How my #MeToo story reminded me of the strength of women's solidarity

[Trigger Warning: This article contains disturbing content some may find upsetting.]

I was wearing a shirt, a cardigan, and jeans beneath a thick black winter coat when I almost got sexually assaulted. It was October of 2016 and I was a 23-year-old graduate student in Denmark, which was named the happiest country in the world that year.

Maybe that was why I let my guard down that traumatic autumn evening, when I was usually so very careful in the chaos of Manila back home – surely, I would be safe enough in a country where everyone is happy.

But I was wrong. When you’re a woman, nowhere is safe.

That day, my life started out as normal. I attended a lecture and headed to language class in the afternoon. In the evening, I went to interview an Overseas Filipino Worker who is a fan of Barangay Ginebra. The team just won its first PBA championship in eight long years, and as a journalist, even though I was not employed at that time, I could not resist writing a story.

The OFW, Kuya Jeff, lived with his wife and children in a basement room of an apartment building near the train station in the city of Aarhus, over four hours away by bus from the capital city of Copenhagen. I was treated to the usual Filipino hospitality – we had dinner and our conversation lasted almost three hours. We talked about Ginebra ending its title drought, Philippine basketball, and life in Denmark in general.

It was past 10 p.m. when I eventually stood up to leave. I put on all my layers – my coat, my scarf, my beanie, my gloves, my sneakers. Kuya Jeff walked me part of the way to the bus stop and told me to text him when I get home.

The streets were well-lit, so I was not overly worried. I was in a central area with plenty of establishments, even though most of them were already closed. It was not until I checked my phone that the feeling of dread began to build inside my stomach – I had less than 10% of battery left due to my lengthy interview, and phone batteries drain much faster in the cold.

For women, a phone is an important safety device. In case of an emergency, you can call for help with it. In a precarious situation, you can use it to pretend to be talking to someone to deter anyone who might wish to harm you. You can share your location to your friends. In the United Kingdom, a non-profit organization called Strut Safe set up a hotline run by volunteers who will stay on the phone with you and help you feel safe on your way home.

With my phone battery running out, I felt unsafe. I walked faster and tried to remain calm. It’s fine, there were still people on the street. Up ahead, I could see two young women calmly talking to a middle-aged man. It’s fine. I was fine.

The two women eventually walked away from the man, passing me on the street. I kept walking. When I finally reached where the man was standing, he stopped me and spoke to me in Danish. I could not understand what he was saying, but I did not want to come across as rude, so I told him the one Danish sentence I made sure to learn: Undskyld, jeg taler ikke Dansk. “Sorry, I don’t speak Danish.”

What the man said next had me shivering, but not from the cold. “You know, people in this city, they like to fuck. Do you know fuck?”

I did not answer and pretended not to know any English, hoping that he would leave me alone. I willed my legs to walk faster. The man followed me and kept talking. “Where are you from? Thailand? Korea?”

I was panicking for real, but I was making calculations in my head. If I run, will he chase me? If he chases me, can I outrun him? If I shout, would I spook him into doing something even more dangerous, like a wild animal would? In the end, I decided to cross the street to put more space between us. Walk faster. Walk faster.

But the man would not be deterred. He kept following me and began shouting over and over again: “Undskyld!” “Excuse me!”

My heartbeat was ringing in my ears. I did not know what to do. I looked up ahead – I was still some ways from the bus stop. I could see a group of three or four people some distance away, walking in the same direction as me. I chanced a quick glance at the man following me – he was still shouting, but he was walking sedately. As if a predator stalking his prey.

All I could do was to keep walking. Reach the people and ask for help – that became my goal.

When I finally made it to them, I saw that they were four young men, probably teenagers. I opened my mouth and my voice came out barely a whisper even though I did not intend it to. “Please help me.”

The boys looked at the man walking behind me and asked, “Do you know him?”

I answered in a trembling voice: “No, he just started following me.”

“You’re safe now,” one of them said, and I felt half relieved.

Moments later, the man finally caught up to us and grabbed the strap of my back pack, like some people would hold a cat by the scruff of its neck. I could only flinch in fear as the boys exchanged some words with him and he eventually let go of me. The boys then had me walk in front of them and put themselves between me and the man. We kept walking, but the man kept following us and kept shouting words I could not understand.

Moments later, an Asian girl probably my age arrived. “Matias!” She called out to one of the boys. I could not remember if she talked to them first before she addressed me, but she held me close and started walking beside me. She asked me if I wanted to call the police.

I do not remember exactly what I told her. I just wanted to go home.

Eventually, we reached a fast food chain still open late in the evening. The girl ushered me in, while the boys kept watch on the man who was still on the other side of the street.

The danger had mostly passed, but I started shaking after she had me settle down on a table. She tried to calm me down as best as she can, telling me that the man was just drunk and wanted to cause trouble, that he did not even know me. I knew it was meant to comfort me, but it made me feel even worse. The man does not know me, yes – he only saw me as a vagina he can fuck. The dehumanization gutted me.

The other people in the fast food chain began to notice us. A young woman approached our table, heard about what happened from the other girl, and offered to accompany me home. I did not want to go at first – stepping outside meant the man might see me again, and I would be in danger once more. Later on, I relented after hearing sirens in the distance. I did not know if someone called or they were there for another reason, but the police had come. I was safe.

I was shaking in earnest during the 20-minute bus ride to the outskirts of Aarhus, where I was renting a room in an apartment. The woman, whose name I forgot to ask during my ordeal, kept a light conversation going to help me pull myself together. When we got off the bus and began walking to my apartment, I thanked her for coming with me even though I live far from downtown. For going out of her way to help a stranger.

She said she did not want my stay in Denmark to be defined by my traumatic experience. And so, while the memory of what almost happened to me left its mark on my soul, it is tempered by the memory of the two women who came to my rescue and kept me safe.

In the aftermath, two more women took care of me in my most vulnerable state. When I opened the door to my apartment and stepped foot inside, my knees finally buckled and I collapsed on the floor sobbing. My Filipina housemate and classmate, Ate Aileen, comforted me and helped me to my feet, sat me on the kitchen table, fixed me a cup of tea, and listened quietly as I told my story.

The author with her Ate Aileen

In the middle of our conversation, my phone buzzed with a text. It was from Kuya Jeff: “Did you get home safe?” My eyes watered again as I typed my reply. Yes, I made it. I was safe. I was safe.

I went to bed later that evening but I couldn’t sleep, so I messaged my friend Nadene about what happened to me. She rang me immediately (she was in Austria and therefore on the same time zone), but for most of our call, I could say nothing and simply keep weeping. I did not have to say anything – hearing her voice was enough to make me feel I was not alone.

I couldn’t get out of bed for two days. I would wake up for meals, and then I would quickly go back under the covers and try to sleep. I wanted to forget what happened, because every time I remember, the shaking and sobbing would start again.

On the third day, I finally stepped outside the apartment. I had to leave the cocoon of safety eventually, and so I braved my way out. I had lectures and language classes to attend, groceries to buy, friends to see. Life goes on.

But I was forever changed.

The author with her Nadene

For weeks after what happened, I was constantly on guard everywhere I went. I was afraid that I might run into the man again, so I checked the face of every single person entering the bus. And what’s terrifying was after some time, I saw his face in every man I looked at – in the buses and on the streets, in shops and restaurants. I don’t remember much of what he looks like now, seven years later, except that he was bald and had a beer belly. But I will never forget what he made me feel.

There’s one more thing I remember from those days: I wanted to hide my face, so he would not recognize me in the off-chance that I would run into him.

As a woman, I had always known that I was not truly free to exist in public spaces – you can get groped inside a train, you can be cat-called by a driver while walking down the street, you can be followed by a stalker on your way home. These risks restrict a woman’s freedom of movement and result in all sorts of safety precautions – dress conservatively, don’t stay out late, tell your girl friends to text you when they get home.

I was two out of three, and yet, if not for Matias and his friends, the Asian girl and the other young woman who helped me that day, who knows what horrors would have happened? So I could only curl in on myself, feeling like I could no longer take up space in the harsh outside world. Hide your face. Don’t exist.

This is my #metoo story. It took me seven years to share it, because just as I wanted to hide my face, I wanted to hide that this happened to me. But no longer.

I speak my truth this March, in honor of the women (and men) who became my personal heroes when I got confronted with the real threats that come with womanhood. They reminded me that in this harsh world hostile towards women, just as there are people who would harm you, there are also people who would help you and heal you.

This Women’s Month is for us to remind our fellow women – our sisters, mothers, grandmothers, aunts, daughters, cousins, friends – that despite the dangers and challenges we face, we are in this together. We are here.

— LA, GMA Integrated News