It's been seven years since I heard the story of the 12-year-old girl who was sold into prostitution. Since then, so much has happened. I‘ve worked with various anti-trafficking organizations in different countries, supporting many women, men, and children survivors of modern-day slavery. And now, I get to do the work in my home country.
This is the story of how that started and how it’s going.
I moved back to Nicaragua in July of 2018, three months after the Nicaraguan government launched a series of violent attacks against citizens exercising their right to peaceful protests (protests against corruption and abuse). I came back home as I was experiencing a personal crisis only to find that my country was in an even bigger one–one that had taken the lives of hundreds of people.
I was stunned by the tension and the fear I felt in Managua for months after the attacks. Organizations, businesses, and families were directly impacted by this crisis, wounding the already poor and vulnerable. As some people were afraid to leave their homes after dark, there was a group that had no other option but to face the night and its threats.
As I was out running errands one evening, I noticed a few women standing at a busy corner downtown. The group would break up, and the women would run after every taxi driver and passerby that went down their street. They were asking for money in exchange for sex.
I immediately wanted to know what organizations were working with victims and survivors of trafficking and forced prostitution in Managua so that I could volunteer with them. This is how my brain works when it comes to things I am passionate about–it conjures ideas and solutions in a moment. So I held onto that thought and went home to look for charities in the city. I was excited at the possibility of helping, but I was surprised when my search yielded no successful finds.
Even before the crisis began in 2018, no established organizations in Nicaragua offered holistic healing and recovery to women or men exiting the commercial sex industry. However, after searching for a few months, I came across a couple of small projects run by locals that assisted women in prostitution.
One of those was a drop-in center located in the heart of the city. They offered a safe space for women and girls to talk about their experiences, to get involved in creative activities, and to obtain financial aid.
This drop-in was the only project that was consistent in giving support to prostituted women. And while I loved the work they were doing, I still felt a desire to go out to meet and interact with the women I had seen.
So, in 2019, I started Outreach, an impromptu visit that turned into a ministry.
One August evening, I drove by the same group of women I had previously seen offering services to every man and woman they encountered. That night, however, it finally felt like it was the right time to approach them.
I had spent months praying and trying to think of ways to help, but until that evening, I never felt comfortable going and speaking to them. My discomfort didn’t come from the fear of going into a red-light district; it came from it not being the right time to do so. So that evening, when I finally felt called and released to go see the women, I made sandwiches, bought sodas, and drove back to their corner.
That first night of Outreach was the quickest one. The whole thing lasted about 10 minutes. But I was overjoyed. As I handed out the sandwiches and drinks, I introduced myself to the women. I told them that I would be back every week with more food—they were unmoved by me and my promise to return.
They all smiled and thanked me, but the older women looked intrigued. I could see that they were trying to figure out who I was and what my intentions were. Finally, C****, the oldest one, asked me WHY I was giving out food, and IF I was a Christian. The two questions seemed unrelated, and I was more surprised by the latter. When I answered her last question and confirmed that I was a Christian, she immediately connected it to me being there and relaxed. She proceeded to inform the others that I was a Christian girl, “que quiere darnos una bendición.” And just as C**** did, the others loosened up quite a bit, too.
The following week I returned and took 16 sandwiches and 16 drinks, hoping to find more women to share them with. To my amazement, just like the previous week, there was precisely enough for everyone.
The same eight women I had seen the previous week were there, but when they saw me, they greeted me with much more glee than the first time. They even invited me to sit with them as they ate their toasties and joked with one another. Then, as if they had already known me for a while, they began to tell me the stories of when and how they started working that corner. I was honored and deeply moved.
Unlike any other group of victims (and survivors) I have worked with in the past, these women were quick to open up. And as the weeks went on, and trust was being built, they began to tell me about the others "working" in different areas of the city.
One of the groups they told me about was “las chavalitas” (the young girls), who had taken over a spot opposite a hotel in a rundown area in town. They cautioned me and explained that the girls would be using drugs and that the place was dangerous, but still encouraged me to see them.
It took a couple of weeks (and purchasing pepper spray) before I decided that it was time to extend Outreach to the chavalitas.
When I arrived at the place, I realized that the older women were right. These girls were young, intoxicated to the point of not being able to stand up without help, dirty, and barely clothed.
The reality of it saddened me. I could not believe that this was happening in plain sight. But I was also grateful to be there. Grateful for the opportunity to treat the girls with respect and love.
Although it took a while, the younger girls began to talk about themselves and their experiences.
I remember the first time they were able to talk to me because they weren’t completely wrecked. The night this happened, I was asking each one how they were doing, and after a few nodded their heads and walked away, R***, the youngest-looking one, asked, “can you help us get out?”
I couldn’t. Not safely nor successfully. My heart was heavy, and I was embarrassed. I wasn’t ready for that question; it made my actions seem completely futile. I felt disheartened.
Why was I handing out food to child victims of commercial sexual exploitation when what they needed was a safe place?!
Although I felt defeated, I didn’t want to give it up. At that moment, I chose to believe that when I heard God say, “go out and give them food,” He meant it. I decided to believe in the impact of small actions of love.
I wanted to keep showing up in the ways I knew how. And I wanted to keep doing what God was calling me to do in the dark places of the city where hunger was real, where obedience and consistency were more important than my perceived efficacy.
I looked at the skinny teenager standing next to me and told her that I could not offer her or her friends a safe place. Not yet. I reminded her of what I was able to do and confirmed that I would be back the following week with more food and drinks. To my surprise, R*** smiled, and then she blessed me,
“Bendiciones, hermana. Gracias por su ayuda.”
—-—-—-—
It’s been over a year since the first Outreach, and I cannot believe how much it has grown and how important it has become to me.
When this project started, I was the only one going out, and the only one funding it. However, as the ministry has grown, so has my support group–and not by coincidence. Some friends send financial donations while others accompany me to see the girls.
I’m grateful for those who don’t simply encourage me to live out my dreams but who also help me accomplish them.
OUTREACH serves more than 50 women, trans-women, and underaged girls working the streets or dancing in strip clubs almost every week.
What was once just a dream—a desire to impact my community positively—is now a ministry that touches the lives of abused and marginalized people in Nicaragua.
