to talk with me directly. The pain they had to endure was still too raw to be able to meet with me face to face, yet they wanted to contribute. And so they provided their testimonies and answers to my questions, on condition of anonymity, through Joy Smith, whom they knew personally.
Thank you to the reformed trafficker and the men who once used girls who spoke with me. Your insights helped me understand how a man can go down that path. And that there is hope for restoration and redemption from such a lifestyle.
This book would not have been possible without the constant support and encouragement from my friend Joy Smith. She has spent countless hours with me to help me learn about human trafficking. We would meet in her home, where I would take notes, often in disbelief at the scope of this unimaginable tragedy in our country.
I am grateful to Joy’s son Edward for his help. And also to Joel Oosterman, whom you will get to know in the pages of this book. I am grateful for every police officer, politician, non-government organization and the many volunteers who offered their insights.
My thank you also to so many of you who have been praying both for this book and for human trafficking to end. Thank you to each person who read the various drafts of the manuscript. Your comments and questions have made this a better book.
And as always, my sincerest thank you to Larry and Marina Willard for their willingness to publish this book. I appreciate your dedication and passion for combatting human trafficking in Canada.
Thank you for your interest and your time in reading this story. But be forewarned about learning about human trafficking in Canada. I close with the words of William Wilberforce, who spoke of slavery in Britain years ago when he said, “You may choose to look the other way but you can never again say you did not know.”
—Paul H. Boge
Winnipeg, Manitoba
February 8, 2018
introduction
Human trafficking happens every day in Canada. But many people do not recognize it or want to understand it or admit how frequently it occurs in our country. I myself could hardly believe the prevalence of human trafficking until my son Edward Riglin, a police officer, opened my eyes to what was really happening.
Young women and girls who service men with sex are often called “prostitutes.” Yet many are being prostituted and are victims of heinous crimes. Many had no idea that one day they would be forced to service men sexually and sold on the open market. Many live in fear of beatings or worse if they do not comply with the traffickers’ demands. Predators target and lure the vulnerable young, showering them with gifts and novel experiences, claiming to love them, promising to marry them. And the overriding allure is money: traffickers make $260,00 to $280,000 per victim per year.
Human trafficking is a dark, evil crime targeted at our youth. It is the modern-day slave trade.
As a teacher, I started to give seminars on how to protect children when they are on the internet. What I didn’t expect were the testimonies of many young girls who showed me their tattoos and told me they belonged to one of the traffickers whose identities were well-known. I was appalled at what was happening.
In response to these horrors, and with God’s grace, I went to Parliament to pass laws to combat this crime against our youth. At first, many MPs worked against my efforts to pass the laws to combat human trafficking. Why? Because they did not know about it. Yet, in time, these same people became champions in the fight against human trafficking.
Now, trafficking rings are being taken down every single day. I am grateful to our police forces at every level across this country. I commend them and the frontline workers, the NGOs, and most of all the survivors who have so courageously told their stories. They are real heroes.
Education is our greatest weapon against this crime. I am grateful to Castle Quay Books and to the author, Paul Boge, for taking up the cause to educate the public and publishing this book. It is the real story that needs to be told here in our country.
My hope is that The True Story of Canadian Human Trafficking will save young lives and reveal to Canadians human trafficking for what it is.
—Joy Smith
chapter one
For some people, their favourite place is a specific location in the world. A spot where they can relax. Feel at home. Unwind. For others, it’s an imaginary place in their mind where they can explore, invent and create. Each person seems to have a place where they can let their guard down. Where they can be themselves. Where they come alive. Where pressures disappear, worries fade away and they can experience the freedom and safety that comes with forgetting the past and living in the present moment.
For 16-year-old Abby Summers, that place was a soccer field.
Abby opened the door and walked out of her high school in Markham, Ontario, with the other girls from her gym class. The bright sunshine blinded her a moment, causing her to squint against its glare. When her eyes adjusted, she saw the green pitch freshly marked with white lines. Pristine condition. She would have spent the rest of the day there if she could.
The physical education teacher split the group of girls into two teams and instructed them to partner up for a passing drill. With an odd number of players on her side, Abby was left to practice by herself. She watched as her teammates passed to each other and tried to shrug off the sting of being left out. It was just the luck of the draw, she tried to convince herself.
Again.
Abby kicked a red-and-white ball out from the ball bag. She rolled it onto the front of her foot and flicked it up. Alternating between feet, she juggled and got 40 in a row. Not bad. Her record was 100. She glanced over at her teammates, thinking it strange that not one pair of them offered to modify the drill to allow her to join in. She attempted again to shake off that feeling, but like a heavy snowfall in a Canadian winter storm, what little she managed to brush away soon piled back onto her again.
The sun felt like a million degrees as she waited for the pre-game preparations to end. The teacher finally blew her whistle. Abby exhaled in relief, taking her position in centre-right midfield. This felt better. On the field. Together as one team. Ready to play.
She tightened the ponytail of her shoulder-length blonde hair. Felt her pulse quicken. Felt herself focusing. Already anticipating where the ball would go first. The thrill of the game about to start.
The teacher blew the whistle.
The game began.
The striker passed the ball back to the centre midfielder, who passed it over to Abby. Abby dribbled it up, returned the pass to the centre midfielder, and moved forward into open space. Her eyes darted around as she looked for any possible opening, thinking two, three and four moves ahead, as if the soccer pitch were a massive chessboard.
She noticed the defender cheating forward to intercept a possible pass to the striker and saw her opportunity. With her wingers out on the side, Abby bolted right down the middle. Her centre midfield teammate read it perfectly. She chipped the ball high in an effort to lob it over the defender so it would drop down out of reach in front of the goalie.
Abby looked over her right shoulder for the ball, but a bright flash of sunlight blinded her again. She turned the other way, glancing over her left shoulder, and saw it arriving in a perfect arc. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the goalie rushing out to cut down the angle. Abby checked her run, getting ready to strike the ball. She timed her approach perfectly.
Without warning, a defender suddenly came in, attempting to head the ball away. But the defender missed completely. In an instant, Abby went from thinking she had a clear shot on net to feeling the horrific impact of the defender’s forehead cracking against her nose. Her body shot out an immediate painful burst of adrenalin. She felt herself crash to the ground. It was as if someone had momentarily turned the lights off.
When they came on again she found herself stunned, lying on her back. The shock of the injury pulsed through her. How bad is it? How bad is it? Am I going to be okay? These first few seconds