The Penalty of Being Poor in the Anti-Trafficking System
Last week, while presenting at the Brock University Criminology Conference, I spoke candidly about something many survivors and frontline workers quietly discuss behind closed doors, but rarely say out loud:
In many anti-trafficking systems, poverty itself becomes criminalized.
I presented on surveillance, compliance, and the contradiction of “protection” within anti-trafficking responses. The core argument was simple, but uncomfortable: when survivors have money, stable housing, supportive relationships, and access to resources, they often never have to enter these systems at all. But when survivors are poor, unhoused, struggling with substance use, disconnected from family, or otherwise marginalized, “support” can quickly become conditional.
Safety becomes tied to compliance.
Autonomy becomes exchanged for basic needs.
Support becomes surveillance.
These ideas were reflected throughout my presentation, including one slide that contrasted what systems promise — safety, empowerment, protection, support — with what many survivors actually experience: surveillance, compliance, loss of autonomy, and conditional aid.
I talked about programs where survivors are not allowed to be alone together, including something as simple as going outside for a cigarette together, because of fears they may “recruit” one another into trafficking. I talked about curfews, medication control, food restrictions, monitored internet use, extensive case note surveillance, and discharge from programs for substance use.
I talked about the ways anti-trafficking responses can begin to mirror carceral systems while still being framed as care.
And then something important happened.
Another survivor in the room thanked me for saying it out loud.
She shared that she had worked in agencies where survivors could only take phone calls in front of staff. Internet usage was monitored. If a chocolate bar was not included in someone’s weekly budget, it was considered an “unapproved expense.” She said survivors and staff are already having these conversations — but in whispers.
That part stayed with me.
Because she was right.
Many frontline workers already know these tensions exist. Many survivors feel them deeply. But naming them publicly can carry risk. Staff worry about job security, funding relationships, professional backlash, or being labeled “difficult.” Survivors worry about losing support, credibility, opportunities, or being seen as “ungrateful.”
I recognize that I have a certain amount of privilege in being able to speak about this publicly. As someone who has lived in these systems, worked within them, and now consults with agencies across sectors, I occupy a position where I can say things somewhat more safely than many others can.
So I think it matters that I do.
I often say in my trainings:
“As someone who has worked in this system, lived in these systems, and now supports agencies, I believe we must prioritize human dignity and safety over liability.”
And I mean that.
Because if, when I left my trafficking situation, I had entered one of these highly restrictive programs, I would not have stayed.
That may be difficult for some people to hear, but it is true.
In many ways, I had more autonomy in my trafficking situation than I would have had inside some anti-trafficking programs. That is not everyone’s experience, and I want to be clear about that. Many survivors have found safety and healing within these programs. Many workers are doing deeply compassionate, thoughtful work inside difficult systems.
But we cannot ignore the reality that some responses to trafficking have become remarkably controlling in the name of safety.
We have to be willing to ask harder questions.
At what point does protection become containment?
At what point does risk management override dignity?
At what point does “trauma-informed” become another form of institutional control?
One of the final slides in my presentation stated:
“What is framed as protection too often functions as containment.”
I believe we need to shift the framework.
Toward autonomy over compliance.
Toward support over surveillance.
Toward co-design over consultation.
Not because safety does not matter.
But because human dignity matters too.
And if the systems designed to help survivors replicate the same dynamics of powerlessness, control, punishment, and surveillance that survivors are trying to escape, then we need the courage to rethink what “help” actually means.
If you are looking for something more practical
If you are doing this work and looking for space to think through how this shows up in real time, there are opportunities to explore this further through small group training sessions focused on day to day case management practice.
These sessions are grounded in real scenarios, reflection, and practical application.
You can find upcoming dates and details on the training page