Lifelong Stigma? Surviving Under the Label of a Serial Sexual Harasser: A Perspective of Love and Tr

This article was published on December 24, 2024. I used ChatGPT to translate it into English on May 30, 2025. In case of any discrepancies, the original Chinese version shall prevail.

When I met Ms. W, I had already been labeled a serial sexual harasser for more than two years. After I was sure that she was someone I wanted to have a serious relationship with, I laid all my dark history bare. I didn’t have the courage to open this box myself, so I sent her the links to the online harassment I suffered back then and let her see for herself, without offering much explanation.

This was partly to avoid the damage it would cause me if, in the course of our relationship, she accidentally found out and decided to cut ties with me; and partly to test whether her values aligned with mine—whether she put feminism above all else, or whether she valued other things like friendship or human connection beyond abstract feminism.

Ms. W passed this test. She became one of the few who were still willing to associate with me, even praising me for my honesty. I instinctively pushed back on such praise. I said I wasn’t honest (of course, I did not say I was dishonest; there is a difference), but that it was more a test of the value of friendship.

This is roughly a snapshot of my life after being publicly vilified as a serial sexual harasser. Although I have long distanced myself from feminism and feminists, as someone who stands firmly on progressive grounds in many other areas, I strongly support gender equality, marriage equality, abortion rights, transgender and sex workers’ rights, legalization of cannabis and psychedelics, and the abolition of the death penalty. It feels incongruous that I am not a feminist. Especially since one interpretation of feminism is simply gender equality, and in that sense, I can say I am a feminist.

Ms. W happens to be exactly such a person. We often discussed this predicament of being caught in the middle. We progressives who remain wary of feminism and “woke” culture, of course, hate Trump’s restrictions on abortion rights and despise the fact that a known rapist could become president. But we also detest the cruel phenomena within the #MeToo movement — public shaming, stirring the pot, witch hunts, and leaving no room for redemption. These seem to reflect the cruelty of political struggles.

Mao Zedong, deeply versed in Carl Schmitt and the philosophy of political struggle, said, “Who are our enemies? Who are our friends? This is the most important question in revolution.” A Leifeng quote, often attributed to Mao, similarly says, “Treat enemies like autumn leaves being swept away, with the coldness of winter.” This became a profound political insight for me after being targeted by online mobs. Chen Chun, himself accused of sexual harassment, once commented on my second social death caused by being a member of the Independent Chinese PEN Center, lamenting how my opponents showed no mercy and gave no chance for redemption.

So the question is: How did the #MeToo movement come to engulf me in this way? Was something already off about me beforehand? Should the #MeToo movement really aim for total social death and complete exclusion from communities as its ultimate goal? Does such a final aim deviate from the original meaning of the movement? Is such a stigma lifelong?

I raise these questions hoping someone might help answer them, or at least look on with some sympathy instead of contempt. Unfortunately, I have a strong feeling that if I don’t try to find the answers myself, I never will. The consequence of being publicly attacked is that I no longer trust #MeToo, feminism, or progressive communities—and these communities no longer trust me. This has pushed me toward believing in the inherent badness of human nature. But writing has always been my best instrument; I cannot stop playing it to nourish my loneliness.

When emotional flashbacks hit, toxic shame arises. Each deep night, loneliness is by my side. Those days when it feels as if no one can understand, like some words that keep slipping from memory, prevent me from completing my prayers. What gives me immense psychological encouragement is Ms. W’s understanding.

The idea of proving my innocence by suicide was once very tempting. I often compared myself to former South Korean president Roh Moo-hyun, who committed suicide to prove his innocence of corruption, and felt urges to plan my own death. There were also dramatizations like “I fear no destruction, as long as my name remains clean.” I once felt death so close.

Fortunately, I never went through with it. Only then did I witness the farce of Chen Chun being accused as a sexual harasser. After learning this, Ms. W repeatedly told me it was poetic justice and that Chen Chun finally got his comeuppance. Because Teng Biao and Chen Chun were both accused, Ms. W gradually became more and more distrustful of #MeToo.

Chen Chun’s replies to my comments were disdainful, which was very unfortunate. His responses clearly caused me secondary trauma. Of course, I will be accused of being “too fragile,” “too sensitive,” and so on. But you don’t live my life—why should you measure my pain?

I write these words still filled with great fear, suspecting that they want to destroy my entire life.