Much has been said about sexual harassment following allegations against certain members of Loyola Schools faculty. The Ateneo administration and the Sanggunian have made various statements, loudly condemning these acts and committing to assist students who wish to file administrative cases. However, very little has been heard from actual survivors of sexual harassment.

Personal struggle

Before stepping forward with a case, the survivor faces several dilemmas. According to Sanggunian Commission on Anti-Sexual Misconduct and Violence (CASMV) Commissioner Regina Pagdanganan, the initial feeling of a survivor is blame.

A survivor of sexual harassment, Cara*, shares her own experience, saying,“I felt terrible… I still feel like it was my fault for letting it continue for so long… When I told people in authority about it, they were quick to place the blame on me,” she says. “[Even] my own father blamed me. When I told some of my close friends about it, they either blamed me or were indifferent towards my ordeal.”

When someone says they have been sexually harassed, Pagdangan explains that friends and family are the first to be approached by survivors, as they may find it easier to follow the advice of someone they trust over a psychologist or policeman that they don’t know. However, if that family member or friend is dismissive of the incident, it becomes difficult for a survivor to file a case.

“There’s blame, and afterwards it turns into anger [and] self-hate, [then] there’s always almost always a gray area of understanding what really happened,” Pagdanganan says. Gabriela Youth-UPD President Lian Valencia affirms this, saying that there really is a culture of victim blaming, and this is a big reason as to why some survivors do not come forward.

“It’s difficult to tell someone in authority about it, because you first have to accept it yourself that you’re a victim,” says Cara. She was studying at a conservative Catholic, all-girls school at the time. Since the alleged perpetrator was a teacher beloved by many people, they tended to side with him, which made things more complicated.

Aside from blame and denial, Pagdanganan emphasizes that the survivor may also opt not to come forward because of their desire to simply move on with their life.

“It’s so much easier to normalize the situation… especially when it happens with people you know,” Cara shares. However, the healing process is still painstaking, as she notes how the incident continues to haunt her to this day.

Due to these factors, Pagdanganan suggests that if someone were to approach you and say that they have been sexually harassed, it is best to have them recount what happened first, so that the narrative comes from them. Do not dictate or impose what happened to them, she advises.

Bureaucratic struggle

Republic Act 7877 Section 3, or the Anti-Sexual Harassment Act of 1995 contains a definition of sexual harassment which entails having any persons of authority using their power to request or demand sexual favors from their inferiors. Some have found both this definition and its reinforcement to be inadequate.

Campus codes have not been spared from this scrutiny. According to Pagdanganan, universities have varying operative definitions and procedures. For instance, the University of the Philippines Diliman has an Anti-Sexual Harassment Code that defines sexual harassment as “any uninvited, unwelcome and unwanted” advance. This is a definition that Valencia sees as a more victim-centered approach compared to the way most institutions handle similar cases, as it puts the voice of the survivor at the forefront.

In contrast, Pagdanganan stresses that the Ateneo follows the definition of the Anti-Sexual Harassment Act, thereby also adopting some of the supposed lapses of the law. She notes the lack of emphasis on peer-to-peer harassment, which is an aspect of sexual harassment that the law does not cover. “It includes the unsaid power dynamic,” she says, citing student organizations or even social relationships as possible settings for peer-to-peer harassment. Such cases don’t necessarily involve a hierarchy, as the perpetrator is on equal footing with the survivor.

Valencia emphasizes that beyond the personal struggles, there is also a general mistrust of institutions.  This is fueled by controversies surrounding lapses in responsiveness, as well as the general lack of transparency with regard to policies and processes. These effectively hinder any attempts or progressive steps toward attaining institutional justice.

With that said, Pagdanganan says that institutions are not entirely at fault for not knowing how to respond appropriately to issues concerning the student body.  “They don’t speak the same language,” she says, highlighting the need for representation and mediation between institutions and their students.

In the Loyola Schools, the CASMV primarily deals with cases of sexual harassment and misconduct, serving as a middleman between the victims and the University. From the get-go, CASMV’s jurisdiction is made clear to the victim; their scope, according to Pagdanganan, includes cases involving current students and alumni against other students, alumni, or a professor or authority currently employed. Should a case be filed by a current student against a person outside of the University (e.g. students from other schools, alumni), the CASMV also takes it upon itself to coordinate with the parties involved.

After the victim reaches out, often via informal channels such as Facebook messaging, a meeting is set with a maximum of three commission members to hear out the victim’s case. The options are then made known to the victim, and members of the CASMV are assigned to raise the issue to the Office for Student Services (OSS) by turning in the victim’s formal letter of complaint and incident report.

In compliance with the accused’s rights, the OSS then summons the alleged perpetrator and presents them with the complainant’s documents. The CASMV ensures that the victims know their reports are to be shown to the accused, and it is at this point wherein many of those who come forward get disheartened.

Should the survivor choose to pursue the case, what follows is a back-and-forth of responding to reports, drafting witness affidavits, and signing non-disclosure forms. The CASMV’s involvement in the case comes to an end once all of the paperwork has been accomplished. The case is then taken to the disciplinary board who face the complainant, witnesses, and alleged perpetrator separately. Though the committee suggests a certain sanction for the accused, ultimately the final say is dependent on the Associate Dean for Student Formation.

This grueling process makes it evident that both patience and persistence are required of the survivors. The process typically takes up to five months within the Ateneo—a foretaste of the lengthy cases of sexual harassment that can be tried for up to 20 years in the court of law, Pagdanganan emphasizes. As an alternative to the bureaucratic process, the OSS offers mediation between the accused and the victim in a closed-doors, sit-down session that aims for the reconciliation of both parties.

However, Valencia observes that Ateneans have a loud clamor for action. Pagdanganan notes that this has paved the way for plans regarding the creation of a Gender Hub, which will be a segment of the OSS that will handle all sexual harassment cases and gender-based misconduct. This could effectively consolidate and potentially speed up all the administration’s efforts to process cases like these.

Societal struggle

Cases of sexual harassment and misconduct are possible within institutions due to the hierarchies of power that exist in them. According to Filipino Department Gender Studies Professor Dr. J. Jacobo however, “what cuts through these feudal relations of power is the issue which is at the core of it—gender.” The power play involved between aggressors and victims in cases within the institution translates to an unequal power dynamic of gender and class. Valencia stresses that it is every bit a gendered issue, though the struggle is non-gender specific. “Walang kinikilala yung sexual harassment na gender (Sexual harassment knows no gender).”

“There’s just a focus on women because of the statistics,” she adds.

Views on gender and sexuality, or the lack of views outside the binary serve to reinforce sex-negativity within the institution. “It’s the discourse that makes sex and gender negative, that puts us in a bind and makes us enter situations where we are sexually harassed, whether that sexual harassment is based on our gender or not,” Jacobo stresses.

Living in a “macho-feudal society,” Valencia cites an instance wherein President Rodrigo Duterte encouraged soldiers to rape. She believes that this kind of toxic masculinity supported by individuals and structures of power condones and even promotes gender-based violence.

In a society like this, what options are left to a survivor? They are left with countless struggles that are imposed by the culture they live in, their loved ones, and even themselves.

Cara believes that this matter involves everyone and urges other survivors to come forward with their story, despite the pain that it may stir. According to her, “knowing you’re not alone and that its not your fault is empowering.”

Pagdanganan also urges victims to come forward through official channels more than solely turning to spaces such as the ADMU Freedom Wall, despite the difficulty and many barriers involved in doing so. Without a survivor filing a case, there can be no action from institutions.

In addition to this, Valencia encourages survivors to “mobilize” in recognition of the movement from a personal struggle toward a collective struggle. She says that mobilization helps survivors realize that they are not alone.

Indeed, at the end of the day, institutions cannot coerce survivors to file a case or force them to share their stories. The choice to come forward, no matter the means, is ultimately left to survivors themselves.

*Editor’s Note: Cara’s real name has been withheld at her request to protect her identity.