< Translator’s note: The original formatting of the stories has been preserved. The translations aim to remain as close as possible to each author's original wording and expression.
I was 13 years old. An ordinary day. As I was leaving the building, I ran into my neighbor. He was entering the entrance while I was going out. Seemingly a respectable man, a World War II veteran, his constant speeches at school — to applause, with respect in others’ eyes. The respect for elders that had been instilled in me did not allow me to slip past without letting him go first. I stepped aside to let him pass.
“Well, what a good girl you are, you show respect, I’ll thank you.” We were standing face to face. A moment. He locked his arms around me — and I realized something was wrong. A horrible minute of paralysis: I didn’t know what, where, or why. I felt the friction of his body pressed against mine. I needed to get out, needed to push him away, needed to push him away. I couldn’t. I remember barely managing to squeeze my hand between him and myself because his “embrace” was so strong.
Bracing my hand against his plastic medals, I tried to push away: once, twice — it didn’t work. A thought: how can he be this strong? He’s old, barely walks with a cane, and yet… such animal strength. The third time, I pushed him away. I managed to. And with that stupid smile: “Ha, I need to go” — I ran out of the entrance.
The realization of what had happened did not come immediately, but I instantly knew it was something bad. In hysterics, in tears, I called my mom. I couldn’t even form a simple sentence. All I said was his first name and patronymic. I didn’t need to explain anything else — my mother understood everything.
The only desire was to burn all my clothes, tear off my skin, and sit and cry. My mother told me to gather my strength and go do the errands I had originally planned. At that moment, something in me snapped: as if it meant it wasn’t something terrible, it was just… just harassment (although I’m using this word for the situation for the first time).
For some time, I forgot about this story. Once, my mom and I talked about it, and she said I was not the only case. Reports had been filed against him before me and after me, but the cases were never pursued: he was a veteran, after all. My mother went too. The only thing that changed was that he no longer went outside alone.
I still don’t feel safe, and no matter how many years pass, I cannot go anywhere alone. Thoughts blaming myself for this situation are still present. I am working on this with a psychotherapist.
Anonymous author; story shared in 2024 as part of the campaign “16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence.”