usually, I tried to look the other way while crossing this bridge. not tonight. tonight, we were standing under the bridge, clasping plastic shopping bags, while our view consisted of a long row of houseboats that were lit up by bright red lights. an even longer row of cars were driving at slow speed along the houseboats, while the girls inside smiled, winked or waved at the drivers. all the girls were clothed in the tiniest outfits possible. I hesitate while using the word outfit, for it is too big a word to describe what they were wearing. underwear maybe. skimpy patches of cloth. what I can say is that fishnets and a thong make everyone look like a human equivalent of rolled roast.
there have been few times in my life that I felt this awkward. the first time was when I was six and forced on stage by my overambitious mother, to join in a dance routine of smiling Chinese toddlers who had practiced the choreography and mastered it to near perfection. I remember dozens of children whirring by and moving together as one person, while their parents looked on proudly and clapped their hands to the rhythm of the music. all I could do was stand somewhere in the middle and flap my arms about, hopping from one foot to another, trying to pretend that I too had practiced all the dance routines and that I did have a clue what I was doing up there. the only thing that made it bearable were the flowers and candy I got afterwards, though it did make me feel like a fraud. I did not belong up there with the happy Chinese kids. I couldn’t dance. I wasn’t even proper Chinese.
I digress.
awkward moments. this was by far the second most awkward moment in my life. I found myself standing in a group of women who were about to hand out christmas gifts to another group of women, who happened to find themselves on the wrong side of the window. most of them did not speak Dutch or English. I cannot distinguish the difference between Romanian and Bulgarian, let alone understand it.
we split up in three groups, W. and I were assigned to visit the girls on the left side of the road. once we had wrestled our way through the growing queue of cars, we started to walk by the windows. most curtains were closed, signalling that the girl inside was at work. the first girl we met called herself Coco and invited us in. her room was twice as big as my study, which people have dubbed the confessional, due to the size. her habitat consisted of various shades of pink, a large bed, a laptop playing house music, and a wall covered in whips and chains.
I was wondering what had brought her here and whether she enjoyed spending eight hours a day inside a bad replica of a disfigured womb with a glass window while being paid for having sex with strangers.
W. started explaining why we were there. it was nearly Christmas you see, and we wanted to give the girls here a small gift and tell them that Jesus Christ was born to save us all. would you like a present?
Coco wavered, looked at me, I tried to look normal, and she replied “okay, why not?”. I was rummaging around in the bag, trying not to mess up all the gift wrappings and attempting to make some sort of conversation with her. after introducing myself, I asked her where she came from.
- I am Turkish, but I grew up in Germany.
oh alright. so how did you get here?
- … friends. choices.
I felt stupid handing her the gift, which consisted of a DVD with the life of Jesus, a little statue of a hand with a pearl inside it, and a candy cane. it brought back the feeling of being a fraud. even hearing W. telling them about Christmas made me feel like a fraud. I wondered how this abstract and bizarre notion of a redeemer which I can’t even get my head around in my most lucid moments was going to help this Turkish girl or any of the others.
- this is so nice, thank you! I like the little statue with the pearl. weren’t you here last year?
we probably were here last year as well.
- you are so nice, thank you so much. why are you doing this? is this your job?
no, not really. we’re just volunteers.
- that’s so sweet. thanks. I wish there were more people like you.
handing out silly gifts?
- no, just being nice. the world would be better but as long as there are men, the world will never be a happy place, right?
so, what are your plans for the holidays? are you going back?
- no, I’ll be working. it’s been quiet now, and it’ll be more busy on Boxing Day. so I have to work.
okay. well Merry Christmas to you then, and how do you say happy new year in German again?
- Guten Rutsch.
Guten Rutsch.
I waved at her when we walked past her window and she winked back at me. we must have walked up and down the same bit of street at least four times to make sure most of the girls got a present. the third time, one of the women gestured us to come in and when we signalled we had little time, she rushed out while holding two packages of mashed fruit in her hands.
- here, this is for you.
no, really.
- here, take it. you’ve been busy.
I still don’t understand the concept of fruit that’s already been peeled, sliced, chewed and pre-wrapped in a plastic packet. nor do I understand the concept of women selling themselves or the men buying them. and at times like this, I also have trouble understanding God and society, including myself, that’s allowing this to happen.
what I did understand, were the girls who were hardly eighteen years old and who looked like they could have been in one of my classes recently. I do not believe that being a prostitute in a foreign country was on any of their career lists when they were younger.
being part of a system that legitimises practices like this, also makes me feel like a fraud. yet this time, no amount of flowers, candy, or silly dancing is going to make me feel any better.
I don’t think living in a system that legitimises this (if you mean the Netherlands as an official society) has anything to do with it. People working this line of work, legally or illegally, voluntary or forced (and you can of course wonder how much of anything we do is actually “voluntary”, being born where one is born, living where one lives) will always be. As long as (wo)/men are filling to pay, (wo)/men will prostitute themselves. It’s as bad as that. Money, sex.
But very pretty, the story. Making one person happy a day, that’s enough. I wish I were churchgoer-esque enough to engage in such Christmas happiness sharing.
The main argument that was used to make prostution legal in 2000, was that it’d be better for the girls. If being a prostitute was considered a legal and normal job, then the women would have rights and protection, just like any other legal worker in our country.
Since 2000, human trafficking has soared in the Netherlands and estimations are that the amount of sex workers who are doing working involuntarily is about 90%, at the moment. It varies per research, but the amount is pretty high.
If women had chances of finding other work and build a career in their native country, they wouldn’t feel the need to take on jobs like au pairs or cleaners in Western European countries and suddenly find themselves in their underwear behind a window.
As long as people see no other alternatives then to earn money by selling themselves, then prostitution will exist. But saying that it’s always been like this is a bad argument, because it offers no alternative or hope for change. No one would choose prostitution as their first option of earning a decent living.
I’m much more in favour of the Swedish model, where not the prostitutes, but their customers are being held accountable. We could learn from them.
This is the best Christmas story I’ve read in ages. I mean that completely non-ironically. The authentic message of Christmas is meant to be about bringing hope and light, however briefly, to the dark places – and you definitely did that, first by doing what you did, and again by sharing it with the world.
I’m not sure we brought anything close to hope, or light. to me, it was a (feeble) attempt to treat these women like a normal person without wanting anything from them.
but I’m glad both of you enjoyed reading it and took the effort to comment. thanks.