< 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.

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I don't remember exactly how old I was... around 10?

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In summer, we were travelling to a camp by train: me — for the first time without my parents — three friends from English classes around the same age, and the mother of one of them. The tickets were third-class sleeper berths — 4 places in one compartment and one separate berth away from the others. In the evening, when it was time to go to sleep, the woman accompanying us said that since I was a girl — responsible and independent — I should sleep separately, and the boys were, well, boys, and she needed to keep an eye on them.

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At night, I woke up feeling someone touch my thigh. The sheet had slipped off. I was lying in short shorts on the upper bunk, facing the wall. I couldn't see who it was and was afraid to turn over; my throat was in a knot, so I pretended to be asleep.

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I don't know how long the stroking went on — then he went to the bathroom (at the time I had no thoughts about what he might have been doing in there) — and in that time I pulled up the sheet and realised it was a man over 50, from the bunk opposite.

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When he came back, he stroked me a little more and went to sleep. I didn't. In the morning, he talked to me a lot, asking questions.

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Anonymous author; story told in 2019 as part of the "16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence" campaign