My Experience with the "Working Girls"
Prostitution is legal in Vienna. There are “red light” districts that are
known and avoided by people like me. The
occasional “hooker” can be seen on the streets but generally I look away. I’m not afraid of them. I just don’t like the lifestyle and the “customers”
these women attract.
Yesterday, was a day of supporting our oldest daughter and 9
of her peers at a volleyball tournament in Salzburg and transporting five other
giggling girls in our van to help cheer on the team. On our way into town, we had to stop at a gas
station. We randomly chose a station next
to the highway, had a hotel near the premises and had easy access to on and off
ramps. As we drove into the parking lot,
we came face to face with a gang of prostitutes.
The giggling girls in our van became silent as they noticed
the working girls. Chris and I were
stunned. Girls were everywhere. All dressed similar (short shorts, high heels,
low cut tops) they all inspected our van to see if we were potential
customers. Some waved like we were welcomed
guests, some just stared at us. Some
stood at attention, some sat on the ground, some even had portable stools
complete with cushions (I guess this was equipment that made a long night of
waiting between jobs more comfortable.)
We were on empty. We
had to fill up. As Chris got out of the
van, I stayed inside with my quiet little companions. There was an eerie stillness that pricked my
soul. The “workers” were not allowed on
the gas station property but were posted in the adjoining parking lot that
served as a truck stop. As Chris filled
up the van, I began to let myself really look at these women.
That’s when I noticed it.
These were not well worn women who have made a career of the oldest standing
profession in history. These were girls …
not any older (by about a year) than the girls I had just supported at the
volleyball tournament. Not only were
these girls … they were some bodies daughters.
My heart sank when I got a glimpse of two eastern European men standing next
to a BMW inspecting these females. There
were not clients. They were their
bosses. Then I noticed the license
plates: Romania.
I’ve heard the stories of poor eastern European girls coming
to a big city like Vienna to “work”.
Some come with an offer to work legitimate jobs in a hope to help
support family members back home. With
little resources, knowledge and power, they find out the legitimate job is less
than they expected. Was this the story
of some of these girls?
As our van was being filled up with gas, a police car drove
through the parking lot. Girls dug into
their purses to show proper ID’s (you must be 18 to be a legal prostitute). The police just did a drive by … I guess this
is routine for them.
I found myself in the front seat feeling so helpless …
feeling so sorry … feeling so ashamed of myself for putting girls like these in
a box and judging them. I could do
nothing but pray.
I woke up this morning with these girls on my mind. They haunt me. I can’t shake the feeling that these girls
are the same age as my Addie. Where are
they today? What are their dreams? Do they call their Mommas? Do they feel truly loved?
This morning I had all kinds of ideas of what I could have
done yesterday. I could have offered one
of them a cup of coffee. I could have
brought one of them a blanket to warm herself in between jobs. I could have just come up to one of them and
told them that I was a mother of a girl not much older than them … and asked
her if she needed anything. I could have
held one of their hands and offered to pray for her. I could have done … something.
As I type this, I cry.
Yesterday was just an “in-your-face” visual of all the hurt I see every day
in my very polished city. In between the
wealth, the iphones, the beggars on the street, the crazy people in the
underground transportation … in every well-dressed business man’s face and in
every tight-lipped woman you see it. Need. There is an overwhelming need to be
loved. Someday it’s just more tangible
than others. I can walk down my street
and pass two sex shops, 3 café’s, a grocery store and a hotel. I can pass families with children, students,
and the occasional orthodox Jew. There are
empty beer cans, cigarette butts, and polished brass memorials to the over
1,700 Jews that were deported during WWII on the street. This is just one street … my street.
There is a heavy burden one faces when you recognize a
need. It’s much easier and lot’s safer
if you turn away and let the need go unnoticed.
I can’t. Because of my
relationship with Jesus Christ, I, too, carry a burden for those He loves. I am responsible for allowing myself to be
used to bring an answer to the need that exposes itself to me …
Because prostitution is legal in Vienna, I will probably
continue to avoid the “red light” districts.
When I see the occasional “hooker”, I’m not gonna look away. I’m not afraid of them. Now, they have a face and it’s more
personal. Now, I see the face of a girl –
someone’s daughter – looking back at me.
Now, I’m prepared to offer a cup of coffee, a warm hand, a deep look in
the eye to tell her that someone cares for her … and sees her … and her need.
2 comments
This is a great essay, Christina. The images of your street come alive to me even though I haven't been there - at least when you lived there.
ReplyDeleteI went with friends a couple of times to pray in the Red Light district, but never got really connected. I hurt for the irony that the girls were white to signify their profession.
Thank you for keeping Vienna on my heart. Love you.
Christina, thank you for the reminder of how easy it is to turn away. I've served on mission teams that have done work in orphanages in former Soviet bloc countries. I met bright, beautiful teens who would soon be on the streets facing circumstances few of us can imagine. It broke my heart knowing that there would be no rescue for most of them. May God forgive us from turning away from the ones who most need us to be the hands and feet of Christ. May I allow Him to continue to break my heart with the need.
ReplyDeleteYours in tears,
J