๐๐ข๐ณ๐ณ๐ฒ ๐๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ก ๐๐ฅ๐๐ ๐๐ง๐จ ๐๐ ๐๐ซ๐ ๐ฒ. ๐๐๐ง ๐ ๐๐ฅ๐ข๐ฉ๐ ๐๐๐ฌ๐ญ
Itโs always the same questions, isnโt it? โGinusto mong i-harass ka kaya nagawa saโyo,โ they say, as if I had a choice in the matter. As if what happened to me was something I wantedโas if anyone wants to be catcalled, followed, or harassed. But thatโs the lie they tell to shift the blame, to make it easier for themselves to ignore what really happened. Somehow, the problem isnโt that someone disrespected my space or my safety; itโs what I did or didnโt do to โinviteโ it.
โAno bang suot mo?โ 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 wasnโt covered from head to toe. But since when did clothes give someone permission to take away my comfort, my safety? They donโt. They talk about my body like itโs a weapon I wield against myself. But no matter what I wear, itโs never enough for them. If I wore something too modest, Iโd be told Iโm exaggerating, overreacting. If I wear anything remotely feminine, Iโm told I asked for it. I canโt win. Whether itโs jeans or a dress, Iโm still the one at fault.
Then come the comments about my body. โAng laki kasi ng suso mo.โ 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 Iโm less of a person. Like my body justifies their words, their stares. Itโs always my body that gets blamedโtoo big, too small, too curvy, too this, too that. Itโs never about the fact that someone thought it was okay to reduce me to just my body in the first place.
โSumigaw ka ba?โ โBakit hindi ka nagsumbong?โ 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 didnโt feel scared enough, or violated enough. As if freezing up when a strangerโs voice cuts through the air is somehow my fault. Itโs not that I didnโt screamโitโs that I couldnโt. Sometimes the loudest scream is the one caught in my throat.
โSiguro ang kapal ng makeup mo?โ Of course. My face, my makeup, becomes an excuse, too. They donโt see it as self-expression or something that makes me feel good about myself. No, to them, itโs baitโanother reason why I was harassed. Itโs always something about me. Never mind that harassment happens to women regardless of how we look. Theyโll always find something to blame that isnโt the person who did it.
Every time they say these things, it feels like Iโm being harassed all over againโnot just by the person who whistled or followed me, but by the people who are supposed to understand, supposed to help. โGinusto mong i-harass ka,โ they say. No. What I wanted was to walk down the street without being reminded that my body doesnโt 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. Theyโve already decided it was my fault. Because to them, itโs always the woman who shouldโve done something differently. As if I could have stopped the harassment by simply existing less.
But hereโs what they wonโt say: it doesnโt 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 โasking for it,โ and start asking why these men feel so entitled to take what isnโt theirs, nothing will ever change.
But somehow, it always comes back to meโthe victimโwho did everything wrong. When will they stop asking what I did to deserve it, and start asking why it happened at all?
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