This has been written exactly three years ago (barely edited tonight), but I was never sure it was a good idea to make it public. Even now I am posting it full of doubts. But some kind of stories, just linger at the back of my drafts, and they shouldn’t be there anymore; they just feel like extra load that needs to be thrown into the public, detaching them from myself. Some stories I just need to get off my chest, or in this case my skin.
If you are one of the “it’s what the girl is wearing” advocates, well I was wearing my father’s extra large sweater. also. fuck you!
Since this happened, I became overly conscious about my body in public spaces, specially in transportation. It got better with time, but it’s not entirely gone. What I’m glad to have gone though is the scared person I was back then. If this were to happen today, I would not have kept quiet.
“Happy International Women’s Day ! Yeah, what a joke!! Want to hear about my women’s day experience ? Well, let me tell you :
I went out with my sister because we wanted to enjoy the experience of free cinema entry (but that’s another story), we took the bus to Casablanca, and we shouldn’t have. The bus was full of insolent guys, I wouldn’t have minded if I were left at peace, but that was not the case. I was terrified to find a hand on my hip, I got away and I turned frowning at the guy sitting behind me and he had this awful twisted smile on his face. You would expect it to stop there but it didn’t! Minutes later, while I was staring at my reflection in the glass to make sure he doesn’t dare reaching out again, he put his other hand on my other side ribs, I shivered.. I couldn’t say a thing, I couldn’t protest and that is just cowardly and shameful. There was this other guy next to him who witnessed it all, but said nothing at all nor tried to stop it.
I’m developing a deep hatred towards the male kind. I try to prevent it by reminding myself of the good, though few, guy friends that I have, but it’s not working, it keeps getting more and more intense with every painful humiliating injustice men inflict on me or on other women. I spent the rest of the day quivering when touched by anything. I tried to not let it get to me, but I couldn’t and it hurts so much.The anger inside of me would be enough to set me on fire. How ironic is it to get sexually harassed on what is supposed to be my “day” ?”