What does justice really mean for a survivor of gender-based violence?
It is a question that feels simple until you sit across from a child whose life tells a different story.
During a recent field visit, I met a 12-year-old girl we had been engaging with since last year. We had heard parts of her story before, but being there in person and listening to her made it impossible to look away.
She is a survivor of sexual violence.
She has experienced parental neglect.
She has lived through emotional and physical abuse.
And I found myself asking: Where is the justice for her?
But as I listened, another question began to emerge, one we do not ask often enough:
Where is the accountability for neglect?
Because her story did not begin with a single act of violence. It began much earlier, with absence, instability, and a lack of parental care that created the conditions for harm.
She grew up without a stable home. Her parents were not together. Her father worked in another town, and her mother, though in the same community, was frequently absent for long periods, leaving her and her younger siblings on their own.
Then her father passed away. Without financial support, she dropped out of school.
So here is a child already navigating grief, already carrying responsibilities far beyond her years, and already slipping through the cracks.
Even before the incident that brought her to our attention, she had experienced abuse at home, leaving lasting physical and emotional scars. It shaped how she sees safety. It shaped who she trusts. It shaped how she relates to the one place that should have protected her.
So when we talk about justice, we must ask:
When did the injustice really begin?
Was it the moment of violence?
Or was it in the silence, the absence, the neglect?
Because the law itself recognises that violence is not always physical.
Under the Violence Against Persons (Prohibition) Act, violence includes emotional, psychological, and economic abuse, as well as the abandonment of children and dependents. In other words, neglect (especially when it leaves a child exposed to harm) is not separate from violence. It is part of it.
But neglect itself is complex. Sometimes, it is unintentional, shaped by poverty, absence, or a lack of awareness about what adequate care should look like.
But in other cases, it is intentional, where care is knowingly withheld, where a child is repeatedly left unprotected, unsupported, and exposed to harm.
And this distinction matters.
Because while unintentional neglect may call for support and capacity-building, intentional neglect demands accountability. It reflects a conscious failure to protect, a decision, whether active or passive, that places a child at risk.
In situations like this, the signs point beyond mere circumstance. They raise difficult but necessary questions about responsibility, about duty of care, and about when neglect becomes a form of violence in itself.
But regardless of intent, the impact on the child remains the same.
And yet, in practice, how often do we treat it that way?
Yes, the perpetrator in her case has been arrested and is awaiting trial. By conventional standards, this is justice in motion.
But is it justice in full?
Because her reality tells a different story.
She is the one living with the trauma.
She is the one trying to rebuild a sense of safety.
She is the one still without a stable home.
And so the question goes even deeper:
What does justice look like for a child who cannot return home?
What happens when the home itself is part of the harm?
The VAPP framework goes beyond punishment. It provides for protection orders and emphasises the need for effective remedies and support for victims.
But protection must be more than a legal provision; it must be a lived reality.
It must mean access to a safe shelter.
It must mean healthcare and psychosocial support.
It must mean a pathway back to education.
It must mean consistent, coordinated care.
Otherwise, justice remains incomplete.
At its core, the constitutional responsibility to protect citizens, especially vulnerable children, rests with the state. The very foundation of governance is built on the protection of lives and welfare. But what does that protection look like in practice for children like her?
What structures are truly in place to ensure that vulnerable children are identified, supported, and not left behind?
In her community, there are people who genuinely want to do right by her, who recognise her situation and want to help. But goodwill alone is not enough. Many of them lack the resources to respond effectively.
And this raises another important question:
If no single actor has everything, how do we bring together the little that each person has to create something meaningful?
Because she is not alone.
She is one of many.
One of thousands of children navigating similar realities, caught at the intersection of violence, neglect, and systemic gaps.
So we must ask these difficult questions:
What happens after the arrest?
Who takes responsibility for the child left behind?
Who ensures that protection is not just written into law, but delivered in practice?
Because perhaps the harder truth is this:
It is easier to prosecute a perpetrator than to address neglect.
It is easier to punish an act than to repair a system.
And yet, both are necessary.
If justice is to mean anything for survivors, it must go beyond accountability. It must centre healing, protection, dignity, and the possibility of a different future.
These are not just abstract questions. They are the realities that continue to shape our work to strengthen accountability systems, advance the implementation of laws such as the VAPP Law, and advocate for victim-centred approaches that do not end in the courtroom.
Because for many survivors, justice is not just about what happens to the perpetrator.
It is about what happens to them next.
So we return to the question:
What does justice really mean?
Is it accountability alone?
Or is it restoration, care, and a commitment to rebuilding lives?
Until we can answer that honestly, and collectively, we must confront an uncomfortable truth:
For many survivors, justice is still out of reach.
Oreoluwa Fatuyi
Program Assistant
ofatuyi@partnersnigeria.org
