Rape, Forgiveness and Football

I came across an article in today’s Guardian saying that Ched Evans, the Sheffield United footballer convicted in April 2012 of raping a nineteen year-old woman in a hotel room, has been allowed to resume training following a request from the Professional Footballers’ Association to let him rebuild his fitness. In response, the club’s patron, Charlie Webster, has resigned from her role, arguing that someone convicted of such an offence should not be allowed to resume a career that involves being a role-model in the community, and in particular for young boys and men. This case raises complex and sensitive issues about how we respond as a society to sexual violence, how we treat people with criminal convictions upon release from prison, and how issues of fame and status influence these dynamics, upon which I want to offer a few tentative thoughts.

First though, some statistics: according to figures from the Ministry of Justice, Office for National Statistics and the Home Office released in January 2013, approximately 85,000 women are raped in England and Wales each year. This figure doesn’t include violence against men, or the many incidents that go unreported for a variety of reasons, such as fear of not being believed or the victim being blamed for what happened to them – Rape Crisis England and Wales say that from their experience, only 15% of victims report being attacked to the police. Various myths circulate around the nature of rape and it’s victims; the reality is that in around 90% of cases, the attacker is known to the victim beforehand, rather than being a stranger springing out of a dark alleyway, and the ‘false reporting’ rate is no higher than other crimes, with the Crown Prosecution Service estimating such instances to make up less than 1% of all cases. Moreover, there’s no such thing as a ‘typical’ rapist, and rape isn’t about sexual frustration; indeed, studies of victims’ accounts suggest many attackers find it difficult to maintain an erection. Rape is about violence, power and humiliation.

The impact of rape on the victim is huge. As the statistic on reporting rates suggests, coming forward isn’t easy, and many people internalise a sense of shame or blame themselves for what happened. The trauma that results doesn’t magically go away over time, and struggling to trust a potential partner again is a very common consequence of having suffered any kind of sexual assault. Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) can give rise to flashbacks, panic attacks, blackouts, freezing with fear and many other symptoms., which can be triggered by apparently unlikely things, or comments or situations that most people wouldn’t react to – it’s one of the reasons why the kind of ‘humour’ or ‘banter’ occasionally thrown about these days around rape is so unacceptable to many. I’ve sometimes found myself, having experienced life being read by others as both female and male at different times, pointing out to male friends that language they might think is ‘ironic’ or ‘tongue-in-cheek’ can have a profound and distressing impact on others.

It’s vitally important, therefore, that the gravity of what Evans has done is acknowledged and reflected in how he’s subsequently treated. However much he protests his innocence, and while the criminal justice system isn’t perfect, he was convicted of rape in a fair trial by a jury of his peers, and must be seen in that light. Many jobs involve a representative aspect and require the person to be a role-model in the community, but few also come with the fame, adulation and status associated with professional football. If Evans was to eventually be re-signed and allowed to carry on as if nothing of consequence happened, it risks trivialising his actions and their impact upon his victim, and facilitates a situation where young boys could get the impression that sexual violence against women isn’t a big deal. I think the way footballers get hero-worshipped in our society is profoundly unhealthy anyway; in Evans’ case, it would be deeply irresponsible to elevate him to that position once more.

I do think, however and more generally speaking, that our response to people who’ve been in prison and served their sentence often lacks compassion and precludes the possibility that someone can change their ways. Forgiveness isn’t a very fashionable word these days, and it seems that, despite much evidence that the best way to prevent reoffending is for someone to find stable and fulfilling employment, having a real fresh start after serving a sentence is very rare. Employers are reluctant to give someone a chance, and having been a prison visitor in the past and spoken with a variety of folks, several expressed the sentiment that the first time they were sent down was like getting a life-sentence, as they’ve been unable to build a ‘normal’ life for themselves afterwards. If we’re serious about our justice system having something to do with rehabilitation and not simply a dynamic of punishment and revenge, then we need to recognise, I would argue, that human beings are rarely black and white; there’s good and bad within all of us, and redemption has to be a real possibility.

Obviously, the practicalities of working the above out are complex, as Evans’ case demonstrates all too well, and it’s worth pausing at this point to think about exactly what we do and don’t mean when we talk about forgiveness. As an example, consider the Biblical story of David and Bathsheba in 2 Samuel 11 and 12. Just as God had warned Israel when they clamoured for a king, human beings all too easily abuse power for their own gain. In David’s case, he saw Bathsheba, a married woman, bathing and took rather a shine to her. Learning she had a husband didn’t deter him, and the text tells us that he sent for and seduced her (2 Samuel 11:4), though what chance she’d have had if she’d said no isn’t a point we usually worry ourselves about too much – make of that what you will. When David found out she was pregnant, he tried to engineer a situation where Uriah, Bathsheba’s husband, could return from battle and sleep with her, so everyone including him would think the child was his. After this plan failed, David conspired to get Uriah killed in battle (2 Samuel 11:14), so he could step in and marry Bathsheba. Seemingly, all was well, though God knew what he’d done.

Nathan was a court prophet, and God used him to call David out on his abuse of power with a clever bit of preaching that brought home the reality of his actions. Upon being pulled up, David acknowledges the wrongness of what he’s done (2 Samuel 12:13) and he receives forgiveness from God. However, the consequences of his actions for himself, for Bathsheba and for his kingdom were profound; David could never be the one to build the Temple, political instability and rebellion ensued in the years up to his death and beyond, and the child that resulted from his forbidden liaison died. Forgiveness didn’t mean being able to sweep his actions and their impact on others under the carpet, nor did it mean being able to carry on the same as before. However, it also didn’t mean being cast out from God’s presence, that everything David had achieved beforehand needed to be erased from history, or that he was dismissed as evil or a monster; David was still a human being made in the image of God, as is Ched Evans, whatever his past.

What I suppose this all shows is that balancing justice and mercy is a highly complex business that throws up profoundly difficult questions. Moreover, while we may want to draw out general principles from sources like the Bible, each individual situation has its own nuances which need careful consideration. In Evans’ case, the status accorded to professional footballers and the consequent responsibilities make it, to my mind, highly inappropriate for him to be allowed to continue in that role. However, branding someone a monster or condemning them to never be allowed to rebuild a life for themselves is cruel and perpetuates misery and suffering, and that I feel cannot be right, either.

My own experience of escaping and surviving an emotionally, physically and sexually abusive relationship is that forgiveness isn’t about pretending nothing happened (even if that were possible, which it isn’t when the silliest of things can cause flashbacks), acting like it doesn’t matter or excusing the person’s behaviour; it’s vital that what happened and the pain and suffering caused is acknowledged. It does mean, though, a willingness to not hold what happened against the person, to lay their actions aside and see their humanity, which is bloody hard work and an on-going process rather than a one-off event. I made a conscious decision not to let my anger consume me, after realising all I was doing by hanging onto it was destroying myself from the inside. It doesn’t mean the scars aren’t still there and that they don’t itch sometimes, or that being able to trust another partner, as wonderful as I think she is, has been easy at all, but it does mean there’s room for God’s love to be at work in me where previously there was just hatred, and that has to make a difference for the better, right?