At Salal Sexual Violence Support Centre, we are closely following the ongoing trial of five members of the 2018 World Junior Canadian hockey team — Michael McLeod, Cal Foote, Carter Hart, Dillon Dubé, and Alex Formenton — who have been accused of group sexual assault. The complainant, E.M., has bravely come forward and is now navigating a high-profile legal process, years after the assault occurred.

The case stems from a June 2018 Hockey Canada gala where the accused were celebrating their championship win in London, Ontario. According to legal filings and public reports, E.M. was intoxicated, coerced into a hotel room, videotaped without consent, instructed to say she was sober, and then subjected to multiple non-consensual sexual acts by several men. She has testified that she was prevented from leaving, and that the accused brought golf clubs into the room — an act that can only be understood as a show of power, intimidation, and control.

This case is not an outlier. It is part of a long-standing and well-documented culture in hockey — one that Canadian journalist Laura Robinson began exposing over two decades ago. In her 2007 article “The Girl: Unprotected,” Robinson chronicled how normalized misogyny, hazing rituals, and the gamification of sex were embedded in Canadian hockey culture. In her book Crossing the Line, she warned that institutional silence and complicity would only lead to more harm. Today, E.M.’s experience reflects precisely what Robinson, survivors, and advocates have been saying all along: the culture has not changed — or at least, not nearly enough.

It’s impossible to ignore the echoes. As CBC’s The Fifth Estate reported, there have been at least 15 police investigations into group sexual assaults involving junior hockey players since 1989 — and half of those were in the last ten years. Different cities, different teams, different players, but the same pattern. Intoxication. Coercion. Group violence. Followed by silence. Followed by protection of the accused and the questioning of survivors’ behaviour.

E.M. shouldn’t have had to carry this. Not just the violence, but the weight of exposing a national crisis.

Because that’s what survivors often end up doing: not just seeking accountability for what happened to them, but also pulling back the curtain on the system that allowed it to happen in the first place. Survivors are expected to be perfect — to be calm under cross-examination, to recount trauma with precision, and to stand tall against backlash — while their assailants are protected by institutions, legacy, and an old boys’ club that sees critique as betrayal.

And in Canada, survivors still do not have legal standing in criminal cases. They are called “witnesses,” not participants. Their behaviour is scrutinized —“Why didn’t she run?” “Why did she go to that room?” — while the behaviour of the accused men, who invited each other in without consent, who closed the door behind them, who brought golf clubs, is simultaneously treated like a footnote. We have progressive laws about consent in this country — that it must be affirmative, ongoing, and freely given, and removed — but they are only as strong as the institutions willing to uphold them. And that’s what’s in question here.

This trial isn’t just about five men. It’s about a system that has taught them — and many others — that fame and athleticism come with impunity. It’s about a sport that has failed to reckon with its own history. It’s about a culture that still asks the wrong questions when a survivor comes forward.

At Salal, we believe survivors. We support survivors. And we are committed to shifting society. We know how much it takes to come forward — the courage, the risk, the emotional toll. And we know that for every survivor whose story makes headlines, there are thousands more navigating violence and silence alone.

We stand in solidarity with E.M., and with every survivor who has been told they should’ve done more, when the truth is: they’ve already done too much.

If you or someone you know has experienced sexual violence, you are not alone. Our crisis line is available 24/7, and we offer confidential, trauma-informed support rooted in intersectional feminist, anti-oppressive, decolonial care.