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When we speak of genocide, we recall the Holocaust — the deliberate destruction of people for who they were. History built tribunals and laws to stop that kind of annihilation. Yet even as the world swore “never again,” it still refuses to recognize sex as a protected category.
Genocide law names race, ethnicity, and religion — but not sex. The countless women and girls who die each year because they are female — through honor killings, trafficking, sex-selective abortion, or systemic sexual violence — are rarely counted as casualties of anything more than circumstance. What we call progress too often hides the oldest persecution on earth: the slow erasure of women as a class.
That erasure no longer always comes with guns or gas chambers. It comes through language, policy, and emotional blackmail. Women are told that compassion means standing with everyone, even those who harm us. We’re shamed for questioning predators who hide behind new identities, told that safety is a form of hate, and lectured that our instincts are bigotry. Yet violent crime, sexual assault, and predatory behavior still correlate with biological sex, not with how someone identifies. Compassion without boundaries isn’t kindness — it’s surrender.
Forensic psychologist Dr. Anna C. Salter, a leading authority on sexual offenders and the author of Predators: Pedophiles, Rapists, and Other Sex Offenders, explains:
“We mute the realization of malevolence — which is too threatening to bear — by turning offenders into victims themselves and by describing their behavior as the result of forces beyond their control.”
Salter’s research reveals how predators wrap abuse in the language of empathy and trust, and how institutions, once mesmerized by that performance, let the true harm slip through the cracks. The lesson is simple but devastating: when we confuse compassion with denial, we make room for evil to thrive.
Recent history provides examples. Public reporting once revealed that Allison Woolbert — founder of a website cataloging women labeled “TERFs” — had a prior sexual-assault conviction. Even after that record became public, the campaign she created continued to spread the idea that trans-identified males are the true victims and that dissenting women are dangerous. The narrative worked: critics were doxed, lost jobs, and faced online mobs in the name of inclusion. What began as advocacy for safety evolved into a weapon for intimidation — a textbook demonstration of what Salter warned about.
The same dynamic has played out offline. In the United Kingdom, trans-identified activist Sarah Jane Baker — once described as Britain’s longest-serving transgender prisoner — was arrested after a rally where she shouted, “If you see a TERF, punch them in the face.” For years, Baker had been celebrated as a symbol of redemption, her violent past reframed as proof of moral authority. Only when the violence resurfaced did the mask slip.
Australian advocate Katherine Deves has drawn a striking parallel: today’s institutional silence around gender ideology resembles the church’s historical cover-ups of sexual abuse. Back then, believers were told to protect the church’s image at all costs. Today, citizens are told to protect “inclusion” the same way — even when it puts women and children at risk. Both rely on the same moral blackmail: if you speak, you are the problem.
We see this same pattern in sport. In Australia, Riley Dennis, a trans-identified male who is married to a woman and publicly identifies as a lesbian, has become emblematic of the growing confusion around sex-based language. When biological men call themselves lesbians, the word “woman” itself begins to lose meaning. The boundaries that once defined female identity — and the safety, solidarity, and community those boundaries made possible — start to dissolve. Institutions applaud this as inclusion, but it is actually erasure dressed as empathy.
If genocide means the destruction of a people, what do we call the systematic dismantling of womanhood — its language, its boundaries, its right to safety?
We’ve built international courts to punish those who destroy ethnic groups, but we still cannot name the ongoing erasure of women as a class.
That’s because we’ve been trained to see empathy as obedience and boundaries as bigotry. But real compassion tells the truth, even when it’s unpopular.
The world once ignored the cries of children silenced by the church. We cannot afford to repeat that mistake under a different flag.
True compassion is not submission. It demands moral clarity — the willingness to say “no” when ideology demands a lie. Every time women are told to yield language, safety, or sport to preserve someone else’s feelings, the cost of that lie grows.
When integrity yields to ideology, institutions lose their compass.
And when women can no longer name themselves, humanity loses its anchor.
Courage begins with telling the truth — especially when the truth offends the powerful.
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