Look at me. Do you see me? Do you really see me?
Of course, all you see is a girl that looks like she comes from a good family.
But don’t be fooled by this quiet demeanour.
I’m burning on the inside.
No one can feel the anger inside me.
You’re not missing much.
It’s really not enjoyable.
No kind of pleasure whatsoever.
He’ll make weird faces and you’ll lie there doing nothing.
It only takes 3 minutes.
Am I ugly? Yes, I wasn’t beautiful, or maybe that’s what they wanted me to believe.
I was chubbier than them. I wasn’t good at socializing like them. They made me think I was different.
body image, bullying, school, social pressure, beauty standards
I was making my way out of the Ramses metro station—I lived in Shubra at the time.
I was wearing a maxi skirt and a long sleeved shirt, and my hair was tied back into a bun.
I look disheveled.
gender violence, sexual violence, social pressure, public transportation
I used to hear a lot about harassment but I never imagined it would happen to me.
I was sitting in a microbus when he stuck his arm out from behind me and touched my shoulder.
A little later, he did it again, and when I shouted at him, he said very coolly: "I didn't mean to."
I’m afraid of having children.
I’m afraid of raising a son or daughter in this country.
“C’mon, you need to have a baby soon.”
“Why don’t you want to have children?”
“Have you gone for a check up?”
I have to sit a certain way, I can't move my hands when I speak.
I can't cry around people, and if someone hits me, I have to hit them back. These are just a few examples of things I should do if I want "to be a man."
I’m still going to be myself, no matter how much this costs me and no matter how many times people tell me that I'm "not a man."
I like my job, but I wish it was treated like any other job.
All jobs have evolved except ours.
Cooks have become chefs, doormen are now security guards…
But people still look down on our job.
We’re embarrassed to tell people we clean homes.
social pressure, social stigma, work, marriage
I was always humiliated and beaten up over the most trivial reasons.
He’d hit me and flip the dining table over if there was just a little extra salt in his food.
I was never allowed to open my mouth and give my opinion.
Cooking zucchini was always a frightening experience, because if just one piece of zucchini turned out smaller than the other, it’d be a disaster.