Mila van Dijk

Traveling by train is usually just another part of the job, another way to jump between stories. For a 28-year-old freelancer like me, constantly juggling deadlines, assignments, and modest earnings, the train is just part of the rhythm. But on that evening back from Amsterdam, Netherlands, it was more than a ride home; it became the story itself.

The train station was crowded, and I caught sight of the loud, rowdy group of football fans boarding. I rolled my eyes, hoping I’d end up far from them. No such luck. In my carriage, the smell of stale beer and sweat clung to the air, and the noise was relentless. As I pushed past to switch carriages, one of them slurred something sexist, a quick cheap jab. The others burst out laughing, emboldened by the attention. People around saw it, felt it, but no one moved or spoke up.

I finally reached a quieter seat, trying to calm my racing heart, only to realize I'd left my jacket behind. There was no choice but to go back, through that same gauntlet. More comments, more laughter. I threw back a few words, but my voice felt thin, and adrenaline spiked through me, leaving me shaky by the time I returned, jacket in hand.

I was there to write a different story, but that night, the story demanded a new direction. Typing feverishly, I detailed the moment: the mob mentality, the weight of public silence, the everyday sexism that often goes unchecked. My article wasn’t just about football fans; it was about how easily fear fills the gaps left by silence.

The piece went viral, bringing a flood of reactions. Messages of support, shock, anger—one even came from a fellow passenger who’d sat silent and ashamed. The railway issued a public apology, which felt surreal, a rare moment when attention and accountability actually met.

Days later, I realized how grateful I was to have a job that lets me turn unsettling moments into voices people can actually hear.