There are plenty of things I should be doing today. Instead, I’m sitting at my home office desk, staring blankly out the window—grieving, despairing.
Every major news outlet in the country is reporting the death by suicide of Virginia Giuffre. She was just 41 years old—a few years younger than me. She should have had many years ahead. So much love, joy, tears, and laughter.
Instead, she’s gone. Her loved ones will never hear her voice again. No birthday texts or calls. No warm cups of tea together.
Virginia Giuffre was the woman who accused both Prince Andrew and Jeffrey Epstein of sexual predation. In a heart-wrenching statement released after her death, her family said that “in the end, the toll of abuse is so heavy that it became unbearable for Virginia to handle its weight.”
They went on to describe their loss as “utterly heartbreaking,” adding that “she lost her life to suicide, after being a lifelong victim of sexual abuse and sex trafficking.”
Giuffre was a public and outspoken warrior against sexual predation. Although she sued the Duke of York for sexual abuse in 2021, he denies the claims and has never been charged with any criminal offences.
While I don’t want to conflate one woman’s unique and devastating experience with another’s, I can’t help thinking of Kate—the woman who accused former Attorney General Christian Porter of historic sexual abuse.
At one point, I read parts of Kate’s childhood diaries describing the rape she said occurred in January 1988. These entries—written in a child’s hand, the pages coloured in with texta—were painful, visceral, and deeply detailed.
Like Virginia, Kate Thornton also died by suicide after making her experiences of abuse public.
According to her long-time friend Jo Dyer, endless bureaucratic delays by NSW police during the Covid pandemic devastated Kate.
Jo wrote that “…the impact of the delay, coupled with Kate’s distress at hearing of the success of George Pell’s High Court appeal—another case of historic abuse relying solely on the testimony of the victim—contributed to the deterioration of Kate’s mental health. She died by suicide in June 2020.”
I’m also reminded of my friend, Brittany Higgins, who accused former colleague Bruce Lehrmann of raping her inside Canberra’s Parliament House in March 2019.
Despite her unwavering courage, she was dragged through the justice system—and the vile, relentless, misogynist court of public opinion. The extreme cyberhate and death threats against Britt, her now-husband David Sharaz, and even their dog were so severe that one predator troll was sent to jail for it.
On social media, Britt commented that at many points during the ‘justice’ process, it felt like she was the one on trial—not her alleged perpetrator. She also spoke about being treated as though she “wasn’t a person” by her former Liberal Party colleagues.
Lehrmann’s first criminal trial was aborted. He did not face a retrial because the-then ACT Director of Public Prosecutions, Shane Drumgold SC, determined it would pose a “significant and unacceptable” risk to her life.
In a civil trial, Justice Michael Lee later found that on the balance of probabilities, Lehrmann had raped Brittany Higgins.
It’s hard not to conclude that all this injustice has a chilling effect on other survivors.
Standing on the sidelines watching all this unfold, you’ve got to ask: why would a survivor come forward? Why would you seek justice when what you’re likely to get in return isn’t a conviction, but your own personal hell? Credible threats of violence from strangers, public destruction of your character, and ostracisation and criticism from colleagues and peers.
(Remember how former Liberal Senator Lynda Reynolds called Brittiany Higgins a “lying cow”? Reynolds later clarified that the comment was not about Higgins’ allegation of sexual assault but rather about her perception of the support provided. She publicly retracted the remark, issued an unreserved apology, and settled a defamation claim brought by Higgins, with damages paid to a sexual assault support charity.)
In this paper, criminologists Patrick Tidmarsh and Gemma Hamilton describe sexual offending as a “profoundly hidden crime.”
They attribute the low conviction rates—between 12.5 to 17 per cent depending on the data you’re looking at—to a range of factors, including community stigma around sexual behaviour and the nature of the adversarial justice system itself. As Brittany Higgins noted, the system often pummels survivors.
And the low conviction rates belie the evidence, which shows the vast majority of victims are telling the truth. Tidmarsh and Hamilton write that “…research is clear that false allegations of sexual crime are not common. Studies estimate approximately five percent of sexual crime allegations are false.”
Knowing all this and simply watching the wholesale and public destruction of sexual assault litigants, most survivors—including myself—don’t report their traumatic experiences to authorities.
In fact, according to the same research paper, “…83 percent of Australian women did not report their most recent incident of sexual assault to the police.”
When we look at these three recent case studies side by side – Virginia, Kate and Brittany – one thing is heartbreakingly clear: our system is still catastrophically failing survivors.
Instead of justice, women are losing hope—and in some cases, their lives.
If you need help and advice call 1800Respect on 1800 737 732, Men’s Referral Service on 1300 766 491 or Lifeline on 13 11 14.
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