I’ve been thinking a lot about the “culture of silence”, whether that be showbiz, medicine, politics or the Bar. We all collectively as a society exclaim in shock and horror every time there is a new revelation of sexual or professional misconduct; a new scandal so vast and widespread it would have been apparently incapable of oversight. We wonder – how did they get away with it for so long? How come no one knew? Why didn’t anyone say anything?

There is a lot to be said about the various institutional or cultural issues which enable abusers but once you start rummaging around, the most common factor and one which repeatedly comes up is fear. Whether that is fear of a man in a strong position or someone so wealthy, so powerful that he can assault you and claim “I’m the sheriff of this town” like Weinstein was caught on tape saying. Or a man who hides in plain sight making music about his love for young girls like both R Kelly and Marilyn Manson have done.

The fear for your career, your reputation, your body or your mental health all uphold a system that keeps the oppressed at the bottom and the oppressor on the top. And then there are the people who rally along the status quo, enforcing it and the silence.

The Bar is sadly no different. In 2017 before I was anywhere near the Bar (quite literally, still not enrolled on the BPTC, without any intention of doing so and living in Berlin) I tweeted my experience of a senior QC who “creeped” on me as a result of me seeking a mini-pupillage. 

Since then, said QC has gone on to even greater heights and I have since heard of at least two other women who have been an object of his inappropriate attention. Yet I have never named him, nor will the other women.

The night before my surgery, I text a close friend of mine. She was under strict instructions that in the event of my death, she was to send said creep messages to the BSB. My friend points out that it is telling that even with death looming on my mind, my thoughts were on this issue. Since she brought it up, I’ve spent some time thinking about my motivations behind that request. The way I see it is that while I lay there thinking of my death, I considered my legacy were I to die. Had I tacitly encouraged this man by not speaking out? Did I have a moral obligation to say something?

More worryingly, it was only in the event of my death that I felt safe enough to say anything at all. The fear of what I would have to endure in naming a predator stopped me then and haunts me still.

But I take solace in that whatever small voice I have on here I spend it wisely on the things I care about, whether that be my visibility as an autistic, dyslexic, non-traditional barrister or our well-being, working conditions, diversity and inclusivity.

Even before becoming a pupil, I thought long and hard about the content I put on here, quite literally writing a blog about the ethical pitfalls of social media. Before becoming a member of the profession, I knew not everyone would appreciate my voice but I accepted the dissent so long as it invited healthy and civilised debate.

But a lot of my colleagues, well-wishers and otherwise, look at me and think me bold. I know that some of my junior colleagues have been told to watch their mouths and that their junior status does not permit even the most inoffensive of content let alone a loud or controversial one. This is concerning in a profession like ours. If only seniority allows a voice, where is the diversity of thought? Where is the diversity at all? I am not one for social media. Ironically, I don’t even have a Facebook account and my Myspace account was tragically short-lived in the Noughties. The reason however I make conscious decisions to add a voice on Twitter is to provide exactly that – a different perspective in the hope that younger or non-traditional candidates can see some representation.

People say only the established are allowed a voice. So, in our current climate of no returns, do we feel enough is being said for the junior end? We who are overwhelmingly impacted by low pay, bad working conditions in the Magistrates’ Courts and are the most likely to leave.

No matter the reasons, however, we silently move chambers, we think twice before reporting misconduct, we consider whether we can remain anonymous, we consider our position and reconsider our opinions.

For barristers, ethics is ironically another sword that dangles over our heads; that your vocal criticism of a crumbling justice system or of the frankly tiny advances in diversity somehow breaches your ethical duty. Yet it is the existence of these problems, not the pointing out of them, which are the real breaches here. Criticising the criticism is only another form of silencing. 

We live in a culture of fear, we have our reputations dangled in our face, our work and our futures. I can’t do much with the little voice I have, but what I have I will use to break the silence as safely as I can. If solidarity is too much to ask then your indifference will suffice.

My own journey led me to a place of expression. I am a survivor. I survived abuse and racism. I moved from country to country, city to city in search of safety and belonging. As I write this, I am also battling for my health as many of you know. It was in the darkness of facing my death that I finally found my voice. It took me a lifetime to find it. I will not give it up now and neither should you.