Lane 14

The heat wraps around us like a wet blanket, the stench of human waste spiraling up into our nostrils. We are three women walking, for the first time, down Lane 14 in Kamathipura, one of the largest red-light districts in the world. I am American; my skin is white and my hair dark. At 39 years old, I have birthed three sons, grown them inside my body and brought them into this world. Every day I pour out my soul for my three boys, ages 13, 11, and 7. I spill the water of my heart all over the soil where their roots have dug down deep, inside the walls of our home.Whose sons are these, lining up outside these brothels, haggling over the price of a woman’s safety and dignity? Whose daughters are these, forced to sell their bodies for the price of a soda over and over every day of their young lives? Where are their protectors? Where is the outrage? Where are the angry mobs carrying torches lit with flaming justice running to rescue them?There are no angry mobs here. There is only business as usual. I stay close to my traveling sisters who are also from the States, and we walk closely behind Stella, our leader from BTC. We try to keep our eyes straight-ahead, avoiding eye contact with the men beginning to swarm the lane. Stella walks with a straight back, a strong stride, and her chin up. We draw courage from her. I see a woman bathing a chubby, brown-skinned baby with beautiful dark eyes on top of a blue plastic drum of water. He enjoys the water and splashes in it.Our fair skin draws attention as we walk through the lane. We are out of place here. The sun beats down from above; the bricks radiate heat from beneath. The chirping and wailing of car horns fills our ears, and we weave in and out among people and goats and bicycles and dogs and vehicles and garbage. The street itself seems to have life, carrying us all along in different currents.I follow Stella through the first brothel doorway. Above me, I see a metal railing draped with trash and string and human hair. The tangle of hair is blowing in the faint breeze; I wonder how long it has been caught there.The entryway is only big enough for us to pass through in a single file, so we fall in line behind Stella and follow her footsteps deep into the narrow front room. On the left is a cubby hollowed out of the concrete for a cooking pot and a few utensils. On the right, a wooden bench lines the wall. Two sari-clad women sit on one part of the bench, their ebony hair pulled back tight. A man with white hair and a short white beard sits on the other bench. Between the benches is a doorway leading to tiny rooms with tiny beds.I try to memorize every detail, but my brain fills too quickly and begins to overflow. Stella nods toward one of the women and says, “Pray.” I step toward her. Tentatively, I place my hands on her head. She closes her eyes to receive the blessing. Does she know the name of the God on whom I call? In her land of many gods, does she know the name El Elyon? I feel tentative and ill-equipped, but in this moment, I have entered into her life. I am not an angry mob. I have no flaming torch of justice to wield, but I see her. I see her there, trapped in a fate she’s been taught she deserves. I see her femininity and her beauty and the vastness of her soul that has been squeezed into a cage and locked shut. I see her there, selling away the sacred parts of herself to line the pockets of others. I see her there, and I will not harm her. I will speak tenderly to her. I will lift her up to my God and pray for justice and for mercy and for rescue. I will leave and tell others that she is there, that she is not forgotten. I have entered her world for just a few moments, but she has taken up residence in mine.Written by Jennifer Case Cortez