Diary of a Gen Z Student: We want to walk down the street without checking over our shoulders — is that too much to ask?

Jane Cowan: 'Writing this, I’m struggling to articulate the feeling of absolute powerlessness that those moments elicit. But every woman reading this knows what it is. We have to walk around every day with it.'

The first time I was sexually harassed, I was 13. I was walking through a shop with a friend when a man groped me. He was at least 18 years old, maybe in his early 20s. He was with a friend, and they proceeded to laugh hysterically as I told my friend what had just happened.

The man who groped me wasn’t even fearful enough of the consequences of his actions to leave the shop. He and his friend continued to walk the aisles as I tried to find the security guard. Eventually, through hyperventilating breaths and teary eyes, I told the security guard what had just happened. 

The friends of this man began to gather at the entrance of the shop and watch as my friend and I waited with the security guard until we could be collected and driven home.

In some ways, when I think about that now, it feels weirdly unremarkable. I’m 22 now, so I’ve almost a decade of experience with sexual harassment to draw from. 

I’ve been followed through town, groped in nightclubs, pushed against lockers in school, followed into bathrooms, had my hair stroked by strangers in public, and had men stop their cars to verbally harass me on the street. Every woman you know has experienced something similar.

I often hear people belittle the reality of sexual harassment. Acting like catcalling is a compliment. As if the relentlessness of always considering your safety, calculating your movements, and risk-assessing your words is just the price you’ve got to pay for someone finding you attractive. 

The reality is that I avoid taking taxis alone at all costs, I never take a sip of something that a bartender hasn’t handed to me, and I will never walk home from a night out alone. I do all of those things knowing that, if a man decides to do something, I worry that there’s almost nothing I can do to prevent that.

The latest incident

On Monday, a grown man chased my friend and I down a busy street in Dublin city centre. It was the middle of the day, we were sitting on a bench in the sun, drinking coffee. He came around a corner and stood uncomfortably close to us, holding a hand above our heads, and staring intently. Immediately scared, we stood up and began to walk quickly down the street.

At first, he was a few steps away from us. Then he began to run full speed at us. We ran in opposite directions. My friend tried to get into a shop; I stayed on the street. At first, he ran at me, but when he failed to catch up, he went straight to my friend.

The entrance of the shop was being blocked by a man doing maintenance. When she realised this, she stopped running, clearly paralysed by fear. I shouted at her to run. Terrifyingly, the man chasing her also told her to run. At this point, I began to scream at him. People stopped to watch, and he eventually walked away.

The most unsettling part of the whole experience was the realisation that no one was willing to step in or help us. At every point, I assumed now would be the time that someone on the street would at least speak up. We had all of Drury Street watching this unfold, no one willing to do anything. 

When I think of it now, I question how much he could have gotten away with before someone would have told him to stop. I don’t want to know the answer to that. We were just lucky that, on that day, screaming was enough.

'Something seriously wrong'

Writing this, I’m struggling to articulate the feeling of absolute powerlessness that those moments elicit. But every woman reading this knows what it is. We have to walk around every day with it. 

You get onto the bus to work hoping you’ll be fine. You hope you’ll get home from your morning run safely. You hope that your taxi driver is just curious when he asks if you’ve got a boyfriend waiting up for you.

Hope is all we have in those moments. But hope is not good enough. When we all have a list of experiences so long that being groped in a public place at 13 years old doesn’t even make the top 10, there is something seriously wrong. 

Because we know all too well that the difference between the girl who gets home safe and the one who doesn’t is luck. It’s a decision made by someone else.

We just want to walk down the street without checking over our shoulders. Why does that feel like too much to ask?