Image: Tina Tiller
Image: Tina Tiller

SocietyNovember 2, 2021

Why am I speaking? Because predators bank on their victims’ silence

Guest writer
Image: Tina Tiller
Image: Tina Tiller

People routinely tell me I am courageous for speaking out. Yes, it is a daunting thing to do. But what does it say about our society that victims need to be courageous to report abuse? Jacinda Thompson tells her story.

This article includes a personal account of abuse and sexual harassment.  

The multiple instances of the behaviour included the plaintiff being subjected to repeated incidents of unwanted physical contact, some of it extremely intrusive and serious. Further, the most serious instances of the behaviour occurred in circumstances where Reverend Van Wijk had used the plaintiff’s dead child as a tool to manipulate her into an extremely vulnerable state when he was supposed to be providing her with counselling and spiritual guidance … While involved in providing the plaintiff with pastoral services, [he] used language and physical behaviour of a sexual nature and subjected the plaintiff to behaviour which to her was both unwelcome and also at times offensive. This behaviour was both repeated and of such a significant nature that it had a detrimental effect on her.
– Human Rights Review Tribunal decision August, 2021 

There it was in black and white. After 16 years of battling, I had finally been able to bring my historic abuse by a priest into the light, and I had no idea how to feel.

It was as if, in coping with the trauma of it all, my brain had become skilled at not allowing me to dwell on the details for long. It is safer to put it away in a box and feel nothing, rather than to sit with it and risk pain and vulnerability. I’ve had people ask me what I’ve done to celebrate, but there are no winners – just degrees of hurt for all involved. I have also been asked if the judgement has been healing. Prolonged battles for justice come at great personal cost, and are emotionally exhausting. I tell people that it is impossible to endure these processes and heal at the same time.

One thing I do feel is a sense of relief – “declaratory relief” is the legal term. I had found it impossible to prompt the police to action, so I took my evidence to the Anglican church’s disciplinary tribunal. I had no lawyer. The priest had a queen’s counsel. 

Regardless, Reverend Van Wijk was found guilty and defrocked. He successfully applied to keep the findings unpublished, however. The file was hidden away in a church drawer somewhere. I was appalled. That meant there would be no learning from what happened – how does the church hope to prevent these things if those working in it have no knowledge of what abuse is happening, let alone how these things happen? And I was still left at the mercy of the rumour mill. 

I had also launched a case at the Human Rights Review Tribunal (HRRT) against Reverend Van Wijk, and continued with it after settling with the Anglican church, because what I wanted most was simply a finding of facts. I am very grateful that the HRRT and the New Zealand justice system, in contrast to the church, place a high value on open justice: findings are transparent. The Church has assured the Royal Commission into Abuse in Care that it has plans to be more transparent, but I won’t believe it until I see it. Recently the Anglican church advertised that their new Ministry Standards Commission has received 45 complaints since its establishment in January. Ten months on, however, there is not a single published outcome to say what these complaints have been or how they were dealt with. 

The police told me they couldn’t prosecute, an outcome depressing familiar to the vast majority of people who report sexual violence in New Zealand. I understand why – it is incredibly difficult to get a conviction when there are no witnesses and it seems all it takes is a little bit of doubt introduced by a defence lawyer to leave a jury feeling unsure. In my case Van Wijk admitted the sexual contact, but the onus was on me to prove the lack of consent. I had damning email evidence of Van Wijk’s manipulation – telling me things such as I needed to let him massage my pain away – but that was not enough. Police told me they needed proof from an eye witness, or camera footage, or multiple victims to come forward. This leaves people abused in counselling sessions with little to no chance of having the evidence needed. 

I believe that anyone receiving professional counsel from someone like a psychologist, counsellor, priest, or teacher could never give true consent to sexual contact while in a counselling session. These professionals are paid to guide the thinking of vulnerable clients. They know that they are in a position of power and trust and that a client couldn’t give consent to sexual activity with them; they know that their own professional standards would see them lose their job for such conduct. Our criminal law needs to be changed so that consent cannot be used as a defence in such settings, as it is in some other countries. I’m not holding my breath. Today I’m too scared to see a male counsellor. 

It is true that I have achieved apologies and a significant payment for what I have been through. But I’ve had to fight to get them. Were these things healing? It is a bit like getting an apology from a bully who has been forced to say sorry, then shrugs his shoulders and walks off, seemingly unchanged. Similarly, survivors of abuse cannot come close to reconciling with the institutions that harmed them until those organisations come to the table with genuine remorse, compassion and a real desire for change. 

There have been enough recent headlines to suggest that churches aren’t working with any urgency to keep people safe. Last year the Anglican bishop of Wellington, Justin Duckworth, chose not to stand down a priest who was being investigated by police for sexual offending. It took a conviction to get him away from vulnerable parishioners. The Catholic bishop of Auckland, Patrick Dunn, recently arranged to house a priest convicted of grooming a minor on the grounds of a primary school. At Gloriavale, victims are expected to live their day-to-day lives with their offenders. Little has happened to change my perception that incompetence and self-protection at the expense of those who are harmed is not something historical within the church; it is ongoing.

I also feel anger and a misplaced sense of guilt that I have achieved some justice while so many continue to be denied it. I gave evidence at the royal commission, looking into abuse in faith-based institutions, and I was far from alone. There are thousands like me, targeted by predators who knew how to spot vulnerability. My vulnerability was my grief and post-traumatic stress disorder, but for many others it was their age. Those who were abused as children have been seeking justice for many decades. 

For many, it ruined their education and their development, depriving them of the skills to navigate the complexities of the justice system. For others, the abuse destroyed their relationships, removing the support system of a loving partner through the process, something I was lucky enough to have. Some were never given psychological care, their unprocessed trauma leading them on a pathway to prison. Others never had the financial means to seek justice. Some were thrown a paltry sum by the church or state and told to keep quiet. So many are too broken to fight their way to getting what I have. Redress shouldn’t be this hard. 

The most common thing said to me though is that I am courageous for speaking out. I’m not surprised as it has been and still is a daunting thing to do. But what does it say about our society that victims need to be courageous to report abuse? If my house were burgled and I reported it to the police, no one would say, “wow, that was a brave thing to do”. We need to look at why this courage is required and why research tells us that the majority of sexual misconduct goes unreported. 

Working with other survivors, I have compiled a list of the many hurdles to reporting abuse. Often victims have to overcome the shame, guilt and confusion that comes with being abused by a trusted figure. Then, they have to confront the potential reactions of others when they do speak out, which could include being judged, labelled, disbelieved, ostracised, humiliated and unsupported. Survivors also risk their abuse details becoming salacious content for creeps on the internet. I’ve had to block a run of friend requests from male strangers on social media since my abuse was in the media. The survivor more than often endures all this, only to have their abuse minimised and accountability dodged by those responsible. 

My case is finally on the public record and can be pointed to as a precedent, which I hope will make the path to justice easier for others. My case is proof that the statute of limitations does not always preclude victims of historical abuse from getting justice, and that PTSD can render a survivor incapable of reporting earlier. I also insisted that the settlement amount in my case be public. I hope those that get offered private settlements of pathetic amounts can point to mine and say they deserve more. I was heartened when clergy abuse survivor Robert Oakley referred to doing just that in his statement to the royal commission. 

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    Sometimes I still feel perplexed, sickened and sad. It seems that wherever there are vulnerable people and people in positions of trust, a small percentage will abuse that power. It’s certainly not just happening in faith-based settings, but in schools, sports clubs, state care and families. Our ACC sexual abuse counsellors are overwhelmed with demand. Recovery can take a long time and I feel such sadness at what it has taken from me and countless others.

    New Zealand’s appalling abuse statistics will continue to stay that way if speaking out about it continues to require this much courage. I want everyone to feel free to speak out about abuse – not just the brave but also the scared and broken. Predators bank on their victims’ silence. We must not stand by and let this happen. Just this week I have had three survivors of church abuse in New Zealand contact me for guidance around how to seek justice – that alone makes it all worthwhile. I want to say this to survivors directly: there are people out there who will stand with you. 

    Where to get help:

    Keep going!