Instead of telling women to “just ignore it,” police decided to do something about it. Surrey Police launched “Jog On,” a month-long operation where plain-clothes officers posed as female joggers in areas known for harassment. It didn’t take long to see how common it was one officer was honked at within 10 minutes, and another was targeted just 30 seconds later. The operation led to 18 arrests in one month and aimed to identify behavior that could escalate into more serious offences. Women shouldn’t have to change their routines to feel safe. The people doing the harassing should.

EditoronLeave a Comment on Instead of telling women to “just ignore it,” police decided to do something about it. Surrey Police launched “Jog On,” a month-long operation where plain-clothes officers posed as female joggers in areas known for harassment. It didn’t take long to see how common it was one officer was honked at within 10 minutes, and another was targeted just 30 seconds later. The operation led to 18 arrests in one month and aimed to identify behavior that could escalate into more serious offences. Women shouldn’t have to change their routines to feel safe. The people doing the harassing should.

Key Outcomes

  • 18 arrests in one month for harassment-related offences.
  • Behavioral insight: The operation revealed how quickly harassment occurs, underscoring its normalization in public spaces.
  • Preventive policing: Officers identified individuals whose behavior could escalate into more serious crimes.

Why It Matters

  • Shifting responsibility: Instead of telling women to “ignore it” or change routines, the operation placed accountability on perpetrators.
  • Public safety: Reinforced the principle that women should feel safe jogging, walking, or exercising without fear.
  • Cultural impact: Sparked conversations about everyday sexism and the need for systemic change.

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My daughter gave away her brand-new sneakers to a barefoot little girl outside Walmart — the next day, 68 black shoe boxes were suddenly on our front lawn, and when I opened the closest one, I screamed. My daughter, Aria, had had her heart set on those sneakers for six months. White with pink stripes. Unreasonably expensive for a 10-year-old who still dragged her toes while walking. I had denied her twice. She decided to save her birthday money, help our neighbor pull weeds, and give up the school book fair without a complaint until she had what she needed. When we finally bought them, she held the box tight all the way through the parking lot. That was when she saw the little girl. The girl looked about 8-9, standing by the cart return in a thin, faded yellow dress, one hand latched onto a woman’s sleeve. Her feet were bare on the hot pavement. Aria stopped moving. “Mom,” she whispered, “her feet.” The woman appeared bone-tired. Not asking for charity. Not causing a stir. Just standing like life had drained every bit of energy from her. Before I could get out a word, Aria sat on the curb and opened the box. “Aria,” I said, “sweetheart, those are yours.” She lifted her gaze. “I have shoes at home.” Then she walked over and handed the sneakers to the girl. The little girl stared as though she didn’t believe it. Her mother covered her mouth and wept. I drove home with Aria wearing her old, scuffed shoes, feeling prouder than I’ve ever felt in my life. The next morning, I stepped outside to collect some documents from my car. But as soon as I opened the front door, I froze in place. My heart nearly stopped. Our front lawn was filled with black shoe boxes. Row after row. I counted one by one. There were 68. No note. No delivery label. Just black shoe boxes set across the grass in front of our house. Aria peeked out from behind me. “Mom… are those for us?” My hands were unsteady as I reached for the closest box. I lifted the lid. And when I saw what was inside, I screamed.

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