The Cornell case made me ask my sons — what would you have done?

I have two sons, aged 18 and 21, both studying at universities in America, including an Ivy League one. That made this feel very real for me. I share a close relationship with both of them, and over the years, we have spoken openly and honestly about pretty much everything — relationships, sex, consent, equality, LGBTQ issues, alcohol, drugs, cigarettes and vaping, but I had never asked them what they would do if another man crossed the line. I wondered if I’d done enough. What is “enough” in this world where the rules change daily? Is a mother’s work ever truly done with her children?

Here I was, thousands of miles away in Mumbai, my head swirling with thoughts, while both my sons were living in university dorms where frat parties happen regularly. There was something I needed to ask my sons. I called my older son first. He didn’t pick up. My younger one didn’t answer my call either.

So, I did the next best thing. I sent each of them a text message: “This Cornell incident has made me feel sick to my stomach, and it has made me ponder. We have never had this kind of a talk, and so I have to ask… if you were in a text thread with 50 other young men, and they sent violent and explicit messages about a passed-out young woman, what would you do? Because, to me, it’s not just about those seven boys. It’s also very much about the 50 others who were on that chat. That’s what I was calling about.”

Both my sons called me back. The conversations went very differently, but on reflection, very similarly. I told each of them that it was the silence of those other boys that bothered me. Only a thin line separates silence from complicity. I asked questions: When is it okay to keep quiet? When must you call for help? When do you take yourself out of a setting? What kind of situations demand what kind of action? Is consent from someone drunk or high valid?

It was interesting to hear their responses and see the difference in their personalities coming through. My younger son was outraged. He could not believe I thought he would keep quiet. It upset him that I had to even ask him what he’d do; that I didn’t just know. Young, brash, fiery, principled.

My older son was fuming over what he had read about the case. He wanted consequences that fit the allegations. He hated that Jane Doe had to go through this, that she had had to keep living with it. He wanted justice for her. And yes, he sure as hell wouldn’t look the other way. Compassionate, just, action-driven.

Both touched on the fact that the other boys on the chat might not have thought this was really happening. That they might have regarded it as someone typing nonsense while high or drunk, or both. It gave all three of us some pause. That led us to discuss which messages we should question, particularly when someone’s safety is at stake. Who should we believe? Who should we give the benefit of doubt to? They weren’t easy conversations to have, but I definitely slept better that night.

The truth is, as parents, we are never really done. Our children may grow up and leave home, but the conversations don’t have to end. We keep asking the difficult, uncomfortable questions. We keep reminding our sons that masculinity doesn’t require hardness. We keep teaching them not just how to avoid doing the wrong thing, but how to recognise when something is wrong, and find the courage to do something about it. We keep hoping that we have raised boys who will know when to speak up, when to step in, when to ask for help, and when to understand that silence is a choice too.

We owe that to our sons. And we owe it to every girl in the world.

Sorensen is a Mumbai-based children’s author