Last night,
eager to get home from a long day amongst the library walls, I took the bus
home to Zamalek. The clock was around eight, so the sun had set and nighttime
embraced Cairo. Then, as I huddled up in my scarf and headed towards my
apartment, a young man snuck up behind me, mumbled to my right shoulder and
took off. “Fuck you”, a quiet voice sounded next to my ear. “Fuck you”.
Before I
had the time to come up with a sharp answer in Arabic, I was alone again. And
it’s not uncommon to have things like this happen to you; no matter how
conservative my outfit may be, no matter how much I focus my eyes into the distance or onto the dusty ground. A part of
me whispers "accept the culture, accept the rules, relax, resign" -
ethnocentrism isn't all that appealing after all. And then there is the part of
me that shouts "culture is not something permanent, something cut in
stone; it's something dynamic, a part of the world that includes and excludes
new signs, habits and norms as the time floats by".
Episodes like this doesn't make me want to pack my stuff and go home though. It makes me want to put my chin out and walk some more. These streets are just as much property of the women, as they are for the men. Having old men purr at you when you walk by can be demotivating in exploring a new city. Me? I just grow more defiant.
