Jack Wilder - The Missionary

“Slavery didn’t end when Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation. Slavery still happens. Right now, today, this very second, there’s someone in chains, locked away until the next time someone pays to have involuntary sex with them. They’re drugged, starving, naked, and alone. No one is going to rescue them. This event, as incredible as it is, as many people are here donating their time and their money and their talent, isn’t even a drop in the bucket. It doesn’t even begin to touch the problem. But it’s a start.”

She closed her eyes, blinking away tears, swiping under her eyes with a finger. “There’s someone else here that’s going to tell you her story.” Wren stepped away, turned to take the arm of thin, fragile-looking blond girl with frightened eyes.

Lisa stepped up to the podium, visibly terrified and shaking. She had a piece of paper crumpled in her fist, and she unfolded it, smoothed it against the podium and read from it without looking out at the audience. “My name is Lisa Johnson. I grew up privileged. My father was a politician, a successful and important senator. I lived in a big house, drove a nice car, went on fancy vacations. I went skiing in the Alps, had dinner beneath the Eiffel Tower, and drank wine in Tuscany. When I finished my second year of college, I spent the summer backpacking around Europe and Asia. We went to Germany and France and the UK, Italy, Greece, Egypt, Spain, Thailand. And the Philippines. Manila. And just like Wren, I was kidnapped in broad daylight. I never even saw them. I was jerked from behind into an alley. A cloth bag was put over my head and a needle poked into my arm. When I woke up, I was in a locked room with no window. I was naked. I hurt, all over. I’d been…raped…while I was unconscious. Hours and hours went by, without a sound, without light or water or food. And then the door opened, and a man came in. He left the door open, and another man came in. The second man unbuckled his belt, took it off. He hit me across the face with it. I cried and screamed and begged him to stop, but he didn’t. When I was too hurt to move, he raped me. And then another man came in, and he raped me too. This…this went on so long I stopped counting how many times I was raped. They left me there, bleeding. I passed out, and when I woke there was a bowl of water and a bowl of dog food on the ground. Actual dog food. I was so hungry that I—I ate it.

“Some version of this happened every day. Really, there wasn’t day or night. Just…the time between.” Lisa paused to compose herself, and it took visible effort. “I have no way of knowing from my own personal experience how long I was in that room, but my family says I was missing for four months. No contraceptive was ever used. I got pregnant, and it was…rip-ripped from me. With a coat hanger. There in the room, just…dug out of me. I was raped again within hours. No one cared how loud I screamed.

“I’ll never be able to look at a man again, not the same way. I’m terrified of…of everything. I still sleep on the floor sometimes. I go to sleep in my bed, and wake up on the floor, in the corner, crying.”

She broke, then, crumpled. Wren caught her and helped her from the stage. Lisa’s father, Senator Johnson, took the podium, his face grave.

“What happened to my daughter…it can happen to anyone. It does happen, all the time. It’s probably happening to someone right now. I’ve helmed a lot of projects in my career. I’ve served on numerous committees and oversight panels. I’ve campaigned based on any number of social and economic and political issues. I still stand by all those things. But this? This is personal. This isn’t about my career as a senator. I’m not using this to get votes, or to get into the Oval Office. This is purely about stopping this evil from occurring any longer. It’s about making sure that what happened to…to Lisa—” his voice broke, and he paused for a long minute, breathing hard and blinking, before he could continue, “—that what happened to Lisa doesn’t happen to anyone else. It’s about helping those who have been through it and survived. Lisa was hospitalized for two months when we got her back. She went through dozens of rounds of surgeries to repair the damage done inside her. She’ll never have children. And psychologically? I can’t touch her. She freaks out if I try to hug her. My own—my own daughter, and I can’t even comfort her when she’s upset. It’s been more than two years, and she’s been in therapy twice a week ever since. The medical bills from all this are staggering. For someone less economically secure than I, the bills would be ruinous.

“To this end, I’m proud to announce the formation of the International Abolition Coalition. This is a multi-government cooperative. It spans forty countries all around the world, with more signing on every day. It encompasses police forces and national military forces, investigative agencies, aid relief organizations, the Red Cross, hospitals, halfway-houses, insurance agencies…the list goes on. The singular goal of the IAC is to halt human trafficking in its steps, to prosecute on an international level anyone found engaging in this vile practice, and to provide free, professional aid to victims of trafficking and sexual slavery.

“Miss Wren Morgan was absolutely instrumental in getting this Coalition off the ground. Her passion, her willingness to use her story, her personal engagement and tireless working has made this possible. She’s been one of the few people outside of my wife Annette and I that Lisa has opened up to.

“And as for Lieutenant Pressfield? I’ve already thanked him in person. He received a Silver Star for his part in rescuing my daughter, which he and his men accomplished at great personal cost. Four men died saving her. But a mere thank you, even a military medal…it’s not anywhere near enough.” Senator Johnson met Stone’s eyes, and the message Stone saw there was clear.

After a moment, the senator continued. “Ladies, gentlemen. Don’t just write a check and go about your lives. This affects us all. I know for a fact that there is a person in this room whose teenaged daughter is a victim of domestic human trafficking. This person…I won’t name them or provide any identifying information, but…this person’s daughter suffered from depression. She turned to drugs, and through a tragic concatenation of events, she ended up on the streets of Los Angeles, homeless and addicted to heroin, starving to death. She was forced into sexual slavery in return for food and drugs. This was in suburban Los Angeles , people. LA. Not Thailand or the Philippines. She was arrested for solicitation by the LAPD, and her story came out. She was returned to her home, to her parents, and now she’s living in a halfway house in Delaware, with seven others like her. This is our nation, ladies and gentlemen. It’s the country we’ve fought and died for. We’re supposed to stand for freedom and opportunity. But things like this are happening, just down the street from where we stand. People you know, their kids, their friends.

“Don’t ignore this. Don’t bury your heads and go back to your lives and your iPhones and Facebook updates. Make a difference. Every dollar donated, every second spent volunteering at any one of the IAC shelters that will be opening all across the nation in the coming months…it all helps.”

Senator Johnson stepped away, and the gathered crowd clapped and cheered. They quieted when Wren re-took the stage.

“Next up is a young woman named Irena Bulova. She’s originally from Russia, but she came to the US five years ago to pursue her dream of becoming a dancer. She was forced into prostitution, and only recently escaped. It’s her story to tell, and I’ll let her tell it, her way.”