2013: I was wearing a black crop top shirt, and high waisted shorts. I was commuting home from Shaw blvd. Loads of women lining up in the girls only compartment, so I changed lanes to the nearest mixed compartment because I was in a rush to get home. Because there is never enough space in the MRT, our bodies were pressed against each other. I clutched my bag to my chest, making my boobs look bigger than they really are. Next thing I know, I hear a camera shutter go off, and a flash went off on my boobs. I look up and a guy, much taller than me, was holding his phone to my chest, a sheepish smile on his face. I never said anything, even if I knew he had just taken a photo of my cleavage.
June 2014: My first couple of days as working girl. I was walking home from work towards the Ortigas MRT station. I changed into a pair of loose shorts (I think I was wearing a skirt for work, and I changed to be comfortable). I walk fast, and I clutch an umbrella with my right hand (I have a strong swing) in case anyone ever tries to attack me. On the side walk near Poveda, beside EDSA, while walking, I felt someone grab my ass. I stop. Crash into an older woman walking my way (because I stopped out of nowhere), and looked around. A couple of paces back, a guy (walking the other way) is walking slowly. He looks back and he laughs when he sees me looking his way. I remember wanting to run after him. And hit him with my umbrella. Punch him on the face. But I don’t. I don’t even open my mouth to say anything. I pull at my shorts to make them lower, to cover more skin. And I continue walking, in silence, defeated, even if I was sure he was the one who had literally just grabbed my ass.
December 2014: My officemates and I were walking towards SM to eat dinner. We just came from work, so I was wearing a jacket, a skirt, and was carrying all my bags. On the way to SM, in front of El Pueblo, a group of boys (kids??) started to swarm our way. They held their hands out and the first thing I thought was I’m going to get robbed. I transferred my bag to my chest, and mid movement, I felt hands on my boobs, and in between my legs. I look up, push the boy off me, and scream obscenities while he and his friends ran away, laughing. My friends asked me, are you okay? I wasn’t sure. I was shaking while we walked. A cold sweat came over me. While they sat to eat at the Korean restaurant, I went to the bathroom to wash off the grease from their hands from between my legs. I didn’t cry. I couldn't even process what happened. If it really did happen. None of it felt real. They must’ve been 12, 13, 14 years old. I told my dad a couple of months later. Out of frustration at all the victim blaming and sexual harassment going on in the streets.
And before anyone asks, "Well, what were you wearing that day?” Yes, all these times I was wearing shorts or a skirt. No, it’s not my fault for not deciding to wear jeans that day. No, it’s not my fault for showing off too much legs. No, it’s not my fault for wanting to be comfortable. No, it’s not my fault for walking alone. Or walking at night. No, it’s not my fault for entering a mixed compartment instead of waiting another two, three train rides to get into the girls only compartment. No, it’s not my fault for deciding to commute instead of spending hundreds on a cab/grab/uber ride home.
When I hear about women who get sexually harassed, and the men who get away with it, I always catch myself wondering. If I had just called the guy out, and asked to see his phone instead of keeping quiet, then maybe he would’ve learned his lesson and not done it again. Maybe the people in the train would’ve been shocked and stood up for me. Or maybe they’ll learn vicariously that you can fight back and not take in stride. If I had just run after the guy and hit him with my umbrella, maybe he won’t do it again? If I dragged those kids to the nearest police station, or told them na masama yun instead of just screaming obscenities at nothing, maybe they’ll learn that it’s not okay to just stick their hands up some girl’s skirt. But then it hits me after, what if I did that, and I ended up hurt, or dead? Ended up being called a liar, and a slut for wearing shorts and skirts? What if, even if I was the victim, they’d say it was my fault?
I know my experiences are insignificant compared to women who have been through much worse, but all I want to say with this is THIS IS WHAT WOMEN HAVE TO GO THROUGH. EVERY SINGLE DAY. On the streets. At work. At home. In places we thought were safe. We want to fight back, but we can’t. We’re afraid. And those of us who do fight back, we get called LIARS. OR WE’RE TOLD (TRUE STORY!!!) HAYAAN MO NA. PATAWARIN MO NA. Instead of hating on the man who masturbated in a jeepney, people (some were women!!!) commented that the photo was edited. Instead of listening to a young girl who said she was molested in a UV by an upperclassman, a catholic university calls her a liar. When a young girl told her mother she was molested, the mother said, hayaan mo na. Patawarin mo na. Let it go. Just forgive him.
Where’s the justice in that? #notovictimshaming #noitsnotmyfault