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Women Trafficking: True Story of My friend Printable Version PRINTABLE VERSION
by k, Nepal May 10, 2007
Human Rights , Slavery & Human Trafficking   Opinions
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Women Trafficking: True Story of My friend
Kamala Sarup

I wrote this diary about my friend. Actually after returning from Prostitute Brothel, my first meeting with her began the strange day for me. In a way, every day I have been meeting a person or the other. Whatever it may be, among those I met at this moment she is a bit different from other and, in fact, this is an important in our friendship. It's not that I am trying to keep this day separate from others from the expected thought of other things. I am not trying either to interpret the concept of the philosopher that people live in their own ways. Whatever it may be, in this situation of tension I am delighted to have met this friend.

She told me "My daily life's routine has started. The large city of prostitute brothel which is terrifying to look at with its tall buildings, I felt as if everyone who lived inside felt satisfied and they quenched their hunger. I don't like even to remember. I was buried in my mind's inner conflict of that really.

Due to the compulsion to sell my body every evening, all the time within me an unknown fear, terror and fright created an empire of its own. I felt restless at my living; I was disgusted every moment with that kind of life.

The notorious brothel where I was living was a place where thousands of girls like me had to sell their bodies for cheap prices. Alas! How hard and full of terror was to live in that environment! When I think of it, my heart trembles even today. Although the pain within me had another chief reason and that was the memory never left me. Almost always I remembered my village. The mountains, the waterfalls and the forests that extended far and wide looked as hard as life itself with them uphill and downhill filled with the crowds.

She further added "When I went to the market with my mother we had to cross through the dangerous wild forests. My mother had a dream exactly like mine that her daughter would get some education by going to the city and could stand on her own to make her living. But I was brought to this terrible brothel and was sold by my own uncle's son. I was sold just for twenty thousand rupees, and I came to know later that it was a brothel where thousands of girls were sold and they were forced to sell their bodies for a small amount of money. In a place where the human vultures spend money to play foul with raw flesh and the prestige of one was ruined just for a handful of coins, how could I survive in a place such as that? My heart was filled with depression and anguish, but I was unable to express any of my feelings to anybody because the trade of female bodies was found from big lodges to hotels and yellow mansions of that city .In that place bargain of girls, selling them and turning them into prostitutes by force inflicting untold tortures on them were just a common incident in that environment. The sexually lure rich men filled their thirst with me everyday.

She was obviously scared. She cried "It was a great joke that my right over my own body was snatched away from me. Often a question tormented me from time to time. After all, what was the real meaning of a person to live as a woman? Was it just a means of providing cheap enjoyment which one could have by paying money? I hated my existence as a woman in thousands of questions. What a pity! My body was torn and snatched out by hundreds everyday. When I saw the mistresses of brothels surrounding me, every time I felt inferiority complex. All the males were hungry for fulfilling their sexual passion. I felt a strong hatred towards men. But despite the fact I had to sell my body.

While she was talking, crying and talking "When I came to Kathmandu, I had a great imagination. I had fancied a separate sky. My life, in fact, was quite terrible and horrible as I had to live surrounded twenty four hours by agents and customers. At the gates of every building there were agents busy haggling for our bodies as if we were beasts kept for auction. And we waited for the customers inside a very dark and foul smelling room.

Who was there to love me in that world of money ? Everywhere there were alcoholic drinks, money and only customers. At that time, I was completely robbed. The value of my body and of my soul was completely depleted. But now, I have returned to my own country with the germs of AIDS in with me. Although I served the brothel for so many years. I have gone empty now. When I have come back, I am here with empty mind and carrying a terrible disease with me. She said.

I asked her a lot of questions, only some of which she could answer. She spent the time talking with me and said " After my arrival here, I have met the man without name. I found out that he hadn't got married yet. Really, I didn't see any difference between the man without name in the past and at the present time. He showed the same attraction, the same love and the same restlessness to see me.
At this moment, he is closer to me and I am crying to open up some thing of life to him with some shyness. To be closer to each other is a pleasant moment.

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Journalist and Story Writer Kamala Sarup is specializing in in-depth reporting and writing on Peace, Anti War, Women, Terrorism, Democracy, and Development. Some of her publications are: Women's Empowerment in(South Asia, Nepal)Booklet). Prevention of trafficking in women through media,(Book) Efforts to Prevent Trafficking in for Media Activism (Media research). Two Stories collections. Her interests include international conflict resolution, cross-cultural communication, philosophy, feminism, political, socio-economic and literature. Her current plans are to move on to humanitarian work in conflict areas in the near future. She also is experienced in organizational and community development. A meeting of jury members held on 21 March in Geneva has decided to attribute Kamala Sarup, The Conservative Voice, writer, with a Honorable Mention of International Award for Women Issue.

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