Disclaimer: In Real Life is a platform for everyday people to share their experiences and voices. All articles are personal stories and do not necessarily echo In Real Life’s sentiments.
Upskirt photography is anyone taking unsolicited photos up a woman’s skirt.
It’s not that uncommon and it has happened to me. I’m a middle aged woman who works as a Project Manager for a multinational corporation. My husband works in creative multimedia.
This happened to me, or I should say, my husband and I on the way home from a dinner with friends. This is what I was wearing:
[source: ejt1977 on Flickr]
[source: freestrocks on Unsplash]
I turned around, and this guy was standing really close behind me, and he immediately retreated, phone in hand.
Then I saw that his phone was on the camera mode. I have no idea how long he was standing behind me, or how long he was taking photos of me.
I managed to grab his hand, shouting, “What the FUCK are you doing?!”
He tried to break my grip, but I had a death grip on his hand, holding the phone, and I realized what this pervert was doing: Taking upskirt photos of my underwear.
“Pervert!” I shouted, and I started hitting him with my umbrella. I thought someone else on the train would step in or help somehow, especially when I yelled and shouted. The few others either looked on, pretending it wasn’t happening or moved quickly to the other end of the train.
The pervert raised a hand, maybe to strike me or try to push me off. There was a snarl of anger, and a sound, like someone had just punched and broken a Styrofoam box. That was my husband’s intervention.
[source: Dan Burton on Unsplash]
I will always remember that sound, of Styrofoam breaking. It was the sound of my husband’s fist breaking the pervert’s nose.
My husband followed through, stomping down on the pervert’s hand, forcing him to let go of the phone. I heard something crack. Then he stomped again. Maybe the phone screen, or a couple of fingers. Perhaps both. I hope it was both.
[source: Patrick Hoesly on Flickr]
The pervert crawled from the train, managed to find his feet and took off running for his life. My husband’s blood was up and he was choleric and out for blood. I called out to my husband to let the pervert go, that I needed him.
Family comes first. The change from predator to protector was instant. My husband just pulled me into a hug, whispering that he loves me. He held me while I cried. I felt violated, tainted by this pervert’s action.
For days after that incident, I refused to take the trains anywhere. I don’t understand how is it so many people could just stand idly by and not help with a “thank god it wasn’t me” attitude. It’s a statement that so many would just stand there rather than do the right. Not just men, but women too.
The phone had my pictures on it, and similar photos of other women, all from a similar angle.
Clearly, it wasn’t the perverts’ first time taking photos. I hope my husband crippled the pervert’s hand when it was violently stomped.
At my husband’s urging we deleted the photos of me, and then filed a police report and surrendered the phone to them.
The police did investigate but the case was ultimately closed due to lack of evidence to proceed, especially since the description of “blue surgical face mask, blue jeans and a black t-shirt” fits almost everyone.
In an ironic twist of fate, that description applies to my husband’s wardrobe most days.
I’m glad that the photos of me never got out, but it has changed how I live: My wardrobe went through a total overhaul. I don’t wear skirts anymore, or short dresses.
I wear pants and jeans. I’ve gotten rid of most of my high and low heels. These days I wear rugged outdoor boots.
I drove to work for weeks. It took a therapist six months of weekly sessions before I could face my fear, and get over the trauma. I am taking the train to and from work again. But never alone. I’m either with my husband or colleagues.
I took several self-defence courses, I don’t use watch videos on my phone, and I don’t listen to music on the LRT either. I stay alert and aware of my surroundings.
Like many Malaysian women, I carry a little peppery something in my pocket to defend myself.
[source: freestrocks on Unsplash]
Do you know anyone with an interesting story to share? Drop us an email at hello@inreallife.my and we may feature the story.
For more stories like this, read:
Guys, We Actually Hate It When You Send Us *Those* Pictures – Sincerely, Malaysian Women
3 Disturbing Times Malaysian Students Were Sexually Harassed In School
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