Leftists can still (and will) carry the patriarchy’s torch

First a man, then a leftist

I can imagine that you know him – a self-proclaimed Trotskyite (note: NOT Trotskyist) with effortlessly tousled hair, a cigarette behind one ear, a pen behind the other, and an ego of gargantuan proportions. We all know him, do we not? He has the glasses, the claim that your birthday is a capitalist ploy, and the belief that he is more well-versed in theory than you – a woman – ever will be. Most likely to be found glorifying the rise of OnlyFans as a liberation movement while sipping an Americano at a café he claims to have discovered, and calling you ‘comrade’ in a romantic way.

Dating a leftist man as a leftist woman seemed like an idyllic match. We both spoke the same language, held up posters at protests, and found beauty in radical visions of the world. We had long discussions about dismantling capitalism, dreamed of emancipatory futures, and critiqued systemic oppression. In an environment that felt so hostile to our beliefs, we clung to each other, finding solace in our shared ideology. But over time, I began to notice that while he could speak volumes about liberation, his actions revealed a much different story. The sly sexism crept up on me without me realising.

He knew the theory like the back of his hand. He could quote Angela Davis and Frantz Fanon effortlessly and frame his every thought in the language of social justice. He would stand in solidarity at feminist rallies and share articles about queer liberation. But when it came to his personal life – our relationship – his commitment to equality stopped at the doorstep. Behind closed doors, I realised that revolutionary rhetoric couldn’t mask the very patriarchy he claimed to abhor. While this may appear to be a dramatic claim to make, in retrospect, it is true in its entirety.

I first noticed it in the small, everyday things. Emotional labour? That was my realm and my realm only. When he needed comfort, I was there, offering support and advice, lifting him up when he felt overwhelmed. But when the roles reversed, his empathy vanished. My struggles were minimised, my pain sidelined. He expected me to carry the weight of my emotions, and often his too. I became his emotional crutch, expected to guide him through his journey of unlearning patriarchal behaviour, even as it drained me.

For someone who preached equality, his understanding of partnership remained rooted in unequal power dynamics. He’d intellectualise feminism, as though the theory alone could absolve him from living its principles. There were moments when I tried to confront him about this disparity, pointing out how his actions didn’t align with his beliefs. His response was often defensive. Sometimes, he’d intellectualise my concerns, turning them into abstract debates rather than addressing the harm they caused. Other times, he’d tell me that I was overreacting, leading to me questioning my perception of reality. It left me feeling disoriented, unsure of whether my experiences were valid.

Worse still, his performative allyship made it hard for me to speak up in leftist spaces. To our comrades, he was the ideal ally – vocal, passionate, and committed. I knew that if I raised my voice about his behaviour, I’d risk being seen as divisive or bitter, the jealous girlfriend who could never be quite as brilliant as her boyfriend. After all, how could someone so progressive be guilty of replicating the very dynamics he fought against?

I came to realise that men, even those on the left, often carry their patriarchal conditioning into these spaces, whether consciously or not. Leftist men frequently use feminist language as a shield, a way to appear more progressive than they actually are. But understanding theory and living its principles are not the same. It’s easy to critique the patriarchy in public, far harder to confront how you embody it in private.

PSA: Leftist men are still men

The burden of educating him on the practicality of these matters fell on me. It’s one thing to read bell hooks, Audre Lorde, and Judith Butler, but another thing entirely to actualise their philosophies, and he failed miserable in certain regards. I was tasked with explaining the nuanced aspects of sexism and emotional labour while managing the fallout of his defensiveness. It wasn’t just exhausting; it was profoundly unfair. Leftist spaces often speak of solidarity, but when it came to my needs, solidarity became a one-way street; one with a dead end.

What struck me most was the arrogance. His ability to dissect patriarchy intellectually seemed to give him a false sense of immunity from critique. He believed his awareness alone absolved him from accountability, as though reciting passages from The Second Sex was enough to free him from embodying oppressive behaviours. But knowledge without action is hollow, and his unwillingness to change left me carrying the burden of both of our failures.

Even outside of our microcosm, I felt as though he held problematic views. He would claim that “sex work is still work” and that “the porn industry can be empowering,” even when I expressed that these ideas made me incredibly uncomfortable. I’d often attempt to debate him about these issues, but he would often shut me down with a long-winded quote about choice feminism and claims that I am far too bourgeois to understand the complexities of such ideologies. I would put firth an argument stating that I, a woman, did not agree with these claims of his, but he would dismiss me almost instantly, saying that other women would beg to differ.

In the end, the relationship left me questioning not only my own worth and knowledge, but what solidarity really meant. If the man I loved, someone who claimed to be ardently committed to liberation, couldn’t embody those principles in our relationship, what hope was there for the broader movement? If leftist men can’t confront their complicity in patriarchy, how can we expect them to help dismantle it?

The personal is political. It always has been. And as women in these spaces, we often find ourselves on the frontlines of emotional labour, carrying the burden of not just our struggles but also the failures of those who claim to stand beside us. It’s not enough to talk about dismantling systems of oppression; we must embody those values in our daily lives, in our relationships, in the spaces we claim as safe.

I’ve since walked away from that relationship, but the lessons remain. Leftist men, like all men, must confront their privilege, not just in theory but in practice. Until then, their allyship will remain performative, their solidarity a fragile illusion. True liberation requires more than words – it demands accountability, humility, and a willingness to confront the darkest and cruellest parts of oneself. Without that, the revolution will always fall short and this is why we find ourselves in this swirling abyss, where, if you’re ever wondering if you’re enough of a feminist, you can just ask a leftist man (spoiler: the answer he’ll give you is no).