I’m currently studying abroad in Sweden, and I had planned on returning to WIYL with a lengthy analysis of Swedish and European attitudes on feminism, and how my experiences with both sexual harassment and the opinions on it differed from those in the States; tonight’s events, however, caught me completely off guard, and with few active feminists to whom I can turn here (more on that later), I now look to this strong, empowered community with a consoling nod of empathy and a bit of advice.

A few of my female friends and I went to the student bar tonight, and for the most part, it was your ordinary night out in Sweden: great people, expensive drinks, and questionable house music. At some point, one person in our group noticed an older man who had been leering at her for quite some time. Sure enough, as we moved from tables to booths to the dance floor, he would move as well, always standing alone with his drink, staring at her. Now, I understand that a bar is a social environment, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with someone checking you out, finding you attractive, striking up a conversation, and either moving forward or moving on. This man chose instead just to stare, to asses, from a distance; as the night continued, she became increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of someone using her fun night out, her body and her dancing, as a show, an object, a spectacle. As the offender moved even closer, she finally confronted him about his creepy gaze and uncanny movements that shifted as she attempted to move out of his line of sight. I didn’t hear their conversation, but whatever words were exchanged must have been a denial, an insult, or a threatening come-on, because she immediately grabbed her jacket and purse, and hurriedly marched out of the bar.

To see my friend, a self-identified feminist who is usually the first to rally against these same harassers and occurrences, this disarmed and derailed was entirely upsetting. Her night out was completely ruined by one man who believed he had to right, the privilege, to leer at his pleasure, but unapologetically refused to acknowledge the validity of her protests to what felt like nonconsensual voyeurism to her. As I sat there alone at the bar, I frantically looked around the room for the offender, wanting to confront him about his harassment. I realized then, though, that there was little I could do. My friend has attempted to verbally defuse the situation with little success; a larger, louder effort would only cause a scene, and I realized that my defense, “he was staring at my friend,” sounded inane to those who hadn’t been involved in the situation; yes, we were at a club, but is there any difference between that scenario, and an unknown man following you and watching you on the street, or in any other public space? I became increasingly furious as I realized that we were trapped in a situation in which our comfort zones, our personal space and safety, could easily be invaded, and that any objection to this intrusion could be laughed off, making us feel powerless in controlling situations regarding our bodies and ourselves.

My other friend put it quite succinctly as I was hunting down the harasser: “What are you going to do, punch him?” Very often, in discussions and experiences regarding consent and sexual harassment, we find ourselves backed into a corner, ridiculed and patronized for speaking out against unwanted advances and misogynistic actions and attitudes; it is easy, as we experienced in the bar tonight, to feel voiceless. I wish I had a neat conclusion, a revelation, or a tidy solution to eliminating these instances where a woman is made to feel so uncomfortable in her skin and in her environment that she sees no other option but to leave; I do know, though, that WIYL is an undeniably powerful force in uprooting a male-privileged society and in promoting consent not just within the confines of sex itself, but in all instances regarding one’s sexuality and sense of self. It’s good to be back, ladies; we’ve got a lot of work cut out for us.