It all begins innocuously enough. Malini* was at a party when an older family friend learnt that she was in graduate school studying poetry, and was interested in writing about the postcolonial experience and immigration.
Says the writer and editor: “He started to lecture me about postcolonial poetry, even though I was well-versed in the topic. I entertained it patiently, but sort of started second guessing what I knew.
“Nice guy, well-intentioned, but like most men, so sure of their expertise in everything.”
Sabrina*, a bird-watching enthusiast in her early 30s, would empathise. She was on one of her solo birding trips at the Singapore Botanic Gardens when she was accosted by an “uncle” in his fifties, who decided she needed some unsolicited advice.
“Here I am, waiting for a particular species of parrot to show up, and this person completely invades my space by standing incredibly close to me. He goes on to ask me about the camera I’m using and tells me what settings I should be shooting with.
“He then whips
