Some notes on language
As an organisation, we try to choose our words carefully.
We recognise that language shapes and drives perceptions. All of us are directed – whether consciously or unconsciously – to think in certain ways by the way language is used to frame conversations or debates. Sometimes this linguistic ‘choice architecture’ is given to us intentionally, a deliberate effort to establish the terms of reference and to steer us towards compliance with certain ideas/beliefs. At other times it’s unintentional: the unconscious passing on of inherited ways of thinking, not actively owned, just never subjected to scrutiny. Either way, it’s easy to find ourselves unwittingly co-opted into narratives that have implications beyond our understanding or intentions, even while they may quietly be influencing both.
Each person must come to their own conclusions about what they believe but, for the reasons outlined above, we encourage scrutiny and care over language.
Here are some thoughts on difficult words and themes that come up in our work:
Prostitution
Some of the reports we cite use the term ‘prostitution’ which some might find stigmatising. What might be surprising is that many women who’ve exited intentionally opt for this term in an effort to resist and delegitimize the notion of ‘sex work’. We respect this choice but also recognise that it can be a polarizing term and can cause misunderstanding with regard to the intentions of those who use it, especially if the context is poorly understood.
Sex work
We give some reasons in Some facts about the sex industry why the term ‘sex work’ is not one we can use. But it’s worth exploring this term more carefully.
A person’s body is not a ‘good’ that can be sold. The phrase ‘selling sex’ overlooks this truth by suggesting that what is sold is some kind of product that can be passed from one person to another. Yet, what is actually being sold is access to another person’s body. Sex is not a product; it is an act of relational intimacy. As such, it comes with built-in vulnerability. And whilst it may be possible to limit the risks of physical ‘danger’ from sexual acts, vulnerability will always remain. It is part of sex’s design and what lends it so much power.
If we then say that selling one’s body is a ‘service’, we need to explain how we define that term. For example, what is the difference between service and servitude? We find ourselves quickly bound up in notions of agency and consent which are deeply problematic for the reasons given here. Even setting consent aside for a moment, is the ‘client’ actually ‘served’ in a way that brings benefit to his life? For him the ‘worker’ often represents a short term fix in a cycle of tension and relief. She is part of his escapism, part of a cycle of compulsion that often has features of addiction, masking engagement with his real and deeper need for healthy and mutual relationships, whilst also driving an objectification of women that further compounds his difficulty in meeting these needs. In the case of the ‘worker’, an array of trauma-related symptoms such as addiction, dissociation, anxiety, PTSD, feelings of shame, worthlessness and hopelessness typically accumulate during her time in the industry.
There are others affected too. A growing body of research looking at the ‘shadow women’ behind the men who pay for ‘sexual services’ – their wives, girlfriends and daughters – suggests a multiplication of harmful effects on the lives of those around the ‘client’. Who exactly has benefited from this ‘service’?
The modern-day popularisation and glamorisation of ‘sex work’ through sites like OnlyFans conveniently overlooks this very real context of men’s lives as well as the longer-term fruit in the lives of its participants. The promotion of some of the industry’s highest earners, and the cynical efforts to normalise and elevate this ‘lifestyle choice’ through the targeted recruitment of students across university campuses, wholly disregard the legacy of harm it leaves in its wake, suggesting an engagement that is free of negative consequence. Material gain and/or temporary celebrity are the best it has to offer for the ‘lucky’ few, but these hollow and tinny gains require a suppression of its other devastating effects which, while not always visible immediately, invariably cause long-lasting harm.
Consent
In too many cases, a woman’s entry into the sex industry is not so much an active decision as a progressive drift from previous experiences of sexual abuse or childhood sexual exploitation. Even where sexual trauma isn’t part of the story, a background of disadvantage and adversity is common, predisposing women to exploitation on account of existing vulnerabilities. In cases such as these, where a woman’s decision-making may in fact be an ‘anguished agency much constrained by circumstance’, as described by one researcher, is the technical notion of ‘consent’ really sufficient? Was participation in the sex industry actively chosen with a sense of good and viable alternatives being available? What differentiates consent from resignation, or capitulation to what feels inevitable?
It’s also well known that people sometimes choose things that harm themselves, rendering consent a concept of limited value. Substance misuse is a case in point. When we choose things that harm us, it’s often because of harm done to us in the past and the carrying on of this process in similar or altered forms. Abuse over time can be internalised as self-abuse, the fruit of a poor sense of personal boundaries and damaged self-esteem. When it comes to sexual acts, the additions to the Domestic Abuse Act in relation to ‘rough sex’ are significant in this regard. Just because someone is consenting to an act, that is not enough to make it okay. In fact, even when they instigate the harm directed towards themselves, that does not make it okay. The law is constantly having to plug gaps where it recognises that the notion of consent alone is not enough to confer legitimacy.
Surely it’s time to ask whether we have given the notion of consent too much weight, and not only for the reasons above. Doesn’t it belong to the language of self-justification rather than of generosity? Isn’t it a term belonging to a culture that has reduced sexual relationships to a single determining factor and test as to whether we have a right to proceed? There is nothing here about love or respect, only the notion of a minimum standard to get what we want.
Shame
Shame can be a dirty word for some who confuse it with shaming. But acknowledging the presence of shame is not at all the same as shaming. The simple fact is just that many women carry shame from their participation in the sex industry. If we remember that many abuse victims suffer shame – projected from the abuser to the abused – then this is not surprising:
- Shame is a normal reaction to abuse.
- Abuse/neglect are shameful, but the one perpetrating the harm often passes this burden of shame to the victim.
- Shame is very frightening to acknowledge, and many of us would rather avoid it, for example via substance misuse or dissociation or reframing it as shamelessness.
- But to ignore shame doesn’t heal it. What is not acknowledged cannot be healed.
- Shame is a relational wound and so is also healed through relationship.
Unlike the ones that caused harm, the relationships that dismantle shame must be ones of safety, care and honour. As a Christian organisation, it is our privilege not only to seek to build these relationships around women, but also to witness the difference it makes when women experience God’s love as the primary one that un-shames and restores them. We offer women opportunities to connect with this love as part of their healing.
Theologian Soong-Chan Rah states that ‘lament recognises a shameful history’. The important word here is ‘recognises’. Recognition does not shame, or cause shame; it acknowledges the disgrace that has been done and deems it worthy of grief.