They’ll really like you. You can come and live with us!” his enthusiasm, his charm, impossible for her to resist. A new family. They care. They understand me. They KNOW me.

They walked into a strange building. The door locked behind them. She peered down a hallway. Strange men lurked about. Girls, no older than her, filed into rooms, a thoughtless, emotionless, empty expression enveloping and overwhelming their very existence. The strange, lurking men followed them into the rooms. One by one. One after another.

This was her new “family”.

Her hope was immediately shattered. She screamed. She panicked. She fought.

They threatened her. They beat her. They abused her. They molested her.

Day after day she was forced into a sickening cycle.

She fought. She kept her spirit.

Day after sickening day. Night after sickening night. They said they loved her. They said it as they forced themselves on her. Words mean nothing. Actions mean everything.

She fought. She kept her spirit.

Day after sickening day. Night after sickening night. They said they loved her. They said it as they abused her aching 13 year old body in every form, every fashion…

She fought. She kept her spirit.

Who were they? They were rarely the same. One after another. After another. After another. Day after sickening day. Night after sickening night.

And then…

Silence.

This is not a story of redemption.

This is not a story of hope.

There is only the silence of a broken spirit. Numb to emotion, numb to feeling, numb to life and living.

Silence.

As many as 2.8 million children live on the streets, a third of whom are lured into prostitution within 48 hours of leaving home.

12 to 14 is the average age of entry into pornography and prostitution.

Between 100,000 and 300,000 children in the United States are at risk for sex trafficking each year.

Estimates say that 2 million children worldwide are exploited in the transnational sex trade.

Studies also indicate that each of these children may be victimized by 100 to 1,500 perpetrators per year.

This story is not unique. It happens daily. It is sick, it is perverse, it is reality.

We cannot sit by while this perpetually increases, day after sickening day, night after sickening night.

We cannot be silent. We must be a voice for the voiceless. These atrocities will not cease on their own. Not with sex trafficking profits at an estimated $217.8 billion dollars per year. This equates to roughly $23,000 per victim.

Having this knowledge, are you able to sit and do nothing? Are you able to shrug it off with indifference?