The first time I told my mother that I filed a harassment report at the police station,
She screamed in shock and made a big scene.
“You’re bringing shame upon the family!”
“You’re disgracing your father even after his death!”
“How could you go to a police station?”

Every time I walk down the street
I’m scared some pig will beat me up,
Or throw acid at me,
Or harass me,
Because the look on their faces is terrifying

My sister was walking down the street,
And a guy was following her.
He kept catcalling her.
She was minding her own business.

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 was walking down the street, it was about an hour after Eid prayers, when a guy riding past on a motorcycle tried to touch me.

“Come to Alexandria and I’ll do anything you want.
Come over to my place, or to the lovers’ den,” he said.
gender violence, harassment

I could never forget,
How in the midst of the screams, beatings, killing,
The fires and tear gas in Tahrir,
I felt your hand violating me.

I don’t know why I’m going to tell this story,
But I’ve bottled up so much inside me.

There was a period when my parents were separated,
And my grandfather interfered a lot in our lives.
He was a very cruel man,
And so was my mother.

I never ran or even moved from my place.
I remember really well,
When I’d run up the stairs,
Or run in Agamy market.

I was in highschool at the time.
It was inappropriate to tell mama about this sort of thing,
She never said so,
But I had a feeling that what happened could not be talked about.