Did you know that today is United Nations’ World Day Against Trafficking in Persons? The 2021 theme is “Victims’ Voices Lead the Way.”
“This year’s theme puts victims of human trafficking at the centre of the campaign and will highlight the importance of listening to and learning from survivors of human trafficking. The campaign portrays survivors as key actors in the fight against human trafficking and focuses on the crucial role they play in establishing effective measures to prevent this crime, identify and rescue victims and support them on their road to rehabilitation.”
United Nations
My dear friend at the safe house, Habiba, is a rescued victim of human trafficking. She wanted me to tell you her story. This is chapter 47 of my new book, Our Journey to El Dorado—Two Women, Two Immigrants, Two Worlds Collide—A True Story of Faith & Freedom From Human Trafficking.
Tell Them!
The small air conditioning unit on the wall over her bed wasn’t turned on. A small fan sitting on her nightstand blew gently on us. It certainly didn’t cool us off, but it helped to have some air movement across our sweaty skin.
We had just finished eating a vegetable tagine Habiba had prepared for me that morning. I had not intended to stay long, but our late morning visit soon turned into lunch.
We were just hanging out—two friends, two sisters. Lounging and comfortable, my two long legs were propped up on her bed.
“Tell me your story again,” I said to Habiba. “I have some questions, and I need you to fill in some gaps.”
Throughout the months, I had heard Habiba’s story multiple times. I tried as hard as I could to put the random and broken puzzle pieces together, but there were still missing pieces. There were still holes in the tapestry of her story.
I needed to know. I needed to know the truth. I needed to know the answers. I needed to know the facts.
I had been writing Habiba’s story for almost six months, and she still didn’t know. I was afraid to ask. I was afraid to tell her. I was afraid she would say “No, please don’t tell my story.”
I’d asked for advice from other writers.
“Since you’re changing her name and not using her location, you don’t really need her permission to write the book,” a journalist friend told me.
“I guess it’s more ethics than anything,” I told my friend. “I just feel like I need to tell her. I don’t want to do anything behind her back. It’s her story.”
HER STORY.
That afternoon, after Habiba recounted again to me some of the horrors of her journey from the strawberry fields to the brothel, I tried to tell her about the book I was writing. I was looking for an open door to ask her, but I was nervous.
“Do you know that most people in the world have no idea that these kinds of horrors are taking place?” I asked her. “Most people have no clue.”
Habiba looked at me surprised and said, “Really?”
“We have to tell your story, Habiba. People need to hear what has happened to you. There are so many women out there, just like you, and this must stop.”
She looked at me, listening intensively. That familiar, yet distant gaze of shock and unbelief still filled her eyes.
“If people hear your story and know what’s going on, maybe we can help one innocent girl, maybe we can stop one depraved man,” I explained to her. Habiba was silent.
I had the perfect opportunity to ask her. I had her full attention, but I was still too scared to ask. “I’ll try again next time I see her,” I thought to myself. “Maybe I’ll muster up enough courage between now and then.”
As I walked on the cobblestone streets from the safe house back to my car in a nearby parking lot, I thought about Habiba. What if her story could be redeemed? What if the healing, restoration, and redemption came through the “telling.” What if her journey, her trial, her road of suffering could somehow provide for her family? What if her dream to help feed her poor family could come true? What if God could turn her story around and use it to accomplish something good, something worthy, something true, something powerful? Was it possible?
That day, with each step to my car, my skin burned from the sun and sweat beads upon my brow. My mind wandered, and my thoughts dreamed. I began to dream again for Habiba.
What if her story—the one that I was writing and the one that you are now reading—could somehow bring awareness of the global disease of human trafficking around the world? What if Habiba’s broken journey could be a source of healing and rescue for other young girls and women still out there?
Like a winepress that painfully squeezes the grapes to produce sweet wine, what if Habiba’s painful and heartbreaking story could somehow bless others around the world? What if her story could somehow change me, my life, and yours, too?
What if . . . ?
That’s why I collected Habiba’s story. That’s why I sat down in a chair at my desk every day. That’s why I poured out these words on paper, alongside my tears. That’s why I wanted to tell the world what had happened to her and to so many other women like her.
That’s why . . .
When Habiba boarded that boat to sail from her homeland in Morocco to the European continent, she did not know what awaited her on the other side of the sea. She couldn’t have known. Her family couldn’t have known.
I don’t believe that her journey is lost. I don’t believe that her dream is dead. I don’t believe that her hopes are dashed. I don’t believe that her pain is wasted. I don’t believe that her story is over. I don’t believe that her tears are unnoticed.
Habiba has shed tears—many tears. However, her tears, her story, can be redeemed forever. Her journey to Spain can now provide for her family in Morocco. Partial proceeds of this book, Our Journey to El Dorado will be given directly to Habiba to send to her family on the other side of the sea.
Habiba’s story is providing for her family today—although not in the way she expected.
Today, as you read this book, as you shed tears of compassion and empathy, you, too, have become a part of Habiba’s redemptive story.
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I sat with Habiba on her bed at the safe house again that afternoon. I couldn’t let it go until we talked.
“People have to know. People have to hear your story—all of your story,” I insisted. “If we don’t tell them, they’ll never know.”
Every time I brought up the subject, fear gripped my heart. I was afraid to tell her I was writing her story. What if she said no?
Inside, I was struggling. Each time I sat down at the computer to write a chapter of her story, I wondered if Habiba would grant me permission to share her journey. My first full manuscript was almost complete. I had to tell her. I had to ask for her permission to tell the world her story.
But how?
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The following week, I went to the safe house to spend the day. Habiba and I took a walk downtown. After only a few minutes of strolling, she asked me if we could sit on a nearby bench. We watched the people walk by.
“Do you know that these people here, all these people walking by us, don’t know what has happened to you, what has happened to all the other women in the south of Spain?”
She looked at me with those same sad eyes.
“In the strawberry fields?” she asked.
“Yes, in the strawberry fields. We have to tell them, Habiba. They have to hear your story so that this will stop. We have to scream it from the rooftops and from the mountain tops so that the entire world hears. We have to tell the secret of what is happening to all the women and the little girls.”
“Tell them,” she said. “Tell them.”
I looked her in the eyes and took her hands in mine. That day, I made her a promise that I will forever keep.
“I will tell the world your story, but I promise never to tell anyone your name or your location. You will be safe. Your story will be safe. You can trust me.”
“Ok,” she answered. “Then, tell them.”
That’s what I have done. I have finished my task. I have kept my promise. I have done what God called me to do.
I have told you. I have told the world.
—The Cultural Story-Weaver
Let’s Weave Cultures!
Buy your own copy of Our Journey to El Dorado—Two Women, Two Immigrants, Two Worlds Collide—A True Story of Faith & Freedom From Human Trafficking. Partial proceeds will go to Habiba and the safe house work in Spain.
