Eva Funsho: Insights on Gender Inequality and the Culture of Silence

“He’s a good man. He provides for his family. He goes to church every Sunday.”

I’ve often encountered these words when people attempt to justify the actions of men who engage in reprehensible behavior, as though being a good provider absolves one of predatory actions. Just as if mere attendance at church can erase the violence that occurs at home. We have established systems centered around safeguarding the reputations of men while simultaneously silencing the suffering of women, and we've become so adept at it that we are frequently oblivious to these mechanisms.

Last year, I witnessed something that chilled me to the bone. A young woman, let’s refer to her as Adanna, shared her experience of sexual harassment by a well-known figure in her field. Initially, she did not disclose his identity but merely recounted her story. Within hours, people who alleged familiarity with her began to scrutinize her character on social media. They challenged her strong viewpoints, unearthed old pictures from gatherings as supposed evidence of her “questionable morals,” and one individual even hinted that she was seeking attention due to her stagnated career.

As for the abuser? His identity was kept under wraps. His companions rallied to support him, and colleagues vouched for his integrity. Meanwhile, Adanna became a cautionary narrative for every woman observing: speak out, and your life could be dismantled.

This exemplifies how silence safeguards abusers, not through grand acts of concealment but through subtle, daily decisions that render the act of speaking out more perilous than remaining mute.

Recently, I viewed 'Haq' on Netflix, a film that left a significant impression on me. It tells the story of Shazia, a woman abandoned by her spouse after many years of marriage. She faces an adversarial legal system simply to obtain essential financial aid and to be treated with respect. The most compelling aspect of the film wasn’t any intense courtroom drama but rather its portrayal of gender-based violence in its quietest, most destructive forms.

This is where we often overlook the truth: gender-based violence does not always manifest as physical harm or overt sexual assaults. It is intricately laced into the fabric of inequality. The emotional betrayal, abandonment, and financial instability that leave a woman exposed are all forms of violence. Furthermore, legal frameworks often disregard her needs as trivial.

Shazia begins as the archetype of a devoted wife, the type society lauds. However, when life takes a turn, her loyalty is deemed worthless, and the ensuing struggle to navigate a system intended to silence her made me reflect on the many women I know who have encountered similar predicaments. While the details may vary, the emotional epiphany remains consistent: advocating for oneself and asserting one's entitlements can feel like an act of defiance, often met with severe repercussions.

The film refuses to make Shazia a mere caricature of victimhood; it highlights her emotional turmoil, her subdued fury, and her gradual determination to reject her circumstances. The husband, rather than being depicted as a flat- out villain, is characterized by entitlement, dismissal, and self- justification. He truly believes there is nothing remiss about his actions because society has always affirmed his behavior. This nuance feels much more authentic, and, frankly, more infuriating than a typical villain trope.

'Haq' adeptly illustrates how the patriarchy conceals itself within traditions and religious practices to rationalize mistreatment. It shows how men utilize cultural contexts to justify disparities. A woman's voice is marginalized not through overt silencing but through systemic neglect, through legislation that was not designed with her situation in mind, and through a society that sees her individuality as conditional.

In one striking scene, Shazia is interrogated about her case, and the weariness etched on her face is palpable—not just from the struggle itself but from the necessity to validate her very existence, to argue that she warrants basic human respect. This is what systematic abuse engenders: an exhausting fight to reaffirm to others that one holds value.

I often consider the women I know who have sought to navigate these oppressive structures. The strain it incurs, the emotional toll of convincing individuals that their experiences are valid, that their suffering was inappropriate, and that they deserve better. The struggle to establish one’s credibility, while their abuser receives unconditional trust, is indeed grueling.

A cousin of mine recounted her university experience with a lecturer admired by all. He was charismatic in class and seemed genuinely interested in his students’ success; however, he had allegedly been sexually harassing female students for an extended period. The entire community was aware, existing as an open secret whispered among lodges and discussed covertly in cafeterias. Despite the knowledge, no one ever reported him due to his connections and influence as a mentor who held sway over former students.

“We simply learned to avoid him,” my cousin recounted.

Consider this for a moment: a whole generation of young women learned to develop survival strategies surrounding a singular predator because they felt that reporting him would be futile. The silence allowed him to perpetuate his behavior for years, while his victims adapted by diminishing their presence, exercising caution, and prioritizing safety through silence.

We instruct women to voice their experiences yet penalize them when they do. We profess our support for survivors but immediately begin seeking justifications for disbelief. We assert our desire for justice yet have constructed frameworks that render the pursuit of it akin to a secondary violation.

The silence shielding these power dynamics upholds the very structure itself. We are discouraged from questioning it vehemently. Society expects conformity, pressuring individuals to feign happiness while lamenting the uncomfortable truths regarding autonomy, manipulation, and the consequences of grave power disparities. Questioning these norms requires addressing how many of our social conventions depend on similar, though perhaps less overt, dynamics.

Several years ago, I met a woman named Ngozi who shared a harrowing experience. She had been assaulted by a family acquaintance at the age of fifteen. When she eventually confided in her mother at seventeen, her mother expressed her belief with tears of empathy but added, “We cannot disclose this to anyone else; it would ruin both our families.”

Ngozi described the moment she felt believed as a breath of fresh air after being submerged. Yet her mother’s addition plunged her back underwater. “I spent years angry at her,” she reflected to us. “However, I’ve grown to understand that she too was entrapped. She recognized that speaking out would reposition me as the issue, not the perpetrator.”

This reflects the challenge, doesn’t it? Even those who support and love you often cannot envision a way forward that does not entail substantial harm to you. Thus, they also opt for silence—not out of indifference, but from awareness of the repercussions faced by women who chose to speak.

Abusers are shielded through various layers. There’s the close circle—family and friends who may be aware but cling to denial, finding the truth too unsettling. Then there’s the community level, individuals who may have heard murmurs but opt for inaction, convinced there must be another explanation. Finally, the societal dimension, characterized by ingrained cultural beliefs that prioritize harmony over honesty and elevate a man’s potential above a woman’s suffering.

Each layer reinforces the others. Silence from the family breeds inaction within the community. When the community ignores the issue, societal structures remain unchallenged. And the abuser? He discovers there are no real penalties—his reputation escapes unscathed, allowing him to continue unabated.

The questions imposed on survivors when they reveal their experiences seem crafted to undermine credibility rather than elicit understanding: “Why did you take so long to come forward?” as though trauma adheres to a timetable. “Why were you in that setting in the first place?” as though location determines consent. “What was your attire?” as if garment choices can justify violence. These are inquiries redirecting focus away from seeking truth; they are accusations masquerading as questions.

There exists a particularly harsh cruelty in how such matters are handled. We demand flawless victims: women who report immediately, those who possess witnesses, who have never smiled at their abuser or accepted their assistance. Genuine trauma does not fabricate flawless victims. It molds individuals striving for survival amid harrowing circumstances, making complex decisions under overwhelming pressure.

'Haq' reminds us that the most subtle forms of gender-based violence may not be those visible on screen, but rather those felt in the voids of silence embedded within the narrative. The film refrains from overtly depicting sexual violence or physical aggression; instead, it illustrates the social and legal injustices—dismissal of personhood and the weaponization of language and legislation against a woman. It serves as a reminder that harm doesn’t always crescendo; frequently, it whispers through laws and customs.

In the courtroom sequences, the film serves as a metaphor for every domain where women must battle for acknowledgment. The restraint embedded in the storytelling amplifies the moments when Shazia asserts herself, claims her rights, and vocalizes her entitlements, as these instances strike with greater impact. Many of us have faced circumstances where expressing oneself felt insurmountable, where the repercussions of being heard appeared painfully steep.

Yet, a transition is occurring, albeit slow and fraught with difficulty.

I observe a growing number of women unwilling to remain silent. Not because their circumstances have improved—they haven’t—but because they recognize that carrying the burden alone is no longer viable. I have been developing a trauma-informed digital mental health platform tailored for survivors of sexual and gender-based violence across Africa. The more I engage with survivors’ experiences, the more I see a pressing necessity for environments where women can find support without the dread of being judged or exposed. Spaces where breaking the silence doesn’t translate into breaking oneself in the process.

My vision extends beyond crafting yet another mental health application; it aims to create a platform that acknowledges that for numerous survivors, speaking out comes at a precarious cost—including family ties, community standing, economic stability, and at times, even physical safety. We require digital forums that meet women where they are, which can appreciate the intricate cultural complexities we navigate, and that can offer pathways toward healing without necessitating further exposure to harm.

The mental health ramifications of silence are staggering. Survivors unable to articulate their truths often absorb them as shame, bearing this weight within their bodies, relationships, and self-image. Research indicates that survivors who receive belief and support enjoy better mental health outcomes compared to those who are met with skepticism or blame. The issue transcends initial trauma; it’s about subsequent consequences.

This is where the fusion of technology and culturally attuned support becomes essential. We need venues where survivors can seek assistance devoid of judgment, where they can connect with therapists who grasp trauma and acknowledge the specific cultural dynamics we navigate. These must be communities where individuals can bond with others who have traversed similar journeys.

It is crucial to broaden our cultural values to incorporate genuine compassion for survivors. Our emphasis on family and community is admirable. However, this sentiment turns harmful when it demands survivors compromise their healing for the sake of another’s comfort. True communal morals would mean the community should embrace survivors rather than shield their abusers.

Every survivor who finds her voice, notwithstanding the sacrifices, is challenging a vast infrastructure of silence. She asserts that her truth holds more value than another’s comfort. In doing so, she sets an example for future generations that they need not bear burdens that are not theirs to carry.

Our cultures taught us it requires a village to nurture a child. This same village is essential for healing. A village that believes survivors and prioritizes their safety and restoration above the reputations of their abusers. One that cultivates support systems rather than perpetuating silence.

Each survivor merits not merely to exist but to flourish. Every voice that disrupts the stillness, regardless of how hesitant or fearful, enhances the likelihood of thriving for those who come next. The dialogue is evolving. The framework is beginning to fracture. And the voices are steadily becoming audible.