Pell and the patriarchy

Last week’s lift on the suppression order regarding Cardinal Pell’s guilty conviction has led to an outpouring of anger towards Pell and the Catholic Church. There is horror and fury about the acts of abuse and harm inflicted on two children by a man in a position of power, and then there is anger and disappointment at the institution that turned a blind eye. For me, there’s a third reason to be angry and that’s the patriarchy. Our social system is one where those in positions of power - mostly men - cover for and endorse one another at the expense of the basic rights and needs of those with less power - predominantly women and children. It is this system of structural violence against those most vulnerable that enables an act of harm to go untold, unbelieved, unreported and unresolved for two decades.

A number of high profile men came out in support of Cardinal Pell, despite the overwhelming evidence against him and despite a jury’s decision. Pell’s barrister described the acts he committed as “no more than plain vanilla”. Andrew Bolt explained in detail on national television why he still thinks Pell has been falsely accused. John Howard gave the man a character reference. And, in my small circles, a man about the age of Pell and his attorney expressed doubt about the verdict, concern that the public decided he was guilty even before the trial, and bewilderment as to why anyone would believe an “invisible” person over a public figure.

And right there you have the problem.

Somehow we choose to believe a man in power over a child, and insist that those with less power defend their position rather than the other way around. Men feel entitled to cry out in rage over what they perceive to be “false accusations” far more fervently than they cry out in shame for the years of trauma experienced by survivors. Acts of significant harm are minimised, excused and ignored, even by some women. These are the voices of those who have become slave to the patriarchy, who fail to see the inequity of our society and the privilege and power that people like George Pell have enjoyed up until now. Any challenge to that privilege is bitterly opposed. It is said that when you’ve been accustomed to privilege, equality begins to feel like oppression. (Clay Sharkey on twitter, 2016)

But we should and do collectively know better. The Royal Commission into Institutional responses to Child Sexual Abuse has taught us that child sexual abuse does and did happen to a much greater extent than some of us thought, it’s usually perpetrated by people in positions of power and trust, the resulting trauma is significant and long lasting, and the journey towards reporting is fraught with emotional danger.

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Having a #metoo story of my own, I know something of the journey that is trod in terms of choosing when and how to tell the story, and how best to heal. Not everyone believes you, and the best you can expect from some is an attitude of indifference or discomfort. You play the incident over in your mind, imagining the points at which you could have stopped it, or done things differently to get a different result. Ultimately, you blame yourself. It’s good that survivor groups have found their voice, and are calling out the damaging comments aired publicly (https://www.smh.com.au/national/victoria/vanilla-child-sexual-abuse-comments-were-profoundly-damaging-20190228-p510ta.html). They would know only too well that the boy who told his mother it didn’t happen would have done so because he was ashamed and confused, or feared disbelief and retribution. It’s exactly because of my acquaintance’s attitude that people decide not to tell. They sense that the risks are too great.

When a former colleague of mine was arrested for child sexual offences quite a few years ago now, a shudder of shock passed through the networks who had known him. We spoke in whispers, and tears of disbelief were shed. There was an element of racing to minimise reputational risk, and a couple of the men who knew him suggested that it was a “false accusation”. Yet, some of us women knew in our hearts that it was possible. We had not taken our earlier concerns or instances of discomfort with this man to management. Why? Because we didn’t think we would be believed. Or, even if we were believed, we doubted anything would be done, or done with integrity. We doubted ourselves and our interpretation of events. And we didn’t want a person we had come to know well to have his life irreversibly changed because of us, and a “hunch”. But in doing and saying nothing, we too chose to value the life of one man over that of a child. We have to live with the fact that there might be young people out there who were abused, and had their lives irreversibly changed as a result of the system that likely would have favoured his story over theirs.

But society has thankfully moved on to a certain extent from the views these few men still hold. For Australia to hold a Royal Commission, to follow through on a number of arrests and convictions, and engage in a process of reparation, is positive. Churches and other institutions are now held more strongly to account than ever before. The #metoo movement has also elevated the voices of those who have been kept silent for decades. And the aid sector in Australia now has one of the more robust Child Protection frameworks in the world. We have regular conversations about what constitutes child abuse, what signs to look out for, and how to respond appropriately and respectfully if a child reports an instance of abuse to us. And so, the groundswell of anger towards Pell indicates to me not so much a mob embarking on a witch hunt, as my acquaintance implied, but an outpouring of emotion after a long silence. It is the music of a people who will not be slaves to the patriarchy again.