Try to put yourself in the shoes of a victim of sexual assault
It’s tempting to think you would walk out, but often things aren’t that simple
How easy it is to judge the person sitting on the witness stand.
If she really had been choked, or hit in the face, or sexually assaulted, why would she stay in his apartment? How could she have snuggled up to him the next day and posed for a photo? Maintained contact? Initiated it, even? How could she have sent that email, written that note?
Most importantly, how could she have failed to mention all of this to police?
To some people watching the Jian Ghomeshi trial, these are glaring inconsistencies that speak to the fundamental reliability of the witnesses. But there’s very little about the testimony that doesn’t also match the experience of many victims of sexual violence.
Put yourself in the position of a woman who has just been assaulted.
It’s tempting to think you would just walk right out and call the police, but we know from victims it’s rarely that simple. Sexual violence is distinct from most crimes. To begin with, there are usually only two people in the room and the victim knows it will be one person’s word against the other.
But even that is a rational evaluation. For most victims, the psychological impact makes it difficult to process what has just happened. Was it a crime? Did I provoke it in some way? Did I send the wrong signals? Did I deserve it somehow? Was it my fault?
The act of violence often has the effect of diminishing the victim in her own eyes, causing her to feel inferior, even responsible. As a result, many victims not only continue a relationship with their attacker, they try even harder to earn his attention and affection. The redemption they seek, at least initially, is not a legal process.
Beyond that, many don’t report the assault not just because they are unsure it will lead to a conviction, but because they are ashamed. They are embarrassed, reluctant to discuss it with even friends and family members, let alone the police. So they behave not like a rational individual organizing her behaviour and evidence to support a case in court, but like someone recovering from a traumatic experience, one she might possibly hide for the rest of her life.
So let’s say many years later you finally acknowledged you were a victim, perhaps after hearing there were others. Finally you learned, in other words, that it wasn’t you, but him.
Even then, would you report every embarrassing detail to the police? Would you volunteer what might be extra information? I stayed with him that night. I took a photo the next day. I wrote him a note. Is it possible you might still have self-doubt, might still wonder if your story is believable?
Is it possible that your instinct, now having one chance to bring to justice the person who has haunted you for years, might be to focus mostly on the information that was most damning? After all, you might not be thinking about how this could come back to hurt you once you were on the stand. You’ve never been through this before.
Because, let’s not forget, it’s not you that’s on trial. You’re not approaching this like someone who’s done something wrong, but someone the system is supposed to be helping. You’re the one who got assaulted, after all. Isn’t that all that matters?
Finally, would it be that surprising if you connected with other victims, found solace in the handful of people who know what you’d been through, even expressed hope that justice might finally be done? Can you honestly say you wouldn’t be prone to a few vengeful words against your attacker?
Perhaps the testimony at the Ghomeshi trial will prove too unreliable to result in a conviction. But that doesn’t mean the witnesses weren’t telling the truth as they saw it.
It shouldn’t be surprising to anyone that someone who may have experienced a traumatic event doesn’t conform perfectly to the expectations of an eventual criminal trial.
The system is supposed to meet her needs, not the other way around.