“What if it was your sister?”
“Your mom?”
“Your daughter?”
To say I am sick of this line of thinking is an understatement. I abhor it. I abhor the idea that in order to capture folks as supporters of gender-based violence prevention we must ask them to picture someone they love in danger. The responsibility we place on survivors to evoke that kind of emotion is unfair, especially given that society already expects them to be perfect victims.
This outdated school of thought should not be necessary to gain support against sexual violence. Why should someone have to imagine their loved one being assaulted before they are willing to care about sexual violence? Why must a survivor become someone’s daughter, sister, mother, partner, or friend before their experience is considered worthy of attention? Survivors should not have to make themselves relatable enough to earn concern.
The truth is that we are all already stakeholders in gender-based violence prevention. We do not need to know that we know someone who has experienced sexual violence. We do not need to imagine that it could happen to someone we love. We simply need to recognize that gender-based violence has ramifications on every institution.
One group of stakeholders who may not recognize themselves as such are those who benefit from secondary education, whether through their own education or through that of others. Students, like myself, who experience gender-based violence experience significant disruptions to their education. From having to occupy the same classroom, campus organization, social
spaces, or at times even the same residence hall, as their perpetrator to coping with the mental and physical effects of trauma itself, there is often little room left to cram, pull all-nighters, complete assignments, or even just show up to class. A student may miss class because they are afraid of running into their perpetrator. They may struggle to concentrate because they are
experiencing the aftermath of trauma. They may stop participating in extracurricular activities because the spaces they once considered safe no longer feel that way. They may feel as if the only options are to move off campus, take a leave of absence, transfer or leave the education system entirely. These are not simply individual academic setbacks. They are barriers to
education.
When we talk about educational access, we tend to focus on the barriers that are easiest to identify, like tuition dollars, transportation, disability accommodations, food insecurity, housing, or technology access. However, safety is also a prerequisite for meaningful access to education. We, student survivors, can not fully participate in an educational environment that we are afraid to enter. We can not be expected to perform at our fullest capacity while navigating the ongoing presence of someone who has harmed them. Most of all, we should never have to choose between our education and our safety.
Educational justice asks us to consider not only whether someone has technically been given access to a classroom, but whether they are actually able to participate, learn, thrive and complete their education. If violence makes those things less probable, then violence is an educational barrier.
When a student survivor leaves college because they can no longer safely navigate campus, their institution loses a student. Their classmates lose a community member. Their future workplace loses a potential employee. Their field loses a potential researcher, educator, advocate, healthcare provider, artist, entrepreneur, or leader. Their community loses whatever contributions that person might have made.
Prevention of violence belongs to all of us. Everyone who has attended a school, taught a class, worked at an institution, supported a student, paid taxes that fund public education, hired someone postgrad, mentored a young person, or benefited from someone else’s education has some connection to the educational system. We are not outsiders to this issue. We are
stakeholders in it.
The question, then, is not, “What if it was your sister?”
There’s no question at all; the impact of sexual violence is ingrained in every space we occupy. It’s embedded in every level of our educational institutions, from our classrooms and our campus communities.
If education belongs to all of us, then so does the responsibility to make it safe.
Maille McLaughlin aims to be an advocate in all that she does. Whether that is receiving grants for community contraception, presenting on intimate partner violence, or volunteering for inclusive sex education initiatives, depends on the day.