On the last leg on my way to work a couple weeks before, cop cars flooded Michigan Avenue. Lights blocked the intersection that I slipped by hoping that, if it were an accident, everyone was okay. Less than a mile from the professional environment I work at for eight hours a day.
The reality was that it was far more shocking than a car accident. While both can be quite chilling, I hadn’t expected the motel that I passed every morning would be raided because of sex trafficking. Despite the growing concern of the already huge issue, I never expected it to be so close. That was the biggest mistake I had.
I heard that all but three rooms held women, girls, that had been sold to the underground ring meant to appease the truckers that passed through on the daily. While I celebrate the freedom of these tortured souls, I cannot help but despair for them.
They were in there as I passed that motel daily. How many times did I stop to fill up my gas tank while a woman suffered behind a door not more than a couple hundred feet away? These women were suffering and men traipsed in and out because they felt like they were obligated to have that kind of entertainment.
As I begin to breathe the Detroit air and embrace the cultures and communities around, there are conversations that need to happen. Detroit has conflicting views, the people that come in and rejoice in the cheaper rent and the growing revitalization, and the others who look at Detroit with a scowl because of the crime or the concern around DPS. But then there are those who have lived here, and witnessed these harsh realities, but still remain hopeful.
While I wished this horror had never happened for these women, I am grateful that they have been found. But it warrants the question: how could a human being let this happen to another?