The rampant misogyny in the electronics industry needs to end – right here, right now

The open stares were all around, every second. I was walking around the floor of an electronics exhibition for the first time. This was in Munich, less than seven months ago. I felt like a zoo animal.

On the third night of the show there's an after-party, held by a manufacturing company at the exhibition centre. At the party, a man closer in age to my parents than to me gets aggressively grabby with me on the dancefloor. This is happening in plain view of dozens of people. I go to a friend from a partner company – a big guy, my age – and try to seek shelter from the insistent groper. My friend looks annoyed by the situation but does and says nothing. The harasser insists on getting my number, and I get him to leave me alone by putting my dad's number in his phone under my name.

Lucky for me, at that time I wasn't giving out my card. I hadn't had them made yet.

A few months later, at another show in California, I'm giving out my card to potential suppliers and clients. The first DM slides in soon, of course.

I wouldn't have minded an honest, respectful approach. Something along the lines of "I find you fascinating – could I take you out one of these evenings?" wouldn't have felt like much of an insult. But the actual message was greasy and sly, and it made me feel icky. I laughed out loud in my hotel room when I received it, and didn't reply.

After that message, I got thoughtful and asked some of my female coworkers in Anaheim what they do in those situations. Everyone seemed to have tricks and tips for avoiding the abusers. There's the tactic of never giving out your own number, only your male colleague's. There are fake wedding rings. And of course, usually all you can do is ignore the messages and advances.

I myself frequently talk about my relationship status in a deliberately misleading way, to lessen the unwanted passes.

We're having these conversations in hushed tones, and all the women say the same thing to me: "It's a male-dominated industry." As if that made it an unchangeable fact – as if it must therefore be a dangerous and predatory industry, unsafe for all the women in it, and as if it were our job alone to figure out how to dodge the predators.

Some of our partners, who I consider almost like family friends and who are decades my senior, have a bad habit of letting a hand linger on my waist or the curve of my hip when saying hello or goodbye. I ignore it and let it slide, so as not to cause trouble. And I smile.

Wait, it gets worse

During my next show, I'm working with an employee of a partnering company. He's a middle-aged man with a family. To my shock, at one point he starts giving a long, detailed technical answer to a question I've raised, talking with his hands and hovering them uncomfortably close to my chest. I keep backing away from the hands, and he keeps coming closer. This continues for a long while.

Later that evening, we're all out at a bar, and our friend with the hovering hands pulls the same stunt on my friend, who is also working the show. She and I stare at each other with blank, fed-up expressions while Pepé Le Pew swings his hands mere centimetres from her chest for minutes on end. I call it out to some of my male colleagues, in my own language, pointing out the bullshit while it's still happening. They make excuses and ignore it.

Later, I complain about the hand thing to a younger male colleague, who knows the perpetrator better. He has been fully aware of the air-groping habit since long before the show, and watched it happen to me earlier the same day. He looked uncomfortable while it was happening, but he didn't do or say anything.

Some weeks later, I tell another young male worker at the same company about the hand thing, and he's perfectly familiar with it too. I'm stunned, and I ask why nobody is saying anything. He dodges me and says it's the girls who should call the man out.

The only point of the hand-hovering has clearly been to humiliate and put down the women in the business. To show them they're less. To demean them and make them feel unsafe. It's gender-based violence.

The other men watching from the sidelines and quietly letting him do it are a textbook example of what the term "rape culture" means. No real men in sight here, I'm afraid.

And worse

Some weeks after that, I get into a car with some associates of a partnering company to go to a business dinner. It's a very hot night and I'm wearing a short satin dress. Objectively, it isn't a particularly outrageous dress – not the clingiest or the most revealing. Every other girl passing by that night is showing more skin, since it is indeed very hot outside. I'm wearing no make-up, no heels, no jewellery, and my hair is in its natural state.

The man driving the car that night remarks almost immediately that it would be unsafe for me to walk around the city I live in at night, dressed the way I am. I'm slightly taken aback, since it feels a bit like I'm being slut-shamed for my outfit, and conversationally I say that, in my opinion, the whole "what was she wearing" line is a myth. I tell him about a night in Venice when I had a close call – twice – while covered up in multiple layers of clothing from ankle to neck.

This is a person who I wouldn't quite say has authority over me, but who does have the ability and the potential to make some brilliant and interesting moves for my company, business-wise. He is much older than I am.

At dinner I'm sitting next to him and, almost as the very first thing, he tells me pointedly that I should be careful about what I choose to do after business dinners, so as not to lose the kind of opportunities that companies like his can offer.

During that dinner, there are hands all over my body, frequently. Not just a shoulder or an arm or my back, but my thighs. I'm smiling through my absolute panic, of course, but even during the meal I'm texting two other locals I know, pleading for help.

They ignore me.

The man makes sure he's the one to drive me home. Alone. The drive isn't as bad as I suppose it could have been; I manage to keep the mood light and casual. I'm still frightened and quietly calling out for subtle interference, not knowing what to expect when we reach my place. During the drive he makes a remark – "what we choose to do together stays between us". It doesn't exactly calm my nerves. But I get out of the car and into my apartment alone.

If this isn't grooming, then I don't know what is.

At my apartment, I climb out of my terrace onto the roof and lie there for a long time, furious, looking at the stars.

The next day is a nightmare. I keep bursting into tears. I've been ignoring daily sexual harassment since I was ten years old. If this is my reaction to what happened the previous night, you really can't gaslight me into thinking nothing happened. I've known how it feels afterwards, when violence has been done to you, since I was fifteen – and this is a close relative of that feeling.

That day, by chance, I manage to catch alone the one person who I think might be able to help me, discreetly, to make sure the previous night won't get a follow-up. To make it clear that I have no intention of sleeping with this person in order to do business. To maybe not have unwanted hands on my lap during business events. To let it be known that I'm off-limits – and to do so quietly, without causing a scene or a conflict.

His initial response is ten out of ten. An amazing show of emotional intelligence, empathy and maturity. He listens to me, seems to believe me, tries to calm me down, and says he'll talk to the man and do something about it.

I never hear anything back. There has been only avoidance since that talk.

That night, before going to sleep, I call a friend and tell him what happened. I'm sitting on my bed, crying uncontrollably the whole time as I explain the details, with big loud sobs and my voice climbing higher and higher.

All I want is to know that I won't be abused in future while I'm doing business. I don't want or need an apology. I just want someone, quietly and privately, to make sure, and to let me know, that I can do my work safely and in peace, without being molested or pressured into doing things I don't want to do.

I've been met with absolute silence.

Apparently, women in this industry are only things. Without humanity.

And now?

Now I'm fighting my own internalised misogyny while working through the lingering PTSD. Women are usually told it's their own fault, so I'm bracing myself for the victim-blaming. I have to keep telling myself that I've done nothing wrong.

I'm a free-spirited, natural child who likes people and likes fun. I'm loud, smart and opinionated. All of which, of course, is very much frowned upon in a woman, so I keep my fun mostly to myself. I don't really need to hide my personal life, since I don't do anything behind anyone's back and I don't harm other people. It's the narrow role that the surrounding society squeezes women into that makes me keep a low profile.

Existing while hot is not a punishable crime, but it does seem to agitate a lot of people and make them think they have some kind of inherent right of access to you. It's incredible to me that this still needs to be said, but: you finding me attractive is not an invitation. Me being nice to you is not an invitation. Trust me – you would know if you had an invitation.

There are plenty of both men and women who think that if a girl is a bit of a wild thing, she should be punished for it. That she deserves violence and abuse.

Let's be clear. Anything that happens between consenting adults – and consent means an enthusiastic yes – has nothing to do with the kind of behaviour described above. These things are worlds apart.

And just what is it I think I'm doing now?

I didn't show this writing to anyone in advance. I didn't ask anyone's permission to put it out.

There's a good chance I'll ruin every opportunity I might have in this industry.

I don't care. This is more important.

If being here means there will always be people around who are actively trying to put me down, humiliate me, take advantage of me, or violate me, I'd rather be somewhere else. I want to be able to operate without always needing a bodyguard or a chaperone. It's the men who need to fix this.

There's a good chance I'll be shunned and shut out for speaking up. If I do end up sticking around in the electronics industry afterwards, and it turns out that going scorched-earth, just once, was absolutely necessary to make a point – then I guess it had to be done.

Let it burn.