La Merced Community Center Provides a Safe Haven for Women

La Merced is the largest red-light district in Latin America—a dense maze of alleyways where exploitation has become routine and survival depends on emotional armor. Tucked above the street on a modest second floor is a place that feels like the opposite of everything outside: a small community center run by a woman named Laura, created to be a refuge for women in prostitution who have lived most of their lives without safety, trust, or choice.

When our volunteer team arrived at the center tucked away on the second floor of a building, the space felt still and expectant. The room wasn’t large—just a narrow kitchen, two long tables where meals are shared, and a tiny office where the team meets women one by one. It was cozy and warm. Before the women arrived, Laura explained the boundaries that protect them: No asking names. No commenting on appearance. No photography.

Before we even stepped fully inside, Laura—the woman who leads the center—greeted us with the biggest, warmest smile. It was my first time meeting her, yet it felt strangely familiar, like seeing someone I haven't seen in a while, a person you’ve known for years and are finally reunited with. There was something in her presence—steady, mother-like, open—that immediately made me feel comforting.

The Heart of the Center

Laura told us that one woman took nearly two years before she gathered the courage to walk through the door. Many of these women grew up in abandoned houses, without consistent adults or models of care. Trauma shapes their worldview; trust feels dangerous; change feels impossible. So the center starts with the most foundational thing: relationship.

They cook meals. They talk. Sometimes they celebrate birthdays with small cakes and handwritten notes. When a woman reveals she is unwell, the staff helps her access medical care. When someone expresses a desire for change, they walk with her—step by step—toward a life that feels unimaginable at first. Some women eventually find jobs, housing, or stability. But none of it begins with programs or preaching. It begins with being treated as a person, not a project.

The Day We Visited

Because of the rain that day, we only saw three women. Laura said it is because they usually work in the afternoons rather than late at night during the rainy season. We prepared plates of food together, sat around the long table, and shared an easy kind of presence.

There was a language barrier—I don’t speak Spanish—but even without words, you can still communicate dignity. A smile. Steady eye contact. The patience to sit without forcing conversation. As we moved into the afternoon activity—painting small wooden circles to make keychains—the room lightened. Someone laughed. Someone else held up her design with a shy pride. Trust doesn’t rush, but it flickers into the room when a woman feels safe enough to express their creativity.

Before they left, each of the women handed us a small lollipop. Such a simple gesture—but it hit me with unexpected force. Why were they thanking us? That sweetness carried a weight. It made me feel a mix of gratitude and guilt: we were there for barely two hours, while they carry years of pain.

And yet when we waved goodbye, something real had formed—fragile but present. A connection without shared language, built only on attention, time, and humanity.

Stepping Into Their World

Walking into the center meant stepping into a space shaped by layers of trauma—abandonment, exploitation, coercion, emotional manipulation. For the women, vulnerability is a risk. Trust is unfamiliar. And yet, by simply being present—emotionally open, observant, gentle—I was offering vulnerability too.

Showing care without words felt strangely brave. It meant saying, “I’m here. I see you. Even if I don’t fully understand your story, I’m not looking away.”

Where This Work Fits: Midstream Intervention

Using the “babies in the river” analogy, the center’s work is clearly midstream—intervening in the lives of women who are already in dangerous environments, providing safety, community, and pathways toward restoration.

I wasn’t preventing trauma upstream, nor was I rescuing someone downstream in acute crisis. I was meeting women in the middle of their journey, offering presence that supports emotional and psychological healing.

A Moment I’ll Remember

On the wall near the exit stood a small wooden board covered in handwritten notes. Some thanked the staff for food, some for conversation, others simply for “a place that feels like peace.” One message said, essentially:“Thank you for giving us a space where we can rest and be treated like human beings.”In a place where safety is rare, that is transformational.

A quote from Janice, the founder of El Pozo De Vida, has stayed with me. She said,“If someone’s stomach is growling louder than the voice of hope, they can’t focus on anything else.” Care begins with the concrete: food, warmth, a presence. Healing comes next.