One of the Girls

 One Friday night in mid-April, I accompany a group of volunteers from my church who support sexually-exploited women in the Strasbourg area. It’s a cause in which I’ve wanted to be involved for many years. Back in the UK I provided voluntary administrative assistance for charity Beyond the Streets. I was, however precluded from offering more practical support to their sister organisation, Door of Hope as it requires a long-term commitment of at least 18 months. That’s hard in a city of transit like London. I’ve changed jobs twice, moved house three times and relocated country in the past two years alone.

Thus, I see it as something of a God-send to discover that EPIS has a dedicated street team. A month prior to my first outing I meet up with Sabrina, one of the team leaders. She’s a remarkably equanimous petite brunette of Spanish descent. We spend time getting acquainted. My French is not on top form that evening but Sabrina is patient. She wants to know my motivation for joining the team. I tell her of my voluntary experience back in GB. She explains that most of the women the team come across are either of West African or Eastern European origin. Pimps and madams use various methods to exert control over the women. Those from Nigeria have often been forced to participate in elaborate juju ceremonies where they invoke curses on themselves should they ever seek to escape. The families of those from the former Soviet bloc are threatened. 

At the end of our rendez-vous, Sabrina kindly offers to drop me off home on the way back to her place in the sticks. We pass the European institutions. I mention I live and work in the vicinity. She informs me that much of the team’s outreach is based not too far from there. When the international dignitaries come into town for a big conference, business for the Girls’ exponentially booms. It’s hardly surprising but it still makes my blood boil. It's yet one more example of the abuse of power. The so-called defenders’ of human rights willingly participate in the denigration of another’s.

Some weeks after meeting with Sabrina, it's the evening of my first outing with the team. I swiftly become aware that I am not at all well-prepared. I’m wearing masochistically impractical block heels. I could have done with an afternoon siesta too. It’s going to be a long night. Still, I have my Christian-feminist zeal to carry me through. I hope.

The group goes out several nights per month, mainly on a Friday. The official meeting time is 8pm. Sabrina arrives early to welcome us. She’s expecting a particularly good turn out. We squeeze into one of the back offices. There are kettles, flasks and sachets of hot drinks everywhere. I am to discover that this isn’t merely to keep the team warm. We’ll be offering beverages to those we encounter during the course of the night. The rest of the group takes an hour to trickle in. Every one who arrives insists on the cheek-to-cheek bisou. I promptly warn them that kissing perfect strangers is far too intimate for my anglicised customs. I abstain as much as possible. I’m also suddenly feeling self-conscious about my French.

(courtesy of The Praying Woman)

Joseph, a shy young Chemistry student, makes awkward conversation with me. At one stage, he claims some African languages sound ‘weird’. I correct him as patiently as I can manage.

That’s subjective. ‘Weirdness’ does not exist in this context.

Bless him. He’s making an effort.

We are eventually joined by one of the other team-leaders, Luc. It is thanks to his Sunday announcement back in January that I first find out that the group exists. In real life, he's open, amicable and much younger than I recall.

When all the group is gathered, Luc leads us in a time of prayer in the Upper Room. The team affectionately refer to the women as The Girls or Princesses. I have some difficulty keeping up with the speed of conversation and don’t feel confident to pray in French. Thankfully, nobody asks. Yet.

We divide into smaller groups. Two or three will reach out to the Girls, the others will focus on rough-sleepers in town. I will be joining Sabrina and Joseph. I comment on how small the teams are. Sabrina explains that any bigger than three might be too overwhelming for the women.

The routine is simple enough. We offer hot drinks, an opportunity for the women to share whatever is on their mind and suggest prayer if they want it. The group also has contacts with those who work in social services, should the Girls want to be signposted.

Sabrina drives us out to an area known as the Citadel. All three of us take it in turns to pray before we set out. I alternate between English and tentative French. 

The night's activities will expose me to a side of Strasbourg with which I was not previously familiar. 

Before long we meet a couple of Romanians. Gabriela recognises Sabrina, welcoming her warmly and eager for some tea.  Her companion, Regina, is polite but reticent. She drops back as Gabriela discusses her mother’s health problems with Sabrina. We pray for her recovery and Gabriela’s children. On cue, a potential client calls the two away. Before leaving they mention other Girls have gathered up the road.

We walk for a while before we see any more. Sabrina says it’s a quiet night, considering the relatively mild weather. After some time we come across a trio of Albanians. The youngest has neither French nor English. I feel terrified for her. Without either of these languages she has even less control over what she does with clients. She is initially reluctant to engage but quietly sidles up when she sees us talking to her acquaintances, Belinda and Marina. They have just celebrated Orthodox Easter. 

Sabrina enquires about doctrinal similarities. Marina and Belinda converse enthusiastically, sipping cups of coffee in between. We ask the name of their younger friend (Anna). The discussion oddly turns to 90s American films. Then American Pie. Then sex. Joseph in his well-intentioned but gauche manner tries to explain biblical teachings about lovemaking. I’m pretty sure the women are already well-versed in it. We pray for Belinda's mother (health issues again) and move on.

Further on in our travels, we meet Kate. She waits alone at a deserted bus stop. Her greeting is guarded, despite having met Sabrina on at least one previous occasion. She mentions to Kate that I am also of West African descent. Kate switches to English. We bond over our shared heritage and similar physiology. She welcomes our prayers. I lead in English. She has four children back Home for whom she’s trying to provide. She wants a way out of the life. Any job would do.

We’re only half way through a two-hour + shift and the night is already taking its toll. My shoes are biting. The temperature's dropping. Emotionally I am finding it hard to hold it together. I fear for the safety of the Girls’, especially those on their own. The reality of their existence hits me like a blast. I’m struggling with anger and resentment towards the johns.

Near the end of the shift we bump into strident Albanian beauty, Lisa. Something about her indomitable spirit makes me adore this youthful mother-of-two in an instant. All three of us stand slack-jawed (even the stoic Sabrina) as Lisa recounts in rapid French the horrific health issues she’s experienced lately. She’s suffering from complications following a botched termination. She went to see a doctor in Germany after falling pregnant when a client’s condom split. Part of the foetus was accidentally left behind. She has bled profusely for over a month. 

Lisa isn't apprehensive about sharing the gruesome details. There’s not a hint of self-pity in her tone. No welling up. Nothing but raw indignation. The trip to Germany, procedure and medication has set her back several hundred euros, not to mention the impact on business. She finds out too late that this doctor has a reputation for mishaps. Several minutes into her distressing monologue, Lisa’s phone goes off. I’m desperate to pray with her. She excuses herself, taking the call at a distance. We hang around. She’s not coming back anytime soon. We make do with praying for her as we head back to Sabrina’s car.

En route, a couple of Girls call us over. Laura is another force of nature; assertive and quick as a whip. In the brief time we spend in her company, she displays cognisance of four languages. She intermittently communicates with Sabrina in Spanish. She castigates a potential client who drives by without stopping, gesticulating fiercely as he whizzes past.

He’s watching porno in his car. What’s the bloody point?

Laura is with a younger blonde. They drink very sugary coffee and catch us up on their news. She asks after Luc. It’s not the first time one of the ladies has inquired of him. Laura is reluctant for us to talk about personal matters in front of her protegée. Next time, she says. She asks us to pray for her in our own time.

We take our leave. We’re late. The others will be waiting for us back at church. As we walk towards Sabrina’s car another young blonde emerges from the bushes, running after us in impossibly high stilettos. We stop. This is why we came. Our timetable is determined by the Girls' needs. Any slither of comfort, hope or practical assistance we can offer them, by the grace of God, is well worth going off piste.

I am introduced for the umpteenth time that night as the rookie. I don’t mind. I intend to become as well-acquainted with the Girls as the other members of the team. That is, until they are able to finally get out of the life.

On the drive back to church Sabrina spots some of the princesses whom we didn’t see earlier. She regrets not having had a chance to interact with them. I reassure her that we spoke to whomever we were supposed to that night.

As upsetting as the encounters have been, I can't have possibly taken on their full implication. I'd go mad. 

Later that week, I will think of the men I know. Whether they could be found amongst the clientele of these, or any other women involved in the sex trade. There must be a happy medium between misandrous cynicism and being naive enough to believe it couldn't happen just because they're of my acquaintance. Only recently, a friend based in the UK confesses that he frequented brothels during a difficult period.

Back at EPIS HQ, the groups reunite for a debrief.  We pray and disperse. It’s around 1am. Sabrina drops Joseph off at his student quarters. On the way back to mine, I confide in my level-headed interlocutor. I feel conflicted. I am torn between despising men who pay for sex and being true to my Christian values not to condemn them.  It's not for me to cast stones.  Reducing another human being to an object of momentary pleasure, merely perpetuating the system that exploits them, is but yet another manifestation of human brokenness from which I am not exempt. Thank God for Jesus.