“Why Men Don’t Stand Up for Each Other: A Reflection on Bruce’s Humiliation”

It was 3 a.m., and sleep eluded me. My phone, a glowing rectangle in my hand, seemed to reflect my despair.

Earlier that day, I watched in horror as a man’s dignity was ripped away in broad daylight—his humanity reduced to tatters, like cheap fabric discarded in a market. The video was graphic and hard to stomach, but impossible to forget. It rattled me. Not just the brutality of the act, but the chilling indifference of it all.

I thought about Bruce. Poor Bruce. Did he wake up that morning knowing his life would be broadcasted like a viral meme? I doubt it. Maybe he started the day like the rest of us, hopeful, naïve even. Maybe he brewed some tea, tuned into his favorite morning show, and decided it was the perfect day to wear cologne. Maybe he even made an elaborate breakfast, humming as he whisked eggs for a Spanish omelette, pretending life was a cooking show rather than a constant battle.

Or maybe it was one of those cursed mornings when everything goes wrong. You wake up late, stub your toe, and the last clean shirt has a stain. You look at the dishes in the sink and pretend they don’t exist. Maybe Bruce, like the rest of us, didn’t have the energy to face life, let alone the nightmare it would become.

Then the unimaginable happened. Bruce, a man like any of us, was humiliated in the most barbaric way possible. And what did we do? We tweeted. We sat in the comfort of our homes, scrolling and sipping coffee, outraged but not moved enough to act. We were appalled, but not enough to actually make a difference.

The next day at work, the tension in the air was thick. Eventually, the conversation turned to the video. I kicked it off, frustrated. “Sorry, but if Bruce were a woman, we’d all be marching in the streets by now. There’d be placards, hashtags, and CNN interviews by 6 a.m.”

Gertrude, our resident feminist and queen of sharp comebacks, raised an eyebrow. “True,” she said, “but why haven’t men gone out to support him? Why is there silence?” And with that, she dropped the mic. Her words hit like a sack of cement.

My mind froze. I had no answer. None. The silence in the room spoke volumes, and soon the conversation veered toward lighter topics—Justin Bieber’s latest album and Chimamanda Adichie’s literary genius. But that question stayed with me, gnawing at me like the smell of burnt toast.

Why don’t men stand up for other men?

Let’s be honest: men are terrible at showing up for each other. Most harm inflicted on men comes from other men. We see each other more as competition than community. From childhood, we’re taught to “man up,” to hide our pain, and to always compete, not connect. Vulnerability? That’s for the weak. So when Bruce was torn apart, our first instinct wasn’t to stand with him—it was to pretend it wasn’t our problem. After all, isn’t that what it means to be a man?

We’re selfish. Not in the sense of hoarding pizza slices, but selfish in avoiding emotional investment. Standing up for Bruce means acknowledging that what happened to him could happen to any of us.

And who wants to face that existential crisis over their morning coffee? Men don’t stand up for each other because we’re too busy protecting our own fronts. We’ve been trained to see each other as threats, not brothers.

That night, as I lay staring at the ceiling, replaying Gertrude’s words, I realized the truth: men don’t support one another because we’ve never been taught how. Our silence isn’t apathy—it’s fear. Fear of vulnerability. Fear of failure. Fear of becoming the next Bruce.

So we tweet. We scroll. We move on. Standing up requires effort, and effort is costly. We’d rather keep our dignity intact, even if it means ignoring the destruction of someone else’s.

Bruce deserved better. But this is the world we’ve built—a world where men are expected to stand alone.

And you know what? I’m fed up.

what do y’all think?