"I have seen many pictures of trafficked individuals. Several pictures have them smiling and laughing. I had a classmate who, during a sociology class where we were discussing modern slavery and trafficking, mentioned that if their ordeal was so vexing, how indeed could they muster up a smile? I do realize, after going through your [Social Media accounts] and reading your posts that the little moments of reprieve bring forth such emotions. However, how does a victim in such situations muster up a smile or a laugh when his or her captor is taking pictures of them. What goes through one's mind ? Does the captor use these pictures to manipulate the victim and the authorities and how does one fight back against such manipulations?"
That is such a great question, Nicholas Ray. That's one of the hard ones.
If you don't mind, I'll answer the very specific manipulation questions tomorrow.
I know it's a touchy subject for most people but please don't ever be afraid to ask. I talk about this kind of stuff all the time, and the more questions I get, the more awareness comes about. YOU, in asking a question, just helped quite possibly hundreds of people to understand more about human trafficking.
It's incredibly difficult to understand how someone living through Hell can still smile and appear to be happy. In fact, there were times while I was in Scotland that my smile wasn't forced, but was genuine. Just like when you read something vague on Facebook, a smile can be taken completely out of context. To understand this, I have to go back to the beginning of it all. Let me explain...
So there are two very smile-y photos of me included in this article. Both of them were taken on the same day, and actually were taken only moments apart. The biggest difference you'll see is the addition of a young person in the one photo. Taken at face value I look very happy in both. In contrast to the majority of days spent in Scotland, that was one of my happiest days. By comparison, I was overjoyed. That is not to say that my life was good or pleasant by any stretch of the greatest imaginations, but rather that when compared to other days, I was truly happy. There are a LOT of factors as to why that could be, but most importantly is that of the young person in the photo with me.
1. The Kiddo:
This little girl is probably around 15 years old now. I have no doubt she's as pretty as her mother was. However, since she's still underage, I'm going to avoid mentioning her name or how she was related to the man who abused me. There were several children around that day and I absolutely adored them. This kiddo in particular was especially adorable with the missing front teeth. I loved her to pieces. I tend to love all children as long as they're well behaved. She certainly was. But there was a lot more than just children around.
2. Family:
His entire family was there. Of course I couldn't let any of them know what had been going on, because they'd known him their entire lives and me for only a few short months. They wouldn't believe me no matter what I said, and I would be severely punished for it later on if I did. So, instead of dwelling on how badly I wanted and needed help, I made the decision to live in the moment. There weren't many moments in my life that were enjoyable. I wasn't going to mess up one of the only ones that existed. Basically, having all his family around ensured I wouldn't be abused in any way because he needed to keep up the appearances every bit as much as I did, just for different reasons. The family was my safety blanket to ensure I wouldn't be raped or sold for an entire weekend.
3. Vacation:
The entire family (his mother and father - whom I adored - his sister, his sister's husband, and every child directly related to the family) all piled together for a short family vacation to the sea side. It had been the first time I'd seen the ocean since I'd flown there many months before.
4. Dressing up:
The only time I ever got to feel like me were in the rare moments like this one. In order to keep up the appearances I was permitted to wear makeup and lipstick. Otherwise, those things were to be reserved for when he would have company coming over. Thinking back, it's quite amazing that I'm really even okay with wearing lipstick now. It was used as a weapon against me back then. It was part of the 'gift wrap' as he called it. But for this day, when I knew I wouldn't be abused, when I knew I would have my choice of food instead of whatever was set before me (or nothing at all) I was happy and smiling. For the first time in months I felt like I looked nice. I didn't look like a bum, or a homeless person, or an abuse victim, or a prostitute, or a 'gift' to a stranger, or a piece of entertainment for a group of people. For once, I felt like me. It was a good feeling.
5. Going out:
The entire family went out to dinner together in a restaurant near the 'caravan park' where we stayed. While there were the occasional moments of cruel behavior coming from him, they were far more infrequent so that his family wouldn't see or notice. He was drinking heavily (as usual) and by the end of the night there was a complete meltdown from me, and I ended up angry and crying yet again, but at least I was still dressed and in the relative safety of being near his family. It had been the first time I'd gone out anywhere for fun without the threat of having someone waiting for us to get back where I would be the evenings' entertainment. It was a momentary peace of mind. However, I do remember his sister and brother-in-law having a fight that night. We were all fairly convinced that was the end of their relationship. There were clearly some major dysfunctions within the family, so his occasional moments of cruelty to me that did slip through were seen as 'normal' to them.
6. Threats:
If I hadn't smiled and seemed like a normal person, I would have paid dearly after we returned from the seaside. But why would I go back with him rather than running away? Well, he had my passport. I've had people ask why I didn't run to the American embassy. First of all, I didn't know where it was. Second, I was pretty sure there wasn't one anywhere near Ayrshire. Third, without proof of identity, would they even help me? Fourth, would they believe me? He was a police officer. He was a family man. I was a foreign national with a history of moving fairly frequently. I wasn't exactly a transient, but I'd been on the run for so long from my previous past that I had no doubt I'd be seen that way. I'd also been taught to believe that anything I told people would be seen as a falsehood, not just by him but by my upbringing and my own family. Nobody would believe me. Even now I struggle with the idea that people won't believe me when I tell my truth. I've just also come to terms with the fact that I no longer care if they do or not. I'm not telling my story for them. I tell my story for those who do believe me, and for those who are still trapped in a life of abuse and trafficking, so they don't ever feel as alone as I did.
7. Goodbyes:
I mentioned how I adored the kiddos. That was absolutely true. This was my chance to say goodbye to them. I knew my visa would be expiring very soon. I knew that if he didn't marry me (God forbid) that I wouldn't be able to legally stay. That would land him in trouble at work, being a police officer. But I also knew that he was more than willing to run that risk if I couldn't find a way to convince him otherwise. So, the "goodbye" here is a double meaning. I was spending what time I could with the family before my visa expired and he sent me back, or I was spending what time I could with the family before I found a way to end my own life. I'd already thought enough about it that I knew my plan. I knew exactly how I would exit the situation by ending me. I don't know the death statistics of human trafficking victims, but I do know the life statistics. Less than 2% actually survive. The rest? They are beaten to death, succumb to drug overdoses, or kill themselves to escape. I was nearly a death statistic. I've been frightened to look at those numbers all these years now.
8. Hope:
The dirtiest of all words. Hope. Hope for a better tomorrow. Hope that someone will see. Hope that someone will understand. Hope that someone will believe. Hope that I'd be rescued while we were in that seaside village. Hope that I'd have my one chance to run away and find my way back home. Hope that he would magically change into the man I'd thought he was for the 7 years I'd known him before going there. Hope that he'd feel remorse for what he'd done to me. Hope for a better life. Hope for a future. Hope is what drive us onward in the deepest moments of despair and anguish, when everything else is lost. One of the most devastating sentences I'll ever read in a book is when an author flippantly uses the phrase "all hope was lost" because that moment comes and goes. Sometimes you have hope, and sometimes you don't. When all hope is truly lost, there's nothing left to live for. It was in that moment I found myself lighting what I thought would be my last cigarette in anticipation of a train's arrival only a week later. I'd always heard it was a quick way to go... a split second of bone turning to pulp, so fast the pain sensors of the brain couldn't process what had happened before the brain itself was destroyed. But there arrived a young man with a young child, and I knew in that moment I would never scar a child like that. So, instead, I went back to my prison... and I continued to stay in Hell, with random glimpses of something more rearing up like a random smile in a photo, brought on by a brief moment of peace.. and of hope.
So why do some trafficking victims smile in some photos? All of these were reasons for me to be smiling in those photos - but all of those reasons had one underlying reason behind them... Hope.
