When the surveillance video surfaced of Sean “Diddy” Combs brutally assaulting Cassie Ventura, a chilling moment was caught in time—a moment many of us will not forget.
But instead of shock giving way to empathy or accountability, the internet did what it too often does when a Black woman dares to speak up: it turned on the victim.
Cassie’s bravery in coming forward with allegations of years of abuse should have been met with outrage for what she endured. Instead, too many chose to scrutinize her story, her choices, her motives. “Why didn’t she leave?” “She took the settlement, didn’t she?” “Why now?”
The questions piled on—not for the accused, but for the survivor. Let’s be clear: this is not new. This is what happens when women – especially Black women – speak out.
This is what happened when women stood up to R. Kelly. When survivors challenged Bill Cosby. When Black women, famous or not, tried to pull back the veil on abuse, control and systemic violence.
The pattern is heartbreakingly familiar. We say we want justice. We say “believe women.” But only when it’s convenient. Only when she fits the mold of a “perfect victim”—pure, soft-spoken, immediately vocal, legally airtight. That woman rarely exists. And when the survivor is a Black woman, the disbelief is doubly sharp.
There is something deeply wrong with a culture that protects powerful men while dissecting women who come forward. This is about more than celebrity gossip—it’s about the ways we uphold patriarchy and misogyny, how we allow fame and fortune to shield predators from consequence. We ask what Cassie did to deserve it, instead of asking why he felt entitled to do it in the first place.
Let’s not pretend victim-blaming is harmless commentary. It’s a form of gaslighting. It tells survivors: Your pain will be picked apart. Your truth will be doubted. Your history will be weaponized against you. It silences. It shames. And it keeps others, especially Black women, from coming forward.
We’ve seen this too often, not just with high-profile men, but in our families, churches, schools and communities. Abuse doesn’t need more defenders. Survivors do.
It’s time we shift the burden of proof off the shoulders of those who are already carrying the weight of trauma. Time we interrogate why we’re more comfortable dissecting a victim’s silence than confronting a perpetrator’s violence. Time we stop asking “Why didn’t she leave?” and start asking “Why did he think he could do this and get away with it?”
Cassie’s story is painful, but it’s also powerful. It’s a mirror held up to our collective conscience. And if all we can do in response is poke holes in her narrative instead of demanding justice, then we need to ask ourselves: Who are we really protecting?
Enough with the victim blaming. Believe Black women. Stand with survivors. And stop letting power excuse violence.
