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A kind note from me to you: Don’t do this. Don’t invalidate your emotions just because it didn’t meet the criteria of how much you had to endure for it be deemed acceptable. Feelings are valid. But acknowledge that feelings aren’t facts either.

It was a straightforward, downward spiral of going through the 5 stages of grief that followed the next few months. Denial transitioning to Anger was easy; the reactive emotions gave something to burn through to live spitefully, cursing circumstances and the world’s idiocy. Bargaining became a point of desperation of wanting a form of normalcy to come back, of wanting to be back on familiar landmarks and faces. Depression felt like a long solitary winter; texts and calls of friends missing me and waiting for my return were pieces of warmth I held on to for days. But waking up every day in an unfamiliar room living in an unfamiliar house served as a stark reminder that I still wasn’t home.

In between the earlier stages, a lot of things happened at the same time. My grandmother passed on, my friends got married, my beloved cat died, my mental health deteriorated, a close friend stopped talking among other things, like the world breaking under the weight of the global pandemic. Like most people, I found 2020 surreal and a very trying year to get through. Not exactly the year we expected to open the new decade with but that’s what we ended up with.

I’m unsure when Acceptance arrived. Whether it settled in between the peaceful sleep I had one night or in the early mornings of when I took my first sip of the day, or in the strange calm composure I held on a video call with my friends. But it did came. But it didn’t mean I wasn’t still homesick. It didn’t meant I gave up on home and ever going back. It meant that I was finally acknowledging that this is the new normal.

Because acceptance ≠ resignation.

And in that frame of mind, I started to try to get to know Philippines a bit more during my long unplanned stay. Or at least, a very small part of it of where I live. True to Asian form, they love their communal gatherings. Be it a birthday party, a christening party, a Christmas party, a wake, a wedding reception, it’s overwhelming to say the least. Good thing to note is that I still dislike attending large gatherings, family or otherwise.

And like how Bruneians love their karaoke and Dangdut classics, Filipinos love their karaoke and rock ballads a little more. I have lost count how many impromptu karaoke sessions have been conducted weekly and while celebrations are nothing without them, it’s plain ridiculous how someone could fire up a karaoke box with 2 very large booming speakers just to sing the same Steelheart song over and over again just because they feel like it. I’m all for releasing stress and unwinding but karaoke that lasts all day long, starts at 6 am at times (yes, I am for real) and is loud enough to feel the house vibrating from the bass is beyond acceptable. I’d rather listen to Dangdut classics instead.

Where Brunei feels like a collective town who knows everyone or anyone and is related one way or the other to each other, the village where my mother’s family resides in emanates the same community familiarity. It’s oddly soothing in a way, even as I ironically struggle to understand the dialect but the sentiment is undeniably there. There is a sense of detachment between most of my cousins and I, and while I don’t deny that my lack of trying has a big part in it, I appreciate the ones who do try despite our language barrier. It’s in the little things really, and I’m still trying to navigate my way around it carefully but it’s something. I think I owe myself that little bit of effort to be aware of where I came from and where I could have grown up in.

I know home will still be there in Brunei. My friends will still be there, probably married or with kids or with a soaring career and business life. Home will still be bumbling along in its own way as I move forward with my own life. Even as things change, months passed and moments are miss from being far away, home is not where my heart is or was; home is not where I currently am or am not. Home is not here.

Home is here, in where I carry it with me.

by ShaSha Cuadra

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Short, close cropped hair on a woman indicates homosexual tendencies. Single women prioritises romance. Being of a certain age means it is time to be ‘proper’.

And these words are said by men, highly educated and of white-collar backgrounds. Men who should know better.

When I heard all this, I was mildly irritated but just laughed it off thinking it’s pointless to say anything otherwise.

It doesn’t matter what I wear or how I present myself, I will never be enough to the patriarchy. Because that is what it is in the end. All those unconscious biases, the internalized misogyny, the stereotype of what a woman should be. We are our looks, we are our reproductive functions - we don’t belong to ourselves.

Upon taking a deeper look into the questions earlier, I found that my irritation came from a place of being misunderstood and my voice unheard. These people are assuming things of me, but it brings me to ask myself why I am so affected by these assumptions. It doesn’t matter what they think because if it did, I will spend the rest of my life explaining myself to people who assume, misunderstand, label and place me in paradigms even if it’s not necessarily accurate.

These biases run so deep we perpetuate them unconsciously. To me, it’s frightening that patriarchy is so insidious that all of us regulate and censor ourselves without even further questioning why it is certain social norms are taboo while the rest are accepted. How many times have we chosen outfits or haircuts based on what “people would say”?

I wonder how many women have stopped themselves from activities that are deemed too rough or improper like martial arts, football, rugby and so forth. The same goes for representation in professional settings - if we speak and listen freely, without judgement, without imposing our own conceptions on others. I believe in reflecting honestly and asking ourselves questions like whether we give the same leeway to both the men and women in the workplace. And if not, why and how do we address that imbalance.

I’ve heard stories of working mothers being told off by their supervisors or management saying that they don’t work as hard as they should because they are always “out doing the school run” or “their focus is elsewhere”. I’ve heard coworkers admit they are insecure about being back after their maternity leave because they feel they must prove themselves even more than the average person. It makes me wonder – rather than focusing on the individual who ‘should’ change their way of working after such a life-altering event, when do we start thinking about bringing to life the possibilities of changing the work environment to one that is more flexible and conducive so everyone can work at their optimal peak.

We live in the 21st century, I don’t see why we must adhere to archaic approaches to working with all the innovation in communications technology. Same goes for assuming a person’s identity based on their external appearances. If so, what should a modern woman act and look like? Because if I go by the general view so far, it doesn’t seem very modern at all.

I’d like to think that I do my part in contributing to shifting mindsets about gender roles, but if I’m being honest here, I’m tired. It makes me frustrated, sad and sometimes, I wonder if it’s worth having all these conversations that don’t seem to effect any change. Then I think back to all those times where I and so many other women are in one way or other, silenced or made to feel small simply for being who we are and I know I owe it to myself to keep speaking about it.

I know we know better, and I know we can do better.

A contribution by Wani Gapar

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It must be this really easy thing that just happens right? Something that just occurs naturally. That’s what I’ve been warned against, that’s what media has told me.

So when it didn't come easy to me, I was left feeling so isolated. And strange.

Four periods later, I can confirm that it is not as easy as women were all made to believe. I couldn't help but feel cheated when what we were always told did not match reality.

I arrived at my gynaecology appointment only to meet my doctor's amused smile. I told her my husband and I had started trying.

"And you expected to be pregnant straight away?" she chuckled.

I remember laughing nervously at her.

I wanted to reply to her, "… Yeah?"

I learned that apparently an average couple takes up to 18 months of trying naturally before they succeed in conceiving.

Even at a cellular level, I didn't realise how difficult the sperm's journey is to travel up the woman's uterus to find a woman's egg. It made me realise how much of a miracle I myself am to come into being.

But that's all the science and logic of it. It's hard to think about what happens at a cellular level whenever my period comes.

I don't know about the other couples, but how do they handle the monthly anguish when the female partner gets her period?

Why don't I hear about it more often?

I only hear mentions of being steadfast and to try and try again, from those who have succeeded.

I always hear these sanguine anecdotes from other people, telling me a child is "rezeki". It's a gift from God and therefore warrants faith above making effort and prayers to get it.

It's difficult to reconcile the rhetoric of pregnancy being taught as this inevitable consequence of sex with the concept of it being rezeki (to be patient and prayed for) when many discover it to be a difficult thing to achieve in the first try.

Maybe society should stop fixating on the "pregnancy as punishment" rhetoric and focus on teaching women AND men what we need to know about our bodies. I was fooled to believe that I knew more about sex when there is more underneath the surface beyond using/not using birth control to bring a child out into the world.

Perhaps I am bitter thinking about my situation, thinking the grass is greener on the other side.

If anything is true though, in facing those months we are not pregnant yet, is that I blame myself. I blame myself on several levels.

I know on a logical level, it takes a man's sperm to fertilise an ovum, to result a successful conception. And I shouldn't participate in society's poor habit to look at the woman when a baby isn't successfully sired each month a couple is trying.

But my thoughts have a hard time complying to logic.

Perhaps the fertilization was not successful because I'm not healthy enough. I blame myself for not taking care of my health better. Why did I spend those years exercising when it has come to this?

Perhaps God knows I am not financially stable yet. I blame myself for not being better with managing my money.

Perhaps God knows I am not mentally strong yet. I blame myself for not taking care of my mental health.

Each and every month I sink deeper into this dark well of self-blame. Even though I tell everyone that I am getting better at reacting to my period coming--I was so convincing I almost fooled myself. But I realise that I've just been compartmentalising. And each month that box where I stuff all my despair fills up, more and more, and I am at my brim.  

Making a human is hard.

And I wish this journey didn't have to be so hard.

An anonymous contribution

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My anxiety, which I was learning to manage with the help of my therapist, was high when Covid-19 travelled to Australia quickly, bar graphs on the television screen shot up day in and day out. I lived alone in a large apartment, took up all sorts of hobbies (remember Animal Crossing???) and dated somebody who was bad for me to fill the void my family had left. I had zoom classes for my martial arts, and each time the classes ended, I told everybody how much I missed and loved them.

What I really missed was the comfort of family. I think back to when I lived in Singapore for three years and how I was able to fly home any given weekend with cheap flight tickets due to privileges attained by my mother who works for the airline. Living in London was great because my brother was an hour and a half train ride away, and would regularly visit me to fill the void we both felt that only family could fill even though all we did was laze the weekend away in my flat.

With a pandemic and living in an isolated city on an isolated island, with restrictions imposed on just about any country that would make me or my family come physically closer to one another, I could feel the sickness that only home could remedy. I miss the comfort of my bed in Brunei, the shuffle of Bapa’s feet as he entered the living room, the feel of my mother’s arm linked into mine for support so she can walk straight, the sound of my brother’s grunt when he agrees to a suggestion, the boom of my older brother’s laugh, and the sound of my sister’s car engine driving up the driveway.

I no longer know how my two year old niece’s weight would feel if I carry her. She thinks I’m a YouTube video every time I video call her.

It’s bloody hard, living alone, not verbally talking to people directly for days sometimes, anxious of touching surfaces while trying to manage a relationship that I knew wasn’t meant to be in in the first place. I kept it to myself and told my friends back home, until I had to consult my therapist one day (face to face, thank goodness) of how much I was struggling, especially as someone who was on the tail end of recovering from an event that led to me developing post-traumatic stress disorder syndrome. Her advice was to make plans with the one friend I have by organising walks, and ensuring we stay at a safe distance from each other.

That was the start of it, really. The void in my heart, I realised, was also experienced by so many other people stranded in Canberra, a city filled with people who did not grow up there. Jemma and I took walks every Friday evening and watched films afterwards at a safe distance from each other.  Tina and Hannah came for dinner at my place every Saturday evenings, each occupying one side of the dining table in order to help each other cope. Adam—having lost a family member—and I began talking to each other every day to help fill our loneliness, and Steph, separated from her partner and her family, would text me telling me how much she misses seeing me or sparring in sword class with me.

As their love filled me, I broke up with the man I was dating.

It’s weird how a pandemic and being separated from people I hardly knew who lives in this city with me brought us so much closer together.

As restrictions began to ease, and contact sports were allowed touching, I found myself missing the feel of being touched—something I didn’t realise I needed—even though it meant that my hapkido training partners were throwing me to the ground. The friendships I developed in lockdown developed outside the comfort of my home and smart phone, and I found myself turning into an incredibly social being, ensuring that my days are filled with friends I cared about, telling people I love that I love them even if they don’t feel the same way, transforming myself from being a cold pessimist to the warmest version of myself.

Acquaintances whom I didn’t know the life of early in 2020 became close friends who’d consult me with their life problems. I became the person people go to for cuddles. I was spoilt with options by people who wanted to adopt me as their family for Christmas. My friends and I closed a bar to celebrate my birthday when the year before I only stayed at home.

The truth is I don’t know when I’ll see my family again. It could be this year, or it could be the next. But the thing is I’ve somehow managed to make my own found family here. It doesn’t have the same warmth as my real family, but it is just as special—lonely souls in a middle of pandemic reaching for one another to fill a void.

by Teah Abdullah

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My first encounter with sex was with my first love, and we didn’t use protection and the pull-out method gave the adrenaline and excitement in the bedroom.

When that relationship ended, I soon saddled onto a fuck buddy, me being emotionally damaged and vulnerable, I disregarded the seriousness of safe sex as I have gotten used to bareback by my partner before. Fast forward to meeting different men of a different race, age and religion, I have soon realised the horror that is affecting most men I slept with.

They are afraid of condoms.

Most of my bedroom partners never carry a box of condoms. However, when they do bring it (upon my request), they will always take off their condoms during the heat of the moment. I’d only realise it when I see the empty and used condom by the side of the bed towards the end. The number of times I have felt violated by their act were countless. Not to mention, this can be counted as rape as I did not consent to having unprotected sex.

When I ask them for their reasoning as to why they take it off.

 “It gets uncomfortable.”

Those few minutes of discomfort isn’t the same in comparison to the discomfort of having your vagina being swabbed for any sort of infections or bleeding when you notice an odd odour or colour oozing out. The men’s negligence would also be the cause of a pregnancy test turned positive.

It has become a repeated pattern by my previous bedroom experiences in Brunei, which has resorted to me taking my own charge in order to avoid unwanted pregnancies when I resorted to getting birth control pills and the occasional morning-after pills. This took a lot of me putting on a brave face and a lot of, “yeah, I am married” line in most private clinics. 

The costs of getting these pills are $8 for the birth control pills and $25 for the morning after pills minus the consultation fees (all by my own expenses) in comparison to getting a box of condoms for about $3 - $5, which most men I’ve slept with are too egoistic to even pick it up from their nearest Guardian store fearing others might see them making that purchase. Why can’t they buy their own box of condoms while we have to buy our own packs of sanitary pads, menstrual cups or tampons?

It should not be the woman’s responsibility to buy the man’s condoms just as it is not their responsibility to get our menstrual needs. This goes into the issue of women having to spend more for their hygiene, with menstrual needs adding a cost to our daily lives already. Condoms should not be a woman’s financial responsibility. 

Meanwhile, STD tests might be free for locals in Brunei for the government clinic but you will never get away from the judgmental comments from the doctors, another obstacle for me to bear being a sexually active person in Brunei.

I enjoy sex and I adore the intimacy that comes along with it, but by being stuck in Brunei and swiping right on condomphobic men as the only way of getting my thirst met, it has led me to the ocassional, “when’s my next period?”

And women should not have to live with that perpetual fear just because men refuse to acknowledge pregnancy scares or respecting their sexual partner’s bodies.

If all fails and I want that instant pleasure, I have found much enjoyment by my own company with some scented candles, a video and a lovely toy. 

An anonymous contribution

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What drew me was the premise, but what stuck with me was the practice. 

The cast and crew were some of the most nurturing and compassionate individuals I’ve ever met. If I were to describe the energy of the environment, I’d have to say it felt like a very loud and happy noise. Everyone was very expressive in their views, not so much in how they expressed it but what they were saying. One of the ladies told me she could speak more freely than she normally would in her usual circles. I chalked it up to gender dynamics, until I realized it was more than that. 

Every night during rehearsals, there would be an assortment of meals and snacks everyone would contribute and partake from because most of us would come straight from studies or work and wouldn’t have time to eat dinner. It was significant to me, because these thoughtful gestures make the difference between performing at my best or suffering through gastric while acting out my scenes. Everyone would check up on each other, texted to see if we got home safely, and generally, just showed care. One of the more memorable incidents was when I said the ladies’ room was running out of toilet paper and the next day, at least three of us arrived with a roll in our bags. It made me laugh then, but I look back at this time fondly because it was truly a place that encouraged growth and expression. 

I had wondered if it was any different to more male-dominated arenas or if in a professional setting. I have the privilege of learning martial arts with both men and women, but in some classes, I was the only woman. I was equally comfortable in that space because the coach and team made it a safe environment to train in and I was afforded every respect and professionalism. It occurred to me that it wasn’t so much about the differences between men and women as it is about the individuals leading these spaces and how influential they can be in role modelling values that others would adopt, intentionally or otherwise. 

At work, I have been part of predominantly women teams, but it did not have the same energy as when I was in theatre or the gym. I am aware that a highly competitive environment plays a big role in how we interacted with one another, especially when everyone has different drivers in doing well at work, but it irked me to see how some people are fine with stepping on toes to get ahead in their career. It’s also called “playing the game” or “climbing up the corporate ladder” but I am a firm believer that you can still succeed without resorting to underhanded tactics to do well at work. If anything, some of the most highly respected business leaders that I have met embody the values they carry. 

My previous managing director is a very accomplished and respected figure and she was a strong champion of women’s empowerment. I’ve heard many stories from others, and experienced myself, how she has elevated women through various initiatives and providing a supportive infrastructure for us to perform our best in. I have worked closely with other senior leaders of both sexes who brought in their brand of care while ensuring that everyone in their team is developed through coaching, mentoring and other formal training programmes. I have found that their protégés very often emulate the same way of being amongst junior or newer team members. It’s very encouraging to see this paid forward and this is how it also contributes to a safe space for one to be their authentic selves while giving their best in their endeavours. 

I’m deeply humbled and grateful to have met so many people who bring out the best in me and those around me. I’ve learned throughout the years as well that while the work to elevate women around me must continue, safe spaces that allow for real growth comes from leaders who live the principles they speak of. As the inspiring singer songwriter Dolly Parton said, “If your actions create a legacy that inspires others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, then, you are an excellent leader.”

A contribution by Wani Gapar

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April 2019. I’m about to get on the plane to Japan for the first time. Tears are rolling down my cheeks. I take my seat on the plane next to a perplexed friend and literally sob from pre-take-off to when we’re fully in the air. The best thing that could ever happen was happening and for that, I was terrified.

June 2019. I met Fattah. Despite liking him and plenty of evidence indicating that he wants to be with me too, I cried right in front of him on our first date, telling him that I’m a mess and that I was sure that he would not love me. He would commute back and forth from Lumut to Bandar at least twice a week to see me.

June 2020. Despite a few more attempts made by me to convince Fattah that I wasn’t lovable, we are engaged. I don’t sleep that night. I’m terrified. I was sure it would end badly. The sabotaging would continue. Two weeks before our wedding, I tell my therapist that we will definitely be getting a divorce because I’m convinced things will not go well and that’s just normal and okay.

Today. Married life is going great. Despite not being together for most of the weeks as I have to be based in Bandar and Fattah has to be based in Lumut, our communications have been effective most of the time.

And yet…

At the end of a joy-filled day, I would stare at Fattah, as if expecting the other shoe to drop. I would ask him again and again if there was something wrong. Baffled at the question, he says that nothing’s wrong and that I make him so happy. To his growing frustration, I wouldn’t get it. What does he mean by that? Maybe he just wasn’t in the mood to say it right then but I’m sure something’s wrong.

If there is the other shoe, it never drops.

And again, I’m terrified in the same ways I was and still am about losing my job tomorrow, about not deserving opportunities, to accept that I’m happy and I deserve to be. While the objective was perhaps to “keep my guard up” and to prepare for the worst, it not only hindered me from enjoying the present but it was also causing mild friction with the people I care about.

Following this realisation, I sought help from my therapist. I asked him, “What if I let myself be happy, and something bad happens, and I was stupid for being happy?”

This feeling was accurately conveyed in Bojack Horseman when Princess Carolyn said, “I'm afraid of losing some part of myself. I'm afraid that if I let someone else take care of me that I'm not really me anymore. I'm afraid of getting too comfortable, going soft. I'm afraid that this could be the best thing that ever happened to me and if it doesn't make me as happy as I'm supposed to be, that means I'm a lost cause.”

To this, he said, “What if nothing bad happens, and you were silly for thinking bad things will happen?”

He would go on to say that if I start to ask “what if” questions, I would be in his office for a long time because they all point to possibilities, and possibilities are endless.

The truth is life has its ups and downs and doesn’t go downhill just because I’m happy. These are things that are out of our control and being happy with the present is not a flaw just as being cautious about being happy doesn’t prepare me for bad things that may or may not happen.

In Bojack’s words to Princess Carolyn, “Yes, all those things could be true, but on the other hand, what if you deserve to be happy and this is a thing that will make you happy? And maybe don't worry about whether you'll be happy later and just focus on how you're happy right now?”

Maybe, while I’m getting caught up with watching and waiting for the metaphorical other shoe to drop, I don’t notice that I’m surrounded by ones that are already on the floor, softening the impact of the next one that may or may not drop. Shoes that are on the floor may have been things in the past I would have worried hours and hours over, but no longer affect me as I learn to manage my anxiety.

Bad things happen but without even realising it, I’ll be more prepared each time. The shoe might drop, but also, it might not.

by Raudhah Nadhirah

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I am sure his action was well-intentioned but his pity coming from his speculation that my choice of plain fried noodles was induced by my incapability to pay for poultry, harmed me.

Unwarranted pity can be undesirable.

Imagine you’re trying to adopt a healthier lifestyle so you cycle from home to your workplace. In Brunei. I’m sure you can visualize the uncomfortable, pitying eyes from passing vehicles, mourning the absence of your car in your stead.

I am not a person who likes their hands occupied. My dresses are made with little pockets hidden at the sides for my phone and cards so I don’t usually carry a handbag even to a formal event. Someone asked me if I wanted their preloved purse.

Somebody who worked hard to retire early by passive streams of income would be irritated if they retired only to be continuously pestered by job suggestions and offers by folks who pity them being unemployed.

Baseless pity does not just reflect ignorance. On a deeper level, it is an indication of something more complex.

When we are not clear with what we want in life, we tend to use something as a guide. Most often, society. What most people do, I must do. Whoever doesn’t, must be in some way or another, unable to do. Nobody would choose not to do it if they are able to.

A home must have aircon. People who do not install aircon in their home must be pitiful.

No TV? Poor you.

30 and single? My cousin is looking for a wife. I’ll introduce him to you.

He failed his O levels. Oh dear, what will become of him in the future?

Unless we clearly see them suffering from not having the things that others would usually have, or unless they express their struggles, do not assume the worst.

Pitying over trivial things without context shows that we are unable to accept ways of living other than what is in the norm with the society.

And one can never keep up with everything.

Good grades, beauty standards, universities, high paying jobs, successful businesses, large houses, luxury cars along with perfect family, great relationships, kids and the etcetera that we know so well.

Just how it is not possible for us to please everybody, there are always things that we have not or cannot achieve.

Here comes the self-pity.

In order to feel better and get by with what we have, we find on other people, what they lack in our dictionary of a good life. We feel better by knowing that there are others who have it worse.

It is a desperate attempt to self-soothe by regarding others inferior.

For our peace of mind, we all know not to compare ourselves to other people. Yet, we overlook our tendency to apply the rule of not comparing only to those who we think are living a better life than ours. We have no problem looking at people who do not seem to live the life that we dream of and feel relieved that we are not alone and worse, that we are still better than most others.

The fact is that we still subject ourselves to comparison.

Instead of working ourselves to burnout so that we can live like the Joneses, we give our blood, sweat and tears every day so that we do not live like that person who wears the same shirt four times in a week.

What is the point of not being pressured by how beautiful our friends’ kids are when we are pressured instead by not wanting to live childless?

What we pity, we dread.

When we pity something so ordinary like eating from a bento in college, we do not dread being too broke to buy lunch in the cafeteria. There is no way of telling why a person is having a home-packed lunchbox just by seeing them bring one. In no way that is an indication of being broke. What we are dreading is actually the thoughts other people might have when we are seen having a bento, just like we did.

The easier for us to assume the reason behind a person’s action, the more we are prone to assuming other people’s reaction should we be the one in the situation.

Often with groundless pity, there is more harm to the pity giver than to the receiver as long as they do not act on it like how the aforementioned waiter did.

But the habit of assuming is never limited to just one aspect of our life.

Here I am talking about pity.

Without having to explore them right now, we all know the danger of judgement and prejudice.

After all, for us to wind up with unwarranted pity, judgement and prejudice, our mind goes through the same thought process. One that includes assumption.

by Hani Syafi’i

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Like with many others, it all started on social media, with these so-called fitspo posts. Short for fitness inspiration, fitspo is the trend of posting pictures of a fit & healthy lifestyle in hopes to motivate others. On the surface, it sounded like a good thing. With millions of followers, fitspo culture supposedly encourages people to exercise and achieve their “dream body”. Social media would be full with pictures of people showing off their slim waistlines, six-pack abs, thigh gaps, etc. Feeling inspired, I started off by watching Chloe Ting videos, tracking my calorie intake, intermittent fasting, and going to spinning classes 3 to 4 times a week.  

It felt amazing at first. I was dropping down from a size M to an XS.  Exercising became my favourite pastime, and others even looked up to my so-called fitness journey. I was becoming fitspo. 

Like a rollercoaster soaring high, my journey also eventually had to go crashing down. It started taking over my life. Thoughts of calories, fear of gaining weight, and the urge to vomit my food crept up my mind. As if they were scratching my brain, these thoughts haunted me and everything I did. I lost sight of my work, my lifestyle, and the things that mattered to me. I could no longer appreciate what was in front of me, everything became just another step to a smaller, thinner body. The food on my table, the people I was with, my own happiness; all clouded by my desire to look good for others.

Things changed when a close friend started noticing my change in behaviour, “You need to go see a doctor. If this continues, you might develop anorexia,” she said.

“Eating disorder? What do you mean? You’re just on a diet and taking care of your body,” My father replied when I told him about my psychiatrist’s diagnosis of me.

The reality was that I was far from taking care of my own body. I ate the same 2 meals everyday (greek yoghurt for lunch and broccoli for dinner), not reaching my caloric needs, neglecting nutrition, and vomiting out anything I deemed as ”bad food”. The effects didn’t just stop at eating. I refused to go out with family & friends to restaurants because I would feel anxious, I wore sweaters indoors because my low body fat meant that I was always feeling cold, and I was constantly feeling weak & having fainting spells.

But people kept commenting on my body, saying things like:

“You look pretty now!”

“You’re so fit goals!”

“I wanna be thin like you too! Siuk eh!”

How could I ever want to abandon my destructive eating habits when I was constantly showered with the assurance and acceptance I felt I lacked all my life?

It’s been a tug of war between wanting to be healthy and looking my best, between what I want and what’s right for me. With the help of my doctor, proper nutritional advice, and the support from family & friends, I’m able to slowly make progress towards a healthier and more positive relationship with food.

My road to recovery made me realize that fitness is not about having a low digit on the scale and a flat stomach, it’s about my own goals and how it makes me feel both physically & mentally. I understand now that what I was doing previously was counter-intuitive, as consuming less calories meant that my metabolism was slowing down in order to conserve more energy, thus leading to a weight loss plateau and possibly leading to binging. I would’ve been stuck in a vicious cycle of binging and purging. Other than that, my eating habits were putting me at risk of developing electrolyte imbalance, weak bones, and complications with fertility.

Doesn't sound very fitspo anymore.

Instead of taking on these fad diets that fitspo culture was encouraging, for me, it was healthier to eat a balanced meal, exercise regularly, have a positive mindset, and recognize that calories aren’t evil, they’re vital. We also need to acknowledge that health can be different for people based on their own specific needs. Health exists at every size, so there’s not one ideal representation of what a “healthy” person looks like, which was what fitspo was conveying. What’s more, we need to recognize that bodies change and adapt, and oftentimes it’s not within our control, so we should avoid making unsolicited comments about others’ bodies.

Fitspo culture and the whole gym-rat wave is a double edged sword. If it makes you happy, it’s good to strive for a fit, healthy lifestyle, but if you let it consume you and allow weight loss to dictate every action you take, it easily spirals to an eating disorder that threatens the very life you are trying to improve. We need to be more self-compassionate and recognize that nobody’s perfect, and no body is perfect either.

  A contribution by Surah Azlan

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So, as per the universal tenet that all bodies follow the path of least resistance, your end-of-work routine starts its descent at the gym next to the office, 30 minutes on the treadmill to work off some of those calories from lunch, followed by a stop at the mall near your house where you park at your usual space three slots from the lift, heading to cinema to see the latest schedule even though you basically have it memorised since they only update weekly, then going down to browse the department store for exercise equipment you’re never going to buy and clothes for the kids you don’t want to have, lurching along the escalator to haunt the aisles of the ground floor supermarket, drifting through air-conditioner mist and the wafting of stale butcher meat, eyeballing the snacks you shouldn’t take and the veggies you should, but that come in bulks that can’t be finished before going stale, and your mother would scold you for not picking the freshest ones anyway. Finally, you grab a basement bubble tea to put back on those calories you lost and head home, certain you’ll be back tomorrow or even later that night.

But, maybe sometime during your wanderings, say, after the third night in a row watching the 10pm screening of Detective Pikachu… you have an epiphany. In the Pokemon games you basically go on a tour of the whole land collecting badges; why not a tour of your own here? You admit that trawling OneCity every day is starting to get old, so… why not… a tour of every Supa Save branch in the country? You seem to have a thing for shopping centres, and this should be an achievable way of changing things up a bit.

You open up Google Maps. Supa Save Seria can wait; the rest are eminently reachable. Hell, you work near the Riverside/Kiulap branch; the one that could fit in the faux-Western quarter of a regional metropolis, like Bukit Timah or Damansara. Stepping in, you get that cold rush of air-conditioning to the face before savouring the familiar sights – a BBQ chicken deli, Ensaymadas and glazed doughnuts, locally-grown Japanese musk melons, Bulla frozen custard and Waitrose biscuits. The badge for your effort is a receipt for a tube of whitening toothpaste, which you tuck away as you stroll down the boardwalk, past the fancy cafés and the monitor lizard-infested embankment.

Next up, Supa Save Beribi. It’s the most Hua Ho-like of the branches and the most congested, given its horrendous road set-up and terrible access route from the south; you almost go fender-to-fender twice while negotiating the chaotic parking jam. Other than that, it’s the same BBQ, Ensaymadas, melons, Waitrose… and then you take your Panadol badge and hurriedly admire the incorporated Coffee Bean joint and the Millennium buffet restaurant on your way out before the traffic gets rush hour mad.  

Lastly, Supa Save Mabohai. The OG branch that still has one foot in its late 80s/early 90s foundations. BBQ, Ensaymadas, melons, Waitrose you go, grabbing your ENO badge and making your way past the discount kiddie book sellers for a whistle-stop tour of the upstairs, getting nostalgic for the old SugarBun playpen and CD stores long vanished and collapsing inwards from embarrassment as you feel your age pottering around the perennially underfilled Toys “R” Us all on your own.

Wait, Google Maps says there’s one more Supa Save… another Beribi branch? That can’t be right, so you check it out, somewhere near the Telanai highway intersection. Turns out it’s a smaller scale shopping mall that you vaguely remember from childhood, though never visiting. Ominously, the faded logo on the façade reads ‘SMART’, and there’s a notice from the year before announcing its closure. You have a peek through the glass walls, at pale rows of bare shelves standing upon a debris-lined floor, like an earthquake one day shook all the remaining produce off and it’s all been left there to rot ever since. If you ever wanted to know what it was like to stick your head into the belly of a gutted carcass without the smell, this is pretty much it.

The building is nominally a still-functioning mall, but practically all the lots inside are emptier than those dead shelves you just saw. You climb the non-functioning escalator to find a few signs of occupancy, but they’re all shuttered on a Friday afternoon. Back on the ground level, standing at the centre of the atrium, looking up to the skylight letting in a cloud-filtered hazy glow,  you appreciate the overpowering stillness of the place, ambient birdsong and traffic noises lapping against it like waves spilling upon a beach that nobody visits because they’d heard someone died there years ago.

You exit past a Nasi Padang stand and immediately start thinking about your trip to Seria; hopefully, getting your last badge will be a more pleasant experience than trodding through that mound of pigeon droppings on the way to your car.

There, as you start the engine, a voice you never realised you’d been holding back forces its way out, blurting:

‘You know, I really have to find something else to do with my time’.

You half-snatch at the air and slap at your mouth; futile, delayed reactions as it becomes apparent that it’s been gradually taking over the whole time, and now it has the wheel.

Oh well, you shrug, and let go, never imagining how easy it would actually be. Soon, you are off, not sure where you’re headed…

And not looking back.  

A contribution by KH Lim

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It was my relative's driver.

I don't remember how it started.

I remember being led to different rooms in the house, we were always alone. He would lay me in bed and then molest me, placing his finger into my vagina.

It's difficult to describe what I thought back then as a child.

To me then, my abuser seemed like one of the nice adults in my life. I perceived his abuse like receiving attention and affection.  

He did this often, making it seem like a pleasant activity to look forward to.

And the way I was raised, with my strict mother and my loving father who raised me in a safe environment, I was taught to trust the adults around me. They always knew better. Always looking out for me. Everything they did or said were for my own good.

In turn I extended my trust to my abuser. And within the capacity of my five year old mind, I did not question this adult of what he was doing to my body.

This went on and off for about a year or so, until we moved out and into our own place. I just continued with life after that, not thinking anything about it.

I was 12 when I saw Oprah talk about her experience of being sexually molested. That term is forever seared into my brain. That was the first time I knew I had been a victim of sexual abuse.

I guarded this secret close to my heart for so long.

I remember crying around the time I realised, feeling guilty for not knowing, feeling like I was tainted and disgusting.

As an adult I developed anxieties and have needed to seek counselling and therapy. I have never even raised these events to my therapist.

Over time I have managed to deal with the reality of what happened to me.

I told myself that I had no way of understanding what was going on and no capacity to consent to the event because I was a minor. I was a child. I did not know better.

The adult who was supposed to possess maturity, differentiate wrong from right, should have known better. The adult man who was physically stronger, possessing strength that makes him fully capable of protecting me should have done better. The blame is solely on the adult who had made that informed and wilful choice, each time, to abuse me. The vulnerable and trusting five year old girl.

I don't blame my parents or any of the adults who could or should have protected me. Because I realise there is a systemic issue in our society in refusing to look at realities that make us uncomfortable straight in the eye, let alone wanting to deal with it.

I say that I don't blame my parents but as someone who had gone through abuse, I would have done things differently. During my adolescence my mother did begin to teach me about boundaries and my body, and how adults whoever they may be should not violate these boundaries. What a shame though that she wasn't able to tell me this 5 or 6 years sooner.

You often think that predators are faceless strangers on the other end of a child's screen lurking in the dark, when in reality the adults who groom and sexually abuse are the same people who should be the ones caring and protecting these children.

My intention to share this story out here with you is to be aware. And to take action and protect the minors, protect the children.

Question everything.

Adults making inappropriate comments about children. Saying things like marrying kids when they get old enough. Making inappropriate comments to sexualise children.

Question everything.

Adults being in relationships with minors. Saying, "Oh, they'll turn 18 soon anyway" does not make the problem go away. Irrespective of context, the adult should always be the responsible one. The adult should be the one to protect the minor from harm. The adult should consider that THEY can be that harm.

Question everything.

When a minor consents to a relationship with an adult, how does the adult verify that the consent is fully informed when the other party is not even of age? The power dynamic is much too steep and can never be fair even when the underaged teen eventually turns 18. Because by then, the child has been groomed by the adult, and the newly turned 18 year old will always be agreeable to everything the adult tells them to because the lens through which they see from has already been conditioned by their groomer.

Question everything.

At all cost. There is no grey area in this matter, only right or wrong. If you find an adult is anywhere near being inappropriate with a minor, you take action. Immediately.

An anonymous contribution

Songket Alliance encourages you to report abuse that you or your loved ones are experiencing. Please contact:

Jabatan Pembangunan Masyarakat: 141

Women and Children’s Abuse Unit, Royal Brunei Police Force: 2232001 (ext: 007)

When I got into makeup as a teen, I would have difficulties finding my foundation shade, as shops would only carry lighter shades. It made me feel like I didn’t fit in, like I was some sort of black sheep. I was a Bruneian like everyone else; the only difference was that I had a darker skin tone.

Growing up like this, I developed social anxiety that I still struggle with to this day. I would feel nervous in public and get overwhelming negative thoughts about myself like, “Everyone’s staring at you, they’re probably judging how you look” or “They’re laughing at you, they don't want you here. Why would they welcome someone like you?”

Along with all that, I was constantly exposed to K-Pop stars and Malaysian models in the media, which brainwashed me into thinking that being light-skinned was the same as being beautiful. That was when I started buying whitening creams, using makeup that was too light for my skin, and took pictures with a filter that made my skin appear lighter. That way, I looked like the girls I saw on TV, and I would feel good about myself.  But no matter what I did, I never felt truly satisfied with myself. Deep down I knew all I did was just mask how I actually look like and tried to love a fake version of myself.

It was like that for a couple of years until I started studying abroad in the UK. I was just doing some shopping when a complete stranger stopped me and said,

“I absolutely love your skin tone! It’s like a perfect shade of golden bronze!”

I was taken aback by her comment. No one back home ever said something like that to me. That wasn’t the last time. I got more compliments from people about my skin tone, such as how they would tan in the summer just to have a skin tone like mine, or how lucky I was that my darker skin tone meant that I rarely get painful sunburns. I also realized that there were many models that had the same skin tone I had and found them beautiful, so why didn’t I find myself beautiful?

What I also noticed in the UK was the lack of whitening products sold in stores. In Brunei, the shelves of the skincare section in shops would be lined with different brands offering the promise of being fair-skinned. That was when I discovered that the UK bans skin bleaching products due the harm it can cause. Certain skin whitening products are found to contain toxic ingredients like hydroquinone, and possibly even traces of mercury, which could cause skin rashes, irritation, and nerve damage.

I started asking myself, how are we allowing this back home? Are we really blinded by the smoke and mirrors surrounding the appeal of having fair, bright, perfect snowy white skin, as advertised by these products? When in reality, these products are just promoting colourism by associating light skin with desirable characteristics.

Reflecting upon my experiences surrounding the colour of my skin, I realize that beauty truly is subjective, and how we see beauty has been distorted by the society that we live in. Historically, colonialism has brought about the association that having light skin meant that you were of higher status and social class, and unfortunately, that ingrained belief has made its way into modern society. We need to confront these implicit beliefs and correct them.

It’s up to us to bring colourism into awareness and educate the people around us. Beauty products have also began masking the word ‘fair’ with ‘bright’ or ‘tone-up’, further perpetuating women’s needs to be fair in order to have value. I have stopped using whitening creams and whitewashing camera filters, I’ve advised other people against it, and try to bring up colourism among friends & family. One step at a time, we can stop aiming for fairer skin, and instead have a fairer society.

A contribution by Surah Azlan

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Interracial relationship is a relationship between people (two or more, let’s acknowledge that not all relationships are monogamous) from different racial and/or religious backgrounds. For some, this kind of relationship is seen as something that unites the world.

Think about it: people from very different backgrounds, different coloured skin deciding to join together in the name of heterosexual love and hopefully produce caramel skinned child/ren in the future?

Stunning.

But the reality of interracial relationships is more complicated than that.

I am someone who has dated guys from a variety of backgrounds. I’ve dated within my ethnicity (Malay Muslim), but also Chinese, Middle Eastern, South Asians, and white people.

Cultural breaches are always acknowledged by the Asians and Middle Eastern guys, mostly because of cultural overlaps: strict parenting, reminding each other that it’s time to pray, or discussing the struggle of managing our love for things produced by white people while maintaining our cultural loyalty.

Acknowledging our race was easy for us, because western media we’ve consumed have told us that we were different—even when we’re not—or secondary in status despite the fact the coloured skin people make up the majority worldwide.

These discussions did not have to start from scratch in some relationships I’ve been in.

But with each and every white person I’ve dated—four, all of whom were outside Brunei—only two of them had ever acknowledged their whiteness or was curious enough to ask me more about my cultural upbringing. Ryan would every so often not understand my references and requested clarity. He’d ask me to translate stuff into Malay, tasting the words on his tongue. Josh wished me happy fasting month without me having to tell him that Ramadhan was nigh. He Googled stuff about Brunei in order to connect with me.

These men made effort so many had not, recognising the difficulty I face in integrating to a white majority country: is my name anglicised? How do I navigate cultural clash? How can they navigate culture difference? What resources can I give them in order for them to recognise cultural and racial blind spots?

Sure, it’s seems easy to just be friends with someone from a different cultural background, but it’s an entirely different story to welcome someone who has no interest in your culture into your life as a partner. This is because a large chunk of your life is going to be shared with this person when you decide to commit. We’re not even talking about introducing them to the family. Things that are culturally a Big Deal to you might not be culturally a Big Deal to them, hence you have to explain why those things are culturally a Big Deal.

I have dated white men who dismissed my culture, so I left them knowing that they do not believe in intersectional social justice the way I do. I’ve dated an Indian man who no longer believes in his cultural roots in favour of a more white view of the world that he tried to convince me that all religion are man-made, even though we had a discussion about my Islamic beliefs a few days back, and he was supposedly understanding of it.

All relationships are complicated—it’s about finding an even ground where you’d be able to understand your partner/s, communicate and comprehend concerns together. In interracial relationship, it’s all those things but with an added cultural sprinkle. For some men I’ve dated, some of my behaviour comes off as a cultural shock to them. For others, they approach my cultural intricacies with curiosity and a tongue in the air to have a taste of my life.

I think interracial relationships isn’t any different than any other relationship, just that it adds further issues for you to discuss on. For me, heterosexual relationship already have a gendered power structure: The man as someone who mostly benefits from the patriarchy, the woman—me—navigating her position within the heterosexual relationship under the patriarchy. Gender dynamics is something I bring up during the early dating stage because I don’t want to have to school someone from scratch about feminism and dismantling patriarchy, similarly how I wouldn’t want to teach someone to open their eyes to systemic racism.

Love doesn’t prevail all. Being in an interracial relationship requires a flexible mindset that is constantly open and curious—From. Both. Sides.

It is recognising racial dynamics: how the white guys I’ve dated need to acknowledge the power structure of their Whiteness and my Brownness; discussing the structure of my Brown Southeast Asian privileges as a Chinese passing woman to the Brown Indian man I was with, who dealt with more racism than I do; or recognising the religious hierarchy with my Egyptian ex of my Southeast Asian Muslim identity that Arabs have often scoffed at.

Sure, I am a westernised person and our values may align with each other’s, but it also means recognising that our relationship have a racial power dynamics we need to challenge and dismantle together.

If they’re not in for that, then I am out.

A contribution by Nahri Zaydi

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Hell, I had a cousin who’d address me as “Fair & Lovely” in a demeaning way, basically suggesting that I was unacceptable. Once again, the kicker is that she was as dark as I was, so what was the difference between us, really? Was I an easy target because I was a tiny kid? 

Secondly, I never felt represented by the media as I honestly cannot recall any dark-skinned Bollywood heroines growing up. Darker-skinned women were always reduced to being back-up dancers to further accentuate the contrast of the main characters. It pisses me off now but back then, it added onto my belief that once again, my skin was unacceptable, ugly, and disgusting. 

To top it all off, I was a pretty hairy child which is not uncommon for Indians but gosh, you can only imagine the names I was called. It wasn’t until later in life that I found out that the excess hair on my arms and legs was actually a symptom of having Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS),  a condition that affect a woman’s hormone levels due to the production of a higher-than-normal amounts of male hormones.

All these insecurities bled unto my very being and as a result, I was crippled with anxiety and fear. The only way I coped was by disappearing into stories filled with love, friendship, magic and acceptance, all of which I very desperately craved. I became an introvert, not by choice at first, but I settled in pretty comfortably. 

Growing up, I did not have to worry about romance in Brunei knowing that I certainly did not fit society’s ideal beauty standards as, trust me when I say this, my skin tone automatically friend-zoned me. Let’s be honest - when brown/black skin is easily labelled as dirty and unfavorable, your options are drastically limited. Call me psychic because I ended up marrying a blue-eyed Caucasian from America.

In the thick of the Black Lives Matter movement, it’s quite obvious that colorism and racism will have their ugly heads reared for a long time to come and honestly, that is disheartening. I brought my concerns up to my husband recently as we were discussing our inevitable move to the USA one day. “Should we get guns to help protect ourselves? Maybe take self-defense classes?” I asked. I then wondered if I would feel safe just being in a car by myself. What would I need to do to prevent myself from being another Sandra Bland, a black woman who was found hanged in a jail cell after being arrested for failing to signal a lane change? How crazy must the world be if I need to worry about having contingency plans to ensure my survival just because my skin is darker.

This is bigger than all of us. We need to be better.

It took me years before I realized that I was not the problem, but during the time where I thought I was, no one had any idea. I felt ashamed for having these problems, for my skin tone, for being bullied. I told no one because well, I already felt like a burden and frankly who did I have to tell? 

Eventually I realized that it was not my fault that people were small-minded and ignorant, but it was going to be my fault if I stayed quiet. My silence made me complicit and this epiphany molded the outspoken woman I am today. I  think about all the other dark-skinned little girls and boys out there who are belittled and unaccepted. What if they don’t have the strength or the courage to speak up? What if they cower in fear every single day due to the lack of representation and support? What if they never overcome their low self-esteem? More dangerously, what if it leads to depression and self-mutilation?

I am unapologetically me and if that rubs you the wrong way then well, you can kiss my melanated ass.

I’m not going to lie – there is relief knowing that if I end up getting blessed with kids down the line, they most likely won’t have to go through what I did thanks to their father’s genes. However, if they do, you can bet their parents would be there every step of the way telling them how perfect they are just the way they are.

A contribution by S.N.

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After watching the movie Bride Wars starring Anne Hathaway and Kate Hudson in 2009, I promised myself that I would never become a bridezilla—a bride who is obsessed with every little detail of her wedding. Growing up, I have seen enough brides who got into a bad mood on their special day due to imperfect execution of the event. Not my scene.

In my mind, my wedding would just be an intimate and private get-together attended only by the few people I care about. It’s got to be a simple and stress-free gathering where I can focus on bonding with the people involved instead of the logistics. If my wedding event didn’t have so many details, I wouldn’t have anything to be a bridezilla about. Logical, right?

Wrong. I forgot I have relatives.

When the time comes for me to marry, everyone wants to orchestrate their perfect wedding through me. The list of people they want to invite includes many names that are unfamiliar to me. They want multiple, typically big ceremonies in the name of tradition.

But I’m not feeling it.

Back in the day when the traditions were formulated, I don’t suppose Dang Ambun went out of her way to look for a food catering service to provide three-course meals for VIP’s round table seating because she had to separate her guests by social status. I don’t suppose Awang AlakAlak took out personal loans to secure a wedding hall to fit in three thousand guests so they could gawk at his humongous wedding dais. And I don’t fucking suppose Damit was losing hair over some door gifts of that specific brand with the very chic packaging everyone will be talking about but will dispose of in an hour.

The essence of the tradition, which is collaboration, is not there.

In that sense, how dare we use tradition to distress ourselves when our ancestors did none of that?

The number of ceremonies is not the only thing that has changed in the matter of weddings, and “tradition” is not the only thing that motivates us to unnecessarily hassle ourselves.  An essential event that signifies a person’s change of marital status is now marketed as a celebration of love. And we want to make it grand to convey how deep our love is. The event becomes a competition for some and a pressure for others. If we look deeper into it, a typical wedding event we have now has little to do with tradition and more to do with parade. For me, this is absurd because if I wanted to celebrate love, I’d do it in the bedroom.

I love my wedding ceremony minimal and I don’t mind tradition, especially when it’s done with efficacy. My wedding attire is a beautiful set of traditional baju kurung made of authentic local kain tenun that my grandmother handmade herself when she was young. The sentimental value carried by that one attire is big enough for me to feel the sense of belonging and significance that I love about tradition. Choosing not to fill the event with modern excesses like a dais, halls, videographers, etc., I find that the preparation is not as overwhelming as it normally would be and guess what, you don’t need to break the bank to get married.

I do wonder if my relatives who are so adamant about upholding “tradition” are willing to come over to work together by cooking meals for the guests, setting the tables, and prepping me for the big day. After all, that was the core of the tradition and not paying others to do it on our behalf, which is what the norm now is. Aunties being supportive and productive, not aunties nitpicking at every choice I make.

In the end, my choice of having a stress-free wedding has turned me into some sort of a bridezilla, making it difficult for everyone by being firm with my decision. Even with a supportive partner, it was an uphill battle going against the elders who refuse to respect my wishes. I hate to win by default, losing the power to claim that the minimal wedding preference is by choice and not by circumstances, but having the law back me up in the fight is a huge opportunity that I cannot afford to pass.

So guess who’s getting married in the midst of a pandemic.

by Hani Syafi’i

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As I was scrolling through my Twitter feed, I came across a thread where people from all over the world quote retweeted their age where they were first sexually harassed, and some would disclose the perpetrator. I remember thinking how confounding it is that some of the offenders were blood relatives of the victims. As someone who is going through the same thing, I could understand the pain and the complexity of the situation.

If the abuser is not a relative, victims could lodge a police report and I believe the abuser will surely face justice for the immoral misdeeds and this action alone takes a lot of courage as reporting an individual for sexual harassment or abuse is incredibly emotionally, mentally, and physically difficult for the victim. 

Reporting someone that you believe you have to see for the rest of your life, and especially if the person is highly thought of and well respected by members of the family adds another layer of complication. Other family members might oppose to the idea of reporting the perpetrator as this could bring shame to the family. Another instance is if they are a figure with power. The odds of bringing this person to justice is slim as they can use their power to make the victims’ lives extremely difficult. How exactly do you move on from that?

To the women and men who are going through this too, I see you, I hear you and I sympathise with you. I, too, have yet to get rid of this fear.

When a person is sexually harassed, it impacts not just their image of themselves, but it makes them question about their self-worth and values. It’s as if a part of their soul has died. As they move forward, they will begin to constantly question themselves: if their actions have been too inviting or whether the clothes that they wear are too provoking. They will always feel like pairs of eyes are scrutinising their every movement and ready to jump at them whenever there is a chance.

Being on tippy-toes every single day and pretending that everything will be just fine does take a toll on mental health. Even though they open up their stories to their loved ones but most of the time, nobody really gets it unless they have experienced something similar. I pray nobody else in this world has to go through such torment.

The gaslighting and threats are another form of torture. Sexual predators are commonly manipulative and narcissistic. Some would even go to lengths of putting on a “good man” façade and unleash their true selves when the victims least expect it. Spluttering out words like, “I’m doing this because I love you,” or, “it’s okay, there’s no reason for you to be afraid.”

They are delusional creatures where they assume when a person does not respond to them is a signal or a consent for them to carry out their malicious acts. They add threats as well in order to control the situation and the victim. This makes the victim fearful of their lives, scared of getting hurt or worse if they speak out the truth. The predators can still walk around and live life normally as holy saints in the eyes of the society.

For those who refuse to report for whatever reason you have, it’s okay. I hope you remember that you can still win this battle even if the perpetrator isn’t held accountable for their actions. It takes time to heal, and in order to do that, you must always respect yourself. You need to stop blaming yourself for whatever happened. There is nothing wrong with you. There are other people out there who love you genuinely and think you are amazing, strong and bold for making it through this far. Those who hurt you certainly do not deserve your forgiveness, but personally I believe I need to do it for myself. Fill your heart with love and positivity. Last but not least, you deserve all the good things in whatever the world has to offer to you. You are a survivor.

For those who managed to fight for their own justice, I am proud of you. I know the journey isn’t sunshine and rainbows but what you did have definitely saved lives. You are a hero.

A contribution by Lavender

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