I used to always watch her from the examination room window in the government hospital that I worked at.
Her name was Sokkara. She was young. She couldn’t be older than 13 years old.
I was late to my course.
It was the first class and I couldn’t be late.
I was walking quickly.
I was wearing regular clothes: jeans and a t-shirt.
There was a bridge next to the building where the course was.
I crossed it, according to the directions I was given.
gender violence, sexual violence, body image, the street
Something annoying happens every Ramadan.
As a woman, I’m looked at as a glitch in the Egyptian societal system.
I’m seen as a problem, just because I don’t cover my hair.
social stigma, social pressure, hijab, hair, harassment, the street
I entered the women’s metro car, and as usual, found men there.
Usually I fight them, but that day I wasn’t feeling well, so I said nothing.
That day, I sat there and pretended to play by myself because I was alone,
My neighbors weren’t talking to me that day.
At the time my neighbors were my group of friends: Manara, Nesma, Shaimaa.
They were sisters.
I don’t know where it’s going to happen next time.
I can’t predict who’s going to harass me next time.
Everyone’s a potential harasser.
They’re the reason I can’t tell anyone.
My sister was walking down the street,
And a guy was following her.
He kept catcalling her.
She was minding her own business.