Monsters under the bed

I visited a child brothel area in a small village outside of Phnom Penh this afternoon. There's a children's program run every Monday/Wednesday/Friday for the local kids. The afternoon was full of stories, songs, screaming, running, balloon popping, hand holding, name asking, coloring, creating, loving and impact.

I'm speechless.

I had gone before. With my nurse friend; Ruthie. She worked as a nurse on Tuesday/Thursday afternoons. Now that she's gone they try to make do with what she taught them.

This time was different then the last time i visited though. The background, the stories, the rooms; were explained more to me.

The program is run in an old brothel. In the past it was just a skinny dark hallway with cubicles on either side; maybe 7 feet by 7 feet. Now it's a big room where kids run and eat and play and just be kids. At the back of the room though stands one single cubicle. Left as a memorial to an innocent little girl who was raped to death in it. The finger prints still on the walls. The wooden bed still remains.

There's more but i don't need to go on. I just need to think.

I got home and tried to go on. But as i scrambled my eggs I found tears on my cheeks. Just me thinking about her is reason enough for them to keep the room. To prove to her that we won't forget. But we won't just sit. We'll remember her and we'll play. These kids can play. Even though 80% every night become sex workers. Every night! On Monday/Wednesday/Friday, these little wonders can just be kids.

I'm upset because there are angels walking amongst us - tied to his bed.