This piece was written by my brother, Drew Murphy, in regard to prostitution in South East Asia.
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There she is over there! Look at her, the filthy rubbish. Her and the others like her, bringing shame to our streets and to our city. It wasn’t always like this you know? Oh no! One could walk the streets at night, listening to the rustle of the leaves, watching the stars flicker in the blanket sky, but not now, oh no! Things have changed. Look at them! They’re all over the place, there seems to be one on every street corner these days. They infect our society with their vile and filth. They’re a disgrace, a stain on society. Unfortunately there seems to be more and more of them as time goes on. What kind of worthless being engages in such activity? How can you have absolutely no sense of moral guiding?! How could you choose to sell yourself, your body, your soul? You degrade yourself to that of a commodity, a tool to be used and consumed. These people have no morals! They have no shame. Prostitutes, whores, vermin! That’s what they are, vermin of the underworld – crawling out of their shabby little holes under the cover of darkness. They’re probably all drug addicts as well. They truly are the stain of society. What a horror. What a disgrace!
She stands on the sidewalk, the wind abrasive against her fragile face. Her arms are folded, wrapped tightly around her broken body, her broken soul. Anxiously she waits. How long will tonight be? Her blonde hair and blue eyes, the traits so often envied by many, have helped her stand out amongst her colleagues. ‘Helped’ – what a deceptive word! Why did beauty have to be such a curse? She paints her face and shapes her hair, her eyes are heavy, her heart, bare. Headlights in the distance, approaching. Here we go again! Her heart drops – or what’s left of it at least. The car slows as it approaches, its the usual routine. Whose it this time? She wonders. A wealthy doctor, tired of the routine? Or an upstanding politician, who dare not be seen? Perhaps it’s a loving husband, a father of three. She’s had a few of those before! Which monster is it tonight?
Men. Pigs. Monsters. Beasts. She makes no distinction, she’s known nothing else. From her drunken father, making love to his Whisky and Coke and beating her for sport to the hundreds of nameless faces that come to her for her body, all men are the same. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the shop window to her right. All the makeup, the high heels and flashy clothes, the hair done up and the perfume, its just a thin fa=E7ade – barely covering her broken soul and crushed spirit. She is able to offer what the clients want – her physical self, but she can’t offer anything more. No emotions, no love, no soul or life. She’s an empty shell, only her body lives. On the inside, death has taken residence.
A gust of the icy November wind sends a chill throughout her body. The car has already driven off. No deal this time. She’s torn between relief and the reality that valuable income has driven off. Soon she will have to go back upstairs to shoot up again, the pain is increasing again. Across the street beneath the orange street lamps a mother hurriedly walks with her young daughter. She looks at the pair with some surprise – not a usual sight in these parts, at this sort of time of night. The little girl looks over towards her, but the mother quickly pulls her along, softly but sternly discouraging her daughter to look that way.
This scene spurs memories in her own mind about her childhood, her mother. It seems like an eternity since she was wearing the coloured dresses, playing with friends and dreaming about the prince who would one day choose her to be his princess. But those are all forgotten and distant dreams – life is quite the opposite for her now. All she has are slutty outfits, a group of acquaintances and a continuous stream of filthy perverts who seek to pleasure themselves at her expense. There will be no white dress as she walks down the aisle to the man of
her dreams waiting for her. No loving man who takes pleasure in delighting her and making her his queen.
She knows how society perceives her. She knows what people think. The judging glares and condemning stares are a part of her life. She and the others like her are the ‘stains’ on society. She knows that is what people see her as – an inevitable evil. If only they would get off their high horses and perhaps try and find out who she is and not only look at what she does. Never before has an occupation been the defining point of a person as much as it is with prostitution. She didn’t ‘choose’ this work. She didn’t lie on the lawn outside as a young girl dreaming of the day she could parade the streets at night and degrade herself to the point of worthlessness. She doesn’t wake up each day loving life and looking forward to another night’s work. She hates every one of her ‘customers’ who legally rape her. She hates the pimp who takes his share of her earnings. She hates the cops her throw in jail for illegal activity, but leave the clients to return home to their unsuspecting wives untouched. They are the real perpetrators of
this trade. She hates her father for beating her, destroying their family, forcing her to turn to the most instinctive form of survival. She hates the people who glare at her, curse and then walk on. They’re so quick to dismiss – generalising and stereotyping. She hates the ones who beat her with the book and act as though they were always blameless and pure. She hates the spiral she can’t escape from. Drugs to ease the pain, sex to pay for the drugs. It’s a chain around her ankles, holding her under as she gasps for breath. She hates herself for what she is. She hates herself for what she’s not.
When will we stop and think without making assumptions. When will we stretch out a helping hand instead of dishing out judging glares? Walking on by has never been easier; extending a hand never more needed.
drew murphy 2009