The four of us—a woman named Sabeen, two NGO workers, and me—were crowded around a small table, drinking bitter Turkish coffee as the blistering sun shone through the barred windows. The room was stuffy, there was no electricity, and she was whispering, ensuring that no one would hear our conversation. The walls of the center, which is considered a safe haven for victims of abuse and asked for its name not to be used, were covered with signs reading, “Do not abuse me, I am a child.”

Sabeen, a pseudonym for a Palestinian refugee and mother of six, told me about the day she found out her 10-year-old son, Abdul, also not his real name, had been forced into prostitution. She made no attempt to hide the tears streaming down her weary face.

Read entire article: The Atlantic