I’m wearing the wrong pants today.
Please, God, divert their attention elsewhere.
I hate them.
I hate my life.

As I was leaving Hijr-Ismail—it can get really crowded there—I felt someone shove their hand between my legs and grope me.
I immediately spun around and started punching the man behind me.
“In front of the Holy Kaaba, you kaafir?!” I screamed.

Don’t you dare think of pressing charges like those women in the movie did.
A respectable girl would never go into a police station full of men and tell them that a man, for example, grabbed her here or touched her leg.
This country is full of incidents like these, and women never speak up. Don’t you go playing the hero

I came nowhere near you.
So, did he stand you up?
Yes, you. There’s no one else here, is there?
I’m here if he doesn’t show up, you know.

A white-haired old man
Dressed in a suit,
And driving a fancy car,
Stopped me to ask where the nearest supermarket was.
I very naively started giving him directions.
Then this man, who’s as old as my father,
Started doing the dirtiest thing ever.
I can’t give any more details,
But I’m sure you understand what I mean.
I screamed,
And burst into tears.
He drove off, of course.

I went out with a friend of mine to get some fresh air.
We decided to go to Crystal Café, a place we went to often, at around 6 pm.
We sat at a table, not facing the sea, near a window that overlooked Al-Shohada Street and Windsor Hotel.
Just so you know, this street is quite wide with lots of traffic; it's not quiet.

The incident took place in the microbus one morning.
A woman who was sitting next to me and speaking on the phone put a hand on my leg and started feeling me up.
gender violence, child molestation, harassment, public transportation

I was still in my first year of highschool.
I was in the metro, and it was really crowded.
Someone came and stood really close behind me.
I was so anxious and confused that I wasn’t able to say anything.
gender violence, sexual violence, harassment, public transportation

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.

All of a sudden, a car closed in on me, and I fell off my bike.
One of my knees hurt. I decided to walk back to the starting point.
I left the bike with them and turned back.
That’s when the comments started.
“You fell down, sweetheart? I wish I were that bike.”