< 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.

 

When I was 15, I was traveling alone for the first time by train to another city. I was put on the train, and I was supposed to be met when I arrived.

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In the compartment with me, there were two adults, men well over 30. One of them was indifferent and was reading something on the upper bunk, and the other one was very talkative. He sounded polite, talked about what a nice city I was going to, and at some point, sitting across from me, he started showing me a map of the city on my knees and thighs, touching them as if explaining where everything was located.

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I was wearing longer shorts and a tank top (it was hot in the train, summer). I was scared, so I didn’t say anything because I doubted it was worth it, but to prevent the possibility of him “showing” anything higher, I placed my hands on my thighs, blocking any further movement.

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After that, he went somewhere a few times. I think once or twice he invited me to go with him to the dining car or something like that, so I wouldn’t be bored sitting in the regular car. I refused, and he left again. When I settled onto the bunk, lying down and trying to take a nap because it was already late, I remember him coming back and sitting down on my bunk very close to me. I tensed up, but pretended to be asleep. Then he leaned in very close (I could literally feel his breath on me) and quietly asked whether he was bothering me. Here I am grateful to myself that I managed to say, “could you move over, please.” Luckily, he didn’t just shift a little — he moved to another seat and didn’t touch me again. I still believe that I was very lucky then, because many train stories don’t end this “well.”

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Anonymous author, 25+ years old; story shared in 2024 as part of the campaign “16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence.”