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Based on a true story.
Dawn edged over the horizon, orange light glinting off tin roofs. Sounds of neighbors waking and roosters crowing echoed through the community, but Mateus* kept his eyes fixed straight ahead as he walked the narrow path on his way to work.
Until a door flew open with a bang and a young girl landed on her hands and knees on the path in front of him.
She looked up at him with wide eyes, picked herself up off the ground, and hurried on.
Rita*
As a transit monitor stationed at the border, I see many types of people. There are, of course, traffickers with their victims—stopping them is our main purpose for being here. But in a job like this, where keen observation is essential, you notice other things, too.
Once a month, a man comes to the border to exchange currency. Perhaps in his mid-thirties, he is always simply dressed but clean and neat in appearance. He walks purposefully, ignoring any vendors calling out to him, does his business, and returns the way he came.
Today, I was startled to see him pausing in the shade of a tree, watching me with a blank expression. As soon as I turned toward him, he pointed at me furtively and motioned for me to come over.
I told my colleague to keep an eye out and walked over to the tree cautiously.
“Please don’t be scared; I don’t mean you any harm,” he said quietly. “Are you the one who deals with human trafficking?”
He must have observed much more than he let on the other times he came through here. I nodded.
“I have information, and I hope you’ll do something about it,” he said. “I believe my neighbor is trafficking a young girl.”
Time to speak up
The first time Mateus saw the 11-year-old girl at the teacher’s house on his street, he assumed she was a relative visiting or perhaps even a student in need of extra help. But she never went with the teacher, Ms. Haingura*, to school. As weeks passed, he noticed her appearance became dirtier, her hair matted, clothes torn. Sometimes he could hear Ms. Haingura yelling at her, though he tried to tune it out.
After separating from her husband, Ms. Haingura was raising a two-year-old child on her own. Mateus began to suspect that the girl was working for her as household help, caring for the toddler and doing chores.
Mateus did his best to ignore all of this. He liked his routines and tried not to get involved in other people’s business. But when Ms. Haingura threw the girl out the door like a sack of potatoes that morning, he couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
Rita
Mateus led me and my manager to the teacher’s house before making his own way home. Almost immediately, a toddler came out of the house holding a small plate, cheeks still smudged from lunch, and the girl followed with an empty container to fetch water.
She was barefoot, had a few scrapes, and looked like she hadn’t bathed in a while. But it was her mannerisms that made my pulse quicken: The way she avoided looking at us, busying herself with the toddler instead, shoulders hunching inward, a jumpiness to her small frame—it was all too familiar.
A memory crept in uninvited—pausing to listen while scrubbing something, stomach twisting, silently begging the floor to swallow me whole.
“What’s your name?” I asked the girl before me now.
She didn’t look up when she answered, “Amalia*.”
No longer invisible
After confirming that Ms. Haingura was not home, Rita and her manager brought Amalia to the police station for further questioning. Amalia told police that Ms. Haingura had promised her the equivalent of about $29 USD a month for work but hadn’t paid her anything during the months she had been there. The teacher yelled at her frequently and had once even hit her with a saucepan.
While the police worked on locating Amalia’s parents, Rita and her manager bought her food and a blanket—but a call from the police station brought them back quickly.
“The trafficker is here.”
They walked back into the station to see Ms. Haingura angrily approaching the officer’s desk, eyes bloodshot.
“I want my child,” she demanded, swaying slightly.
The officer at the desk took a slow sip of coffee. “What’s your child’s name?”
Ms. Haingura stuttered. “Am… Amanda? No… Amina?”
“Ma’am, you’re under arrest.”
Rita
Every time I intercept someone at the border to prevent them from being trafficked, I picture the trafficker who recruited me as a young teenager for a household job—just like Amalia—and I think, No, you can’t have this one.
Usually, my work is preventive. I know from experience the fate that awaits these desperate individuals seeking a better life, and sometimes I share my story with them to help them see that the danger is real. Someone once helped me get free, and now it’s my greatest passion to keep others safe.
It’s rare that I’m part of a rescue effort like this. It broke my heart to see a girl mistreated as I once was, but it also made it soar to help her get out.
That little 11-year-old girl will be able to grow up in freedom, choose her own path in life, perhaps have a family of her own. Her children and grandchildren will have their own dreams and heartaches and joys. And life will unfold differently for them all because of a few simple actions today. Because Mateus chose to speak up; because we chose this job and were there at the right moment; and because someone like you, dear reader, chose to give to support this work.
Start a ripple
Simple actions can have a powerful ripple effect. Join us in protecting freedom for generations to come.
*All data and statistics current at the date and time of publishing. Names and specific locations excluded for privacy and security purposes. Images are representative.
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