Seiya Morita, “Review of Bomnal’s Book: Once You Cross a Street, You’re on the Edge of a Cliff”

The following book review by Seiya Morita was originally published in Japanese, shortly after the release of the Japanese-translated edition of Bomnal’s Once You Cross a Street, You’re on the Edge of a Cliff. To commemorate the new publication of an English edition by Spinifex Press in July 2025, we have translated the review below into English.

Seiya Morita

Reading Once You Cross a Street, You’re on the Edge of a Cliff (Japanese translation by Ajuma Books, 2022) by South Korean prostitution survivor Bomnal—whose name means ‘spring day’—I found myself shaking with anger, unable to continue many times.

The book depicts the reality of how sex industry operators (owners and madams) relentlessly deceive young women, draw them into the industry, trap them in debt to prevent escape, and exploit them every which way. Bomnal likens it to an endless tunnel with no exit. Part 1, titled ‘The Long Tunnel’, depicts her time wandering through this tunnel, while Part 2, ‘Finding a Way Back to Myself’, chronicles her escape, and journey to reclaim herself.

The long tunnel is the fate of many women who fall into such circumstances, not because of personal failing but because of a social structure in which anyone is liable to slip and plummet off a cliff—a structure riddled with factors that make such a fall all too easy. The book’s title reflects this reality. In Bomnal’s case, it was poverty, her father’s alcoholism and violence, alienation from her mother, and the need for money to support her two younger siblings through school. Thus, she came to be prostituted, bounced from one establishment to another, from one mode of sex industry business to another, like a pinball ricocheting across a game table.

Neither police nor society shows any concern for women like her. No help arrives, no matter how dire their situation. Over time, the women themselves stop even thinking about seeking help, and simply struggle to survive on their own. It becomes, quite literally, a survival game amidst violence and exploitation. Most of the money earned goes not to the women but into the pockets of owners and madams. What grows is not savings but debt. The myth that entering the sex industry allows one to earn vast sums quickly—a narrative beloved by ‘sex work’ advocates—is exposed as a blatant lie. Bomnal explains that:

The owners manipulated me, promising that if I endured the suffering for just a little while longer, I could buy a car or even a house. […] So I endured it all, hoping that if I suffered enough, I’d eventually be able to give my family a better life. But no matter how many customers I served or how hard I worked to satisfy them, the debts kept piling up, and my health crumbled. None of them ever took responsibility for my situation. They always promised good money if I obediently followed their orders, but I never saw how, and still don’t understand how, prostituted women could ever buy a house, a car, or make a ‘fortune’ (p. 146, English edition).

The sexual indentured system that was imported into Korea during Japan’s colonisation from 1910 plunged Korean women into unimaginable suffering. Loans offered to women as a lure to get them into the sex industry in Bomnal’s time carried monthly interest rates of 10–30%. Living expenses, accommodation, and more were further deducted from women’s earnings, and any shortfall was added to their debts.

Taking a day off due to illness incurred fines. To attract clients, women had to buy expensive clothes from shops nominated by sex venue owners (at prices far above market value), all on credit. If a customer skipped out on paying for drinks, women bore the cost. If a woman escaped, others were held collectively responsible for her remaining debts. Those caught escaping faced brutal violence. Even airport staff colluded with sex venues, watching for runaways. No matter how much they earned, it all went toward repaying debt.

This pattern—adults deceiving young people, pushing them into an endless hell of prostitution, and profiting off their exploitation—is not unique to Bomnal’s experience but is a common feature of the sex trade. ‘They took no responsibility,’ as she writes above. Indeed, they don’t, and they likely never will. Those who advocate a ‘sex work’ perspective are complicit in this structure.

The offenders are not just the sex business owners. Customers, who collude with them to exploit and often abuse sex trafficking victims, are just as culpable. Bomnal says they are all the same:

Twenty years in prostitution taught me one universal truth about male buyers: their age, education, religion, marital status, financial standing, social status, occupation, and political beliefs made no difference. Regardless of these factors, they all believed that paying for services gave them the right to do whatever they wanted with my body, without guilt or hesitation. To them, I was merely a tool to satisfy their sexual desires – no longer a human being but an outlet for their urges. They felt justified in using violence whenever I refused to comply with their demands or their perverse requests (p. 150, English edition).

Survivors of sex trafficking all describe such uniformity among clients. Despite differences in country or era, they are strikingly similar—violent, repulsive, and never viewing women as equal human beings. If they did, how could they use the power of money to turn women into tools for their desires? Bomnal continues:

Since so many Korean men seek out prostitution, some believe that men who don’t are rare or special. But it should be a basic expectation of human decency not to buy sex. One of my goals is to expose the ugly reality of the buyers I encountered and bring that truth to the public (p. 155, English edition).

This insight applies to Japan as well. After all, it was Japan that brought institutionalised sex trafficking to the Korean peninsula, and most of South Korea’s current prostitution hubs are legacies of brothel districts established during the period of Japan’s colonial rule. Many left-wing male scholars, vocal about denouncing Japan’s wartime ‘comfort women’ system, are curiously indifferent to current-day prostitution. Yet the two are continuous, differing only in their operation in wartime or peacetime. Unless current systems of prostitution are abolished, the ‘comfort women’ system will never truly end. So, the norm that, as Bomnal writes, is ‘a basic expectation of human decency not to buy sex’ must be established in South Korea, Japan, and worldwide.

With the help of a Women’s Rights Support Center counsellor, Bomnal eventually escaped prostitution and became a counsellor herself, supporting other survivors. This journey was far from smooth. Listening to victims with similar painful experiences risked rekindling her trauma and triggering flashbacks. One young woman she counselled had contracted a severe illness due to prostitution and was beyond help by the time she sought assistance. She passed away a few months later, but, as she lay emaciated in her hospital bed, she cried at the kind words of Bomnal and others, saying, ‘This is the happiest I’ve ever been.’ When asked if there was anyone she wanted to see, she firmly refused. But, she added, ‘There are people I can never forgive’ (p. 384, Japanese edition, this chapter omitted in English edition).

Struggling between her identity as a victim and as a counsellor, Bomnal eventually spoke publicly about her experiences during South Korea’s #MeToo movement, ostensibly reading out the story of another prostitution victim, but in reality telling her own story:

I read the words in a steady voice, determined not to falter. I fought back the emotions welling up inside me. Under the name of an activist, I finally exposed my experiences in that public square. My lips trembled as I spoke about the violence I had endured. My eyes burned, but I kept my voice going until the very end. I could feel the glances of passersby. My chest tightened with a swirl of emotions. But when the crowd of women at the protest erupted into applause, I was jolted back into reality. It felt like I had crossed an invisible threshold. The sexual violence, harassment, and dating abuse I had endured had all played a role in leading me into prostitution. They were not separate things at all; they were one and the same. That night, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t have nightmares (pp. 190-1, English edition).

Bomnal went on to join ‘Moongchi,’ a group of prostitution survivors, and she continues this activism today.

Notable among long-form memoirs by prostitution survivors is Paid For: My journey through prostitution by Irish survivor Rachel Moran, which became a global bestseller, and another memoir in German by survivor Huschke Mau whose title is roughly translated into English as Dehumanised: Why Prostitution Must Be Abolished. Bomnal’s memoir stands shoulder to shoulder with these two books.