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It’s not about you.
And maybe that’s precisely what unsettles and irritates people.
Since the revelations surrounding the whistleblower (a former Steer employee in the US) and the rise of MetooDJs (created well before the scandal), the scene has been spinning in every direction: official statements, open letters, back-to-back Instagram stories, midnight TikToks, shared screenshots, instant hot takes, positions that are sometimes brave, sometimes opportunistic, often rushed. Everyone is talking. Everyone is commenting. Everyone finally seems to have an opinion.
But today, one question remains: who is actually helping the victims?
The anger is real, and it is legitimate. Anger at the omertà that protected untouchable figures for years. Anger at the sexist and sexual violence many people knew about, sensed, suspected, yet never truly named. Anger, too, at the well-oiled mechanism that dictates that it takes a man speaking out for people to finally listen, or a major DJ validating the outrage for the entire scene to treat it as a central issue.
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And yet women and grassroots organizations have been speaking for years. Often alone. Often at the cost of their careers. Sometimes at the cost of their mental health.
We discovered — or chose to discover — the systemic scale of the problem through Annabel Ross’s work on Derrick May. Through Kristen, Erick Morillo’s victim, who agreed to publicly expose what the industry preferred to keep quiet in order not to tarnish a legend. These were not rumors. They were documented, precise, courageous accounts. And still, the dominant response was not structural reckoning, but crisis management.
Just reread some of the comments left by major figures in the scene under Erick Morillo’s final post to measure the collective denial that persisted until very recently. These cases were treated as isolated incidents that did not require transforming practices. There were no generalized protocols, no binding charters imposed by festivals, no deep reflection on the power dynamics structuring the ecosystem of clubs and festivals.
Then #MusicToo emerged, fueled by undeniable collective energy and an urgent need to name what had long been hidden. But without strong institutional backing, without legal resources, without sustainable financial support, the movement struggled to last. Activist burnout set in.
Today, MetooDJs is attempting a different approach — more direct, more legal: the “safety cordon.” But while strategies are debated, the scene is fracturing.
Some are accused of performative activism.
Others are criticized for having stayed silent too long.
Some remind us they were already shouting into the void five years ago.
Others are discovering the issue with the fervor of recent converts.
Some are making public mea culpas, more or less awkwardly.
Careers are repositioning. Brands are aligning. Profiles are being rebranded as engaged.
And the victims, in all this?
When did the public conversation last center their actual needs? In the short term, this is not about hashtags or viral threads. It is about immediate safety, psychological support, legal guidance, and a professional environment that does not isolate them further. In the long term, it is about repair, transformation of practices, clear prevention mechanisms, mandatory training, and independent procedures capable of investigating without conflicts of interest.
How many of us have actually accompanied a victim to the police station? Financially supported therapy? Implemented a clear protocol in a club or festival, even if it meant giving up a lucrative booking? Accepted financial loss to refuse to program — or write about — an artist whose behavior raised serious concerns? Or refused to attend that same event as a raver?
Not many. And yes, we all want to denounce those who benefited from the system and ignored the violence. But this is not about us.
Social media has become a powerful tool for pressure and visibility, and it would be absurd to minimize its role in breaking the silence. But it does not replace a lawyer, a therapist, or an independent reporting body.
Activism, especially in an environment as ego-saturated as electronic music, cannot become another stage on which virtue is performed. It cannot turn into a competition for moral purity. Nor can it devolve into personal vendettas.
Because this is not about image or branding. It is certainly not about who gets the last word.
It is not about what you want.
It is about what the victim needs.
And if a victim tells you that your sudden public statement is harming them, you need to listen.
Open letters carry weight when they translate into concrete commitments. Why not integrate clear clauses into booking contracts: refusal to play if an artist facing serious allegations is programmed; requirement for teams trained in sexual violence prevention and harm reduction; commitment to more balanced lineups; transparency regarding financial partners; implementation of on-site reporting protocols.
Instagram posts can spark conversation. But without contractual — therefore structural — translation, they remain declarations among many.
We like to think of ourselves as progressive, heirs to marginal, queer, racialized, countercultural movements. We claim freedom, inclusivity, safe space culture. But those values only hold if they are applied when they cost something — in money, reputation, networks.
What can events do for the victims?
There is therefore a contractual responsibility that festivals can no longer sidestep. Adding a clear clause stating that, in cases of serious and documented allegations of sexual and gender-based violence, the organizer reserves the right to cancel a performance without financial penalty is not activism — it is responsible risk management. Today, many invoke fear of lawsuits or economic loss to justify inaction; tomorrow, such a clause could become standard practice, like weather insurance or force majeure cancellations. An event’s reputation should not be protected by default at the expense of people’s safety. And this clause cannot be symbolic: it must be accompanied by precise criteria, an independent committee capable of assessing situations, and minimum transparency about the process.
More broadly, festivals could condition bookings on the signing of a binding ethical charter, require mandatory training for teams and artists, finance a support fund for victims attending their events, and appoint a clearly identified sexual violence prevention officer on every site. Prevention cannot be reduced to an Instagram post published in the middle of a media storm. If the electronic scene can anticipate complex stage designs, meticulous security plans, and sophisticated harm-reduction systems, it can anticipate the management of violence.
And the public?
Our nights are participatory, embodied, collective. Every sold-out room is validation. Continuing to dance “because the music is still good,” continuing to post videos of an artist facing serious allegations without ever mentioning the context — that is not neutral. The separation between art and artist is an interesting philosophical debate; in the economic reality of a club or festival, it becomes a practical argument for changing nothing. Without an audience, there is no career. Without a career, there is no fee. If we are talking about systemic responsibility, it includes ravers, fans, local communities. This does not mean turning every dancefloor into a people’s tribunal, but it does mean accepting that our cultural choices have material consequences. Supporting a victim is not only about sharing a post; it is sometimes about giving up a night out, a headliner, a comfort. Club culture has always imagined itself as political — but that politics cannot stop at the entrance of the club.
Today, the challenge is not to see who will speak the loudest. The challenge is to see who will act without turning it into a performance.
Talk to victims. Ask them what they need. Because in the end, it still isn’t about you.