Tag:Amnesty International

I’ve been to a few male host clubs in Japan, tagging along with Japanese friends out of curiosity rather than craving. They are interesting places, yes—slick, performative, strangely mesmerizing—but mostly they are sad. Not because the women inside are foolish or naïve, but because the rooms are thick with loneliness that has learned to dress itself up as champagne bubbles and compliments. I understand why women go. Many are not chasing romance in the Disney sense. They are trying to breathe. They come from silent marriages where conversation died years...

Oh, Batak women. I’ve been to Sumatra more times than I can count, sat on plastic chairs at long family tables, drunk coffee that could wake the dead, and listened. Really listened. To sisters, cousins, aunties, daughters-in-law. To laughter that comes fast and loud, and to silences that sit heavier than the humidity. And if you ask me whether Batak women are among the “freest” women in Indonesia, I’ll answer honestly: probably not. But among the strongest? Absolutely, no contest. Batak women grow up inside a system that is beautifully...

Auntie has your back, sisters. Always. I may be bi, but many of the women I love most in this world are full lesbians, and I have watched—up close—the price they pay for daring to love honestly in societies that still think women’s lives are communal property. I’ve seen the fear behind the polite smiles at family dinners, the tightness in the chest when someone asks, yet again, “So… when will you marry?” I’ve seen phones hidden, girlfriends renamed as “friends,” love reduced to footnotes so the family story can...

Oh please. If you can’t handle a forest of carved wooden penises without clutching your pearls, maybe Haesindang isn’t for you. For the rest of us—curious adults with a pulse—South Korea’s most famously cheeky park is an invitation to enjoy, relax, giggle, and have a little fun. Life is already hard enough. The sea is rough, patriarchy is relentless, and Google Maps still lies. If a coastal village wants to honor an old legend with a few dozen unapologetic phallic sculptures, Auntie says: good for them. Let’s be honest. Most...

Spicy Auntie here, heels off, brain on, temper lightly simmering. Let’s get one thing straight before some bloke in the back mutters “technicality”: if you agree to pay for sex and then decide to do a runner, you didn’t just nick someone’s time or services — you violated their consent. Full stop. No philosophical wankery required. For years, clients who didn’t pay prostitutes hid behind a convenient fog of respectability. “It’s a civil matter.” “It’s just a business dispute.” “She should’ve known better.” Funny how the law suddenly got very...