When I meet an intelligent, ambitious, and professionally successful woman over thirty-five in Egypt—indeed anywhere in the Arab region—I don’t expect her to be wearing a wedding ring. While the vast majority of young women in Egypt are married by their late twenties, the proportion of those still single at thirty or older is more than three times higher among those who have gone on to higher education than those with less than a high school diploma.68 Some unmarried women I know would happily consider a Western spouse (provided he was of the same religion), while others have turned to their faith and a fatalism that allows them to chalk up their single status to God’s will. But many of them have simply given up on their countrymen as husband material. There are a number of social and economic factors to account for this state of affairs, but Rakha has a straightforward answer. “When women got educated—college, university, whatever—their brains opened up. Men, they go through the same process, but it’s like their brain is somewhere and their career is somewhere else,” she said. “So you meet this great guy, this successful guy, glamorous guy, well-educated guy, traveled guy, but in his head, he’s still stupid guy.”
She was careful to define her terms. “Someone my age or older, he’s a complete piece of shit. Traditional and baggage, shit everywhere. Insecure; ‘I hate women, they’re so bad, controlling’; intimidated by anything, everything.” Rakha gets a lot of e-mail from anxious men across the country, and she has a ready explanation for their behavior: “All the shit that they do [is] out of fear. They are scared. Scared little boys. That goes from the age of thirteen to thirty. Scared of everything, scared of being judged. Scared of being rejected. Scared of saying or doing the wrong thing. Scared of being dumped. Scared of being cheated on. They all have these insecurity issues. Everywhere.” What this means, in the mating game, is a mismatch between prospective husbands looking to control and prospective wives searching for autonomy—one reason for the growing ranks of unmarried women.
BATTLE OF THE SEXES
These tensions go beyond private relations. Taharrush jinsi—or sexual harassment, ranging from ogling and lewd remarks to flashing, public masturbation, and outright physical assault—plays out on the streets of Egypt and across the Arab world. The recent national survey of Egyptians aged ten to twenty-nine found that more than half of young women living in towns and cities had experienced sexual harassment—mainly salacious comments from strangers.69 But there is plenty of evidence of far more violent incidents, and not just on dark, deserted streets but in jam-packed daylight. Visible minorities—Sudanese refugees, Asian domestic workers, Western tourists—are particularly vulnerable, their harassers egged on by stereotypes of sexed-up foreign females.
Cairo is a concentrate of Egypt, so it’s no surprise that sexual harassment is most extreme in the capital. It was here that the phenomenon first made the headlines in the mid-2000s, and over the years public celebrations—particularly religious holidays—have become something of a free-for-all for sexual harassers, notorious for swarms of young men cornering passing women.70 Now sexual harassment and assault even feature—along with political unrest, dodgy water, and dangerous driving—in foreign governments’ travel advisories on the hazards of visiting Egypt.71
Mu’aksa, or male flirtation, used to be a gentler sport. “Ya helwa, ya gamila” (“You sweet, beautiful thing”) and “Ya amar” (“You are like the moon”) were the sorts of honeyed phrases my aunts and cousins used to hear in downtown Cairo and Alexandria in the 1960s and ’70s. Then there is the Egyptian equivalent of a wolf whistle, also used to attract cats, a soft hissing noise like a tire leaking air—not, to my mind, a particularly promising association for a man on the make. Today, however, the come-ons are a lot less courteous: “Ya labwa [You bitch]” is how one of my friends, in full hijab and modest attire, was greeted by a carful of young men when she stopped at a traffic light. “How I wish I had two beds so I could sleep with you twice.”
Many people pin the blame for such “impolite” behavior, as Egyptians call it, on economics: unemployed youth with time on their hands and sex on their minds, thanks to TV and the Internet; parents working round the clock, or fathers toiling in the Gulf, leading to a breakdown in family surveillance and moral upbringing. Without marriage, and therefore an easy sexual outlet, this libidinous energy is spilling onto the streets, so conventional thinking has it. At the same time, the argument goes, women are increasingly in the public domain, and men are being provoked beyond endurance by their daring dress and bold behavior. Not surprisingly, with this sort of wisdom doing the rounds, many men believe that women actually welcome these attentions.72
It’s not just self-confessed harassers who subscribe to a blame-the-victim philosophy: more than 60 percent of the most highly educated women in the national youth survey, and three-quarters of their least literate counterparts, believed that “provocatively dressed” women are asking for it.73 Although more than 90 percent of young women in Egypt cover up—over their heads, up to their necks, and down to their wrists and ankles—there are plenty of ways to sex up this uniform: eye-catching headscarves in fantastical arrangements; layers of makeup; flashy wrapround sunglasses; tight jeans and curve-molding tunics, Lycra being God’s gift to Arab men.74 These dolce hegabbanas are deftly upending today’s conservative rules, technically covering up their ‘awra (parts of men’s and women’s bodies to be concealed from public view, according to Islamic principles) and buying themselves a little more freedom from parents, all the while flaunting their femininity. And yet, as these young women wistfully recall, their mothers and grandmothers were able to go out with flowing hair and far more flesh on display—short skirts, bare arms—and pass unmolested.
For all this subtle subversion, many women are reluctant to defy convention and mention incidents of sexual harassment to their families, let alone report them to authorities.75 There are a variety of reasons for such reticence: some blame themselves for the harassment; others worry about damage to their reputation by admitting they have been hassled and about its attendant consequences, including being grounded by their parents. Moreover, many fear that police will not take them seriously, partly because it is difficult to provide proof of hit-and-run harassment, and partly because it has often been the police themselves who are the perpetrators.76
For all these obstacles, sexual harassment is one of the taboos now openly discussed in Egypt. There are a number of innovative campaigns to help women report incidents, deal with the fallout, engage young people of both sexes in community projects, and teach the next generation—especially boys—that hassling women does not make you more of a man.77 A small but growing number of women, emboldened by the uprising, have used existing laws on public indecency and sexual assault to turn the table on their assailants. There are also efforts by NGOs to secure a law explicitly criminalizing sexual harassment, although the experience of Tunisia and Algeria with legislation already on the books shows that legal loopholes are hard to close and that cultural change can be slow to follow. “Sometimes when we come to change the mentality of the people, we feel we move the sea with a cup,” joked Nehad Abu Komsan, a Cairo-based lawyer and head of the Egyptian Center for Women’s Rights, a leader in the fight against sexual harassment.
One of the ways Abu Komsan and fellow campaigners have been able to move this sensitive topic out of the shadows is by taking the sex out of sexual harassment, making it a question of personal safety and government failings, rather than a question of women’s rights, which raises hackles with social conservatives. “We [are] not attacking men because they are bad people harassing women. We [are] not blaming society because it’s an ignorant society and say in the public what they not do [in private],” she explained. “You can attack the government if you are not happy with their policies: ‘It is your fault. You are not interested in people’s security; you’re interested about political security.’ But if you want to make social change, don’t attack the people.” While some worry that sexual harassment may
be used by Islamists to curtail women’s freedoms, others are concerned that the state might exploit this framing of the issues in terms of security and policing to strengthen its power in the name of protecting women, with the bonus of clamping down on political opponents in the process.78 But until there is a climate in Egypt where such issues can be addressed in terms of personal freedoms and rights, this approach is better than nothing. “It is about packaging,” Abu Komsan told me. “As they say, ‘You can put poison in a very nice glass and people will take it very happily.’ ”
Abu Komsan and others argue that Egypt’s epidemic of sexual harassment is more a function of political and economic oppression—which has men lashing out at those next down the line in the patriarchy—than an explosion of sexual frustration. Certainly, recent events have shown that when men feel a sense of empowerment and purpose, their behavior toward women shifts dramatically. Until 2011, mass gatherings of young men were dangerous territory for women. And yet in the marches in Tahrir Square, where tens of thousands gathered to protest against authoritarian regimes, past, present, and future, I and other women found ourselves able to move freely—well, as freely as you can in a revolutionary throng—as men made way and listened with respect. When I was running from tear gas, there were men helping me to safety, not taking advantage of easy prey. That’s not to say there was no sexual harassment of women in Tahrir Square—there was, for all the utopian myth that surrounds the 2011 uprising. As long as the youth in Tahrir were united in a pressing common goal, men and women worked well together, but as soon as that purpose drained from the square, a carnival atmosphere prevailed and the sexual harassment returned. On one of these occasions, I watched, horrified and unable to help, as a crowd of young men cornered a young woman in a hijab, pinned her up against a railing, and tore off her clothes. Under normal circumstances, men usually stick to the sidelines when women are harassed, but in this case a few were trying to rescue her, handing over their own clothes to cover her up and carrying her out of the mayhem.
Tipping the balance from harassment to cooperation isn’t easy. But Abu Komsan is confident that, in the long run, the revolt will lift Egypt out of its decades-long malaise and that symptoms like sexual harassment will shift from a chronic condition to a sporadic complaint. “What is it the revolution gave? It gives people a powerful feeling that they are able to control their life and make their own decisions. Before, most of us Egyptians were very depressed and feeling they are not human. [I’m] not talking about human rights, just being human. Revolution gives people a sense of victory and dignity and hope. Definitely, this makes their behavior better.”
Better remains to be seen. But when it comes to intimate life, will it be any different? For all her hopes, Al Haq was doubtful of change beyond those who had already broken the rules. “I believe the one who was rebel before the revolution will be more rebel after the revolution. It happened for me and it happened for many friends. Maybe they won’t still be able to face the society in what they are doing, but in their social circles, they will be okay, ‘Yes, I do this; I am not regretting it.’ ” Those who publicly defy convention—like the Nude Photo Revolutionary—are largely seen as aberrations, not trendsetters. “It won’t happen in this society, a real freedom of sexual life and freedom of expression, except [when] the people are really educated,” Al Haq said. “It won’t come for years and years.” Salama was similarly doubtful. “Girls sleeping out in the square with boys, that’s a social aspect of the revolution. But this is not a social revolution. The social phase of the revolution is just starting. For these changes to take place, it’s going to need much time.”
And yet there are countless private rebellions playing out across the land, even if those at their heart don’t see them as such. “Revolution is for political matters, but not in thinking. Tradition has no relation with revolution,” Amany sighed, sinking into the shadow of a hypostyle hall. She and I met at one of the many ancient temples dotting the countryside between Luxor and Aswan, where I was on a break from the crush of Cairo and Amany was on the job as a guide. As we wandered past obelisks and statues, she shared her impressive knowledge of history and her own story of quiet uprising.
Amany is in her late twenties and comes from a lower-middle-class family in Upper Egypt. Al-Sa’iid, as the south of the country is known in Arabic, is a famously conservative region, but times are changing. Egyptian parents increasingly want to have daughters as well as sons; they also see the value of sending their girls on to higher education, even if that means far afield, in part because educated (but not too educated) young women are thought to have a greater chance in the marriage stakes and to make better wives and mothers. And so Amany, who is the bright spark of her five siblings, was allowed to go away for university, but once student days were over, she had to move back home. Unlike many young Egyptians, however, she has a lucrative job, which makes her the family breadwinner now that her father is retired. Amany may hold all the financial cards, but her parents still call the shots. Every couple of weeks her mother produces a suitor, in the hope of seeing her daughter married. But Amany refuses all comers for one simple reason: she’s secretly married already.
Five years ago, Amany met Hossam, a former soldier and her brother’s friend, who comes from the north of Egypt. Hossam was quickly smitten, Amany told me, and duly appeared with his parents in tow to ask for her hand. Here Amany paused her story for a moment to show me a hieroglyph. “This is the symbol of eternal life,” she explained, pointing to an ankh. “It also represents the unity of Upper and Lower Egypt.” Sadly, no such union was in the cards for Amany and Hossam. Her parents refused him because he makes less money than their daughter and would therefore drain an income that otherwise flows to them. But their objections were also geographical. “They do not trust a lot in the men of Lower Egypt. It seems that if they [the couple] have a kind of trouble, maybe he will leave her and he will go to live up there [in the north] and marry another woman. Not peace enough in their mind,” she explained. As far as Amany is concerned, though, Hossam’s provenance is an asset. “He has a more open mind. He trusts me; he does not mind that I work with other men,” she said, comparing him favorably with her local suitors. “He is the type of the man, if you are not talking, he can read your eyes. It looks like he had a trip through my mind. He understands me. You can’t find this type of man nowadays.”
After three more years and two more tries with her parents, Amany decided to take matters into her own hands. “I found no hope of the family anymore. They will never change their mind. So I said it’s my choice, let me do my choice.” As the 2011 uprising drew to a close, she and Hossam traveled north, far from the prying eyes of home, and signed an ‘urfi marriage contract in a lawyer’s office. For Amany, sleeping with Hossam was inconceivable without it. “We had secret marriage because we wanted to make it right before my God. Because we are Muslims, we do not want to do something that is haram.” But it was equally unimaginable to her to openly defy her parents and enter into an official marriage without their consent. “I don’t like to put my family in a critical situation. I have to obey them. I have to do all of my best to make them happy more than me,” she said. “And for reputation, their reputation, not my reputation. My father is now retired, but all of the time he is in the mosque, the famous man of religion. He is a man with a good position. [If I marry without his consent], they will say he has a very impolite girl.”
As we passed by tales of “beautiful meetings” between gods and goddesses inscribed on the temple walls, Amany told me about her less-than-beautiful life with Hossam, sneaking out of her parents’ place in quiet hours to catch some time with him at his tiny rented flat across town. As far as she is concerned, discretion is a matter of life and death. “My parents, if they find out, they will kill me. Really. It happened in my family. The sister of my grandmother, she had a relation, and they took her and one day …” Amany drew her hand across her throat like a knife. Honor killings are a shadowy subj
ect in Egypt, and no one is quite sure of the scale of the problem.79 But for Amany it is far from a dying practice; the story is kept alive in her family to keep the girls in line.
Like many young women I’ve met, Amany is caught between defiance and regret. She is quietly furious with her parents for driving her to this situation, but she is also torn by guilt. “I am now deceiving my family,” she told me sadly. “My family trust me, and I am using their trust not in a good way. I used to be so honest all of the time. I used to tell them everything happening in my life. But this thing I can’t say.” Amany’s reticence is compounded by the fact that she no longer believes her ‘urfi marriage is Islamically sound. “I read on the Internet, some people say it is 100 percent halal, some people say 20 percent halal. So I don’t know. I told [Hossam] we need to stop to doing anything together [having sex], because maybe what we did is haram. I don’t like to continue in haram again: I have to feed poor people; I have to pray a lot; I have to go to hajj. Maybe God will forgive me.”
Amany has few hopes that her family will come around, or that Hossam will find a job in Egypt’s struggling economy. “I don’t like to think what will happen in the future. I don’t like to make myself to be sad. Keep it for God,” she said. Amany spoke as if the uprising had already passed her by, too late to make much of a difference in her life. But she has high hopes that any daughter of hers will one day benefit, and she is clear on what she, as a mother, will do. “I will never give something to my kids that makes me hard with my family. I hurt a lot from them, [because] they are thinking in a different way,” Amany said, her voice breaking. “But I will be able to understand my daughter, what she is thinking, because I am in that experience before. I will let her to choose the person that her heart chooses and her feelings choose.”
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