shiho fukada
Sex for Sale
By Shiho Fukada
During my recent visit to a brothel in Bangladesh, I met Toma who was 14 years old. She was told she was the most beautiful girl in her village, thus her family was afraid that she was going to be gang raped by village boys. Her sister, who took Toma to the brothel about a year ago, told me, “All the boys in the village wanted her for free. Instead of giving her out for free, we decided to take her to the brothel so that she can make money.” As I was talking with Toma, a few men were waiting for me to finish the conversation, so that they could spend time with her. One of the young girls, who called herself Beauty, said she was 18 but she looked like 12 or 13. She has not even developed breast yet. It was around noon but Beauty stood in the corner, looking for customers, though she said she already took two customers that day.
In Bangladesh, as one of the most impoverished Muslim countries, girls and women are often trafficked, sold, and married off at very early ages. The majority of the 20,000 to 30,000 female sex workers in Bangladesh are almost always victims of this systematic exploitation. They usually come from poor families, lured with a false job offers or education. Others are kidnapped or sold by friends or family members for profit.
Unfortunately, once they enter the brothel (usually before the age of twelve) they are generally in for life. They believe that their families will suffer severe social consequences including the loss of self-respect and social dignity if it becomes known they are prostitutes.
I got to meet sex workers from age 12 to 80, the typical entry and exit points of sex workers in Bangladesh. All the women who were willing to share their stories with me have compelled me with their resilience despite the past full of violence and hardship.
Once the women got used to me, they started asking me a lot of questions. They thought I’m strange to hang around in a brothel, taking pictures, and also complete mess as a woman. “Why don’t you wear makeup?” “Why don’t you wear jewelries?” “You have flat chest.” Some of them seemed to feel sorry for me and even offered me some glooming treatment; Rima threaded my eyebrows, Shetu put lipstick on me, Shumi braded my hair, and Munnie painted my nails. Josna, 60 years old sex worker, whom I was photographing, could barely support her 7 year old daughter as her client base has dwindled as she ages and she could charge only half of what a younger girl charges, that is 50 cent per service. She bought me a par of earrings that costs her about one customer. She wanted me to wear them as I never wore any earrings while at work in the brothel. She said she thinks, “I would look prettier with them.” I was really moved by her kindness, but also wondered if I deserve it as I could not improve her life, such as helping her daughter go to school as it is unlawful for children living in brothel to attend a school.
Munnie, 15, mother Mukta, 33, and grandmother Jova, 47, are family of sex workers in a small town in Bangladesh. As Jova gets older, she finds it difficult to attract more customers. She believes her only retirement option is to sell her daughters’ and granddaughters’ bodies. All the three of Java’s daughters are sex workers. When Munnie has started taking her own customers eight months ago, her relationship with mother Mukta has strained because suddenly they were competing for the same clients. Munnie moved in with Jova and Mukta did not seem to show much affection to her daughter either. When I photographed family portrait, Munnie fussed and pouted about sitting next to Mukta.
When I met Munnie, she has been in the business only for 8 months but she already got the daily routine down; wake up just before noon (as she takes customers all night), eats lunch with Jova, washes up, puts on make up, looks for customers, takes as many customers as possible, day in and day out. I remember how my life was like as a 14 years old girl and tried to imagine how it is like to be in Munnie’s shoes. “I wasted a condom!” She yelled at her customer after he could not reach the orgasm. The other time, I saw her crying on her bed like a little girl. Jova gestured punching her fist on her palm, indicating a customer beat her.
Sex worker sisters Shetu, 17, Nodi 14, and their cousin Sume, 8, whose mother is also a sex worker, shared a small room in a brothel. Though other sex workers have basic items, such as a bed cover and cooking utensils, they did not have anything in a room, except a bed, a make-up bag, and a roof with a hole that leaks when it rains. Shetu is a beautiful girl with sad big brown eye. Her pale face and twiggy thin body indicated that she was not taking enough food. She often lamented, “Customers don’t like me anymore because I lost so much weight.”
Shetu encountered violence from men throughout her adolescent life. Born into poverty, her first marriage was when she was 12 years old and has a 3-year-old son from the marriage. As her husband did not want a child when she got pregnant, he started physically abusing her. After she delivered a baby, she left her husband and begged on the street. One day her husband found her, took away her son, and sold him to a woman for 5,000tks (68tks=US1D). At that time, she was offered a job at a garment factory but instead sold to a brothel. She was forced to work under a madam for 1 year and after she was freed, she left the brothel. Upon her return to the village, she got married again for 7 months but was beaten regularly. After her husband knocked off her front tooth, she left her husband and came back to the brothel. Shetu's sister Nodi, whose family is Muslim, run away from home after falling in love with a Hindu boy and ended up in the brothel with her sister. As other sex workers tend to fight and stand up for customers, Shetu often seemed to let them walk all over her. Shetu and Nodi would entertain customers together sometimes, and one day I came to visit her, she looked terribly distraught, her eyes were not focused and she could barely walk straight. One of her customers whispered to me, “There is something wrong with that girl. I think she has a disease.” Later, she showed me empty packet of pills and said “I took 10 relaxant pills last night. When I think about my son calling other woman ‘mother’, I get so depressed. “
Shetu and I have become friends though we did not share a language. The only words we understood were “chobi” (pictures) and “bandbi” (friends). At one point, she called my mobile late night almost every day. I really wished what she was saying, because I think she wanted to tell me something. The day I left the town, Shetu covered herself with a long black coat to leave a brothel and sent me off at the bus stand.
I will never forget these women who were kind enough to share their lives with me and spend time with me. I would really love these photographs to be used in a way to somehow contribute to improve life of these women.
