I’ve questioned myself time and again about gymnastics, ever since the ‘Me Too’ messages began appearing on my Twitter feed. Are we, fans, culpable of supporting a sport which is inherently brutal? Have we elevated our sport because of the brutality involved in making it to the top? What is it about gymnastics that has somehow led to the tacit acceptance of abuse as a way of life?
Only a few years ago Dominique Moceanu published her book, calling out her parents and her coaches, the Karolyis, as abusive. Did we stop and listen? No. We labelled Dominique an ‘attention seeker’.
And what about ‘Little Girls in Pretty Boxes’? Did we rush to support the injured parties? Insist on a sports-wide review of coaching practice? No. There was a media storm and lots of huffs and puffs, but we never got round to blowing the house down.
At the end of the day, weren’t we mesmerised by the promise of gold?
Abuse has been hiding in plain view for decades, not just in gymnastics but in other areas of high performance including sports, ballet, circus, theatre. It is a global, long-standing problem that exists wherever young people rely on adults for instruction and support, and where high performance is the objective.
How do we moderate welfare and performance? What is our priority?
Changing the age at which gymnasts can begin competing has been suggested, but legislation or regulation has limited results in a global context. The FIG can make rules but national culture or governance can always find ways to sidestep or subvert the rules. Countries are the big villains. Collective culture muddies the waters and confuses priorities. National administrations cover up, encourage malpractice, force athletes and coaches to break rules. Collectively, we feel absolved of responsibility and cheer top performances, elevating others’ personal sacrifices to a kind of religion that we worship. We want to see the tiny underdog win, and so much the better if she shares our nationality. Who cares how a gymnast wins, as long as she fights for gold?
We still have to agree what the problem is. There is no internationally agreed definition of abuse. Abuse is relative. Levels of domestic violence in Russia are unknown. People, generally, don’t talk about it. In China, many people believe that hardship in childhood is essential to turn out responsible, strong adults.
Abuse is a time-bound concept. What was acceptable practice in the classroom, family or gym twenty years ago is not the same today. Society has taken steps forward, at different paces in different countries.
Even in the field of human rights and child rights – which you would consider fundamental – there is no internationally enforceable law. Countries opt into signing agreements and can be shamed into acting to reduce human right infringements. But what sanctions are available to enforce respect of international law? Why should sport be any different?
Social media gave a voice to individuals and enabled the ‘Me Too’ generation and the current discussion around how we can protect athletes. So far, however, that discussion is only taking place if you can speak English. If we want global solutions to global problems, we need to talk globally, and everyone has to be involved. But not everyone agrees that there is a problem to talk about.
Perhaps the most powerful tool we have to combate abuse in sports is to continue to talk about it and to break down national cultural barriers. To come to an understanding. No single rule change will create a globally safe sport environment until we can all agree what sport means, why it is important and how we decide where strict training finishes and abuse begins. No matter the age of the athlete, this is the Big Question.
Looked at another way, sport can provide a channel to work out our collective global attitude towards the rights of others. Gymnastics' problems do not exist in isolation but are a manifestation of our society.
Elizabeth Booth, 22nd November 2020