Sawt al Niswa | صوت النسوة - sexual harrasment

وسيلة نقل مختلفة، التحرش نفسه

Stega — Thu, 25 Aug 2016 08:12:34 +0000

Anonymous

منذ عدة سنوات ركبت باص الدولة المعروف ب "جحش الدولة" عائدة من المدرسة، وكالعادة جلست قرب رجل مسن اعتدت الجلوس بجانبه. بعد دقائق، امتدت يداه ليتحول من رجل مسن شكل امانا بالنسبة لطفلة مثلي، الى وحش متحرش بالأطفال. عدت الى المنزل وانا على وشك الانهيار، ولكنني لم اخبر والدي بشيء. فنحن نعيش في مجتمع يعتبر الفتاة مذنبة دائما، ويرى ان الحل الانسب لحمايتها هو التضييق عليها وحبسها، وانا لم ارد ان اخسر نطفة الحرية التي كنت اتمتع بها.

بعد ذلك أصبحت اذهب الى المدرسة بسيارة الاجرة، وكنت اضطر الى ان لا آكل شيئا في المدرسة حتى استطيع دفع فارق الاجرة دون ان يعرف والدي باني اصبحت اركب سيارة الاجرة بدلا من الباص. وفي يوم اعاد السائق تكرار نفس الكابوس الذي رافقني طيلة اشهر عدة.

مجددا، لم اخبر والدي بذلك واصبحت اذهب الى المدرسة سيرا على الاقدام. ولكن هذه الطريقة لم تجدي نفعا كذلك. فمرة وانا عائدة من المدرسة لحق بي شاب طوال الطريق الى ان تمكن من التمسك بي بالقوة والتفوه بجملة "التلطيش" الشهيرة "الحلو ليش ماشي لحالو؟".

كل هذه المشاهد كانت كوابيسا ظلت تطاردني لفترة طويلة، ولكن الفرق هو ان الكوابيس ليست بحقيقية، والوحوش فيها ليسوا بموجودين، ولكن الوحوش في كوابيسي هم موجودين، ولم التق بهم مرة فقط، بل كنت اراهم كل ليلة بنفس المشاهد ونفس العذاب.

اخيرا ايقنت انني اينما ذهبت سألتقي بأشخاص مثل هؤلاء، فتغيير وسيلة النقل لن يمحي كل المتحرشين ولن يجعلني اكثر امانا. وايقنت ان قوة الشخصية وحدها تمكنني من صّد هؤلاء الناس وفضحهم وعدم السماح لهم بالتمادي خوفا من "الفضيحة.

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Sawt al' Niswa

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Story

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Gender-Based Violence

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Fast Car: Why I’m Taking The Streets

hiba — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 22:00:00 +0000

Sarah Hijazi

I had always felt strong; I had never let anyone force me into something I didn’t want to do. I refused to be submissive to the social rules and expectations from an early age and I definitely wouldn’t have expected to react this way. I was 18 years old. I had recently moved back to Lebanon. I was eager to get my driver’s license and so I went to an instructor to learn how to drive manually. I wanted to do it the “right way”. He told me I needed two weeks of practice before the driving test. The first few days were very exciting and empowering. I had always wanted to drive, and driving was somehow associated with freedom. Owning a car adds independence to your life and gives you a feeling of security. At least, that is how I perceived it. After one week of practice, my instructor had to leave and appointed me to his brother instead. In the first two days of the second week, I was mostly driving around Beirut. The instructor was very proud of me, complimenting me on every turn and every stop. I felt proud as well but a little uncomfortable. After one week and three days, I was driving so well that he asked me to take to the highway.

On the highway, singing “Fast Car” in my head, he decided to take my hand off the gear and put it on his leg. I rapidly removed it and placed it back on the gear. He took it again and this time placed it on his erect penis and told me I shouldn’t get used to driving while my hand is on the gear, even though I was driving a stick shift. I felt petrified. I thought of stopping and getting out and running away. I thought of what was going to happen next. But all I did was stay focused on the road and then removed my hand politely, yes without a word, and drove the car with both hands. I came back home and I didn’t talk to anyone about it, not even to myself. I wanted to erase it from my memory. The next day, I was supposed to see him again. You would think that after what happened, I would have refused to. I didn’t. Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to explain to my parents why I wanted to stop. Maybe it’s because I denied it so strongly that I reached I point I convinced myself that I was exaggerating and he was just being nice. And so I went. After a couple of hours of driving, he asked me to park near the beach. I, naively, thought he was teaching me to park the car. And so I did. I parked the car and he lit a cigarette and started asking me questions about my personal life. I hastily told him I was in a serious relationship and so he replied: “How far have you and your boyfriend gone? You are saying that you know him for a long time now, I’m sure you did a lot of things.” “I didn’t get your question” was all I could say. I turned on the car and told him that my parents were waiting for me at home and that I had to go. When I got home, this time, I did think about it. The next day I called his brother and told him that I’ve learned enough and that I was ready. I had already paid so he didn’t mind. It’s like I needed proof that I was not imagining what happened. It was like I didn’t want to hurt him because I felt guilty. Guilty of what, you may ask? I don’t know. I knew that telling my dad about what happened could turn his life upside down. But I couldn’t. I felt bad because I wasn’t able to handle it on my own. I felt bad because I wasn’t able to speak up. I felt weak and naïve. We should not be afraid. We shouldn’t feel guilty about hurting a harasser. We should not question ourselves. Whenever we are put in an uncomfortable situation, we should speak up. It is our right to feel safe when we are in a taxi, when we are walking in the street, when we are anywhere we want to be. This is why we all have to take to the streets on January the 14^th and claim our rights back. Fight for your safety, against sexual harassment, against rape!

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كيف مرقوا ٢٠ سنة من عمري

Lamia Moghnie — Mon, 13 Jun 2011 21:00:00 +0000

Guest contributor

قلي إن هو من الجامعة اليسوعية عام يدرس طب وعم يعملو دراسة عن الصحة النسائية .كان صرلي بالشغل شي 12 ساعة وعل طريق مشيت شي ساعة كان راسي ما عام يفرز(يمكن يكون هيدا تبرير لأنو أهلي فهمّوني إنو غلطة الشاطر بالف وانا شاطرة ) المهم، قلي طلعي معي أنا نازل عأوتيل ديو، وانا بيتي بالاشرفية، فطلعت معو لجاوبو ع كم سؤال وبطريقو بوصلني عل بيت.

ديماً كنت فكر إنو التحرش الجنسي، أو الإغتصاب بصيرو بالطبقات الفقيرة، محل ما بكون في حرمان مادي ومعنوي وجنسي، كانت دائماً صورة المتحرش براسي وحدة ر“جال“، “فقير“، شوفور” تكسي أو” عامل “بشي ورشة أو شاب وضعو المادي مش منيح و” بيقعد” عل رصيف بالشارع وبيتحرش بالنسوان، كان عندي ثقة بالأطباء لأنوأنا كنت عم بدرس طب أو يمكن لأني كنت فكر انو هني من” طبقة” ما ممكن تأذي الطبقة إلي تحتا وأنا كنت من الطبقة يلي “التحت“.

المهم، طلعت بالسيارة، وحسيت في شي مش تمام، لأنو كان عم يسألني اسئلة وانا جاوبو ببرأة أو بهبل لحد ما مد ايدو على جسمي، وعلى أعضائي الجنسية، وهون جمدت، وصرت اعرق ودقات قلبي كانو عالين لدرجة ما بقى سمعتو، وصار كل شي يسألني ييه قلو إيه، وهو يمشي بالسيارة علبطيء علبطيء، و حسيت إنو روحي عم تطلع.

هلق أكيد عم بتقولو ليه ما نزلت من السيارة؟ ما بعرف ليه ما نزلت، أصلاً ما بعرف ليه طلعت وبعدو كان عم ب“دق” في وانا متل الجثة قاعدي بس عم تتنفس، وعم بطلع عل كيلومتراج عشرين كيلومتر بالساعة، كأنن عشرين ساعة من عمري عم يمرقوا بهلطرقات.

طلعنا من الزلقا قربنا عل بيت، لأ فتنا بالجديده، بعدين دورة، وهلدراسة ما عم تخلص والأسئلة الشخصية تزيد، وما كنت “حس ع دمي” وقلو وقفلي بدي إنزل. أصلاً كيف بد حس وانا الدم بجسمي نشف والعرق كأنو ركضت ألف ميل. ما كان في شي عم يشتغل بجسمي، غير عقلي يلي عم يحسسني بالذنب، بالخجل، بالقرف، بالعجز، بالضعف، وبالكره لاني بنت، بالإحتقار لنفسي، بالندم. ما حسيت اني ضحية المتحرش للحظة، أنا كنت هبلة وهو استفاد. ووصلت عل بيت وحسيت بالبرد، رجع الدم يمشي بجسمي، خُلص الكابوس الأول وقتى فتت نام بلش الكابوس التاني: بخبر أهلي؟ أكيد لأ! شو بدي قلن؟ سمعتو عن مغامرات بنتكن مع المتحرش جنسياً؟ كانو راح يسمعو مغامرات بنتكم الجنسية! شو بدي أعمل ؟بتشكى عليه؟ بدي إتشكى ليتحرش في الدركي مرة تانية؟ وجدت الحل اني إكتب واحكي أحسن ماضل قاعده عم ببكي.

مرت سنه عهلخبريه، تخطيطها؟ أكيد لأ. بس بطلت اسمح لعقلي يحسسني بالذنب، بالخجل بالأرف، بالعجز، بالكره لكوني بنت، بالإحتقار، بالندم. ما بسمحلو لعقلي إلا يفكر كيف بدو يدافع عن جسمي بحال تعرض لتحرش جنسي، ما بسمحلو إلا أن يؤمر إيدي انها تكتب عن التحرش الجنسي وتكتب انو مش انا الغلط، بل التحرش الجنسي هو الغلط.

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Sawt al' Niswa

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Story

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Gender-Based Violence

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On Sexual Harassment: No Rainbows here

Lamia Moghnie — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 07:07:03 +0000

By Joelle Hatem

Lioba Hirsch

This morning something extraordinary happened: I experienced genuine happiness! Wait, wait, this is not a I-lay-in-my-bed-and-the-sun-came-shining-through-the-windows-story. This is a I-got-harassed-by-a-12-year-old-and-flipped-him-off-story.

Yes, and I flipped off a budding harasser and it felt great. This charming little boy of twelve or thirteen drove by on his motorcycle this morning, while I was meeting a friend on Bliss Street and as he drove by, his socialization got the upper hand and he could not prevent himself from sending kissing noises in my direction. And I flipped off!

As it happened, three people: a young the young man on the sidewalk and the the two Zaatar w Zeit valets, started starring at me. But it wasn’t so much a creepy “Hey there little Lady” stare, it was surprise and unbelief. Not because I had flipped off a guy, but a kid. I loved it. I wanted to laugh out hysterically and do a victory dance, but I too have been socialized a certain way and so I just walked on.

Nine months ago. This would have been completely different. Nine months ago I had just spent two weeks in Beirut and was on the edge of a nervous crisis. People that had been staying here longer told me that at the end of this would be a rainbow. That only made me cry louder. After all, you can’t really sell an empowerment story; and nothing makes you feel more miserable on an already bad day than a “you’ll see it will get better in the end” or a “that’s normal honeypie”. You don’t want to hear that your suffering is not unique but that it’s the most normal thing so you should get over it.

I think the psychological effects of harassment depend very much on the person harassed. In the best of all cases, it can be only annoying, disrespectful and would probably make you think about what happened for some time before you decide (pretty quickly) that the person, sorry but mostly men, are incredibly impolite and that their parents (NOT their mothers!) should have raised them better. As my mom used to say when I complained in Damascus about the people staring at me: ”Lioba, don’t worry, in 10 years you will work for the UN (for my mom something highly positive as for most people, myself included) while they will still be here selling fish heads!”

The problem is (and I really hope I am not getting to theoretical about this, but I have to make myself believe in my own intelligence by formulating long sentences) that only very few people believe in themselves independently from the rest of the world: Dalai Lama… and maybe Nelson Mandela.

When I walk through the streets, and especially at the beginning of my staying in Beirut, my inside was very much – and in many ways still is – what my outside told me it would be. Only that one’s outside world is rarely mastered by oneself. Hence, when people tear up my skirt, sniff me, do kissing noises, look at me as if I was naked and treat me as if I was a hyper sexualized human being, “she is from Africa, thus she is not civilized thus she is always and everywhere ready for sex, and she probably needs it,” then that hurts. And it does not hurt so much because they say it, but it hurts because it exposes me to the outside world, makes me visible in an environment in which I would prefer to remain unseen and discrete so as not to provoke too much attention. It humiliates me in front of my outside world, and sadly enough, in front of myself. Because outside Lioba just told inside Lioba that she makes other people treat her badly. “Why Lioba, oh why?” Instead of shouting “zbala” or “fuck you, you disgusting pervert”. No, it makes me want to take their hand and talk to them: “You know, I am not a prostitute, pleeeeeeeaaaaase believe me.”

Harassment as being sexual innuendo or insults convinced me (temporarily) that my worst fears about myself were true. That I was not nice, intelligent and pretty enough to make people treat me well and that I needed to improve myself or change. It made me want to hide from the world, so that the mirror they were showing me would disappear with them.
We would not want to have this article end like this would we? Things did not really change. Lebanese society did not disappear in a fireball only to be reborn shiny and all utopian. Then again, when it comes to me, I did not wake up one morning and realized how happy I was. (I told you this would not be a I-lay-in-my-bed-and-the-sun-came-shining-through-the-windows-story) I realized that I have the ability to have some control over my reality and myself. I can’t sell you this story. Nothing guarantees to you that you will have the same experiences. I won’t say: See, I got through it and so will you. But I can take you on a tour throughout the city and help you insult whoever tries to disrespect you . I am really good at that!

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Sawt al' Niswa

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Opinions

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Gender-Based Violence

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Ghayri 3adtik Bitzeed S3adtik غيري عادتك، بتزيد سعادتك

Pascale Ghazaly — Sun, 18 Jul 2010 21:00:00 +0000

A promotion video for Nasawiya’s training program “Ghayri 3adtik Bitzeed S3adtik“. The video was made by Joelle Hatem and Abdallah Nasser during the video workshop organized by Sawt Al Niswa 2010.

Joelle Hatem

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Nasawiya

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Sexual Harrasment: Another take on the “Ghayri 3adtik Bitzeed S3adtik” Program

Pascale Ghazaly — Sun, 18 Jul 2010 21:00:00 +0000

Video exposing some of the verbal sexual harassment that women face in Lebanon. The video was made by Sarag Pailain and Bernadette Dou during the video workshop that Sawt Al Niswa organized.

Guest Contributor

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Sawt al' Niswa

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Nasawiya

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