The Prostitute's Story

Last week I went somewhere I had never been before. A few of the G42 girls met up in town with a woman named Betsy who lives Granada. We got in the car and drove for the better part of an hour. For a while, the view outside offered a shimmery Costa del Sol, bustling beach towns, and sunny ocean front properties. After a while though, everything seemed to turn grey. In place of bright and cheery houses, we saw square, dull buildings – rows of warehouses, distribution centers, and cheap Chinese shops.

This was where the girls called home.

For some reason I had envisioned in my mind that the girls would be standing in a line altogether on the street, waiting for their clients. But as we drove through the street blocks I realized that each girl had her own corner, her own “territory” you could say. Rounding the corner, I saw a row of bushes with two pristine high heels delicately sticking out from behind. There she was.

Waiting for business.

As we drove a little further down the quiet street, her dark, smooth skin came into sight, adorned only by lacy lingerie and sheer pants didn’t leave much mystery about what was underneath. She had long eyelashes and bright colors on her black eyes.

Most people would call this woman a whore. Most people would think of her as a slut.

We found out she had a story.

Her name was Favor. She’s 24 years old and has been in Spain for 2 years, 8 months, and 13 days. She’s working to pay off the €50,000 debt she owes to a man who promised to get her out of Nigeria and take her to Spain where she could find a good job and earn money.

Back at home in Nigeria, her family doesn’t talk about what she does, but they and all the other families boast about their daughters “working in Europe.”

We asked Favor if she wanted to get off the streets. She defeatedly, and quickly, huffed “Of course.”

But she has no education and no way out. She’s never been to school, and no other jobs offer enough money for her to pay off her debt.

 Someday, she dreams of being a hairdresser. She even wants to open her own salon, just like her mom.

She did have one job offer.

A man she met on the streets said she could work in his bar in the evenings, as long as he could have her whenever he wanted.

“When I leave the streets, I am leaving the streets.

I don’t want another job where I have to keep giving away my body.”

This is reality. 

There are 1 million other women just like Favor in Europe, smuggled in from Africa, Latin America, Eastern Europe, and Asia.

Spain alone has 300,000 women forced into prostitution.

Women looking for jobs, yearning for a real future, and desperately seeking a life that doesn’t degrade their bodies… but they’re stuck. They see no way out.

We have to do something to stop this... 

to help them.

Betsy is planning to open a women's home in Granada for the women who get the courage to leave their lives on the street and fight for a better life for themselves. The home will offer opportunities for education, job training, a safe place to stay, provisions, community, and protection.

A few G42 interns and staff members work with an organization called MATTOO - Men Against the Trafficking of Others. MATTOO has traveled all over Europe and the U.S. this summer, recruiting men to join the movement against human trafficking and publicly display their decision not to participate in these girls' continued enslavement.

People are taking a stand.

Men are taking a stand. 

Will you? 

Summer Rain

One of our assignments in class last week was to write a short fictional story about anything. I sat down to write and this is what came out:

 Summer rain always caught me off guard. The mornin’s started out with an ugly heat, sweat billowin’ down the back of our necks onto the straw pilluhs Pa had made for us. Me and Luella would toss and turn, hidin’ our eyes from the bright streak of orange peering in through the cracked windows and fightin’ off the cruel fingers of sleeplessness against heavy eyelids. Gettin’ up was no better. The second our feet hit the floor Ma was yellin’. Her string of orders came at us faster than the rush of the river in April, “Wash yuh face… eat yuh breakfast… help yuh brother… This damn heat!” We all hated that heat, and no one was ever any good at forgettin’ about it. Ma complained all day, right through puttin’ the soup on the table for dinnuh. Us kids just got huffy with each other, always blamin’ and fightin’ and kickin’. Pa was different though. He never said a word, although every now and then we caught his hard eyes squintin’ to hold back the sting of sweat rollin’ in.

            The worst part was puttin’ on our boots. Air thick around us, skin sticky and wet, we sucked in our last breath of freedom before wiggly, airy toes were tucked away into the suffocatin’ stench of last week’s hard work. And we were out the door with a kick in the rear – bare-faced, bravin’ that dazzlin’, unforgivin’ sun. The fields offered no protection but distraction, so we put our hands to work and spent the days playin’ peek-a-boo around Pa’s plow. And we was never alone, never without the sun snickerin’ at our red-hot faces and shirts stickin’ to our backs.

But then came the rain – every afternoon, almost without fail, at the absolute hottest part of the day. Pa was back in the house, lost in his whiskey by that time, but me and Luella was still hard at work in the field, diggin’, plowin’, and cuttin’. The first sprinkle would come, drippin’ on my arm, and swirlin’ with the thick sweat and mud. It wasn’t long before the clouds rolled in, quicker than we was ever ready for, knockin’ the sun behind their menacin’ darkness and bringin’ with them the inevitable downpour. We had nothin’ to do but run, snatchin’ up the clothes we had shed and pummelin’ through the endless rows of the field. Our only hope was cover. Luella always beat me to the house, leavin’ me slippin’ and slidin’ in her mud trail as I dashed home. I could hear Ma goin’ off about boots and mud before I even got into the house, and most of the time I didn’t even make it halfway in before Luella came squealin’ back through the door, draggin’ me out to dry off under the front porch where Ma wouldn’t get mad.

That’s where I got lost. Luella was always yappin’ about somethin’, goin’ on about what a nuisance the rain was, always bootin’ us outta the field and takin’ away from our workin’ hours. But I never heard her. I just stood with my toes at the very tip of the deck, head just barely covered by the tin roof above. Rain would splash my cheeks as the downpour went on and on. The air was still thick, but it was fresh. That stale heat had been swallowed up in the refreshin’ gray mist. Cool winds blew across the plains, makin’ the fields gleam from the shiftin’ pillars of rain tumblin’ upon ‘em. Only a few more minutes and the sun would be back out, robbin’ us of our rain treasure and sendin’ us right back to work. But even in the face of its brevity, I loved those moments. Eventually Luella would dry off and go back inside with Ma. But I always stayed right there, standing on that ledge, soakin’ up and breathin’ in all I could get of that cool summer rain.

Creativity Unleashed

At the age of 12, a young boy named Herman Haan found himself caught up in the world of drugs and alcohol after enduring intense family altercations and abuse, eventually landing him on the streets of Holland where he lived for the next few years. During his time on the streets, Herman adapted to the lifestyle that often accompanies life on the streets and became involved in burglaries, street crimes, and other activities that would leave behind years of regret. By age 15, Herman had earnestly sought out meaning and purpose in life, even trying to find "God," but his unsuccessful attempts only led him to plan to commit suicide with one of his friends one weekend. Wandering the streets only a few days before the plan was to be carried out, he heard some interesting music coming from a group that was singing and performing on the streets. As an avid music lover, Herman couldn't help but drift near the melodious sounds to figure out what it was.

Herman soon found out that his interaction with that group would change his life forever. They were a group of church students out doing ministry on the streets, and when the students gathered around Herman and prayed for him, he had a heavy encounter with God that set him on a brand new journey into an incredible life he had never imagined.


Tragically, Herman's friend went on to commit suicide that weekend, but Herman continued on, looking at his life with new vigor and passion. Thirty five years later, Herman Haan has now lived a full and abundant life, doing more things than I thought were possible for one person to accomplish in a lifetime. After marrying one of the girls in the group he met on the street, Herman went on to attend Bible school and later become the director of his own Bible school specializing in the creative arts. At 24, he started pastoring a Pentecostal church that saw huge revival and complete life-change of over 200 drug dealers from the streets and surrounding areas. As a talented singer, songwriter, and guitarist, Herman was also a member of a Dutch band that toured across Europe with much success and fame. In addition, he has become a wine sommelier and owns and runs his own vineyard, as well as working as a chef, restaurant owner, and TV host of his own cooking show. If that's not enough, Herman has also written five books and is presently working on his sixth. He currently works as a video journalist, filming documentaries for HBO and one of the biggest TV networks in Holland, which has sent him traveling all across the world to places like Pakistan and Haiti. Along the way, he's had the opportunity to interview some pretty important people and be in some pretty important places, like being the first European journalist on site at Ground Zero on September 11. Overall, Herman has created over 400 programs and 40 documentaries, several of which have won national awards and acclaim.

So who exactly is this man and why am I telling you about him? Herman Haan was our guest teacher last week here at G42 and we had four incredible days of soaking up all of the life wisdom that he came to share with us. As I mentioned before, last week we were stretched beyond what we believed we were capable of and got to see a new side of each other that we hadn't shared with each other yet. This all happened because of the gifting and prodding of Herman, who was able to keep us on our toes at all times in anticipation of the next challenge that he would throw at us on the spot. Sometimes he'd call on a person and tell them to immediately speak encouraging words to the person across from them, sometimes he would have us a write a story based on an action or short skit he demonstrated, and sometimes he would have us write a poem on the spot. We analyzed the lyrics of a meaningful song, sang together, wrote poems and short stories, performed one minute skits with no words, learned interview principles, held mock interviews with a "famous author," watched documentaries, studied the Bible, and discovered all sorts of creative talent within us that surprised the whole group. Herman's teaching style made me realize how much potential exists within each of us and how much we are capable of doing (even when we are convinced we just can't do it) when we are challenged and stretched a little bit further than we would normally go. 

Needless to say, it was an awesome week, and I'll soon be sharing with you another one of the creative works I somehow produced through the encouragement and nudge of someone who truly knows that the impossible is possible!