The thin fabric of my shoes didn't offer sufficient protection against the ragged rocks of below my worn out feet and did less to safeguard against the steady dust rolling over the road. It was less the direct heat from the Kenyan summer suffocating me, rather the quiet, desperate panic rising in my chest that I was unable to provide adequate assistance for those who desperately needed someone to help defend themselves against the multitude of injustices committed against them.
I rolled my shoulders back, took a deep breath and plastered a shaky grin on my face as I looked up at the sign above my head reading, "Rescue Center" … as if these children, holding tightly stories of calamity within their very core, were capable of being discarded into a temporary shelter not fit for even America's lowliest, left behind animals. Yet here I was, walking into this praised house of rescue to sit and talk with young females about the unfortunate circumstances surrounding their happenstance stay. My forced smile quickly turned into a shout of greeting and then pure laughter and delight as the young children ran out to greet me, asking what I had planned for the day. I had gone to Kenya with the intention of putting my media and journalism, photography emphasis to use. In my mind, I was going to be an avenue towards social change, if I documented their stories and pasted their young faces, already lined with grief and hardship on an 8x10 piece of paper, maybe those back in America reading would be inspired to make a donation towards Simba Ministries.
After sitting with the young females and hearing their stories of maltreatment, my heart was tormented by tales of girls being sold into labor trafficking and angered by the detailed descriptions of having their body used and objectified, being sold in formidable dark alleys behind popular streets and grieved by their feelings of unworthiness, loss of their childhood and inability to feel love as they had been repeatedly violated by those within their family circle. After suffering at the hands of those who were supposed to protect them, even while at the rescue center, very little assistance from neighborhood churches was negligible, mental health counseling non-existent, doctors only called when desperation sets in, and court cases never brought forth.
Their stories became one with the beat of my heart and the tune I sing now is one they inspired in me. To stand up and give anything for those who have lost everything is a noble fight in which to engage. The battle begins by changing the way that our media portrays victims, yes, but it is not where I am called to be. The incessant need for justice is what drives me today. I cannot sit idly by while watching fellow humans engage in the fight for basic human dignities.
When I left Africa, I didn’t leave the principles I learned there behind. I co-founded a club at the University of South Dakota to raise awareness against human trafficking, the passion for my life has begun to become more clear. I have always known I want women to empower women, I just wasn’t sure how I was going to fulfill my role regarding that dream. A year and two internships later, one with the Division of Criminal Investigations in Des Moines Iowa and one with the Minnehaha County Public Defender’s office in Sioux Falls, South Dakota made me realize that my heart is turned towards women who are going through courtroom processes and engrossed in a fight for justice.
The internship with the Minnehaha County Public Defender’s office gave me a unique perspective. I was able to learn courtroom processes, discuss indictments with clients, and research topics pertaining to specific case law and also regarding individual defendant’s cases. Through this, I learned that each client also deserves to have their side of the story told, that no one voice is more important than the other, and fighting the loss of liberty for a person is a distinct calling and an important role within our criminal justice system. I learned that there is no black and white when talking about innocent and guilty.
These people face the worst day of their lives with fierce advocators by their side, the defense counsel honored with the gift of receiving enough trust from the client to tell their story. I learned that tragedy transcends the label of the victim or alleged perpetrator, and both parties are each feeling an astute sense of loss in the midst of the distress and heartache. All too often vulnerable circumstances, the way people were raised, deep seeded addictions, or mental health problems are the root of many crimes.
Whether victim or perpetrator, in order to tell a story all perspectives and sides of the truth have value. What value we assign it is important, but also the amount that other people perceive from the retelling of that story. The jury is put in a unique position to listen to different versions of the same truth, however muddled and complicated and create their own version of what they believed happened. In this beautiful, complicated and sometimes tragic process that justice is served.
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