Breaking Silence in Parliament

The other day in the House of Commons, Charlotte Nichols MP did something extraordinarily difficult. She waived her anonymity and spoke publicly about being raped after an event she attended in her role as an MP, just as Gisele Pelicot has done, and many more women, including myself, have done.

Charlotte described waiting 1,088 days for her case to reach court. Nearly three years suspended between the moment of violence and the possibility of justice.

The part that hit me the most was not about the legal process taking forever, but the silence surrounding it.

 The Silence That Surrounds Survivors

Nichols spoke about how colleagues could see the impact of the rape long before they knew what had happened. They saw the changes in her behaviour, they saw her struggling, and they witnessed the deterioration that trauma can bring.

And yet no one asked why.

It is a small detail, easily missed in the headlines, but for those of us who have been through similar circumstances to Charlotte, it was probably the biggest detail in her speech. Why? Because it exposes something far more common than any of us would like to admit.

When Communities Choose Distance Over Support

When survivors begin to spiral downwards, unravelling in plain sight, friends, colleagues and the wider community more often look away.

Recognising that part of her speech felt immediately like a blow to the chest. I couldn’t breathe for a few moments. I felt disoriented, and emotions rose, resulting in tears burning my eyes.

For more than twenty years, I’d not drunk alcohol. My life was built around focus, clarity, discipline and purpose. I was outgoing, a lively and joyful part of South Yorkshire’s business community and believed I’d built something meaningful there. Professional networks, friendships, allies and a community that spoke constantly about collaboration and support.

Then I experienced sexual violence, and what followed was not painful because not only was my behaviour out of the ordinary, but people watched from the sidelines.

They saw someone who had been stable and disciplined begin to spiral. They saw my behaviour change, become erratic, and saw me on the fast track to self-destruction. They saw the visible impact of trauma unfolding in real time, and yet not one person asked what had happened.

Not one.

Why Silence Is Not Neutral

Instead, there were whispers as the gossips went into full effect. Speculations, but no fact-finding. The distancing began when I needed friends and my community to rally around me. The quiet withdrawal of people I’d trusted, preferring the gossip to their own fears and discomforts, shone brighter than the sun in a tropical August.

The same people whom I’d once celebrated success with, suddenly found somewhere else to be, and I was left alone to deal with the feelings of shame, isolation and confusion – on top of the trauma and shock I was experiencing.

We often tell ourselves that this silence is understandable. That the people surrounding us simply do not know what to say. But their silence is not neutral. It is part of the damage being done to our psyche.

When a community watches someone fall apart without asking why, it sends a very clear message: that suffering is something to be handled privately, quietly, alone.

For survivors of sexual violence, that isolation compounds the original harm done to us.

And it does not stop with communities.

Systems That Deepen the Trauma

As Charlotte mentioned, the systems survivors must navigate afterwards, which often deepens the trauma. These systems leave us in a state of limbo, uncertainty, and with an inability to get on with our lives. It is not about gaining closure, because there is no closure, will never be closure, because the mind will never allow closure.

One of those systems is the Criminal Injuries Compensation Authority.

In theory, it exists to provide financial recognition to victims of violent crime. In practice, many survivors describe a process that is slow, opaque, rooted in insensitivity, and deeply re-traumatising.

It can take many months simply for a claim to be looked at, let alone resolved. Survivors are often asked to revisit the most painful details of their lives repeatedly while waiting in silence for an administrative decision about whether their trauma qualifies for compensation. They are put on trial for the very thing that happened to them.

This is not justice, but bureaucracy designed in a way that layers more pain and trauma on top of the original injuries.

When Advocacy Feels Like Performance

At the same time, world leaders, policymakers and campaigners are gathering in New York for the Commission on the Status of Women, the United Nations’ flagship annual conference on gender equality.

This year’s gathering, often referred to as CSW70 in reference to the seventy years since the first sessions of the commission, features speeches, panels and commitments about improving the lives of women and girls around the world.

There are lots of statements being made about empowerment, with declarations about progress. And yet, the systems, apps, and navigation tools are not intuitive, causing more frustration than positivity and an openness to be present to what is being said. What is being said is carefully crafted language about ending violence against women, and yet, it all feels like a performance.

Listening along to the promises while looking at the reality survivors face at home raises many uncomfortable questions, but particularly.

“What is the point of these committees if nothing changes?”

“What is the value of international conferences and national strategies if survivors still spend years waiting for court dates, months waiting for compensation claims to be read, and a lifetime navigating communities that would rather look away?”

The Cultural Problem Behind the Crisis

Sexual violence does not happen in isolation. We know this. It happens within cultures and systems, friendship groups, families and workplaces.

And the silent, performative responses to it reveal what those cultures truly value.

We can build global forums, publish action plans and deliver powerful speeches, all of which have their place, but none of it means much if the reality on the ground remains the same.

A survivor waiting three years for a trial does not feel empowered.

A survivor waiting eighteen months for a compensation claim to be reviewed does not feel protected.

And a survivor watching friends and colleagues whisper rather than ask a simple question does not feel supported.

The Courage to Speak Out

Charlotte Nichols showed courage in speaking publicly about rape and about the failures of the justice system.

But the quiet moment in her speech about colleagues witnessing her struggle without asking what had happened deserves just as much attention.

Because that silence is not confined to Westminster.

It exists in homes, schools, offices, business networks, charities, universities and communities across the world.

The Question That Could Change Everything

If we are serious about tackling sexual violence, the change required is not only legal or political, it is cultural.

It begins with refusing to look away.

Sometimes the first step towards justice is not a courtroom verdict or a government strategy.

Sometimes it begins with a single question.

“Are you okay?”

For too many survivors, it is the question no one ever asked.

And until we change that, all the speeches in the world will remain exactly what survivors fear they are.

Just more lip service.