The Burden of Going Outside
A traditional Moroccan jelaba (djellaba) laid out flat on a red surface. The same one I wore today. The green fabric is light and slightly textured, comfortable for everyday wear. | Picture taken by me.
⚠️ Content warning: Sexual assault and harassement in public spaces. Child sexual abuse.
I need to be honest today.
I feel like I’m carrying a weight in my chest every time I step outside.
I’m currently in my hometown in Morocco, living with my parents in the place where I grew up. The same streets I walked as a child.
The same ones that watched me be harassed, groped, followed, whispered at, barked at, humiliated. To say that I hate it here, is an understatement.
Today, my mother sent me out for bread. You know, a pretty common errand. I threw on my jalaba, head to toe covered, and set off down the same street I’ve walked a thousand times. But fifteen minutes later, I was sprinting into an alley, heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst. A man on a motorbike had circled me, slowed as I passed, sped ahead to block me, muttered obscenities about my body and praised what he imagined it would feel like to touch me. He didn't let me go.
They say "When in Rome, do as the Romans". And so, before I left home, I made sure I was dressed "modestly" to my conservative hometown standards: ie, from head to toes covered in a jalaba. Sure, my short hair was showing, but it was customary for women of my age. Unfortunately, you can't cover yourself enough to stop a predator who’s already decided you don’t deserve respect.
And the thing is... this wasn’t an isolated incident. This has been my life here in this city. This has been normal in the worst, most violating sense of the word. I’ve been followed. Groped. Commented on like a slab of meat. Ever since I was a child. Ever since I started existing in a body that others thought they were entitled to.
Gender dysphoria and body dysmorphia aside, that took a toll on my self-esteem and body image. I will admit it: As a kid, I thought that was what love felt like. I thought that being harassed meant that you were indeed pretty. That maybe it was a compliment. That maybe I should feel grateful. That messed up my mind really badly during my formative years.
Middle school was hell. (for a lot of reasons I won't get into) I remember the stories we shared during recess: a girl in hijab molested on bus, another girl had her thigh touched in taxi, my then-neighbor stalked on her way home. We were all wearing white blouses, traditional school uniforms. We were all children. And the scariest part is how... normal it all felt. How we told these stories like gossip.
I have my fair share of those stories too. I’ve had my hair pulled. I’ve had men press against me, whisper vile things in the street, drunk or sober, young or old. I’ve run from men whose moods could swing from compliments, mockery to violence in seconds. I remember on countless occasions running with all my strenght to lose them. As a kid, I made sure to stay far away from drunkards because the smell of alcohol triggers my panic attack. (It still does.) And the worst were the ones who weren’t even drunk, just predatory. Grown men preying on little girls.
For years, I used to clutch the sharp house keys in my palm until they left bruises. It was the only way I felt like I had any control. Like maybe I could protect myself if it came to that. Even when I moved to cram school, I kept the same keys, the same habit even when I didn’t need them anymore. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t let my guard down. I used to envy the students around me who could just… walk. Unafraid. I felt like I was robbed of that safe feeling.
I’ll never forget the day I told my mom I didn’t want to go to school because I was scared. I told her about what was happening. I told her I didn’t feel safe, that I was terrified. “That’s just how life is", she said, "Traffic accidents happen but I still drive. You can’t stop walking just because the streets are dangerous.” She told me to “put up with it” because that's the curse of being born a woman. As if sexual harassment is just a mild inconvenience.
I think that moment broke something in me. Because it wasn’t just about the men anymore. It was about the people who were supposed to protect me and didn’t. Who minimized my pain. Who made it clear I was supposed to accept this. That being harassed, even as a child, was just part of life.
Now, even as an adult, I flinch when someone walks too close behind me. Every catcall drags me back to those nightmares. My body tenses, my breath catches, and I’m ten years old again.
I don’t feel safe in this city. I don’t feel nostalgic. All I see here is what I lost. What was taken from me. I feel danger. I feel grief.
It's no surprise, when I walked through town with my mom the other day, I looked around and told her that the people’s faces all looked disfigured and ugly. Because these are the same streets, the same eyes, that watched a kid being harassed and did nothing. They looked the other way. And I’ve never stopped seeing that.
I hate what this place did to me.
And I hate that no one ever thought it was a big deal.