How is it that he says "I want to f*** you," and I’m expected to bleep it out?
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.
I regret letting you talk me into censoring myself, to not curse for the sake of maintaining some sort of decorum.
I regret every single time I bleeped out words on stage when I was telling others’ stories or my own.

No, I wasn't part of the June 8th women’s march, when women took to the streets to protest sexual harassment.
No one touched my body that day, nor did I feel another body pressing against mine, groping me with animalistic lust.
I wasn't subjected to the kind of harassment that would rob me of sleep or the ability to eat for days.
I wasn't there that day, but I was there all the other days; every time I went out and felt their leering looks, or when I got anxious about someone groping me.

I felt their presence every time I looked for something to wear and ended up putting on whatever hides any sign of my femininity.
I felt their presence every time I looked in the mirror at the entrance of my apartment building to make sure that I'm not showing any ass or cleavage.
I was there when I was ten or even younger, I didn’t understand anything then, except what my mother had told me, "Babies are born when the mom and dad love each other." So I didn’t realize what his hands were doing underneath my long pink dress.
I witnessed street harassment getting worse, turning from "Hey honey," to "I want to push it in!" I was there when no one did anything about it.

So, I just hated every part of myself: I hated my body, my femininity and my life.
I was there when my friend shared a similar story, then another, then another, and that's how I knew I wasn't alone. I was there when I stood on stage for the first time to tell the story of what I was subjected to as a child. I was there when other girls told me similar experiences until there wasn't a girl that I knew who hadn't been harassed.
I was there when 'harassment' wasn't yet a known term, and I didn't try to find a word then to describe it. I just wanted to find a way to erase it from my memory.
I was there every day, seeing others get subjected to incidents that would scar them forever, changing their smiles and laughs forever. I was there when many of the girls from my generation decided not to walk on the streets anymore. Forever.

I was there during the Mohammad Mahmoud clashes and I will never forget how I felt when I sensed someone's finger trying to penetrate me.
We were running from the gas bombs and the bullets, and suddenly I was pushed with a group against the gates of the American University campus. The gate was shut and more protesters were being pushed against it. In the middle of the screaming, beating, killing, gunshots, gas, I felt a person trying to kill a part of me. I couldn't figure out who it was or even reach out my arm to stop him. No one heard my screams – perhaps I didn't scream. I then wished I had been killed by a gunshot, it would have been kinder to me.

When the exact same thing happened during the clashes at the Cabinet, I decided to go down to the Square with a swiss knife.
I held it in my hand, and put my hand behind my back, and I never told anyone because I was ashamed I was resorting to violence.
After what happened to the girls at the protest against sexual harassment, I felt a volcano of anger and pain erupting inside me.
Reality is getting uglier and meaner and you are still asking us to stay silent in the name of "it's not proper," "it's not right," and "this isn't the right time!"

If you just let us talk and really address the issue, we wouldn't be where we are now.
I blame myself and I feel guilty every time I tell a story and say 'bleep' instead of making you hear – dear audience member – what I've had to listen to.
I used to feel ashamed going to Tahrir carrying my small swiss knife in all secrecy as if I were committing a crime. Now, I am not ashamed to say that I am ready to cut off any hand that will try to touch me.
Your society, with all its' "not proper," and "not right" will not pay for my psychological and sexual rehabilitation after such attacks.
Your holy men of religion won't plea with God to let me into heaven or reward me for my silence!

I win nothing when some people applaud me on Twitter for not verbalizing such language! For not being crude about it?! Crude, seriously?
Someone tells me "I want to **** you," and you tell me not to be too crude?!
Some disrespectful person makes a hashtag called #slutmarch on Twitter, calling girls who went out to defend their rights sluts, and you ask me not to be crass?!

When it comes to 20 animals – sorry men – attacking one girl, undressing her in broad daylight in a public square, there is no room for joking and sarcasm!
If you don't have any advice or anything useful to say, then just shut up!
The way you escape and deny reality used to disgust me, but now it kills me…

What? This isn't the right time? This isn't the time to speak about something that hinders my ability to practice my everyday life?
You're right, it really isn't the right time; we all should just focus on the revolution!
Since that's the way it is then, as a female, I won't go to work, or go to protests or stand by your side in Tahrir Square, nor will I even go out and buy groceries.
You men go instead!

I am talking about my right to live, not about wanting to eat a piece of cake!

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