Where There's Hope

by Elizabeth A. Smart

  “Even then,” says Mary Louise. “That’s just a choice. Let’s go live great. I’ve got a great opportunity—let’s go live a great life.”

  It seems to me that the choice she’s talking about is another form of self-preservation. In the past ten years, I’ve come to understand that self-preservation extends to self-care. You can’t ignore your personal needs in any situation. Yes, there are situations where it is impossible to attend to all your personal needs, but at the very least, you have to give yourself credit for being human and needing whatever it is that’s missing. If you have no food, you have to at least acknowledge your hunger. You can’t just pretend it doesn’t exist. When you have a chance to stop and listen to yourself, you have to take a moment to redigest, decompress, and recognize your feelings and emotions about what’s been going on. Take a moment to be alone, or talk to a friend. Sometimes taking care of yourself means doing something you love, indulging a passion or engaging in a hobby. Sometimes it means finding a therapist or a therapy to suit your situation. Whatever your unfulfilled need is, it’s dangerous to swallow or ignore it.

  Most of the time, the courage to live happens on a much smaller scale than it does in dramatic or traumatic moments. I survived a major traumatic event when I was a girl, but I’m still beaten down hard when I’m pregnant and exhausted and my baby girl is running a fever and throwing up all night. Everyday struggles take their toll, and I think most of us—especially working moms who’ve been trained to put ourselves at the bottom of every to-do list—sometimes need a reminder to just check in with ourselves:

  What do I need from this life?

  What’s truly at stake here?

  And what am I doing to fight for it?

  3

  Seeing a Rush of Red

  Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.

  —MAYA ANGELOU

  Anger is perceived as a negative emotion, but in fact, it plays an important role in the healing process. Anger is a natural sensation, a sign that you’re human, that you’re past feeling sorry for yourself—and that can have a positive effect, as long as you don’t get mired in it.

  Growing up in America, most of us are taught to answer the question “How are you?” with “Fine” or “Good.” When I lived in France for a year and a half, I was always surprised when I asked someone, “Comment allez-vous?” and they actually told me! They’d delve into their private lives, worries, and woes. It taught me to appreciate genuine honesty when asking the question “How are you?” It also taught me to respect the question, because we shouldn’t be asking it unless we are genuine in our interest or concern. We shouldn’t ask the question if the person being asked is not allowed to answer honestly, but there are things we’re trained to mask, and for women in most world cultures, expressing anger is a big social taboo.

  Norma Bastidas, who was born in Mexico, is a professional athlete and an advocate for victims of human trafficking. I first met her when I was pregnant with Chloé and working on a video raising awareness, hoping to help people better understand that not all prisons are made of iron bars. When I ask her, “So, Norma, how have you been?” I’ll admit, initially, I’m just being polite. But I like the honesty with which she answers.

  “You know, it’s actually not been…” Norma sighs deeply and gets real. She immediately has my attention. “Probably you’re the only person that I can tell the truth. I’m terrible, terrible, terrible.”

  I’m surprised by Norma’s candor, but I appreciate it. Her honest anger is refreshingly authentic. I settle into a side chair in my living room and set my phone on speaker, knowing that the best thing I can do right now is listen. I’ll ask questions later.

  “Another big article came out about my story,” says Norma, “and that’s always—I pretend I’m okay, but it’s very, very difficult every time a story comes out.”

  Norma’s father died very early in her childhood. The extended family stepped in to help as much as they could while Norma’s mother took on additional hours at work to support her children. Norma’s maternal grandfather started to pay extra attention to her, grooming her for the day he raped her when she was only eleven years old. It was a horrible situation for this little girl. Her mother was working all the time to feed and clothe her children and keep a roof over their head. Meanwhile, Norma’s maternal grandfather and someone else close to the family were sexually abusing her.

  To me, as firmly grounded in family as I am, this is an unthinkable betrayal. Your family is supposed to love and protect you, but this child found neither love nor protection. She finally saw a way to escape the abuse and sexual violation when a talent agency offered her a modeling job in Japan. Norma was young—only nineteen—and at first, it seemed an answer to prayer. Unfortunately, it soon became a living hell. In the beginning, she was given an apartment and money to send back to her family. She felt good about helping her mother and siblings, but soon the “modeling agency” started asking her to go to nightclubs and dance. They firmly reminded her that she needed to work off her debt—the airplane ticket, the apartment, the money she sent back to her family—and soon, dancing wasn’t enough. They wanted her to allow certain gentlemen to pay her for very specific services. And it was done in a cleverly coercive way. Of course, they insisted, they were just “suggesting,” not forcing or demanding. It always looked like Norma was free to do as she pleased. Two bodyguards stood outside the bedroom door, but the “agency” insisted that this was for Norma’s own protection, so that “clients” couldn’t get rough with her. All that was as far from the truth as possible.

  This shadowy organization had brought her into a foreign country illegally. She didn’t speak the language and had no money, no friends, no family. She had no recourse if things didn’t work out. She felt isolated and alone. When Norma finally escaped what many people would probably call “prostitution” but what is more accurately called “human trafficking,” she returned to her family in Mexico. But everything was different. Word of what had been going on in Japan had made it all the way back to her hometown. One day, she was kidnapped and raped multiple times. You would think that the community would have rallied around her with love and support, that outrage and horror would have been directed toward the monsters who had hurt this young woman so badly. Instead, she found herself isolated again by a wall of shame and ignorance.

  Neighbors who had known Norma her whole life turned their backs on her. She eventually relocated to Vancouver, British Columbia, got married, and had two kids. It seemed that she had left her past behind her, but the pain did not go away. In time, it broke her marriage, and amid the stress of becoming a newly single parent of two children—one with a degenerative eye disease—she lost her job. All the problems of the present struggle combined with the weight of a horrific past that could understandably destroy anyone.

  Desperate to find some kind of relief, Norma started running—and she didn’t stop. She ran until she found she could run a whole mile. Then she ran until she could run ten. She ran until the pounding of her feet slowed down the constant pounding of her heart, until the constant beat of judgment, shame, violence, and loneliness sank into the rhythm of her own steady pace. Within six months of putting on her first pair of running shoes, Norma qualified for the Boston Marathon. She didn’t stop there. She became an ultramarathoner, running races of 50 miles and more. She has since competed on all seven continents. In March 2016, she took on the challenge of a triathlon. She swam 122 miles, biked 2,132 miles, and ran 735 miles, and she didn’t just beat the world record, she obliterated it.

  Norma was strong before she ever started running or being a triathlete. She was born strong. She survived more than most of us will ever be faced with. Some of it has left her deeply, justifiably angry. And she’s strong enough to acknowledge how she truly feels.

  “I understand that every single time I accept a request to talk about my path in a media story, it’s going to be difficult,�
�� she says. “I take steps not to revictimize myself, but it’s hard to completely avoid it. Every single time I open a chapter, there’s always backlash. Family members were upset, just because nobody wants to be attached to that negativity. It’s hurtful when family members are like, ‘Could you please just not talk about it?’ It’s hurtful. It’s hurtful because it happened to me. Everybody just wants you to pretend like it didn’t happen, but that doesn’t help victims or future generations in which a change could be made.”

  Listening to Norma speak, I feel a kinship with her. I have a pretty good idea how she must feel right now. Our experiences are different, but there are a lot of similarities—similarities that can be found in all types of exploitative experiences, from kidnapping and human trafficking to domestic violence and bullying. There is one word in particular that I and probably most survivors of anything find especially intolerable: Why? Not “why” in the sense of our asking ourselves, “Why did this happen to me?” but in the context of others asking us, “Why didn’t you run, scream, say something, go for help, fight back, et cetera.” Most people don’t think they’re asking anything rude or being insensitive, but these questions are damaging, because when you ask, “Why didn’t you…,” the victim hears, “You should have…,” which translates to “It’s your own fault that this terrible thing happened to you.” Intentional or not, that is how it often sounds. And there are two points I’d like to make here.

  First, we are not God. We do not have the power to decide whether or not this person deserves what happened to them. And second, we don’t have the right to ask those questions. Survivors don’t have to share anything they don’t want to, and we need to respect their privacy. To be asked to relive this horribly painful part of our lives and then to be questioned on whether we could have or should have done more than we did to help ourselves is, frankly put, insulting. The truth of the matter is, this person being questioned survived. So that in and of itself is a big deal. The fact that they are standing there speaks to validate what they did do. Sadly, some situations cannot be survived, no matter what choices are made in the moment. In any case, I can promise you, this person did all they could, fighting harder and holding on longer than any of us can imagine.

  I survived. Bre Lasley survived. Norma survived. Each of us did what she had to do. What matters is that we’re here to tell about it, when and if we choose to. Not only did Norma survive, she broke barriers to make a small mark on history, and she repeatedly puts her privacy and vulnerability on the line in an effort to change the way victims of human trafficking are perceived and treated. I feel strong empathy for the aggravation she feels when she’s misquoted or trotted out as a cautionary tale.

  “That is so frustrating, Norma. I’m so sorry.”

  Simply being heard and understood allows her to release some of the tension from her voice.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “Why open up the story if it’s not to educate or change, right? There’s a reason why we’re all here. I’m not saying they should give us a medal. But it’s time to get everybody to understand why this microaggression is not okay.”

  Microaggression. That’s not a term I hear very often, but I know exactly what it means, and chances are you do too. Common examples of microaggression include giving backhanded “compliments” like “You’re really pretty for a fat girl.” Or telling a gay man, “You just haven’t met the right person yet.” It’s a slap in the face dressed up as small talk, a “nice” way of saying something hurtful.

  The most infuriating example I can cite from my own life occurred when I was twenty-one years old. I had recently broken up with a long-term boyfriend and had decided to serve a Mormon mission for my church. While I was filling out paperwork and making all my doctor and dentist appointments, a friend talked me into a blind date with a guy she thought was really nice. I was focused on my mission trip, not looking to start any kind of relationship, but I was assured that this was just casual, just for fun. The date itself was all right, nothing special or exciting. The guy enjoyed talking and did a lot of it. I’m pretty good at listening, so that’s basically how the evening went, which was fine. But on the way home, he started talking about my kidnapping and the abuse that had happened. Just as we arrived at my parents’ house, he said, “You were raped so many times. Was there any moment that you were just like, ‘Okay, I’m being raped,’ and enjoyed it?”

  Of all the interrogations, interviews, question-and-answer sessions, and court proceedings I’ve been through, to this day, I have never been asked a question equal to that in stupidity, insensitivity, and complete and utter ugliness.

  Date. Over.

  Footnote: This moron came up to me in public not long after this, fell to his knees weeping, apologized, and—brace yourself—asked, “Will you marry me?” I can’t even imagine what he expected me to say. Yes? And then he’d carry me off into the sunset? I don’t think so. The only words that came to my mind were, “I’m going on a mission.” I was on an airplane to France the next day, and I’ve never seen that guy again, thankfully, but the Mormon Church is a small world. I heard through the grapevine that he showed up at a meeting attended by a friend of mine, and by way of introducing himself, he got up and said, “My name is [forever synonymous with ‘idiot’], and I almost married Elizabeth Smart.”

  I’m still baffled. Some people.

  This is a vivid demonstration of microaggression and the cluelessness that usually accompanies it. It’s more often about stupidity than malicious intent, but that doesn’t make it cut any less deeply. It still hurts and revictimizes.

  “When the CNN article came out,” Norma says, “people started to offer support to my husband, calling him ‘brave’ for dating someone or for marrying someone like me. It’s actually incredibly hurtful. Why does he deserve a medal for marrying me? It didn’t affect him, and it had nothing to do with him. It’s not like that. If he had been a victim of a carjacking, people wouldn’t come to me and say, ‘You’re amazing! Your husband was carjacked, but you decided to go ahead and marry him anyway.’”

  I cringe at that familiar refrain. “I’m dumbfounded when people say that same sort of thing to Matthew. Even if it is meant well, it’s still just shocking to me. Norma, what do you do when you feel the way you do today?”

  “There’s a comfort zone, I’m understanding. The wall comes up, and I just shut down to all of their crap. I just walk away from a lot of social media. Once I start feeling uncomfortable, I simply tell everybody I need some time off. I only allow people in my life that make me feel comfortable.”

  Definitely, there are times when I need to be alone, to recenter myself and get back to who I truly am. There are times when I want to speak out about something other than this one thing that seems to define me in the minds of a lot of people. And there are times when there are people who think they can push me further than I am willing to go.

  One experience pops straight to the front of the line in my memory. When I was sixteen, my dad and I went to Washington, D.C., to promote the bill for a sex offender registry that would require all sex offenders to report where they live, when they move, what state they’re in, et cetera. The idea was to create a blanket effect so that offenders wouldn’t be able to get lost in the cracks and abuse more children. I’d had a long day, speaking to different legislators and doing the media circuit. We did so many interviews, I don’t even remember whom else we spoke to, but Dad was proud of how his young daughter was able to stand up and articulate the need for this law, to put a face on it and bring attention to it. This was important work, and I was grateful for the opportunity to do it, but I was relieved when my dad said, “This is the last one—a lady named Nancy Grace.”

  Call me sheltered, but I had never heard of her. Dad explained that she was a very big deal and had a highly rated show on HLN. Going in, knowing that this was the last interview made me happy. I sat down on the set. She wasn’t there in person; the interview was going to be conducted over satellite.
My father and I were given our earpieces, and microphones were clipped to our collars. Before the show started, a female voice with a southern lilt came on, introducing herself as Nancy Grace. She said she wouldn’t be asking me anything I didn’t want to talk about. We briefly talked about the sex offender registry being the reason my father and I were there in D.C.—and on her show—and my dad made it clear that we weren’t there to talk about anything else.

  The show began, and her southern lilt took on a breathy edge.

  “Elizabeth, I remember when you first went missing, and literally hundreds of people were out looking for you. Now we know you were being held captive not very far away from your home at all. Did you ever hear people calling out your name, trying to find you?”

  It caught me off guard, but I knew immediately where this was going. I sucked in a deep breath and felt my protective shell clamp shut. She leaned in, waiting for me to answer.

  “There was one time,” I said. There was an expectant pause, but I didn’t want to feed the beast that was lurking just under the surface of this conversation. I’d heard these questions a thousand times: Why didn’t you scream louder? Why didn’t you run faster? Why didn’t you kick him in the groin, because that always works, right?

  “At that moment,” said Nancy, “did you want to scream out, ‘Here I am’? ‘Help me’?”

  I kind of wanted to scream when she said that, actually, but still trying to be a team player, I said, “I mean, of course. Who wouldn’t?”

  She belabored the insinuations—the microaggressions—mining for gory details. I gave terse, tight-lipped answers until she gave up and said in a patronizing tone I’d heard many times in the year or so since I got home, “It’s hard to expect a little fourteen-year-old girl to react the way an adult might imagine they would react under those circumstances. You were afraid, I assume.”