Since the story broke about Jane Doe at Cornell University, I’ve heard a lot about how shocking it is: the gang rape she alleged, the inaction by men in that group chat, the disappointing response by the prestigious institution and the decision by prosecutors not to bring charges. While I couldn’t possibly know all the facts of what happened in that fraternity house, in the police station or throughout the Title IX investigation, I know she was failed by many people who could have helped her.
More recently, two alleged sexual assaults at University of Chicago fraternity houses have captured headlines, and again, caused shock and outrage. As an attorney who's spent 10 years representing student survivors of sexual harm, I am unfortunately not shocked by any of it.
Every day I witness — and try to mitigate — the harm student survivors experience. While it no longer surprises me, I’m struck by how often survivors tell me engaging with our systems has been equally or more traumatic than the sexual violence itself. And it’s the result of multiple systems failing them, including our culture, schools, government and legal processes.
So many people, well-meaning and otherwise, ask why more survivors don’t come forward or why they don’t do so immediately. It’s because they know what they’ll face if they do.
Not only are student survivors rightfully afraid of not being believed or being blamed for their own assault, they must also contend with risks of countercomplaints or defamation lawsuits brought by their perpetrators. Recently, I’ve noticed a marked increase in respondents filing complaints against my clients, alleging that they are the real victims. In those instances, survivors must prove not only that they were assaulted, but also that they didn’t assault the individual who harmed them. I understand the strategy: Survivors might drop their case, or the school will say it’s murky, and no one will be found responsible.
If survivors move forward with their case, the institution investigates and typically holds a hearing. Both parties make statements and answer questions from decision makers and the parties’ chosen advisers, who can be almost anyone. Questions simply must be relevant; courtroom rules of evidence don't apply, and both parties share accounts of what happened without much limitation. It’s a structure that not only sets the stage for theatrical and retraumatizing interactions, but also offers a window into dangerous misunderstandings of sexual harm and its victims.
What I hear in these cases is chilling. There’s concern over ruining a young man’s life, always with little regard for the life already damaged by the assault he perpetrated. Or arguments that, because her clothes weren’t torn and nothing was broken in her room, she cannot have been assaulted. Declarations that security footage depicting a survivor collapsing in tears after her alleged assault was melodramatic and therefore staged. Explanations that she said “no” but didn’t seem to mean it, or she didn’t say anything at all when she should have. Assertions that if she had truly been assaulted, she would've screamed or clawed his eyes out or broken up with him or made a report sooner.
That she led him on, or willingly kissed him, or chose to be alone with him, or was out late and chose to drink alcohol — and what did she expect? The strategy is to paint survivors as unstable, or vengeful, or promiscuous, or compulsive liars, or attention-starved.
Winning a Title IX case as a complainant is an uphill battle. And if the respondent is found responsible, there’s no guarantee regarding outcomes. While respondents in some of my cases were expelled, that isn't the norm. They might be suspended. They might be placed on probation. They might be required to engage with educational content — or write an essay. They might be prohibited from holding campus leadership roles. And the survivors must decide whether they can continue at that institution, knowing they’ll likely be forced to encounter their assailant even after their school determined they committed sexual misconduct against them.
Survivors deserve better. Proposed state legislation, House Bill 4990, would amend the Preventing Sexual Violence in Higher Education Act to allow Illinois survivors to sue institutions that have failed them, fundamentally improving survivor rights and remedies. This is necessary for real accountability.
Students deserve to live without fear of being harmed. And if they are harmed, they shouldn’t have to fight to prove they’re good and worthy victims. They deserve processes that center the truth about what harm and trauma look like, not victim-blaming myths and misinformation.
Christina Zuba is a managing attorney at the Chicago Alliance Against Sexual Exploitation, where she has been representing student survivors of sexual harm since 2016.
