Victim: The Wonderful Label That Reduces You to a Walking Bag of Tears

Ah, the word «victim,» that magical term that, in the blink of an eye, manages to turn someone who has survived a horrible experience into a kind of wilted plant, abandoned in a corner. Because, of course, if there’s one thing that’s clear, it’s that people who have endured rape, sexual assault, or any other brutal trauma are destined to be labeled with this lovely «victim» tag for the rest of their lives. How convenient, right? They no longer have to worry about being anything else. What a relief!

Let’s imagine a few cases, just to warm up. Take Ana Orantes, for example, who was murdered in 1997 after sharing her story of years of abuse and violence by her husband on TV—a story that, shockingly, did nothing to protect her. Victim? Sure, they beat her and then set her on fire. But, oh, isn’t the term «victim» just lovely? It reduces her to a passive figure, with no possibility of escaping that role. Because, apparently, surviving years of beatings and torture doesn’t make you anything other than a «victim,» destined to receive sympathetic pats on the back and phrases like, «Poor thing, such a shame.»

And what about La Manada? Five men, together, at a party. The girl who was raped at the San Fermín festival in 2016. There she is, the perfect «victim.» The media practically salivated over the narrative of the defenseless girl, with no role in the story other than being the poor thing who silently cried while a pack of morons ruined her life. Because, of course, once you’re labeled as a «victim,» there’s no turning back. You’re no longer a person with agency, with the ability to fight back. No, now your only role is to be the face of suffering, and, of course, to wait for society to decide, in its infinite kindness, how much it cares about you—and whether they’ll stand in solidarity or blame you. Because, apparently, going out to a party on a hot July night and trusting in humanity is grounds for suspicion.

The Jewel of the Legal System: You’re a «Victim» Because They Say So

The best part is that this word isn’t innocent, of course not. Its weight comes directly from the courts, that warm and sensitive place where you are subjected to exhaustive questioning to make sure you’re a «real» victim because, you know, not all rapes count if you don’t fit the stereotype of the tearful, fragile, and shattered woman. For the legal system, the figure of the victim is necessary—not for justice or reparation, but so they can neatly fit people into an easy-to-understand scheme: the bad guy (the rapist, assuming the judges don’t decide he’s just a confused man) and the good guy, who, poor thing, has no choice but to be the ideal «victim.»

And it turns out, in Spain, the term «victim» is judicialized. It doesn’t just imply having suffered violence or assault; it’s the legal system that decides when you are, and when you’re not, a victim. If you want the State to recognize you as a «victim,» you have to follow a protocol that’s often as long and painful as the original trauma. Take, for instance, terrorism victims. To be officially recognized as such, you must meet certain requirements and go through a series of administrative steps: police reports, medical records, court documents—all thoroughly documented, of course, because without paperwork, you don’t exist. Did you lose a loved one in an attack? Too bad, but if you didn’t submit the papers on time, forget about being recognized as a «victim.» Because, of course, pain isn’t enough; you need the institutions’ seal of approval.

This same thing happens to people who have suffered sexual or gender-based violence. Sometimes, it’s not enough to have gone through the trauma of the assault. No, you have to report it, explain it in excruciating detail, and subject yourself to the scrutiny of the courts to earn the honor of being called a «victim.» Didn’t report it? Or the report didn’t go anywhere? Then sorry, but officially, you’re no one. So, you know, it’s not that you’re a person with a traumatic experience, you’re a «victim» if, and only if, the judicial machinery says so.

A perfect example: Rocío Wanninkhof, murdered in 1999, and her mother, Alicia Hornos, turned into another judicial «victim»—not only of her daughter’s murder, but of a justice system that preferred to fabricate a culprit—Dolores Vázquez, of course—because apparently, no one in the system understood that there might be something more beyond this little game of victims and villains. Was the investigation a disaster? Sure, but the important thing was that we had a «victim» to parade on the evening news.

And of course, the word «victim» is perfect for feeding this circus. No one wants a survivor in a courtroom. Can you imagine someone saying, «I survived, but I’m not staying in the pain; I’ve rebuilt my life»? Ugh, how uncomfortable. That doesn’t fit the judicial show. They need someone with downcast eyes, someone who makes the jury feel like they’re the heroes. Because what other reason do those people have for banging their gavel on the table if not to affirm that the «victim» is someone who needs saving? Even worse, the term «survivor» would be a total horror for the judges: «What? You’re going to move on without my divine intervention? Unacceptable!»

The Stigma: Slap the Label on and Forget About Living

The best part about the term «victim» is its ability to tattoo itself onto people’s skin like a stigma that never fades. You are a victim, period. Look what happened to poor Nevenka Fernández, who sued her boss, the mayor of Ponferrada, for sexual harassment in 2001. She stood up against an entire sexist, backward system—and won her case. Survivor? Nope. «Victim» forever. Because that’s what matters, right? That she remains trapped in the role of the woman who suffered, not the brave person who had the strength to stand up against a corrupt system. We remember her as «the girl who was harassed,» not the fighter who made history in Spanish justice. Because, of course, that would be recognizing that people have agency and can confront abuse without being condemned to eternal passivity.

And let’s not forget, the word comes with a whole gift package. If you’re a «victim,» society gives you an instruction manual on how to behave. You can’t be strong, you can’t get angry, you can’t have resilience, because if you do—surprise!—you stop being a victim and become someone who makes them uncomfortable. And we can’t have that, can we? No, no. If you move on and decide you’re not going to stay in misery, suddenly the world starts wondering: «Was it really that bad, what happened to you? Because you don’t seem too affected.» The damn narrative demands that you stay weak so that people will take you seriously.

Survivors: People Who Annoy Us Because They Won’t Stay Quiet

Now, imagine what would happen if instead of calling these people «victims,» we called them survivors. Oh, what a mess! How would we handle it if we suddenly acknowledged that these people have strength, that they’re not just crushed flowers by the system? Calling them «survivors» implies that they fought, that they found ways to keep going, and that messes up the whole paternalistic narrative this society is built on.

The term «survivor» isn’t just more accurate; it’s closer to reality. Look at Elizabeth Smart, kidnapped and raped for nine months. Victim? According to the media, sure. But Smart didn’t accept staying in the role of the docile victim. She became an activist, a writer, someone who took control of her own story. She makes society uncomfortable because it doesn’t want to reflect on the possibility that maybe we don’t need more «victims»—we need people who rebuild their lives and challenge the tidy little story we’ve imposed on them.

Another case is Jaycee Lee Dugard, kidnapped for 18 years, repeatedly raped, and forced to have children with her captor. Victim? If you look at the headlines of the time, absolutely. But after her rescue, Jaycee didn’t just return to living her life—she wrote a book and refused to be labeled as a «victim.» She is the living definition of a survivor, someone who faced the unthinkable and came out the other side. And here’s the problem for society: it doesn’t know how to deal with people who rise up, who don’t stay in the mud of trauma waiting to be rescued.

What Terms Should We Use Instead of «Victim»?

This is where we should get more imaginative, right? Come on, if we finally get rid of the word «victim,» what can we use that doesn’t sound like stigma or imposed weakness? Well, let’s start with the obvious: survivor. It’s not perfect, but it’s much better. Calling someone who has been through a traumatic experience a “survivor” acknowledges something very important: that person has gone through hell and is still here, alive, fighting, rebuilding. It doesn’t reduce them to their trauma but recognizes them as someone with strength, who has the ability to rebuild their life. By using «survivor,» we make it clear that it’s not the violence that defines the person, but their ability to resist it and move forward.

Another term we could use is person affected by violence. It’s more neutral, more technical if you like, but at least it doesn’t carry that absolute vulnerability that comes with “victim.” It acknowledges that yes, violence has had an impact, but it’s not the only thing that defines that person.

We could also use something like resilient person, because what is resilience if not the ability to get back up over and over again? It recognizes the struggle without boxing the person into a position of fragility. Although, of course, “resilient” sounds like you have to be strong all the time, and that’s not what we’re looking for either. The key is to find terms that leave room for complexity, for the struggle, for fragility and strength in equal measure.

Finally, we could just say people. Because, after all, we are not our experiences of violence. We are so much more than that. If we started there, maybe we’d stop seeing people who have gone through these horrors as broken beings, and begin to see them for what they really are: complex, brave, and unapologetically human.