For Ljubica Fuentes, the transition from a hopeful law student to a target of systemic harassment began with a single, defiant hand raised in an Ecuadorian classroom. It was a moment of academic friction that many might dismiss as a typical debate, but in the context of a deeply entrenched patriarchal culture, it was the spark that ignited a digital firestorm. When her professor at Ecuador’s largest public university declared to a room full of aspiring professionals that women were not “real lawyers” but were merely present “to pick up some guy,” Fuentes refused to remain silent. Her objection was immediate, principled, and—in the eyes of her detractors—unforgivable.
From that afternoon forward, Fuentes’ identity as a student was stripped away, replaced by the derogatory label of “feminazi.” What began as sneers in the hallway and isolation in the lecture hall rapidly metastasized into a sophisticated campaign of technology-facilitated gender-based violence (TFGBV). The digital world, often touted as a frontier for connection and education, became a claustrophobic cage. Private messages on Instagram arrived with chilling regularity, demanding she cease her advocacy for women’s rights. Anonymous accounts flooded campus social media pages with vitriol, while whispers of rape threats moved from the digital sphere into the physical notes left in campus common areas.
The psychological weight of such an onslaught is difficult to overstate. “When you get away from your abusers, you feel kind of safe, but digital violence is following you around everywhere you go,” Fuentes recalls. The harassment eventually reached a terrifying crescendo when she received word that an individual had been hired to physically assault her. Realizing that her “sanity and integrity” were at stake, she was forced to flee her own life, leaving for a semester abroad in the dead of night. Today, Fuentes has transformed that trauma into a vocation, serving as a human rights lawyer and the founder of “Ciudadanas del Mundo,” an organization dedicated to purging gender-based violence from the halls of higher education.
Fuentes’ story is not an isolated incident of campus bullying; it is a microcosm of a global epidemic that is often hidden in plain sight. Statistics regarding digital abuse paint a grim picture of the modern female experience. Research indicates that between 16 and 58 percent of women worldwide have experienced some form of technology-facilitated violence. A landmark study by the Economist Intelligence Unit found that while 38 percent of women have been personally targeted by online abuse, a staggering 85 percent have witnessed it directed at other women. This creates a “chilling effect,” where the mere observation of digital violence serves as a warning to all women to remain silent, lest they become the next target.
The arrival of the COVID-19 pandemic acted as a global accelerant for this toxicity. As the world retreated into the safety of their homes, the digital landscape became the primary site for work, education, and social interaction. However, this shift also provided a new set of tools for domestic and external abusers. “Patriarchy understood how to change in order to reach people inside homes,” Fuentes explains. The perceived anonymity of the internet emboldened aggressors, allowing them to hide behind fake user IDs and screens while inflicting profound emotional and professional damage.
One of the most insidious aspects of digital violence is the persistent myth that it is “lesser” than physical violence because it occurs in a virtual space. In reality, the consequences are devastatingly tangible. For activists like Fuentes, the digital realm requires a state of constant, exhausting hyper-vigilance. Every post, every shared opinion, and every online friendship is subjected to intense scrutiny. “The constant scrutiny takes away your peace,” she notes. “If you are a feminist, if you are an activist, you don’t have the right to be wrong. You are not allowed to even have a past.”
This pressure is particularly acute for young women and girls, 58 percent of whom have reported online harassment. For those in public-facing roles, the numbers are even more alarming. A 2020 UNESCO report found that 73 percent of women journalists have experienced online violence in the course of their work. The result is a systematic thinning of the ranks of women in leadership, journalism, and politics. When the cost of participation is a constant stream of death threats and character assassination, many women understandably choose to restrict their online presence or abandon their careers entirely. In the most extreme cases, digital stalking and “doxxing”—the malicious publishing of private information—escalate into physical violence and femicide.
Despite the clear and present danger posed by TFGBV, the global legal infrastructure remains woefully inadequate. Currently, less than half of the world’s countries have specific laws that allow for the prosecution of online abuse. This legislative vacuum leaves survivors with little recourse. “If you go to a public defender, they are going to say to you, you have to wait five years for this to be solved,” Fuentes says, highlighting the normalization of the justice gap. This delay is often a calculated tactic by the legal system to discourage reporting, effectively signaling to abusers that the digital realm is a lawless frontier.
Furthermore, the technology giants that profit from these platforms have been criticized for their slow and often performative responses to harassment. While algorithms are expertly tuned to maximize engagement and advertising revenue, they frequently fail to detect and mitigate the coordinated “pile-ons” and deep-fake pornography that are used to silence women.
In the face of this institutional failure, grassroots feminist organizations have become the primary line of defense. Fuentes’ organization now works with 600 individuals annually, focusing on early prevention and helping universities establish robust safety protocols. They provide the legal and emotional scaffolding that survivors need to reclaim their lives. Fuentes is also a key voice in the ACT Programme, a collaborative initiative between the European Commission and UN Women designed to ensure that global policy reflects the “on-the-ground” reality of women’s lives.
However, these vital organizations are currently facing a precarious financial future. Despite evidence that strong, independent feminist movements are the single most effective factor in driving policy changes to stop violence against women, funding is being slashed at an unprecedented rate. A 2025 UN Women survey revealed that 34 percent of respondents have had to suspend programs due to funding cuts, while 89 percent reported severe reductions in access to support services for survivors. Without consistent investment, the progress made by leaders like Fuentes risks being erased.
The fight against digital violence requires a multi-pronged approach: governments must modernize their penal codes to recognize digital harms; tech companies must prioritize safety over “engagement” metrics; and academic institutions must foster environments where dissent does not lead to exile.
Ljubica Fuentes’ journey came full circle when she eventually served as the legal representative in a case against the very professor who had once told her she didn’t belong in the legal profession. It was a poetic victory, but her focus remains on the future. As the global community prepares for the “16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence” (running from November 25 to December 10), her message is one of both warning and hope. “I will endure everything again,” she says, her voice thick with emotion, “just to know that someone is not going to go through what I went through.” Her story serves as a reminder that while the digital world can be a weapon, it can also be a platform for a new generation of lawyers, activists, and leaders who refuse to be silenced by a screen.
