Jian Ghomeshi has been charged. There is no denying that this is a remarkable development given Ghomeshi’s position and the relative powerlessness of his accusers, and it is surely heartening news both for those who came forward, who wanted their allegations tested in a court of law, and for the countless women across this country who have watched actual change come from women speaking out.

But let’s not forget how this all started.

Let’s not forget that when Ghomeshi published his original letter, the public support for his side of the story, before we had even heard from his accusers, was overwhelming.

Let’s not forget that while many of us were horrified when the original Star story on Ghomeshi’s alleged assaults came out, still more of us (in conversations, online, in the pages of our nation’s newspapers) maintained that we were holding out for real evidence, real proof, something besides the accusations of anonymous women.

Let’s not forget that there is probably no proof any one of these women could have offered us that would have been sufficient; that it took a tidal wave of matching stories to convince us that these accusations were worth taking seriously. That it took nine women, one man, three names, two literal voices and innumerable horrific details for us to start believing that.

Let’s not forget what might have happened to Ghomeshi if only one of his accusers had come forward. If there had been only one.

Let’s not forget that as a culture, our default is to demand that victims of sexual assault, harassment and rape offer us incontrovertible evidence of things that are incredibly hard to prove; that when a case like this comes to light, we parrot the phrase “innocent until proven guilty” as though proving a withdrawal of consent were just as easy as proving a sex act occurred. That most victims have seen the way we treat those who are brave enough to speak out against their accusers — with disbelief and intense scrutiny — and in many cases that is enough to discourage them from ever doing the same.

Let’s not forget that when asked why they didn’t report their assaults, some of Ghomeshi’s accusers said they feared “a police report would expose their names,” and that they worried “their consent or acceptance of fantasy role-play discussions in […] messages with Ghomeshi would be used against them as evidence of consent to actual violence.” That his lawyer, when confronted with these accusations, cited these messages as evidence that would “discredit” their stories.

Let’s not forget that according to Statistics Canada, while one in four Canadian women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime, only 6 per cent of sexual assaults are reported to police. That most victims of sexual assault don’t report because they fear their stories won’t be taken seriously, or because they feel the police won’t be able to do anything about it. Let’s not forget that they believe these things because they are shown, over and over again and in public, that our culture and legal system fail victims of rape and assault at practically every turn.

Let’s not forget that while we’re constantly asking victims why they didn’t go to the police, the process of reporting an assault, or attempting to pursue justice against your attacker, can be just as frustrating and violating as the crime itself. That according to the YWCA, for every 33 reported assaults in Canada, 29 are recorded as crimes, 12 have charges laid, six are prosecuted, and only three lead to convictions. That in a best-case scenario, a victim who reports is setting herself up for weeks, months, years of intense questioning and scrutiny; that she will be asked to relive the event countless times, that she will be asked again and again what she was wearing and how much she had to drink and what her ulterior motives might be, and even then, there’s no guarantee she’ll receive any kind of justice. Let’s not forget what it might be like to stare down the barrel of those odds when you’re already traumatized, depressed, disheartened, in pain.

Let’s not forget that these crimes are committed every single day, not only by strangers and celebrities, but by people we know — by friends and family and community leaders. That this is hard to believe. That the harder it is, the more we need to remember.

It is encouraging to see that even a prominent public figure like Jian Ghomeshi, faced with the sort of allegations that are too often ignored or dismissed, is not beyond the reach of our justice system — that his fate will be decided by a court, as it should be. Whatever happens next, let’s not forget all the women who showed immense strength and bravery and perseverance in speaking out publicly against him. And let’s never forget why most victims of assault still stay silent.

Emma Healey is a Toronto writer.

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