I was waiting for my husband in the car one time. I remember wishing I was a man, so I could get out of the car and smack one of the harasser’s with a shoe. I wanted to tell him to have some respect.
The first time I was harassed was in middle school.
My friend and I were on our way home.
When all of a sudden,
Three guys on a motorcycle,
Grabbed me from behind,
All three of them in one go.
gender violence, sexual violence, harassment, the street
The pregnant woman, awaiting her first baby. Taking pictures of herself every month because she's thrilled with her changing body and growing belly.
She goes out to see her doctor, to see what her baby looks like now. She gets catcalled by another filthy animal. He comments on her pregnant body:
"Who did this to you?"
Or "You shameless..."
When I was in the eighth grade, there was a boy with me at school who was blond and fair-skinned. He was a grade younger than I was.
Wherever he went, the other students would harass him. He was absent a lot because of this. His father came in to complain more than once but to no avail.
I was a senior at the time. I was wearing a long blouse over a skirt. A microbus passed by and the driver said, “What a huge a—”, and you can imagine the rest!
gender violence, harassment, the street
We were walking down the street, holding hands.
A man passed us by and laughed in derision.
“What are you in love or something?”
social stigma, sexuality, harassment, the street
I’m a girl, and I’m bullied every day,
Because I wear a cross.
People give me mean looks.
I try my best to ignore them, but they’re too much.
I’ve never really reacted to anything they’ve done.
But the way they look at me, it’s like they’re asking, “How dare you wear a cross?”
social stigma, harassment, the street
My body started looking different when I hit puberty.
I started getting comments from the people around me.
About the weight I gained,
And humiliating and disgusting comments about different parts of my body.
body image, harassment, the street
How is it that he molests me, and takes away a part of me,
but I’m expected to censor myself when I tell the story?
I regret ever listening to what you had to say,
to what you call traditional or proper or haram.