As a Trent alumni, ReFrame holds a special place in my heart. The annual film festival gives a voice to the unheard and has the ability to open up public discussion on some of the most pressing issues facing the greater Peterborough community. ReFrame is an extremely important event because it maintains the open forums needed to have a thriving democracy. ReFrame gives political power to the community and offers individuals the ability to speak truth to power. Past films such as Unloved: Huronia’s Forgotten Children and The Butch and the Baby Daddy radically changed my perspective on social justice and the responsibility I have to the communities I find myself in. These films taught me that injustice and inequality exist within our own community and that we can not stand idly by as they do. They showed me that we need to have dedicated spaces - like ReFrame - to hear the voices and stories that may otherwise be drowned out. 

Since Saturday, the screening of S.H.A.R.E. has been all I can think about. S.H.A.R.E. is a program run out of the Manitoba Harm Reduction Network based in Winnipeg—the acronym stands for Sex workers Having Access to Resources Equitably. The film follows program coordinators Katy Prost, Laurel Dawn Cassels, and Tianna Greaves as they run S.H.A.R.E's drop-in night which gives sex workers access to showers, food, laundry services, and harm reduction kits.

What makes S.H.A.R.E. so unique is its commitment to anti-stigmatization. S.H.A.R.E. is open to any sex worker in the area and provides ongoing support rather than being an exit-based program. The organization exists simply to provide resources and a safe space rather than dissuading anyone from leaving their line of work. 

While the film only lasted thirteen minutes, S.H.A.R.E. led me to re-evaluate my own feminist ways. When I first watched the film and heard participants share their stories, I had a sense of discomfort. My immediate reaction was “I could never do that.”

I assumed that nobody would willingly choose sex work and that there had to be some form of coercion involved. My second reaction was that we should help people who have fallen down and are facing difficult times; but even this sentiment comes with a sense of moral superiority.  My initial judgements rested on the belief that sex work is wrong, that with the right support women can leave sex work for more “legitimate” jobs and that the trade can be completely eradicated.

Hearing the voices of service users and seeing how S.H.A.R.E. has changed their lives made me reconsider my initial judgements. 

The film creates such a rare image of people who willingly participate in sex work. It shows sex workers as humans who can laugh and be vulnerable. S.H.A.R.E. shows how sex workers have a need for love and support—just as much as I do.

S.H.A.R.E. shows that sex-work is legitimate and that many people actively choose it. Even if someone is doing sex work for survival, it is truly no different than getting any other job to survive in a capitalist society. We all need to make money to put a roof over our heads. 

The film led me to reconsider my feminist values and question how we can create communities that are safe for everyone—not just people who look and act like me. How are we excluding sex workers—who are often racialized women and transgender people—from our movements? How do we begin to create safety and wellbeing for all community members?

It has become increasingly clear to me that there is a conflict between mainstream feminism and the needs of marginalized, racialized women and transgender people. Dialogues within mainstream feminism often center the experiences of white, cisgender women and overlook the needs of racialized, queer, and Indigenous women. Over the last few years, we have seen how the logics of mainstream radical feminism have been used to exclude racialized and transgender people from the movement. This tension within feminist spaces is best shown in the Take Back the Night movement. 

Take Back the Night is a public protest that began in 1975, after the murder of Susan Alexander Speeth. Since 1975, the movement has spread across Canada and the United States and has empowered women to march in the streets and publicly protest; it has been used to educate, organize, and act to end gender-based violence. While organizers of the movement have strived to include voices from the margins they are often overshadowed by the experiences of cisgender, white women. 

Lesie Kern further explains this divide within feminist spaces in her book, Feminist City. When it first began, Take Back the Night advocated for creating safe cities for all women, but did so at the expense of women who were homeless and participated in sex work. Kerns explains how many feminists have lobbied to make cities ‘safer’ for women. 

Protests like Take Back the Night have changed the city landscape and have fought to make cities where women do not have to fear violence. Through public protest, feminists have called for better lighting, clear and visible pathways throughout neighborhoods, and emergency phones on university campuses and in parking lots. 

While these measures are meant to keep all women safe, it is contested whether these implementations actually make cities safer or whether they simply invoke a feeling of safety. As Kern points out, most of the violence women face happens in their own homes, with men they most often know. 

The danger is often not lurking in the streets, but in our own homes and beds. 

The effectiveness of these safety measures is also questionable because of their overreliance on policing and the carceral system. Making cities safer for women requires “cleaning up” areas and removing sex workers and homeless people by criminalizing them. What may create safety for some women pushes others into more precarious, vulnerable situations.

Looking at Kern’s insights and watching S.H.A.R.E. has led me to realize that women cannot gain safety by ostracizing marginalized groups like sex workers further.

Like many other women, I fear violence and am constantly concerned about my safety. I am reminded of a story from my early days as a student. 

It was late at night in the middle of December, the semester had just finished, and my friends were walking back from a restaurant in downtown Peterborough. It was a 20 minute walk and we were almost home. As we walked along the sidewalk, I was distanced from the group when suddenly a man was right behind me. As I tried to walk faster, his pace matched mine. While there haven't been many in my life—this was a moment of total fear. My hands shook. I didn't know what would happen to me or if I was going to be okay. 

I understand the very real threat of violence against women, but in the most fearful moments of my life where men posed a real threat to my safety, the streets were well-lit and I had access to the police. Measures of safety that rely on the carceral system would not have stopped that man from hurting me. After watching S.H.A.R.E and reading Kern’s Feminist City, I see that these “safety” measures are actually creating more danger and violence for women, and I am unwilling to sacrifice marginalized members of my community for the feeling of safety. 

So how do we make the Peterborough community a safe, supportive place for everybody? At the centre of creating a safer, healthier city is collective action. 

In Peterborough, we can make our organizations and community centers that do front-line work more accessible and safe for sex workers. In the film, many sex workers share that they will not attend other community programs—even when S.H.A.R.E. is not running—because they don't feel safe in these spaces. We can reflect on our organizational practices and take lessons from organizations like S.H.A.R.E. Even putting up signs that state “sex work is real work” can create safer spaces for sex-workers and make them feel like they can access services. 

The second thing we can do is reckon with our own bias and listen to sex workers. S.H.A.R.E. shows that sex workers have a voice and are able to articulate their needs. The sex worker community has already advocated policy changes to laws like the Protection of Communities and Exploited Persons Act, or PECPA.

PECPA came out of the 2009 Bedford decision—a landmark case that was intended to create positive change for sex workers. At face value, PECPA seemingly protects sex workers but its criminalization of the procurement of sex has had negative effects. PECPA pushes women out of public spaces which limits their ability to do safety checks on their clients. The bill’s criminalization of those involved in sex trade, like drivers and bodyguards, also deprives workers of the right to safety and makes them more vulnerable to violence. By punishing those who procure services, PECPA punishes sex workers as well.

The sex work community has voiced their concern over the bill and have asked for it to be repealed. PECPA has never been about protecting sex workers or making their lives safer, it is about eradicating the trade. This has left sex workers to deal with violence and the effects of criminalization alone without any protection or support. The sex worker community has also asked for more meaningful consultation on the development of proctective legislation.

The marginalized have been empowered to speak and it is up to us to listen to their voices.

We can consider donating to organizations like S.H.A.R.E. While it may sound cliché, community organizations like them are often restrained by the lack of resources and need support. Donations to S.H.A.R.E can be made through the Manitoba Harm Reduction Network, using this link. 

After watching S.H.A.R.E. one thing is clear: we will not have safe and healthy communities until everyone has access to healthcare and community support—no matter what their line of work may be.