is there a plural for paradox?

After spending 5 weeks helping the legal team fight for justice for trafficking and forced prostitution victims, I was finally able to visit an aftercare home and meet the young women that have occupied my mind and heart during countless hours at the office and at home (just can’t seem to stop thinking about the girls.). Yall, it was both extremely difficult and overwhelmingly wonderful to visit the aftercare home.

I say it was extremely difficult because when I met each girl, as each said her name, my mind raced through the case files I’ve studied, through the petitions I’ve drafted for the court, through the research and briefs and memos – it broke me to speak with a beautiful young girl, eyes shining as she introduced herself, and realize that this girl is real, she isn’t just a case file – the abuse she suffered is terribly real, her rescue was real, she is here, right in front of me. And she has a shy smile, and beautiful graceful hands, and she looks away when she giggles. I thought it would be, oh I don’t know, nice to put a face with a name. But I realized quickly that I’m not putting a face with a name – a face is just as anonymous as a name. The atrocities, the violent oppression, the serial rape, night after night– these happened (and are happening) to real girls – to daughters, sisters, best friends. It takes your breath away, knocks the air right out of your lungs, to meet the girl whose perpetrator is in jail because of her brave testimony, and know the details of how she has suffered. Please pay attention, don’t ignore or forget that this is true: the suffering is real, the girls are real, with personalities and preferences and dreams.

At the same time, it was overwhelmingly wonderful to meet these young women. To know of the oppression that they have survived, and to see that a sparkle of joy has returned to so many eyes! Some of the girls danced, some sang, some braided each other’s hair. Some are learning stitching and weaving, some are learning computer skills. One took my hand and drew mahindi (henna tattoo).

One was making bracelets out of beads - she handed me one with a smile and giggled as I tried to tie it with one hand (since the other hand was wet with the mahindi, of course!). I blew bubbles with a toddler, the daughter of a girl who was pregnant when she was rescued. [Again, it was a blow to the stomach - physical pain - to realize that the baby's father is an anonymous customer, a man who paid money to rape a child. And now that child has a child, and I held her, and she laughed when bubbles landed on her tiny nose] There are lots of babies and toddlers running around, infecting the yard with laughter. Now that the girls are receiving care and counseling and love, it’s incredible to see their capacity for restoration, their resilience – you can just feel the hope in the air.

When I met the girls, and thought about the hours of research that go into a petition that might, depending on how the judge receives it, affect one small part of a case – I know that it’s worth it. Work me to the bone, these young women have their whole lives in front of them, at last.