I jumped into a rickety taxi on a warm spring evening in Cairo. Our family did not have the luxury of hiring a personal driver, like some of my friends from school, and I was used to making my way around the city alone. I was headed toward Chili’s (yes, Chili’s) for a friend’s birthday dinner. It was just a short ride from our apartment in Heliopolis to the neighborhood it was in.

The atmosphere in the car instantly made me uneasy. The driver did not say anything as he turned up the music blaring on the radio and we rattled down the road. After a couple of minutes I noticed, from glancing in the rear view mirror, that he had a glass eye. It sent shivers down my spine every time his one good eye darted up to the mirror to look at me in the back seat. He kept doing this more frequently as we made our way through the busy traffic.

I tried to look out the window and let the boisterous Caireen night life distract me. There were street peddlers selling necklaces strung with jasmine flowers, children running ahead of mothers decked in glittering scarves and jewelry, old men sitting outside of coffee shops playing cards, and young men linking arms as they made their way through the crowded streets. There was never a dull moment after the sun went down and the cool air enticed everyone out of their homes.

I was jolted back into the cab of the taxi when the driver started vigorously fidgeting with something in his seat. My first thought was that there was something wrong with the stick shift but as we turned onto an over pass I could feel the blood rush to my face as I realized what was actually happening.

Slowly I pulled out my chunky Nokia phone and dialed my friend Karim’s number, who was waiting for me at the restaurant.

“Hello? Stay on the line. Talk to me.” I said in a faint voice when he finally picked up.

“What’s wrong?” He responded.

“My taxi driver is jerking off and I can’t get out of the car because we are stuck on top of a bridge.” I whispered even though I knew the driver did not know enough English to understand.

Karim hung on the line as I tried to duck away from the now fixed gaze of the driver’s eye. By the time the car hit the end of the bridge he had finally wrapped up pleasuring himself. I could see the entrance to Chili’s and was flooded with relief. I asked him to pull over and got out of there as fast as I could. I turned around and saw his hand offering the sticky bills of the change he owed.

I disgustedly told him to keep it and ran as quickly as I could to a swarm of concerned friends.

It is hard for me to admit that this was not an unusual interaction. I spent a lot of time using public transportation in Egypt and men could be especially entitled and antagonizing to women in passing. I looked very Middle Eastern, spoke Arabic fluently, and could blend in with my surroundings. For the most part I could navigate the subway, trolley, taxis, and buses unnoticed. This means that when I was heckled, or sexualized, I was encountering how some men treated women in their own culture and not a reaction to the novelty of knowing I was a foreign commodity.

I was not deterred by the derogatory cat calls or ass grabs. I was fiercely independent and fearlessly loved exploring the city I called home. In order to go where I wanted to go I had to learn to weather the harassment. I was a pro at shaming a man into silence with only one sentence, and tuning it all out when I didn’t have energy to respond.

Throughout high school I spent my summers teaching English to Sudanese and other East African refugees, at St. Andrews Refugee Services, in downtown Cairo. It was a church compound that held several blue trailers used as classrooms during summer school. The first summer I volunteered I ended up with a class of 20 children all under the age of 10.  It was sometimes overwhelming to command a trailer full of rowdy kids single handedly. However, I was motivated to get there each day and try my best to teach them something new, or at least chorale them into an interesting game that held their focus.

To get to St. Andrews I had to walk from our apartment to the trolley that would take me to the subway headed downtown.

One morning on my daily commute I was sardined exceptionally tight into the women’s car of the subway. The first two cars of the train were reserved for women exclusively and this is where I always got on. It was so jammed packed that bags and strollers had to be passed overhead to meet each person as they struggled to squeeze out at each stop.

The only men allowed on these cars were there to sell make-up, tissues, hair pins, and other small trinkets. A man selling nail polish got on that particular morning and pushed himself through the crowd until he ended up standing directly behind me. I ignored him and held on tight to the metal pole in front of me. After a moment my eyes widened as I felt something hard against my thigh. I looked down, which caused another woman to look down at the same time, and we simultaneously saw what he was doing.

There was a wail and shriek as all the ladies harshly condemned him for his audacity. A couple of the women took off their shoes and began beating him with them. Before I could even think, a large bosomed mama wrapped me up in her arms and carried me away from the scene to the back of the car. A few passengers formed a protective wall around me with their bodies as the mad mob of women flung him out onto the ground at the next stop.

It was moments like these that were astonishingly reassuring, and made me feel safe and secure. This ingrained comradery nourished my affection for the haphazard, wild, and wonderful city. I knew there were more people looking out for me then trying to take advantage.

On certain afternoons after St. Andrews let out for the day I would be in no hurry to get home. Those were the days I liked to randomly pick one of the stops on the subway, that I had never been before, and get out there to explore.

I would shop for shoes, stumble upon antique stores, and buy bags of refreshing sugar cane juice from corner stands. I fell in love with the architecture of different neighborhoods and spent a lot of time getting to know fellow travelers . I met women on their way home from work who told me their entire life stories, and friendly old store owners who gave me directions to obscure museums.

Every day was an exciting new adventure.

When I was in a more subdued mood my favorite place to go was the Islamic district. I would wander through that part of town until I got to the Ibn Talun or Sultan Hassan mosque. Occasionally I invited friends that worked with me at St. Andrews and gave them a firsthand tour.

I personally thought the Sultan Hassan mosque was the best spot in the area. I loved to sit in its courtyard and watch birds fly overhead as the call to prayer echoed off the walls. There were intricately ornate green lamps that dangled from high overhangs and the smell of a thousand years of worship radiated from every crevice.

After a couple deep calming breaths I would slowly stand up and dive back into the busy streets to dodge bicycles, donkey carts, honking cars and people on my way back to the subway station.

Exploring different worlds along my subway route was exhilarating. I would never let the way a couple men acted to scare me away from experiencing the magic of Cairo in such an intimate way. I learned how to be assertive, walk with purpose, and handle the unpredictable daily life around me. I felt equipped for whatever lay around each corner, never ready for anything to hold me back, and in the evening I always returned safely in one piece to our apartment in Heliopolis.