A few months ago, social media in Eswatini was ablaze with allegations against a nurse who had allegedly raped multiple women. Survivor after survivor came forward with harrowing accounts – stories of being assaulted in his car, his apartment, sometimes even under the guise of medical care. The outcry was loud and damning, but, like too many times before, the noise of social media did not translate into legal accountability. The man continued with his life, untouched by the justice system.
Then, just yesterday, another predator was trending, this time a teacher. Again, rape allegations. Again, a flood of survivor testimonies. Again, a man in a position of trust and authority accused of violating the very people he was meant to serve or educate. Another one who, fortunately, is facing the law is a police officer who raped a young woman in the last place one would expect to be violated – police station.
We must pause and ask ourselves: How many more? How many more women must relive their trauma online just to be heard? How many more predators will we allow into the sacred spaces of healthcare and education, sectors that should nurture, heal and protect?
There is something deeply unsettling about rape allegations involving a nurse, a police officer or a teacher. These are not just ordinary jobs; they are professions that come with an automatic trust from society. A nurse is someone you go to when you are sick, vulnerable or in pain. A teacher helps shape your world view as a child, guiding your growth and sense of self. A police officer is someone you go to when you need protection. When a predator occupies such a role, the damage is deeper than just the act — it violates the sense of safety we associate with these institutions.
The health sector and education system in Eswatini — and across the world — have a responsibility to thoroughly vet, monitor and investigate allegations against staff. But far too often, institutional silence or denial takes over. The cost of scandal seems to outweigh the value of justice. And survivors? They are left to find their voices in the court of public opinion because the court of law is too often unavailable to them.
It is easy to ask: “Why didn’t she report him to the police?” or “Why now?” However, this kind of questioning is part of the problem. Rape culture thrives on victim-blaming and disbelief. For many survivors, the thought of walking into a police station and narrating intimate trauma is unbearable. Add to that the likelihood of being disbelieved, re-traumatised or even threatened, and you begin to understand the deafening silence.
In Eswatini, social stigma, lack of support services and the slow wheels of justice all contribute to why survivors often stay quiet, until another case forces them to speak. But justice should not rely on virality. Survivors should not have to trend to be believed.
There is also the fear of retaliation. These men are often respected figures. They have connections, community standing and power. A survivor coming forward risks being ostracised, harassed or labelled a liar. In a patriarchal society where men’s reputations are protected more fiercely than women’s bodies, speaking up is an act of extreme courage. Feminism demands’ that we examine not just individual cases of violence, but the systems that enable them. What protocols exist in our hospitals, schools and clinics to protect patients and learners? How do we ensure that reported cases are taken seriously? Who is responsible for follow-up?
It is not enough to ‘cancel’ a predator online. Real accountability must involve investigations, suspensions, court cases and consequences. Without this, we create a culture where men in power know they can rape with impunity — and survivors know they will suffer alone.
We need institutions that are not just reactionary, but proactive. Background checks, trauma-informed training, anonymous reporting systems and survivor-centred policies are essential. Feminism teaches us to centre the needs of the most vulnerable, and in this case, it is the women, children, patients and learners whose lives are altered forever by one person’s abuse of power.
To every woman who has been violated by someone she trusted, your pain is valid. Your voice matters. And though the system has failed too many times, speaking up still matters, not just for yourself, but for the countless others who remain in silence. We cannot protect our children, sisters and communities if we allow abusers to wear uniforms of care and education unchallenged. If we do not demand accountability, then we too become complicit. Let us continue to push for justice, not only on our timelines but in our courtrooms. Let us support survivors not just with hashtags, but with systems that believe, protect and serve them. The safety of our society depends on it.
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