‘I was sold at 16’ - Woman forced into prostitution had dreams of becoming a teacher

Maxine* was 16 years old when her father directed that she leave her Westmoreland community with a man, who was a complete stranger.

Poverty had already stripped her childhood bare. Hunger had become a permanent ache. But nothing prepared her for the moment her father, with whom she share a one-room board house, told her to leave with the man.

"I didn't run away," she told THE WEEKEND STAR, her voice steady but hollow. "My father tell me fi go with this man. Mi never know him. Him wasn't familiar. I was 16. Mi didn't understand weh that mean."

At the time, she thought she was stepping into rescue. Instead, she was being led into a silence that would swallow her whole, becoming the victim of human trafficking - a serious crime that involves forcing, coercing, or deceiving someone into exploitative situations, human trafficking often targets people for labour or sexual exploitation. It is illegal worldwide because it violates basic human rights and preys on the most vulnerable, including people like Maxine.

Haunted by memories she can neither silence nor fully understand, Maxine struggles to make sense of the moment her childhood was abruptly taken from her. In her own raw words, she recounts the confusion, betrayal and misplaced excitement that marked the beginning of a life she says she never chose:

"I was sold, is the only thing weh make sense when I sit with my thoughts," she said. "Why mi father would a send me off wid a strange man and mi end up a sell sex?"

She had grown up on scarcity -- banana and butter for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There were days when her stomach growled so loudly she could not concentrate. School uniforms worn thin.

"I wasn't in school at the time. Him stop me from school, say him cya afford it. Him couldn't even afford food. We use to eat banana and butter every single day," she said. "Mi can never forget."

"We sleep pan the floor," she said. "Him say my mother lef' when mi did little."

There was no softness in her childhood. No protection. No one explaining the world.

Her father eventually pulled her from school, saying he could not afford it.

"When him stop me from school, that hurt," she said. "Mi cry. That's the only memory mi have of crying."

Sixteen years old. Out of school. Hungry. Invisible.

Yet even in that small, suffocating life, she carried one fragile dream.

"I always wanted to become a teacher," she said. "Even when things rough, that was the one thing mi hold on to."

She remembers watching her teachers in primary school, how they stood at the front of the classroom, how their voices carried calm authority.

"Mi used to admire how teacher stand up and everybody listen," she said. "Dem encourage yuh, even when yuh slow. Mi like that."

She remembers helping classmates spell words and solve math problems. She remembers believing she could become "the change" for children like herself.

But her father had other ideas. He had picked out a man for her and was preparing to turn his back. At 16, she had no idea what was about to happen when the man turned up for her.

"Mi memba the morning we get up and him draw tea, chocolate tea, and we drink it and eat bread; and him go outta door and come back in and say mi a go Kingston go live wid him friend. Mi did excited," she said.

"I never know my father fi be a bad person," she said. "So when him tell me fi go with the man, mi just think maybe this a chance fi do better."

But that hope would not last. One sentence from that day still chills her.

"Him say forgiveness is more important than education," she said. "Nothing never make sense."

Then came what she calls "the long drive".

She does not remember the roads. She does not remember landmarks. Only darkness and distance.

"I just remember this long driving and feeling hungry," she said.

Within a week, the man asked her if she wanted to make money.

"I said yes," she admitted. "Hungry drive all a my bad decisions."

She says she does not know how she ended up in the red-light district where she now operates as a sex worker.

"I don't know how mi get here. Mi don't know the way back. This is the only place mi know as home."

She was 16. Now, for the past 10 years, she has been selling her body to survive.

"When mi say mi didn't choose this, mi mean mi was young and mi didn't understand what mi was walking into," she said in a reflective and defeated tone. "Adults make decisions and mi just follow."

It's the only life she has known, and walking away, she says, is far easier imagined than done.

"Once yuh in it, it hard fi just walk weh," she said. "Yuh don't have qualifications. Yuh don't have money save. Yuh don't feel like yuh have nowhere fi go."

While the dark streets have become the boundaries of her life, flashes of her lost childhood still surge in her mind.

"Sometimes mi see little girls in school uniform and mi just wonder what woulda happen if mi get the chance fi finish,"she mulled. "Mi still love children," she said softly. "Mi just wish somebody did protect me when mi was one."

* Name changed to protect identity