Friday Night in the Red Light District.

As we walked down the neon illuminated dirt path I didn't know what to expect. We passed girls of all ages. Girls who have been led there through different journeys, stuck there for the same reasons. We entered into the faux tiki hut where they quickly arranged the tables and plastic chairs. The only light a black light. As it revealed all the fuzzies on my pants I wondered what else it might unveil.

We said hello and asked them their names. They brought us fruit and served us Coke and Fanta. The floors were dirty and the walls displayed torn posters of scenery that these girls will never see.

A pointing finger towards the karaoke machine led to a night of singing. The language barrier crumbled as we danced and sang. Smiles and laughter filled the compact space. The circumstances and setting drifted away creating an atmosphere of friendship. After dancing and sweating to death we all sat down and continued to laugh. But, all good things must come to an end and so they did. As 3 men walked in the mood drastically changed, the attention directed towards them. The circumstances and setting crept upon us once again and I remembered our differences. While their night was starting, mine was ending. While they were stuck, I had the freedom to leave.

I began to feel the my hair stand on end, goose-bumps on my neck, my blood beginning to boil. It took all the strength I had not to approach those men. Not to tell them that what they are doing is rape. That they should be ashamed and go home to their families. But I couldn't. All I could do was hug the girls I met and thank them for their kindness. All I could do was leave.

Who knows if I will ever see them again. Who knows what will eventually happen to them. All I do know is that I am sick of going to class across the street from these bars and watching men from my own country walk right into them. I am sick of learning, watching, and reading rather than doing.

It is time to act.