sexual slavery and inconsistency in feminism

Since moving to Asia, my perspective of the world has changed greatly. In the States I dedicated enough time to studying the feminist movement to understand it’s key tenets (at least the most repeated tenets) and reappearing among them frequently was an attack against the oppression of women in Judeo-Christian (and occasionally Muslim)-based religions. This is fine; being a Christian I still recognize much wrong doctrine is propogated in Judeo-Christian circles regarding the treatment of women.

However, what truly saddens me is not the blatant, repeated attacks on all spheres of Christianity, poorly packaged in recycled paper, but rather the passing over of a holocaust; a genocide of modern women bartered and sold into sexual slavery and trafficked throughout the modern world  (that includes America). Feminists who dedicate exhorbitant sections of time expounding upon the oppression of thirteen year old girls who are taught they should save themselves til marriage might spend their time better if they decided to battle to free thirteen year old girls who are forced to prostitute themselves daily with no hope of escape. 

Just a thought. http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/notforsale

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About Eva

OVER WINE by Wisława Szymborska He glanced, gave me extra charm and I took it as my own. Happily I gulped a star. I let myself be invented, modeled on my own reflection in his eyes. I dance, dance, dance in the stir of sudden wings. The chair's a chair, the wine is wine, in a wineglass that's the wineglass standing there by standing there. Only I'm imaginary, make-believe beyond belief; so fictitious that it hurts. And I tell him tales about ants that die of love beneath a dandelion's constellation. I swear a white rose will sing if you sprinkle it with wine. I laugh and I tilt my head cautiously, as if to check whether the invention works. I dance, dance inside my stunned skin, in his arms that create me. Eve from the rib, Venus from foam, Minerva from Jupiter's head- all three were more real than me. When he isn't looking at me, I try to catch my reflection on the wall. And see the nail where a picture used to be.
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