Tens of thousands of women from Pacific Island nations and Timor-Leste have come to Australia under a federal labour mobility scheme, hoping to build better lives for their families — only to find that the very structure of the program binds them to employers in ways that make exploitation not an exception but a predictable outcome. The tied-visa arrangement, which makes a worker's legal status contingent on employer approval, concentrates power in the hands of those most likely to abuse it. This is not merely a policy failure; it is a reminder that when economic need is weaponised through leg
Pacific Labour Scheme Exposes Women to Abuse, Exploitation in Australian Agriculture
Women experience sexual assault, domestic violence including physical abuse, homelessness, and psychological trauma; children left behind suffer emotional distress and developmental impacts.
We need money but we are not in a safe place for women.
Mark
Why does tying workers to a single employer create such a specific vulnerability for women?
Mimi
Because it removes the one thing that might protect them—the ability to leave. If your visa depends on your boss being happy with you, you can't report abuse, you can't refuse unwanted advances, you can't walk away. The power imbalance becomes absolute.
Mark
But men are in the scheme too. Why does the research focus so heavily on women?
Mimi
Men face exploitation—wage theft, dangerous conditions, all of it. But women face that plus sexual coercion, plus the gendered violence that follows when they try to escape. And the scheme's structure hits women differently because many of them are also managing family responsibilities, either here or back home.
Mark
The women left behind in Timor-Leste—that's a different kind of harm, isn't it?
Mimi
Completely different. These women aren't being exploited by employers. They're being abandoned or controlled by their own husbands from thousands of miles away. The money that was supposed to come home stops coming. The monitoring through video calls never stops. It's a different trap, but it's a trap.
Mark
If the scheme is reformed the way researchers suggest, would that actually solve the problem?
Mimi
It would remove the structural lock that keeps women trapped. Employer mobility means you can leave abuse. Free services means you can get help without risking your visa. But it requires the government to actually implement it, and to enforce it. The reforms are necessary but not sufficient—there has to be will behind them.
Mark
What strikes you most about these stories?
Mimi
That women knew what they were getting into was dangerous, and they did it anyway because they needed the money. That's not a choice. That's desperation dressed up as opportunity.
Le Pouls
- Women recruited to harvest Australia's fresh food are legally tethered to their employers, meaning that fleeing abuse can cost them their right to remain in the country at all.
- Sexual assault, coercion, and severe domestic violence have been documented across the scheme, with one woman beaten while pregnant and another offered only a tent when she escaped.
- Without work rights, women who leave abusive employers fall into financial dependence on partners who then use that vulnerability as a lever for further control and violence.
- Across the ocean in Timor-Leste, children are wetting beds in distress and mothers are being monitored via WhatsApp by husbands who have stopped sending money entirely.
- Researchers are calling for three concrete reforms — employer portability, free health services, and confidential reporting — without which the scheme will continue trading in human suffering while stocking supermarket shelves.
Tens of thousands of women from Pacific Island nations and Timor-Leste have come to Australia under a federal labour mobility scheme, hoping to build better lives for their families — only to find that the very structure of the program binds them to employers in ways that make exploitation not an exception but a predictable outcome. The tied-visa arrangement, which makes a worker's legal status contingent on employer approval, concentrates power in the hands of those most likely to abuse it. This is not merely a policy failure; it is a reminder that when economic need is weaponised through legal dependency, the most vulnerable — women far from home, without income or recourse — bear the cost in their bodies and their children's futures.
Grace came to Australia imagining she would earn enough to support her family back home. What she found was a hundred dollars a week and a shipping container for a home. When she left that farm for another, she knew her visa could be cancelled for doing so. Five years on, she has no work rights, limited access to healthcare, and a history of domestic violence. Her story is far from singular.
Australia's Pacific Labour Mobility Scheme brings workers from Pacific Island nations and Timor-Leste to fill roles in agriculture and meat processing. More than thirty-two thousand people are currently in the country under it, producing much of the fresh food on Australian supermarket shelves. But the scheme's architecture — which ties a worker's legal status entirely to their employer — creates a power imbalance that researchers say is not incidental. It is structural. When workers leave an employer, even to escape mistreatment, their visa becomes precarious. Women interviewed for the research described sexual assault from employers and colleagues, and one put it plainly: in some places, it kills us.
The danger compounds when women lose their income. Those who fled abusive employers had no access to social services and became financially dependent on partners who then used violence against them. One woman was beaten until her nose bled, then beaten again while pregnant. A healthcare worker could offer a woman fleeing abuse nothing but a tent. A lawyer described how the visa's temporary nature becomes its own trap — the desperation not to be sent home pushes women into relationships they would otherwise never enter.
The harm travels. In Timor-Leste, remittances from the scheme are the second largest contributor to national GDP, yet many women left behind reported that their husbands had stopped sending money altogether. Children showed signs of emotional distress. Absent partners became more controlling, monitoring their wives through constant video calls and restricting their friendships — exerting power across thousands of kilometres.
When the scheme worked as intended, it genuinely changed lives. Women bought land, built homes, sent children to school, and described a sense of independence they had never known. But those outcomes depended heavily on luck — finding a decent employer, avoiding violence, having family support. Researchers argue that luck is not a policy. They call for three urgent reforms: the freedom to change employers without losing visa status, access to free health and social services, and culturally responsive support systems with confidential reporting for women experiencing gender-based violence. Without them, the scheme will continue to extract labour from the vulnerable while leaving the costs of that extraction invisible.
Grace arrived in Australia to work on a berry farm, imagining she would earn enough to send money home to her family. When she got there, she found out she would make a hundred dollars a week and live in a shipping container. She left that farm for another one, knowing her visa would be cancelled for doing so. Five years later, she has a temporary visa with no work rights, limited access to health care or financial support, and a history of domestic violence. Her story is not unusual among the thousands of women who come to Australia through the Pacific Labour Mobility Scheme, a federal government program that brings workers from Pacific Island nations and Timor-Leste to fill jobs in agriculture, meat processing, and other under-resourced industries. More than thirty-two thousand migrant workers are currently in the country under this scheme, and they produce much of the fresh food that appears on Australian supermarket shelves.
The scheme's fundamental structure creates the conditions for abuse. Workers are tied to their employers, meaning their legal right to remain in Australia depends entirely on keeping their boss satisfied. This power imbalance is not accidental—it is built into the program. When a worker leaves an employer, even to escape mistreatment, their visa status becomes precarious. Research conducted through interviews with migrant women in Australia, women left behind in Timor-Leste, and service providers reveals the systematic harms this arrangement enables. Women reported sexual assault and coercion from employers, supervisors, and colleagues. One woman described the reality plainly: in some places, it kills us. We need money but we are not in a safe place for women.
The exploitation extends beyond the workplace. Some women experienced domestic and family violence but did not report it, fearing the consequences of their irregular status. One woman described being beaten so severely her nose bled, then beaten again while pregnant. Women who had fled abusive employers were at highest risk of domestic violence because they had no income and no access to social services. Without work rights, they became financially dependent on partners who used violence against them. When they tried to leave, they faced homelessness. A healthcare worker recounted offering a woman fleeing an abusive relationship nothing but a tent. A lawyer explained how the temporary nature of the visa itself becomes a trap: the desperation that comes with it to not go back, women might get into relationships that they otherwise wouldn't have.
The harm reaches across the ocean to families left behind. In Timor-Leste, remittances from migrant workers are the second largest contributor to the country's gross domestic product. Yet women whose husbands came to Australia under the scheme reported economic abandonment—partners who stopped sending money or disappeared entirely. One woman said her husband had not sent money in almost a year, despite claiming to miss his children. The children suffered. A mother described her daughter's distress: sometimes she has a tantrum in the sense that it's not a normal tantrum. Sometimes she'll pee on the bed. The women left behind also reported that their husbands became more controlling despite the distance, monitoring them through WhatsApp and constant video calls, restricting their movements and friendships. The isolation and pressure of caring for children alone took a toll on their mental health.
When conditions were safe and workers were treated fairly, the scheme did what it was designed to do: women built homes, bought land, started small businesses, and sent their children to school. One woman said simply, I'm happy here. I make money. I'm independent. I do whatever I want. But these positive outcomes were not guaranteed and often depended on luck—finding an honest employer, avoiding violence, having family support. Researchers recommend three urgent reforms: workers must be able to change employers freely without losing their visa status; workers must have access to free health and social services; and culturally responsive programs must be developed specifically to protect women, including confidential reporting mechanisms and financial support for women experiencing gender-based violence. Without these changes, the scheme will continue to expose vulnerable women to systematic exploitation and abuse while they produce the food that feeds the nation.
Citations marquantes
In some places, it kills us. We need money but we are not in a safe place for women.— Migrant woman in the scheme
The temporary nature of their visa and that desperation that comes with it to not go back, women might get into relationships that they otherwise wouldn't have.— Lawyer interviewed in the research
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Economy & Finance