Belgium and Holland (part 3 of 4)

Posted by sonnetgirl7 November 12, 2018

Belgium and Holland (part 3 of 4)

"Someone told me long ago

There's a calm before the storm

I know, it's been coming for some time

When it's over so they say

It'll rain, a sunny day

I know, shinin' down like water

I want to know

Have you ever seen the rain?

Coming down on a sunny day."

- Have You Ever Seen The Rain, by Creedence Clearwater Revival

On Thursday afternoon, Desi’s parents watched the two older kids while Desi, the baby and I took a train to Amsterdam. We saw the outside of Anne Frank’s home (the line was far too long to consider going in, with many people having purchased tickets long in advance), and walked along the many canals. If I thought that people liked to bike in Belgium, it seemed like almost nothing compared to Amsterdam. There were bikes and bikers everywhere, parked along every railing and crossing every street. As the sun beat down on us, we stopped for iced tea and Dutch apple pie. Walking on, we passed a long row of venders selling the famous Holland tulip bulbs along one of the canals. I found a Christmas shop and purchased a few ornaments and a small snow globe. We passed museums, including one doing an exhibit on Banksy which I was interested in but, as we didn’t have a lot of time left, decided against since I’d have to pay only to rush through quickly.

On the way back to the train station, we made the decision to walk through the infamous red-light district. Desi had volunteered there years before. In fact, it was through meeting women who had ended up there trafficked from South America which led her to Ecuador. Desi and I share a passion for freeing women from prostitution, so when she asked what I would think about going there I said yes right away.

At first, the streets seem the same. Until you see the distinct windows. There are so many windows. Red curtains, red lights, and a chair occupied by a woman in lingerie. The women are on display like goods for sale, waiting to be purchased. There were very few women in the red windows that afternoon (they would be likely be full come nightfall) yet the sheer quantity of the windows was staggering. I pictured them full of women, all being raked over by the eyes of those who would decide what they liked best. There were rows of windows down dingy alleys but also plenty along either side of the canal running down the main street. Interspersed with the windows were sex toy shops, a museum on the history of prostitution, and marijuana cafes. They are called Coffee Shops there (a distinction which was confusing for Desi when she would meet Americans who would innocently ask if she wanted to meet at a coffee shop, which for them meant actual coffee yet for her had always been synonymous with going to get high). One after another, all along the streets were the Coffee Shops, advertising what you could smoke or eat (instead of marijuana brownies, in Holland they have space cake). The smell of cannabis wafted into the streets.

It was strange how normal this all seemed to the people there. The streets were full of people going about their business and walking around as tourists, smiling for selfies and pointing out things of interest. Desi and I turned down one side street and passed another row of red windows. A dead mouse lay on the cobblestone street, flattened face-up. When thinking back on the day, I’d imagine going to work in one of those red windows, walking along the street with the dead mouse while wearing high heels and a long coat which hid the scanty garments I wore underneath. Removing the coat once inside the brothel and walking past the red curtain, stepping inside my designated window and waiting to be bought. If I was sitting in one of those windows, what would I wish for in the immediate future? For a man who was gentle? Who was quick? Someone not too old? I don’t understand the kind of men who pay for sex as though it is any other commodity, treating the women who provide it as objects whose sole function is their pleasure. For the truth is that as long as someone is willing to buy, there will be someone desperate enough to sell. Think of Fantine in Les Miserables, feeling as though she had no other choice.

Desi told me about how there is a group of women who call themselves Proud, proclaiming how they enjoy what they do and are not ashamed. I told her about a documentary I saw called “Hot Girls Wanted”, about girls who filmed pornography in Florida, and about how one girl who went on television to brag about how she was glad of the opportunity to shoot porn so as to pay for college was noted to be hiding something by the other girls in the industry. They said she was covering something up by speaking so boldly: they said that only those who felt trapped, but didn't want to admit it, made such noise.

The place left me with pinpricks on my skin. Yet considering it all a week later, I know for certain; if I have the chance to go back, I will. I want to walk up to those windows and start conversations with the women inside. Instead of looking at their nearly-naked bodies, I want to look into their eyes and tell them they are loved. I want to invite them to the center in Belgium, invite them to begin a new life and believe they are worthy of so much more. Whether it is all the pieces of a future puzzle coming together or simply a better understanding of how to compassionately pray, I don’t yet know. There's a fluttering in my heart which continues.