The View from a Drawbridge

Yesterday I wrote about the many circles of hell the average woman on this planet has to pass through. Believe me, this is not the first time I’ve contemplated this topic, and at one point I was doing well enough to consider trying to help.

It’s the personal stories that get to me the most. Women with dreams and aspirations but no hope because they aren’t allowed an education. Young girls promised in marriage to men that they do not want. Women whose spirits are crushed when they discover that that overseas job that they took to help their families is actually a sex trafficking racket, and they are now trapped in a web of violence. Grown women who are not allowed to leave the house without permission or an escort.

A few years ago I had a steady job, and a house, and this nice clean guest room that was empty the majority of the time. I thought, “Wouldn’t it be nice if I could save just one of these women, give them a future where they had choices and opportunities and all the options that I take for granted?”

I got excited, thinking about filling my guest room with life and hope and possibilities. She could learn English, go to school, get a job, and then stand on her own two feet, free to marry or not, have children or not, go anywhere, or not.

Sadly, how would I find a woman like this? She probably wouldn’t be able to speak freely, and the men in her life probably wouldn’t let her go willingly. Perhaps a refugee camp would be the place to look.

But after doing quite a lot of research on the Department of State website, it became distressingly clear that it would be nearly impossible to sponsor someone. It either has to be a family member, someone you marry, someone you’re going to adopt, or someone you’re going to employ. There are also diversity visas for countries with low immigration to the US, but the applicant must have a high school diploma and two years of work experience, among other things, and that doesn’t fit the profile of the type of woman I had in mind.

We complain about illegal immigration quite a lot in this country, but imagine desperately trying to get in and knowing you’ll never be able to. The system is against these women, both on her end and on mine. And it’s a moot point now, I suppose, because I no longer have the house, the guestroom, or the financial ability to help someone other than myself.

But sometimes I imagine myself reaching out my hand across the water to one of these women, and she’s got her hand outstretched as well, but our fingertips remain mere inches away. So close. So damned close…