I was driving across the May 15th Bridge on my way to Alef Bookstore. All of a sudden, I was bombarded with catcalls from a car full of seemingly drunk guys. It’s okay; this happens.

I was pushed against a wall, then I was pushed and shoved some more until I found myself inside a clothes shop on Talaat Harb Street. The attacks were random but very aggressive. I could hear gunshots.

Walk like a soldier.
Don’t you know how soldiers walk?
Eyes straight.
Back straight.
No swaying.

A white-haired old man
Dressed in a suit,
And driving a fancy car,
Stopped me to ask where the nearest supermarket was.
I very naively started giving him directions.
Then this man, who’s as old as my father,
Started doing the dirtiest thing ever.
I can’t give any more details,
But I’m sure you understand what I mean.
I screamed,
And burst into tears.
He drove off, of course.

I’ll tell you what happened but don’t tell anyone else.
Last week, when I was going home,
There was a guy who wanted to get into the elevator with me.
He looked strange.
I refused to get into the elevator with him.

I never physically harassed a woman.
When I would like a girl, I would go speak to her.
It satisfied my ego.
That was until I saw a girl being harassed in the street.

I stopped wearing the hijab a few months ago.
Ramadan is approaching and I’m terrified.
I’m afraid of what my family might say.
I’m afraid of what people in the street will say.
social stigma, hijab, hair, harassment, the street, social pressure

Mama was paranoid about harassment.
She thought it was everywhere.
She wanted to protect me.

I never ran or even moved from my place.
I remember really well,
When I’d run up the stairs,
Or run in Agamy market.

I bumped into a very polite-looking man, who looked at me very politely and asked,  "Why are you hiding your tits? Come on, give me a peek".