Rewrite and translate this title Are sex strikes really the best response to the behaviours of men? to Japanese between 50 and 60 characters. Do not include any introductory or extra text; return only the title in Japanese.

19-year-old Cleo has felt a “raging” hatred for men for as long as she can remember. Coming out as a lesbian at 11, she realised that men had no place in her life. “Women don’t gain anything from having sex with men except exploitation,” she tells Dazed. “And I think the 4B movement will help bring awareness to that.”

The 4B movement, which has seen renewed attention since Donald Trump’s re-election, is an online feminist movement originating in South Korea. Emerging in the mid-2010s on the feminist site Womad, it was created in response to the high rates of gender-based violence and the government’s failure to address it seriously. This neglect was most acutely seen in 2022, when two women were violently murdered in South Korea: one in a subway station toilet and the other on a university campus, both attacked by men who had stalked or targeted them. South Korea’s Gender Equality Minister, Kim Hyunsook, dismissed claims of misogyny and even criticised one of the victims for not doing enough to protect herself. In response, some women in the country decided to reject traditional gender roles by launching the 4B movement (or “Four No’s”): no sex with men, no childbirth, no dating, and no marriage. While some critics view it as a niche movement, the 4B philosophy has resonated with women in South Korea and globally.

In the US, Trump’s re-election has spurred increased interest in 4B principles. Trump’s nomination of three Supreme Court Justices led to the overturning of Roe v Wade in 2022, a decision he proudly claimed credit for. His campaign rhetoric about “protecting” women stood in stark contrast to his record of sexual misconduct allegations and his being found liable for sexual abuse. Despite this, Trump won the election, with men across all races and demographics overwhelmingly voting for him. As a result, young American women are increasingly drawn to the 4B movement, seeking alternatives to traditional relationships with men.

This trend aligns with broader conversations on social media about “decentring men”. Women, particularly on platforms like YouTube and TikTok, are expressing a desire to shift their energy away from men and instead prioritise friendships, family and personal growth. 27-year-old Raquel hopes the 4B movement will encourage women to genuinely decentre men: “I hope that this movement keeps women safe and empowers them to put their energy into themselves and build a community that does not put heterosexual romantic love on a pedestal.” There is an alluring idea here — the concept of a world where women are truly free from male dominance, oppression and violence. The strategy isn’t entirely new, either. In her PhD thesis, Dr Tania Shew discusses how suffragettes in Britain and the US debated abstaining from sex, marriage, and childbearing between 1890 and 1920 to gain voting rights. It was a protest tactic they “considered,” “debated,” and “dreamt” of, but a large-scale sex strike was never enacted.

Sex strikes have, however, succeeded on smaller scales. In the 1600s, Iroquois women in North America withheld sex and childbearing to gain decision-making power over warfare, eventually securing the right to veto wars. In 2011, women in Barbacoas, Colombia, launched the “Crossed Legs Movement”, refusing sex until the government addressed dangerous infrastructure. The strike led to state funding for safer roads. Similarly, during Liberia’s civil war in the 00s, Christian and Muslim women united under social worker Leymah Gbowee’s leadership to pray for peace and ultimately launched a sex strike. This movement was instrumental in pushing peace negotiations forward.

Examples of sex strikes throughout history prompt questions about how and why we have sex and reproduce. For instance, a recent Durex study showed that only 65 per cent of heterosexual women orgasm during sex compared to 89 per cent of men. While orgasm isn’t the sole measure of pleasure, this disparity highlights the unequal experiences women often face. Furthermore, opting out of sex, pregnancy, or childbirth can prompt deeper reflection on societal expectations around these “choices”. Many people, particularly those socialised as women, are led to believe that having children is a given. However, when paused, these actions reveal themselves not as “natural” imperatives but as naturalised ones — ingrained expectations rather than individual choices.

I understand the desire of those, like Cleo, who hate men with every fibre of their being and want to disengage from them entirely. They hear, as we all do, the devastating stories of women harmed or killed in the most unthinkable ways by men. How can we look them in the eyes and tell them this isn’t the way?

@annashlap

this election just showed everyone’s true colors. is the 4B movement next?

♬ original sound – ᴋɪʀsᴛʏ

But I think we must. While sex strikes are fascinating and have proven effective as modes of protest, they are not without significant drawbacks. As Erin Tansimore argues in her 2021 article “The Complicated Success of Sex Strikes”, these actions “contribute to the perpetuation of women’s oppression, harmful heteronormativity, the marginalisation or erasure of both sex workers and LGBTQ+ people, and the reduction of women to sexual objects and reproductive machines.” Tansimore’s critique highlights a troubling implication: sex strikes suggest that sex is something only men enjoy, that women are valuable primarily for sex, and that withholding it serves as punishment. This framing is problematic, reinforcing stereotypes about gender roles and the nature of sexual relationships. However, as Dr Tania Shew points out, some women who advocated for sex strikes recognised the personal cost involved. “They emphasised that engaging in these strikes was also a sacrifice for themselves. They were aware that this wasn’t positioned purely as a sacrifice for men,” she tells Dazed. This nuance complicates the narrative, acknowledging that for some women, sex strikes are acts of self-discipline and resistance rather than mere tools to punish men.

Nonetheless, sex strikes often lean on a binary and gender-essentialist framing. As Raquel’s TikTok highlights, “taking coochie off the table indefinitely” directs the focus to vaginas in a way that can be seen as exclusionary. As Maureen Shaw points out in Quartz, this framing raises crucial questions: “What does respecting the vagina mean for trans women?” Does it apply to queer women who don’t have sex with men yet still endure male violence? Or to gay men and other queer individuals who have sex with men but don’t have vaginas? With these questions in mind, the rhetoric surrounding sex strikes can begin to feel unappealing and even suspect.

Sex strikes also risk reinforcing the binary narrative of “all men are evil” and “all women are good”, even unintentionally. For example, some argue that white women who overwhelmingly supported Trump in 2016 and 2024, did so due to pressure from their husbands. While some women may indeed have been influenced by partners, to suggest most white women were coerced denies them agency. It overlooks the reality that many white women may prioritise their racial and personal interests over solidarity with their gender. Womanhood alone doesn’t make someone a good person.

It would also be remiss not to critique the selective feminist fervour that has emerged in response to Trump’s re-election. For example, women in Norwegian, Finnish, and Belgian parliaments have publicly expressed solidarity with American women, yet feminist outrage often falls silent when addressing crises in places like Palestine, Sudan, and Congo — situations that urgently require robust feminist action. These issues don’t easily align with a narrow, gender-focused approach to feminism. In the United States, the dominant narrative centres on men stripping away women’s rights, a clear-cut feminist issue on the surface. However, this framing oversimplifies the complexities revealed by exit polls about how certain women voted in this election. Moreover, casting a vote for Kamala Harris, a woman who consistently defends Israel’s military actions, isn’t universally a vote for women — it’s a vote for some women. While it may have symbolised progress for American women, it offered no solace to Palestinian women, who are bearing the brunt of genocide in Gaza, or the many others in Palestine facing starvation and violence at the hands of Israeli forces.

I’m not trying to overlook the power of sex strikes, but the discussion raises many tensions and complications. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do about men, but I do know that feminist activism that is framed primarily around gender alone is harmful. It excludes people, focusing primarily on white cisgender, heterosexual women rather than those who are the most marginalised in society. And a feminist politic that doesn’t address this is a feminist politic that will fail.

19-year-old Cleo has felt a “raging” hatred for men for as long as she can remember. Coming out as a lesbian at 11, she realised that men had no place in her life. “Women don’t gain anything from having sex with men except exploitation,” she tells Dazed. “And I think the 4B movement will help bring awareness to that.”

The 4B movement, which has seen renewed attention since Donald Trump’s re-election, is an online feminist movement originating in South Korea. Emerging in the mid-2010s on the feminist site Womad, it was created in response to the high rates of gender-based violence and the government’s failure to address it seriously. This neglect was most acutely seen in 2022, when two women were violently murdered in South Korea: one in a subway station toilet and the other on a university campus, both attacked by men who had stalked or targeted them. South Korea’s Gender Equality Minister, Kim Hyunsook, dismissed claims of misogyny and even criticised one of the victims for not doing enough to protect herself. In response, some women in the country decided to reject traditional gender roles by launching the 4B movement (or “Four No’s”): no sex with men, no childbirth, no dating, and no marriage. While some critics view it as a niche movement, the 4B philosophy has resonated with women in South Korea and globally.

In the US, Trump’s re-election has spurred increased interest in 4B principles. Trump’s nomination of three Supreme Court Justices led to the overturning of Roe v Wade in 2022, a decision he proudly claimed credit for. His campaign rhetoric about “protecting” women stood in stark contrast to his record of sexual misconduct allegations and his being found liable for sexual abuse. Despite this, Trump won the election, with men across all races and demographics overwhelmingly voting for him. As a result, young American women are increasingly drawn to the 4B movement, seeking alternatives to traditional relationships with men.

This trend aligns with broader conversations on social media about “decentring men”. Women, particularly on platforms like YouTube and TikTok, are expressing a desire to shift their energy away from men and instead prioritise friendships, family and personal growth. 27-year-old Raquel hopes the 4B movement will encourage women to genuinely decentre men: “I hope that this movement keeps women safe and empowers them to put their energy into themselves and build a community that does not put heterosexual romantic love on a pedestal.” There is an alluring idea here — the concept of a world where women are truly free from male dominance, oppression and violence. The strategy isn’t entirely new, either. In her PhD thesis, Dr Tania Shew discusses how suffragettes in Britain and the US debated abstaining from sex, marriage, and childbearing between 1890 and 1920 to gain voting rights. It was a protest tactic they “considered,” “debated,” and “dreamt” of, but a large-scale sex strike was never enacted.

Sex strikes have, however, succeeded on smaller scales. In the 1600s, Iroquois women in North America withheld sex and childbearing to gain decision-making power over warfare, eventually securing the right to veto wars. In 2011, women in Barbacoas, Colombia, launched the “Crossed Legs Movement”, refusing sex until the government addressed dangerous infrastructure. The strike led to state funding for safer roads. Similarly, during Liberia’s civil war in the 00s, Christian and Muslim women united under social worker Leymah Gbowee’s leadership to pray for peace and ultimately launched a sex strike. This movement was instrumental in pushing peace negotiations forward.

Examples of sex strikes throughout history prompt questions about how and why we have sex and reproduce. For instance, a recent Durex study showed that only 65 per cent of heterosexual women orgasm during sex compared to 89 per cent of men. While orgasm isn’t the sole measure of pleasure, this disparity highlights the unequal experiences women often face. Furthermore, opting out of sex, pregnancy, or childbirth can prompt deeper reflection on societal expectations around these “choices”. Many people, particularly those socialised as women, are led to believe that having children is a given. However, when paused, these actions reveal themselves not as “natural” imperatives but as naturalised ones — ingrained expectations rather than individual choices.

I understand the desire of those, like Cleo, who hate men with every fibre of their being and want to disengage from them entirely. They hear, as we all do, the devastating stories of women harmed or killed in the most unthinkable ways by men. How can we look them in the eyes and tell them this isn’t the way?

@annashlap

this election just showed everyone’s true colors. is the 4B movement next?

♬ original sound – ᴋɪʀsᴛʏ

But I think we must. While sex strikes are fascinating and have proven effective as modes of protest, they are not without significant drawbacks. As Erin Tansimore argues in her 2021 article “The Complicated Success of Sex Strikes”, these actions “contribute to the perpetuation of women’s oppression, harmful heteronormativity, the marginalisation or erasure of both sex workers and LGBTQ+ people, and the reduction of women to sexual objects and reproductive machines.” Tansimore’s critique highlights a troubling implication: sex strikes suggest that sex is something only men enjoy, that women are valuable primarily for sex, and that withholding it serves as punishment. This framing is problematic, reinforcing stereotypes about gender roles and the nature of sexual relationships. However, as Dr Tania Shew points out, some women who advocated for sex strikes recognised the personal cost involved. “They emphasised that engaging in these strikes was also a sacrifice for themselves. They were aware that this wasn’t positioned purely as a sacrifice for men,” she tells Dazed. This nuance complicates the narrative, acknowledging that for some women, sex strikes are acts of self-discipline and resistance rather than mere tools to punish men.

Nonetheless, sex strikes often lean on a binary and gender-essentialist framing. As Raquel’s TikTok highlights, “taking coochie off the table indefinitely” directs the focus to vaginas in a way that can be seen as exclusionary. As Maureen Shaw points out in Quartz, this framing raises crucial questions: “What does respecting the vagina mean for trans women?” Does it apply to queer women who don’t have sex with men yet still endure male violence? Or to gay men and other queer individuals who have sex with men but don’t have vaginas? With these questions in mind, the rhetoric surrounding sex strikes can begin to feel unappealing and even suspect.

Sex strikes also risk reinforcing the binary narrative of “all men are evil” and “all women are good”, even unintentionally. For example, some argue that white women who overwhelmingly supported Trump in 2016 and 2024, did so due to pressure from their husbands. While some women may indeed have been influenced by partners, to suggest most white women were coerced denies them agency. It overlooks the reality that many white women may prioritise their racial and personal interests over solidarity with their gender. Womanhood alone doesn’t make someone a good person.

It would also be remiss not to critique the selective feminist fervour that has emerged in response to Trump’s re-election. For example, women in Norwegian, Finnish, and Belgian parliaments have publicly expressed solidarity with American women, yet feminist outrage often falls silent when addressing crises in places like Palestine, Sudan, and Congo — situations that urgently require robust feminist action. These issues don’t easily align with a narrow, gender-focused approach to feminism. In the United States, the dominant narrative centres on men stripping away women’s rights, a clear-cut feminist issue on the surface. However, this framing oversimplifies the complexities revealed by exit polls about how certain women voted in this election. Moreover, casting a vote for Kamala Harris, a woman who consistently defends Israel’s military actions, isn’t universally a vote for women — it’s a vote for some women. While it may have symbolised progress for American women, it offered no solace to Palestinian women, who are bearing the brunt of genocide in Gaza, or the many others in Palestine facing starvation and violence at the hands of Israeli forces.

I’m not trying to overlook the power of sex strikes, but the discussion raises many tensions and complications. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do about men, but I do know that feminist activism that is framed primarily around gender alone is harmful. It excludes people, focusing primarily on white cisgender, heterosexual women rather than those who are the most marginalised in society. And a feminist politic that doesn’t address this is a feminist politic that will fail.