THE case of Jeffrey Epstein has once again gripped the United States, reigniting uncomfortable conversations about power, privilege and sexual abuse.
Public discourse has largely focused on the powerful and elite individuals mentioned in the files.
Last year, similar debates swirled around allegations involving music mogul Sean Combs, better known as P Diddy.
Here in Zimbabwe, religious leader Walter Magaya has also faced allegations of sexual misconduct.
These men have one thing in common: they have been accused of rape or sexual misconduct.
It is important to clarify that everyone is innocent until proven guilty, and I do not claim to have evidence against anyone.
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The accusations are already public knowledge, but this article is not about the accused.
It is about the question that resurfaces whenever sexual assault allegations emerge: Why were the victims silent for so long? Why are they speaking now?
It is a question posed by the public, commentators and even legal professionals.
Yet it reveals a profound misunderstanding of how power, fear, and trauma operate—and how society enforces silence.
In many sexual assault cases, the alleged perpetrator wields significant power — financial, social, religious or political. Power creates fear. Victims may depend on the accused for employment, education, spiritual guidance or social standing. Speaking out can mean losing a livelihood, being ostracised from a community or facing direct retaliation.
Research by the World Health Organisation and Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network shows that fear of retaliation and disbelief are among the top reasons survivors delay reporting sexual violence. When the accused is wealthy, influential, or revered, victims often feel they stand no chance against them.
Shame and stigma also play a major role, as sexual assault is often treated as a personal disgrace rather than a serious crime in many societies.
Survivors are interrogated about their clothing, behaviour, or choices, as if they invited the assault. Studies published in the Journal of Interpersonal Violence show that victim-blaming culture strongly discourages survivors from reporting abuse. In many African contexts, survivors may be told they have brought shame to their families, leading to silence being encouraged as a form of protection.
Psychological trauma further complicates disclosure. Sexual assault can cause post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, anxiety and dissociation. Trauma affects memory, speech and the ability to process events.
According to the American Psychological Association, many survivors only disclose their experiences when they feel safe, supported, or emotionally ready — sometimes years or decades later. Silence, therefore, is not evidence of consent or fabrication; it is often a survival mechanism.
I recently interviewed a sexual assault survivor who requested anonymity. She had tried to speak out to those around her, including her parents, but was told to endure the abuse because the man was powerful and they did not want to be on his bad side.
She was even urged to consider the “benefits” of such a connection. “It felt like they were pimping me out,” she said. “I felt defeated.” She described falling into deep depression and self-hate, which eventually led her to attempt suicide. Her story is a painful reminder that silence is not always chosen; sometimes it is enforced by those who should be protectors.
There is also widespread mistrust in the justice system. Reporting sexual assault can be costly, humiliating and emotionally exhausting.
Survivors may face invasive questioning, public scrutiny, and prolonged court proceedings with uncertain outcomes..
UN Women reports that globally, only a small fraction of sexual assault cases result in convictions. When survivors witness powerful individuals evade accountability, they often conclude that justice is unattainable, and staying silent feels safer.
The public sphere, particularly social media, has intensified this fear.
Survivors who speak out often face harassment, threats, and attempts to discredit them. Their pasts are scrutinised, motives questioned, and credibility attacked.
Even in cases where evidence exists, public discourse frequently shifts toward defending influential figures or politicising the issue.
This sends a powerful message to survivors: speaking out may destroy your life, while remaining silent keeps you safe.
Cultural and religious pressures often silence victims, as discussing sex is taboo and sexual violence is seen as scandalous in some communities.
Survivors may be encouraged to forgive, pray, or stay quiet to protect the reputation of institutions or families. This prioritisation of reputation over justice creates an environment where perpetrators are shielded and victims are sacrificed.
Sexual violence is ultimately about power and control. Patriarchal systems often normalise male dominance and female silence. Survivors who speak out are often branded as troublemakers, liars, or opportunists.
Trauma researcher Judith Herman has argued that silence is imposed not only by perpetrators but also maintained by societies that benefit from preserving existing power structures.
So, when we ask why victims stayed silent, we must examine the world we have created — a world where silence feels safer than truth.
If we want victims to come forward, society must change its response. The public must stop interrogating survivors and start questioning systems that protect abusers.
Legal systems must be strengthened to ensure that power and wealth do not shield perpetrators from accountability.
Media houses must report responsibly, avoiding sensationalism and victim-blaming narratives. Communities and religious institutions must create safe spaces for disclosure and prioritise justice over reputation.
Most importantly, we must listen. We must believe that silence often comes from fear, not deceit, and that speaking out requires immense courage.
To survivors, your silence was not a sign of weakness.
Your voice, whenever you choose to use it, matters. You deserve dignity, healing and justice.
The real question is not why victims stayed silent. The real question is why society made silence feel like the only safe option. Until we dismantle the systems that silence survivors and shield perpetrators, countless victims will continue to suffer in silence. It is time to shift from suspicion to empathy, from denial to accountability, and from silence to justice.