The first time a young writer came out with a Facebook status (dated August 2) about having been taken “sexual advantage” of in a writing workshop, I shared it with a very clear statement about silence. Fresh from the CNN Life panel for the Readers and Writers Fest where we were asked what is the biggest realization we’ve had about the cultural sector, I said that it is about how much of it operates on silence. We don’t know what’s going on, how things are decided, how the systems work, and all that we ever discuss is what we see on the surface: the finished art work, the published piece, the film, the TV show, the dress. But the work that goes into that, the institutions that come into play, the oppressions that are intrinsic to that system — we are kept in the dark about these things. After all, we can be so aware of power relations and capital, and still deny what that truly means.

And so the courage it took to come out on social media, as a young writing fellow in a workshop declaring having been taken sexual advantage of by a panelist, AND pushing back against the organizer of the workshop for failing to address her complaint, was a step in the right direction of transparency and speaking up, of refusing to be silenced by the institutional failure that to some extent expects victims to fall silent.

And I believe this writing fellow, as much as I can (sadly) believe the worst about what goes on in these workshops, given the stories that we all share within the literary community, of how sex can be used to get a workshop slot, or of young fellows’ discomfiture at old-men-panelists insisting on joining them for drinks, or for some downtime at the hotel pool. After all, these old men must know that between the “respect” they are accorded as “writers,” and their place in the workshop as panelist, it would take so much out of these young women to even take a stand and walk away.

Here’s a measure of how normal these narratives are: I was already guessing who the young fellow was referring to, I had a list of sleazy old men in my head who could / would possibly do something like this. Once I got a name from the literary network, I realized I knew the guy. And f*cking hell, not only was he not old, he is well aware of the literary power relations and should’ve known better than to even be in a position where he could be accused.

And yes, I could believe the fellow’s story about this panelist, just as much as I can (apparently) believe an accusation like this against any man — a terrible state of affairs, sure, but one that is important to go through at this point in time, if only so we learn of the multifarious ways we can handle accusations, the many possible versions of any story, the laws that should be taking care of us, and how we take responsibility for our actions all around. (It is what #MeToo has done to me, I think, that I will first believe the accusation against any man, before I sit down and try to understand my own responses, look at what I know, and what I cannot know, and decide where to go from there.)

But I primarily felt complicit, if not responsible, for what this fellow went through. I felt that we should’ve been able to warn young writers like her — girls and boys — about what it is that can happen in these spaces. I respected the care the fellow was taking to speak of “sexual advantage” versus what was actually being said in private conversations and discussions. I wanted her to be able to tell her story, and for other women to do so as well, towards maybe actually shining a light on what sexual harassment, advantage, abuse could look like, different as it always is for everyone, diverse and complicated as it can be. I felt, given the tendency to disengage from or to be unprotected by the legal process, that one way of addressing this crisis might be to have writers (and cultural workers) talk about their experiences. Shift the focus away from the perpetrators who should be brought to justice, towards the narratives that might allow us all to live safer, be safer, despite our engagements with these institutions. At the very least, let’s not allow these young writers and cultural workers to go in blind.

But a day after, on August 3, another person Tweeted out the name of the panelist that the young fellow was accusing, labelling him a “writer and rapist.” Something the fellow herself did not do.

The (online) mob then came out in full force, the echo chamber quickly built. There was no more conversation to be had, no more discussion outside of the easy dichotomy: accused VS accuser, oppressor VS victim, panelist VS fellow. It was retweeted without thinking, shared across social media accounts.

The following day, August 4, the accused made a public statement on Facebook promising to clear his name. The next day, August 5, the fellow came out with a public note on Facebook detailing her experience.

And I continue to believe her. I believe her experience as she is able to recall it. I believe her story and all that she remembers of it. I believe that waking up dazed and confused will keep her (as it would me) from actually thinking straight and deciding clearly about the steps to take at that point in time. I believe in her need to piece things together afterwards and ask people who were there what they saw or heard. I believe her narrative. 

But I cannot simply believe the narratives of the people outside of her, of people who were piecing together “what happened,” even when all they had to go on were what they saw and what they didn’t see. The latter is critical to this narrative. The story about what we didn’t see is dependent on only the two people who were present. Obviously, this would be a he-said, she-said situation; that is what the Courts are for — so a decision might be made about who is telling the truth.

The crisis is that this case is without the benefit of due process, as a case has yet to be filed against the accused. We are told it is but a symptom of the bigger oppression that women face, that this is proof that the law is not on our side, that there are just no safeguards for us. But that elides the fact that the law hasn’t been brought in at all versus the accused. And instead of actually having a discussion about what went wrong with the legal defense of the fellow so that we might all learn from it, the decision (deliberately and otherwise) of her friends and supporters has been to use social media to publicly take down the accused instead.

This is where this cause loses me completely. I draw the line at the decision — whoever’s decision it was — to take this all to social media in this way. Because as with any accusation, as with any instance of oppression, there is a way of using social media to galvanize support, to speak of the survivor(s), to highlight the institutional breakdown, and to maximize the time and space for relevant conversation. There is a way to discuss issues without ourselves falling into the trap of tagging and namecalling, without crossing the line towards libel and defamation.

Sure, it might be said that libel is used by the powerful against critics; but in this particular case, that is just not true. Sure, the panelist is clearly more powerful compared to the young fellow in that workshop setting, but outside of that setting? His power would be highly arguable, and suing for libel and defamation for the work he has already lost, the credibility he cannot recover, is within his rights. Here’s the downside to a public (social media) lynching: it generates sympathy for the accused who, in this case, is denied the benefit of due process.

Yes, suing people for libel won’t redeem him. But here’s the thing: social media mob rule has ensured no redemption. He’d be lucky to even recover a fraction of his career. With no case against him, there is no chance for him to be actually redeemed in a Court of Law. But hey, thanks to the social media mob that has already done its cruel work, the courts are unnecessary and the hell with due process.

In the meantime, the discussion has expectedly expanded beyond this one instance in one workshop to the literary institution as a whole. And it rightfully zeroed in on the workshop organizer who had been given an opportunity to address the situation, but ultimately failed to do so. That she is a woman of course makes matters worse; that her defenders keep writing bad poetry, does nothing but rub salt on open wounds. Yes, there is every reason to demand accountability, to insist that things change within these events. Why is there no ethical guidebook, why is there nothing written out in black and white about how panelists should behave given their position of power in a workshop setting? Why is there no person in charge of ensuring that parties don’t get out of hand? How can the workshop organizer even claim that what happens on a fellow’s last night is beyond the responsibility of the workshop? 

These are the questions we ask, and which we hope actually get answered, given the venues that are now open to having this discussion. But what of the two people who have been tagged as nothing more but accused and accuser, oppressor and victim, panelist and fellow? What happens to the two of them? What part(s) of their stories are we not hearing, because we have decided to listen to our own loud voices, our righteous indignation, as part of this mob we’ve created around ourselves?

What happens to reason and rationality, when we’ve decided unilaterally to tag a perpetrator, name his crime, and let the public take care of him? And what happens to the victim and survivor, the one in whose name this narrative is being spun, but who has since remained silent, her words drowned out by this state of affairs? Does she even think this is justice? Can this even take the place of justice?

There is a reason why we insist on due process given the political climate.

There is wisdom in refusing to become the monster we abhor. ***