The sun burned into my skin as it came up. I was parched and hungry. Sweat dripped from my face and my throat began to constrict with thirst. Ahmed came rushing with water before anyone woke up. At that moment he was my saviour.
Time passed slowly, the other servants passed by quickly, glancing pitifully but too afraid to utter a word. I was not worth saving to any of them. Although we all slept in the same barn no one spoke to each other, we came in ate and slept like zombies. Ahmed was the only one who spoke to me and the others would glare at us because conversation was forbidden.
The old lady came out to see my state, she spat at me with disgust. How dare I make a move on her husband. She wanted to know if it was my plan to get pregnant in order to claim freedom. I denied it but she didn’t care.
The hours passed and I was left tied and chained like an animal, I closed my eyes and hoped for sleep. Sleep was elusive and before I knew it the old lady was back with two men. They looked at me, traded money and suddenly I was being dragged off. I fought and I screamed but who was I kidding no one was going to help me. Just then, Ahmed came running, grabbed my hand and pulled me back towards the house begging the old lady to let me stay.
A loud bang brought Ahmed to the floor. I turned around and blood was streaming out of his back, he had been shot by the guards. I surrendered myself, the Rohingya had lost another activist.
I was thrown into a car and injected with some sort of sedative. The paranoia dissolved and the fear of being hurt disappeared along with the pain and I drifted of into a peaceful sleep.
When I woke up I was chained to a bed naked. I freaked out and began to scream. I screamed for what seems like hours but no one came. I felt ashamed, my naked body on display for anyone who entered the room. I wondered how things always seemed to get worse. I kept screaming even though I was parched and hot tears continued to rush down my face. Eventually a man came in and injected me and once again calm descended.
This went on for some days. Soon i was addicted to the injections and the calm they brought became necessary for survival. After what seemed like a week a lady came into the room, smiled and said that I was perfect now. I asked her what I was Perfect for? She explained that she owned a brothel and now she owns me as well. I began to cry but she didn’t care. She handed me a Indian sari told me I would be a hit. If I refused to work then I would not be given any drugs, something my addiction could not allow. I told her I refused, she laughed at me and remind me that I had no choice. That night, chained to the bed, man after man walked into the room. I had been sold into sex slavery.
The moment I came to my senses I would be injected again. The sari had disappeared at some point during the night and all that remained was underwear. I was unchained for a few hours everyday and I used them to write,shower and eat. I was chained to a wall when i slept in case I decided to make a run for it. Later I saw a few other girls in the house, some as young as six. We couldn’t communicate much because we were all kept high.
Man after man was sent upstairs into the tiny room, the drugs began to lose their magic but with them I would go into terrible withdrawals. One day I asked one of the six year olds what her story was to keep my mind off the withdrawals. But her words blurred because I needed the drugs so badly. After months of being raped over and over I started loosing the sense of who I was, and what I stood for. I forgot about my religion, my family, my home yet the image of Ahmed being shot haunted me.
The Madam would beat us so we could get use to the beating some men enjoyed giving. This was hell, this was torture. I had lost my journal at my last job and began a new one when I found an ol book in the house. I hid it and spent time writing when the guards left us to shower and eat. My solace was my writing, telling my story kept me going.
Days turned into months and months into years. I was a sex worker who lived in a brothel , even if I did run away from here, there was nowhere to go. The girls that came in became younger and younger. One day I heard a little girl begging an old man to stop hurting her in Rohingya and at that moment I remembered my mission. I would tell the world the story of the sold dream of Rohingya no matter what happened.
Please help vote for this blog
“>http://title=’SA Blog Awards Badge’>
by mumtaz saley