Every day in every continent there is a genocide of females inside the sex trade.
Every moment of every day there is a prostituted woman or a woman inside porn who is being sexually, mentally or physically tortured.
Every day girls and women are being forced, coerced, persuaded or told lies to make them enter the sex trade.
This is going all the time – has been going for almost all human history, occurring in all male cultures.
There is nothing new about prostitution – even if some may label it as modern sex slavery, or lie that it just sex work or part of the leisure industry.
It is a genocide and wide-spread male violence that is made to disappear.
The deaths of the prostituted class are of no importance – how can they matter when in life the prostituted are stripped of the right to be human.
Last week, there was a shooting of several females – last week, there was outrage at male violence.
There was scream that men are murdering females on a mass scale everywhere – but as exited woman I hear this outrage, and wonder where it was for the 3000 years of prostituted women and girls being at front-line of male violence and hate.
Do our deaths, rapes and tortures means nothing?
Let me speak of my personal experience of being prostituted, and I know my experience rings bells for most if not all exited.
I live with death as my norm, I grow used to rape, and torture was common.
I live in a world where prostituted would just disappear – maybe to a another and possibly worse aspect of the sex trade, maybe to suicide or deep mental trauma, or maybe murdered and thrown away.
I remember when I still embedded in that world of death and disappearances, reading about the Argentinian Mothers of the Disappeared. I saw their empty scream at having no justice, having body to place their grief onto, having to be in a surreal space between life and death.
I saw their words, saw their reaching towards grief, their frustrated fury – and I was slowly understanding why the prostituted become so empty and wordless as each day women and girls vanish round them.
We are made dumb by death being all around us.
Our silence is not compliance, our silence is never acceptance – no, our silence is a fierce will to somehow survive against the odds.
To be prostituted or inside porn, is to know that death is just the toss of the cards – there is no route to staying alive or being yet another disappeared one.
No, it like being in a line in a concentration, as the Nazis randomly decide who may live or die that particular day. Each and every person inside that line know just coz they were allow to be alive that one day, that at any time they could be dead.
That is in the heart of all the prostituted – that at any time and any place we could be murdered, could die through ill-health or lack of the fight to keep living, or through suicide.
Our deaths came whether we were fighters, whether we obey every violent act that punters or sex trade profiteers demanded from us, whether we thought we inside a safe aspect of the sex trade.
We do not die because we were weak, we do not die because we do understand the “rules” of the sex trade, we do not die because a particular punter is mad or out-of-order.
No, we die because we are made in life sub-human, so our deaths are made to mean nothing.
Those of us who somehow survived often have strong survivor guilt.
It almost impossible to understand how we manage to survive – all I know is for me, survival was luck but the fact I am alive and can remember, means I must fight for abolition as some kind of payback for the majority who could not make it.
Exited women carry deaths inside them – we hold too many who society just throw away.
We hold deaths that we had to block out, we hold deaths of prostituted women who we thought were too strong to die, we hold deaths of women and girls inside the sex trade we never knew but have deep connection to.
We hold them close – and wait for societies everywhere to express grief for these lost lives, and start building real justice for all the prostituted class.
But now, we know our deaths will be ashes in the wind.
We are not the women who deaths matter.
We have waited 3000 years to count and to fully grieve – there is no justice whilst our deaths are made not to exist.
Rebecca Mott 
I’ve not been able to read your stuff recently or reply. It would be easy for me to stop now, say its too late to carry on with communicating even though this is the first time in 20 ye ears that there has been anyone (that is, you) whose experiences relate to what I was told about, shown, until I went half mad.
Now the Jimmy Savile stuff has woken me up again, glad that this stuff about death, dead bodies, unbelievable control over others and all of it, is in the public arena. So here goes.
(Also what has stopped me is your references to porn and me having to say that I have used (adult) porn for sexual excitement, with my partner and on my own. I am not using it now, and may never use it again, but I may do. I have to tell you this. I hope you will not cut me off.)
Death and murder. You speak about this, no-one has ever really spoken to me about it, only shown me obliquely how snuff movies happen, how skeletons covered in cobwebs are found in cellars, and other stuff. How ritual funerals can include fucking the dead. I don’t care what happens to my body or anybody else’s after death but I do care about obsessive behaviour that may involve killing for sexual pleasure.
My main issue over the last 25 years or so has been the realisation that my identity has, without my knowledge until I was 50, and without me ever ever ever agreeing to it (although if I had been shown when I was young how this could be used for therapy I might have agreed, if given support) been stolen, sold, bought by an endless number of other people and yet my own self has been denied, I have been treated as a copy of me, not my own self. I believe this has happened ever since I was a baby. AAAAAAAhhhhhhhh. And my life has been watched by others like “The Truman Show”.
I mention this because when I was being shown how this could happen and driven half mad (people changing their faces in front of me to look like someone else who I knew, people repeating back verbatim conversations held years earlier, etc etc) I realised it could and did happen to other people. So I said to a “friend” who was involved in showing me this stuff: “my real sister could be dead”own how to do this, and he said “yes”. Because if there is a line of people all pretending to be each other, and children are being shomeone who wants to fuck someone to death is to get the poorest, the weakest, of a line of lookalikes, maybe homeless, maybe a runaway – and that person could just disappear in the confusion.
I needed to communicate that. I think you will understand. I hope other people will read it and understand it. Thankyou for your blogs. I have not caught up with more recent ones yet. I just needed to respond to this one about murder and death.
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