Silence

I was 12 years old the first time I was truly afraid of a man.

A mere five blocks away from home, I was making my usual short trip back from school. This was my normal routine-I had done this walk every day since starting middle school. Typically, I made the trip with friends that lived near by. That day it was just me.

Cars flew by next to me as I made my way home on that Friday afternoon, excited for the weekend to start. The noise of traffic in my ear, combined with the sound of my breathing almost made me not notice the heavy, yet consistent footsteps behind me. A red light seizing cars to a complete and quiet stop was the only thing that gave away his presence.

I glanced behind my shoulder, assuming I'd see a familiar face of a classmate, but to my surprise, the face that looked back at me belonged to a complete stranger. A few feet away was a tall, broad, silhouette of a man that looked like he was in his early thirties. The look in his eyes, and the way he tracked my every movement-even in that brief exchange-made an unfamiliar feeling of panic take over my mind.

I turned back towards my path, and began to walk home just a little bit faster.

The next few minutes felt like hours. As I got closer and closer to my street, I kept thinking, hoping, that it was all in my head, and that he would continue on a separate path. He didn't.

As I made a sharp left onto my street, I continued to internally plan out what the next best step would be. I knew that our house was at the end of the neighborhood. I knew that more than half of the houses were empty because it was just past two in the afternoon, and people were still at work. I knew that he was getting closer, and that every move I made, he mimicked so perfectly, as if he was my own shadow.

I tried texting my mom numerous times hoping she would see it at work, and would somehow magically be able to help, the way she always did. Each text became more difficult to type out. My hands were shaking, I was scared, and this was 17 years ago. Phones were not as convenient as they are today.

Another text message sent. Still, no response.

I decided to cut the distance left for me to cross by going the back way, hoping he wouldn't see me, and wouldn't follow. He did.

Stuck behind the buildings now, without a soul in sight, sheer panic took over.

I called my mom's work phone, and finally, she answered. I quickly explained what was happening, in Bosnian, so that he wouldn't understand. His footsteps got quicker, so did mine. My mom, at this point fully panicked, decided to hang up and start calling my dad frantically. He was at home, but in a deep sleep after working a long 14-hour shift overnight.

Tears streaming down my face, I began to run. I ran as fast as I could, not looking back, but knowing by the heavy sound of footsteps he was right behind me.

This was it.

I knew that the minute he caught up, it would be the minute it was all over. There was no way I could fight him off. I felt like I was stuck in a game of cat and mouse. Like he was letting me think I would get away, but once he was tired of the chase, his claws would slam down, and the mouse would be trapped.

As I began to exit out into the main street of the neighborhood, the sound of screeching tires caught my attention. I looked up: my dad. I screamed for him praying he would hear me through the open window. He did.

He slammed on the breaks, parked the car right where it stopped, and ran out. The footsteps behind me made a sharp turn and ran in the opposite direction. He was out of sight before my dad even got to me.

I grabbed onto him, hysterically crying in the middle of the street, feeling his entire body shake from anger and fear. I was safe. I was finally safe.

That was the first time I was afraid of a man. It certainly wasn't the last.

The older I got, the greater that fear became. It was the unwanted comments, the uncomfortable looks, and the uninvited physical contact that quickly made me realize that fear and caution were something I would have to live with forever, even when I least expected it.

When I was 15 years old, I was assaulted.

The night began as a typical evening out with some friends at a local Bosnian hangout. I remember the excitement of getting to dress up, do my makeup, and to just be able to go out and enjoy the music. As we got situated and ordered our sodas, I noticed a guy I had recently met through mutual friends and exchanged a few short and friendly conversations online with. He acknowledged me with the wave of a hand, and went back to whatever he was doing. About half an hour later, I stepped away to go use the restroom, which was located down a darker hall, separated from the main area. As I tried to close the door, I felt a hard shove against it. All I could do was watch in complete shock as he forced his way into the tiny women's restroom. Without even a chance to get any words out, I was shoved against the wall and he was on top of me. As his hands grabbed at my hips, he forced his mouth onto mine. I struggled to get free, but no matter how much I tried I could not move away. He quickly dropped his hands, trying to reach for the hem of my skirt, never breaking contact from my mouth. Realizing where this would go, if I didn't find a way to end it, I used every ounce of my strength to shove directly at his chest just long enough to break contact.

As he took a step back, looking directly at me, the only words I could muster were, "what are you doing?" He smirked and said that he figured we had a mutual interest in each other, so he decided to "go for it". To him it was nothing more than "going for it", but in that moment he took so much away from me. He stole my chance for a first real kiss. He stole my feelings of safety and comfort while existing in public spaces. He stole my trust in men. Someone that had presented himself as a friendly, laid-back, trustworthy guy had just assaulted me. Assaulted. This is the first time that I am labeling it for what it is.

I remember telling him, "I just wanted to use the restroom, please get out", and then feeling completely uneasy as I watched him walk out. In hindsight, I was lucky that he did. I rushed to lock the door, trying to catch my breath while processing what just happened. Unwilling to be alone for another minute I ran back out to the main room in a confused, teary eyed blur, and my friends immediately surrounded me. They didn't know what had happened, but clearly understood something was wrong. Thinking back, I realize how lucky I was that they were there. As the rest of the night continued, I started to internally make excuses for him. Maybe I led him on, maybe it was what I was wearing, maybe it was the way I smiled at him, maybe it's because I shouldn't even be here, maybe this is normal. Whatever I thought, I kept trying to find a way to make his action less offensive and more excusable even though it forced me to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.

Looking back at it now I can't believe I ever thought there was any way to excuse what he did. I never said yes, in fact, I tried to say no. I tried to move away, and when that wasn't enough I had to shove him off. I am well aware of the fact that if he wanted to, he could have continued with whatever he was doing. He could have easily overpowered me; I was lucky enough that he didn't. I was lucky. Not every woman is. I might not be again.

We live in a world where every time we turn on the TV we see a new story about a new woman that was assaulted, raped, hurt, or killed by a man. We live in a world where every time I refresh my timeline, I see a woman speaking out about the issue, while the men on my friends list stay silent. These men may have every good intention, but the silence makes it feel like they don't care, like they think that they don't hold any guilt, like they don't believe the women, or like they don't see any problems with what's going on.

Whatever the reason, their silence speaks louder than any words could.

I see men asking all the time why, we as women, are so angry. Why, we as women, are not polite. Why everything has to be an argument. Why?

You are the reason why.

Every time you make a joke when we tell our story, that is why. Every time you make one of us uncomfortable with your words or your actions, that is why. Every time you blame a victim, that is why. Every time you take our no, stop, I'm tired, not now, I don't know, as anything other than a no, that is why.

Every time you are silent, that is why.

You, as men, have this innate want to be the protectors, but so often become the offenders. When I see the why, it tells me we have a fundamental misunderstanding. Men do not understand what it feels like to be the prey instead of the predator. Men do not understand what it feels like to live your life constantly having to glance over your shoulder.

The disconnect happens when the power imbalance is not recognized or acknowledged. We are not equals, at least not physically. It is built into your DNA to be the stronger one of us two. The realization that even our own husbands and boyfriends could easily overpower us if they wanted to is not lost on us. How do you think we feel around strangers? Around those whose intentions we aren't familiar with? We have to constantly be aware of our surroundings and of those around us, because we know that we stand little to no chance fighting off a man whose intentions are to hurt us. Societal norms have long reflected this, and men are selected to represent the species and take charge. We see this even through everyday situations where when you speak up, are blunt, are straight to the point, you are praised for being powerful, strong, and smart. When we do this, we are labeled as bitchy, aggressive, or sensitive. You don' t have to think twice about these things. You don't have to calculate your every move, but we do. That is the difference.

Even though that difference exists, we still matter. We have as much to offer as you do, even if the contribution isn't equal in a physical aspect. After all, if it weren't for a woman, you would have never even had the chance to exist in the first place. Many of you have daughters, or will have daughters. You will strive to keep them safe. You will proudly step up into the role of the protector and go to the ends of the Earth for them. Don't forget that we are all someone's daughter too.

So I plead with you, let us rest, because we are tired.

We are tired of not being able to live our life freely because we have to fear you. We are tired of contemplating if our task could wait until the next day because by the time we get done it will be dark, and it will be that much easier for us to become victims. We are tired of having to leave a place we came to enjoy ourselves at because you make us feel uncomfortable. We are tired of you sending us drinks we never asked for, and then thinking we now owe you something. We are tired of seeing our daughters, our sisters, our friends, all become victims. We are tired of screaming me too.

We are tired.

Until every single one of you steps up, the number of women being assaulted will continue to climb. Stepping up doesn't just mean checking your own words and actions, but also putting your friend, cousin, and brother into place. It means understanding that even though you may be a stand up guy, the woman walking alone in your proximity may fear you, so you make the conscious decision to be gentle in your movements. It means not staring at a woman like she is a piece of meat when you come across one. It means addressing us with respect instead of pet names. It means putting our needs above your own.

We need to feel heard. We need to feel like you are fighting for the same things we are. We need to be able to live our lives as effortlessly as you do. We need to know that our daughters are safe. We need to know that we are safe.

We need more than your silence.

Don't let there be another me too because of you.

-A