Tag:pressure

Violence is violence. A crime is a crime. And a crime should be called exactly that — not wrapped in rituals, not softened by tradition, not excused by marriage certificates, sindoor, mangalsutra, or the sacred fiction that a woman’s body becomes communal property the moment she says “I do.” Let me be very clear, because clarity makes some people uncomfortable: forced sex is rape. Inside marriage. Outside marriage. On a honeymoon. After twenty years together. With flowers on the bed or tears on the pillow. If there is no consent...

Singapore, my Singapore… I won’t go into the usual rant about your hypocrisy. I promise. I’ll try to be gentle. But allow me this small, affectionate eye-roll, the kind reserved for a city that prides itself on being hyper-modern, hyper-controlled, and hyper-selective about which sins it tolerates—and where. You “clean up” Orchard Towers, and suddenly the neon ghosts are exorcised. The bars fall silent, the bass stops thumping, the women disappear from the corridors, and—hallelujah—a place of worship moves in. From “Four Floors of Whores” to folded hands and PowerPoint...

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...