Montreal woman drugged twice warns against dismissing incapacitated bar patrons

Rozana Ryan was twenty-two years old and out with friends on a Friday night in Montreal when the room began to tilt. She remembers the conversation clearly—sharp and present—and then, about twenty minutes later, the dizziness arrived. Her body wouldn't cooperate. One friend asked if she wanted to sit. After that, nothing. A blank. One of her friends drove her home immediately, and she collapsed into bed, unconscious for four hours. When she woke on Saturday morning, panic flooded in. Then she saw her best friend beside her and understood she was safe. But the drug was still working through her system. She passed out again in the bathroom and stayed there for four hours.

This was the second time in six months she believed someone had put something in her drink. The first incident had left her conscious but paralyzed—aware of everything happening around her, unable to move or call for help. This second time was worse. The fear that came with waking up, the lost hours, the knowledge that something had been done to her without consent—it stayed with her. She hadn't filed a police report. The anxiety was still too fresh. She called Quebec's medical help line and was told to drink water and rest, as if rest could undo what had happened.

Gabrielle Comtois, an analyst with RQCALACS, a provincial organization focused on sexual assault victims, explained the mechanics of the crime. The drugs used are often colorless and odorless—impossible to taste, impossible to see. They're cheap. They're accessible. According to provincial data, fifteen percent of reported sexual assaults in Quebec involve drugs or other substances. But the real problem is what comes after: victims wake up in unfamiliar situations with the feeling that something terrible has occurred, yet they cannot remember it. They cannot describe it. They cannot prove it. This gap between what happened and what can be recalled makes reporting nearly impossible.

The drugs themselves are a moving target. GHB—gamma hydroxybutyrate, commonly called the date rape drug—can only be detected in blood for six hours and in urine for up to twelve hours. Only specialized laboratories can run the tests. In early 2023, provincial police announced a major drug bust that included the seizure of seventy-seven liters of GHB. In April 2022, Montreal police seized one hundred liters and arrested four people. In the same month, Longueuil police seized three hundred seventy-five liters—roughly seventy-five thousand doses. These are not isolated incidents. Ketamine, MDMA, even over-the-counter motion-sickness medication have been used. Alcohol remains the most common substance in drink-spiking cases, though overserving is vastly underreported.

Ryan decided to speak publicly about what happened to her. She wanted people to understand that this was not rare, not isolated to one bar or one night. It was happening everywhere. When you see someone collapse at a bar, she said, do not assume they drank too much. Look closer. Help. Do not walk past. She was twenty-two. There were girls who were eighteen, experiencing their first nights out, and their first memory of a bar could be waking up with no idea what had been done to them. She was lucky. Her best friend, who had experienced something similar, knew what to do. She knew to stay close. She knew to get her home safe. Not everyone has that.

Ryan said she was still recovering, still anxious, still trying to focus on her health. She declined the bar owner's offer to review the surveillance footage. She wanted something else: education. She wanted people to know the signs. She wanted people to know what to do. She wanted her story to matter.

Her father, Richard Ryan, a former Montreal city councillor who had served from 2013 to 2021, wrote a lengthy post on Facebook. He was furious. He asked how young men could think of such actions, what could possibly be going through their minds. He asked why other men standing nearby did not react, did not intervene. And he redirected the conversation entirely: instead of asking victims what they were wearing, what they were drinking, whether they had left their drink unattended, parents should be teaching their sons about consent. They should be teaching them to respect women. The responsibility, he argued, belonged not to the victim but to the perpetrator and to the culture that allowed perpetrators to act.