Thank you for inviting me to share. I want to thank my fellow panellists, as well, for their insights.
What I would like you to take away from my research today is some of the complexity of the context that we're living in, and that within this context the ability for legislation to worsen or even become the problem is apparent. We need to think outside the restricted box of legal interventions in order to address complex social problems without creating more harms for affected individuals.
I know you've heard from other groups who are working on the front lines. They have given some practical and legal recommendations around this, such as Swan in Vancouver, Peers whom you just heard from, the Canadian Alliance for Sex Work Law Reform, including Butterfly, Maggie's Toronto, and others.
What my research highlights is the importance of some of these recommendations in a context where anti-trafficking legislation and its enactment through investigations and enforcement is causing additional harms to the very people it is meant to protect, especially harmful effects towards indigenous and racialized women, and women with precarious immigration status.
To position myself within this work, I'm a non-indigenous settler person from Treaty 6 territory. By identifying as a settler, I don't simply mean non-indigenous. Like many non-indigenous people living in Canada, my life and my family relations are interwoven with the first people of this land, particularly Cree and Métis territories, while also imbued with a colonial history. By settler, what I primarily mean is someone who benefits from the privileges of colonial dispossession. With that, I want to say thank you to the indigenous people of this territory as we share as guests on this land.
Today I'm going to be speak from research that informs my book, Responding to Human Trafficking,which was published by the University of Toronto Press in 2017. The primary source of data informing my discussion comes from 56 interviews, as well as some focus groups conducted in Calgary, Vancouver, and Winnipeg. I engaged front-line workers, some formerly trafficked persons, some individuals working in sex industries, government officials, non-government representatives, law enforcement representatives, basically anyone directly involved in counter-trafficking work or areas affected by anti-trafficking responses.
I'm also a community-engaged researcher. My work is relationally accountable to both indoor and street-involved sex working individuals, as well as a number of community groups working to reduce harms, including harms produced by legislated inequalities, as well as families and communities related to missing and murdered indigenous women, trans, and two-spirit persons.
In this engaged work, we're exploring anti-violence strategies that build on the knowledge of people engaged in trading sexual services. My hope in sharing with you today is to invite conversation about the possibilities and harms of anti-violence, especially anti-trafficking strategies, in a context of settler colonialism and its ongoing everyday lived expressions of violence.
My work is situated in what I see as the elephant in the room, or the elephant that we're all touching. We can feel or see particular parts, but we struggle to see the full image. The elephant, I argue, is the ongoing struggle, the wait, the discomfort of living and developing policy in a settler colonial context, which includes patriarchy, sexism, racism, classism, heteronormativity, ableism, ageism, whoreaphobia, and stigmatization of individuals engaging in sex work. Too often legislation that is meant to protect vulnerable individuals reinforces these structural and systemic forms of inequality.
As Rita Dhamoon has identified in the context of settler colonialism, we're all systematically, even if unintentionally, operating within, across, and through a matrix of interrelated forms and degrees of penalty and privilege. Anti-trafficking legislation, and especially anti-prostitution legislation, has occupied a particularly harmful position within this persistent matrix of ongoing colonial relations. I'm grateful to this committee's openness to take stock of what we mean by anti-trafficking and the effects of anti-trafficking.
With the adoption of the national action plan to combat human trafficking, targeted resources have been allocated to national anti-trafficking responses. A significant portion of this has been directed towards criminal justice-based initiatives. Human trafficking has clearly become an important political priority for lobby and interest groups from a variety of perspectives, but I caution that overenthusiastic responses to human trafficking have been proven to have some particularly harmful unintended consequences. Too often such policies emerge from a single story that creates no space for the existence of alternate experiences.
The story of anti-trafficking is particularly powerful, precisely because it's been able to unite a variety of conflicting political agendas. Policies based on depictions of rescue, need, and intervention too easily unify the convictions of many different, and even opposed, social groups. As Jeffrey has said, human trafficking has become a space where “right-wing religious men have joined the radical feminist campaign”.
One of my favourite Nigerian novelists, Chimamanda Adichie, discusses the dangers of a single story in one of her well-known TED Talks. She warns that presenting complex narratives as single stories is especially dangerous because single stories leave no possibility for feelings more complex than pity, no possibility of a connection as human equals. She further warns that it's impossible to talk about the single story without talking about power. How they are told, who tells them, when they are told, how many stories are told are really dependent on power. The consequence of the single story is this: it robs people of dignity.
Stories matter, but many stories matter. Bandwagon responses or policy-driven or donor-driven responses to violence continue to reproduce the very structures in psyche that underpin the violence in the first place. We see policy recommendations advocating for stricter border controls, border securitization, criminalization, deportation, and surveillance of our neighbours and individuals within our workplaces. We see calls to action to address the trafficking of indigenous women as a legacy of colonization that ignore the ongoing conditions of indigenous women in the midst of living and resisting settler colonial domination.
We can start to see some of them as we trace the shift that we've had in anti-trafficking discussions from a focus on international to domestic or internal trafficking.
As you might be aware, early trafficking frameworks were informed by stereotypical images of international trafficking. Trafficked women became legible and read only in relation to sexual slavery and forced prostitution. Based on this reading, criminal justice interventions and police raids were deemed the appropriate mechanisms of response. Migratory restrictions were interpreted as necessary prevention strategies. As one law enforcement representative stated, “I know personally for myself, I am responsible for removing dozens upon dozens of people that were victims of trafficking and we dealt with them as immigration violators and we removed them.”
It's important to note the official here is only talking about cases that narrowly fit into a trafficking framework. You can imagine the implications for individuals who fall outside such narrow victim labels.
Security was certainly prioritized in anti-trafficking raids, such as the particularly stark raid that saw workers handcuffed and televised in Vancouver in 2006. They also continue in approaches such as Operation Northern Spotlight. Despite early critiques of such harmful efforts, the Canadian anti-trafficking gaze expanded beyond immigration and foreign policy concerns to emphasize domestic or internal trafficking in a settler colonial context.
One anti-trafficking advocate defines the shift that took place:
We started to shift our focus, certainly on international trafficking—the movies, the kidnappings, you know, that's certainly present but to a bigger degree, and a more important extent, to get across to the public that trafficking is happening in our own backyards.
As you can hear, internal trafficking is framed in reaction to stereotypical concepts of international human trafficking. From this standpoint the aim was to counteract the apathy of the criminal justice system toward indigenous women's bodies. I would argue that the criminal justice system has hardly been apathetic toward indigenous women. This is clearly demonstrated by the stark overrepresentation of indigenous women incarcerated in Canada.
Nonetheless, the idea was that a trafficking lens could undermine colonial-driven images that portray indigenous women and girls as perpetrators of crime rather than as victims. Internally, the victim label associated with trafficking was bolstered as a mechanism to resolve racist and colonial constructs of indigenous women. These interpretations ignore the settler colonial forms of state control and how they are particularly evident in Canada's role in and our response to violence against indigenous women. The very means of trafficking identified in the United Nations protocol definition of human trafficking are precisely the means by which the settler colonial state was formed.
Canada, alongside other settler colonial nations, was premised on forced movement, coerced labour, fraudulent dislocations, sexualized violence, and varying forms of abuses of power and exploitation that were legislated through the Indian Act and through Canadian law. The abolition of some indigenous ceremonies, for example, was seen as necessary for the protection of native women, for the prevention of prostitution, and the preservation of white settlement.
As a front-line worker from an indigenous-led organization indicates, “indigenous women have been trafficked right from the beginning of colonization”.
While many of us involved in anti-trafficking advocacy assume ourselves to be outside the violence of colonization, often by the very virtue of addressing the legacies of colonization, by emphasizing at risk subjects as the objects of our concerns, anti-trafficking naturalizes and reinforces the very space of dispossession where individuals vulnerable to trafficking emerge.