It’s easy to be a feminist in isolation. Theoretically, it’s easy to compartmentalise issues in neat little boxes that can be dealt with one by one, and have simple, straightforward solutions. You can choose when to open each box, and you have the choice to shut it too. Real life doesn’t always work that way, though.

I’m a feminist. I’m also a pretty outspoken advocate of safe spaces for survivors (not victims, please don’t say victims) of sexual abuse. One of the safe spaces I actively try to create is on Twitter. For all its security concerns, trolling, and rampant sexism, the idea of a safe space condensed in 140 characters in immensely important. The brevity required allows many people to get to the crux of their experiences, instead of justifying their contexts. This can be a powerful experience, because if you allow someone to strip off the rationalisations they’ve been forced to inculcate over the years, you’re left with an array of emotions, both happy and sad.

The running theme that binds them together? That they’ve never had a chance to be in the limelight.

When I tweeted this on Thursday, all I wanted was to know how many people have had their unique and personal traumas diminished:

Did I expect responses? Yes.

Did I, however, imagine that this would kick off a little storm with people pitching in with love, solidarity, and empathy? No. I did not.

That was the first lesson I learnt. Despite all the talk of people being apathetic, numbed down, uncaring, the first reaction to any experience shared was a show of unconditioned, unquestioned support.

I was, by force of habit, expecting trolling. That’s what I’ve been conditioned to expect as a woman online. Instead, I found myself curating deep, meaningful conversations that are going to leave an indelible impact on me, and everyone involved.

Toxic masculinity

A small number of men replied with horror tinged with denial. The take away from here was that so many men, despite wanting to be allies, find themselves lacking the awareness and understanding of the scope of damage done, simply because it’s not spoken of enough. This conversation was necessary for them too, because suddenly, they found their contexts expanding, and reading so many experiences allowed them to equip themselves with knowledge.

The sheer number of men who chose to share their experiences of sexual abuse stunned me. A recurring theme here was the fact that people in positions of power perpetrated abuse. This power manifested itself in the form of familial ties, caregiving roles, and even aggressive physical posturing.

While this reiterated the existing idea that abuse and rape is not about attraction, but about authority, it also brought into clear focus the fact that many men didn’t know they were ever abused. Toxic masculinity has robbed men of the capacity to realise they’re in pain when it manifests itself in intangible forms. Most of them brushed it off, many of them underestimated its impact, and heartbreakingly, some felt that they were at fault, too.

Ambit of consent

A majority of the abuse occurred when people were younger. I counted at least 20 responses where the survivors were under the age of 12. It’s easy to blame parents for ignoring warning signs, or for not being empathic. The problem, however, goes a bit deeper. It’s a problem surrounding the discussion of consent. A lot of parents equate “consent” with “sexual things”, thus making it a taboo topic. The ambit of consent is limited to genitalia, leaving a lot of people vulnerable to more insidious, and sometimes, more damaging abuse. The very idea of consent needs to be recalibrated from “sexual contact” to “any touch from anyone that makes you feel uncomfortable”. By expanding the definition, we will be able to create safe spaces at home. Parents who listen, who don’t slight a child’s experience because they can’t project the trauma onto themselves, do their children a great disservice.

The impact of the same can be seen in grown adults, too. A lot of people diminished themselves and their experiences because they didn’t know how far consent extended. People, men and women, are taught to override their inherent instinct of self-preservation because of expectations, and rely immensely on non-verbal cues in intimate situations. A culture of silence shrouds the very concept of intimacy, and stems from an inability to have a frank conversation about bodily autonomy and ability to arbitrate in delicate, personal situations.

If this experience taught me anything, it’s that conversation is immensely important. Conversations in families, between friends, at workplaces need to happen. Conversations about experiences of silence, if spoken about, could give another person the courage to go out and report their trauma. Conversation can destroy apathy.

So, talk. Talk as much as you can. Create space for people to talk in. Talk incessantly, and talk honestly. A single tweet kicked off a day of healing. Imagine what a collective, kind, empathic, and inclusive conversation could do.

Harnidh Kaur is currently pursuing her Masters in Public Policy from St. Xavier’s, Mumbai. Her first collection of poetry, The Inability of Words, was released in 2016.