Trigger warning: This article contains references to child sexual abuse.
As Donald J. Trump prepares to assume the presidency once again, we find ourselves confronting the dark undercurrents of our country’s foundations. The president-elect and several of his cabinet nominees have been accused of various forms of sexual misconduct, ranging from harassment to assault. This is not surprising. It is not shocking that a man who was found liable for sexual abuse in a civil court and has been accused of misconduct by multiple women would select a cabinet with members facing similar allegations. What we are witnessing is not a deviation from convention but an unearthing of America’s essence.
The United States was founded on violence — genocide against Indigenous peoples and the enslavement of Africans. This violence was not only systemic but also gendered. Sexual violence has been an enduring feature of the country’s identity, intricately woven into its fabric. Enslaved Black women were treated as property, their bodies subjected to exploitation and abuse, while Indigenous women were brutally attacked as a means of erasing their communities. These acts of violence were not incidental; they were central to the nation’s expansion and development.
The concept of sexual violence in America has been racialized from the beginning. Enslaved Black women were deemed “unrapeable,” a notion codified in rulings like the 1829 case State v. Mann, which upheld the violent exploitation of enslaved individuals as legal. Meanwhile, white women were framed as virtuous and in need of protection from hypersexualized Black men, as seen in cases like the Scottsboro Boys trial of 1931, where nine Black teenagers were falsely convicted of rape, fueling racial violence.
This precedent allowed white men to commit acts of violence without restraint, particularly against Black women, exemplified by the 1944 attack on Recy Taylor, whose assailants faced no accountability. These dynamics served as a guide for future cases: White men were granted impunity for acts of violence, particularly when those acts reinforced systems of racial and gender hierarchy.
These historical dynamics resonate powerfully in the present.
Those perpetuating harm are actively being elevated to positions of power. Trump has been accused of sexual misconduct by about two dozen women and has faced minimal consequences. In response to these allegations, Trump has labeled his accusers as “horrible, horrible liars” and deemed the allegations part of a conspiracy against him, suggesting that the media and political opponents are attempting to tarnish his reputation.
Among his cabinet, the allegations are similarly troubling. Pete Hegseth, Trump’s choice for secretary of defense, was accused of sexual assault in 2017, allegations he denied before settling out of court. Robert F. Kennedy Jr., tapped to lead the Department of Health and Human Services, has faced accusations of repeatedly groping a woman in the late 1990s. Last July, Kennedy addressed the allegations, stating, “I have no memory of this incident but I apologize sincerely for anything I ever did that made you feel uncomfortable or anything I did or said that offended you or hurt your feelings.” Linda McMahon, slated to head the Department of Education, has been named in a lawsuit alleging she enabled child sexual abuse during her tenure at World Wrestling Entertainment. McMahon has denied the allegations.
This normalization of gender-based violence at the highest levels of government marks a dangerous inflection point. When harm is excused, minimized or even embraced at the pinnacle of power in a system, it signals to survivors at large that their experiences do not matter and that those who engage in harm will not face consequences. Gender-based violence becomes an institutionalized norm, woven into the systems that govern our lives, as these leaders — accused of causing harm in their personal or professional lives — extend that harm on a wider scale.
When harm is excused, minimized or even embraced at the pinnacle of power in a system, it signals to survivors at large that their experiences do not matter and that those who engage in harm will not face consequences.
We’ve already seen the devastating consequences of the erosion of reproductive rights under such leadership, including preventable deaths from unsafe abortions and the forced continuation of pregnancies under life-threatening circumstances. These decisions underscore how personal patterns of harm translate into systemic policies that disproportionately affect women, particularly those from marginalized communities.
Trump’s administration is a manifestation of this broader system that has always privileged white, male power. This was true in 2016 and it will be true again in 2025. This is an opportunity to educate ourselves and others, not just about the individual acts of violence that make headlines but also about the structural forces that sustain them. By confronting the ways in which race, gender and power intersect, we can move beyond the simplistic narratives that pit gender against race and begin to address the root causes of harm.
Too often, discussions of gender-based violence are siloed from conversations about racial and economic injustice. This obscures the reality that racialized and gendered violence are inseparable. The criminalization of Black men has always been tied to the protection of white womanhood, while the violence endured by Black women has been largely ignored.
Indigenous women face astronomical rates of violence, yet their experiences are often relegated to the margins of mainstream feminist discourse. The framing of gender-based violence as a universal issue, stripped of its racial dimensions, erases the vulnerabilities faced by women of color and sustains the myth that gender operates independently of other systems of oppression.
Living in the so-called Global North often fosters a false sense of moral superiority. Many of us believe that the existence of democratic institutions, access to education and technological advancements mean we are closer to liberation. Yet the persistence of systemic violence and inequality within our borders tells a different story. Privilege exists in all white identities, regardless of gender or class.
It is the privilege to be seen as fully human, to have one’s pain acknowledged and to navigate systems — whether legal, economic or social — without fear of exploitation or harm. White privilege often means being able to walk into a room and assume safety, being heard and believed when speaking up or having access to opportunities that others are systematically denied. Even in the face of patriarchy, whiteness affords these advantages, shielding individuals from the compounded oppressions faced by individuals of color. Recognizing this privilege is essential if we are to dismantle the systems that perpetuate inequality.
At the same time, there is an “elsewhere” — a world beyond the United States where people are organizing, resisting and building alternative futures, as we have seen and been inspired by in Bangladesh. These movements remind us that liberation is not a fixed destination but an ongoing process, one that requires us to reckon with our own complicity in systems of harm and to imagine new possibilities for justice and equity.
Despite the grim realities of this moment, I remain hopeful. America has always been a paradox: a nation capable of great harm and great transformation. The same systems that have perpetuated violence can be dismantled and reimagined.
America has always been a paradox: a nation capable of great harm and great transformation. The same systems that have perpetuated violence can be dismantled and reimagined.
This is an invitation to think with me, to dream about what we are for rather than what we are against. It is only through our collective effort in community, with a shared commitment to wanting something more — something rooted in justice and liberation — that we can begin to dismantle the deeply entrenched inequities woven into America’s foundation.
We can envision a world where gender-based violence is no longer normalized, where racial hierarchies are dismantled and where all people are afforded dignity and safety. To get there, we must start by telling the truth — about our history, our present and the systems that have shaped us. We must challenge ourselves to see the connections between race, gender and power, and to address these intersections.
America has long been a muscle of change and transformation. This is our opportunity to flex it — to turn this moment of reckoning into a movement for justice. Together, we can create a future where liberation is not an illusion but a reality, where harmful systems are replaced with ones that affirm our collective humanity. The work begins with us, and it begins on January 20.
Kavita Mehra is a feminist and survivor of domestic, sexual and working-class violence. She currently serves as the executive director of Sakhi for South Asian Survivors and is a cofounder and board member of South Asian SOAR. A proud New Jersey native, Mehra resides in Jersey City with her life partner and son.
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This article was originally published on refinery29.com.