A Dream of Dialogue Between the Sexes

Something in today’s public conversation about gender seems to have fractured. In recent years, Italy has witnessed a dramatic escalation: femicides have become tragically recurrent events, etched into the collective consciousness as raw symbols of a deep rupture in the relationship between men and women. The case of Gisèle Pelicot in France added a transnational dimension to the debate, showing how difficult it still is—for institutions and public opinion alike—to recognize male violence as systematic rather than exceptional.

In this climate, the dominant perception on social media seems to be one of growing hostility between the sexes: a cold war—or perhaps a very hot one—fought daily in comment sections and viral videos that ridicule or demonize the opposite sex. On one side, feminist movements and their legitimate struggles, increasingly vocal in denouncing patriarchal culture and its violent excesses. On the other, a defensive and identity-driven male reaction oscillating between victimhood, sarcasm, mockery, and outright refusal of dialogue, degenerating into that hidden but increasingly visible world known as the “manosphere.”

Yet, between these two factions, there are men who neither disengage nor lash out. Men who, silently or with difficulty, try to find a way to take part. And yet, they often find themselves suspended in a limbo of mistrust: accused by other men of trying to please women, and eyed with suspicion by some feminist activists who fear intrusion or appropriation.

Where does this polarization come from? To understand the tense and accusatory climate that dominates today’s gender discourse, we must start from a simple but often overlooked fact: gender identities are not static—they are deeply politicized and shaped by their historical moment.

Masculinity, in particular, is increasingly under scrutiny. But rather than prompting collective reflection, this has often triggered defensiveness, fear, and a retreat into entrenched positions. Today, even the most grounded discussions about equality are perceived as a loss of power. If women gain ground, men must be losing it. A perverse, zero-sum logic takes hold—one that fuels distrust and hostility. This isn’t just about data; it’s about personal perceptions. Equality is often felt as symbolic, even identity-based, loss.

Adding to this perception is a deeper, less visible obstacle: the male difficulty in recognizing privilege. When you grow up in a system that normalizes your dominant position, it’s easy to mistake it for merit. You don’t see the advantage—because you’ve always had it. So any attempt to call out injustice is perceived as a personal attack or an ideological overreach.

The result? Many men don’t see themselves as part of the problem, and therefore don’t feel involved in the solution. Worse, some reject the very framing of the discussion—dismissing terms like “patriarchy,” “sexism,” or “privilege” as exaggerated or ideological.

The situation is further complicated by the fragility of contemporary masculine identity: in a world where roles are being redefined, “being a man” no longer guarantees status. And where no shared language exists to imagine masculinity without domination, insecurity turns into a defensive reaction. Hence the sarcasm, the caricature of feminism, the nostalgia for lost virility. Hence the rhetoric of “masculinity in crisis” which, instead of opening space for self-critique, builds new barricades.

This polarization doesn’t come from nowhere. It stems from a deep symbolic conflict between a changing world and a masculine identity unprepared for that change. Breaking out of this deadlock requires a decisive shift: the realization that equality is not a subtraction—it is a mutual liberation.

Not all men are openly hostile to the idea of equality. Many, in fact, claim to support it. But often, there’s a wide gap between declaration and action. Why? The issue seems to be not just cultural, but perceptual. Equality is often felt as a threat to one’s personal and social safety. It’s not necessarily bad faith—it’s a visceral, almost automatic reaction to a change that shakes the foundations of one’s place in the world. When society begins to redistribute power, space, and voice, those who’ve always had the biggest share perceive it as expropriation.

This defensive reaction today takes two forms: either opting out of the issue altogether, or offering formal support that never becomes real action. For many, standing for equality is a socially acceptable stance—but one that avoids any substantial transformation of their own role.

And yet, there are men who become aware of injustice and side with gender equality—not out of sterile guilt, but driven by an active ethical sense, capable of producing moral tension and a desire to act. The main issue is the reception they receive, and the gray zone in which they’re forced to move: too “strange” for other men, too “intrusive” for some women. These men find themselves trapped in a paradox: they acknowledge their privilege but still trigger suspicion. From one side, a more traditional male front mocks or rejects their commitment, framing it as a strategy to gain sexual or social approval.

From the other side, even some feminist spaces approach male allies with caution. Not out of gratuitous hostility, but due to historical memory and a general mistrust—because many men still haven’t grasped the problem. The feminist movement was born as a response to male-dominated culture; it’s understandable not to trust those who, until recently, embodied that very dominance. The fear is that men might reclaim the hard-won space—even in the guise of wanting to help.

This double tension creates an exhausting atmosphere: so-called “ally” men often find themselves in uncomfortable positions, constantly having to prove their sincerity. It’s a minefield—where a word may be taken as an error, a step may seem invasive, and silence is read as complicity. The risk of being misunderstood is ever-present.

The result? Many men withdraw. Not because they no longer believe in the cause, but because they feel they have no legitimate place to act. Some step back, worn out by the need to constantly justify their presence. Others remain on the sidelines, in cautious neutrality—which, unfortunately, helps sustain the very power structure they claim to oppose. And yet, it is precisely in this point of friction that the most interesting challenge arises: recognizing mistrust doesn’t mean avoiding it—it means walking through it. Learning to stay in uncomfortable, decentered, non-defensive positions might be the first real political act toward a new form of dialogue.

If mistrust exists, the task is not to avoid it but to build the conditions for a credible, transformative male alliance: to bring the conversation into the spaces where masculinity is shaped and reproduced; not to seek validation from feminist circles, but to act within one’s own contexts—among friends, colleagues, in sports groups, in male chat threads.

We must remember that real change is not spectacular. It doesn’t generate likes. It doesn’t always bring gratitude. Most of the time, it’s invisible, slow, and hard.

There’s a high—and often invisible—price paid every time a man who is sensitive to gender issues chooses not to speak out. It doesn’t result in hatred. He doesn’t leave bitter comments under feminist posts, or joke about paternity leave or gender quotas. He simply disappears. He stays silent. Withdrawn. Disconnected.

This silent retreat may be the greatest political and cultural failure of our time: losing the very men who don’t identify with patriarchal models, but who don’t know where or how to act. Men who don’t want to dominate—but don’t want to be seen as guilty by default either. Men who want to take part, but don’t know where they fit or how to move.

And so, caught between the fear of judgment, the risk of misstep, and the absence of clear pathways, many conclude that it’s just not worth it—that they’ll never truly be welcomed. The result is a slow, invisible erosion that empties from within the possibility of shared transformation.

The outcome is twofold: on one hand, women are once again left alone to carry forward cultural, political, and relational change. On the other, the critique of patriarchy remains a niche—inhabited by only a few men.

But true change cannot be carried out by a heroic minority. What’s needed is a critical mass of men—engaged, imperfect but present, fragile yet willing to step forward. That mass won’t emerge if every male gesture continues to be met with prejudice or indifference. Vigilance is necessary and understandable. But without the possibility of making mistakes, no transformation is possible.

The alliance between men and the feminist movement is not simple. It is not linear. It is not without contradiction—and probably never will be. That’s exactly why it’s urgent and necessary. It demands men who are willing to walk through ambivalence, to live complexity without needing to control it, to argue without expecting immediate recognition. Men willing to come undone, to be moved by new questions—not just passive targets of a deconstruction process that has already run its course.

And on the other side, it requires the ability to welcome these men without pushing them away at the first sign of ambiguity. To stop seeing them merely as targets of a process already concluded. We must begin to accept that any genuine alliance—any real dialogue—will inevitably involve frustration, missteps, and imperfection.

A Dream of Dialogue Between the Sexes