She dreamed of a future—honest wages for her family, a taste of opportunity. She boarded a plane on his words of assurance that life would improve if she just crossed the globe.
But promises turned counterfeit, as neon city lights faded to shadows of gray. He was in control now, an Armani suited pimp. She became his to command, all freedom disappeared.
Time no longer seemed to matter, as weeks stretched into months, and the earth reeled off its axis. A name was erased from her grime-smeared face—the stamp of commodity on a bruised, exploited body.
Her narrative is common and her affliction epidemic—another headline for consumption, another hashtag to retweet. Yet these statistics fail to humanize the person whose agency was taken and whose dignity was tarnished. Injustice like that can asphyxiate the soul, but she is more than ravaged hopes or a crumbling spirit.
Her life is worth rescue, her freedom worth ransom—because the dream of a future is just what she deserves.