A silence that isn’t peace

There are moments when the qui­et feels loud­er than shouting.

Lately, I have been lis­ten­ing to that quiet.

I live in a small town. I sit in social groups, com­mit­tees, and audi­to­ri­ums. I stand in line at the gro­cery store and make polite con­ver­sa­tion about the weath­er. And under­neath all of it — under­neath the casseroles and com­mit­tee meet­ings and Friday night lights — there is some­thing else humming.

It is not hys­te­ria.
It is not dra­ma.
It is not politics.

It is rage.

Not the loud, break­ing-win­dows kind. The deep, Appalachian kind. The kind that set­tles low in a woman’s bones and waits.

When the details sur­round­ing the files tied to Jeffrey Epstein began resur­fac­ing in head­lines again — when ques­tions about who knew what, who par­tic­i­pat­ed, who pro­tect­ed whom cir­cled back into pub­lic con­ver­sa­tion — many women I know did not respond with surprise.

We respond­ed with recognition.

For sex­u­al assault sur­vivors like myself, this is not a sala­cious news sto­ry. It is not par­ti­san. It is not a con­spir­a­cy the­o­ry to be debat­ed over coffee.

It is a mirror.

Because the pat­tern is familiar.

Powerful men.
Young girls.
Whispers.
Warnings ignored.
Settlements signed.
Careers pre­served.
Victims dis­cred­it­ed.
Files sealed.
Names pro­tect­ed.

And a nation that sighs, shrugs, and moves on.

The rage women are feel­ing right now is not sim­ply about one man, one island, one case. It is about decades of look­ing the oth­er way. It is about how eas­i­ly influ­ence bends jus­tice. It is about how often women are asked to “wait for the facts” while the facts con­ve­nient­ly disappear.

It is about safety.

Or the lack of it.

Because when pow­er­ful men can abuse with impuni­ty — and when the sys­tems designed to hold them account­able instead pro­tect them — what are we sup­posed to believe about the men sit­ting beside us at ball­games, in our work­places, in pews or behind pul­pits, or even the kind ones that offer to hold a door for us?

Here is the part that feels hard­est to say out loud:

Many women are not only angry at the men in power.

We are heart­bro­ken by the silence of the men we love.

There is out­rage in some cor­ners, yes. There are men speak­ing up, demand­ing trans­paren­cy, demand­ing account­abil­i­ty. But there is also a heavy, famil­iar qui­et from many oth­ers. A turn­ing of the head. A mut­tered, “I don’t fol­low pol­i­tics.” A quick piv­ot back to safer topics.

For sur­vivors, that qui­et lands like betrayal.

Because when you have lived through vio­la­tion — when you have felt your own voice dis­missed or doubt­ed — watch­ing an entire cul­ture avert its eyes reopens some­thing ten­der and old.

It says: This is how it has always worked.
It says: Don’t make it uncom­fort­able.
It says: Boys will be boys.
It says: Powerful men are untouch­able.
It says: This is big­ger than you. Be quiet.

Women are not afraid because of head­lines alone.

We are afraid because his­to­ry tells us that pow­er­ful net­works pro­tect their own. Because we have watched insti­tu­tions — church­es, schools, cor­po­ra­tions, gov­ern­ments — close ranks before. Because we have seen how eas­i­ly vic­tims are reframed as oppor­tunists, liars, or “trou­bled.”

And because we know that preda­tors rarely look like monsters.

They look like respect­ed busi­ness­men.
They look like church lead­ers.
They look like men­tors.
They look like fam­i­ly friends.

That is what makes this dif­fer­ent than out­rage over pol­i­cy or party.

This is about trust.

When names are rumored but not con­firmed, when doc­u­ments are sealed or selec­tive­ly released, when inves­ti­ga­tions stall, women are left with a gnaw­ing question:

If the pow­er­ful are pro­tect­ed, who is safe?

Who do we trust with our daugh­ters?
With our sons?
With our­selves?

In towns like ours, we pride our­selves on com­mu­ni­ty. We say we take care of our own. We say we stand for fam­i­ly values.

But val­ues mean noth­ing if they evap­o­rate when the accused are influential.

Silence is not neutrality.

Silence is alignment.

And while many men may not intend harm by dis­en­gag­ing, the effect feels the same. It feels like we are stand­ing alone in our fear, alone in our anger, alone in our demand for accountability.

Some will read this and accuse women of over­re­act­ing. Of being dra­mat­ic. Of con­flat­ing sep­a­rate issues. Of mak­ing every­thing about gender.

But this is about gender.

Because the over­whelm­ing major­i­ty of vic­tims in these cas­es are girls and young women. Because the over­whelm­ing major­i­ty of those shield­ed by pow­er struc­tures are men. Because the pat­tern has repeat­ed itself for generations.

And because sur­vivors car­ry the cost long after the head­lines fade.

What women are ask­ing for is not vengeance.

It is transparency.

It is accountability.

It is for every name — no mat­ter how wealthy, con­nect­ed, or polit­i­cal­ly use­ful — to be treat­ed the same under the law.

It is for the men in our com­mu­ni­ties to be as out­raged as we are. Not per­for­ma­tive­ly. Not when it is con­ve­nient. But consistently.

We want to know that if it were our daugh­ter, our sis­ter, your wife — there would be no look­ing away.

Rage, when it is root­ed in truth, is not destructive.

It is protective.

It is the body’s alarm sys­tem. It is the soul say­ing, “Something is wrong.”

Women are not rag­ing because we hate men.

We are rag­ing because we love our chil­dren. Because we love each oth­er. Because we are tired of learn­ing, again and again, that pow­er often out­ranks justice.

In Appalachia, we are taught to endure. To keep our heads down. To sur­vive what comes.

But endurance is not the same as consent.

And qui­et is not the same as peace.

The qui­et I hear right now is not calm.

It is a gathering.

It is women com­par­ing notes. It is sur­vivors whis­per­ing, “Me too,” in kitchens and text threads and ther­a­py rooms. It is moth­ers watch­ing the news with a new edge in their voice.

It is not hysteria.

It is his­to­ry remem­ber­ing itself.

And this time, many of us are no longer will­ing to look away.