Things aren’t hard for women only.
It’s hard for men here, too.
It’s hard so long as he’s responsible for a female.

We might see things differently,
But the guy on the outside sees my sister, my mother, and my fiance as mere “females”.
A body, a hole to fill, a corpse, a mattress,
A ride, a bang, a screw, a fuck,
A piece of meat everyone wants to tear into with their teeth,
A female.

How then am I supposed to be okay?
You’re a man.
You talk to men.
You hear taxi drivers commenting on any tight pair of jeans they see.
You see men hanging over the railing of their balconies,
Hoping to catch a glimpse of their neighbors’ thighs.

And you hear stories about guys who steal beach pictures,
From the hard drives of their female coworkers,
So they can see what they look like in a bikini.
And the guy at work who tells you about the girl he thinks is the sluttiest,
And you are a hundred percent certain she’s only a slut in his imagination.

And you’ve seen the guy,
Who’ll make sure to brush his hand against a girl’s when giving her back her change,
And in his head, he’s touching her….
I’ve seen guys who change seats in Tamarai,
Just to get a better look at the girl in the mini skirt at the bar,
Even though he had a hot girl in his arms just minutes before.

And the guy who sits in front of his shop,
To stare at the girl who’s not wearing a bra on her way to buy groceries.
And the driver who adjusts his mirrors,
To catch a glimpse of the breasts of the passenger in the backseat.

When you see these things,
How you see the streets changes.
It turns into a jungle.
And it’s the worst possible thing,
Learning how to read men’s eyes.
When you’re standing next to a girl, and for the first time
You see a man looking at her breasts,
And then see his eyes trailing downwards,
And then resting on her behind.

Yes, ninety nine percent or more of men in Egypt,
Don’t let a grown woman (or girl) pass by,
Without performing this scan, in that order,
Unless of course, there’s a bit of skin showing,
Then the focus is on that.

And I’m not going to talk to you about the struggle with my wife, because that is my choice.
Because it’s not logical to be with someone and try to change them into someone else.
It’s like a slap on the face whenever a man looks at her chest.
You walk down the street like a bulldog,
Very aggressive-like,
Waiting to pick a fight with any other animal.

But believe me, even if you’re Karam Gaber, you won’t be able to stop the slaps.
It doesn’t matter if she’s wearing something tight or an abaya,
It doesn’t matter if you’re in Gouna or in the Barageel.
Nothing matters.
Because in the end, she remains nothing but a piece of meat in their eyes.
And the slaps keep coming.

And then you tell me I have it easy.
In what sense exactly?