Decriminalisation of sex work in the post-truth era? Strategic storytelling in neo-abolitionist accounts of the New Zealand model

Limitations

This article is based on a small sample of texts specifically focused on the New Zealand model of decriminalisation. The article therefore offers very specific insights into how the New Zealand model is represented in the public sphere from a neo-abolitionist perspective. While the sample of texts analysed is small – and one author (Julie Bindel) is a lead author of three – these accounts have in many cases been highly publicised and thus have the potential to be influential. For example, Julie Bindel was invited to speak to the Scottish Parliament in June 2019. After this visit, Joan McAlpine – a Member of the Scottish Parliament – Tweeted that since decriminalisation in New Zealand the street-based sex worker population had quadrupled, ² a widely debunked claim which has no basis in evidence (Abel et al., 2009). Thus, while this author is a journalist, and journalistic deception is a well-documented phenomenon (see, for example, Lee, 2004), Bindel’s accounts are clearly influential in shaping the narrative about the decriminalised framework. Therefore, close analysis of her commentary and others on the New Zealand model is warranted, given the tangible impacts it could have.

’Truth’, ‘real’ experts and the manufacturing of uncertainty

Each text was analysed to ascertain how the author positions themselves in relation to the topic. In each of the texts, the author clearly aligns themselves as an expert, who is fighting back against misinformation and will equip readers with the ‘truth’ about decriminalisation in New Zealand. To do so, the authors use strategic storytelling and emotive language in which they clearly demarcate between those who ‘know’ about decriminalisation and those who merely claim to.

Mayer (2014) states that key characters are central to the telling of compelling stories – for example, victims, who are constructed as having suffered misfortune, and heroes, who are depicted as selfless and brave. The story told by neo-abolitionists in these accounts of decriminalisation in New Zealand is one in which they simultaneously occupy the status of victim and hero. As heroes, they are depicted as experts who selflessly fight back against misinformation. For example, in ’What really happens when prostitution is decriminalised’, Julie Bindel (2017b) clearly aligns herself as an expert on the New Zealand model. In setting up an expectation that she will inform the reader of ‘what really happens’, she positions herself as the holder of knowledge, speaker of truth and thus the hero of the story.

However, compelling stories also have villains, who Mayer (2014) notes are typically depicted as ‘secretive, conspiratorial, greedy, dirty, cowardly’ (p. 62). Accordingly, in these accounts, those who support the decriminalisation of sex work are assigned the role of villain. Bindel, for example, positions herself as fighting back against what she terms ‘the well-oiled propaganda machine that takes the truth about the sex trade and represents it to the world in the form of sanitised sop’. Storytelling is a well-known technique to create a persuasive narrative. In this example, the author attempts to persuade readers of their authority and legitimacy through developing a plot in which they are the hero or ‘saviour’ of the story, who should be trusted and heard. The positioning of the author as ‘expert’ is also significant since it has been recognised that the ‘expert status’ of a source influences the likelihood that the reader will be convinced by the message (Jones and McBeth, 2010).

Mayer (2014) notes that stories which follow a plot in which noble heroes battle treacherous villains inevitably have a moral dimension, which gives them a particularly persuasive value. Bindel continues to foster legitimacy for her account of the ‘real story’ of decriminalisation in New Zealand by employing a further persuasive technique of quantifying her research (stating that she travelled 164,000 miles to conduct the research over 2 years). This article is one of several similar articles Bindel (2018) published to promote her book The Pimping of Prostitution. In the book itself, Bindel focuses extensively on the New Zealand model, again positioning herself as an expert, although there is no methodology section or robust empirical data to support her status as an authority on this context.

Bindel’s assertion that she will educate readers on ‘what really happens’ when sex work is decriminalised echoes an article self-published by neo-abolitionist Psychologist Melissa Farley in 2008, titled ‘What really happened in New Zealand after prostitution was decriminalised in 2003?’. Bindel’s, like Farley’s, positioning as expert in the articles is an invitation for the reader to trust that both authors know ‘what really happens’, inferring that conflicting accounts of the New Zealand model are not to be trusted. As such, this strategic storytelling serves to manufacture uncertainty regarding decriminalisation in New Zealand, and it is well-documented that the deliberate manufacturing of uncertainty is a common political strategy to undermine approaches that do not reflect personal goals and interests (Magnus, 2008).

Coy and Molisa’s article adopts a strikingly similar approach in opening with a question, ‘So what do we know, and think we know, about the impacts of prostitution policy in New Zealand?’ The addition of ‘think we know’ infers that there are inaccuracies in existing accounts and that the authors are well placed to correct this. Thus, they too are constructed as the holders of truth, and in questioning alternative accounts they sow doubt regarding the validity of these narratives.

Thus, while positioning themselves as the ‘real’ experts on decriminalisation in New Zealand, the authors simultaneously question the credibility of those whose interpretations of this context do not align with theirs. This tendency has been widely acknowledged elsewhere. For example, Mac and Smith (2018) note that neo-abolitionist commentators have long dismissed sex worker rights activists as ‘paid shills’ who they depict as mouthpieces for exploitative sex industry bosses and collectively label the ‘pimp lobby’ (p. 13). The ‘pimp lobby’ is presumably what Bindel refers to as the ‘propaganda machine’ in ’What really happens when prostitution is decriminalised’. In the Pimping of Prostitution, she extends this characterisation to researchers who have documented the impacts of decriminalisation. Specifically, Associate Professor Gillian Abel – an internationally well-regarded public health researcher – along with her colleagues is collectively referred to as ‘lobbyists’ (Bindel, 2018: 272). This framing of Abel as a ‘lobbyist’, when she led the research conducted to evaluate the impacts of the PRA, functions to undermine her research expertise. In doing so, this framing discredits the research Abel and colleagues conducted in the aftermath of decriminalisation, which highlighted many positive impacts (as well as limitations). Since Abel and colleagues’ research contradicts Bindel’s (2017b) unwavering position that decriminalisation ‘does nothing to protect those selling sex’, discrediting their research is another strategy to assert power in the decriminalisation debate and surreptitiously convince readers of her equal (or even superior) status in it. As such, this suggests that in the book and media pieces relating to it, Bindel’s objective is not to assail readers of ‘the real story’ but to manufacture uncertainty regarding the impacts of decriminalisation and convince readers this policy approach causes more harm despite the existence of evidence to the contrary.

A similar approach is evident in Coy and Molisa’s (2016) text, in which they state that

Defenders paint a rosy picture of this reform, claiming that decriminalisation of all aspects of prostitution minimises its harm, and makes the lives of women who are bought and sold for sex safer . . . This is not the reality of the NZ approach on the ground. (Coy and Molisa, 2016)

The assertion that ‘Defenders paint a rosy picture’ infers that those who state that decriminalisation has had positive impacts for sex workers are not drawing this conclusion based on evidence but are disingenuously arguing this to fit an agenda. Their subsequent statement that this is ‘not the reality’ adds to this framing and suggests that they, like Bindel, are in possession of superior knowledge of the impacts of decriminalisation in New Zealand.

This undermining of credibility is not confined to researchers who have published evidence which supports decriminalisation. The New Zealand Prostitutes Collective (NZPC,) a grassroots organisation that spearheaded the campaign for decriminalisation from the late 1980s until the PRA was passed in 2003, is also targeted. Janice Raymond’s (2018) article is focused entirely on the NZPC, which she describes as an organisation that is ‘hostile and dismissive of any prostituted woman who disagrees with its ideology’. She also argues that NZPC activists ‘respond with personal attacks and public disruptions’, ‘defamatory campaigns’ and ‘menacing tactics’ towards those whose views on prostitution differ from theirs (Raymond, 2018: 9). Through the language used, Raymond infers that the NZPC is an unethical and untrustworthy organisation. Raymond (2018) casts further aspersions on the NZPC’s credibility by stating that they are ‘Like many organizations that claim to represent “sex workers”’ and that they had an ‘outsized influence’ on the law reform (p. 2). Raymond’s discourse infers that the NZPC should be treated with scepticism and that they are untrustworthy, aggressive and dangerous. This representation of the NZPC is akin to character assassination, a process through which a person or group’s reputation is deliberately tarnished through images and words, which has long been recognised as a political strategy to undermine the credibility of ‘the opposition’ (Haselmayer, 2019; Shiraev, 2014). In this representation of the NZPC, Raymond also perpetuates the stigma associated with sex work by implying that those most closely connected to the industry are dangerous and untrustworthy. While the NZPC activists are depicted as dangerous and threatening, neo-abolitionists are positioned as targets of their ‘bullying, smearing and no platforming’ (Raymond, 2018: 7). This positioning of neo-abolitionists as victims, while depicting the NZPC as villainous, represents a power play in which power is paradoxically sought by claiming victim status to achieve greater sympathy and credibility. This subsequently serves to manufacture further doubt regarding the implications of decriminalisation. The strategic positioning of specific accounts of decriminalisation in New Zealand as suspicious, and individuals and groups as dangerous, was common across the articles and was accompanied by concurrent promotion of other narratives supporting the neo-abolitionist position that the New Zealand model has failed, specifically the stories of people identifying as survivors.

Credible witnesses and survivor narratives

Neo-abolitionists have long rejected the language of ‘sex work’ and have used the term ‘prostituted women’ to describe those who sell sex and the term ‘exited women’ for those who no longer work in the sex industry (Mac and Smith, 2018). However, in recent years, neo-abolitionists have increasingly adopted the term ‘survivor’ to describe those who are no longer working in the sex industry. A survivor, according to multiple dictionary definitions, is commonly understood to be someone who has endured a situation in which they could have died. The language of survivorship is commonly associated with deeply traumatic and potentially life-threatening events, such as sexual violence, having a terminal illness or having lived through war or genocide. In using the language of survival in relation to sex work, neo-abolitionist authors equate work in the sex industry with such atrocities. Individuals who identify as survivors provide neo-abolitionists with what Mac and Smith (2018) describe as ‘harrowing testimonies of violence’ and as such have come to represent ‘the ultimate symbol of female woundedness with criminalisation of clients as feminist justice’ (p. 13).

Accordingly, within each of these texts on the decriminalisation of sex work in New Zealand, the narratives of individuals identified as survivors are spotlighted. While the experiences described by the NZPC are depicted as spurious, the accounts of survivors are uncritically accepted. For example, in Raymond’s (2018) article, the NZPC is described as ‘opinionated’ and presenting a ‘one-sided’ view of decriminalisation (p. 12). Contrasting with this is her characterisation of Sabrinna Valisce – a former New Zealand sex worker who is distressed about her experiences in the sex industry and now advocates for the Nordic model – who is described as a ‘key and credible witness’ (Raymond, 2018: 10) of the impacts of decriminalisation.

Valisce also features heavily in Bindel’s book and is described as having spent 25 years volunteering for the NZPC and playing a key role in the campaign for decriminalisation. In one of several articles published to promote the book, Bindel (2017a) curates a narrative of Valisce’s journey to becoming an abolitionist, which is depicted as an awakening which saw her move from the status of exploited, fallen woman to an emancipated individual campaigning against the sex industry. While the story contains no details of the decriminalised framework and evidence of its outcomes, the story of how Valisce came to be disappointed with it infers that decriminalisation is not as it seems. The emphasis on Valisce’s self-reported long-standing and extensive involvement in the NZPC and the campaign for decriminalisation is another persuasive technique used to achieve credibility and infer that the situation in New Zealand differs from how it has been represented in empirical studies and by current sex workers. The framing of Valisce in the article is, however, contradictory. Bindel describes Valisce in the introductory paragraph as having ‘campaigned for decriminalisation’. However, later in the article, this characterisation of Valisce changes and she is instead described as having been an ‘enthusiastic supporter’ of decriminalisation and having volunteered for the NZPC in a role that involved ‘collecting the media clippings’. Despite these contradictions, the representation of Valisce as a ‘reformed’ campaigner for decriminalisation and ex-NZPC stalwart instructs readers that she is an authoritative voice on decriminalisation, which should be valued more than those who continue to be involved in the organisation.

Similarly, in Coy and Molisa’s (2016) text, they commit to highlighting the ‘reality’ of decriminalisation, which is based on the accounts of three women who they describe as survivors of prostitution. They note that ‘it is chiefly through women who have written about their experiences of the prostitution system in NZ, that we know what we do about the gulf between rosy rhetoric and reality’. The testimonies of survivors are offered as ‘proof’ that reports of decriminalisation’s benefits for sex workers are mere ‘rosy rhetoric’ and are presented as trumping the accounts of sex workers who say that decriminalisation has improved their working conditions – a majority of the 772 sex workers who took part in research conducted to evaluate the PRA (Abel et al., 2007). As such, these representations create a somewhat contradictory hierarchical approach to what knowledge of decriminalisation is considered credible and valuable. Insider perspectives are valued highly but only when they are critical of decriminalisation in New Zealand; otherwise they are downplayed and are considered tenuous. The spotlighting of survivor narratives functions to manufacture further doubt regarding positive accounts of decriminalisation. However, uncertainty is not only produced by what is presented in these texts, but also by what is missing, and it is to this that this article will now turn.

Textual silences and misrepresentation

As Van Leeuwen (2018) has noted, while CDA is concerned with unpacking how texts convey meaning, this is also a useful approach for identifying what texts leave out, along with identifying any ambiguities. The omission of information in texts is known as ‘textual silences’ within critical discourse studies, which Huckin (2002) notes may be ideologically motivated and as such ‘what is left unsaid is often more important that what is said’ (p. 10). The analysis of these texts highlighted numerous textual silences and examples of misrepresentation.

In all the texts which foreground survivor narratives, a particularly salient omission is any nuanced discussion of the chasm between survivor narratives, what the PRA legislates for and the accounts of sex workers who report that decriminalisation has been positive for them. Sabrinna Valisce’s testimony recounted in Bindel’s book, for example, focuses on her perception that decriminalisation resulted in a dramatic shift in services offered by sex workers, and specifically that brothel operators enforced ‘all inclusive’ services after the PRA was passed. What this infers is that decriminalisation resulted in a reduction of choice for sex workers over the services they offer. A quote from Valisce in the book states that decriminalisation meant sex workers had to ‘deal with them [clients] wanting to do anything and everything’ (Bindel, 2018: 101). Similarly, Raymond (2018) uncritically refers to this in her article, stating that according to Valisce, since decriminalisation it is ‘no-holds barred’ for clients (p. 10).

Valisce’s account, however, contradicts the findings of research conducted in the aftermath of the PRA and specific provisions contained within the Act. Research conducted to evaluate the PRA found that in the context of decriminalisation sex workers felt that they had increased powers of negotiation with regard to safer sex, and those working in brothels were more likely to report that they had refused to see a client post decriminalisation (Abel et al., 2007). Furthermore, Section 17 of the PRA explicitly states that sex workers can refuse to provide any sexual service at any time. However, neither Bindel nor Raymond contextualises Valisce’s experience with detailed reference to the findings of these studies, the provisions of the Act, nor allude to the existence of conflicting experiences. It could, for example, be acknowledged that it is possible the issues Valisce describes were localised to her workplace at that point in time. However, there is no such discussion, and instead Valisce’s experience is generalised and presented as irrefutable evidence that decriminalisation has created more harm.

A conspicuous absence of robust engagement with the findings of empirical studies on the impacts of decriminalisation is common in each text, despite the authoritative tone of the authors. Bindel (2017b), for example, states that her book is based on examination of ‘reams’ of academic research. However, despite this, she does not accurately cite research on the impacts of decriminalisation in the book, omitting some studies entirely (e.g. Armstrong, 2016), instead presenting arguments in support of decriminalisation as hearsay. For example, she notes the NZPC’s ‘claim’ that decriminalisation protects the rights and well-being of sex workers (Bindel, 2018: 99). Her use of the word ‘claim’ functions to sow doubt that this really is the case while failing to acknowledge the existence of evidence that supports the NZPC’s ‘claim’. Such dismissing and discrediting of research findings that do not align well ideologically has previously been highlighted by Weitzer (2013) as a common feature of neo-abolitionist commentary on the sex industry. Thus, this framing of the New Zealand context is not ‘new’ and is a well-established technique in neo-abolitionist commentary on sex work.

Each text includes further examples of misrepresentation. For example, both Raymond (2018) and Bindel (2018) misrepresent the NZPC. Bindel (2018) describes the NZPC as a ‘government-funded body set up to reduce HIV/AIDS among women in prostitution’ (p. 147). While Bindel accurately states that the NZPC is funded by government, and their contract relates to the delivery of sexual health services, she misrepresents why the NZPC was established. It is well documented that the NZPC is a grassroots organisation established in the late 1980s by current sex workers who were dissatisfied with the policing of sex workers, a lack of rights, stigma and their working conditions (see, for example, Healy et al., 2010; Wilton, 2019). According to Jordan (2020), there were no known cases of sex workers or clients contracting HIV through sex work, but sex workers were amenable to being contracted to formally deliver sexual health services in their community as a contribution to efforts to reduce the disease in the civilian population. As such, Jordan (2020) notes that ‘the misinformed but dominant view of sex workers as transmitters of sexual diseases was important in securing initial funding’. Thus, Bindel clearly misconstrues why the NZPC was established in way that foregrounds the stigmatising narrative that sex workers are vectors of disease. While Bindel misrepresents the establishment of the NZPC, Raymond (2018) presents a distorted picture of its status by stating that the NZPC is ‘flush with government funding’ to bolster her characterisation of the organisation as powerful and influential (p. 2).

Further misrepresentation is evident in portrayals of violence against sex workers. Central to critiques of decriminalisation in each text is reference to continued violence against sex workers – and specifically the murders of women since the passage of the PRA. The murders of women who worked as sex workers are positioned as evidence that the decriminalisation of sex work has failed. In The Pimping of Prostitution, Bindel (2018) describes the murders of sex workers in New Zealand as ‘numerous’ and states that there have been no documented cases of sex workers being murdered by a ‘pimp or punter’ in Sweden, where the Nordic model is in place (p. 169). This is mirrored by Raymond who states that five women have been murdered since the PRA was passed. Coy and Molisa state in their 2016 article that ‘at least four women involved in prostitution are known to have been murdered in NZ by sex buyers since 2003’.

The authors use these instances of violence against women to bolster their narrative that sex work is harmful and abusive, and that New Zealand’s decriminalised model has not helped to keep sex workers safer. Raymond also exploits these instances of violence to further malign the NZPC, alleging that ‘the NZPC held no public vigil, protest or other commemoration on behalf of these slain women’ (p. 11). As such, she infers that the NZPC does not care about violence against sex workers, which contributes to her depiction of those involved in the sex worker rights movement as villainous.

In using the murders of sex workers to infer that decriminalisation has failed and juxtaposing this with the situation in Sweden, the authors misrepresent and over-simplify the relationship between violence against sex workers and the legislative framework. They infer that there is a clear causal link between the law and the incidence of homicide, which as Sanders et al. (2017) notes is problematic since there are a range of factors which must be considered to make such inferences – such as how the murder rate in each context compares pre and post the change in legislation. However, despite these issues, the strategic use of these instances of violence serves a purpose in reinforcing the narrative that New Zealand’s decriminalised framework is dangerous and thus should not be pursued elsewhere.