When The Journey Turns Dark: Speaking Out About Sexual Assault in Travel

Why we need to start talking about sexual assault in travel and why it will not stop me from exploring the world

Travel writing is often drenched in light: sunsets, mountain peaks, serendipitous encounters, the glossy freedom of the open road. And most of the time, that is true. But here is a story that does not sparkle. Because the truth is, not every travel experience is beautiful. Some are dark. Some stay with you in ways you wish they would not.

Earlier this year, I was in Central Asia, the Stans. It was a dream trip in many ways: border crossings by land, new cities, endless roads. I boarded a night bus from Tashkent to Bishkek, the kind of uncomfortable journey travellers wear like a badge of honour. The bus was crowded. I ended up next to a stranger. We did not speak the same language.

I am a cautious traveller. I do not drink when I am alone. I watch my surroundings. I even had my bag on my lap for a while that night, partly from instinct, partly because of the lack of leg room. At one point, the man next to me gestured for me to move it. Eventually, I did. Ironically, all my caution did not matter.

Later, while I pretended to sleep, he touched me inappropriately. Quietly, deliberately, because he thought I would not notice. And there I was, trapped on a moving bus in the dark, with nowhere to go.

It was not violent. He did not hit me or threaten me. But that almost made it worse. Because in that moment I felt stripped of agency, reduced to a body, used as a sexual being rather than a person. The shock came not only from what he did, but from how invisible my no was allowed to be.

If you look up the definition of sexual assault, you will find it explained as any unwanted sexual contact or behaviour without consent. It is not only about physical violence. It can be subtle, quiet, hidden in plain sight. What happened to me is one of many examples of sexual assault that show how it can occur anywhere: on buses, on planes, at parties, or even in familiar spaces.

Here is what I want to be absolutely clear about:

• I do not want compensation

• I do not want closure with him

• I do not want pity

  
  

What I do want is to speak this out loud. To refuse to let silence become another trap.

And I am not alone in this. Recently, a story hit the news about a female traveller on a Qatar Airways flight who was assaulted by the man sitting next to her. In that case, the perpetrator was caught. But the story highlights something bigger: sexual assault during travel is a growing concern.

While this particular case involved a woman, it is not only women who are affected. Men experience this too. Across the UK, crime surveys estimate that nearly 900,000 people experienced sexual assault in the past year, and global figures show that 1 in 3 women and a significant number of men have experienced sexual violence.

This was not an isolated experience for me either. A short time after, back home, I was at a party. A man asked me to dance. I said yes to the dance, but I did not say yes to what happened next. He grabbed me in a way that was invasive and inappropriate. I was not attracted to him. I had given no signals, no cues, nothing to suggest consent. And yet he felt entitled to take.

This is where the power of consent matters. Consent is not assumed. It is not silence. It is not the absence of a fight. It is not permission to use someone because they agreed to share space with you. Consent is an active yes. Anything less is a violation.

The harder part, for me, has been the aftermath. The acts themselves lasted minutes. The echoes last far longer:

• A colleague leans over my desk and I feel cornered

• A friend brushes past me and I recoil before I can stop myself

• A stranger’s lingering glance can set my chest on fire

  
  

I have acted cold with people I care about, male friends and colleagues, who have no idea that my distance is about grief, not about them. It is not fair, but it is real. Trauma does not always announce itself politely. It seeps into the cracks of daily life.

Counselling has helped. Talking has helped. Writing this now helps. If you are reading this and need sexual assault support, please know that help is out there. Whether through therapy, trusted friends, or online resources, seeking sexual assault help is not a weakness but a step toward healing.

So why share this publicly, in a space usually reserved for wanderlust and discovery? Because travel is not always shiny. Because if we keep pretending it is, we are lying to each other. And because other travellers need to know they are not alone when the road turns dark.

This is not a call to stop travelling. I refuse to give that night bus, or that party, the power to take away my love for the world. It is not a call to fear either. It is a call to honesty. To say: sometimes bad things happen, and being cautious will not always protect you. That does not mean you should stop moving, or stop being alone, or stop trusting. It means you acknowledge the risks, and you refuse to let them silence you.

Not every story I tell will shine. Some will scar. But scars do not make the journey less valid, they make it human. And if speaking this out helps even one traveller feel less isolated, then it is worth writing.

Because travel is not just about the postcards. It is about the whole messy truth: freedom, beauty, connection, and sometimes the dark places we do not want to talk about.

And I will keep travelling. With scars, with caution, with honesty.