Addressing sexual misconduct in our communities is complex but essential

The allegations of sexual misconduct and assault –– whether against Supreme Court Justice nominee Brett Kavanaugh, Catholic priests in Pennsylvania, leadership at Willow Creek, or Jewish educators in New York –– are disturbing.

As custodians of our communities, it is our job to clean the dirt kept hidden under the rug. And it is our job to advocate for broken souls and guide our constituents, especially if our own colleagues caused the wounds.

The data on non-consensual sexual contact are troubling not only because of the nature of the despicable acts, but rather, the sheer number of such incidents. Regardless of your race, socioeconomic class, or religion, it is likely that you know multiple victims of sexual assault.

Over the past few years, I have investigated allegations of sexual abuse and misconduct involving Muslim preachers. I began each case by treating the victims as honest and the alleged perpetrators as innocent, with the hope that the investigation would reveal truth.

When the accused may have broken the law, the matter was easier to address, because it was turned over to law enforcement officials. When only Islamic law is broken –– infidelity, dishonesty, abuse of power –– it is akin to a violation of ethics. In these cases, the community carries the force of authority with the power to publicize the crimes and/or ostracize the perpetrators and compel them to heal and seek therapy.

That is easier said than done. Perpetrators often become defensive, argue and lie. Some believe that they have their own Divine mandate to do as they wish and present themselves as the victims either of those they abused, their own appetites or those investigating the allegations.

What makes matters more complex is that many religious communities do not have a body of advisers who are trained to investigate accusations of sexual misconduct. Many Chicago area religious leaders are so overburdened with their efforts to shepherd their flocks, they aren’t equipped to address such allegations.

And when the community’s healers are finally exposed for their monstrous behavior, some of their followers are reluctant to air the community’s “dirty laundry.” Some want to avoid the public relations nightmares. Some believe those investigating the allegations have ulterior motives. Some have agendas against certain populations –– often along gender, socioeconomic or ideological differences –– and end up milking the conflicts for their own benefits.

Regardless of the differences in authority across our traditions, we see everywhere –– among Catholics, Protestants, Jews, and Muslims –– that religious leadership often bury such stories, so their community members do not lose faith and trust. It is important to exercise prudence in investigations, but it is wrong to ignore accusations as the predator gets the freedom to continue assaulting prey even when assigned to a different location.

When the laity discover the crimes were covered up, however, the situation becomes far worse. With revelations that the leaders of Jewish day schools in New York covered up the misconduct of teachers and employees since the 1970s, or that leaders of the Catholic Church in Pennsylvania hid over a thousand cases of abuse, how can someone retain hope? These are delicate souls we are reducing to objects to negotiate community blowback.

Yes, there may be some accusers who do lie –– as in the Gary Dotson case in the 1980s. But it’s rare: In various studies, the highest numbers estimate that 10% of accusations do not pass scrutiny.

Far more often, however, survivors remain silent. Either the perpetrators threaten them, or, the trauma itself affects their understanding of the events. Or, the survivors do not want to be re-traumatized. Or, the survivors believe that nobody will believe them. Many survivors have told me, “I told my parents and nobody did anything about it.” As I watch the hysteria around the Kavanaugh confirmation, I wonder how many survivors will continue to remain silent, consumed with fear and unable to find healing.

I know survivors who have left their faith traditions. I understand. I am amazed by those who retain faith. Perhaps it is their faith in the Divine –– rather than men –– that helps them persist.

We have to remember that if we do not take care of survivors and stop the perpetrators, we have failed our communities, ourselves and the Divine.

Omer M. Mozaffar is the Muslim chaplain at Loyola University Chicago.