Destination Freedom
A comment was made during the conversation in the wounded Healers room today, that really brought both joy and sadness into my heart.
…that we were not all free until all enslavement, modern slavery, trafficking, forced labour was ended.
The prompt that followed, the prompt that singly captured my attention was
“I've been on the freedom trail for a while.”
I couldn't share a response in the room as I had a grandchild's birthday party to attend.
So I thought I would share here, a little ginger boy's view of freedom.
The bus stop refferd to in the scribble is real.
I stood at it, in the rain, the night I stopped being.trafficked for sex as a child
Destination Freedom.
One long argument with a bus shelter
Three walls of concrete, may have been tin
All those angry words… bit if an old scribble
Written around 1988 Came one night, late
A bus stop waiting for a ride to freedom I’ve been on the freedoms trail, awhile
It began at a bus stop, February 1978.
Not some metaphor, I'm literal you see
Trafficked for a decade, that bus stop
The end of my plight was freedom for me.
Words as true as her ebony and ivory keys
“Freedom is no fear” I truly do believe.
Sadly there is no direct bus to freedom
Because nurtured fear stays in the mind
Thought of words turn thoughts unkind
Enslavement, trafficked, modern slavery.
It's all the same to a human commodity
Standing at that bus stop, was my liberty
Didn't understand what had been done to me
No idea a child sex slave was even a thing to be
The price of ignorance was continually rising
The cost to me was more than my cost
The price paid for a convenient commodity
Birth they say can be traumatic for some
Being born again at a bus stop isn't easy
Reborn with fearful recall of the previous
Paid half price on the bus, I was still a child
An old commodity child, of seemingly no use
No idea about the global trade in children
But new what's to done to things of no use
I suppose I'm travelling to freedom still
Freedom from ignorance, discovering truth
The hardest pain, is like carrying a chain
Fearing it will not even break when you die.
But I carry on riding, and the reason why
My worth was given a price tag as child, so
I dream of the end to the most inhumane sin
For every generation with inherited legacies
Shackles of ancestors bequeathed scars
And one bus ride might be where it begins.
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Destination Freedom
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