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My parents died when I was about 12, so my older brothers and sisters decided it was best to marry me off. “They say that they’re paying me for a service, so it’s my job to make them happy.” “I get scared when the men start forcing me to do things I haven’t agreed to,” she says.
“This one isn’t violent,” she says, lifting her sleeve to show a ladder of raised scars and blistered cigarette burns: some self-inflicted, some not. An hour ago her phone screen lit up with a missed call from one of her regulars their private sign that he’s on his way.
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Rupa waits tight in her bedroom, flicking absentmindedly between channels on the portable TV in the corner. Once inside the brothels, they’re imprisoned – held captive until they can save up enough money to buy their freedom, and vulnerable to violence, disease and psychological abuse.
It’s thought that at least 10 per cent of men in Bangladesh will pay for sex in their lifetimes, but out of 375 sex workers surveyed on behalf of Girls Not Brides across four such brothels in Bangladesh last year, 47 per cent were former child brides, trafficked into prostitution against their will.
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Men of all ages in stained polo-shirts and traditionally knotted ‘lunghi’ elbow each other out the way as they make their way through the maze of brightly-painted concrete alleyways and narrow streets to find their chosen girl and hand over 200 taka for ten minutes of sexual activity before work.Īccording to Bangladeshi law, everyone employed by the brothel is supposed to be over 18 and in possession of a State Magistrate issued license that declares they’re fully prepared to work in prostitution.īut clamber past the crowds of wide-eyed girls squatting on red plastic buckets by the entrance to step inside, and you hear a different story. It’s 9.30am on a Tuesday morning, and outside Rupa’s windowless bedroom, the Bangladeshi brothel corridors are already thick with the smell of spices and sweat. “When the next customer comes, he doesn’t want to see what the last one did to me.” “Now nobody can tell anything happened,” she says, sitting back on her faded floral bedspread. She checks her reflection in a small turquoise mirror, and breaks into a smile. Gently, she smears pale concealer over her face with her fingertips and blends it into the skin. There’s a circular bruise blossoming on the right hand side of 19-year-old Rupa Begum’s cheek, and she’s working hard to cover it. Now in an exclusive investigation, The Telegraph can reveal the two have become intrinsically linked
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