ππ’π³π³π² ππ₯π₯π’ππ‘ ππ₯ππ ππ§π¨ ππ ππ«π π². πππ§ π ππ₯π’π©π πππ¬π
Itβs always the same questions, isnβt it? βGinusto mong i-harass ka kaya nagawa saβyo,β they say, as if I had a choice in the matter. As if what happened to me was something I wantedβas if anyone wants to be catcalled, followed, or harassed. But thatβs the lie they tell to shift the blame, to make it easier for themselves to ignore what really happened. Somehow, the problem isnβt that someone disrespected my space or my safety; itβs what I did or didnβt do to βinviteβ it.
βAno bang suot mo?β they ask, like fabric determines how much respect I deserve. Maybe it was the skirt I wore, or the tank top, or maybe even just the fact that I wasnβt covered from head to toe. But since when did clothes give someone permission to take away my comfort, my safety? They donβt. They talk about my body like itβs a weapon I wield against myself. But no matter what I wear, itβs never enough for them. If I wore something too modest, Iβd be told Iβm exaggerating, overreacting. If I wear anything remotely feminine, Iβm told I asked for it. I canβt win. Whether itβs jeans or a dress, Iβm still the one at fault.
Then come the comments about my body. βAng laki kasi ng suso mo.β They say it like I can control that, as if my body shape gives men a free pass to leer and make me feel like Iβm less of a person. Like my body justifies their words, their stares. Itβs always my body that gets blamedβtoo big, too small, too curvy, too this, too that. Itβs never about the fact that someone thought it was okay to reduce me to just my body in the first place.
βSumigaw ka ba?β βBakit hindi ka nagsumbong?β The real question should be, why was I ever in a position to need to scream? But no, they turn it around. As if my silence means I didnβt feel scared enough, or violated enough. As if freezing up when a strangerβs voice cuts through the air is somehow my fault. Itβs not that I didnβt screamβitβs that I couldnβt. Sometimes the loudest scream is the one caught in my throat.
βSiguro ang kapal ng makeup mo?β Of course. My face, my makeup, becomes an excuse, too. They donβt see it as self-expression or something that makes me feel good about myself. No, to them, itβs baitβanother reason why I was harassed. Itβs always something about me. Never mind that harassment happens to women regardless of how we look. Theyβll always find something to blame that isnβt the person who did it.
Every time they say these things, it feels like Iβm being harassed all over againβnot just by the person who whistled or followed me, but by the people who are supposed to understand, supposed to help. βGinusto mong i-harass ka,β they say. No. What I wanted was to walk down the street without being reminded that my body doesnβt belong to me in their eyes. What I wanted was respect, no matter how I dress, how I look, or how loud I speak.
The truth is, no amount of screaming, reporting, or explaining is enough to change their minds. Theyβve already decided it was my fault. Because to them, itβs always the woman who shouldβve done something differently. As if I could have stopped the harassment by simply existing less.
But hereβs what they wonβt say: it doesnβt matter what I was wearing, how I looked, or how I reacted. None of it gave anyone the right to treat me like I was there for their entertainment, for their judgment. The fault lies with the ones who harassed me, not with me. And until they stop asking why I was βasking for it,β and start asking why these men feel so entitled to take what isnβt theirs, nothing will ever change.
But somehow, it always comes back to meβthe victimβwho did everything wrong. When will they stop asking what I did to deserve it, and start asking why it happened at all?
#Literary#VictimBlaming#BabaeAngatSaLahat#internationalwomensday#womensupportingwomen#EmpoweringMessage#ProtectWomenAtAllCosts#MayorAliciaPrimiciasEnriquez#MayorAliciaPrimiciasEnriquezYourPublicServant#SanNicolasPangasinanMyHomeMyPride