It was not failure that soured what could have been a triumphant return to the mat for Vinesh Phogat. The wrestler’s bid for a slot in the Asian Games ended with her defeat by Asian Championships silver medallist Meenakshi Goyat in the semi finals of the trials on May 30, but that is the sort of reversal an athlete can understand and accept. What is to be made, though, of the fact that the Wrestling Federation of India appears to have put every obstacle it could in Phogat’s path to prevent her return to a sport in which she has proved herself over and over?
The history of Phogat’s clash with the WFI is well-documented: She accused Brij Bhushan Sharan Singh, the former president of the wrestling body — who still wields considerable power, not least because of his political clout as a (now former) BJP MP — of sexual harassment and stalking.
Since then, the full weight of the body’s rules and structure has been deployed against her, making it difficult for her to compete. Most recently, the WFI issued a show-cause notice against her, citing disciplinary breaches and rules violations and effectively barring her from competing till June 26. The matter went all the way to the Delhi High Court and Supreme Court, both of which came down heavily on the WFI’s obstructive tactics. It was only when the SC finally cleared her path, did Phogat participate in the Asian Games trials.
But the significance of the episode lies beyond the immediate outcome. It raises a larger question about what happens when women report sexual harassment and abuse, particularly when the accused are powerful and institutionally entrenched. What is the cost of speaking up?
For all the progress made in encouraging women to report sexual violence and harassment, we don’t talk enough about what happens after the crime has been reported, because that is when the real test of any system begins. A recent case in the United Kingdom illustrates why. Three teenage boys who sexually assaulted two teenage girls and then uploaded the videos of the assaults — one of which was at knife-point— were given rehabilitation orders and required to pay just £20 in court costs. One of the victims reportedly described the outcome as feeling like “a rock straight in my face.”
The remark captures a form of injury that legal systems often fail to acknowledge. The assault itself causes profound harm. But when institutions appear unable or unwilling to respond in a way that reflects the seriousness of the crime, there is a second wound. Survivors are repeatedly told that justice depends on them coming forward. But when the consequences are trivial compared with the damage inflicted, the promise of accountability can begin to look hollow. Look at what happened in 2015, when Brock Turner, a Stanford University student and competitive swimmer, was accused of sexual assault: He was sentenced to six months in prison, with the judge stating that a longer sentence would have a “severe impact” on Turner’s life and career.
This is not an argument for maximum punishment in every case. But if survivors feel dismissed rather than heard, then the system has failed in a way that goes beyond any individual judgment.
The issue, ultimately, is one of trust — and hope. People report sexual violence in the hope that institutions will act fairly. They cooperate with investigations hoping that their testimony matters, and they endure scrutiny, delays and public exposure because they hope accountability is possible. When that hope is repeatedly frustrated, the consequences reach far beyond individual cases. There is a chilling effect on other survivors, who may find themselves forced to weigh the need for justice against what the pursuit of justice will actually cost them.
That is why the courage of Gisèle Pelicot resonates. In 2024, Pelicot became a global symbol not only because of the scale and horror of the crimes committed against her, but because of the way she chose to confront them. Having been drugged by her husband and repeatedly raped by dozens of men over a period of years, she refused anonymity. She attended court openly, allowed her name and face to be known, and spoke publicly about her experience. Most significantly, she rejected the assumption that shame is the victim’s burden to carry. If there was shame, she argued, it belonged to the perpetrators.
Her example is inspiring precisely because it challenges a worldwide culture of silence. But it also highlights a difficult truth: Courage from survivors cannot substitute for institutional accountability.
We must certainly welcome the fact that more sexual violence and harassment is being reported today than in the past. More reporting means that fear and stigma are losing some of their grip. But the measure of a society’s response to sexual violence is not simply whether survivors are encouraged to speak up — it is whether institutions prove worthy of the trust that speaking up requires and of the hope that it embodies. We rightly value the breaking of silence. But what comes next? That is the harder question.
See you next week,
Pooja Pillai
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The Supreme Court Got the Law Right on Voter Rolls — and the Reality Badly Wrong
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