ABC Nightline Link

Attached is a link to a portion of the transcript for the ABC Nightline program on sexual exploitation that aired last week:

Tracking Suspected American Pedophiles in Cambodia
http://abcnews.go.com/Nightline/inside-investigation-alleged-sex-predators-cambodia/Story?id=8579591&page=4

How to help end sexual exploitation
http://abcnews.go.com/Nightline/end-sexual-exploitation-cambodia/story?id=8579638

One of Wellspring's beneficiary organizations, NewSong Center (also called Agape Restoration Centre), is highlighted in this link. Please contact us by email to naomi.zacharias@wellspringinternational.org or by phone to 770-449-6766 if you have any questions.

Nightline on ABC

ABC’s Nightline will feature a story on sex trafficking in Cambodia that is expected to air on September 16th, 2009, with two follow-up pieces for the evening news in the days thereafter. One of the follow-up stories will feature a girl called 'Bella' from the NEWSONG CENTRE which is run by one of the organizations we work with, AIM4ASIA in Cambodia. Nightline usually airs late in the evening so check your local listings. http://twitter.com/Nightline
Newsong Centre is a rehabilitation center that cares for young girls who have been sexually abused and tortured. Through intensive counseling, medical care, education, and a safe home environment, Newsong Centre is helping to reintegrate them into society at their pace. If you would like to know more about Newsong Centre, please let us know.

Gulu, Uganda

by Emily Sernaker

After a brief intermission, I am continuing my travels with Wellspring International; moving from the crowded streets of Mumbai, India, to dirt road villages of Gulu, Uganda. Having seen so much in two months, I sometimes wonder what will stay with me about my summer of mangos and malaria pills. My summer of ‘if it feels like something is crawling on you, that's because it is.’ I can feel my patience growing, personal space shrinking, hands washing off the red dirt, bug spray, sunscreen, sweat, baby snot, caked on my skin and think: today was a good day. My summer of ‘the rest of the world knows so much about us and we know so little about the rest of the world.’ A few more stamps in my passport to show where I've been, a few more inches of fabric to cover my knees. This is a summer of hospitality, crazy ‘they have nothing but still offer you everything’ hospitality. ‘Don't compliment her earrings because she'll take them off and give them to you’ hospitality. I am opening my eyes as wide as I can but I still can't take in all this sky. Doctors, nurses, teachers, lawyers, headmasters, accountants, construction workers, program directors: let's have a meeting. What does it mean to give effective and sustainable aid? This is my summer of crimes against humanity, the burns and bullet holes; I might go home and say I saw hell. How many miles are those women walking for clean drinking water? How many white people have taken their picture and walked away? This joyful summer of bright fabrics and toothy smiles, you can hold my hand and teach me how to dance. I've stopped trying to guess what's coming next. The road is redder, plants greener, drum beats harder then I'd remembered.
And when I see a woman sitting outside a hut, braiding another's hair, or watch a bird sit peacefully on top of a buffalo, everything inside me becomes calm. I might go home and say I saw Eden.

Mumbai, India June 2009

Part 5
by Emily Sernaker

MTV Cribs should do a special on Gandhi's house. I'm serious, instead of watching how Tommy Lee got a Starbucks built in his kitchen, we could be looking at Gandhi's spinning wheel and learning about how this delicate man would spin and spin for all of India. It would be great, we could look at Gandhi's jail bowl and read his correspondences with Tolstoy and Churchill; his plea to Hitler on behalf of humanity. The show could edit in some cool background music to take us through the dioramas set up on the second floor, showing all the important moments of Gandhi's life. Everyone will be surprised how powerful it is, to see a little paper mache figure doing the salt march. Fasting for peace, going to jail, giving voice to the voiceless, hope to the hopeless, all of a sudden there's a dot of red paint in the middle of his little white robe. The viewers of MTV Cribs will be crying as paper mache Gandhi chooses to see God in the eyes of his assassin. They'll hear the quote "my life is my message" and realize that before seeing that special, they had never known what bravery was.

After spending time in rural Badlapur, I've come back to the heart of Mumbai. Chillies tied to the front of taxis, jump onto a moving bus, drive on the wrong side of the road, everything feels like a high speed car chase unless you're stuck in traffic: Mumbai. Get your hair cut on a rock by the Indian Ocean, a shave on the street, a cold bath in a blue bucket: Mumbai. Please don't offer me drugs, or try to clean my ears; a pigeon flew into my face yesterday: Mumbai. Eat every drop of food on your plate and be thankful it was there. Watch someone write any word in Hindi and you'll swear they are an artist. Ask your waiter how many languages he speaks, I'll bet it's five. Don't make eye contact with men, they think it’s an invitation. Don't answer every question with "D) It is written," no one will think you are funny. I saw a story carved in an elephant tusk. I saw a suitcase full of money. I saw statues for a million gods, a million rain drops, a whole city under an umbrella with their arms around each other.

The programs I'm looking at are extraordinary. To watch an older woman who used to be in the district learning to read; to watch a younger woman who used to be in the district reclaiming her life through the vocational center; stitch by stitch it’s hers again. Everyone’s a before and after picture. Everyone has a story that changes everything. Whatever you expected to find here was wrong - if you think you're gonna be sad they'll shove hope down your throat until you acknowledge it and swallow. If you think you're gonna find answers they'll tell you a story so complicated you forget how to put one foot in front of the next. I can tell you I do feel their words sticking to me. I suspect that I'll always be both a little bit weaker and a little bit stronger for knowing.

Mumbai, India June 2009

Part 4
by Emily Sernaker

I think that if you were to ask, India would tell you I'm getting the hang of things. I say go on India, lean on your walking stick, wash your clothes in the river, pierce your nose, burn your trash. Honk your horn before you turn the corner, let them know you are coming. India, I see you gliding down the road with all that spiky firewood, silver jugs of water up on your head; I am in awe of your balancing act. Ask me of my family and offer me sweets. Offer me spices and stories so strong they make my eyes water every time.

Well, I've moved from staying at the women’s center to staying at a center for little ones with HIV. The kids are happy to have a new playmate, as I have quickly become their very own human jungle gym. A good chunk of my day is spent learning about the program, meeting with their teachers, nurses, doctors, and program directors. The rest of the day usually finds me with at least three kids in my lap, one of my hands engaged in an outside thumb wrestling match and the other hand in a circle of down by the banks.

When I asked if there was anything I could do to help, the staff immediately said I could start leading devotion time, which is an hour of stories and songs each day. This particular organization I am evaluating is a Christian organization, and I did have some songs from church camp in my back pocket. I did decide to shake things up however, teaching them an NSYNC classic complete with dance moves: God Must Have Spent A Little More Time On You.

Meal time is my favorite. The kids will spend half of it staring at my blue eyes going "are those original?" and the second half asking me questions about America. "What kind of vegetables do you eat there?" they ask. I spend the rest of the meal naming every vegetable I can think of. When I say one they recognize they cheer for that vegetable. Avocados are met with silence.

Meal time is also special because I have started to help feeding the little ones. I was trying to think of the last time I fed something (I usually forget to feed Buckely, our dog at home). Looking at some of these tiny kids - putting each scoop of food on the spoon so carefully, watching it go in their mouth, praying that that bite might make them just a little bit stronger - it is a different kind of focused and concentrated love. I hadn't experienced anything like it before.

Lately, India has been reminding me of my own childhood. All of these houses made of bricks, some just of sticks, waiting for something to huff and puff and blow them all down. All of these chickens crossing the road to get to the other side. The bed bugs bite, now guess who's a walking game of connect the dots. You know you are culturally insensitive when the first man you see in a turban reminds you of Poonjab from the movie Annie. At least I wasn't wrong to think that some of these giant viney trees are the kind Mogley would climb; the author of the Jungle Book was from Mumbai.

Maybe I've been thinking more about childhood because there was a time when I didn't know what humans were capable of doing to one another.
Last night I was invited to the home of two of the aid workers who help run the women's rehab center. I asked if the women from the center have trouble adjusting to the program after having such terrible past experiences. Without taking a breath, both workers immediately started telling me about prayer time. They said that sometimes, while the women are praying together quietly, one will just start screaming. They said that she screams because she is trying to get out all of her pain, all of her suffering. Every level of her humanity had been attacked: physically, mentally, spiritually. They told me that the scream that comes out of those women has such violence, such sadness, a bottomlessness to it.

The workers went on to tell me more stories about how HIV/AIDS victims are outcast from society, how there is serious government corruption, how women are horribly beaten, and on and on and on. I wished I could go back to just naming vegetables.

Mumbai, India June 2009

Part 3
by Emily Sernaker

I asked some of the women at the rehab center what the best part of their day was. Without hesitation, they all told me the same thing: the rain. It really is something to see everyone look at the water falling from the sky as if it is direct proof that God has heard and answered each of their prayers. I was excited for the rain too, until I realized that the water inspires more creatures to come out and play. The women were quick to give me advice: "Close your suitcase so bugs won’t crawl in. Shake out your shoes before putting them on." After a bug flew in my mouth the other night I started to think that keeping things shut in general seems to be a good rule.

The girls at the center think it is hilarious that I am acting like a contestant on fear factor. They love showing me toads the size of both my feet (I'm a size 6 1/2 ), mice, snakes, crabs, stray dogs ("they won't bite you unless you run away"), red velvet spiders, goats, beetles, lightening bugs, and butterflies (the best butterflies are yellow and look like little pieces of tissue paper floating all around). I will say that I do enjoy it when a cow just walks into the middle of the road and stops traffic cold. If he's feeling really sassy he'll plop down and take a seat in front of the cars. No one can go anywhere because a cow is taking some time to collect his thoughts.

On another note, India has style. It is common practice here to use dye from henna to over up grey hair - which means every day I see elderly people with bright orange hair. Besides embracing orange, India is all about being shiny. Sparkly nail polish, sequins all over shirts and scarves, flower stems wrapped in tin foil; India looks good in the sun. A few other things India supports: hand gestures, garlic/onion/peppers, the girl being three years younger than the man for marriage, tea time, three wheeled taxis, wild pigs.

I have enjoyed staying with the women at the shelter this last week. One of the program directors will pull me aside and tell me stories about what they've been through as we watch the ladies sip their tea and play with one another’s hair. If someone's scarf barely touches the ground, one of the women will rush up to help her fix it. Even the way they tease one another is very soft, very sweet.

Trying to understand things like the cultural importance of a woman's reputation, the idea of being someone’s property, the concept of a dowry, proper burials, the government’s relationship to the mafia's relationship to the madam's relationship to the prostitute's relationship to whoever sold her into the district – it’s all very difficult. In the red light district, one of the program directors handed me a pile of death certificates for all the people they had buried that year. "Look," he showed me, "This one was only 4 years old, this one was 5, 7, 10, 16, 23, 31..." I felt sick holding the papers, just feeling them in my hands.

Holding the hand of one of the kids with AIDS at a children’s center has a different kind of weight. We will be playing and he will be smiling at me and I will be smiling back trying not to stare at his speckled skin. I think, what kind of pain have you known in your little life?

At the same center everyone will cheer when it starts to pour. The children will sit together in front of the window, totally captivated, just watching the rain.

Mumbai, India June 2009

Part 2
by Emily Sernaker

This weekend I had the opportunity to visit all of the programs I will be evaluating for Wellspring International in the coming weeks. Medical clinics in the red light district, children’s homes and rehabilitation centers both in the district and an hour outside it, vocational training centers, and a home for children with HIV/AIDS were among the places I visited. In 48 hours I drank a lot of tea, listened to a lot of stories, and shook what must have been over 300 hands.

One of our early stops, a girls’ center outside of Mumbai, had teenage girls that were especially happy to see me. They asked me a couple of questions about home and suddenly started looking at me differently. There appeared to be a situation. Apparently, the girls believed me to be an Emily from America that had stayed with them a few years back.

“But, she was thin,” they explained, “and you are fat….so we figured that she had just gotten fat.” They paused. “But it turns out that you are not the same person.” Before my trip I had been going to the gym several times a week but apparently India didn’t notice.

In addition to being introduced to the programs outside of the city, the rain brought some other fun creatures that insisted on meeting me. Although I was startled to see that ants here are the size of my thumb, I quickly learned to put things in perspective. Now, I am glad to see the flies because a fly is not a mosquito. A cricket is not a cockroach, a lizard is not a scorpion, and thank God the walls on the bathroom are white so at least I can assess my company before I shower and decide on which bug is my biggest adversary.

Perspective doesn’t just come from the insects though - I have never felt so glad to see toilet paper or to drink cold water or to even just feel a breeze. It is an intense experience to be learning so much every day. It starts off simple, like trying to learn how to position my thumb to eat goewy rice with my hands. But that learning to eat the rice is nothing compared to trying to comprehend the stories I hear while I am eating.

Before coming here, I thought I had a basic understanding of the problems I would encounter. I memorized the statistics before my trip - ‘70,000 women in prostitution in the red light district of Mumbai, over 80% have AIDS…’ My second day here I met a woman. She had been sold into prostitution, locked in a room for 8 years and raped repeatedly. If she put up a fight she would be violently beaten. The only reason she had escaped was that one day, the madam of the brothel forgot to lock the door to her room.

To learn that the majority of the girls in the red light district are victims of human trafficking, to see the bars on the windows and actually imagine being trapped is sickening. During my tour of the district I was allowed to see one of the rooms the girls were forced to use at night. There were three mattresses with sheets hanging between each one. “Six customers at a time,” the madam explained to me. Over the beds were pictures of Jesus and signs that said “God is with you.” To know that the girls see those signs every night before, or as, they are forced to lie with their customers. I will never forget that image for as long as I live.

These last few days I have been staying in a women’s rehabilitation center outside of the city. All of the women have been victims of human trafficking, prostitution, or AIDS - usually all three. This morning, while I was talking with some of the women, a girl my age picked a white flower from a nearby tree. She came up to me and focused so intently on putting it in my hair just right. Her eyes narrowed, forehead scrunched, fingers worked intently. I thought about how hard she was trying to be in that moment and tried my best to be in it with her.