< 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 don’t remember exactly how old I was — somewhere between 6 and 8. My biological grandfather would touch me when my grandmother wasn’t home. I don’t know whether it happened more than once: my memory of it is very distorted, with no surrounding context. I only remember what he said and what he did. He touched me and kept asking whether I liked it.

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6 to 8 years old is an age when a child isn’t truly conscious of what is happening — and yet, strangely, it had a great many consequences: on how I feel about myself, about my body, about sex, about men (especially men older than me).

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I find it hard to say no to people. I feel as though I don’t deserve to exist unless everyone around me adores me and wants me. But when that is the case — when someone acknowledges my attractiveness and wants to have sex with me — I feel awful. As though my body is the only thing that could ever interest anyone, and nothing else. As though I exist only so that my body can satisfy someone else’s needs.

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I was far too small and frightened to tell any adults. Later in life, when I brought up the topic of catcalling with my parents, their reaction at the time made me realise they simply wouldn’t have believed me.

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Anonymous author; story shared in 2023 as part of the “16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence” campaign