We Are Not Your Redemption Story

On the exploitation of criminalised people in the lived experience space

There is a particular kind of violence that cloaks itself in kindness. A violence that performs care, but at its heart is extraction. It’s the violence of being seen only as a story, only as a wound to be studied, or a “raw voice” to lend authenticity to someone else’s work. It’s the violence that happens when non-criminalised people enter so-called "lived experience" spaces, not to stand with us, but to stand on us.

It’s the journalist who earns prestige writing exposés based on our pain. It’s the researcher who mines our lives for “data” and builds their career off the backs of those they wouldn’t even sit beside outside of the project. It’s the artist or filmmaker who centres us in their work but leaves us behind when they collect the award. It’s the academic who builds their profile on “community engagement” while being deeply disengaged from the consequences of what they extract.

They come with microphones, cameras, clipboards, and grants. They come with language, words like empowerment, co-design, visibility, inclusion. But behind those words is a pipeline of exploitation. The stories we have survived become their ticket to legitimacy, to funding, to industry awards, to a platform, to power. And when they are done, when the work is published or screened or quoted in Parliament, they vanish.

Meanwhile, the people who took the biggest risk, those who opened up their lives, their pain, their survival, are often left behind. No support. No healing. No care. And when the next project rolls around, the next criminalised person is found to take their place. The cycle continues.

But it’s not just the extraction that harms, it’s the control.

When non-criminalised people pull us into their orbit, there is often an unspoken contract. We are allowed to participate as long as we perform desistance. As long as we perform sobriety. As long as we perform healing in a way that looks good in the funding acquittal or the festival program. Our participation is conditional. Our value is conditional. And when we no longer meet the terms of that contract - when we “relapse”, resist, or rage - they dispose of us.

And then what? Who’s there to pick up the pieces? Not the researchers. Not the producers. Not the media organisations. Not the project leads. It is always, always, our community. Because only our community holds us. Only our community catches us when we fall, when we fail, when we are hurting. The same community they pretend to care about, then turn their backs on when it’s no longer useful or fundable.

They breadcrumb us with hope.

Maybe this project will lead to change.

Maybe this opportunity will open doors.

Maybe the story you share will shift the conversation.

Maybe it will matter.

But hope is a commodity for them. They dangle it like a carrot while they build their portfolios. And when the door doesn’t open, when things don’t change, who is left holding the disappointment? Us. Again.

And it’s not just the creators or the institutions who are complicit. Audiences play a role too. Viewers. Listeners. Festivalgoers. Journal readers. Instagram followers. If you consume this work and never ask:

Who benefits from this project?

Who got paid, and how much?

Who shaped the story?

Who had creative control?

Who decided what was too much or too messy?

- then you are not just a passive audience member. You are part of the problem.

When you share a podcast, host a fundraiser for a project, recommend a show, or post a quote from a “lived experience” speaker, especially when the project is run by non-criminalised people featuring criminalised people, ask some questions.

Did the people who appear in the work have power, or just visibility?

Did they lead the vision, or just speak to someone else’s one?

Were they cared for before, during, and after the process?

Were they paid fairly?

Were they consulted meaningfully?

Or were they just wheeled out to give someone else's project legitimacy?

We are not decoration.

We are not your trauma porn.

We are not your redemption arc.

We are not here to be fixed, saved, or validated.

We are criminalised people, and we are knowers. We are experts in our own right. We are leaders in our communities. We hold complexity and brilliance and political clarity. Our survival is not a plot point for your screenplay. Our pain is not a shortcut to your social impact KPI. And our participation is not something you get to monitor or control.

We don’t need to prove ourselves by meeting your standards of desistance. We don’t need to tick your boxes of rehabilitation. We don’t need to stay “clean” or be polite or perform inspiration. We are worthy as we are - imperfect, messy, real - and we are enough without you.

We need to wrest back the power from the vultures. We need to name what is happening for what it is: exploitation, co-option, and erasure. And we need to stop believing the lie that we need them to be heard. We don’t.

We have always had each other. And in each other, we have everything we need. Because only we hold each other. Only we keep each other strong. Only we can free each other.

And it’s time we started acting like it.