Vijeyarasa, Ramona --- "Exploitation or Expectations: Moving Beyond Consent" [2010] UTSLRS 3; (2010) 7 Women's Policy Journal of Harvard 11

Last Updated: 17 May 2017

Exploitation or expectations?
Moving beyond consent in prostitution, trafficking and migration discourse

by Ramona Vijeyarasa

Ramona Vijeyarasa is a PhD candidate in the School of Social Sciences and International Studies at the University of New South Wales in Sydney, Australia. She is undertaking a comparative study of the underlying causes and patterns of trafficking in women and girls for labor and sexual exploitation. A human rights lawyer, she has worked with the International Organisation for Migration (IOM) in both Vietnam and Ukraine, and at the Center for Reproductive Rights and International Center for Transitional Justice, in New York. Ramona earned her LL.M. degree in international law from New York University School of Law and has a Bachelor of Arts (Political Science and History) and Bachelor of Laws from the University of New South Wales, in Sydney Australia, where she has also practiced commercial law.

Abstract:
The issue of consent in prostitution has plagued feminist critical thinking for decades, with debates dividing abolitionists on the one hand and pro-sex worker advocates on the other. These debates reached a peak at the 2000 negotiations concerning the United Nations Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons [hereafter, UN Protocol]. In this paper, I argue that one decade later, it is time to move the focus in feminist discourse on prostitution and trafficking away from consent. Debating what does and does not constitute “consent” serves only to leave migrant women in the sex industry in destination countries, whether “coerced” or “voluntary”, no more protected than before the UN Protocol came into force. Using hypothetical examples, my aim is to foster a renewed search for common ground on how we frame prostitution, trafficking and undocumented migration. I suggest that there are mutual interests between opposing feminist perspectives in discussing the “unmet expectations” of all exploited undocumented migrants, allowing both groups of feminists to unite to advocate for the rights of even “willing victims” who face exploitation and abuse under conditions contrary to their expectations prior to embarking on a search for better opportunities.

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Introduction
The question of consent has long been central to feminist critical thinking about prostitution and trafficking. In this article, my aim is to foster a renewed search for common ground on how we approach prostitution, trafficking and undocumented migration, questions that until now have divided prostitution abolitionists^[1] and pro-sex worker advocates. It is now a decade after the negotiations for the drafting of the United Nations Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons, supplementing the United Nations Convention against Transnational Organized Crime, signed by over 80 countries in Palermo, Italy in December 2000 [hereafter, UN Protocol], and it is time for a reconsideration of feminist discourse in this area. Pro-sex worker feminist, Jo Doezema, in a 2005 assessment of the UN Protocol’s negotiations, recognized the difficulty of the task of displacing “consent” and moving beyond the trafficking framework (Doezema 2005, 81). In this brief analysis, I try to begin that task.
I contend that the arguments proposed by both groups of feminists, to varying degrees, have isolated key stakeholders (particularly for abolitionists, the sex workers themselves). Furthermore, they have served to dismiss any notion of voluntariness exercised by migrant women in decision-making that leads to trafficking, resulting in an over-inclusive application of the term “trafficking”. Meanwhile, the experiences of the non-trafficked, exploited smuggled migrant, have been pushed largely off the radar. Efforts at debating consent could otherwise be aimed at joint advocacy on the rights of migrant women and the responsibility of governments in both source and destination countries to protect the rights of those individuals whose vulnerability is heightened by the very fact of being undocumented. Indeed, the arduous journeys, low wages, hazardous working environments and unsanitary living conditions often faced by other undocumented migrants are no different from the trafficked victim (Illes et al 2008, 205-6). Despite experiencing “trafficking-like work conditions”, Governments are able to deny protection and assistance to “willing victims” (Kojima 2007, 151). Meanwhile, sensationalized imagery of trafficking has flourished in academic and non-academic circles and has been used to further the prostitution debates, by writers on both sides, with less attention given to the betrayed hopes of the individuals than to the furthering of feminist debates.
In this paper, I argue that moving away from the divisive terrain of “consent”, abolitionists and pro-sex worker feminists can unite in drawing attention to the “unmet expectations” of all undocumented migrants. In the first section of the paper, I sketch an overview of key literature on the issue of consent in prostitution. In the second section, I discuss two cases of the undocumented migrant, using examples that are atypical of the more sensationalized stories often presented in academic and popular literature. In the context of these case studies, I discuss questions of consent, voluntariness and exploitation and refer to feminist debates on the role of structure and agency in shaping decision-making and behavior. I subsequently consider the “common ground” between the two camps of feminists and the extent to which a move towards an emphasis on “unmet expectations” compromises the stance of either group. To conclude, I suggest that there are mutual interests in discussing the “unmet expectations” of victims of trafficking and exploited undocumented migrants, where experiences do not live up to what was anticipated when entering the initial agreement(s). I contend that a focus on “unmet expectations” provides a more fruitful starting point for debate and advocacy. By examining “unmet expectations”, we are able to incorporate abolitionist feminists’ critiques of the exploitative conditions that form part of their major objection to the prostitution industry including violence and forced or unsafe sex. Simultaneously, an assessment of “unmet expectations”, from the perspective of working conditions, accords with the labor-rights approach of pro-sex worker advocates.

Consent, the exploited prostitute and the voluntary sex worker
In this section, I provide an overview to the two key approaches to the question of consent in prostitution. Feminists campaigning for the abolitionist of prostitution argue that it is a form of exploitation of women. Those who advocate for this perspective believe that, with the exception of the prostitutes themselves, all actors involved in the trade should be subject to some form of criminal, and perhaps civil, sanctions (Farley 2004; Gallagher 2001; Raymond 2004; Jeffreys 1997; Balos 2004). Instead, as Melissa Farley notes, currently the “johns” are typically left legally and socially protected and unaccountable, regardless of the status of prostitution in society (Farley 2004, 1092). Abolitionists contend that the physical, social and psychological harms of prostitution cannot be controlled in a way that enhances the autonomy or safety of women (Farley 2004, 1087; Balos 2004, 138-139). From this perspective, in light of the documented harms involved in prostitution, it is contradictory to oppose trafficking while promoting prostitution as a justifiable form of labor (Farley 2004, 1094-1109). Exploitation should be actionable whether it is against women or children. As Janice Raymond argues, “A girl's violation doesn't magically become a choice on the day she turns 18” (quoted in Miles 2003, 26; see also Jeffreys 2000). Arguments that frame prostitution as a form of work are deemed as “attempts to remove all obstacles to conducting the business of prostitution” (Farley 2004, 1091).
In contrast, those in the pro-sex work camp, represented at the UN Protocol's negotiations as the Human Rights Caucus, consider themselves activists for the rights of sex workers. Legalization of sex work is the main objective, expected to lead to better working conditions and protections for sex workers (Davidson 2003; Kempadoo and Doezema 1998). Sex work is distinguishable from trafficking: sex work is a form of labour based on women’s use of their bodies to earn an income, as opposed to trafficking, which involves exploitation and coercion or deceit about the nature of the work or working conditions (Segrave and Milivojevic 2005, 11). Kamala Kempadoo and Jo Doezema argue that criminalization of sex trafficking exacerbates the violence suffered by migrant women at the hands of recruiters, smugglers, employers, clients and immigration officials (Kempadoo and Doezema 1998). In this respect, the Associação Brasileira de Defesa da Mulher, da Infância e da Juventude (ASBRAD) refers to the triple stigma – “criminosa, puta e imigrante” (criminal, bitch and immigrant) – that promotes inhumane treatment (ASBRAD 2008, 261). According to Laura Agustín, women migrants actively engaged in using social networks to travel are often aware of the sexual nature of the work, and, like other migrant workers, have some capacity to resist the economic, social and physical forms of compulsion they face. Agustin argues, “Their status as ‘illegal’ migrants, without permission to work in Europe, is, for them, the single overarching problem to solve, and their irregular status, not sex, is the heart of the issue” (Agustín 2005, 98).
This divide has gone hand in hand with the structure-agency debate (see Abrams 1999, and Barry 1995). Sex workers are deemed by pro-sex work feminists to be autonomous agents. Women’s engagement in, and experience of, sex work is in direct contrast to widespread characterizations of “passivity, ignorance and force” (Agustín 2005, 98). Abolitionists, on the other hand, dismiss the notion of free choice: women are not free agents, operating on a level playing field upon which they rationally choose prostitution over other occupations for the advantages it offers (Barry 1995). Economic coercion renders hollow the idea of free choice (Jeffreys 2000, 368-369) with underlying socio-economic inequality driving the decision-making that leads women into the sex industry.
The advancement by abolitionists of domestic laws criminalizing the sex industry has, as a consequence, isolated sex workers. In this respect, advocacy by pro-sex work feminists for the rights of sex workers and for legalized prostitution has been directed as much at governments, authorities and violent clients, as at abolitionists (who are frequently described in this context as “western” feminists) and the “rescue industry” (Sutherland 2004, 164; Trépanier 2003, 50; Busza 2004, 243). At the same time, pro-sex work feminists distinguish between “voluntary” migration for sex work and trafficking for forced sexual exploitation, a distinction that overestimates the voluntariness of the sex worker, and downplays the socio-economic vulnerability that influences decision-making. This tactic adopted by pro-sex work feminists has fostered the very stereotype of trafficked women chained to beds that they themselves deride. By highlighting the “voluntariness” of prostitution and the “involuntariness” of trafficking, pro sex worker feminists have hindered global recognition of the initial voluntariness involved in many situations that end in trafficking (see critique by Banerjee 2006, 7). A decade after the 2000 negotiations of the UN Protocol, little headway has been made on resolving these questions of choice and consent.

The UN Protocol and the case of the undocumented migrant
I now discuss the compromise definition of trafficking presented in the UN Protocol, one of the most recent international instruments on the issue. I consider how the UN Protocol and its definition of trafficking frame issues such as voluntariness, exploitation and consent. I then present two cases of undocumented migrant women and assess how such cases are typically understood by both sides of the feminist divide.
Negotiations regarding the definition of trafficking were considered by both feminist camps as critical in determining, at the international level, whether all forms of prostitution were to be considered violence and inextricably linked to trafficking (Doezema 2005, 72; Jeffreys 2002, 45). The UN Protocol defines trafficking as:

...the recruitment, transportation, transfer, harbouring or receipt of persons, by means of the threat or use of force or other forms of coercion, of abduction, of fraud, of deception, of the abuse of power or of a position of vulnerability or of the giving or receiving of payments or benefits to achieve the consent of a person having control over another person, for the purpose of exploitation. Exploitation shall include, at a minimum, the exploitation of the prostitution of others or other forms of sexual exploitation, forced labour or services, slavery or practices similar to slavery, servitude or the removal of organs;... (Article 3(a), UN Protocol)
The definition renders consent irrelevant if any of the listed means are used:

The consent of a victim of trafficking in persons to the intended exploitation set forth in subparagraph (a) of this article shall be irrelevant where any of the means set forth in subparagraph (a) have been used; (Article 3(b), UN Protocol)
This definition leads to the very obvious question of what if none of the means listed are used to recruit, transport, transfer, harbour or receive an individual for the purpose of exploitation. Can one consent to exploitation? The UN Protocol in fact suggests that one can, and this “privileging of consent” in the definition has been critiqued by abolitionist Beverley Balos (2004). The phrase “abuse of power or of a position of vulnerability” adds a further complication. The travaux préparatoires to the UN Protocol explicitly state:

The reference to abuse of a position of vulnerability is understood to refer to any situation in which the person involved has no real or acceptable alternative but to submit to the abuse involved (UNODC 2006, 347).
For abolitionists, entry into prostitution arises from socio-economic exclusion, which leaves women (in this case) with no real alternative other than to sell their bodies through a system of exploitation. For proponents of the “agency” argument, sex work for the migrant sex worker is a choice that can offer more income and freedom than the alternatives at home (Busza 2004, 240-241). This leaves open the question of what is a “real and acceptable alternative”, and leads back to the question of what constitutes consent and how much voluntariness is exercised by the undocumented migrant in her entry into sex work.
The greater the apparent voluntariness, the easier it is to accept that the situation is a case of smuggling, rather than trafficking. A valuable point made by Jo Doezema directly relates to the notion of voluntariness. She argues that the UN Protocol “reproduces the whore/Madonna division” such that only involuntariness is rewarded with protection (Doezema 1998, 47). For this reason, sex worker advocates deride the very idea of an anti-trafficking framework (Doezema 2005, 76). In my view, the focus of the UN Protocol's definition on the movement of people through threats, force, coercion, fraud or deception has heightened the divide between feminists. The definition deflects attention away from what is often a blurred and false distinction between trafficking and other forms of irregular migration, heightened by the fact that smuggling is defined in a separate instrument.^[2] It clouds situations where a potential migrant might voluntarily use the services of a smuggler and later find herself in a situation of exploitation, with her initial consent now put into question through the application of force, deception or coercion. My hypothetical of Tatiana is an example in point here:

Tatiana will pay smuggler, A, USD5000 to take her over the border from Ukraine to Italy. Before leaving Ukraine, she pays A USD2000 as a deposit for his help. Having arrived in Rome, she plans to work for A, in A’s factory, for USD 1,000 per month and has agreed that for the first 3 months of work, she will receive no pay to enable her to finish paying off her debt to A. During that time, she has agreed to work 16 hours a day for 6 days per week. On her day off, she has agreed that, from time to time, she will work extra hours and will be paid by A 2 USD per hour, which she is allowed to keep to buy food and clothes. She has also agreed with A that he will allow her to sleep on the factory floor so that she does not need to pay for accommodation in Rome and thus avoids bringing her undocumented status to the attention of police or others in the public. For a period of three months, Tatiana receives no money from A, and works 7 days a week, usually working 10 hours on her “day off,” which provides her around USD20 to buy food. She washes herself in the toilet at the factory, as she had agreed with A.
Tatiana is clearly suffering exploitative labor conditions, but what is less clear is whether she is a victim of trafficking. According to the UN Protocol's definition, she was recruited for exploitation. However, her consent is relevant as no means of force, coercion, fraud or deception have been used. Indeed, her expectations of the work and working conditions have been met in every respect. While many activists would want to classify Tatiana’s case as one of trafficking, she is, in fact and by definition, an exploited undocumented (smuggled) migrant.^[3] Tatiana is denied the right to rest, or to adequate standards of food and shelter. She works outside of the protections of domestic law, with no access to the national healthcare system or legal protections for her right to decent work. Her ability to stay in Italy remains in the hands of A, who is in a position to deny her any pay and threaten her with deportation if she attempts to complain to the relevant authorities. Would either group of feminist disagree that this is a case of exploitation? I would argue that despite Tatiana’s awareness of the nature and conditions of her work in Rome, both groups of feminists would almost certainly be sympathetic to this case of labor exploitation. I believe that this example would not raise the same divisions as witnessed in the context of sex work and prostitution discourse.
Now take the hypothetical case of another woman, Hang:

Hang will pay a smuggler, A, USD5000 to take her over the border from Vietnam to Cambodia. Before leaving Vietnam, she pays to A USD2000, as a deposit for his help. Having arrived in Phnom Penh, she plans to work for A, in A’s brothel, for USD 1,000 per month and has agreed that for the first 3 months of work, she will receive no pay, to enable her to finish paying off her debt to person A. During that time, she has agreed to deliver services to 6-8 clients per day 6 days per week. On her day off, she has agreed that, from time to time, she will serve extra clients and will be paid directly by those clients. She is allowed to keep this money to buy food, clothes and condoms. She sleeps in the brothel at night time so that she does not need any money to pay for her own accommodation in Phnom Penh and thus avoids bringing her undocumented status to the attention of police or others in the public. For a period of three months, Hang receives no money from A, works 7 days a week, usually serving 10-12 clients on her “day off,” which provides her around USD200 to buy food clothes and save some money. She washes herself in the toilet at the brothel, as she had agreed with A.
Is Hang’s case any different from that of Tatiana’s? This is again a situation of exploitation of an undocumented migrant by virtue of her working conditions. Hang is denied the right to rest, and to adequate standards of food and shelter. She works outside of the protections of domestic law, in a country where the sex industry was first criminalized in 1996 and brothels are frequently raided by police.
My example of Hang moves away from the paradigmatic image of the young, naïve and innocent girl lured by evil traffickers, which is so often criticized by pro-sex worker feminists (Doezema 2002). The pro-sex worker position is that Hang is an “agent” who consented to work in the sex industry. Hang is in a position to earn money in Cambodia and was aware that she would be working in the sex industry before leaving Vietnam, as is said to frequently be the case with undocumented migrant sex workers (Busza 2004, 244; see also Agustín 2005, 101-102 regarding migrant sex workers in Europe). Indeed, my description of Hang’s status as an undocumented (smuggled) migrant and not as a victim of trafficking is likely to satisfy the general objection of most pro-sex worker feminists to excessive application of the term trafficking (Doezema 2005, 80). Yet, the pro-sex worker discourse denies us the ability to label this as a case of exploitation due to the persistent focus on the rights of sex workers and the need to defend the sexual freedoms and agency of women to sell their bodies, even if under conditions that are clearly exploitative in other circumstances.
For abolitionists, Hang is exploited by virtue of the fact that she has been drawn into the sex industry. Her case is one of exploitation and, for some feminists, violence. As the negotiations for the UN Protocol illustrated, abolitionist feminists classify such a case as trafficking for sexual exploitation. Indeed, the ambiguity surrounding the terms “of the abuse of power or of a position of vulnerability” in the UN Protocol’s definition lends weight to this argument. In this instance, however, I would suggest that debate has been hindered by the typical classification of such a case as one of “trafficking" as opposed to “exploitation of an undocumented migrant.” In this instance, Hang has consented to her own exploitation and she is not a victim of trafficking.

3. Analyzing the common ground: Exploitation and expectations

Both abolitionists and activists for the rights of sex workers are in agreement that consent should never be a factor in determining whether victims of abuse deserve assistance (Chapkis 2003, 929). In this section, I ask what factors should be determinant in deciding who is a victim of exploitation, and I search for a compromise (although not overly compromising) between the two camps in an attempt to move debate and advocacy forward.
I suggest that it is not difficult to find common ground when we consider the cases discussed above. Tatiana is an undocumented labor migrant and a victim of exploitative working conditions, and Hang is an undocumented migrant sex worker. Hang’s status as a victim of exploitation however remains in doubt and, in my view this is where the challenge lies in finding common ground. To the abolitionist, Hang has been sexually exploited by virtue of her entry into the sex industry, which is inherently a form of violence and exploitation. For the pro-sex work feminist, she is an agent of her own destiny. It is here that I introduce the hypothetical case of a third migrant woman in order to shift the focus in the trafficking discourse away from “exploitation” to “unmet expectations”.
Phuong, like Hang, enters the Cambodian sex industry to work for A. Phuong would clearly be a victim of sexual exploitation if she were occasionally beaten by A by failing to attract enough clients every day, or if she were forced to have sex without a condom. Similarly, if Phuong had arrived in Cambodia, where she was told that her debt was not the remaining USD 3,000 but rather USD 30,000, neither group of feminists would appear comfortable in characterizing the situation as other than exploitation. The deep divisions disappear as we have, by definition, crossed over into the territory of “trafficking”. Phuong is a victim of trafficking having been recruited by means of deception or fraud or abuse of power for the purpose of exploitation, given her acceptance of different terms when she first left Vietnam with A’s assistance.
From an abolitionist perspective, this new debt imposed on Phuong is typical of the sex industry and of the vulnerability involved in the selling of sex in an industry reliant on economic coercion and economic exploitation. In contrast, for pro-sex work feminists, sex work is not based on economic coercion and is not inherently economically exploitative, but can be economically liberating for women. From the prism of the pro-sex worker feminist, then, why is Phuong a victim of trafficking? It is not because she entered an “exploitative” sex industry, but rather because her expectations regarding her working conditions at the outset of her agreement with A, did not come to fruition. Indeed, I suggest that the UN Protocol’s inclusion of such concepts as “fraud” and “deception” permit such a contractual approach to the issue of trafficking.
I now elaborate further on the concept of “unmet expectations”. One of the strongest criticisms of pro-sex work feminists regarding the concept of “trafficking” is its tendency to assume that a non-innocent sex worker is left to get what she deserves. The notion of “unmet expectations” allows a pro-sex worker feminist to campaign against breach of contract for victims of trafficking and migrant sex workers alike. So what is lost for abolitionists if they agree to re-frame discourse as an issue of “unmet expectations” rather than of exploitation? Phuong was expecting a violence-free environment but suffered instances of violence and forced sex by brothel owner, A, and her clients. To draw attention to the failure of expectations of a violence-free environment is not a great leap from the branding by abolitionists of the sex industry as inherently violent or a form of violence against women.
My proposed compromise that looks at conditions of “work” and contractual negotiations is likely to be seen by abolitionists as giving recognition to prostitution as a form of work (Jeffreys 1997). Phuong was expecting to be paid and was economically exploited. However, to argue that her economic expectations were not met should not be seen by abolitionists as a sacrifice to decades of advocacy against the commodification of women. It certainly does not shed positive light on the sex industry in any way. Indeed, the commodification of women’s bodies, under conditions considered by abolitionists to be deeply unequal, is fraught with economic exploitation. For abolitionists who identify the socio-economic inequality and economic coercion that leads to entry into sex work (Jeffreys 2000, 368-369), Phuong’s economic exploitation should not be left unaddressed. Moreover, if there is little reluctance to argue that Tatiana’s expectations as an undocumented labor migrant, if later placed under a situation of debt bondage, were unmet, surely a similar approach can be adopted to Phuong’s debt bondage in the sex industry.
In drawing out the implications of the three cases of Tatiana, Hang and Phuong, I believe we can progress beyond previously stalled debates. The case of Tatiana, in my view, is the easiest to address. Outside of the realm of prostitution, it is a case almost entirely excluded from the feminist debates in this area. The exploitation of labor migrants, outside of the arena of prostitution or sex work, is a field in which we have can find common ground between both abolitionists and pro-sex work feminists. It is a case that does not directly involve the body, sexual imagery, sexual stereotyping, sexual abuse or sexual stigma. Recognizing the rights to freedom from exploitation of migrant women sits comfortably within the position of both groups.
In the case of Phuong, which sits squarely within the definition of trafficking, again we have accord. From an abolitionist perspective, Phuong is a victim of trafficking, by virtue of her recruitment into the sex industry and the abuse of her socio-economic vulnerability, which leaves her few choices but to migrate for sex work. However, moving beyond old debates, for both abolitionists and pro-sex work feminists, Phuong is a victim of trafficking, by virtue of her initial contract having contained a misrepresentation that she would face a violence-free environment, and her consent thus having been falsely obtained. She expected to be paid for her work (albeit for what abolitionists see as inherently violent and degrading work), and these expectations were not met when A economically exploited her. Again, we have common ground.
The case of Hang is the most challenging, as its implications exemplify the divide that has plagued feminist discourse for decades. We continue to have disagreement as to whether her situation is one of exploitation. However, from an advocacy point of view, I suggest that both abolitionists and pro-sex worker feminists alike need to fight for the rights of Hang to prevent her from becoming Phuong. The way both groups interpret and address Hang’s potential vulnerability, however, will unfortunately take different tracks based on the current divide – whether it be abolitionists attacking the lack of alternative opportunities for work for Hang in Vietnam or her lower status in society as a woman that led her to prostitution, or pro-sex advocates attacking the lack of labor rights and legal protections for Hang as an undocumented migrant worker operating in an illegal industry.
Trafficking is frequently framed as the result of involuntary movement. A major contributing factor is the terms “recruitment, transportation, transfer, harbouring or receipt of persons” in the UN Protocol’s definition, as if a third party, the trafficker, is the only active individual. At the same time, the UN Protocol’s inclusion of such concepts as “fraud” and “deception” permits that a contractual approach to the issue of trafficking could be adopted, that we can look at the individual’s expectations and the ways in which they have not been met. In this sense, we must recognize that voluntariness is inherent in many situations of trafficking. In the same way that one might enter into a contract to buy a house, or to better parallel the nature of entry into a situation of trafficking, a labor contract to provide services as a waitress or construction worker, the contract becomes void if the conditions of work are misrepresented or if the potential employee was deceived as to the nature of the object of the contract. The entry into the agreement was entirely voluntary but this element does not make the individual any less a victim of fraud or deception, or entitled to compensation, when the reality falls evidently far from expectations. I believe that this is the direction that the prostitution and trafficking discourse should take and I am developing the implications of this approach further in my thesis.^[4]

Conclusion
Feminists have been deeply divided for decades on questions of prostitution and trafficking. (Frances 1996). Particularly since the drafting of the 2000 protocol, these divisions have formed around the issue of consent: what constitutes consent and whether a woman can actually consent to being a prostitute/sex worker. I argue that to focus on “unmet expectations” offers a different and more fruitful approach to this area. Using hypothetical examples, we are able to find consensus around “unmet expectations”, such as no pay contrary to a promised “contract”, longer hours, more clients than agreed, lack of protections from brothel owners when faced with violence at the hands of clients, and forced or unprotected sex. The notion of “unmet expectations” responds to abolitionist feminists’ interests in critiquing the exploitation involved in the commodification of women and the exploitative conditions that form part, although not all, of the major challenges offered by abolitionists to the prostitution industry. In contrast, pro-sex work feminists are likely to be comfortable with a focus on unmet expectations, being in line with decades of labor-rights advocacy for sex workers, along with the recognition of rights-protections for undocumented migrant women who are not, by definition, victims of trafficking. By focusing on what women agree to do and when these conditions change against their will, we are able to accept the voluntariness exercised by exploited migrant women while uniting to advocate for the rights of these “willing victims” who face exploitation and abuse under conditions contrary to their expectations prior to embarking on a search for better opportunities.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my supervisor, Dr Helen Pringle, at the University of New South Wales, and to Jose´-Miguel Bello y Villarino, for their very valuable comments on earlier drafts. I bear sole responsibility for the opinions expressed in this paper.

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^[1] In this paper, I use the terms “prostitute” and “sex worker” interchangeably in line with the approach adopted in the various feminist discourses. I realize that there is no truly “neutral” language in this area, with the terms adopted by individual writers revealing the opinions they hold about the buying and selling of sex.
[2] The UN Protocol against the Smuggling of Migrants by Land, Air and Sea, supplementing the United Nations Convention against Transational Organized Crime provides: “‘Smuggling of migrants’ shall mean the procurement, in order to obtain, directly or indirectly, a financial or other material benefit, of the illegal entry of a person into a State Party of which the person is not a national or a permanent resident (Article 3(a)).”
[3] My own work with the International Organisation for Migration (IOM) in Vietnam and Ukraine, and interviews conducted for my doctoral thesis on trafficking, lead me to believe that many stakeholders working in the field of trafficking, in international organisations, local and international NGOs and at the donor-level, would define Tatiana's case as an example of trafficking.
^[4] My thesis, a comparative study of the underlying causes and patterns of trafficking in women and girls for labour and sexual exploitation, explores the similarities and differences in the levels of voluntariness exercised by victims in their decision to migrate from various source countries. I analyze evidence of autonomy exercised by women in their movement and the extent to which this voluntariness and autonomy is currently recognized in trafficking discourse. I use concepts from contract law in my consideration of the victim’s initial entry into the agreement and consider how we can best frame the violations experienced by these women when their contractual expectations have been breached.