“Sex workers from the global south do not have agency.” I read this opinion on social media almost a year ago, and it has kept me awake at night. Is it true? Do sex workers in Nepal truly do not have agency?
The history of sex work in Nepal is complex and nuanced, intersecting with caste, gender, and sexuality. In my personal favorite article from The Record, Untouchable Stories of Touchable Vaginas, the writer showcases an entire community of Dalit women from the Far West of Nepal experiencing the burden of forced sex labor ‘Badi’. These were accounts of state sanctioned violence where Dalit women were sold, slaved, and sexually abused. The institution of the “Deuki” system illustrates the commodification of women’s bodies. Sex work emerged as both a livelihood strategy and a survival mechanism for women from economically and socially disadvantaged backgrounds. Patriarchy weaves a complex web of relegating women as objects of ownership, and shames women for their sexuality while building a system where women’s chastity is given the moral superiority.
In such a context, the claim that sex workers lack agency feels, at first glance, valid. After all, how can agency and autonomy thrive in a system designed to commodify, exploit, and suppress? But as I have reflected on this question over time, I have realized that such a conclusion is reductive. It silences alternative stories—stories of resistance, pleasure, and autonomy that exist even within oppressive systems.
On a particularly sunny day in Kathmandu, I found myself in a room full of sex workers. These women were from diverse caste, communities, geography, age, disability status, gender and sexual orientation. As we spent two days together, sharing laughter, tears and food, I had one simple question yet difficult to ask “Is there pleasure in the work you do?”
A young woman Reshu (name changed), mother of a teenager, says, “Of course, I am able to sustain my life, my expenses and the responsibilities of my family. Sex work gives me the financial freedom.” Her friend, Gita (name changed) who is a young disabled woman, shares, “Yes, apart from the financial aspect, I am desired – physically. I can give someone pleasure, and that is powerful”. The share backs from the young participants receive nods of approval from the group. Rama (name changed), probably in her 40s, also adds “I get to meet a lot of people. Some clients just want to share a drink and talk. Some want to just spend time away from their families. For some, it is their first time. If they are having a good time because of my service, it gives me satisfaction too.”
These stories offered a counter-narrative—one that spoke of agency, choice, and pride. Another participant, Payal (name changed) highlighted her sense of power in the work:
“I can share about my sexual endeavors and skills I used with my community of sex workers, and there is no judgement. I can teach newcomers. Most of the time, there is a narrative that only men can lead in the bedroom, but being able to take the lead feels powerful,” says Payal.
Participants shared multifaceted complexities of pleasure from financial freedom, bodily autonomy and sexual pleasure.
We also discussed how technology expanded agency in their work. With internet and phones, sex workers now have the negotiation power to bargain the amount, choose when and where, choose to be anonymous while doing online sex work, option to provide wide range of services from sexting to video calls to physical sex work. They had the agency to choose clients – based on how they look, how they talk and whether sex workers feel comfortable and respected in the conversation. In comparison to traditional means of sex work in the streets, phones and technology provided a safer, private and anonymous way for their work. This choice is integral to agency and it transforms the narrative of sex work from being an act of exploitation to the space of autonomy.
I would argue that in a society which nearly dictates every aspect of a woman’s life and sexuality, the act of choosing to engage in sex work itself is a radical assertion to autonomy. Sex work, by nature is resisting the idea of morality of chastity and submission that patriarchy enforces. Ownership over one’s sexuality – whether for pleasure or livelihood challenges these oppressive norms.
It is important, however, to acknowledge choice in sex work exists on a spectrum. As one participant Maya, 30s (name changed) puts it, “Pleasure is something I have with my partner. Sex work is a job that I do. My own sexual pleasure is not something that I seek”.
On one hand, some sex workers enter the trade voluntarily with relative autonomy with social support systems and other income sources. Others may be pushed into it by systemic forces such as poverty, lack of education, caste-based discrimination, or trafficking. Yet, even within constrained circumstances, these instances to make small decisions, setting boundaries, negotiating is profound.
These small stories of autonomy, choice and pleasure matter.
Understanding the agency in sex work reveals strategies of co-existence and support. For instance, in specific areas for physical sex work, there are specific timings and dedicated areas for seasoned sex workers, newer ones, transgender sex workers. There are fixed rates per hour. These are informal community owned etiquettes and rules.
“When we are wrongfully detained, at least I can call my sisters and community members. They have always got my back.” Rama remarks, “We have Facebook chat groups where we inform each other about raids and potentially dangerous clients.”
I do not intend to paint a rosy picture of sex work. It is a profession with stigma, higher risk of abuse, isolation, trauma, health crisis, online harassment, and endangerment. In Nepal, laws are ambiguous and added stigma makes it possible for police and clients to harass them without consequences. Legalization processes like organized brothels and licensing add complexities and difficulties.
“For sex workers, who work under other people, there is less choice to decide who to provide services and when.” says Payal.
Providing license or registering people would mean that the history of sex work will always be tied with the person’s identity.
“For trans people engaged in sex work, our bodies are regulated and judged. License to work would mean more surveillance and restriction.” says Sony, transwoman sex worker, “There should be measures to ensure our safety along with our clients’ safety.”
Decriminalization of sex work is a step forward. Recognizing sex work as work means acknowledging the dignity, agency, and humanity of sex workers. It means creating policies that protect sex workers from violence, exploitation, and discrimination while ensuring their equitable access to healthcare, education, and social protections.
These stories of agency matter—not only because they challenge stereotypes but because they demand that we rethink the structures that perpetuate inequality. They remind us of the power that people hold in unjust systems. And they push us to advocate for a world where sex work is decriminalized, stigmas are dismantled, and sex workers can live and work with dignity, safety, and freedom.
As I revisit the statement, “Sex workers from the Global South do not have agency”— I realize now how incomplete it is. Yes, systemic forces shape and constrain the lives of sex workers, but their stories of choice, pleasure, and autonomy cannot be erased. These stories are the foundations of a larger fight for justice, one that recognizes the humanity and resilience of sex workers and centers their voices in the global discourse.
