🩶 Disclosure is a One-Way Street: How the Justice System Silences Victims (Again)

We live in an age where “justice” is branded as survivor-centered, trauma-informed, and fair.

We are told that the system is there to protect us, to give us a voice, to hold those who hurt us accountable.

But somewhere between the courtroom doors and the paperwork, something gets lost.

Because when it comes to disclosure, justice remains a one-way street.

As a survivor, you give everything.
You hand over your witness statement, recounting your worst moments with forensic precision.
You submit your Victim Personal Statement, laying bare the nights you couldn’t sleep, the therapy sessions you needed just to function, the way your child screams in his sleep because he nearly saw you dead.

You give them your voice, your trauma, your fear, your vulnerability — all for the promise of justice.

And the person who hurt you? They get to read it all. An evidence pack laid out like a coffee table magazine.

But when they write their statement, painting you as unstable, aggressive, dishonest — you don’t get to see it.

They can lie.
They can spin.
They can reframe your truth as a weapon against you.

And you? You are left in the dark, unprepared for the narrative waiting for you in the courtroom.

It is a staggering imbalance that the justice system rarely acknowledges. It is a quiet violence that continues long after the bruises fade.

We are told it is about fairness, about the defendant’s right to a fair trial. We are told it is necessary.

But how is it fair that a survivor of violence is subjected to total exposure while the perpetrator remains shielded behind closed statements, protected by the same system that failed to protect the victim in the first place?

The system claims it wants victims to come forward, to trust the process, to stand up and be counted.

And yet, it demands that we do so while blindfolded.

In the courtroom, victims are expected to remain calm, credible, consistent, polite — even in the face of cross-examination that rips through their memories with surgical precision.

Meanwhile, the defendant’s lies go unchallenged until the trial, allowing them to manipulate the narrative, further isolating the victim from the truth of the process.

This is not trauma-informed.
This is not survivor-centered.
This is a system that conveniently forgets that survivors are people, too.

We talk about building a justice system that encourages victims to come forward, yet we ignore the layers of fear and disempowerment woven into every stage of the process.

It’s not enough to call the system survivor-centered if it is built on the backs of survivors’ silence.

It’s not enough to tell victims to trust the system if the system does not trust them with the basic truth of what is being said about them in their own case.

Maybe real justice would look like transparency.

And justice would look like giving victims the dignity of seeing the stories written about them, the lies crafted to silence them, the narratives designed to protect those who have hurt them.

Because how can we ask survivors to trust a system that will not even let them read the story of their own pain?

So, here’s a quiet promise, whispered between tired survivors and the system that was supposed to protect them:

We will keep showing up, even when it feels impossible.

We will keep speaking, even when our voices shake.

And one day, maybe justice will learn that disclosure shouldn’t be a one-way street.

In a system that claims to be trauma-informed, this is just another trauma.

In a system that claims to protect victims, this is another way victims are kept small, silent, and scared.

In a system that claims to be fair, this is another way power remains with the defendant.

So, what do we do?

We keep speaking.

We keep showing up, even when it hurts, even when the system wants us to be quiet and compliant.

We write our VPS with honesty and rawness because it is the only space we have to be heard in this machinery of caution and procedure.

We remember:
Accountability may start in the courtroom, but it finishes in how we reclaim our stories.

Whilst we can’t read their statements, they will never get to write our endings.

And as I sip my lukewarm tea after another night of anxiety-induced insomnia, I think:

Maybe it’s time the system starts protecting the people it was designed to serve, not just the people it fears infringing upon.

Maybe real justice means transparency.
Maybe real justice means victims are seen as humans, not inconveniences.

Because disclosure, darling, shouldn’t be a one-way street.

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