New Hampshire just held back-to-back Republican and Democratic debates on Sunday, and Tuesday night. All the candidates from both parties came to the Granite State to let voters, and viewers, know why they want to be the next president of the United States. These two debates were so important in determining the future for our country, that the ONE Campaign went to both debates to make sure that the world’s poorest people were not forgotten.

ONE members put “ONE” lawn signs all over the roads that led in and out of the debate site. It was no surprise that many people were familiar with the ONE Campaign and put on a “ONE” sticker while they held signs for the candidate they supported. And even better to see that many people at both debates were already wearing the ONE band and supporting the fight against AIDS and poverty.

On both nights, ONE members held signs and banners inside the giant area where all the campaigns gathered to rally before the debate. Mothers and daughters, young and old, Republicans and Democrats all came out to support the ONE Campaign and those that live on less than a dollar a day.

We had a great showing on both nights (even during some fierce thunderstorms), and we are just starting! In the coming months, all ONE members from across the country will be able to use their voices and make sure that our leaders know that fighting global disease and global extreme poverty is an American priority!”

Actor and humanitarian Ashley Judd, board member of Population Services International (PSI) and Global Ambassador for YouthAIDS, addressed women’s empowerment and wrote daily posts for the ONE Blog, during her March 2007 travels through India. Today, she posts her final entry from the trip.

Monday, April 16

Of course, since 2002 I have met many sex slaves, their stories full of cascading horrors. But for some reason, Natasha’s really, really bothered me, and I’ve had a hard time coming to the page to put it all down. All I can do is try. (Like Saint Theresa of Kolkotta said, when chided for trying to feed all the poor in India, “My God only asks that I try.”)

Natasha sat in a large chair, looking very small, frail, gorgeous, groomed. Her hair was long and lovely in a Veronica Lake type wave. She was soft spoken yet clear. Her English was pretty good, which further complicated my ability to accept her entrapment. The camera was set up to protect her identity, and in post production her voice will be replaced to guarantee her anonymity. Her life is at risk if her owner discovers what she has done: speak with us about the details of her life as a sex slave.

At about 18 (she is now about 21 or 22, many Indians can only approximate their age), Natasha traveled to Mumbai. She had relatives there. Her luggage was lost and there was a lot of confusion about her arrival. She managed to end up at girlfriend’s apartment to spend the night as she sorted things out. Her friend was going out for the evening and invited her; she was happy to tag along. The friend took Natasha to a hotel. They went up to a guest room. A man was there. The friend smiled and left the room. To her bewilderment, Natasha realized she had been left there to have sex with the man. Fearing physical violence and feeling trapped with no way out, she did. When the man let her go, she went downstairs. Her friend was waiting. She slapped her face. The friend said, “Welcome to the garbage bin.”

Natasha told me she is in hell and she cannot get out. Several times, she talked about the dumpster she was thrown in, how she cannot climb out of it. In a disastrous piece of timing, her relatives, whom she had been looking for, found her via her friend just as she was leaving the hotel. They put together why she was such a nice hotel, and immediately rejected and disowned her for a whore. She had no where to go but back to her friend’s apartment where her fate in the sex industry was sealed. Simultaneously, her relatives were ensuring this information got back home. She was swiftly, irrevocably blackballed and ostracized by her family there.

Natasha’s story is a complex puzzle that is a combination of truly being trapped and the perception of being trapped. That makes it hard to describe; it also makes my dismay deeper. Here are some questions I asked, and her answers:

Ashley: Why didn’t you then, why don’t you now, just go to the police and explain what happened? Why don’t you tell them about your life now?

Natasha: They would be the first to rape me, she said with a sad smile. Then they would simply hand me back over, and there would be more trouble when I was returned.

A: Why don’t you secretly, however long it takes, stash away a little bit of money and just sneak away, go somewhere else in India, start over? American women move on their own by the tens of thousands each year (yes, I asked a lot of dumb questions from a western perspective…but I think we all would have).

N: Wherever I go, I will always be THIS. I will see a former client who will reveal my past, and I will never be accepted anywhere as anything but this. And, I have to continue to earn the same amount of money I earn now, my family depends on me.

This is so troubling. In a country of 1.2 billion, she has sufficiently internalized her victimization and the mob’s fear tactics to believe where ever she may go, a former client would call her out, and she’d be put back into the trade, but without knowing what that situation would be like…it might be worse, for example, than her current situation.

The money part…shockingly, the family that was so quick and remorseless in disowning her as a whore is glad to take the money she earns as one. Natasha supports 11 members of her extended family in her home village. So, even if she were somehow to believe she could break free, she would only do so if she could immediately begin earning what she does now, a rare feat for any woman in India.

A: Do your clients use condoms?
N: Yes, the boss makes sure they understand they must. I am tested for HIV every alternate month.

Ah, yes, it’s not called organized crime for nothing. A healthy sex worker is a better earner.

A: Has anyone amongst you tested positive?
N: Yes.

A: What happened? Did she get treatment?
N: I don’t know. She disappeared.

A: Where do you think you will end up? Is it your fear when you begin earning less you’ll be dumped at a brothel in Kamathipura?
N: I can’t think about that.

This answer was very chilling. We talked about enough for me to grasp what she meant: “I can’t go there,” in the way we refer to things so scary, like our dog being hit by a car or a child dying, that we simply cannot allow our minds to go there. Natasha has no idea how long her owner will keep her, and what comes next, she is too terrified to even contemplate.

I asked questions about her daily life. I wish I had asked more; does she have an identity card? Does she get herself to the hotels, or does the pimp drive her? These things, I do know:

Natasha lives with 10 other women in a 3 bedroom apartment, all of whom are in her predicament. She is on call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. She never knows when the call will come; she lives knowing at any second she will be sent to have sex with a strange man, and she must do whatever, however grotesque, repugnant, painful, and degrading, he wants. Her owner is someone she has never seen. In a perverse twist on “Charlie’s Angels,” she hears his voice on the phone as he bosses and threatens her. The pimp is the day to day manager of her life, checking on her, spying, supervising, and collecting money. Her clients include Indians and foreigners. I asked her if she has been to the Taj, my hotel, and she smiled. “Oh yes, many, many times.” I felt sick.

The men who buy her want sex, all types of it, but a few just want company, perhaps someone to take shopping or to dinner. Those men are a relief for her, the only answered prayer in her life. Her owner pressures her to keep herself up. It was another bitter irony; this beautiful woman is forced to maintain her beauty and keep up appearances for a job in which she is enslaved.

The money she earns is taken away; a small bit is doled back out to her. She sends all of it home.

Sensing the destroyed condition of her soul, I asked her about her dreams, hoping to help her reconnect with even a shred of one. As a child, she wanted to be a homeopathic doctor. She is literate; I asked if she would ever pick up a book on the subject. The answer was no, and there was a sense she was indulging me for asking such a far fetched question. First of all, she explained she does not have the freedom to do so, but more importantly, it would be a pointless, wasted effort. Natasha doesn’t have enough of herself left at this stage to even merit searching for and attempting to engage with the part of her that long ago was interested in medicine. In a word, Natasha is hopeless.

I asked her why she was talking to me if she was hopeless that any change or improvement could be brought to her life. She was real clear on this point: She begged me to do something for the others. She was risking her life by talking to me, and she pleaded with me to do something, anything for the others. They have nothing, not even the education she has. For some reason I asked her if she would help the others learn to read, and in fact, she said she has been doing this. That is the one tiny hope she has left, teaching a few of the women who live with her to read, that it might benefit them somehow. I could picture her, soft spoken and gentle, teaching. In my mind’s eye, I saw the apartment, her sitting on the floor with a few women, moments stolen between the phone calls.

I then began to ask more about the others, and got the worst blow of all. I asked her how old is the oldest woman, how young is the youngest, with whom you share the apartment?

N: I am the oldest. The youngest is about 14.

A: What? 14? How long has she been there? When was she brought in? N: She was there when I got there 3 years ago. She was 11 when I arrived.

A: How old are the others? N: 14, 15, 16, around there.

A: You mean the 9 other sex slaves are minors? Children? N: Yes.

What does one say to that? How does one react?

My time with Natasha was coming to a close. The production company, posing as a sex client, had put feelers out to find someone like her. When she was sent, and discovered what we were really after, she said it had to go down as if she was being paid for sex so that nothing looked odd (we paid her flat rate of $350 US), and that she agreed to talk if we didn’t reveal her as our source and we did everything we could to help the others.

The next part for me was incredibly emotional. To know she was walking out of that room and back into her life was a pain the likes of which I have only felt a few times in my life, pain like walking away from 40 orphans in a well meaning but underfunded crèche in a destroyed South African slum. I am already crying as I write this, no wonder I have procrastinated for days. It is just so wrong, so wrong, so very, very wrong. I pulled her close to me and held her and seared myself into her eyes.

I said to her, “Will you believe there is hope for you?” N: No.

A: Natasha, can you believe there is any hope at all, any possibility of hope for you? N: No.

A: Natasha, can you believe, then, that I believe? When you are completely hopeless and despairing, will you remember me, can you believe that I believe?

She broke down. N: Yes. I will try, I will try. I will try to believe that you believe.

She left, emotional, crying, and in a hurry. The time for which we had paid was up, and she couldn’t be late without arousing suspicion.

***

PSI has special access to brothels it has worked hard to earn over the years. If we jeopardize it, we risk losing our unique ability to reach prostituted women, men, and children (and, just as importantly, those who pay for sex) with medical and reproductive information, services, products, empowerment and behavior change messages. Of course, as you can see in Mumbai, our access has allowed us to instigate and inspire sex workers by helping them found Sanghamitra, their own advocacy grassroots organization. By going in as an agency to protect health by preventing STD, HIV, and pregnancy, which we do well, we also are able to provide the psych/social support create change from within. The paradigm shift within the exploited is no trivial thing.

Actor and humanitarian Ashley Judd, board member of Population Services International (PSI) and Global Ambassador for YouthAIDS, addressed women’s empowerment and wrote daily posts for the ONE Blog, during her March 2007 travels through India. This week, she posts her final entries from the trip.

Friday, April 13

In Kamatipura, I entered a crumbling building declared by the city as unsafe. Inside, I was immediately engulfed in darkness of dank corridors devoid of windows. An empty room on the left was filled with garbage. Trash was strewn everywhere on the steps and was collected in piles at the ends of hallways. An aging man was selling small items out of his room, a tiny space in which he has lived for more than 25 years. He has a reputation for being kind and keeping condoms to sell for pennies to sex workers and their clients. They call him “Uncle.” Upstairs, in room with 2 rows of 3 beds crammed lengthwise, sat prostituted women who live, cook, eat, hang their wash, sleep, raise children, and have sex with strange men for tiny sums in that very room. I nestled down on the floor near where meager belongings are stored under their beds. I looked at their cooking supplies; a kerosene stove, a few tin pots and pans, a few plates. I made myself cozy in between my sisters. Babies were passed around. Little children were caressed, smiled at, encouraged. One of the babies was 3rd generation; her mother and grandmother are there in the brothel together. How bizarre is that?

The traveling brothel doctor (TBD) was there, as was a PSI counselor; the topic was the female condom with an emphasis on peer education. I was there simply to be with them, to witness their lives. “What do you want me to know?” I asked the group. “My life is hell,” the woman on my left said. “What else is there to say?”

Her statement reminded me of the time in Madagascar when I asked sex workers how they ended up in this condition, and a woman waved her hand dismissively. “Same old story,” she replied, meaning poverty, husband abandoning her, children to feed, no education. And it’s true, the stories around the world are the same, each tracing to its root cause the lack of equality for girls and women, and all the terrifying, repressive consequences that ensue.

Actor and humanitarian Ashley Judd, board member of Population Services International (PSI) and Global Ambassador for YouthAIDS, addressed women’s empowerment and wrote daily posts for the ONE Blog, during her March 2007 travels through India. This week, she posts her final entries from the trip.

Wednesday, April 11

Today we drove for a long time to arrive at Neelam’s neighborhood. Upon arrival, Diane was waiting for us, dear, beautiful, strong, brilliant, intuitive Diane, and once again we entered the smothering, narrow, yet vast world of slum living, extreme poverty style.

The rows and rows and rows of houses, many with modest religious icons or now dead flowers over the shabby portals, were crammed full with people going about their daily lives. I had the chance to stop and really study the amazingly creative, and clearly unsafe electrical wiring that manages to bring a modest amount of light to these homes. It was another reminder of how what we would never accept is what poor people live with each day. A small, eye-level panel was exposed (they cover it with plastic for the intense, long rainy season), and out of each tab flowed a snarled clot of raggedy wires that are propped up in a makeshift way as their way to interiors throughout the slum. The electricity is available 24 hours a day, the water is available 5-7 a.m., and again for an hour in the evenings.

Every few homes is a business of some sort. One business consisted of a man squatting in the narrow corridor, doing repair work on someone’s all-important kerosene lamp. The tank, which holds enough fuel to cook 2 meals, attaches to a valve, and there the little flame comes out. Obtaining the fuel is a big part of poor people’s struggle, especially when they have difficulties with their ration card. Often, they are left to buy fuel on the black market, which is hard on them financially. This particular family limits their cooking to once a day. At night, they eat the morning’s leftovers.

Further down, the air occasionally ripe with the unmistakable smell of the river into which the sewage flows, we paused. This house, pushed up against the others, was where Neelam, 14, and her sister, Komal, age 10, were waiting for me in matching yellow saris. Both girls are very small and frail, with long dark hair. Komal’s is lustrous and smooth, Neelam’s is rough, coarse, dry. I wondered if it was from malnutrition. It is, partially, but it’s also largely due to the fact she mothers her little sister, taking care of her hair the way Indians do their daughters, but no one takes care of hers.

The house had a squat toilet in a cubicle at the entry, and a main room with only 2 small tables. A woven plastic mat and a school book were on the floor. Color portraits of the children mother and father were placed carefully on the table. There were some domestic things, pots and pans, stacked on the floor, and a tiny kerosene cooker. There was a second, smaller room behind. There were no windows.

The children each took a hand, brought me in, sat me down. They were eager yet reserved. Indian women sit alongside one another, knees touching, arms draped across each other’s legs. I have picked up on this and immediately got comfortable with these precious girls. They would never sit in my lap, but they did snuggle close, and let me love them.

The daddy became HIV+ having sex outside the marriage. His status was discovered when he became very sick. He died soon after being tested. The Mama was tested; she was able to access antiretrovirals, but she was so far gone and didn’t respond well; she died soon, too. Within months, the girls, plus their then 5 year old brother, were orphans. They have an aunt who lives with them. She is positive and has TB. She sleeps alone in the back room as she is highly contagious. They have, thank God, a grandmother. She does much of the cooking.

Neelam exclusively supports this family of 5. From 8:30 a.m. until 5 p.m., 6 days a week, she works sewing to earn what she can. It’s not nearly enough to feed them all, and we know Neelam because we supplement their diet through our nutrition program. After work she has a half hour break, at which time she goes to night school until 9 p.m. English is her favorite subject and she wants to be a flight attendant. This small child is at home each day only long enough to get a little bit to eat and to sleep.

She told me she likes where she works, she likes sewing. There are 11 other employees there, all are children. She says the boss is nice. She has no idea where the clothing they make is sold. I have been so stunned about the resiliency of children. This young girl has no idea that having a job is illegal. She has no sense of our outrage. She has simply adapted, naturally, out of grief and for her own and for the survival of the 4 who rely on her.

India has shown me aspects of human nature I had not noticed on my previous trips, such as the mental twists in Neelam’s mind that allow her to actually believe, in truth or in perception only, that she enjoys the human rights abuse of child labor. Of course, there is a pay off: with her working, she is able to keep what is left of her family in tact, and to an orphan, what’s more important than that? Of course she loves her job.

Where Neelam is all gentle responsibility, her baby sister is all attitude. She is the only person with whom I have sat who actually responded irritably to the suffocating heat. She wiggled and fidgeted. I got a bottle of cool water to place on her neck, and she squirmed away from me. I got a cold cloth and put it on her wrists, but that was all she would tolerate out of me. She was clearly fed up on a number of occasions and when we later walked the neighborhood, she flitted behind, ahead, alongside; she has so much energy and pizzazz. She definitely wanted to be near me, and tucked in close much of the time, but she made her boundary very clear and insisted it all take place on her terms. Good for her!

The little whippersnapper at one point went over to be with her sister. She crawled up under her arm, legs drawn in close, and found her familiar sweet spot under her wing. Neelam grew, somehow, a little bigger, and tented herself around the smaller girl. Mommy sister. What a heartbreaking site. To imagine her and all the orphans in the world becoming care givers for others before they have outgrown their own childhoods simply renders me speechless.

Actor and humanitarian Ashley Judd, board member of Population Services International (PSI) and Global Ambassador for YouthAIDS, addressed women’s empowerment and the spread of AIDS, and wrote daily posts for the ONE Blog, during her March 2007 travels through India. This week, she posts her final entries from the trip.

Tuesday, April 10

I did my usual morning routine making a 5 minute attempt at looking sort of maybe kind of cute if you close one eye and squint the other, and surrendering the day and the outcome. I knew I’d need to do that more than once, as I was being joined by a stranger to me, but a beloved star to millions of Indians: Sushmita Sen, maverick yet firmly ensconced Bollywood star. I would be sharing my process with a woman I don’t know, for the greater good of sex workers and their clients. For a person of Sushmita’s stature to even deign to talk about this issue, much less hang out in a brothel, is absolutely shocking in Indian society. We picked her for her willingness to break with convention in her personal and professional life. She, as a single woman, adopted a daughter 7 years ago, and has played roles of “immoral” women in films. Typically, the big stars do not touch roles which are not unassailably virtuous. I’d been given a few internet links about Sushmita, which I declined to read. I do not read about myself, and I refrain from reading about others, too. I didn’t know what to expect at all.

I sat in an austere room with nothing but a chair. A tall, dark-haired woman in a lovely pale blue sari came in and immediately captivated me with her womanly brilliance. She has that remarkable self-belief, answers to the enigmatic questions I don’t dare touch on, stuff about being a woman in this world and other things that leave me tongue tied. Maybe it’s the same stuff I talk about, but with a different vocabulary. She asked me a few questions about my work. She was focused, clear eyed, intent, attentive, dazzling. She smoked, waving cameras away. She’d worked until 3 a.m., and told me a bit about her life. She seemed to have a lot of staff around. I saw them flitting in the hallway, yet her hair wasn’t brushed; she wore no make up. Her only dressed up detail were long, lilac fingernails. Yet she oozed star: that It factor of confidence, poise, carriage…and jaw dropping eyebrows!

We were there to see the great, good women of Sanghamitra, a community-based organization run by commercial sex workers (CSWs.) Sanghamitra is the realization of the 16-year-old dream of Dr. Shilpa, a phenomenal woman who runs PSI Mumbai with a heart of gold and a switched on brain that connects to it flawlessly. Sanghamitra’s purpose is to begin to end the oppressive isolation and powerlessness with which CSWs live, even when they and their children are stacked ten to a brothel room. It engenders self-esteem and self-efficacy. It provides them with a platform where they can collectively and independently raise their own voices and concerns. Through brand new, increasing levels of self-confidence and strengthened decision-making abilities, the women will be able to advocate for their own human and social rights, as well as adopt healthier sexual behavior. They will develop functional friendships. They will be able to identify abuses, which they are otherwise so conditioned to accept, and begin to address them effectively. They will have a space they can retreat to, for a brief moment of mental, physical, and spiritual calm. The word “Sanghamitra” is from the Buddhist tradition. The women chose it to signify extraordinary change they will work in their lives towards a better, brighter future of hope and well being. If there is anything more lacking in a CSW than hope, I don’t know what it is.

It’s difficult to overstate the importance of Sanghamitra, and I worry I miss conveying its transformative properties. These women have been divided and conquered.

We entered the room to behold 30 radiantly excited women of all ages and sizes turned out in their best saris. We were greeted with incense, drishti dots, elaborate garlands. Sweets were fed to us. I loved watching Sush; she’s used to this adoration, and I studied how she reciprocated. She kissed heads, took the sweet out of her own mouth, put it in the giver’s. She gave her garland back.

We sat on the floor, squeezed in alongside these bodies, abused and used for so many lifetimes. A welcome was spoken, and a boy child began the festivities with the most extraordinary dance. He was absolutely gifted and the room roared with encouragement and approval. It was so long! He sweated profusely, yet he never dimmed in his exertions. I was prodded to join him, so garland swinging, I twirled around behind him. And so the whole morning went. There was dancing, celebrating, singing, kissing, rejoicing. A few speeches were made by the officers of Sanghamitra (the 4 trafficked women I met in our PSI offices in an earlier diary), including my favorite, which simply illustrated the benefits of women uniting, such as confronting the police effectively about the harassment they constantly dole out, the way they ignore Commercial Sex Workers (CSWs) who try to file charges regarding crime against them; confronting the bureaucracy that illegally denies CSWs their important ration cards for kerosene, food, etc; developing a 100% condom compliance policy at all brothels; confronting schools which illegally discriminate against CSWs children and deny them their educational rights, increasing their access to medical services, etc. In classic PSI form, there were 8 colorful, easy to understand illustrations that clearly elucidated the objectives of the program and how they would be pursued.

When I made my speech, I spoke about how it’s important we come together and say aloud what we wonder about in our hearts: Is it okay to buy and sell girls and women? Are we made simply to be used for sex? Are we nothing more than the sum of our reproductive organs? Is this all that men, society, life has in mind for us? What have we been taught to believe about ourselves? Are we willing to begin to believe something different, perhaps even begin to dream? Can we begin to expand our world? Can we find a measure of hope for ourselves, perhaps love, even? Can we heal? So many heads were nodding. There had been such excitement about B/Hollywood, with Sushmita talking much about what a big star (ha!) I am. She actually just set me up to stress to them there was no film set, no fancy location, more meaningful to me than that room, right there, with them. I talked about the importance of sisterhood in my own life, and made clear how valuable theirs is to me…and each other.

Actor and humanitarian Ashley Judd, board member of Population Services International (PSI) and Global Ambassador for YouthAIDS, will be writing posts for the ONE Blog during her March 2007 travels through India. During the trip, Ashley will address women’s issues, and have the opportunity to discover how families can be empowered to protect themselves against HIV/AIDS and unintended pregnancies.

Friday, Mar 23

Ruchira told us an enraging story about a woman, trafficked to a brothel as a child who was able to flee. Tragically, amidst her rare escape, she had to leave her small child behind.

The woman, Meena, rehabilitated her life (a rarity in this culture), found Ruchira and asked her to help her rescue her girl out from the old brothel. The girl, Naina, had been sold to a 60-year old man while the child was only 8. He wanted a virgin. Ruchira, the local police, and the mama, got the girl out, only to have her TAKEN AWAY BY A JUDGE. The judge deemed the mother of “bad character in her past life” and declared the pimp the father. The child was asked to produce burden of proof that her mother is actually her mother. She could not, of course. The child is now in custody of a remand home, meaning a juvenile delinquent house. Shocking, appalling, impossible? Yes, but, only if you don’t know India.

I instantly became willing to stay in India as a public protest ’til that girl was free. I was ready for civil disobedience on the curb in front of the remand house, the judge’s house. I was ready to fast, to call friends to travel to India to raise high holy hell with me. It turned out not to have been necessary; the girl is not free, don’t get ahead of yourself, or of the bureaucracy; it’s just that tonight I did manage to pull off a stunt that has helped.

At 8:00, Seane came to my room and we each shared our experience with Ruchira. We made it out the door to what is I hope and pray was our last evening event for this trip. Tonight is something Kate put together, I just knew I needed to make a speech and that it could be about the programs, which for me, is just story telling of the best sort.

At the Rai family home, I was stunned to see great swatches of green cultivated gardens, single file rows of Dahlias the size of dinner plates. I sat on a small stage, while the Rai’s well dressed, beautifully mannered guests took slip-covered seats. Mr. Rai said nice things about Kate and me, described his family’s education fund, Kate described PSI, and I took over to, yet again, share bluntly with previously unengaged Indians the story of HIV here. I was hoping to lure, shock, galvanize, charm, them out of complacency and into activism. One of Bono’s great lines came to me: “This is not about charity: This is about justice.” The whole trip, and especially the story of the girl in the remand home, just lit a fire in me and tonight. I would NOT back down.

I floated around the garden, meeting people and eventually ended up in a small sitting room inside the family’s home of thirty years. Mr. Rai came in, smiling bigger now, to tell me two very prominent lawyers, with Ruchira’s help and evidence, were taking the mother and daughter’s case!!! He explained the lower courts are corrupt, inefficient, bothersome, mired, and that it works differently here, in that cases may be taken directly to the highest court in the land. The lawyers will take Meena and Naina’s plight directly to the high court and onto the supreme court if necessary.

They all fully expect this case will be a “cri de ceour” that changes the letter of the law, which, as it currently stands, insanely discriminates against women who have been trafficked as ‘persons of bad character.’

If that’s not enough to drop you to your knees!!!

Actor and humanitarian Ashley Judd, board member of Population Services International (PSI) and Global Ambassador for YouthAIDS, will be writing posts for the ONE Blog during her March 2007 travels through India. During the trip, Ashley will address women’s issues, and have the opportunity to discover how families can be empowered to protect themselves against HIV/AIDS and unintended pregnancies.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

We walked down very, very narrow poured concrete paths, in the middle of which open drains flow. Any questions about poor people’s lives and diets, just check those ubiquitous gutters. Tiny rooms darted off in every direction, left right, high, low. It was another claustrophobic labyrinth teeming with poor people’s lives, stories, and fates. Most had only cloth for doors. Music poured out of many. Babies cried. It was all so small, like a surrealist’s version of a doll’s house, except one that mockingly tries to accommodate thousands.

Ruchira Gupta had to walk behind me; two astride don’t fit. She explained the girls group wanted to show me a bird’s eye view of their world. I carefully stepped up the tight steps which took several turns, before emerging onto a small roof that indeed overlooked this neighborhood. I thought of Matisse’s tile roofs in the south of France, of how Cezanne took the art of interpreting space and structure into little triangles. I wondered what Van Gogh would have done with it, could he have found in this cramped view space for his curvilinear brush stroke? It was their subject matter, but India, 2007. The roof levels varied and they each were so tiny, like the houses below them.

We traced our steps back and entered Apne Aap Worldwide, a very grassroots anti-trafficking NGO (non-governmental organization). Ruchira is well versed in the reciprocal cycles of poverty and exploitation, and how gender inequality sets the stage. Her NGO is based on two Gandhian principles: Ahimsa, and the one that says so eloquently that the destruction which happens in the soul of an abuser is absolutely equal to the victimization of the abused.

She operates the NGO right in the ‘hood,’ inviting anyone to join. They teach their members (who pay 10 rupees to join) self reliance, self efficacy, self respect, self love. It’s capacity building of the most essential sort. They have vocational classes; I ran my hand over the black sewing machines, blessing the steel that helps a girl learn a trade that can save her life. They have English and computer classes, social skills building. It is a simple, clean swept, beautiful place with murals painted by members and simple, flat woven mats to sit on.

The adolescents did a play that illustrated a typical scene in their lives: a young married woman, harassed by her in-laws for not doing the chores quickly enough, who tries to protest. She is beaten for insolence, and eventually she is turned out. Soon, men spy on her and note her vulnerability; they offer her tea. It is drugged. She wakes up in a brothel. You know the rest; you’ve been there with me. But they showed an alternate ending, one in which a girl, given good information and taught to use her voice, can unite with other girls to form empowered circles which replace isolated, powerless, lone girls.

The kids asked me lots of questions about HIV. My gosh, they are so serious, so proper when addressing me. There is a sweet formality in the way they stand, fold their hands, state their names, ask the question. When it was my turn to ask them questions, I approached topics like, “What do you get from being here at A2W2? What was life before? How have you changed? What are your dreams? How do you define abuse? How can we survive abuse? Have we abused others? How do we learn from that?” One girl shared that her parents have chosen her husband, and she is resolutely denying the marriage. She insists she will marry in her own time, for love. She is learning there are alternatives; there should be alternatives. Her folks are furious. “A2W2 is spoiling your attitude and mind,” they tell her. She just keeps coming back.

When we talked about abuse, one girl said, “Oh, when they beat us, it’s okay if we’ve done something wrong. That is not abuse.” I died a thousand deaths. Cultural change is so slow. I anguish over it sometimes, it is so slow.

Actor and humanitarian Ashley Judd, board member of Population Services International (PSI) and Global Ambassador for YouthAIDS, will be writing posts for the ONE Blog during her March 2007 travels through India. During the trip, Ashley will address women’s issues, and have the opportunity to discover how families can be empowered to protect themselves against HIV/AIDS and unintended pregnancies.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Nothing I’ve done or seen could have prepared me for what happened next. I emerged from the car to face a tiny, dark tunnel that began between two shanties which were actually exposed entirely at the front. The tunnel, about 18″ wide and less than 6′ tall, was entirely black – no light at all. The uneven cement was wet from an unseen water source. I hunched down, let my eyes adjust, and held that hand of 16 year old, Nasreen, who escorted me into the reality of this “housing” compound that accommodates 10,000 people. It twisted and turned unexpectedly, I never got my bearings. Noise was all around, the sounds of people living…conversations, a t.v. (there is more jerry rigged electric around here, it’s amazing none of it goes on fire), and children squealing. The children, who had been at the car when I arrived, would crazily appear in cracks along our way that were so small I hadn’t thought they were passageways. Yet, from floor to ceiling the slim, dark space would impossibly fill with faces.

Eventually, Nasreen and I arrived at a wooden ladder, which we climbed up into the 2 tiny rooms she shares with her HIV+ mother, Kausar, and her brother. Incredibly, this is a double decker affair, one stacked on top of the other. I was pretty much speechless…there are no words. One truly has to see it to grasp what I am vaguely intimating.

When Kausar found out she was HIV+ in the 1999, the doctor said, “There are drugs, you cannot afford, them, and you’ll be dead in 5 minutes anyway.” Indignant, she ripped her test result paper in half and slapped him across the face. He pressed charges. In court, she spoke on her own behalf. The judge saw things her way, and demanded the doctor pay her a small fee in damages. Hence, a spit fire of an HIV activist was born. Kausur works for PSI and escorts other HIV+ patients as they go to doctors, receive care, etc. She has a fierce innate sense of justice.

During hard times, Nasreen scrounged for her family to stay alive. She begged. She worked. Eventually, she herself went so hungry, a teacher finally reached out to her, learned her story, and personally gave her money for food. Nasreen wants to be a doctor. Although quiet and respectful, she is a teen, and became a little bored with her mother’s story telling. The impatient sighs gave her away. (It was really cute.)

Remarkably, when I asked Kausar if she has discussed sex education with Nasreen, the answer was no. I boldly initiated the dialogue right then and there and challenged Kausar: You know she’s going to learn somewhere. Do you prefer she learn from her friends or you? Can you control or influence what her friends say, if what they tell her is even accurate? Do you want to shape her values and decision making? Do you know if men approach her? Nasreen, are boys flirting with you? (Yes.) Would you rather learn from your Mummy? Do you want to ask her first, or would you feel better if she brought it up? (The latter.)

It was a good visit. Kausar is a pistol. She has so very, very little and gives entirely of herself. She has a very charismatic faith in God and credits God for her strength. Where we sat, surrounded by corrugated tin walls covered with newspaper for a spiffed up look (flour and water is the paste that holds it together, a chore of Nasreen’s), which is also where they sleep, live, everything. The other room, even tinier, is where they use hauled in water (up that ladder??) for bathing, and they have a tiny kerosene lamp for cooking. We went over their diet; it is very modest (bread and chai for breakfast, vegetables the rest of day, very little protein), but they get by and they don’t go too hungry much of the time.

I came to India for Nasreen.

Actor and humanitarian Ashley Judd, board member of Population Services International (PSI) and Global Ambassador for YouthAIDS, will be writing posts for the ONE Blog during her March 2007 travels through India. During the trip, Ashley will address women's issues, and have the opportunity to discover how families can be empowered to protect themselves against HIV/AIDS and unintended pregnancies.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Today was fantastic. Diane from PSI and I drove over to Cotton Green, a fascinating staging area for truckers near the Mumbai dock.

The dock is such that truckers arrive in this area to wait for days while goods arrive and are loaded. It is actually is a sort of village for thousands of men; they line their colorful, hand painted trucks up according to state of origin, men of similar backgrounds making a family of choice for the time they are in Cotton Green. They sleep in their trucks, and they have a tiny little kerosene flame for cooking. The truck is their pride and joy, as it should be! They live in them, earn their living via them, and they are fabulously decorated in ways that reflect the fact that their entire lives depend on them.

These men are on the road for months at a time, crisscrossing the giant subcontinent that is India on its thousands and thousands of miles of national highway system. Away from their wives, they go to commercial sex workers often, and they are at high risk for STIs and HIV, which of course they then take home to their wives. Rural, married women are the highest new infection group in India.

Our outreach here has been in place since 1998 and was an absolute joy to see. Yellow coat wearing counselors were stationed intermittently along lines of trucks that stretched as far as the eye could see. One group was staging a very dramatic and loud play, punctuated by an attention grabbing drum beat, the plot of which was safe sex. Another group offered a ball toss game (I missed both my tries). The results lead, win or lose, to dialogues about sex: what is safe sex, what kinds of women might have HIV (any and all! Looking healthy doesn’t mean for sure she's not! Use protection with each partner!), how does one reduce risk, where are products and services available, the importance and confidentiality of HIV testing. The counselors, as always, were clear, engaging, sensitive, and handled the tone of their target groups perfectly.

When I began this work years ago, I was sick and shattered by brothels alone. Truckers in India are themselves exploited at every turn, much like the CSWs. I learned today more about the difficulties of their lives. Some Indians believe truckers are responsible for HIV and ostracize them. One man with whom I spoke longs to marry, but each time a woman's family discovers his occupation, they withdraw her availability to marry him. They are not paid a living wage, either. Poverty reduction solutions are what each of these groups, without exception, need.

Actor and humanitarian Ashley Judd, board member of Population Services International (PSI) and the Global Ambassador for YouthAIDS, will be writing posts for the ONE Blog during her March 2007 travels through India. During the trip, Ashley will address women’s issues, and have the opportunity to discover how families can be empowered to protect themselves against HIV/AIDS and unintended pregnancies.

Monday, March 19, 2007

A lovely young man showed me a powerpoint presentation about our micro finance and credit programs. It was utterly thrilling. CSWs (Commericial Sex Workers) are in unbreakable cycles of vicious debt: to the people who own them, the madams who run the brothels, and the money lenders who do the classic scam of high interest rates when a woman has an emergency and cannot say no. The deal is so stacked against them, and they suffer, their children suffer, the families back home whom they are supporting suffer.

Our program seeks to remedy that, emphatically interrupting the cycle for them, yet, it is run by them. The women are counseled about the importance of savings and encouraged to set goals: their children’s education, for example. Sangini, which means “friend,” creates a photo I.D. for each CSW. Identification is a huge barrier to banking, as they require papers, such as a birth certificate. These women simply do not have such since they were trafficked, tricked, or simply so rural and poor, or all of the above. Each day, someone from Sangini will come to each brothel to pick up deposits, even if it is only 1 rupee. The member may withdraw her money at any time, in any amount, without penalty; while deposited, it earns a healthy, fair interest. It’s simply the neatest operation. They have outfoxed the cheaters and owners at every move with targeted fiscal intervention that puts what the CSW earns under her own control for the first time!!!

Economic empowerment is an essential piece in the complex puzzle of disentangling women from exploitation; I love all our programs in each of the ten countries I have personally visited, but this one I believe is truly special. It’s the first of its type worldwide and has awesome potential to explode to the benefit of once hopelessly trapped women everywhere. Rock on, Sangini!!!

***

Next I visited with four members of Sanghamitra (our peer educators) – Shehnaz, Akatai, Indira, and Simla; each of whom explained how different their lives are by virtue of sharing their experience, strength, and hope with other CSWs They detailed what it’s been like to find their voices, gain a measure of self esteem, self worth, self respect, and some self love. They were a very typical sampling of CSWs: one was sold into a brothel from her village by an uncle for 3,000 rupees (about $900US); one came knowingly out of starvation and the need to care for her two young children – one of whom had polio; one was trafficked from Nepal; and the other was brought to Mumbai by a friend to do “housework.” They each had had husbands at some point; one died, one disappeared, and the other two were alcoholics. Between them, these four older, beautiful, wounded but slowly healing women had 100 years of brothels between them; now, they have some peace of mind and some choices. It was quietly thrilling to hear them share some light as the finish to their stories of harrowing darkness.

In addition to running the center, which I expect will be a very uplifting visit this week, their job is to reach out as peer educators to other CSWs in the brothels to encourage them to join this community based organization, to describe its benefits and programs, and to talk, always to talk, about how to protect their reproductive health, avert unintended pregnancy, and stay safe. One of the women actually gets to live in the center; I wish they all did.

-Ashley