By Beth A. Robertson
On the evening of October 26th, I found myself staring at a computer screen, dumbfounded and confused. What I had unwittingly come across was Jian Ghomeshi’s bizarre facebook post that told a story of him being fired from the CBC because of his private sex life. He argued that he was let go when the CBC learned of his enjoyment of “rough sex”, and that a jilted past lover was attempting to launch a “smear campaign,” that recast his sexual tastes as non-consensual. A Toronto Star article published shortly thereafter made the story even more bewildering, as it told of an investigation of Ghomeshi over the last several months involving not just one, but four women whose claims ranged from sexual harassment to violent abuse. Within hours, social media was filled with polarizing discussions of whether or not the allegations were true, with many people deciding to “side” with Ghomeshi. This seemed the case even as evidence mounted against Ghomeshi’s version of events, alongside sex activists and thinkers who problematized his claims that he was a sincere practitioner of BDSM.
A total of nine women have come forward since then to tell of violent sexual encounters with Ghomeshi, including Canadian actress Lucy DeCoutere, as well as author and lawyer Reva Seth. A formal police investigation of Ghomeshi has ensued. And now, a number of Ghomeshi’s staunchest advocates have toned down their once vocal support, the most famous being singer-songwriter Lights, who has since severed ties with Ghomeshi.
The unfolding scandal surrounding Ghomeshi has rightly led to broader discussions about women and sexual assault, perhaps the most pressing being how women are systematically disbelieved and even shamed when they do come forward. An important part of this story is the historical gendering of truth-telling and the consequences of this legacy for women, especially for those who experience sexual violence. Continue reading