Ebb and Flow

My return to Strasbourg after my recent London trip has been the usual mix of ups and downs; both professionally and personally. I come back to the office to find a churlish email from one of my line managers.  The usually convivial 20-something hasn't addressed me like that before, although I have noticed subtle changes in her behaviour.

That same day I have a heart-to-heart with my main line manager, Sophie. There’s still no confirmation about whether our contracts will be renewed. She is optimistic nonetheless. There has been encouraging news, if yet to be made official. Over the coming days and weeks, she’ll tell me on a number of occasions that it’s a mere formality. We do agree however, that it's the height of unprofessionalism. This is The Human Rights Organisation after all. Charity begins at home. Obviously not.  It's as if the HR department is using the precarious financial situation as an excuse for shoddy admin.

The conversation segues into my genuine concerns about work. Psychologically, it’s been a battle of late to come into the office.

Sophie has already noted a change and wanted to approach me about it. This is an unexpected opportunity.

As is her wont, she gives both constructive critique about my performance and compassionate personal advice. I commend her managerial skills. If only it were always this way. I acknowledge my own errors whilst contextualising them in what I've found to be a non-conducive work environment. I outline some of the practical steps I’m taking to manage the situation, whilst remaining discreet about certain measures.  We bring the meeting to a close. She’s on half-day and I have some errands to run in town during the lunch hour.

Shortly afterwards, I see Sophie and senior manager, Lucia speaking intently in the corridor. I try to wave away any concern. It could just be coincidence. 

Coming back from my lunchtime errands, I bump into Sophie once more.

You’re still here?

I raise the spontaneous tête-à-tête with Lucia. My fleeting suspicions are confirmed, much to my consternation. Lucia was checking up on what was discussed.

This is exactly what I’m talking about! All this micro-management. I fume. Sophie tries to calm me down.

The following morning, I will myself out of bed. It’s Friday. It’s only my second day in the office that week and I’m already exhausted.  

Later that day, I’m reminded that sometimes God sends little lifelines when you desperately need them. 

I receive a call from the security team at the Magenta building. We have a good rapport but the ambiance at work recently has made me paranoid. I’m asked to pass by the security office when I have a moment. En route I bump into Yvonne, one of the lovely team members. She says I have nothing to worry about. She would know.

I am greeted by a wonderful surprise. A small but no less significant gesture of kindness from the team. It lifts my spirits beyond measure. I weep tears of gratitude, sending them an emotional email of thanks.  By chance I bump into another security team member that Saturday in town, after a disappointing cinematic excursion. I stop by an artisanal Turkish restaurant for some pide. One of the security guards, Laurence happens to be dining out with his youthful-looking mum. I attempt to bring her up to date on his thoughtful act but il m’a coiffée au Poteau.

...She's the one I was telling you about...

The following few weeks are suddenly busy. There are a number of significant meetings at work; some leaving me less reassured than others. 

My choir is performing as part of an event commemorating the end of slavery in France. There’s some free West Indian grub in it for us too. I’ve invited some Strasbourgeois acquaintances and a few colleagues, including the security team. I’m nervous about who will show up. Our performance will depend on an alchemy that can’t be guaranteed with a community choir.  It doesn’t help that several co-choristers are performing at a wedding that evening; including the director, Kiasi. I’m praying the others won’t disgrace me in front of my guests with a) a low turnout b) dodgy pitch. Thankfully, on the night the numbers are promising. Plus, star soprano and veteran member, Nicole is in the house. 

I am pleasantly surprised to see Yvonne in the audience with hubbie in tow. Seraphine from church also made the effort.

It’s not our best performance but neither is it terrible. Too bad that I fluff my solo. My singing comrades try to assuage my guilt/self-flagellation. I know I let the thought of guests in the audience get the better of me. I find it hard to sing in front of those I know. At least my new BFF, Gael has already left the building at that point. We catch-up briefly before I go on stage. It turns out one of his entourage used to sing with HRGS back in the day; a talented fellow at that, according to the veterans. Small world.

Gael and I will meet-up again the following weekend but not before another eventful seven days. 

The penultimate Thursday of May is officially the last day of mine and Sophie’s contract. A few minutes before 5pm, when we’ve given up on any updates that day and I’m wondering if I’ll be able to still access the building tomorrow, a confirmation from HR drops in our inboxes. 

Sophie manifests in the doorway.

Have you seen it?

I have. Just as I’d given up. There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.

I've received a stay of execution; at least until the end of my probation period. Hallelujah.

The following evening, I have an emotionally fraught and long overdue conversation with an old friend. It doesn’t end well. It was to be expected but I’m unnerved. Worse still, I find out late in the day that choir practice has been cancelled that night. Lord knows, I need the spiritual and emotional balm.

There’s no way I can stay indoors wallowing in my thoughts. I decide to attend the Friday night outreach with the street team. Fortunately, they have a session planned that evening. Better still, we’ll be joined again by the inspiring house church from Neudorf.

They’d make quite a fascinating subject for a fly-on-the-wall documentary. Each time I'm there, I  meet a new visitor from a different corner of the globe. This week it’s the turn of Kamir; a native of Afghanistan.  He converted from nominal Islam after fleeing to Luxembourg and meeting some life-filled Christians. He grew up in a multi-lingual environment, taught himself English back in Kabul and started learning German from scratch in his adopted home. He’s lived there just over a year. His agnostic girlfriend isn’t comfortable joining us so stays back at the house with a poorly church member. Kamir wants to join us for outreach to the Girls. Since he has no French, I and a few others help translate for him. Once we separate into our respective groups however, I’m the only other English-speaker.

I spend most of the night keeping Kamir company. There are five of us instead of the usual three (including a recently married young couple. The husband found God in prison). Group leader Sabrina doesn’t want us to overwhelm the Girls. Thus, Kamir and I stand at a distance for much of the evening.

In an effort to bond, Kamir begins talking about Africans and Nelson Mandela. I have less patience for these cultural missteps nowadays; especially living in France. On reflection, I could be more patient.

In one evening, Kamir goes from having a rather perplexed- at times sanctimonious- attitude towards the women, to one of understanding. On the other hand, it's a battle to have sympathy for the clients. I can wholly relate to that. I’m not saintly in that area either. Kamir can't get his head round the transactional and objectified approach to sex; orgasm without emotional connection.We catch sight of one louche-looking, overweight Caucasian male, sidling up to one of the Girls. He's a walking stereotype.

I had worried earlier that my presence was not only superfluous but an inconvenience. I have cause to change my mind by the end of the evening. Before the 15-strong outreach team gathers in town for a de-brief, we make one last stop. We meet two new West African girls; Christabel and Tess. Both are in their 20s. Tess came to France via Libya and Spain. I shudder at the thought. I ask whether they want to be prayed for. They accept. I probe further, asking them what they would do if they could get out of The Life. Christabel would like to be a seamstress. Tess was studying architecture in Delta State.

My heart is full. Perhaps it’s because we’re from the same part of the world. These beautiful women; Tess with her high, round cheekbones and Christabel whose dimples are so deep, she barely needs to smile. Strong women. Hope-filled women despite the lowered eyes and world-weariness.  I pray with everything in me, the Spirit taking over. Kamir's on standby. By the end we’re laughing and embracing each other.

The Museum of Modern & Contemporary Art (MAMCS), Strasbourg

The following day is the annual March for Jesus that takes place across France.

After a very variable late Spring we’re blessed with clement, even hot weather that Saturday. I spot many familiar faces in the crowd; both from church and the outreach group, including Kamir. The atmosphere is even more festive than last year.  We take over the heart of the City, trailing behind three floats carrying live musicians and vocalists. Pedestrians get their phones out. Drivers stop to stare. A veritable Carnival for Christ.

I am captivated by a young man from my church doing French Sign Language. He's not just signing the song lyrics, he's experiencing them in real time. He radiates so much unadulterated joy, I am moved to tears. These fleeting moments point to the Divine; the hope of something better and purer.

As chance would have it, we stop outside MAMCS which is where I happen to be meeting Gael. I take my leave.

I wait in the café tucked away in the corner of the building; another new discovery courtesy of Gael.

He’s held up by The March. I order some freshly-squeezed juice whilst I wait, overlooking a gorgeous view of Petite France; my favourite part of town. Gael arrives, pulling my chain about some annoying people crowding out the streets. Trusting sort that I am, I think he’s serious until he bursts into a sincere smile.

Soundtrack: Left My Heart by Ed Mount. Ventura by Anderson .Paak 

Alternative Arrangements

My treacherous laptop is back in the shop. Just over two years old and brand new on purchase, it’s given me nothing but grief since the time it was delivered. Thankfully, I’ve found a reputable-looking PC repair at the Rivetoile shopping centre. The downside is that a diagnostic takes anything from 1-2 weeks.  It’s not the first time I’ve had to make do without any entertainment at home thanks to Asus’ dodgy manufacturing.  I haven’t yet invested in a TV and I’m still debating whether it’s worth the additional expense.

I choose not to use smart technology, thus I’m out of the loop save for the four days out of the week I’m in the office. I hear about the postponement of the Nigerian elections as well as the shenanigans of ex-Labour Party saboteurs across the Channel, a day after the news breaks. Over the weekend I fear private email accounts overflowing with unopened messages. In fact, to my relief, it’s not that bad.

To keep myself distracted I catch up on my backlog of podcasts from the likes of Novara Media, The Sacred Podcast, On Being and NEF.  It’s a good time too to do some additional reading that I don’t always get round to during the day. I rediscover the singular interpretive talents of underrated Jazz vocalist, Anita O’Day. A jazz singer’s jazz singer, if ever there were one.

A weekend without Skype and Netflix gives me a Sunday afternoon free to attend a language exchange meet-up that I don’t usually frequent.  I’ve enjoyed myself a good deal at these events of late (the positive affirmation I receive regarding my language efforts doesn’t hurt, I must admit).

I’ve met a number of stimulating interlocutors. There’s Noelle whose birthday happens to be between Christmas and New Year but who was in fact named after a nun of whom her mother was fond. A Strasbourg native, we nonetheless have a few things in common. We’re the same age. She spent significant periods living and working in different parts of the UK. Although from the region, she can understand my trepidation regarding some aspects of life in Alsace. We both bemoan the unsolicited advice from those who believe they have the right to comment on the life choices of a 30-something single woman. There’s also the confusingly Anglophone-monikered Jim; an affable French polyglot who has picked up a number of Slavic languages as well as Italian on his travels. Good-natured Roisin wears away my initial guardedness with her unflappable geniality.  She’s on an intense linguistic sojourn in France, having always wanted to learn the language.  Currently based in Helsinki, and a former resident of Zurich, she’s also a fluent Finnish, German and Portuguese speaker ( courtesy of a month's intense study in Lisbon). 

Finnish? That’s impressive. One of the most difficult European languages, they say. Everything else must be a breeze.

Not according to Roisin. She still finds French a challenge.  It’s reassuring somewhat to learn that even seasoned multi-linguists struggle with La Langue de Moliere. I’m in good company.
 

Earlier that weekend I re-join the inter-denominational group in Strasbourg that reaches out to sexually-exploited women.  It’s been a while. The timetable of the outings has been more sporadic recently and there’s often a clash with my choir schedule. Being a new member, I’m not keen on missing too many rehearsals. However, neither do I want to abandon a ministry close to my heart. Skipping one practice a month wouldn’t hurt.

 (courtesy of Crossroads Bible Church)

We gather at what I am to find out is a thriving house church, with people of all ages and backgrounds; both genders equally represented. It feels like living in the Book of Acts. I meet middle-aged new convert Billy (another Francophone whose parents confusingly bequeathed him with an Anglophone nickname). I also rub shoulders with a couple of Austrian missionaries whom the church are hosting over the weekend. Initially feeling awkward, wondering if my struggle to make small talk in French will get in the way, I’m soon caught up in the invigorating energy of it all.  I recognise a few faces from church.  We're soon joined by the group leaders, Sabrina, Dieudonné and Luc. I help translate for congenial Austrian missionary, Karin.  Despite herself being a multi-linguist (including Turkish, which she learned growing up in Ankara), she does not have French in her linguistic repertoire.

It's a sizeable group.  Over 20 of us in total.  After a moment of prayer and praise, we split into smaller groups of twos and threes depending on our area of interests. Whilst some like Karin and I will be focused on the sexually-exploited, others reach out to those sleeping rough or, like Dieudonné, share the Good News with groups of young revellers. Contrary to expectation there are many millennials/Xennials and Gen-Z’s doing a lot of soul-searching, according to Dieudonné. This younger generation respond with more enthusiasm to the big metaphysical questions than the one before.  

I team up with Karin and founding member of the initiative, Luc.  We always aim to have one male per group, bearing in mind the target group’s clientele.

It's the day after Valentine's. Alongside the usual hot drinks, Luc has brought along some roses for the women. He gamely speaks in English for Karin’s benefit. Eager and full of compassion, I try to gently disabuse her of certain preconceptions regarding the women without dampening her spirit. As we approach a couple of the girls, a car approaches and discussion ensues.

Wow, this is heavy stuff. Karin observes. 

Yet her presence that evening is auspicious. We come across several women, even the more withdrawn amongst them willingly accepting our offer of warm drinks and conversation. (We're fast running out of hot water but, by the grace of God, there's just enough to go round.)
A number of the girls also welcome our prayers. When asked if she has any requests, young Diana only speaks her family's needs back in Albania. Life is tough, she explains. Luc asks if they know what she’s doing in France.

Yes.

We exchange kisses with the bright and assertive Laura. She switches with ease between French and fluid German with Karin; just two of the several languages she speaks.  

There are quite a few women with whom I’m yet to become acquainted. Collette is one such.

Collette. That’s very French.

That’s because I am.

I’m not used to meeting nationals who work the street. I compliment her mesmerising eyes, which bear the Maghreb traits of her mother’s Moroccan heritage.  They moisten whilst we pray for her and her two year-old daughter.  Collette dreams of one day becoming a seamstress; or any in-road into fashion retail. 

Round midnight, the various groups reassemble for an encouraging debrief. Billy’s gang were so warmly received by a group of rough-sleepers, that they used their meagre funds to buy a bouquet of roses to express their gratitude. Billy gives one flower to each of the women. I’m usually bah-humbug about Valentine's, with all its build-up, caricatures of romance and cynical commercialism. In these circumstances however, I am only too pleased to accept Billy's floral offering. A pink rose takes pride of place on my dining table. 

Soundtrack: Gilles Peterson in Brazil (Part 1), Anita O’Day: Four Classic Albums.

Busybody

The autumn leaves haven’t all fallen and already Strasbourg is in festive mode.  Tasteful decorations have gone up. The giant tree stands unlit in Place Kleber and the stalls are setting up for the world famous Christmas Market.

The month has got off to a promising start. Thanks to the canny intervention of my colleague Clara, I receive some good news in the form of a 90% reduction in what would have otherwise been a substantial Taxe D’habitation bill (the French equivalent to Council Tax). Thank God for small miracles.

Meanwhile my cultural calendar is full to bursting, as tends to be the case this time of year. The Jazzdor festival takes place each November. The event has a special place in my heart. It was a welcome distraction from flat hunting a mere few weeks into my arrival in Strasbourg. It’s also where I met Jeanne, the first friend I made here. It is thus fitting that almost a year to the day, we attend a Jazzdor performance once again featuring her flatmate Annalise. It’s an unofficial anniversary.

Annalise’ trio is preceded by the abstract sounds of pianist Matthieu Mazué. Clearly inspired by Thelonius Monk (throwing in a cover of Monk’s Dream for good measure), Mazué’s style is characterised by choppy syncopation and elongated melodies twisted out of shape. My initial excitement turns to confusion when he introduces his interpretation of one of my favourite jazz standards Stella by Starlight. Save for the opening bars serving as a leitmotif, I wouldn’t recognise it.  It’s a suspenseful performance; a tension never to be resolved. This talented and incredibly dexterous musician has taken a notably subversive approach to his art.  Thus Annalise’ soulfully-inflected, equally agile performance is a healthy counterbalance. During the break, I reconnect with Jeanne and her mum, who is in town for the week.

That weekend I have signed up via Internations for a ‘free’ walking tour of Petite France, my favourite neck of the Strasbourg woods.  These multi-lingual Happy Tours are carried out by volunteers whose only payment is a freewill donation.  I opt for the French version for the practice.  Despite the sharp drop in temperature and harsh wind, our congenial guide, Rémy, cheerily recounts the history of Little France and its environs; from the Roman conquest to some of the quirky street names. The area has a more insalubrious history than I was aware. La Grand Rue for instance wasn’t always the cosmopolitan social hub it is now. Up until the regeneration effort in the 1960s, it was the City's underbelly. Most shocking of all is the sordid origin of the otherwise romantic-sounding appellation Little France. It dates back to the 15^th century when the Alsace region was under German rule (well, the precursor to the unified Germany). French soldiers, ridden with syphilis after fighting and cavorting in Naples, were banished to the area to be treated at a dedicated hospice. It became an unofficial colony for what was facetiously nicknamed ‘The French Disease’ and thus referred to by the rest of the population as…Petite France. 

It’s an informative and enjoyable jaunt. It's also one more activity to keep future guests entertained.

On the way back from the tour, my tram is held up by solidarity protests taking place throughout France against fuel taxes and the rising cost of living.

It’s set to be a socially-conscious week ahead. The Organisation is hosting the World Forum for Democracy events.  The theme this year is gender equality. It’s surely no coincidence that the event overlaps with International Men’s Day as well as the World Day for the Prevention of Child Abuse; both on 19 November. 

My group, the High Rock Gospel Singers, have been asked to perform as part of the opening ceremony. I mention it a few weeks beforehand to choir director, Kiasi, having been surprised to see us listed in the WFD programme. He is completely unaware. It’s not feasible anyway, he shrugs It’s a Monday morning.

Something clearly changes between then and the chaotic rehearsal we have the following week. Kiasi makes an announcement post-practice, inviting anyone who is available to sign up. It turns out one of the sopranos is also an events’ organiser and volunteered the services of HRGS á notre insu.

Kiasi must have reasoned it was best not to piss off The Organisation by being a no-show.

The performance falls on my day off. True, it’ll be odd performing at work. Apart from that I don’t have a bona fide excuse not to. Besides, I was going to be in the vicinity anyway. Not only do I plan to attend some of the inaugural events but my manager, Sophie will also be making an appearance for the first time since she went on maternity leave. She is performing with her husband, Marcel's percussion band as part of the day’s proceedings. The couple will be accompanied by their bouncing baby boy, Augustin. The team have collected a very respectable sum for the family’s gift, as well as organising a little get together to mark the occasion. Given that it was a difficult pregnancy and both mummy and baby have come through the other side safe and well, there is even more reason to celebrate.

 

That morning, on the way out to Le Chateau to meet the rest of the choir, I check my post box for a long awaited package. I spot instead another copy of the building regulations. The part about noise has been highlighted in the same aggressive orange, this time with a note attached. Apparently, this mystery neighbour objects to me cleaning my flat. On a Saturday. At noon. Fuming, I crumple the note and toss it in the nearest bin.

I arrive at Le Chateau a little flustered. Fastidious neighbours notwithstanding, Kiasi has taken his sweet time to confirm when and where we are meeting. I’ve already left the flat by the time I see his text. Thankfully I arrive long before show time. Being a Monday morning, there are a choice few of us. We have a surfeit of sopranos with just Élise holding the fort for the contraltos. Since we are only performing two numbers, one of which I actually know quite well, I alternate between soprano and alto to help balance the sound. Not that Élise really needs it. It’s a pretty slick affair if I must say so myself. Or so I think. When the video is made available, I note with anguish that I'm singing flat for most of the second number. The audience are more forgiving. Later that week, I am stopped by a guest during a lunch break to congratulate me on the group’s behalf.

HRGS @ the World Forum for Democracy
(c) Catherine Monflis

 I return home after the show to vent to sis on Skype about my implacable neighbour. That's followed by a whinge about the grammatical mistakes I made conversing to my fellow choristers. Perfectly bi-lingual Kiasi teases my London inflection. Evidently, too much of my self-worth is wrapped up on my linguistic progress. I hardly enjoy the learning process these days.

Sis shows me some well-needed tough love. 

I’m not going to indulge your pity-party. 

Amongst her usual nuggets of wisdom she implores me to be kind to myself. For the rest of the day, each time I think upon this simple statement, so difficult to practise, it reduces me to tears.

Back at Le Chateau several colleagues from my department and elsewhere have gathered in the freezing cold to watch Sophie and Marcel's group perform. Whistles are handed out and we are instructed to blow carnival style, in support of the launch of a campaign to tackle sexual abuse in sports.

I reunite with Sophie after the performance. I must confess that I am looking to angle my way out of Le Pot that has been organised back at the office. At least this way she knows I have come out to support her before I sneak off. It becomes apparent however, that I couldn’t execute my plan without it being perceived as anti-social.  It’s better to grin and bear it for Sophie’s sake. She seems genuinely pleased I came. Marcel is an urbane and cordial man. I would say charming but I believe he's more sincere than that. Little Augustin sleeps through the loud performance and most of the post-show festivities, despite being passed around. They make a lovely family.

 

The next couple of days are a whirlwind of WFD activities. As is often the case with these sorts of conferences, there are a number of overlapping sessions vying for my attention.  During the morning slot, one discussion stands out from the rest. I attend a stimulating roundtable about faith and feminism. The Abrahamic Three are well represented. I do wonder about the absence of other faith groups (as is vocalised by another attendee) and Protestant voices. But let me not be too sectarian.

The two Catholic speakers notably diverge. On one hand Hajnalka Juhász from the Hungarian Christian Democracy Party admits to a more conservative perspective; her essentialist views on ‘male’ and ‘female’ character traits for instance and not questioning male-dominated leadership.  Polish theologian Zuzanna Radzik on the other hand takes a thoroughly egalitarian approach. When asked if women can bring particular qualities to religious institutions, she replies that she doesn’t subscribe to the idea of inherently feminine attributes. It’s a matter of individual character and strengths. In that regards, she is a woman after my own heart. She reminds those in the church that the fight for equality has a biblical basis; not least in the Apostle Paul’s revolutionary (for the time) words in Galatians 3:28. This, she rightly asserts, is our starting point.

Buoyed by Radzik's comments, I add that the church in general needs to do more to reach men than offer them merely spiritualised male entitlement. In the end, it gives no respite from the inevitable disadvantages of the patriarchal system such as unrealistic masculine ideals.

 Later that afternoon I’m torn between interactive events about the fight against sexual exploitation and re-examining how masculinity is defined as a means of combatting violence against women. It’s a tough decision but I choose the latter. I have a presentiment that I’ll be riled up by one of the speakers at the sex trafficking discourse, who appears to belong to the school of thought that  propose solutions such as calling sexually-exploited women ‘sex workers’ and giving them ‘better working conditions’ as opposed to challenging and upending the skewed paradigm altogether. Phew. Mini-rant over. For now.

The Masculinities Re-examined discussion is a breath of fresh air, drawing speakers from within and beyond Europe’s borders, such as the UK’s Chris Green of the White Ribbon Campaign and India’s Harish Sadani from NGO Men Against Violence & Abuse (MAVA). (Alas, the French authorities denied Gambia’s Lamin S. Fatty a visa). Sadani is doing superb work in a country whose struggles with gender-based violence have caught the world’s attention in recent years.

I am heartened to meet other Christians at the event wholly committed to gender-equality and reconciliation of the sexes. When the moderator Simone Fillipini asks what a gender utopia would look like, one audacious interlocutor cries ‘Christian!’

Fillipini opens up to the floor for ideas on how to dissuade men from cashing in on the short term 'patriarchal dividend' as it is described by panellist Robert Franken. I suggest that the rate of suicide amongst men, with some recent high profile cases, makes this a public health issue. The immediate benefits of prescribed ideas of masculinity and patriarchy are oppressive in the long term.  I add that women also play a key role in dismantling the social conditioning we not only imbibe but perpetuate.

My contributions are apparently well received. Several men thank me post event. Thanks to this impromptu networking, my plans to rush back to the office fall by the wayside.

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.