In the wake of the announcement of a Royal Commission into child sexual abuse, there has been a lot of talk about the sanctity of the Catholic confessional, and whether we should enforce mandatory reporting of child abuse disclosures that are made in this up to now completely confidential space. But while we debate the rights of children vs the sanctity of confession, are we exposing some of the attitudes that help to support and perpetuate the abuse we claim to abhor? What does our obsession with the confessional tell us about how the sexual abuse discussion is being framed?
Somewhere between a quarter and a third of all children will have endured some form of sexual assault before they turn 18. The complex trauma that can result from childhood abuse is arguably the major public health issue of our time. Knowing this, as we have for some time now, it’s incredible that we still believe that sexual abuse is rare, a terrible crime perpetrated by rogue priests or sick family members. As the terms for the Royal Commission into child sexual abuse are being set, our desire for these incidents to be seen as isolated acts of cruelty is constantly in evidence, and nowhere more clearly than in our horror at the sanctity of the confessional.
As a fair to middlingly good Catholic school girl at the Joan of Arc School for Girls in the 1970s, I confessed my sins regularly to a priest who magically appeared at predictable intervals behind a wooden lattice in a confessional that smelled vaguely of pine and frankincense. They were the only men besides the occasional father to enter our all-female enclave. We knew they were in charge even in absentia. We could feel the deferential way our usually powerful nuns treated them.
I would stand in line with the other girls in my itchy tartan uniform and wonder about what I would say. You had to say something; it was not possible that you hadn’t sinned in the time since your last confession. So we stood fidgeting, wondering what to confess to, thinking about lunch or who would control the monkey bars or our undone homework. In the end I usually resorted to my sister. I quietly recited many Hail Marys over the years in penance for crimes against my sister.
A number of the girls in my class, girls whose houses I visited, girls who over the years became as familiar to me as cousins, were being abused in their homes. Physically, emotionally, sexually. Some were victims of neglect, one of the harshest and most damaging forms of abuse. And all of us were either victims or witnesses to physical abuse from at least one teacher at the school. I find it hard to believe that any of us would have been naïve enough to imagine the confessional as a place of sanctuary and support.
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