An Experience Abroad and Reflection

I had never seen a real whip much less seen it used to inflict gashes upon gashes on a young woman not unlike myself in age, skin color, and stature. The itchy swells covering my body from mosquitoes that had made a meal of me and the sheen, dripping sweat obscuring my vision were no longer concerns.

My eyes narrowed to focus on a tall irate man with a tightly clenched fist in one hand and the dark frayed weapon in the other. The loud bustling and bargaining in the marketplace came to a screeching halt as all eyes were wide and a chill of fear swept the crowd. The man’s low and menacing voice reverberated around the forming circle around the sobbing girl as she cowered below her master. After what seemed like a lifetime of his circling her, staring right through her, and spitting on her, he towered over her, and his screams of rage pierced my ears and made me break into tears. Shortly after, he fell into an intense silence. And suddenly he cracked the whip and I heard a high pitched shriek cut into me like a shard of glass. My pulse quickened. I could hear the panicked thumping in my ears; I was panting.

What I saw next terrified me even more. I saw not the contact of the whip onto the girl, but instead I saw the evidence of the abuse. The girl’s back dripped with bright red blood, staining her shirt. When she leaned back to examine herself for a brief moment, her master struck her front, causing her to collapse at his feet, crying out in pain.

Finally a woman in the crowd approached the man, desperately beseeching him to release the whip, and holding onto the man. He shoved her off him and continued the cruel violence as the girl continued to bleed out onto the ground.

The fear that had paralyzed me moments before bubbled to the surface, and I knew I had to do something. I was in a foreign country, and I was separated from my family. My eyes darted around the market as my mind raced with thoughts of what to do. Then I ran to the market entrance to the armed guard there and told him a man was hurting a woman out back and that he needed to come help right away. He and I pushed our way through the tightly packed and disorderly crowd and he wedged himself between the woman and the man with the whip, moving her to safety and taking the now bloody whip away from the man. It was then that my auntie yanked me away from the scene, rushing to get me out of there, like I had seen too much, and tears uncontrollably spilled down my cheeks.

We walked in silence to the truck, where she told me the girl had been the man’s slave and was stealing food from her ward, the man’s young son. My auntie told me she understood the slave’s tribulation; the slave took the picky toddler’s leftovers because she was starving, toiling away with a constant gnawing in the pit of her stomach as she watched a chubby little boy refuse high-quality food at every opportunity. I looked into Auntie’s eyes and nodded, without fully understanding what she meant when she said she “understood” the slave’s position. Auntie had plenty of food. Auntie wasn’t being publicly beaten to a bloody pulp. But as we pulled away from the market, I saw a single tear stream down her cheek, and we sat in silence on the ride home. The rest of my family didn’t want to discuss the matter further, but in my distressed curiosity, I demanded to know why my family was refusing me answers.

I sat down with my mom alone later that night where she told me that my great grandmother was sold at the age of three because her parents could not afford to keep her.  As a slave she taught herself to read and write by being attentive when the private tutors came to teach her wards and by reviewing books when everyone else in the home was sleeping.  She was sold again at the age of 15 to my great grandfather who beat and raped her. Unfortunately, she succumbed to cancer shortly thereafter. I was lucky enough to remember the lessons she had to give.  She fought slavery with whatever meager means she had. She taught herself to read and write in three languages and raised seven children, all with doctorates. My mother continued, saying that my paternal great grandmother was an African slave sold to a French baker in the Caribbean.

I have come to learn that slavery has many faces but is ultimately the same beast. I have learned multiple languages, taught Latino immigrant children to read and write, helped people find gainful employment in both the Philippines and in my own home community. Abroad I help orphans with cerebral palsy get a basic education and find employment with fair treatment. I have volunteered here in the US for labor unions such as “Work Unites Us All” in DC and in my hometown of Los Angeles. My outreach work has helped me approach the issue of modern slavery from all angles and take steps to abolish it everywhere.

As Frederick Douglass says, “Knowledge is the pathway from slavery to freedom.” The incident I witnessed that fateful day not long ago has become a part of my core. It is my very identity, and I have dedicated myself across disciplines to ending modern slavery so that young girl like myself, along with thousands of others, do not suffer in vain.