Before the public knew Jian Ghomeshi the alleged sex offender, they knew Jian Ghomeshi the radio personality.

As the first week of Ghomeshi’s sexual assault trial wraps up, endless reporting and thousands of tweets have documented the case, closely following every statement made and each piece of evidence brought forward. The cutthroat cross-examination of defence lawyer Marie Henein attempted to shred the credibility of witnesses—women who were strong enough to come forward, only to now be broken down.

I’m following the trial religiously—I can’t look away for fear of missing a detail, a detail I would likely dismiss in normal everyday life, like whether or not I wore hair extensions on a particular day over a decade ago. Before Ghomeshi was charged with four counts of sexual assault and one count of overcoming resistance by choking, I listened to him on CBC’s Q. And even though I found his smooth-talking tone to be annoying, I greatly admired his work as a journalist.

When those we idolize—or at the very least appreciate—are accused of immoral acts, we become perplexed. How do we make sense of someone who is capable of making art for the world to enjoy while also being capable of destroying lives? If you believe art is an extension of oneself, it becomes hard to enjoy the art created by a sexual predator.

Appreciating the art while disliking the artist isn’t clear-cut. After the passing of David Bowie, Stacey May Fowles wrote a thought-provoking piece for Hazlitt about coming to terms with the fact that one of her role models had a history of sexual abuse.

Fowles shared how she, a survivor of sexual abuse, found herself initially trying to explain Bowie’s actions. She wrote, “In the moment I was actively trying to excuse his horrifying behaviour to justify my own admiration for him, becoming the very apologist I criticized out of the fear of complicating my own experience of loss.”After coming to the realization that idols can also be monsters, her perspective changed: “…knowing how harrowing it is for victims to see perpetrators celebrated in the media, I have a personal responsibility to examine and acknowledge the idea that he was potentially involved in someone else’s trauma.”

Fowles’s analysis made me think: who decides what celebrities receive a get-out-of-jail-free card? Bowie’s alleged rape certainly didn’t affect his legendary status. Tupac, who passed in 1996, was found guilty of sexually assaulting a woman and served time in prison for the charge. Yet the masses of fans that still mourn his death rarely remember this dark fact. R. Kelly’s alleged penchant for exploiting and abusing young women hasn’t ended his career, either—he released an album in 2013 and was featured on a hit Lady Gaga track that same year.

Perhaps it’s because celebrities like these also contribute to society in ways we enjoy. We don’t want to think about accusations that Woody Allen molested his adopted daughter because it makes it harder to like Annie Hall. Buying an R. Kelly album feels wrong if we think about the possibility he urinated into a young woman’s mouth.

But the truth is, even if we choose to forget what these men have done, the victims of their crimes don’t. Enjoying, celebrating and supporting sexual abusers is wrong—morally and ethically. If we turn a blind eye or justify unacceptable behaviour, we are creating a society that condones it. We are telling women that their abuse isn’t as important as the man who is responsible for it. We’re allowing art—albeit often good art—to bear more significance than our respect for human decency.

Despite the horrible circumstances, I find it reassuring to read outraged tweets and comments about the reality of the women involved in the Ghomeshi trial. People are starting to discuss how the legal system is set up to fail victims of sexual assault and how few convictions are actually made. Many Canadian journalists are also expressing their thoughts on the case and its portrayal of women. Ashley Csanady of the National Post tweeted: “What’s so chilling about Lucy’s testimony in #Ghomeshi is I don’t know a single woman who hasn’t done something she regrets just to be nice.” Alyshah Hasham, court reporter at the Toronto Star, wrote: “In case it’s somehow not crystal clear through the tweets this looks like a lead-up to accusing the complainant of lying. #ghomeshi.”

Despite Ghomeshi’s lack of emotion in court and Henein’s ruthless questioning, we are starting to talk about women and how they’re treated. The Star even put together a piece featuring different women’s tweets about the case.

Even if Ghomeshi is found not guilty—because that’s the way the system works—hopefully, his career is toast. When the trial wraps up, and the media frenzy dies down, I hope we forget about Ghomeshi, but not the women. The women who found the courage to stand up for themselves in an attempt to have their voices heard, despite the odds being stacked against them. Because hearing the voices of survivors of sexual abuse on the radio would be a pleasant change from hearing Ghomeshi’s.

February 5, 2016: The original version of this story has been corrected to ensure accuracy.

A woman stood before court on Monday to give testimony regarding the alleged sexual assault she survived 13 years ago. She faced an infamous lawyer ready to tear her words apart; unprecedented amounts of media attention, both in and out of the courtroom; and Jian Ghomeshi, the man she accused of punching her in the head and throwing her out “like trash.”

This, no doubt, must have been a daunting day for the woman, regardless of how much she, or her lawyer, prepared herself. Nevertheless, Toronto Star columnist Rosie DiManno felt the need to critique this woman as if she were an actor reading from a script, instead of a complainant sharing a traumatic experience with the world.

The problems started before the article did, with the disturbing headline, “First Ghomeshi witness suffers self-inflicted cuts.” DiManno begins her column by calling the woman “burnt toast,” claiming her credibility has gone up in flames. Later in the article, she points out that the woman only came forward with her story after the Star published its report on the sexual assault accusations, and that she went to the Star first instead of the police. DiManno ends by noting that the woman turned down a publicist’s request to represent her, and then says, “Doing just fine on her own, she was. Not so fine now.”

The implications in this article are very clear: it’s her fault. She isn’t credible and just wanted attention. These implications are obvious not only because of how blatantly DiManno’s writing transgresses any sense of decency (she seems to find a perverse sense of pleasure in the woman’s difficulties on the stand), but also because they are common. Far too common, in fact, as they seem to come up every time a powerful man is accused of a sexual crime.

But the trend extends beyond the Ghomeshis of the world, as 78 percent of sexual assaults in Canada aren’t reported to the police. The reasons vary, but they tend to focus on the survivor thinking no one will believe them, that they will be blown off or that they will be blamed for what they suffered. This is called re-victimization, and DiManno has been angered by it in the past, according to her column.

In the present, however, DiManno avoids the reality survivors face when she sneers at the fact that it took the woman 13 years to come forward. DiManno ignores the difficulties police present to survivors when she acts surprised the woman didn’t go to them first. And, when DiManno says she has “fumed over the re-victimization of victims” in the past, she ignores how journalists often lead the charge.

Why did it take the woman 13 years to come forward? I wonder.

Nova Scotia’s The Chronicle Herald breaks the ban and publishes her name on November 24. Her father praises the Chronicle Herald for its decision and on Friday, he writes a passionate opinion piece on CBC.ca about his disdain for the lingering ban on his daughter’s name. For him, it’s about justice and opening up a conversation on sexual assault and cyber crimes by removing the gag that rendered his daughter silent, both in life and death.

The Chronicle Herald feels that it’s in the public interest to publish her name—it wants to accurately report the trial while enabling “free public debate over sexual consent and the other elements of her story.” In 2014, The Chronicle Herald, along with local CBC, CTV and Global affiliates, challenged the ban upheld by Judge Jamie S. Campbell which makes publication bans mandatory in all child pornography cases. “The issue isn’t whether I think the ban serves any purpose or makes any sense in the peculiar circumstances of this individual case,” writes Judge Campbell in his decision. He continues, “There is no discretion to be exercised. There is no provision that allows the judge to consider whether the imposition of the ban is in the public interest.”

Halifax police announce on November 25 that after receiving numerous complaints, they’re investigating a media organization for breaching the publication ban. To date, they’ve investigated seven cases where people have allegedly broken the ban; however, the Crown has yet to charge anyone. Chris Hansen, a spokeswoman for Nova Scotia’s Public Prosecution Service tells the Toronto Star that the Crown considers three factors when deciding whether to press charges: “the widespread publicity around the victim’s name, her parents’ wishes, and the judge’s own words on the purpose of the ban.”

Media lawyer Brian Rogers says that publications often inadvertently break bans. However, he’s worked on two cases where newspapers have intentionally breached them. For him, these are examples of publications deciding that there is a “greater public interest to be served.”

The Chronicle Herald refuses to remain silent. On November 25—a day after breaking the ban—it published an evocative editorial cartoon that shows the victim peering out from behind a mask. Huffington Post Canada led its homepage with an acrostic headline spelling out her name when a defendant in the case received a one-year conditional discharge after pleading guilty to charges of child pornography on November 13. People continue to share the hashtag #YouKnowHerName on Twitter and some frustrated Canadians are even tweeting out her name.

Her name may be [Redacted] in print and on air, but few journalists are remaining silent about sex crimes in Canada. A recent Toronto Star investigation led by Jayme Poisson and Emily Mathieu revealed that only nine out of 78 Canadian universities have a sexual assault policy and all 24 public colleges in Ontario lack one. Poisson and Mathieu share stories, photos and videos of real women who were violated and then neglected by academic institutions. Mere days after the investigation appeared, schools like Queen’s University and the University of Saskatchewan announced that they’re hastening the development of a comprehensive sexual assault policy for their students. The presidents of all 24 colleges also voted in favour of implementing similar policies.

Just as the ubiquity of a Nova Scotia teen is helping to shape Canada’s legislation around cyber-bullying, this exemplary piece of investigative journalism is positively changing public policy on university and college campuses. Yet, the coverage of this story pales in comparison to the one that’s resulted in charges laid against Jian Ghomeshi—arguably Canada’s biggest news story this year. In a National Post piece with the headline “I Knew About Jian Ghomeshi and never said anything. Am I complicit in his alleged abuse?” Slate’s Carl Wilson echoes many when he says that rumours of sleazy sexual behaviour circled Ghomeshi for years. While “everybody” knew, writes Wilson, no one did anything about it. Though the coverage is mostly reactive, it gains further legitimacy when alleged victims come forward and reveal their names to say that CBC’s wunderkind abused them.

People are becoming more aware of how prevalent sex crimes are in Canada. We know they’re largely ignored and underreported. Yet many of the stories written are reactive—only brought to light when a victim can be identified. Journalists can write story upon story on horrifying statistics, but for some reason it often takes a face and a name to make them feel real.

When discussing her case, she may be “a victim in a high-profile child pornography case.” Yet, people know her name, and now, some journalists aren’t afraid to use it. Canadians are talking about and engaging in discussions about consent, sexual assault and cyber crimes. “She used to say, ‘I love my name, but I can’t find it on anything!’” recounts her mother on Facebook. Now, in spite of a publication ban, her name—and legacy—is everywhere.

For weeks now, everyone wondered how CBC would cover the downfall of its own golden boy.

“Our story tonight is not an easy one to tell. Many of those you’ll hear from are our colleagues. But we are telling it because five weeks after Jian Ghomeshi was fired, important questions still have no answers: what did managers know? When did they know it? What did they do?”

And with those words, the fifth estate’s Gillian Findlay began last night’s much-anticipated episode.

The fifth estate told a story of a charismatic young man’s rise to fame within the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, and how his flagship show quickly became an arena for promoting his own celebrity. But last night’s episode was about more than rehashing Ghomeshi’s past and re-exposing details of the scandal.

In what was sometimes an uncomfortable episode to watch, but absolutely necessary, the fifth estate produced a one-hour investigation unearthing the inner malfunctions and miscommunications that occurred at CBC. In the midst of the media frenzy surrounding the high-profile former CBC employee, the fifth estate sought to set the record straight by answering questions about the timeline of events, who knew what, and when specific decisions were made.

Through its own investigation with Q staff, the fifth estate found that, unlike what CBC management was saying, there was no investigation undertaken over the summer to look into allegations of workplace abuse and assault—at least not to the Q employees’ knowledge. Findlay cornered Chris Boyce, CBC’s executive director of radio, with her persistent questions. Boyce continued to refuse to answer her questions, stating that this was what lawyer Janice Rubin was looking into. When Findlay pushed Boyce for more answers, he appeared almost at his breaking point, unable to remember what happened and arguing that he doesn’t hold the same responsibility as the police in this story.

By highlighting the untold stories of Q producers Brian Coulton and Sean Foley, the fifth estate cast away any doubts of biased reporting. Coulton and Foley—who brought their information and concerns to CBC managers in early July—still feel as though their faith in the public broadcaster has been shaken following this incident.

Perhaps using the fifth estate to air details of what looks like a mismanaged crisis is part of CBC’s concerted efforts to quickly move on from this downfall and literally scrub away any association with Ghomeshi.

This subsidiary investigation on behalf of the fifth estate was a difficult exercise of self-analysis and reflection, but CBC succeeded in doing so graciously, without avoiding the hard-hitting questions. The fifth estate reminded viewers that as a corporation of journalists, it was their duty to tell this behind-the-scenes story—reminding everyone they are first and foremost journalists.

Image courtesy of the fifth estate. 

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