From inside the Red Light District of Bangkok…

We have an amazing friend named Lindsey Christensen that we met through our church.  She divides her time between the United States and Bangkok, Thailand where she ministers to women who are trafficked from all over the world and are exploited sexually.  She works with Nightlight–an international ministry that enables women and children to escape sexual exploitation and empower them to live and work in community.  Please read a poem she just sent over:

AngelWitch Bar

she’s only 15 a woman’s curves she has yet to possess
her pink heart earrings dangle
her pink watch reveals she’s still a girl
her smile is tender
there is still light in her eyes
she smiles our way
desperately trying to be sexy
her arms and legs don’t quite work together
she’s on stage during an awkward stage
the chains she wears try to mask her innocence
the bar owners can not decide which fantasy to sell
there is a run in her black knee highs
her high healed boots are too big
she wears no make-up
her hair has not been curled
she daydreams and forgets where she is
alarmed, she looks around to see if anyone is watching
embarrassed, she catches my gaze
I smile at her, a smile that says “it’s ok, I’m glad you had a momentary escape”
her songs are over, for the moment
she steps of the stage
she walks over to a mamasau
 she explains her trouble and pouts
she’s only 15, a woman’s curves she has yet to possess
Men have begun to pour in drunkenness has approached
middle aged men with ponytails take a seat by the stage
identity crisis, grasping at days gone by
3 guys in their twenties try to appear confident and cool
they huddle together, in a booth next to me, and act like they “do this all the time”
2 business men walk in with a Thai girl they’ve already bought
She leads them to the top row and gives them a preview
An overweight man in his thirties, walks in with a “cowboy” hat he purchased on the street
His need for attention is apparent
a boy, just 18, with braces, a backpack and a school uniform stumbles in
he’s high and searching for a release before heading home
A very short man, with bottle cap glasses, struggles to pull himself up into the booth
He lacks self-esteem and has come to pay for attention
Peppered hair, clean cut, distinguished-looking glasses and a wedding ring
no wife in sight, he calls a girl over, he barely says hello and his hands begin to wander
The music turns darker and lyrics– “we are all zombies”—repeat
the gyrating increases and so does the lust of men
the spiritual oppression is thick
my head feels like it is in a vice and someone is pushing my shoulders down with both hands
the witches and cauldrons of fire hanging from the ceiling are fake,  but the shrines of idols above the bar, incense burned, rituals performed, and lives being sacrificed are very real

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