After nearly two hours of travelling, my Moldovan colleagues
Adrian and Livia stopped the car in the middle of a gravel road at the top of a
long, winding hill. They made their way to a rusted gate that demarcated the
property line of a family that lived in a dilapidated house. Turquoise paint
peeled away from warped, sun-bleached wooden planks, while the breeze sucked
curtains out of broken window panes. The yard was bare, and rusted hulks of
farm equipment could be seen through the crushed walls of a collapsed barn.
There was no electricity, no running water, and the outhouse door was left
ajar.
It was at times like these between Adrian, Livia, and me
where our language barrier was most noticeable. I had no idea of their plans,
so I just followed. Upon reaching the threshold of the gate, I caught a glimpse
of an elderly women making her way to the door. She walked with a severe bend
in her spine—most likely the consequence of years of farm labor and osteoporosis.
With her came three children. Their ages varied from 10-16. There were two boys
and a young girl. They didn’t speak to us.
After some hushed conversation, Adrian turned to me and waved me inside.
I hesitated. I made it to the steps leading to the entrance, glanced at the
children, and then turned back around. I walked across the yard, back through
the gate, and stood by the car. I didn’t leave that spot for an hour.
--
In the summer of 2015, I travelled with three
representatives from the Presbyterian Foundation to the European nation of
Moldova to document the work of Diaconia Connections (the nonprofit I work
for), and our Moldovan partners CASMED and ProCoRe. Our goal was to produce a
video about the work being done to fight human trafficking.
Human trafficking is a reprehensible crime. And Moldova,
Europe’s poorest country, is ground zero. Cornered between Romania, Ukraine, and the
Black Sea, the country has experienced years of economic dysfunction, political
corruption, and civil war. For working-age adults and young people, opportunity
is often found by seeking employment in Russia or the European Union.
Moldova is rated as a Tier 2 Watch List by the US State
Department. It is a primary source of men, women, and children trafficked for
sex and forced labor. Victims are sent to Turkey, Greece, Cyprus, Russia, and
the European Union. Nearly 80% of those trafficked work in the sex industry.
The problem is most egregious in Moldova’s rural
communities, where educational and economic opportunities are lacking.
Individuals in the countryside are desperate for opportunities. And desperate
people without the proper means to acquire work visas, are prime targets for
human traffickers. In Moldova, there are plenty of potential victims.
--
We met up with our Moldovan colleagues, Livia and Adrian,
early on in our trip and they stayed with us for a few days, driving us around
Moldova, where we visited villages and farm communities. But instead of
listening to stories of capture, abuse, escape, and healing from individual
survivors, we instead visited the damp, musty homes of elderly women suffering
from diabetes and hypertension. We came upon the cottage of a 75-year-old man
uncontrollably shaking from a neurological disease that rendered him unable to
speak or feed himself. The nurse from CASMED that cared for him walked over 7
miles a day to wash his soiled bed linens and slice his bread.
We had lunch with a single mother and her son who was
physically disabled and unable to leave the house. We listened intently as she
pleaded with local government officials to assist her in rebuilding the
foundation of her home. In the middle of the conversation, the mayor of the
town leaned over to me and said in English, “Her house is going to be condemned
next month. We don’t know what to do. We have no money to help.”
At some point I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt like a
voyeur. The overbearing sense of helplessness began to weigh on me, so I
created an alternative reality. I convinced myself that the people we were
visiting were acting—perhaps for the camera. I decided to look away, to ignore
the problems that were presented before me—which is why, at our last stop, I
refused to enter the house.
I stood by the car indignant and upset that Adrian and Livia
had taken me to the home of an elderly women, caring for children, who was
clearly uncomfortable and in need of some kind of material aid. Once again, I
brought nothing. I had no food and no money. And this time, I had little
empathy. I don’t know, maybe I was ashamed of my own privilege?
My colleagues from the Presbyterian Foundation, along with
Adrian and Livia, returned to the car. None of them asked me about my decision
to stay outside. Instead, they recounted another tragic story that had become
all too familiar. Six years ago, the children’s mother was lured by work
“recruiters” from Russia, promising a job in the hospitality industry in
Moscow. Thinking that she would work in a hotel or café, the mother gave money
to the recruiters to purchase a work visa. She left. And has never been back.
It is now known that she was trafficked into prostitution by an organized crime
syndicate. Her children have spoken with her only twice since she’s been gone,
and they do not know when or if she will return. The task of caring for her
children has fallen to her impoverished and elderly mother—a situation that
only continues the cycle of poverty and vulnerability that enables traffickers
to take advantage of desperation.
--
After some reflection, I thought more critically about my
own decision to not enter the house. Livia and Adrian, in the face of problems,
never looked away. They listened to the stories of people and actively found
ways to help. The work of CASMED and ProCoRe are testaments to the power of the
human spirit in the face of overwhelming challenges. The nurses from CASMED
provide not only medical assistance, but offer company and conversation,
reminding those they care for that they are loved and remembered. Social
workers from CASMED and ProCoRe assist elderly caretakers with their expenses,
providing educational materials, a living stipend, and food throughout the
year. Youth counselors and workers
provide job training, therapy sessions, and organize cultural outings to help
young survivors of trafficking heal. I
began to feel ashamed that I, in my privilege, did not allow the children or
the grandmother to tell me their story.
Livia, Adrian, and all the individuals we visited, forced me
to realize an often forgotten fact: that a crime like human trafficking affects
entire communities in addition to those trafficked. Men who have been sent away
to Moscow to work on construction sites as bonded laborers are unable to remain
home and attend to their ailing mothers. Women forced into prostitution in
Turkey are unable to care for their aging fathers. Bright students desperate
for work and educational opportunities drift away to cities and across borders,
weakening their communities and impoverishing the life and future of their
villages. But the story doesn’t need to
stop there.
No matter how insidious the crime trafficking can be,
together, survivors and regular people like you and me can fight back. It is
why Adrian and Livia continue to care and provide healing for all of those
affected--the survivors and those who are left behind. It’s why survivors
themselves are often their own best advocates. They are strong, resilient
people who have a lot to teach us. It’s why we should never ignore their
stories. It’s why we should actively
search for those places in our communities where trafficking is happening and volunteer,
donate to, or work alongside those organizations fighting this terrible crime.
--
We were about an hour and half north of the capital Chisinau
when I saw my final glimpse of the Moldovan countryside. It was awash in an
auburn, early-morning light that intensified the dour hues of plowed fields and
barren hillsides. Thousands of dried sunflower stalks shuddered in the wind
while elderly farmers dressed in loose-fitting cotton overalls lounged under
spindly beech trees. Women’s Orthodox head scarves splashed radiant shades of
red and blue across the landscape as they slowly herded untethered cows into
the irrigation canals for water. It was a bucolic, peaceful scene. For while
the land showed signs of serious erosion and the people working the fields
conveyed a life bereft of material wealth, it was nevertheless enticing. It was one of the few moments where I really
paid attention, when I chose not to look away.
While Moldova might be far away, the trauma of trafficking
hits close to home. As citizens of Milwaukee and the United States, we should
work to fight injustice and human trafficking here and in places like Moldova.
It might be uncomfortable and we might have to learn where we can be of help, but
much more is lost when we avert our eyes and stand listlessly by on the roadside.
