My friend Sally and I were walking to dinner the other night. As we ducked and wove our way down the crowded street, we came upon a group of boys, maybe 12 or 14. We approached them, shuffling a bit to avoid them. They similarly shifted a bit to avoid us. I was on the side closer to them, and sadly, my calculations were off. Spatial reasoning is not my strong suit.
I dodged the boy closest to me, but neglected to account for the bag I was carrying. (To be fair, he didn’t really move out of the way). As I passed, my plastic bag somehow got twisted and tangled in this guy’s legs, pulling my arm with it. As I pulled the bag away, my thumb just barely brushed his bum.
I recoiled and jumped back. I was mortified at the social gaffe I’d just committed. And resolved not to carry so many things around with me.
We continued on our way and after my initial shame passed, I didn’t think much more of the incident. Until, that is, we were returning from dinner. We walked by the very same group of guys, still loitering on the street.
As I walked by this particular young man, he said, quietly, in the hushed tones usually reserved for solicitations, proposals, or curses, “Please don’t touch me again.”
Blushing with embarrassment, I walked on.
And just like that, I had joined the ranks of the harassers who haunt the Cairo streets. No longer just the recipient of comments and catcalls, I found myself among the sexual predators who lurk, preying on the youth.
