Last week, on the train home, I became a sexual assault statistic. It’s a weird feeling, a this-can’t-be-happening sort of feeling. At first I was sure I was imagining it, he seemed like such a pleasant old man and it was a crowded train and maybe it was just that I had seen and read too much about it in recent months. I manoeuvred as best as I could in that tiny space, before looking around me to realise the carriage was half empty and he really didn’t need to be pressed up against me. It still didn’t feel like your textbook sexual assault- I’m not sure it would have done no matter what he did.
There’s nothing new about any of this, nor is it rare to feel shaky and panicky and to look around you because is this real life? But I can’t help but feel quietly (I guess it’s now very loudly) indignant that I chose to prioritise the embarrassment I thought that old man would feel if I said anything, over my own discomfort and disgust. It’s a feeling that’s been creeping up on me in various aspects of my life as I attempt to navigate the chaos that is modern world while still retaining a sense of discernment.
What does this have to do with anything? I hear you all asking, rolling your eyes at my navel-gazing – hold off on the snark, I do have a genuine reason for so deeply personal with a bunch of strangers. I think we’ve all grown a little too content with the state of things in regards to equality. I feel like despite my staunchly feminist mother raising me to be fiercely independent and smart, I seem to have become a little bit of a pushover, a little more timid and eager to please – a pattern I’m beginning to see in so many of my female friends as we grow older. I think it’s no coincidence that we live in a society in which it’s perfectly acceptable to say you think that feminism is no longer necessary, or to even go one step further and attempt to invalidate the experiences of entire groups of people. I’m sure that the advent of so called feminist-cringe compilations, amongst other things which can so easily be accessed to help satiate our appetites for hatred, isn’t really helping.
I could have, maybe I should have, littered this post with statistics about sexual assault. But I’m not really sure numbers mean anything anymore. I feel numbed through overexposure, resigned to the fact that this will and has happened to me, and most females our age, over and over again. I feel like I have to tiptoe around everything; you see I’m terrified of being called a feminazi or being feminazi-adjacent. This year, little joke about International Women’s Day which I used to be able to brush off so easily, felt like a personal betrayal and I realised I really don’t want to be so afraid of offending people any more. That’s not to say that I was cowardly for not saying anything on the train- there’s no saying what could have happened if I did.
I still feel like a frightened little girl, and I still feel like I should be under no obligation to tell people to have a little humanity when listening to stories from people who may also feel like a frightened little girl on the inside. But I’ve decided to try and be a little braver in everyday conversation, because I’m beginning to realise that all of this is on a sliding scale and that they really are called micro-aggressions for a reason.
If you ever find yourself in a non-consensual sexual situation on public transport, or in any setting, please report it and feel free to use the following links
Rape Crisis national freephone helpline on 0808 802 9999
24-hour National Domestic Violence Helpline on 0808 2000 247
Text what, where and when to 61016 if the incident happened on public transport
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