Lost in the city

Her belly was swollen the night she was first bought for sex.

The customer had specifically asked for someone pregnant, and Lisa (not her real name), only 17, was already in her second trimester. It was her first foray into prostitution, her first sojourn in Manila, her first time to be pimped. It was not, however, her first time to be used.

There, under the dingy streetlights of Aurora-Cubao overpass, helpless beneath the weight of the man grinding against her, Lisa’s third experience of sex. This third time seemed no difference from the first or second — in all encounters, the end was the same. Hollowness and pain.

She was nine the first time it happened. Her older cousin would cajole her into playing games, and Lisa would only have the faintest idea, pulsing at the back of her mind, that there was something wrong. The sea of clothes littered on the floor of her grandparents’ hut in Antique, the fully-formed manhood, the fingers touching, caressing, groping.

In her second year of high school, Lisa was raped by a close friend. Pregnant and forced by her mother to marry, she had run away. With nowhere else to go, Lisa did what every wide-eyed probinsyana had done, and would continue to do, after: make her way to Manila, in the hopes of finding redemption.

Streetwalking

“Wala naman gusto maging prostitute,” says Lisa, her eyes downcast. “Pero nung nabugaw ako, wala na akong magawa, maliban sa naisip ko na makaipon ako para sa anak ko.”

Her first acquaintance in the city was a pimp. They had met outside Quiapo Church, one pregnant, the other, high. Look around you, the pimp had said, “Pa’no ka mabubuhay rito? Buntis ka pa naman.”

From that point on, there was no turning back. She was only 17, but the future had closed up before her. With nothing else to live for, Lisa clung to the idea of saving her child like a life raft.

“Naisip ko nun, ganito na rin naman ako.” A heavy pause. “Gamit.”

To turn to anyone else for recourse was, for Lisa, out of the question. Along the dark streets and tight alleyways of Cubao stalked the police, no better than the men who would buy a pregnant woman and have her on all fours.

“Sa lahat talaga, ang pinakamalala ay ‘yung mga pulis,” says Lisa. As customers, they would shortchange the prostitutes and then threaten them with imprisonment. As officers of the law, they would lay down the rules in clear-cut terms: money, imprisonment, or free sex. For Lisa and her peers, more often than not they were compelled to pick the last option, although any time she had the extra cash, Lisa would opt for the former. And so it went that Lisa’s earnings were divided among her pimp, the upbringing of her daughter, and the policemen she had to stave off. 

It was never enough, however. One night during a raid, a policeman she had bought off dragged her to Karingal station, where, instead of locking her up in prison, decided to satiate his lust first. Among his colleagues and even the station police chief, Lisa was passed around like a bottle of gin; a few sips here and there, long, full swigs for some, but always leaving just enough for the next man to enjoy. The end of that ordeal saw the bottle thrown to the curb, and Lisa splintering into a thousand pieces of glass.

Coded outlaws

Prostitution may be the world’s oldest profession, but that hasn’t tempered social attitudes against it in any way. Instead, the prostitute herself becomes the repository for every culture’s anxieties about sex. Their bodies are constructed as either empowered or victimized, their sexual identities endlessly debated, but never acted, upon by feminists in ivory towers. Popular sentiment revolves around the logic of: they get their money; they make their choice. That choice being to surrender all hold on humanity’s most fundamental capital, most natural rights. In effect, across societies, across the spectrum of the rich and poor, the hoodlums and so-called law enforcers, prostitutes are nothing but the target of societal venom.

The government, in its efforts to update the 80-year-old Revised Penal Code (RPC), is considering the possibility of decriminalizing prostitution. Their rationale stems from the notion that since these acts stem from poverty, why penalize poverty? It’s a social ill, not necessarily a crime, and definitely nothing that a few State-sponsored jobs can’t fix.

This reasoning fails to probe beneath the surface. Decriminalizing prostitution sends the clear message that the commodification of women’s bodies is now accepted, and the public can thus revel in the legality of buying a streetwalker for sex.

“The news is disturbing,” says Jean Enriquez, executive director of Coalition Against Trafficking in Women-Asia Pacific (CATW-AP). “Our position is only to decriminalize those who are bought and sold in prostitution, and thus, to entirely repeal Art. 202 of the RPC. However, Art. 341 should not be repealed, as it would mean decriminalizing the act of pimps and procurers.”  

Jean emphasizes that while poverty is a root cause, deep-seated patriarchal attitudes engender the same effect. Especially when it impresses the idea that these women are in the profession they deserve, especially when it manifests itself in violence against them, especially when it perpetuates the myth that they enjoy the sex they sell.

Heaven-sent

It took a while for Lisa to begin trusting other people again; she initially viewed the social workers as nuisances and potential threats, despite the friendly smiles and “kamusta ka’s,” or the coffee and bread brought for the prostitutes every Friday. It took a while, but the sincerity of these women’s groups eventually won her over. It was through Jean that Lisa was first introduced to CATW-AP, and to the idea that her life could amount to something more.

“January 5, 2010,” Lisa proudly proclaims, a smile forming for the first time on her lips. “Una kong sahod.” The date, she says, is forever etched in her heart. After CATW-AP had taken her under their wing, Lisa has never once looked back. She is currently the organization’s resident cook, professing a desire to make all her dishes special, as special as her newfound purpose and direction in life.

“Kung sa akin lang, babalikan ko talaga ang mga lalaki na ‘yun, yung mga pulis, at kakasuhan ko sila. Syempre, andun pa rin ang galit,” she says. “Pero hindi lang ako gumagalaw para sa sarili ko.”

Her anger has been rechanneled, and under the guidance of CATW-AP, Lisa has found it within herself to return to the streets, to the taunts of erstwhile customers, and to the other women once like her.

She is there as an activist, but also as a friend. To extend a helping hand, and to tell them that yes, this vicious cycle can be broken.

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As part of their own efforts at economic sustainability and empowerment, “Lisa” and other survivors have a women’s cooperative — “Mana from Heaven,” a food catering project for parties, events, etc. Please contact Gi at 0905-8577727 or 434-22149.