‘’When we look at human trafficking, we always think that it’s far away from us.’’ - Do Yun

I am the daughter of a courtesan. My mother would leave for work every day at 5 pm and return at 7 in the morning. We lived in a small, one-bedroom flat so it was easy to hear her as she would close the door and tiptoe around the apartment, trying not to wake me since I had school in an hour. I would clasp my eyes shut and listen to her take off her ghungroos - I would hear her wince as she applied ointment on the rash left by the brass bands of the ghungroo and slowly crawled onto the mattress next to mine. I would curl up in her arms as she slept, the smell of her breath, thick with the sweet scent of alcohol enveloping me as I pinched my nostrils shut and went to sleep. I would try and find solace from the scent by nuzzling against her cleavage - which smelled of tobacco and the iridescent, woody smell of money. It was the only time I could receive her embrace before she would leave for work again.

Yes, I am the daughter of a courtesan.

I hated the weekends because those were the days my mother would stay home with me. I would watch men enter and go, barely batting an eye towards me, a child who desperately craved any inkling of paternal love. Occasionally, one would point at me and ask for my ‘rate’. I did not understand the meaning of that word, but it made me happy that someone had noticed my presence. However, it infuriated my mother, and she would instruct them to leave. Afterwards, she would tell me to never be alone with a man, to never accept anything from anyone besides her, and to never follow a stranger without knowing where they’re going. Every time, tears would fall down her face, her eyes bloodshot red.

Yes, I am the daughter of a courtesan, and my mother was a victim of human trafficking.

She was sold to a brothel on G.B Road, Delhi - to a place where she was sexually abused and assaulted multiple times for the next 10 years, before embracing the role of a courtesan after failing to exit the racket due to lack of support, money, and resources. This form of modern-day slavery is actively practiced around the world as kids and women just like my mother are sold, abused, and trapped - all to become an invisible statistic, shunned from society due to the stigma that continually surrounds assault and trafficking survivors.

Yes, I am the daughter of a sex worker.

I am fortunate enough to be speaking here today, successfully veiled from the $10 billion industry and the worst form of a human rights violation that is sex trafficking. However, I cannot say the same for the millions of women and children around the world who are inducted into this world of abuse, into a world where they’re seen as mere commodities worth only a few moments of pleasure, into a world where men pay to use you and then throw you.

Into a world that does not see the victims of human trafficking, as human.

Why didn’t you leave, maa?

Maa, why do we still stay here? Why did you raise me here? Why don’t you just save up and leave? Please, let’s leave maa.

I had regurgitated these questions throughout my childhood, to only be met with silence and ignorance.

But, as I got older, she finally replied to me; ‘’Where else could I go? There was no one to support me and no one who would hire me because I had received the tag of prostitution and sex worker because I was trafficked. It’s like this for every other woman in this dhanda that I know. The society that ostracizes me does not see me as worthy of basic tolerance, respect, and understanding. All my government documents state that I am from a red-light area, and that is enough for employers to reject me. Where am I supposed to go?’’

Why did no one help you, maa?

Maa, how could they just leave you here? How did the police not know that you were here? Why did no one give you the support to stand on your own feet and leave? Why didn’t you receive treatment for the years of physical and mental abuse you suffered? Why didn’t you receive rehabilitation for your crippling addiction to alcohol? How can they be so cruel, maa?

Again, as I got older, she replied; ‘’They do not care, baccha. They would rather ignore me and countless other women than acknowledge our existence and talk about uncomfortable, taboo topics such as sexual assault and prostitution. They stand outside and harass me for making money through prostitution, but then refuse to help me when I seek shelter and a better life elsewhere. I’m stuck, baccha. Their legal systems do not recognize me and their governments do not see us as worth helping. I am continuously reminded that I do not deserve these so-called ‘human rights’.’’

Just like me, just like you, and just like every other child - my mother too had dreams and aspirations of her own. She dreamt of becoming an Indian Bharatanatyam classical dancer, to perform and be lauded for her talent and skills - however, that dream was simply a mere wisp of a life that could’ve been - a life that could’ve been if this form of modern-day slavery and human rights violation was acknowledged and abolished. A life that is possible if we, as people, are able to challenge a culture that tells men they are entitled to abuse women.

Inquilab Zindabad (‘’Long Live The Revolution’’)

My ancestors repeated this phrase 80 years ago during India’s revolution and fight for independence. Since then, it has slowly drifted into obscurity. However, I feel the need to repeat it once again in 2024, as we fight for the freedom of all women and all children, as we fight for their dreams and aspirations, as we fight for their right to live. 

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