Protestors raising awareness for sexual assault survivors protest outside the courthouse in London, Ont., on May 2.Geoff Robins/The Canadian Press
Farrah Khan is the executive director (on medical leave) of Action Canada, a non-profit organization advocating for sexual health and rights worldwide.
Ten years ago, the Jian Ghomeshi case sparked a national reckoning about consent, power and the impact of trauma on memory. It was supposed to be a turning point. But here we are again.
The sexual-assault trial involving five former members of Canada’s world junior hockey team has dominated headlines in recent weeks, and the general public has watched a steady stream of updates about the case’s judicial proceedings. But survivors have seen something different – a system that asks everything of them and delivers little in return.
I cannot comment on the details of this active case. But I can name the pattern: a complainant subjected to an exhausting legal process under the glare of public scrutiny. Delays, mistrials and legal technicalities taking centre stage, while care for the person at the heart of the case – someone reporting harm – gets pushed to the margins.
The parallels to the Ghomeshi trial are painfully familiar. For many who have been subjected to sexual violence, it confirms what we already know: The criminal prosecution system was never designed to prioritize healing, safety or accountability. It is not a justice system, but a legal one.
In the past decade, there have been some gains: trauma-informed training for judges and the expansion of independent legal advice for complainants in some provinces. But the harm persists.
One detail from the Hockey Canada proceedings stands out: A player told police he took two short videos of the complainant saying she was “okay with this” and that everything was “consensual.” He explained that he recorded the footage because it was a “weird situation” and he was “worried something like this would happen.”
The act of recording a statement after the fact doesn’t demonstrate a clear understanding of consent – it reveals a broken one. Too often, sexual health education teaches the legal language of consent, but not its meaning. As a result, it can be interpreted as a technicality, a shield against accusation, rather than a dynamic conversation between willing participants. This understanding makes consent something to obtain, rather than co-create. It reduces intimacy to liability management.
This narrow framing of consent has lasting impacts on us all. It leaves everyone without the tools to ask, listen, or take responsibility, and survivors without the language to describe what went wrong.
For decades, I’ve led consent and communication workshops across campuses in North America. And I hear the same question repeatedly: Why didn’t I learn this earlier? The answer is stark: It has never been made it a priority. Not in policy, not in funding and certainly not in practice.
In my keynotes, I often ask: Who was taught sex ed? Most hands go up. Who was taught about STIs or how to avoid pregnancy? A few hands remain. But when I ask: Who learned how to communicate desires and boundaries? To understand pleasure? To talk about intimacy? The room goes silent.
We offer fear-based sex education, not comprehensive, inclusive learning rooted in empathy and care. Don’t get pregnant. Use a condom. Get consent or get in trouble. That isn’t education. It’s damage control. It leaves people unprepared for real-life relationships built on care, responsibility and joy.
Action Canada’s research shows most students still do not receive consistent, trauma-informed or inclusive sex education. What they learn depends on their school, teacher and postal code. Communication, trust and care are often missing, yet these are essential lessons.
Social media now shapes how we interpret these cases. The Ghomeshi trial was a harbinger in Canada. Today, testimonies are dissected on TikTok, YouTube and reaction podcasts. Courtroom discussions are misquoted and consumed as entertainment.
Young people and survivors are watching, and many are thinking the same thing: Why would I ever report?
If we want to end sexual violence, we have to go to the root. That means shifting from reaction to prevention, from punishment to accountability and from silence to care. We need governments to sustainably invest in comprehensive, inclusive sexual-health education, sexual-assault support centres and restorative justice models.
The spotlight is on junior hockey now, but the deeper issue is systemic. This isn’t just about one night in a hotel room. It’s about the environment that made it possible.
On the individual level, this shift starts with simple questions: How do you check in during sex? Does that question make you uncomfortable to read? Who could you ask it to? And who could hear your honest answer?
If we want sexual violence to end, we need more than legal reform. We need transformation. And that starts with creating spaces where people are invited not just to follow rules, but to care for each other out loud.