Every 17th December, the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers (IDEVASW) creates space not just for mourning, but for storytelling. For reclaiming names. For honouring those who were silenced through violence and stigma. And for reminding the world that sex workers are – and always have been – more than just statistics.
When sex workers are murdered, the news coverage is often cruel, disrespectful, or absent entirely. Names are misspelt. Photos are outdated mugshots. Victims are referred to only by their job, their “lifestyle”, or reduced to “prostitutes found dead.”
This kind of reporting reinforces the idea that sex workers’ lives are worth less. But IDEVASW challenges that. It says: we will tell our own stories. We will speak our names with pride. And we will not let you forget them.
When we remember sex workers who have been killed, we are not just commemorating loss – we’re confronting a culture of silence and dehumanisation. Many of those lost to violence were people of colour, trans women, migrants, and disabled individuals — those who face multiple layers of marginalisation.
Telling their stories restores their humanity. It says: this was a full person, with joy, struggles, favourite songs, chosen family. It forces the public to see beyond the stigma and acknowledge the violence for what it is – a preventable outcome of social exclusion, discrimination, and failed policy.
It would be impossible to list every name we’ve lost – because there are so many, and because not all were even counted. But here are just a few whose stories have sparked action:
A trans sex worker and migrant from Peru, Vanessa was murdered in Paris in 2018 while working in a park after being denied safer indoor options due to legal restrictions. Her death mobilised protests across Europe demanding sex worker safety and decriminalisation.
Shakira, a Black trans woman in the US, was killed in 2004. Her murder remains unsolved. Shakira’s story is often cited in calls for improved protection and justice for trans sex workers of colour.
While not officially recorded as a sex worker at the time of her death, Marsha was a known figure in New York’s LGBTQ+ and survival sex work community. Her unexplained death in 1992 continues to raise questions about violence, neglect, and systemic failures.
At home in the UK, there have also been devastating losses — many of them preventable. These women’s lives became symbols of a broken system, of institutions that failed to protect them, and of communities that continue to demand better.
A 27‑year‑old sex worker from Glasgow, Emma was murdered after years of struggling with addiction and poverty. Her case was mishandled for more than a decade, with critical suspects ignored and public trust in the police eroded. It wasn’t until 2022 that her killer was finally charged. Emma’s legacy is one of hard truths and long-overdue accountability.
Mariana, a young Romanian woman working in Ilford, was murdered while walking the streets during a time of heightened police crackdown. Her death highlighted how enforcement-focused policies often push sex workers into more dangerous situations instead of protecting them.
Maria, a Colombian escort in London, was killed during a client visit. Her death served as a chilling reminder of the risks faced even in indoor settings, and reignited conversations around client screening, safety protocols, and the need for community-led protections.
A well-known and loved trans sex worker, Vanessa was murdered in London under suspicious circumstances. Her death drew attention to the vulnerabilities of trans workers and the barriers they face when seeking help from law enforcement or support services.
Working in Leeds’s managed red light zone, Daria’s murder shook the sex work community. Even within a harm-reduction model, her death revealed the limitations of partial protection without full decriminalisation and structural support.
Alena’s tragic murder by a repeat offender highlighted police failure yet again. The man who killed her had previously murdered another sex worker, Samantha Class, decades earlier. The fact that he was able to do it again speaks volumes about how sex workers are not taken seriously when they report threats or violence.
These names matter. They represent a fraction of the lives lost – but also the resilience of those who continue to fight.
To honour sex workers lost to violence is also to celebrate their resistance. Many continued to advocate for others right up until their deaths. Others were fighting just by surviving – navigating criminalisation, stigma and daily danger in order to live with dignity.
IDEVASW uplifts their stories not to sensationalise them, but to build collective memory. In many communities, especially those with high levels of policing or homelessness, these stories are passed down through word of mouth, mutual aid networks, and community vigils. These oral histories carry weight – and power.
Across the world, sex worker communities have developed creative, powerful ways to remember those who’ve passed. From quilt-making and zine projects to altar-building and candlelit vigils, these practices act as both mourning and mobilisation.
Art and ritual allow for communal grief and collective resilience. They remind us that even in the face of relentless violence, sex workers continue to find ways to honour each other with love, defiance and tenderness.
When violence happens to sex workers, justice is often denied. Police may refuse to investigate. Families may be ashamed or unwilling to claim the body. News outlets may bury the story or misreport the facts.
In these moments, storytelling becomes survival. It becomes a way for sex workers and allies to reclaim the truth, correct the record, and make sure the person is remembered with dignity.
Storytelling also plays a crucial role in driving policy change. By highlighting real human experiences, advocates can counter harmful narratives and push for laws that prioritise safety, rights and recognition.
If you’re wondering how to support this work, start by listening. Follow sex worker-led organisations. Share their content. Show up to vigils. Donate if you can. Amplify their stories – not by speaking for them, but by creating space for their voices.
And when a sex worker is killed, say their name. Refuse to let it be normalised. Ask what structures allowed that violence to happen – and what must change so it doesn’t happen again.
Remembering the sex workers we’ve lost isn’t just about looking back – it’s about building a future where no more names are added to the list. Storytelling is activism. Remembrance is resistance.
For more on how to support sex worker rights and safety, visit the Vivastreet blog.
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