Dine's Ethos

Where do I even begin?

I’m confronted with cases that leave me asking questions I can’t easily answer: Why? How? Why does this happen so often? Why is it normalized or excused in certain circles? How do we begin to make sense of it?

These aren’t rhetorical questions—I really want to understand. In American Samoa, sexual crimes are not just isolated incidents. They represent a persistent issue, with cases spanning generations, genders, and relationships. Yet, the patterns remain heartbreakingly similar, and the excuses, infuriatingly repetitive.

Sexual crimes are among the most common cases in I handle in American Samoa. The demographic trends are particularly alarming: elderly men with pre-teen children, and men in their 20s or 30s preying on teenagers. In every instance, the law is clear—anyone under 18 cannot consent, no matter the circumstances.

Yet, I hear the same self-justification. “She came to me.” “He pursued me first.” “I didn’t force her; she wanted it.” These arguments, whether whispered in private or spoken aloud in court, miss the point entirely. The question isn’t whether a child or teenager acted a certain way—it’s why an adult chose to act on it. These crimes are not just violations of the law; they are violations of trust, safety, and innocence. And yet, they are alarmingly prevalent, signaling a deeper problem that we must confront.

One of the biggest challenges in addressing sexual crimes is combating cognitive distortions—the faulty thinking patterns that allow offenders to justify their actions. These distortions don’t appear overnight; they are shaped by upbringing, environment, and a lifetime of missteps that reinforce dangerous beliefs.

But can they be undone? Can an adult, already set in their ways, unlearn the justifications that allowed them to harm others?

The reality is, changing deeply ingrained thought patterns is difficult, especially when those distortions are paired with a lack of empathy. Many sexual offenders struggle to recognize—let alone care about—the emotional and psychological harm they cause. They detach from their victims, reducing them to objects rather than people with pain, fears, and futures forever altered by their actions.

For some, this lack of empathy stems from an inability to form healthy emotional attachments. If you’ve never truly connected with others in a meaningful way, it becomes easier to dehumanize those you harm.

There are times when I sit across from a client convicted of a sexual crime, and I can’t shake the feeling that—even after the conviction—they still don’t fully grasp that what they did was wrong. How is that possible? How do you not know that it’s wrong? Is it a failure of education? Cultural attitudes? A lack of consequences?

I’ve noticed a trend: many of these individuals never graduated high school—most didn’t even start. Is that just a coincidence, or is there a deeper correlation between lack of education and lack of understanding when it comes to consent and boundaries?

I always want to ask why. I want to understand. But as a young female attorney, I know that many of them already feel uncomfortable discussing their cases with me. There’s an unspoken barrier, a discomfort that makes it difficult to get honest answers.

Still, I try. I do my best to ask the hard questions in a way that isn’t judgmental. Because while the law assigns guilt and society demands accountability, understanding the “why” matters too. It matters for prevention, for rehabilitation, and for making sense of a system that often feels like it’s only catching the problem after the damage is done.

There is a reluctance to report and address these issues openly. A reluctance to acknowledge that they are happening in our own families, churches, and communities. Is there enough education about consent, boundaries, and the law? Is there sex education in schools? Would that help? Are cultural attitudes inadvertently protecting predators instead of victims?

The instinctive reaction to sexual predators is often to lock them up and throw away the key. I understand that response—it comes from a place of anger, pain, and the need for justice.

But if we truly want to reduce sexual crimes, punishment alone isn’t enough. We need to understand the root causes, the societal failures, and the gaps in education that allow these crimes to persist. Only then can we, as a community, work toward prevention, accountability, and real change.

The more I handle these cases, the more unanswered questions plague me. What troubles me even more is how often these questions go unasked.