Our Women on the Ground

by Zahra Hankir

  But in all of our conversations, he never looked for sympathy. He and my mother had sacrificed their careers, families, and dreams in order to allow their children to live a different life than their own.

  Years of studying and multiple degrees hadn’t stopped my father from washing dishes in take-out joints and running a newsstand in order to pay for our education. The only life I knew was the one I’d lived in Hull, among a community that had long felt alien to me. In returning to Iraq, I saw a snapshot of the struggles he’d faced—more profound than anything I’d ever experienced—and the obstacles he had to overcome to do what he thought was best for his family.

  After pursuing a career that would allow me to report on the stories of those affected by conflict, I finally came to realize that for years I’d glossed over the most obvious one.

  Resilience

  Just Stop

  Eman Helal

  Eighteen years ago, on my first day of secondary school, I crossed a road by myself for the very first time. As a girl, I was forbidden by my mother from doing even the most basic things. Simple pastimes like hanging out with classmates after final exams were a distant, unattainable dream. These strict laws were nonnegotiable. When my mother said no, a frequent occurrence, she didn’t explain why. I had to accept her demands, no questions asked.

  Even though my mother had struggled against her own strict mother when she was younger—she went to an all-women’s college instead of her first choice, Cairo University, which she was forbidden to attend because it was coed—she still inflicted that same strictness on me.

  The logic behind this sort of parenting is, of course, that it will protect us, as women, from damage to our “honor” and “reputation” in a society that tends to judge us far more harshly than members of the opposite sex. In Egypt, women are often viewed with suspicion if they lead lives that are too liberal or place the demands of their careers above their families.

  Meanwhile, I watched men enjoy the sort of freedom I longed for—freedom that they then abused by judging and harassing women, making it less safe for those women to lead lives free from restriction. It was a vicious cycle that proved to be my biggest obstacle in my career as a female photojournalist.

  * * *

  —

  After graduating from journalism school in Cairo in 2006, I found work at a local newspaper as a photojournalist. I threw myself into the job and often worked long hours that meant I’d come home to the house I shared with my family well after sundown. But my older brother was unhappy with my choice of career, and our relationship deteriorated. The tension came to a head when he issued me an ultimatum: I had to “respect” the rules of the house and come home earlier, or I’d have to move out. (He was not subject to the same rules; he was the only man in the family, as my father died in January 2007, and therefore wielded considerable power.)

  This was the first time I clashed with my brother so severely. I struggled to come to terms with the fact that he refused to support me. I persisted, regardless, continuing to stay at the office as late as I needed to finish my work. But the tension between me and my mother and brother lingered. With time, my mother became more understanding and supportive of my career. My brother, however, never altered his views. We had to stop talking about the situation entirely to maintain our relationship.

  As a woman, I was breaking rules not only within my family but also within society. Photojournalism, for many years, was considered a “man’s job”—you can probably count the number of female photojournalists in Egypt on one hand.

  Between 2008 and 2015, I worked for four different local daily newspapers. Even though they had hired me as a photojournalist, I still had to prove that I was capable of covering the same assignments—hard news, such as clashes and protests—that men were handed without a second thought. I plowed away, working overtime and during my days off. Safe working environments, such as large, overly air-conditioned conference rooms, were not for me. I didn’t want to attend conferences or photograph interviews with public figures. I was looking for the street. That was the only form of journalism I was passionate about.

  Editors at the local newspapers generally preferred sending male photographers on important assignments. In 2012, I wanted to cover the funeral of sixteen army officers who had been killed in a terrorist attack on the Sinai Peninsula, but my boss asked my male colleague to go instead. Realizing I, too, wanted to go, my colleague took me with him. When my boss found out later that day that I’d gone, he was furious and refused to even look at my photos. Though I was not surprised, I thought it was selfish and sexist of him and my other editors to prevent me from documenting crucial moments in my country’s history.

  * * *

  —

  Over those seven long years as a photojournalist at various local newspapers, I was sent on assignment outside of Egypt just once. Being handed the assignment was a small victory for me. Because I had worked so hard, I was able to gain my boss’s trust, or at least enough of it that she didn’t find the idea of my covering instability of some sort or getting on a plane entirely ridiculous. My male colleagues were against my boss’s vote of confidence, and they even sought to discourage her from discussing the idea with our editor in chief. But finally, I was allowed to take on a challenge that would illustrate my capabilities and determination.

  It was December 2010, and the assignment was in Juba: I was to cover the referendum on the secession of South Sudan. The experience was a complicated one. It was the first time I’d traveled outside of Egypt, ever, and I had no practical training in how to work abroad or in unsafe environments.

  As it turned out, the biggest threat of the trip was a colleague. He had arrived days before me and promised to pick me up from the airport, but he didn’t show up. It was nighttime and too dangerous to be in the streets after sunset. Nonetheless, I had no choice but to make my way to the hotel by cab, along with another female Egyptian journalist.

  When I finally arrived, the reporter was there. He harassed me—he was drunk and touched me inappropriately.

  The situation was nothing short of a nightmare, but I didn’t want to tell my boss or colleagues about it. This was the first time that the newspaper had agreed to send a female photographer abroad. Telling them might justify their initial reasoning for not allowing a female reporter to travel. They might use my experience to prevent other women photographers or reporters from traveling under similar circumstances, due to the risks associated with being a female crossing borders without a companion. I was shouldering the hefty responsibility of proving that as a woman, I was professional and capable of dealing with the pressures of working in a foreign country. I was also frightened that if I told them, they wouldn’t believe me.

  Instead, I avoided the reporter who’d harassed me for the rest of the trip and focused on my work. I was lucky that a crew from BBC Arabic was staying at the same hotel—they accompanied me during reporting trips, helping me feel a little less isolated.

  * * *

  —

  The irony of being held back from covering “hard” news and forced to work in an office for my own safety was that I sometimes didn’t even feel safe in my place of work, when I took public transport, or when I walked on the streets. I have found that most Egyptian men do not respect women. They treat us as if we were their possessions, and therefore have the right to do whatever they please with us. This way of thinking starts and is cultivated at home, where men are taught—even by their mothers—that they are in charge and they are protectors of women. Their power goes unchecked.

  In Egypt, the simple act of deciding what to wear every morning is a laborious game of calculations for me. It depends on what kind of transportation I’ll take, whom I’ll be meeting, and which part of the city I’ll be shooting in. Should I put makeup on? What color clothing should I wear? Is my blouse long enough?

  It doesn’t end there. As I walk to the subway,
my mission is almost always to avoid eliciting lewd or sexual comments, even though it’s impossible for me to control what men say to me. I try to avoid walking near men, and I’m extra careful if a man walks behind me: I walk quickly, but I also try not to attract unnecessary attention to myself.

  When I travel on the subway, if I’m alone, I get into the women-only car. (I get into the “mixed” cars only if I’m traveling with a man.) The car is always congested—women prefer to take it to avoid potential harassment.

  Ramses metro station, Cairo, Egypt; January 2015. Many incidents of sexual harassment have been reported at this crowded train station. Women usually prefer to use the cars designated for women for fear of being harassed in the cars crowded with men. PHOTO BY EMAN HELAL.

  And then, of course, when I finally get to work and find that all the major assignments have already been given to my male colleagues—meaning I’m confined to my desk instead of being on the field—I’m still exposed to sexism and misogyny, even inside the office. More than once, I have seen male colleagues leering at female anchors as they watch television. Their discussion revolves not around the news the woman is delivering but instead around how short her dress is, or how many buttons are left undone on her blouse. They look away from the TV only to stare at the derrieres of their female colleagues as they pass by. The sole safe space for women in the entire office is the restroom, where they convene to talk about harassment that they have faced from their colleagues and even bosses.

  * * *

  —

  Harassment, whether sexual or physical, is commonplace in Egypt. The prevailing attitude is that men are going to harass women no matter what, so women are perpetually unsafe and require protection.

  This way of thinking also became a tool for the government during the 2011 revolution as they sought to control antigovernment protesters—particularly female ones. Surely, they thought, if a woman was protesting, she should expect to be harassed. During the demonstrations, there were reports of women being groped and stripped; the military conducted forced virginity tests on some female protesters.

  The attempts to thus control female protesters failed, and women still demonstrated alongside men, playing an equal role in the revolution.

  When the revolution had first broken out, my family was on edge, as was the rest of the country. The situation had quickly become unstable: antigovernment activists had been calling for a nationwide uprising, demonstrating in large numbers against corruption, unemployment, poverty, and, most important, the rule of President Hosni Mubarak, who’d clutched onto his power with impunity for thirty years. The Day of Rage on January 25, 2011, marked the beginning of the revolution, as people courageously poured into Tahrir Square, symbolizing an end to years of fear that had prevented widespread mobilization of any kind.

  Tahrir Square, Cairo, Egypt; March 2011. An Egyptian woman sits on the ground after being assaulted during a march marking International Women’s Day. Some of the men surrounding her are her harassers, while others are trying to help her. PHOTO BY EMAN HELAL.

  January 28, dubbed the Friday of Anger, was earmarked as a potential turning point in the uprisings. Hundreds of thousands of protesters flooded Cairo and other Egyptian cities following Friday prayers. Prisons were opened and set alight—some accused the interior ministry of facilitating the outbreak to justify unleashing force on protesters—and the military was deployed onto the streets. (Mubarak did indeed address the nation that day, not to step down, but to pledge to form a new government.) The government-controlled media announced that the state would confront any citizen who opposed Egypt with violence and asked parents to stop their children from leaving their homes. My mother panicked, locked us up in the house, and hid the keys to prevent me from going outside.

  This was the first significant fallout I’d ever had with her. I was fuming. “No one will stop me from doing my job,” I recall saying. I demanded that she give me the keys, and stormed out, slamming the door behind me.

  When I arrived at my office, I had time and the headspace to calm down and compose myself. I felt guilty for raising my voice at my own mother and worried about how she was feeling. The government had cut all cell phone activity to prevent communication between protesters and disrupt further mobilization on the streets. The only way to contact anyone was by landline. I called home, not knowing who would answer. My sister picked up promptly, telling me that my mother had broken down into tears and was praying that I would return home safely.

  Conflict journalists can be selfish. We follow our ambitions ruthlessly, often putting ourselves in danger without caring about how our friends, family, and lovers may feel about the fragility of our safety. My mother wasn’t trying to block my ambitions, I thought. She was merely worried something terrible might happen to me. That fear was a real, legitimate one.

  I realized that day that not only was I responsible for documenting what I saw, I was also responsible for coming home safely. At various points during that stressful day, I believed I would die and never return home or see my mother, sister, and brother again. But I was not scared. I felt it was my duty to tell the truth for my country. I had to challenge the system that would have preferred me to be holed up at home. I was also overwhelmed by a feeling of awe and admiration—I was proud of everyone who had participated in the protests that day. They, too, had risked their lives.

  The following day, I showed up at the protests with my camera in hand and joined a march to take photos. We were soon attacked by a police tank shooting tear gas at us. The police descended on the protesters to arrest them and an officer ran toward me. I tried to escape but wasn’t quick enough. Time stopped. The officer grabbed me, broke my camera, and punched me in the face.

  After that incident, which left me rattled and with a black eye, my family once again refused to let me leave the house. This time around, I couldn’t wrangle my way out of the situation. They decided we would head to our home in the countryside for safety and to prevent me from covering the revolution. I was forced to go along: if it had been my choice, I would have gone back to the streets to continue reporting.

  I spent four days in the countryside, possibly the worst four days of my adult life. Watching the demonstrations at Tahrir Square on television from the comfort of a couch rather than being there with my camera made me feel helpless and useless. I nagged at my mother relentlessly and eventually decided the only way I could return to Cairo would be by lying to her. I made up a story that sounded believable, telling her that the newspaper had threatened to fire me if I remained absent for an extended period without good reason.

  We eventually returned to the city. Thankfully, by the time we got back, I still had my job. I did my best to make my mother feel better about my return to work, keeping her informed of my whereabouts and hiding from my family the true extent of the violence I had witnessed and experienced. Some days, I would hide in my room as soon as I got home from work so that I could change my bloodied clothes before anyone saw me. I didn’t speak to my siblings or my mother about what I saw for months because I knew that if I did, I would face even more pressure from them to stay home.

  Two months later—on March 8, a few weeks after Mubarak stepped down—I joined hundreds of Egyptian women gathered at Tahrir Square to celebrate International Women’s Day. Many of the women held flowers; some of them gave several to soldiers who were patrolling the area. After a short march, we formed small groups along the sidewalks, holding hands and chanting slogans in support of women’s rights. Those few moments were magical, but they did not last. A group of men suddenly approached us, saying we needed to go home because “we didn’t belong outside.” “You’re disrupting the streets,” they shouted. The women attempted to refute the men’s claims and insults to get them to stop, but to no avail.

  Then some of the men started to physically attack us. We screamed and began running toward the ar
my officers, hoping they would protect us. I was terrified, but managed to take a few pictures in those few seconds before breaking into a run along with the other women. I was a target, just like them. An army officer opened fire into the air to scare off the harassers, who then fled the scene within minutes.

  That day, I came to a stark realization: I was afraid of men, and the harder I fought, the more intense the fear became. I can’t think of an experience that is more harrowing than a woman being sexually harassed or assaulted by a man.

  * * *

  —

  I decided to use my work to expose the inherently misogynistic nature of some men’s behavior, committing three years to a photography project called “Just Stop” about sexual harassment in Egypt. While the idea for the project had been lingering in my mind for months, I hadn’t decided to pursue it until I’d witnessed and learned of numerous organized attacks by misogynists on innocent Egyptian women. Many of the women I’d spoken to told the same story: a group of men would surround the woman before trying to rip her clothes off and touch her body. They would then pretend they were trying to help her, so that passersby wouldn’t notice what was happening. I channeled my anger about increasing attacks of this nature into my project, which I’d decided would feature images depicting the difficulties Egyptian women face when it comes to sexual harassment. I started searching the streets, looking for potential images that would convey the extent of the daily harassment that Egyptian women face, as well as the pressure to hide and protect their bodies.