A Word About Street Harassment

One of the things which has garnered me an awful lot of Cairo-related concern from family and friends ever since I started coming here is the question of street harassment, the, um, honor of Egyptian men, and my ability to walk around freely and safely unaccompanied.  What can I say, it sounds like it should be alarming and so people (reasonably enough) assume that it is.

I will be the first to admit that harassment here is a lot worse than it is – well, anywhere else I’ve been.  It’s actually bad enough that I tend to wince inwardly a tad when I hear, say, women from New York or Paris complain about harassment there – I’m sure it’s bad, but I don’t notice it in either of those places anymore, because frankly, they’ve got nothing on Cairo.  A few things that have happened to me in my time here (I’ve had five visits over the last six years, starting when I was sixteen):

- I’ve been applauded by a group of perhaps half a dozen policemen – yes, in uniform, on duty, who were standing around chatting on a corner in Zamalek my first summer here.  Literally:  I walked by, they started clapping and cheering.  Awwwwkwardddd….
- I’ve had a cab follow me the entire way from my old apartment in Zamalek, through the neighborhood, across the Qasr al-Nil bridge, to the old AUC campus off Tahrir – a very long walk – because he refused to believe that I did not in fact wish to take a cab there rather than walk.  He then wanted to be paid for the time he wasted following me once I reached the campus; fortunately, an AUC security person made him go away.
- I once counted, whilst out walking, the number of things that were yelled at me:  in a forty-minute walk, thirty-seven things in eight languages.
- While in Rehab, a guy actually parked his car and got out to start talking to me; despite my best efforts, he then walked with me to the souk (my destination), waited around while I ran my errand there, and then walked me part of the way home.  I very nearly punched him in the nose to get rid of him, but felt like that might be a bad idea.

These are the more dramatic things…but I don’t think I’ve ever walked out of the house alone without getting stared at, catcalled/whistled at, yelled at, honked at.  Men slow down and stare out windows; guys follow me.  It’s creepy.  And yet, while I’ve been sketched out, I will be the first to admit:  I’ve never actually been in an unsafe situation, as far as I can tell.  No one’s ever actually tried to touch me (let alone succeeded).  I’ve felt uncomfortable, but never fully afraid.  And there have almost always been other people around, and certainly there have always been other people within earshot – if something did happen and I yelled for help, help would come.  It is said, and I’m inclined to agree, that at the end of the day, Cairo can be a chivalrous city, in an odd way.  Just as odd, perhaps, is that only maybe half of the overtures sent my way are specifically sexual in nature – there’s plenty of leering (because I’m a young, pale, blue-eyed, blonde, clearly foreign woman and therefore almost certainly “easy,” gasp) – but there’s just as much “entitled curiosity” (the only phrase of which I can think to describe it).  The line of thinking is essentially:  because this person is out of place here, I am entitled to try to talk to her, to ask her questions, to approach her, and she is obligated to talk to me.  Once upon a time, I used to cave to that and try to chat with people, and about two sentences into the conversation, it would immediately and inevitably revert to the first situation and the guy would start to leer because they were assuming that all stereotypes about American women are true and I’d start to feel uncomfortable and peace out of there.  So that makes it even more complicated in some ways.  But I wouldn’t be inclined to talk to a guy in New York who was just saying “hey, let’s chat” rather than “hey, nice ass,” so I don’t suppose it ought to be any different here.

In any case, this all puts me in an awkward position, as a woman:  I know perfectly well that I don’t need to be afraid when I’m out alone.  Cairo is a much safer city than New York overall, and if something does happen, I’m more than capable of screaming loud enough to get help.  But the harassment also makes me very uncomfortable – though long experience (mine and that of other women) has shown that nothing will actually happen, the sheer volume of harassment is still disconcerting.  After the first few summers, though, it got easier to deal with as I essentially developed…I dunno, I guess you could call them survival mechanisms, and now those harassment-handling skills feel kind of like riding a bike:  a tad shaky after a long break, perhaps, but still there.  It’s almost like a checklist:  wear very visible headphones (I try to make sure to always have white ones when I’m here), dress modestly, hair up and (as of last week) under a hat, sunglasses if possible.  Don’t strut, but lift your chin; don’t sneer or scowl, but keep your nose in the air and your face blank.  Walk quickly but not too fast, and with purpose; if you’ve gotta stop and look at your map, do it discreetly, to avoid having a horde of direction-giving helpers follow you to and from your destination (had that one happen too).  For the love of God, don’t smile.  And don’t say anything, to anyone, ever.

And I’ve still got it.  Cairo:  do your worst, buddy.  Everyone else:  try not to worry?  It’s just another facet of the city I hate to love and love to hate.