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India, the United Nations, and Moving Beyond Anti-Colonialism

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The Indian government’s reaction to the recent UN Special Report on Minorities makes clear the limitations of its anti-imperial human rights history.

On March 15 last month, the UN Human Rights Council met for its thirty-first session in Geneva. The meeting was dominated by discussion of an important new report presented by the Special Rapporteur on Minority Issues, Rita Izsák-Ndiaye, on discrimination based on caste and analogous systems of inherited status. As per UN guidelines, the Rapporteur on Minority Issues is generally an independent investigator appointed to document systematic instances of discrimination along religious, ethnic, racial, and other group-based lines, and to make recommendations both at the international level and to a select number of countries. Izsák-Ndiaye’s recent report marks an important turning point within this vein. It is by far the most concerted effort to bring caste into the framework of international human rights law. Over the past three weeks, the document has started circulating amongst activist and legal circles in South Asia, within the diaspora, and beyond.

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At the World Conference Against Racism held in Durban, South Africa, 2001, Dalit community and Japan’s Buraku community worked together to call for the inclusion of the term “descent” in the Durban Declaration. Photo Courtesy : IMADR

The March session of the UNHRC was not the first time that caste has been discussed at an international forum. There is by now a remarkable two-decade long history of how activist groups like the Dalit Solidarity Network and the National Campaign on Dalit Human Rights alongside international organizations like Human Rights Watch have been able to frame the issue from being a regional problem specific to South Asia to a global concern, starting with the 2002 Durban Conference of the UN’s Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination (CERD). CERD’s recommendation in 2002 to directly address caste and descent-based forms of discrimination through international mechanisms has provided the primary precedent for subsequent action by the UN. It has also had something of a spillover effect onto domestic jurisdictions, with the European Parliament passing a resolution to recognize and combat caste-based exclusion in 2013 and, in the same year, the UK government amending Section 9 of its 2010 Equality Act to mandate specific legislation on caste. Indeed, the need to comply with CERD has been cited in the landmark case Chandhok & Anor v Tirkey (2014), the first successful caste discrimination lawsuit brought before a UK employment tribunal.

Despite becoming increasingly established, however, the globalization of anti-caste law has consistently been met with opposition from South Asian states, especially from India and Sri Lanka. In 2002, Indian government officials vehemently insisted that caste could not be reduced to either ethnicity or race, and so had no place in a UN forum devoted to the latter. If anything, the official response to Izsák-Ndiaye’s report has been even more dismissive. During the March 15 session, India’s Representative to the United Nations criticized the report as a “breach of the Special Rapporteurs’ mandate” (the Representative’s response to the Special Rapporteur is available here, starting at 37:59). By expanding the scope of minority status to include groups vulnerable to caste discrimination—and thereby highlighting gaps in the implementation of constitutional safeguards—the report rendered suspect the entire “credibility of the UN Special Procedure” system. The Sri Lankan government went even further, directly questioning the Rapporteur’s methodology and asserting that untouchability practices do not exist at all in the country.

In themselves, these responses are not surprising given the history of nationalist engagement with the UNHRC through the 2000s. But coming immediately in the wake of Rohith Vemula’s tragic death in January and the ongoing crisis at Hyderabad Central University and other institutions, Izsák-Ndiaye’s report has a particularly timely importance for the Indian context. And the state’s rejection of the report’s legitimacy says volumes about the trajectory of its engagement with international politics since the 1950s.

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Rita Izsak-Ndiaye, the UN special rapporteur for minorities. Photo Courtesy © Miklós Déri.

Like all attempts to deal with caste in a non-South Asian legal context, the UN Report struggles with defining the term. With their intellectual roots in nineteenth-century European practices of taxonomy, the classificatory schemes of postwar human rights have found it difficult to address a diffuse non-Western concept that is analogous but not wholly reducible to categories of ethnicity, race, and religion. Izsák-Ndiaye justifies including caste under the label of ‘minority,’ broadly understood, because the condition of groups marginalized by systems based on birth and descent is structurally similar to those excluded through other axes of identity. In both cases, a group is seen to possess some inherent characteristics which justify subservience to a dominant socio-cultural and religious community (which may or may not be in a numerical majority).

The report separates caste-based discrimination into two broad forms: civil and political, and economic, social, and cultural. The first category includes physical violence and threats to person and property; the denial of fundamental civil liberties such as political participation and access to the judiciary; and discrimination within religious spaces and ceremonies. The second category includes restrictions on economic mobility and the right to work; segregation in housing; as well as unequal access to water, sanitation, health services, and (in the case of 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami or last year’s Chennai floods) emergency humanitarian assistance.

None of these details should be surprising to anyone who follows politics within South Asia and its diaspora communities. The UN Report’s main contribution is to present the information in a systematic way that allows us to see patterns across countries and to recognize the specific international and domestic laws which are being violated through the framework of caste. Izsák-Ndiaye cites new data from the 2014 National Crime Records Bureau of India about the shocking (and rising) levels of brutal physical violence–lynching, harassment, and sexual assault—committed regularly against Dalits, acts that go against the most fundamental tenets (Articles 3-5) of the UDHR. Enforced practices of manual scavenging, slavery, and bonded agricultural labor on Dalit and tribal (adivasi) communities in Nepal, India, Pakistan, and elsewhere violate commitments to workplace non-discrimination and workers’ economic choice expressed in International Labor Organization (ILO) conventions since 1957. Finally, discrimination within healthcare and basic medical services, common in many rural hospitals across South Asia, contradicts commitments regarding equal access to health added to the Convention on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights in 2000.

So the most valuable upshot of the Special Rapporteur’s investigation may be to enable increased global activism on the part of anti-caste movements. Framing the problem of caste as a violation of already accepted international norms opens up a new set of legal standards with which to hold states accountable. Of course, there are clear drawbacks to this legalistic turn. The report itself is very much a product of the liberal understanding of freedom underlying contemporary international law—‘liberal’ in the post-Cold War sense recently critiqued by the philosopher Robert Meister, as a minimalist political theory committed exclusively to individual security from violent atrocity and external interference. The report speaks of caste discrimination and not of caste oppression. It calls on legislative and judicial bodies to secure non-discrimination in the economy, state-society interaction, and political life in order to enable equal access to a set of basic goods, but stops short of calling for redistribution or the targeted material empowerment of the lower-caste urban and rural poor. An anti-discrimination based internationalist politics that strategically uses the language of the UN might, then, be much less economically transformative than the long tradition of Indian anti-caste socialism from Jotirao Phule to Ambedkar and beyond.

Nevertheless, the symbolic value of the report is to emphasize the obligations of a state towards a universal ideal of human equality. Engaging critically with the UN Human Rights Council would, for any government, entail first recognizing the legitimacy of the international community to question domestic structures of violence and exclusion. It would mean a cosmopolitan politics appreciative of exchange and interaction as sites for self-criticism. It is this reflexivity, I think, which the Indian government has failed to demonstrate through its outright rejection of the UN Report’s legitimacy. In his remarks to the Human Rights Council on March 15, India’s Representative to the United Nations criticized the report for transgressing on the state’s prerogative to define and govern its populations. He characterized allegations of structural discrimination against Dalits based on religion, social norms, and cultural life as a “series of sweeping judgements.” For the Special Rapporteur on Minority Issues to turn attention to caste set a dangerous precedent for subsequent UN investigations to exceed their prescribed authority. It made the issue seem much widespread than Indian law itself recognized and gave an international human rights body normative superiority over a domestic jurisdiction.

There is a biting irony in India’s appeal to national sovereignty in order to delegitimize an international investigation into caste violence. The legal architecture of the UN’s anti-racism policies, first within the UDHR itself and then the important 1963 General Assembly Convention, is in many ways an Indian creation. In December 1946, the Indian delegation to the UN, headed by Vijaya Lakshmi Pandit and encouraged by both Jawaharlal Nehru and Gandhi, pushed through a motion in the General Assembly mandating South Africa’s apartheid regime to bring its racialized citizenship policies into conformity with international norms of civil liberties. At the time, the motion was seen as an “Asian victory” against the deeply racist alliance of the British Empire, the United States, and South Africa. Recently, historians like Mark Mazower have seen it as an even more pivotal moment in the struggle for decolonization, marking the point when an international legal-administrative structure meant to consolidate global white supremacy was first appropriated to unsettle the exclusions of liberal imperialism. Even as the political efficacy of global governance collapsed from Cold War realpolitik through the 1950s, human rights bodies came to have substantial symbolic importance in the fight for anti-racist and anti-colonial justice.

We must not, of course, overstate the radical nature of India’s inaugural act in the United Nations (if anything, new archival research by Vineet Thakur at the University of Johannesburg suggests underlying prejudice on the part of some Indian diplomats towards low-caste laborers in South Africa). But it is critically important to understand the historical role of India’s opposition to white government in South Africa. The rejection of apartheid through institutional mechanisms meant that the founding of the independent Indian state was closely connected with the emergence of an anti-imperial, anti-racist politics of global human rights. This became a major governing logic of Afro-Asian anti-colonialism from the late 1940s to mid-1960s, manifest in its call for Third World solidarity and its commitment to using international platforms like the United Nations to demand self-determination for colored peoples—a dynamic well explored in Roland Burke’s important recent book Decolonization and the Evolution of International Human Rights (2010).

What we have seen over the past month, with the Indian government’s rejection of a UN inquiry into caste even as the country’s university campuses are convulsed in conflict over institutional complicity with caste violence, is essentially the intellectual and conceptual limit of this anticolonial nationalism inherited from the mid-twentieth century. Seventy years after 1946, we have arrived at a point where a state that pushed vehemently to make global governance into a mechanism for protecting vulnerable communities resists having the same language of anti-racism and minority rights turned onto itself. International politics could be a domain for overturning structures of European domination in the 1940s, but its emancipatory potential is decried now that it tries to highlight the deep-rooted failures of the postcolonial state towards internal minorities. The antipathy to international oversight on caste discrimination reveals the constitutive and uncritical acceptance of the nation within the dominant strain of twentieth-century cosmopolitanism. It shows the inability of an internationalist project defined primarily in opposition to European domination to recognize its own internal forms of exclusion.

The international human rights framework has come under withering criticism since the end of the Cold War for eroding sovereignty and state capacity. But there is surely more to it than that. Given the specific historical relationship between India’s emergence as an independent state and its appropriation of global governance, it is of no small importance that anti-caste and minority rights activists’ engagement with the UN report on discrimination highlights structural violence in a way that is not wholly reliant upon Indian law and legislation—and, indeed, demands accountability and compliance with transnational standards from them. We can hope that this is one way to work towards a new and different cosmopolitanism, one in which the postcolonial world’s interaction with the global community is no longer monopolized by the majoritarian nation.

This blog post was written by Tejas Parasher.

Tejas Parasher is a PhD student in political theory at the University of Chicago. His research focuses on comparative constitutionalism in Asia, international law, and issues of human rights and economic inequality. He can be reached at tparasher@uchicago.edu.

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Sex Workers in Kolkata Celebrate Durga Puja

Until last year, Kolkata’s sex workers were prevented from joining in with the city’s elaborate celebrations for Durga Puja – the most anticipated Hindu festival in the Bengali calendar. This photo-essay showcases snapshots from a sindurkhela (literally: ‘playing with vermillion’) organised by the Durbar Mahila Samanwaya Committee (DMSC) in the heart of Kolkata’s largest red-light district as part of this year’s Puja celebrations.

Community members and visitors admire the beautifully adorned pandal.

Community members and visitors admire the beautifully adorned pandal.

In Hinduism, Goddess Durga represents the embodiment of shakti, the divine feminine force that governs cosmic creation, existence and change. It is held that Durga emerged from the collective energies of all of the gods – including Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma – to vanquish the demon Mahishasura. Durga Puja (‘Pujo’ in Bengali) is the celebration of Durga’s annual visit to earth – understood to be her natal home – which takes place in September or October. During this time, communities around West Bengal construct elaborate pandals – temporary temples made from bamboo and cloth – to house clay idols depicting Durga slaying Mahishasura. The idols are worshipped for a number of days before being carried to the river Ganga for immersion.

Historically, the social stigma surrounding sex work meant that sex workers were prohibited by police and community members from taking part in Kolkata’s famous Puja celebrations, despite the long-standing tradition that involves collecting clay from the doorstep of sex workers to use in the making of idols (the clay is thought to symbolise men’s virtue). However, after tireless campaigning by the DMSC – Kolkata’s first and largest sex workers’ collective – in 2013 the Calcutta High Court ruled that sex workers would be permitted to organise their own community Puja in Sonagachi, Kolkata’s main red-light area.

Women from the community prepare Durga for her onward journey.

Women from the community prepare Durga for her onward journey.

This year’s Puja – organised by the DMSC – was a four-day affair starting on the 1st of October and ending with a sindurkhela ritual on the 4th. During sindurkhela, women smear each other’s faces with vermillion – a red-coloured power typically used to mark the foreheads of (‘respectable’) married women; the ritual signifies Durga’s impending farewell from earth and her natal family. In Sonagachi, however, people of all ages and backgrounds joined in the fun, smearing each other’s cheeks and foreheads in a statement of solidarity and hope for a fairer and safer future for sex workers.

Next year, sex workers in Sonagachi will organise an even bigger Puja celebration. At the opening ceremony, Dr. Sashi Panja, State minister for Women and Child Development, pledged that efforts would be made to help DMSC organisers put together an especially large celebrationfor future Pujas.

However, while sex workers in Sonagachi this year celebrated, others across West Bengal – including in areas such as Kalighat, Boubazar in north Kolkata, Seoraphuli in Hooghly district and Durgapur in Burdwan district – were left disappointed after police refused them permission to host their own community Pujas. News of this decision came just days before the celebrations were set to commence, leaving organisers extremely frustrated. These communities will now have to apply for permission from either the Calcutta High Court or Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee before making plans to take part in next year’s Puja.

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Women cover Durga with flower garlands and offer her sweets.

Dr. Smarajit Jana of the DMSC explained that the police decision to bar sex workers from celebrating (with the exception of those residing in Sonagachi) marked a huge setback for the sex workers’ rights movement in India, and that while rejoicing in this year’s Puja organised by the DMSC, the fight very much continues.

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Women prepare to bid a tearful adieu to Durga.

Established in the early 1990s, the DMSC today comprises some 65,000 sex worker members across West Bengal. It campaigns regionally, nationally and internationally for sex workers’ rights, but is best known for its HIV prevention work – particularly, the Sonagachi Project which uses a community development approach aimed at empowering sex workers.

During sindurkhela, women smear each other’s faces with vermillion – a red-coloured power typically used to mark the foreheads of (‘respectable’) married women; the ritual signifies Durga’s impending farewell from earth and her natal family.

During sindurkhela, women smear each other’s faces with vermillion – a red-coloured power typically used to mark the foreheads of (‘respectable’) married women; the ritual signifies Durga’s impending farewell from earth and her natal family.

The reverberating beats of the dhak (drum) are an important part of Puja celebrations. The dhak is a huge drum that is played during Puja and is sometimes embellished with long white or multi-coloured feathers.

The reverberating beats of the dhak (drum) are an important part of Puja celebrations. The dhak is a huge drum that is played during Puja and is sometimes embellished with long white or multi-coloured feathers.

Women dance in front of Durga to the beats of the dhak.

Women dance in front of Durga to the beats of the dhak.

A sweet-smelling, white smoke wafts through the air as women dance. The smoke comes from earthen pots called dhunochis, which are carried by women as they dance. Burning coconut shells are placed inside the pots along with powdered incense, known as dhuno, to create the smoke.

A sweet-smelling, white smoke wafts through the air as women dance. The smoke comes from earthen pots called dhunochis, which are carried by women as they dance. Burning coconut shells are placed inside the pots along with powdered incense, known as dhuno, to create the smoke.

Dhunochi dancers balance the dhunochis with the base placed on their palms, between their teeth or on their foreheads. They then swirl their bodies to the drum beats while carrying the burning dhunochis.

Dhunochi dancers balance the dhunochis with the base placed on their palms, between their teeth or on their foreheads. They then swirl their bodies to the drum beats while carrying the burning dhunochis.

This photo-essay was created by Mirna Guha and Lauren Wilks.

Mirna Guha was born and brought up in Kolkata, India, and graduated from Jadavpur University with a Master’s degree in English Literature and Language in 2010. She has worked with young people on issues of sexual violence and gender equality across South Asia and is now pursuing a PhD in the School for International Development at the University of East Anglia, UK. She is currently in Kolkata conducting fieldwork with rural and socio-economically marginalised women, particularly sex workers. Her research interests include migration, social development and human rights. M.Guha@uea.ac.uk

Lauren Wilks is a PhD Candidate in Sociology at the University of Edinburgh. Her research focuses on the experiences of commuting women domestic workers in West Bengal, India, and is funded by the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC). Previously, she was a Student Fellow with the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting.
L.Wilks@sms.ed.ac.uk

On whose behalf? Sex work in Scotland and the need for proper debate

At the end of July, it emerged that sex workers had not been invited to an official meeting concerned with a proposal currently before the Scottish Parliament to criminalise the purchase of sex in Scotland.

Speaking to the Herald, Neil McCulloch of SCOT-PEP – Scotland’s leading sex workers’ rights organisation – expressed the group’s frustration at being barred from the meeting, despite previously having been invited to similar debates. ‘Disastrous as this legislation would prove in Scotland,’ McCulloch commented, ‘we nevertheless sought to play a constructive role in discussions and are shocked to have been excluded entirely.’ Speaking on the same issue to The Courier, a sex worker called Cat commented, ‘It’s outrageous to hold a meeting to discuss sex work and to specifically exclude sex workers and sex worker-led organisations.’

SCOT-PEP’s frustration is compounded by the fact that this is not the first time they have been excluded from such meetings. The organisation argues that the recent decision to bar them from discussions is symptomatic of a much wider problem with the debate on criminalisation: the silencing of sex workers. ‘Would you have a meeting to discuss whether to legislate supposedly to help any other marginalised group and yet explicitly bar them and their representatives from the discussion?’ asks McCulloch. ‘It can’t be right for a politician to try to work in this way, without even wanting to hear the voices of the people most directly affected.’

Rhoda Grant MSP, architect of the 2012 Criminalisation of the Purchase of Sex (Scotland) Bill, explained the recent decision to exclude SCOT-PEP, claiming that the meeting was ‘for those who support the principles of criminalising the purchase of sex.’ In Scotland it is possible for a consenting adult aged 18 or over to have sex with another consenting adult in return for payment without any offence being committed by either person; the proposed bill would make it a punishable crime to buy sex. Pro-criminalisation campaigners believe that such a move would reduce demand for sex work and thus sexual exploitation.

The debate on criminalisation aside, it is unfathomable that in a society that aspires to be among the fairest and most inclusive in the world, policies are being discussed and formed on behalf of groups without considering their opinions and experiences. When news first broke of Grant’s Bill, an article in The Skinny pointed out that if an MSP put forward a bill affecting LGBT communities but refused to include LGBT voices, there would, quite rightly, be outcry. The need for proper debate is especially important as the Bill has not yet passed (although its passage looks increasingly likely without the opposition of the late Margo MacDonald, one of Scotland’s leading sex workers’ rights campaigners, who passed away on the 4th of April).

The debate over the visibility and legality of sex work in Scotland is, of course, part of a much wider and complex conversation about the moral status of sex work, reflected in the varying policies across the globe. In New Zealand, all activities connected with selling sex have been legal since 2003; whereas, in parts of Europe, the United States and India, an ‘end demand’ agenda has gained ground in recent years, resulting in a series of policy changes aimed at restricting the movement of sex workers and criminalising clients. The movement to stamp out demand for sex work in Scotland is merely one part of this global policy conundrum.

Despite this, the recent crackdown on sex work in Edinburgh – evidenced by brothel raids and an increasingly influential criminalisation lobby – is surprising as it succeeds a twenty-year period of tacit tolerance towards sex work and, importantly, engagement with sex workers’ rights organisations. In the early 1980s, when increasing supplies of heroin and high youth unemployment gave Edinburgh the unlikely reputation as the ‘AIDS capital of Europe’, the City Council responded by implementing a policy of ‘harm reduction’ towards sex work and the use of intravenous drugs. It was as part of this pragmatic response that the Council established an informal (non-harassment) tolerance zone for sex work in Leith – a former port area to the north of the city – and a tacit agreement between the Council, sauna owners and the police which allowed sex workers to practice their trade relatively safely.

Until recently, the famed ‘model of tolerance’ was widely considered a successful strategy for reducing harm, both towards those involved in sex work and the wider public. Saunas – although by no means problem free – became a part of Edinburgh’s ambivalent identity, accounting for the city’s reputation as one of the UK’s top destinations for sex tourists. However, national and international pressure to criminalise the sex industry, combined with changes in police structure and ideology have placed Edinburgh’s model of tolerance under strain.

A major influence on the drive to criminalise sex work is the newly-merged national police force, Police Scotland, which came into force in April 2013 and saw control of law enforcement in the capital effectively transferred to Strathclyde, where a ‘zero tolerance’ policy towards sex work has long been in place. Just two months after Police Scotland became operational raids took place across 13 venues in Edinburgh, 11 of which were licensed as saunas and widely acknowledged to be operating as brothels. Sex workers and proprietors were arrested and six of the saunas had their licenses immediately suspended.

The stated justification for the operation was intelligence of ‘criminal activity’, including reports of drug offences and human trafficking.  Reports of foreign nationals being strip-searched, held without food or water and questioned by UK Border Agency officials suggest, however, that a variety of agendas were at play. In particular, these raids have been seen as an attempt to crack down on ‘illegal’ immigration.

Following a public consultation towards the end of 2013, the Council also decided in February of this year not to renew licenses for the remaining saunas; council officials explained that saunas will not be automatically closed but will be allowed to continue unlicensed. Several women’s organisations, such as Zero Tolerance, welcomed the decision, explaining that, rather than minimising harm, the licensing system had facilitated the sexual exploitation of women.

Sex workers’ rights campaigners, on the other hand, argue that removing licensing legislation will place sex workers at greater risk by forcing them to work in unregulated flats where they will be more vulnerable to unsafe sex, violence and exploitation. Indeed, since the decision to remove sauna licenses in February, sex workers from Edinburgh have spoken out about their fears of walking the streets or working in flats alone. Sarah, a sex worker from Edinburgh, recounted her ordeal of being beaten and raped by a client as she worked alone from a flat in Perth in central Scotland – something many more sex workers are being compelled to do due to a lack of safe working spaces following the decision to remove sauna licenses.

Alongside changes in policing, an international and national movement to tackle sex trafficking and organised crime is adding to the pressure for more punitive policies towards sex work. According to an inquiry conducted in 2011 by the Equality and Human Rights Commission, Scotland is trailing behind the rest of the UK in human trafficking convictions; and with the upcoming referendum on Scottish independence, politicians are under pressure to appear tough in the battle against ‘modern-day slavery’. The referendum is also likely to be among the reasons why Scottish politicians are proposing a wide-ranging anti-trafficking Bill which will define the crime of human trafficking in Scots law for the first time.

But while many believe that the answer to sexual exploitation in Scotland lies in the criminalisation of the sex industry and increased law enforcement – including legislation on human trafficking – sex workers’ rights activists believe that criminalising the purchase of sex will drive issues of exploitation underground and further stigmatise sex workers. It’s naive to believe that criminalisation will stop people from selling sex; if the Bill is passed, sex workers will likely move into unregulated flats where they will be exposed to increased risk of violence, HIV infection and extortion from police and other third parties.

Although there are considerable difficulties in collecting reliable data about the experiences of those who work in one of the world’s most stigmatised industries, there is some evidence to support the fear that criminalisation will have negative consequences for those it claims to protect: SCOT-PEP claims there was a 95% rise in attacks on street-based sex workers in Edinburgh following Scotland’s decision to introduce penalties for kerb-crawling in 2007. Jean Urquhart MSP, Independent MSP for the Highlands and Islands region, also believes that criminalising the purchase of sex will further stigmatise sex workers, making it even more difficult for them to come forward to report crimes such as trafficking and child sexual exploitation.

The meeting at Scottish Parliament also came just days after  Norman Fowler – former Health Secretary who led the UK’s response to the emergence of HIV/AIDS in the 1980s – remarked at the 20th International AIDS Conference in Melbourne, Australia, that sex work should be decriminalised in the UK to slow the spread of HIV and combat prejudice. Fowler’s new book, Don’t Die of Prejudice, documents how discrimination and stigma against sex workers, as well as HIV-positive people, drug-users and gay people, is hindering the world’s fight against AIDS.

It is for these reasons that the failure of MSPs to engage with SCOT-PEP, or any other sex workers’ rights group, raises alarm bells. At a time when arguments should be heard in equal measure, in order to ensure policies achieve their stated aim of safeguarding vulnerable individuals, one of the most important voices in the debate is being silenced.

This post was written by Lauren Wilks.

Lauren Wilks is a PhD Candidate in Sociology at the University of Edinburgh and an Editor at Routes. Her research focuses on the experiences of female migrant workers in the informal economy in Kolkata, India, and is funded by the ESRC. Previously, she was a Student Fellow with the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting. L.Wilks@sms.ed.ac.uk

Image Source: CC Licensed image by Mikasi, via Flickr