Oppression and privilege in the transport sector

In transport, “neutral” is almost never neutral: it usually means planning for a dominant subject, a commuter who travels home–work–home while care-related trips (taking children, accompanying older adults, shopping, going to the doctor) are left out. These trips often follow a trip-chaining or polygonal pattern. This is not a minor flaw; it is structural oppression. As Frye explains, it isn’t a loose thread, but a birdcage made of many rules and technical assumptions that, together, immobilize women. A double bind appears, for example, either you take longer and more expensive routes to protect your safety, paying with time and money, or you choose the faster route, paying with higher risk and possible sanctions for arriving late. In both cases, the user, often a caregiver, bears the cost.

 

Through Young’s lens, the problem shows up in five faces of oppression. Exploitation: the system relies on the unpaid time and energy of care work (waiting, transfers, accompaniment) to sustain others’ productivity (i.e., trips tied to paid work). Marginalization: because care trips are barely measured, they don’t count in demand models and are left out of investment. Powerlessness: although they are expert users, women rarely have voice or vote in technical working groups or committees. Cultural imperialism: the “standard user”, the male pendular commuter, sets the meaning of efficiency (speed, long through-routes), and everything else is treated as an exception. Violence: the threat of sexual harassment, combined with poor lighting and the lack of toilets or elevators, restricts routes and schedules and harms the mobility of women and caregivers.

 

McIntosh shows the mirror: many men (including planners) move through the city with an invisible knapsack of unearned privileges, less fear at night, being treated as a default “expert,” traveling without a stroller or heavy bags, finding toilets available. Bailey sharpens the path for change: negative privileges (absence of barriers) should be universalized, e.g., safety, accessibility, and reasonable travel times for everyone, while positive privileges (conferred status and credibility) should be dismantled, such as the technical monopoly that discounts care expertise.

 

A feminist approach to transport is not a “social add-on”; it is institutional engineering: (1) measure care mobility (trip-chaining, idle time, obstacles with strollers); (2) redesign infrastructure and operations (lighting, toilets, elevators and ramps, space for strollers and packages, frequencies and request stops during care hours, effective anti-harassment protocols); (3) redistribute power (binding, compensated participation of caregivers; merit criteria that recognize situated experience). We will know it worked when double binds disappear, the five faces recede, and those “privileges” become effective rights for everyone.

 

References

- Bailey, A. (1998). Privilege: Expanding on Marilyn Frye’s “Oppression.” Journal of Social Philosophy, 29(3), 104–119.

- Frye, M. (1983). The Politics of Reality: Essays in Feminist Theory. Crossing Press.

- Young, I. M. (1990). Five faces of oppression. In Justice and the Politics of Difference (pp. 39–65). Princeton University Press.

- McIntosh, P. (1988). White privilege and male privilege: A personal account of coming to see correspondences through work in women’s studies (Working Paper No. 189). Wellesley College Center for Research on Women.

Moving Care: the other face of urban mobility in Bogota

In Bogota, as in many Latin American cities, moving around is not just a matter of transportation, it’s a matter of care. In the daily routines of millions, trips are not only made for work or education but to meet vital needs that sustain community life: taking children to school, accompanying older adults to medical appointments, shopping for groceries, picking up medications, attending workshops at a Care Block (Manzana de cuidado). These movements form what has been called the “mobility of care,” a concept first introduced by Inés Sánchez de Madariaga in 2009 as both an analytical category and a political tool to rethink cities through the lens of social sustainability.

The Bogota Region Mobility Survey 2023 offers a clear snapshot of this form of mobility by identifying trips made to care for others or to access care services. Seven percent of the city’s daily trips fall into this category. Most of these trips are short, multimodal, fragmented throughout the day, and made either on foot or by public transport. According to the survey’s summary, 72% of care trips in Bogota are made by women. This overwhelming female representation highlights not only a disproportionate burden in terms of time and effort, but also the urgent need for transport planning that incorporates a gender perspective.

Care mobility makes visible the invisible architecture that supports life in cities. According to the report by Sensata UX Research, CAF, and Secretaría de Movilidad (2024), caregivers have significantly different travel patterns: they combine multiple stops, prioritize safety and accessibility over speed, and often travel with dependents, which fundamentally changes how they experience urban space. Added to this is the reality that many caregivers lack stable or personal income, making transportation costs a major barrier to accessing essential services.

In a personal review of the Bogota Mobility Survey (2023), it became clear that this form of mobility is deeply shaped by structural inequalities: public transport offerings do not fully meet caregivers’ needs, and infrastructure decisions often prioritize technical criteria while overlooking the social use of space. This is why it is critical to incorporate intersectional approaches that recognize how gender, age, disability, motherhood, and place of residence shape differentiated mobility conditions.

Bogotá’s Care Blocks (Manzanas del Cuidado), a pioneering policy initiative, have placed the right to care at the heart of public policy. In Fernández Gallego’s study (Despacio, 2023), the benefits of bringing services, facilities, and training closer to those who have historically carried the burden of care work without pay or recognition are documented. But care policy must go beyond service access; it must also transform the conditions for getting there. A caring city is one that makes moving to care possible.

A revealing figure from Sensata et al. (2024) shows that over 60% of people who make care-related trips must adjust their routes due to a lack of direct lines, insecurity, or inaccessibility. This means spending more time on the streets, facing higher risks, and bearing a greater physical and emotional load. Often, these care trips are not even recognized by those who make them, they are so normalized that they become invisible, even to the public policies meant to support them. This invisibility has real consequences: while transport systems are designed for linear, efficient travel, life moves in fragmented, circular, emotional ways.

Moreover, there is a relational component that rarely gets measured. Caring in motion is not just about performing tasks; it’s about accompanying, protecting, teaching, supporting. It’s a profoundly social practice that builds the city through affect and connection. So when infrastructure doesn’t accommodate a stroller, when there’s no place to sit with an elderly person, when someone travels in fear or discomfort, more than just the travel experience is at stake, the ability to sustain life with dignity is undermined.

The public transport system in Bogotá, although extensive, is not yet configured to support care mobility. In the Bogota Mobility Survey (2023) it was found that the infrastructure and operation of TransMilenio, Bogotá’s bus rapid transit system, prioritize peak-hour commuter flows and overlook the needs of people making encumbered, relational, or off-peak trips. Women caregivers report difficulties entering and exiting buses with strollers or assistive devices, delays due to a lack of escalators or elevators, and a general absence of rest areas, signage, or staff prepared to support care-based travel.

These barriers are even more evident in the city’s most vulnerable territories. In Ciudad Bolívar, where many users depend on the TransMiCable cable car system, the presence of steep slopes and fragmented urban grids makes care trips more demanding. While TransMiCable has had positive impacts in terms of connectivity, time savings, and safety perception, the lack of integration with care-centered services or accessible last-mile solutions limits its transformative potential for caregivers. Many caregivers interviewed in the area still reported walking long distances with groceries or children in tow, due to the lack of suitable feeder services and the topography itself.

Despite being the majority of caregivers, women remain underrepresented in transport decision-making and continue to face environments where harassment and insecurity prevail. Gender-based violence in transit settings, as documented in several institutional reports, adds yet another layer of restriction to the freedom of movement for women and girls, especially when they travel accompanied.

To map care mobility is to map inequality. It’s a way to visualize not just material gaps but everyday forms of resistance, routes that carry bodies, relationships, and networks. On this map, every point marks an act of care. And every act of care is a chance to imagine a more just, sensitive, and humane city. The goal is not simply to include caregivers in the transport system, but to reconfigure that system around their needs. Caring is also movement, and moving is also resistance. Recognizing this is the first step toward transforming the city.

References

1. Fernández Gallego, B. (2023). Cuidando a las cuidadoras: Las Manzanas del Cuidado y la movilidad femenina en Bogotá. Despacio. https://www.despacio.org

2. Madariaga, I. S. de, & Agudo Arroyo, Y. (2019). Mobility of Care Report: Assessment of Nairobi’s Public Minibus Transport Services. UN-Habitat

3. Secretaría Distrital de Movilidad. (2023). Cartilla Encuesta de Movilidad Bogotá - Región 2023. Alcaldía Mayor de Bogotá

4. Sensata UX Research, CAF, & Secretaría Distrital de Movilidad. (2024). Caracterización de los patrones de movilidad en Bogotá con enfoque de género e interseccional [Informe final de consultoría]

Rethinking public transport through LGBTQIA+ lenses

In December 2024, I had the opportunity to speak on the Women Mobilize Women series podcast, in the episode “Gender, Mobility and 2SLGBTQIA+”. It was an important platform to reflect on how transport systems, in Bogotá and beyond, not only facilitate movement, but also expose the deep social and political fault lines that shape who gets to move freely and safely in our cities.

In Bogotá, recent data from the 2023 Mobility Survey (EM2023) reveals that while transgender and non-binary individuals account for only 0.06% and 0.05% of total trips respectively, their reliance on public transport is significantly higher than that of the general population. Nearly 70% of non-binary people and over 40% of transgender people report using it as their primary mode of travel, surpassing the 37% reported by women (Sensata, CAF, & Secretaría de Movilidad, 2024).

Yet, this reliance is marked by a troubling contradiction: those who need public transport the most are often the ones who feel the least safe in it. Across different modes and cities, LGBTQIA+ riders consistently report high levels of harassment, invisibility, and fear. In Bogotá, trans and non-binary people, lesbian and bisexual women, and queer youth all rank among those who feel least secure during their daily journeys (Sensata et al., 2024). This is not just a transportation issue, it is a human rights issue.

These findings are not unique to Bogotá. The LGBTQ Guide to Travel Safety (ManAboutWorld, 2020) notes that LGBTQ travelers everywhere face additional risks, even in countries where laws are progressive. Travel, whether local or international, can be deeply stressful for LGBTQIA+ individuals who must constantly navigate questions of disclosure, behavior, and safety. As the guide states, “Travelers carry an abundance of caution, some well-founded worries and concerns, and all too often, fear. Magnify that ten times for ‘T’ travelers” (ManAboutWorld, 2020, p. 75).

Public transportation should not require people to compromise their identities in order to access basic rights like mobility. This is why inclusive transportation planning cannot be reduced to simply offering a few diversity workshops or painting a rainbow mural at a station. As Veronica Davis argues in Inclusive Transportation, “When we say we want equity, we must also mean we are ready to listen, really listen, to the pain, the history, and the demands of those most excluded from the system” (Davis, 2023). Real inclusion requires shifting who is at the center of the conversation, and who gets to decide what counts as safety, comfort, or dignity in urban mobility.

In this context, symbolic gestures are not enough. Infrastructure must be understood not only as a set of physical structures, but as a system of relations, priorities, and values. If transit systems fail to recognize the needs of LGBTQIA+ riders, especially trans and non-binary people, they become complicit in perpetuating exclusion and harm.

International experiences show that transformation is possible. Cities like Bhubaneswar (India) and Peshawar (Pakistan) have implemented gender action plans, inclusive hiring, and targeted training that go beyond tokenism to systemic reform (ITDP, 2022, 2023). These examples remind us that inclusive mobility must be actively built, with deep commitment to equity and justice.

As we prepare to launch participatory research spaces like TransMiLab (in TransMilenio), our goal is to center the voices and experiences of LGBTQIA+ users, not as footnotes in policy documents, but as co-designers of the systems that shape their daily lives.

Because ultimately, visibility is not a trend, it’s a right. And equity in mobility is not only about reaching your destination. It’s about doing so safely, freely, and without having to hide who you are.

Calls to action: Building truly inclusive transport systems

To decision-makers, transit authorities, and urban planners: It is time to move beyond symbolic visibility campaigns and commit to deep structural change. Representation must be matched by concrete policies, accessible protocols, inclusive training, and meaningful investments in safety and dignity. This includes developing participatory mechanisms that actively involve LGBTQIA+ voices in the planning, design, and evaluation of transport infrastructure. Anti-discrimination protocols and incident reporting systems must be institutionalized, designed to be multilingual, inclusive, and respectful of diverse gender identities. In addition, all staff, from drivers to security personnel, should receive comprehensive training on gender diversity, inclusive communication, and human rights. Finally, transport agencies must collect and analyze disaggregated data on gender identity and sexual orientation to guide evidence-based interventions that leave no one behind.

To researchers, activists, and community leaders: We must continue to document and amplify the everyday mobilities of LGBTQIA+ individuals through ethnographic, embodied, and participatory research. These stories reveal hidden patterns of exclusion and help shape more just mobility systems. Advocacy efforts must push for truly intersectional transport justice, recognizing the compounding effects of race, class, gender, and disability on movement and access. It is equally important to support local queer mobility initiatives that are already creating safer spaces for cycling, walking, and transit. And above all, we must pressure institutions to shift their frameworks, from risk mitigation to care-centered design, prioritizing not the preservation of systems, but the protection and empowerment of people.

References

Davis, V. (2023). Inclusive Transportation: A Manifesto for Repairing Divided Communities. Island Press.

Encuesta de Movilidad de Bogotá (EM2023). Secretaría Distrital de Movilidad.

ITDP. (2022). Case Study: Zu Peshawar BRT and Gender-Inclusive Design. Institute for Transportation and Development Policy.

ITDP. (2023). Sustainable Transport Award Nominees: Bhubaneswar and Mo E-Ride. Retrieved from https://www.itdp.org

Jordan, P. (2018). Handbook on the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender and Queer (LGBTQ) Travel Segment. European Travel Commission (ETC). https://etc-corporate.org/reports/handbook-on-the-lgbtq-travel-segment/

ManAboutWorld & AIG Travel. (2019). The LGBTQ Guide to Travel Safety. https://www.travelguard.com

Sensata, CAF, & Secretaría Distrital de Movilidad. (2024). Caracterización de los patrones de movilidad en Bogotá con enfoque de género e interseccional.

Zebracki, M., Weintrob, A., Hansell, L., Barnard, Y., & Lucas, K. (2021). Queer mobilities: Critical LGBTQ perspectives of public transport spaces. Mobilities, 16(5), 775–791. https://doi.org/10.1080/17450101.2021.1958249

Road violence becomes a gendered and systemic issue

In preparation for a recent meeting at Universidad de los Andes with the Agencia Nacional de Seguridad Vial - ANSV, I examined the report Siniestralidad vial de mujeres en Colombia. Un análisis con enfoque de género (ANSV, 2024), analyzing road traffic fatalities among women in Colombia. Although this topic isn’t at the core of my doctoral research, which focuses on gender, infrastructure, and care, the findings resonated deeply. They offered a timely reminder that road safety is not just a technical concern; it’s a matter of justice, care, and everyday survival for many, especially women caregivers.

Cover of the report Siniestralidad vial de mujeres en Colombia: Un análisis con enfoque de género (ANSV, 2024). Source: Agencia Nacional de Seguridad Vial – Observatorio Nacional de Seguridad Vial.

The report revealed a stark reality: between 2015 and 2022, road traffic incidents were the leading cause of violent death among women in Colombia, surpassing both homicides and suicides. Most of these women died not as drivers but as passengers or pedestrians, a pattern that reflects deeply entrenched gender roles and unequal access to safer, autonomous modes of mobility. And yet, this isn’t a conversation we’re having loudly enough. Why is the most common form of violent death among women still so invisible in public debate and policy?

Violent deaths of women in Colombia: comparison between homicides and road traffic incidents. Source: National Road Safety Agency (ANSV), 2024. Data from the National Institute of Legal Medicine and the National Road Safety Observatory. Graphic by ANSV Communications Unit.

However, this pattern is beginning to shift. A growing number of women are now riding motorcycles, both for work and for care-related travel. While this trend may signal increased autonomy and flexibility, it also reveals new layers of vulnerability. According to El País, a woman motorcyclist dies every 12 hours in Colombia. Between 2019 and 2023, female motorcycle deaths increased by 54%, outpacing the rise in male fatalities. Many of these women lacked proper training, licensing, or access to adequate safety gear. Others were drawn to motorcycles because of their affordability, efficiency, and even symbolic value, yet they ride in conditions of structural neglect. In the words of Ana María Puentes (El País, 2024), women are less skilled, but that they are riding the most dangerous vehicle in the country under the most precarious conditions.

 

What’s more, the 2024 Bogotá gender and mobility study, Caracterización de los patrones de movilidad en Bogotá con enfoque de género e interseccional (Sensata, 2024), revealed that many women perceive motorcycles not only as a practical option, but as a safer alternative to public transport. Women reported choosing motorcycles to reduce their exposure to sexual harassment, invasive stares, and physical proximity with aggressors, all common occurrences on buses, stations, and sidewalks. In this sense, the turn to motorcycles is not simply a matter of preference or independence. It is a strategy of risk management in a city where moving through public space means constantly weighing threats of gender-based violence.

Caracterización de los patrones de movilidad en Bogotá con enfoque de género e interseccional (Sensata, 2024)

This growing trend underscores the urgent need to question not only who dies on the road, but under what conditions people move, and who gets the training, infrastructure, and protection needed to survive. It also reveals the paradox of mobility for women in patriarchal cities: the more control women gain over how they move, the more they are held responsible for managing their own safety, often with few real options.

 

Yet the ANSV’s report stops short of deeper interrogation. It remains mostly descriptive, without engaging with the structural roots of risk or proposing transformative interventions. What’s missing is a conceptual leap, an understanding that road safety is not gender-neutral, and that the design of mobility systems has historically centered on male, able-bodied, productive users. We need more than statistics. We need questions: Why are women disproportionately killed as passengers? Why is caregiving travel invisible in safety strategies? And why are risk and speed still valorized in masculine driving cultures?

 

To expand the conversation, I turned to two additional sources: a report from Spain’s national traffic agency and a regional study from the Ibero-American Road Safety Observatory. Both documents emphasize the need to move away from androcentric transport planning. They call for a shift in paradigm, from car-centered systems to people-centered mobility. They also suggest reimagining safety itself: not just as the absence of crashes, but as the presence of dignity, inclusion, and freedom from fear.

 

These perspectives remind us that masculinity, as currently constructed, is often tied to risk-taking, control, and a disregard for vulnerability, traits that are embedded in traffic behavior, vehicle design, and even policy language. Meanwhile, the voices of women and caregivers are still largely missing from planning tables, where crucial decisions about infrastructure, enforcement, and investment are made.

 

To deepen this analysis, I find it useful to draw on the concept of petro-masculinity, proposed by political theorist Cara Daggett. Petro-masculinity refers to the entanglement of fossil fuel systems with patriarchal and authoritarian structures, particularly in how fossil fuels support identities of dominance, control, and violence. Daggett argues that fossil fuels are not just energy sources, they are symbols and instruments of a gendered order that privileges toughness, rigidity, and explosive power, often associated with masculine identity.

 

When translated into the domain of mobility, this framework helps us understand why speed, individualism, and engine-powered vehicles (especially motorcycles and cars) have been historically coded as masculine, while walking, caregiving mobility, or public transport are feminized or devalued. The exaltation of risk and speed is not accidental; it’s part of a social imaginary where dominating the road becomes a way of reaffirming masculine power, even at the cost of one’s own safety, or the safety of others.

 

Seen from this angle, road violence becomes a gendered and systemic issue, not just a problem of individual behavior. The motorized dominance that defines most cities is, in many ways, a material expression of petro-masculinity, one that punishes slower, more collective, and relational forms of movement. It is no coincidence that in a country like Colombia, women’s efforts to reclaim autonomy through motorcycles occur in a context where infrastructure, licensing systems, and enforcement regimes still privilege the dominant, petro-masculine subject.

 

In short, the conversation around road safety must be reframed. It’s not just about better signals, stricter laws, or smarter cars. It’s about asking: Who moves? How? And with what dignity?

 

When we center care, equity, and intersectionality, we not only imagine safer mobility, we challenge the very structures that normalize risk, invisibilize caregiving, and replicate gendered injustice on our streets. Feminist approaches remind us that transforming infrastructure is not only about technical innovation, but about redistributing power, recognizing labor, and protecting life.

 

References

 

1. Agencia Nacional de Seguridad Vial. (2024). Siniestralidad vial en mujeres en Colombia. Un análisis con enfoque de género. ANSV.

2. Col·lectiu Punt 6 & OISEVI. (2023). La seguridad vial desde la perspectiva de género: análisis y recomendaciones para políticas públicas. Observatorio Iberoamericano de Seguridad Vial. https://www.oisevi.org/

3. Daggett, C. (2018). Petro-masculinity: Fossil fuels and authoritarian desire. Millennium: Journal of International Studies, 47(1), 25–44. https://doi.org/10.1177/0305829818775817

4. Dirección General de Tráfico. (2022). La seguridad vial con perspectiva de género. Gobierno de España. https://www.dgt.es/

5. El País. (2024, noviembre 4). Las mujeres que se suben a la moto en Colombia corren más peligro: una fallecida cada 12 horas. https://elpais.com/america-colombia/2024-11-04/las-mujeres-que-se-suben-a-la-moto-en-colombia-corren-mas-peligro-una-fallecida-cada-12-horas.html

6. Sensata & Secretaría Distrital de Movilidad. (2024). Caracterización de los patrones de movilidad en Bogotá con enfoque de género e interseccional. Bogotá.

 

 

Moving without fear: why does sexual harassment in public transport still lack justice?

Moving around the city should be an everyday and free right: to study, work, visit a friend, or simply enjoy public spaces without fear. However, for many women and members of LGBTI social sectors, public transport has become a territory of risk. Every journey is a silent negotiation with fear, a constant vigilance over one’s body and surroundings. According to a diagnosis based on the 2023 Mobility Survey and the report Caracterización de los patrones de movilidad en Bogotá con enfoque de género e interseccional, conducted by Sensata, CAF, and Secretaría Distrital de Movilidad, although women make 45.96% of daily trips and account for 55.68% of public transport users, they bear the greatest burden of violence: 90.42% of reported sexual assault victims in the system are women. The most common forms of aggression include leering (17.46%), unwanted touching (13.08%), and obscene comments (7.12%). Sexual harassment, in the form of comments, gestures, unwanted touching, and non-consensual physical contact, has ceased to be an exceptional threat and has instead become a daily experience that shapes movements and limits autonomy.

Image source: @hasslofficial on Instagram. Retrieved from https://www.instagram.com/hasslofficial

Although Colombia has recognized the crime of sexual harassment in its Penal Code since 2008 (Article 210A), in practice, the path to justice for victims remains full of obstacles. Not only is it difficult to report these incidents, but even when women manage to do so, their cases are often dismissed or misclassified. The gravest problem is not simply the low chances of achieving justice, but that many reported acts are treated as minor offenses, such as “insult through physical means,” rather than being recognized as sexual harassment. This misclassification strips victims of the full acknowledgment of the harm they have suffered and subjects them to processes that often end in forced conciliation, discouraging them from seeking reparation.

This daily violence unfolds during the most routine journeys: at a crowded station, on a packed bus where an anonymous hand brushes against the body without consent, or during a hurried walk to a deserted bus stop. These are fleeting aggressions, but they leave deep marks. They are not isolated incidents: according to the study by Sensata, CAF, and Secretaría Distrital de Movilidad, 44.9% of women surveyed reported experiencing some form of sexual harassment during their journeys, with young women aged 14 to 24 being the most exposed. Each invasive look, each unwanted touch, each obscene word adds an invisible burden that shapes how women and LGBTI people navigate the city, forcing them to design defensive routes rather than freely chosen paths.

Image source: @hasslofficial on Instagram. Retrieved from https://www.instagram.com/hasslofficial

The difficulty in accessing justice does not stem solely from individual barriers, but from a structurally indifferent system. As evidenced by the psycho-legal support teams of the Secretaría Distrital de la Mujer, in their daily work, many victims choose not to report because they fear they will not be believed, because they could not clearly identify the aggressor, or because they feel it is not worth facing a system that, instead of protecting them, often revictimizes them. Even when evidence exists, such as security camera footage, its use is restricted and does not always translate into effective judicial action. Moreover, in cases of sexual harassment, the law often requires victims to prove “systematic behavior” or a “position of power” by the perpetrator, a nearly impossible burden in the context of public transport where most aggressors are strangers and attacks are rapid and unexpected.

The consequences of sexual harassment are not merely physical. They are silent, intimate, yet profound. Each unwanted touch, each vulgar comment, accumulates in the body’s memory and reshapes how women experience the city. Many end up changing their routes, avoiding going out at night, modifying the way they dress, or walking constantly on alert. Harassment not only limits mobility; it also undermines the right to inhabit public space with freedom and dignity.

Image source: @hasslofficial on Instagram. Retrieved from https://www.instagram.com/hasslofficial

However, when we talk about justice, it should not be reduced to criminal proceedings. Reparation for victims can and must go far beyond judicial convictions. For some women, justice might mean the perpetrator performing community service, such as cleaning public spaces or undergoing mandatory training on violence prevention. For others, reparation could mean a public apology, an effective social sanction, or simply public acknowledgment that what they experienced was violence, not an “exaggeration” or a “misunderstanding.”

Proposals for alternative sanctions, such as those contemplated in the Normative Proposal for Addressing Sexual Harassment in Bogotá’s Public Space (UN Women), which reforms Agreements 073 of 2003 and 735 of 2019 to include administrative sanctions for street harassment, aim precisely at this: creating closer, faster, and more meaningful mechanisms of response for victims. These proposals suggest that beyond the criminal route, administrative mechanisms should exist to sanction harassment behaviors through fines, community service, mandatory human rights training, or bans from accessing certain public spaces.

The idea behind alternative sanctions is not to replace criminal justice but to complement it, recognizing the complexity of sexual harassment in public spaces and the enormous difficulties victims face within judicial processes. When women encounter stalled investigations, conciliations with their aggressors, or face nearly impossible evidentiary burdens, such as proving the systematic nature of attacks committed by strangers, they not only relive the trauma but also see their pain minimized or dismissed.

Image source: @hasslofficial on Instagram. Retrieved from https://www.instagram.com/hasslofficial

Because when the justice system fails, the harm is compounded: not only does one suffer the initial attack, but also the institutional indifference. Not being heard, not being believed, and not finding a clear path to reparation deepen the original violence. That is why opening alternative routes of sanction, where harm is named, made visible, and repaired in agile and culturally transformative ways, is also an act of justice.

Accessing justice means recognizing that sexual harassment is neither an isolated event nor merely a case of “misbehavior,” but a structural expression of power and gender inequality. It means transforming transport systems to make them safer, but also transforming collective imaginaries that still blame women for their own victimization. It means understanding that acting after harm is not enough: prevention must start from shared social responsibility, recognizing that building safe public spaces is not solely the task of victims or authorities but of the entire community. Crucially, it requires that men, and masculinities, in the plural, actively engage in rejecting and preventing harassment, embodying positive, non-violent, and responsible masculinities that affirm women’s right to inhabit the city freely and without fear. Accessing justice, in its broadest sense, also means listening to those who have lived through fear in buses, stations, and streets. And asking ourselves, with honesty and courage: what are we willing to change so that moving through the city is no longer, for so many women, an act of daily resistance?

Image source: @hasslofficial on Instagram. Retrieved from https://www.instagram.com/hasslofficial

References

1. Hoyos Pulido, C. A. Normative Proposal for Addressing Sexual Harassment in Bogotá’s Public Space. UN Women.

2. Secretaría Distrital de Movilidad de Bogotá. (2023). Mobility Survey.

3. UN Women. (2019). Safe Cities and Safe Public Spaces for Women and Girls Global Programme.

4. Secretaría Distrital de la Mujer. (2025). Tools and Socio-Legal Challenges of Sexual Harassment Against Women. Bogotá, Colombia.

5. Sensata UX Research. (2024). Characterization of Mobility Patterns in Bogotá with a Gender and Intersectional Perspective. Bogotá Mobility Secretariat, CAF.