Nelly Ali – International Women’s Day #TakeTheFloor 2013 #UNWomen event

UN Women in collaboration with IFMSA (International Federation of Medical Students’ Associations) and AUC Heya Club are celebrating International Women’s Day for 2013 on Wednesday March 6th, 2013. The event is entitled “Take the Floor” to host inspirational talks and videos that encourages behavioral change and creates awareness about this year’s theme; “A Promise is a Promise — Time to take Action on Ending Violence against Women and Girls”.

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Street Children and the Big Dream of Citizenship

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There was no mistaking the horror this six year old girl was experiencing. Nothing more telling of the fear than the warm yellow fluid running down her short, scarred legs as her knees started to visibly shake. There was little mistaking the heaving chest as her heartbeats escalate while the quiver of her small, cracked lips began. Following her gaze to the door of the drop in centre for street children she was at, an angry man with blank eyes stood gazing right at her. Her father had found out where she was spending the day.

There is little the staff at day care centres can do to stop fathers or mothers coming to take their children, little they can do even if they had signed them in to permanent shelters. The law handicaps those who are trying to protect vulnerable children from abusive parents. Staff had to watch Taghreed be pulled by the wrist as she wet herself leaving the shelter which she had escaped one afternoon’s scorching sun to. All they could do was pray that they would see her again, minus the scars and bruises she had returned to them with previously.

Taghreed is not a lone street child. She has lived all her small number of years on the street with her father and mothers and siblings. They are travellers living on the streets of the cities they migrate back and forth between depending on which had a “mowlid” that the father could use his kids to sell little plastic toys or to beg if that didn’t work. Our society is one of alms, of course, but to care about where those alms went or what would be more affective than giving a few pounds, rarely is the case.

Taghreed didn’t like selling stuff for which her father took all her money; she didn’t like her father either – understandably. And when she found her way back after a couple of weeks to the day care centre, the psychologist asked her why she was so afraid of her father when she was such a strong little girl herself. Without shame, Taghreed recounted the ways in which her father ties her up in metal chains, locking the shackles at her ankles and wrists and beating her till he can no longer lift a finger. Many street kids lie to gain sympathy in hope for a pound or two. But Taghreed knew Shaimaa was not going to give her money; her body also bared witness to the genuineness of her account.

Eventually, the exploited girl ran away. She shaved her hair, bound her breasts and lived as a boy trying to protect herself on the streets. She tells me she could forgive those who did her wrong on the street far more than the parents she knew were meant to protect her. Taghreed is one of the most special and beautiful girls I have known. She is trustworthy and loyal and never forgets a good deed done for her. As she sits holding her cheerful 5 month old baby, she tells me her dream is to get ID for her and her child. That’s it – that is what she dreams of. But it’s a dream none of us who love and care about her have found easy to realise for her. Taghreed’s parents are not married; her father beats her every time she goes to try to convince him to go with her to get an ID issued and bureaucracy means she cannot get it done without him.

So unlike women fighting for equal rights, for employment rights, for child care rights, for divorce rights, Taghreed is a young woman fighting for the right to exist in the state, the right to be recognised as a citizen, the right, in her own words “to be human”. These are not things that we, as a society, can cure with giving a few pounds to passing street kids we feel sorry for, or a few pounds of meat during Eid to satisfy religious obligation.

We must, as the “honourable” citizens we like to think of ourselves as, be outraged that some are still fighting to be missed when they are dead, to hold pieces of paper that ensure the basic treatment at hospital if they fall ill, a basic education even if wont take them anywhere. We must be so outraged that this rage brings about change. We must refuse the social contracts we are in if they do not embrace those too poor, too weak, too scared to fight their way into our worlds – worlds in which we have become so blind that we are surprised to hear that some do not hold ID. I know someone who had their ID issued the same day it was requested while they were in a foreign country because they had the money and connections. Taghreed has spent ten years of her life being beaten and abused, travelling back and forth with money she has hated making and to no avail.

If you are reading this and know any way to help Taghreed get her ID without her father having to be there, without her parents having to be married, email me: nelly.ali@gmail.com – Taghreed and I need to hear from you. If you can’t, then tell everyone you know – tell them that before we concern ourselves with which hand to eat with so the devil doesn’t join us, we must extend that hand to those whose wrists are tied in chains, before we concern ourselves with never entering the toilet with our left foot, we must first concern ourselves with lifting the feet that step on the weak because their voices don’t make their way to our ears.

Taghreed once gave herself to a violent gang rape to save a new virgin on the street – the least that sort of loyalty deserves is ID.

Omar was shot through the heart? Street kids have hearts like us?!

So many of the kids on the streets know exactly what you want to hear from them. They eye you up, suss you out and in minutes they conjure up the story you are there to hear. They have to be this clever. Their survival depends on it.

I remember speaking with one journalist who told me she was in awe at a child who told her she had joined the protests in January 2011 because she cared about the country and wanted to bring political and social change. I knew the girl she was speaking about well. She didn’t give a crap about political change, simply because she didn’t understand what the word meant.

I got to know the girls over many months — not formal 30-minute visits or interviews, but I’d really got to know them, by clapping while they danced, sympathizing when they spoke in group therapy, by laughing at stories of the street, by cleaning wounds after self-harm. It was because I lived those stories I felt I could ask Taghreed, one of the girls on the street, why the kids were really there in the squares.

So we took our interview roles: Taghreed happily holding the mp3 recorder in one hand turning it over and amazed that in a bit she would be able to hear her own thoughts (she had asked me to buy her an mp3 recorder so she could speak to herself in it because she wanted to keep a diary but couldn’t read or write), and I took my interview position, holding her cheerful four-month baby who knew nothing but to smile all the time.

Many people to whom I tell the stories of the street girls comment that I must be strong to live and hear these stories. Every time I hear this I recall the ache in my heart at the smiles of the little babies — nothing pains me as much as the smiles. These little curves on the lips, the greatest manifestation of how equal we are, how painfully similar our starts are, how incredibly precious some smiles are to others because life is set out to break them, to give them nothing more to smile about.

And I hear Taghreed tell me about the revolution and the move the children who slept in Ramses Square made to Tahrir Square. She speaks of it as a migration, as if those little green, or what should be green, patches of land represent a city in their own right; a city with its children citizens, those kids without IDs, without shelter, without biological families and without protection.

Taghreed tells me that one child had come running to them in the great city of Ramses Square telling them that millions of people where in Tahrir. Two of her “married” friends (these are children who are 14, marriage and family makeup to street children are different to how we know them) decided it was best to join so they didn’t miss the greatest opportunity to steal mobile phones. She tells me this and laughs for ages saying she wonders what the reaction of journalists would be to the real reason why some children were there.

But she goes on to say “not all the children were there to steal though! It was just so fun! For so long people were telling us that the street was bad, that we had to get off the street, but suddenly everyone was on it, everyone in the country was in Tahrir, so we moved there from Ramses. People there spoke to us, fed us, joked with us, some even tried to teach us to read and write. We even slept next to all these people with their good smells. And we helped them too. When food ran out we told them where the cheapest places to get food were. We taught them the best ways to run away from the police. That is because our favorite game is Atari.”

When she saw a look of confusion on my face she explained: Police cars, we call them Atari, and we play all day running and hiding from them. But we all realized that the police in Tahrir were different, they didn’t waste time running after you, they just shot you instead.”

Her stories and analysis of what led the children to the place where all the action was weren’t sinister. All the reasons, even stealing mobile phones, were understandable and I could relate to having started to know the kids. However, two years later, the children’s answers to why they were taking part started the chills down my spine. The kids were speaking to my colleague Adel who had dedicated the last 18 years of his life working with the children. He looks down and tells me there’s been a change of tone, that he doesn’t know who’s been speaking to some of these children, but someone different has. The kids running around with Molotov bottles are asking him, “What worth does my life have? I want to die a martyr so that God could forgive me for all the bad things that I have done in this world. I want my death to mean something because my life didn’t mean anything. I want to die and have all those people in Tahrir talk about me, walk in my funeral. I want to die and have someone remember me, draw my face on the wall like all the others, so no, ‘baba’, I’m not afraid to die.”

The relation of the street children with the revolution has changed in the course of two years. However, it would still be a kind of romanticism to argue that children were at the front lines because they understood the meaning of revolt as a means to an end. The children, because they are children, are not to blame for the state of mind they are in when they take to the front lines.

What about 13-year-old Omar’s death? Omar, the little boy shot through the heart by the army that was meant to protect his borders against the enemy. Was he there to steal phones? No. Was he there because he wanted his little face etched in graffiti on the squares surrounding walls? No. Omar was shot because he was there. Omar was shot trying to earn an honest living off the streets that have become home to so many classes, religions, ages and ideologies. Omar was shot because he was in the way. But more than any other reason, Omar was shot because no one would be held accountable. Omar’s little heart took the bullet because some are too cowardly to hold those responsible accountable. This article is for all the Omars arrested and shot, just for being there because there was nowhere else safer for them to be.

“Red Square”. Painting by the incredibly talented Mohamed Negm – mo*star art http://www.mostarart.com

“Red Square”. Painting by the incredibly talented Mohamed Negm – mo*star art http://www.mostarart.com

This post was originally translated from my original blog into arabic by Ekram Khalil for Shorouk News

قرأت فى الصحف وعلى مواقع الإنترنت، عن الاعتداءات الجماعية على المتظاهرات فى الشوارع، ولو لم أكن قرأت العناوين، لظننت أن الكتاب اهتموا فجأة بالحياة اليومية لأطفال الشوارع. وكان من المنطقى أن افترض أنهم أصبحوا مراقبين حريصين على المتابعة، نزلوا إلى الشوارع لتسليط الضوء على مدى انتشار وطبيعية ثقافة الشارع التى يحياها كل طفل صغير فى كل ليلة. ولكننى قرأت العنوان؛ الذى تشير مفرداته إلى أنه يتعلق بالفتيات، والشابات والسيدات الأكبر سنا من «ولاد الناس»، والطبقتين العاملة والمتوسطة (لأن أطفال الشوارع هم الطبقة المستبعدة). وقد تم تدبيج هذه المقالات لأن «المواطنين» تعرضوا للضرب، وتعرض شرف «المواطنين» للانتهاك، وانتهكت حقوق الإنسان الخاصة بالمواطنين. أما أطفال الشوارع؟ فهم ليسوا بمواطنين، بل إنهم حتى لا يحملون بطاقات هوية. وعندما يتعرضون للاغتصاب، والقتل بالرصاص، والموت، على أبواب الملجأ، فليست هناك جريمة، لأن الأمر لا يتعلق بمواطنين. وهكذا، لا يتعلق هذا الطوفان من المقالات بشأن التحرش، والاعتداءات الجنسية، وعصابات الاغتصاب فى الشوارع، بأولاد الشوارع.

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ولكن، لأن هذا هو الواقع اليومى لأولئك الأطفال، فقد عرفت بنفسى الشوارع على النحو الذى اكتشفه الآخرون مؤخرا. ومن ثم، أعتقد أننى أستطيع أن ألقى ضوءا مختلفا، أو نظرة من زاوية مختلفة، على ظاهرة تثير فزع الكثيرين للغاية، ويشعر كثيرون بغرابتها. وأرى أن هذا أحد الأوجه القبيحة للشارع. وكما أن لكل إنسان ولكل صديق، وجها قبيحا، لا تراه، أو تعرفه، أو تزدريه، إلا إذا أمضيت معه وقتا طويلا كافيا. فلا يمكن إخفاء حقيقته، وفجاجته إلى الأبد، كما أن نشوة الصورة المتخيلة، عن التضامن الذى يحققه الشارع خلال فترات الثورات، يبدأ فى التآكل، ويصبح الشارع وجميع سكانه غير المواطنين حقيقة، لا يمكنك أن تهرب منها، وهى الحقيقة التى شاركت بنفسك فيها والتى أثارت مخاوفك أيضا.

وبمناسبة الحديث عن الفزع، فقد بدا الكثير من الاهتمام والرعب، إثر الاعتداء بشفرة على أحد ضحايا هذه الاعتداءات. وقد تعجبت للمفارقة فى توقيت هذا الاعتداء. ففى الشهر الماضى، كنت قد اصطحبت احدى فتيات الشوارع اللاتى أتعامل معهن إلى جراح تجميل كريم، عرض على فتياتى، إجراء جراحة مجانا لمعالجة الندوب التى عانين منها، فى أثناء مثل هذه الاعتداءات فى الشوارع. ويعتبر الرعب جانبا من جانب ثقافة الاغتصاب فى الشوارع؛ حيث تسجل علامة على وجه كل طفل أو فتاة تعرض للاغتصاب. وتكون هذه العلامة عادة على شكل منحنى تحت عين الضحية، تعنى أنها لم تعد عذراء. وسوف يتم تسجيل الاعتداءات اللاحقة وهى كثيرة عبر ندوب أصغر، فى أى مكان آخر على الجسد. ولا ينسى أى منا فى الملجأ فتاة كانت محظوظة؛ حيث فلتت من الجرح فى الوجه، لكنها احتاجت لخياطة 16 غرزة أسفل ظهرها، حيث تم طعنها بالسكين عندما كانت تهرب من مغتصبيها.

وأنا لست خبيرة بنظرية المؤامرة، لكننى مستشارة فى مجال أولاد الشوارع، ومخاطر الشوارع. ومن ثم، عندما قرأت التفسيرات حول أن الحزب الوطنى الديمقراطى والإخوان المسلمين هم من دفعوا الغوغاء إلى هذه الاعتداءات الجنسية، كنت مترددة. فقد تذكرت أنه ما من أحد دفع أجرا للرجال الأربعة فى الثلاثينيات والأربعينيات من أعمارهم لاغتصاب مايا ذات السبع سنوات، والتى كانت تعيش فى الشارع منذ أيام قليلة فحسب. حيث يعتقد المعتدون أنه كلما كانت الطفلة صغيرة فى السن؛ قلت مخاطر الإصابة بالإيدز.

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ويجلب العيش فى الشوارع معه الكثير من المخاطر، وكلما عشت فى الشارع، كلما زادت احتمالات تعرضك للخطر. فهل يجعلنا ذلك نوافق على ما يحدث؟ بالطبع لا، ولكنه يلقى الضوء على محنة الأطفال الذين لا يلقون نفس الاهتمام، والرعب عندما تقع عليهم هذه الاتهامات، يوميا. كما يركز على أن الشوارع أصبحت تثير الرعب، لأننا سمحنا لها بألا تكون آمنة. ويوضح كيف يتم دائما تجاهل القانون وإنفاذه فهل يستحق هذا الرعب أن يعامل بقدر أقل من الغضب لمجرد أنه صار واقعا يوميا؟ لا، ولكن الغضب، والدعم الذى ينبغى أن يأتى بعده الإصلاح، يتعين أن يمتد إلى أولئك الذين لا يحظون بالاهتمام الرسمى فى هذه الاعتداءات لأن الاعتداءات فى الشوارع منذ بداية العام لم تكن 25 اعتداء فحسب. وقد شهدت للمرة الأولى الرعب من الاعتداء الجنسى فى التحرير، وكنت أشعر بالغضب مع كل قصة أسمعها. وقد حان الآن الوقت كى نستيقظ على حقيقة الشوارع، فبينما أصبحنا سباقين إلى الحفاظ على الشوارع آمنة من أجلنا «نحن»، نحتاج أن نوسع كل هذا ليمتد إلى الأطفال الذين ليسوا ضمن حساباتنا، من يحتاجون أن ينقل الكبار ألمه وتجربتهم، لأنهم يحظون باهتمام بالغ.

وسيقول لكم أولاد الشوارع، إن الاغتصاب الجماعى ليس سوى مجرد البداية بالنسبة لهم، ويأتى بعد ذلك مباشرة الدعارة وتهريب المخدرات والمواد الإباحية. وما تشهده الطبقة الثورية الآن، ليس سوى بداية ما يشهده آلاف الأطفال فى شوارعنا، بنين وبنات، هل تتخيلون ذلك؟

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ومازالت بوصلة اللوم مختلة، فكما يوجه الناس اصبع الاتهام إلى أطفال الشوارع، لأنهم فى الشوارع وليسوا فى البيت، متجاهلين كل الأسباب التى دفعتهم إليه، يوجهون الآن نفس الإصبع إلى الإناث اللاتى يتعرض للاعتداء فى التحرير وغيره من الأماكن، بدعوى أن خطأهن أنهن لم يقرن فى بيوتهن آمنات. القضية هى المساءلة؛ فبمجرد أن نتعلم معنى هذه الكلمة، ريما يكون الشوارع أثر أمانا بالنسبة لنا جميعا.

Mob Sex Attacks and the Everyday Reality of Street Children.

Painting by the incredibly talented Mohamed Negm - mo*star art www.mostarart.com

“Red Square”. Painting by the incredibly talented Mohamed Negm – mo*star art http://www.mostarart.com

I read the papers and online testimonials of mob attacks on women in the streets protesting and if I had not read the titles, I would have thought that the authors had suddenly taken a keen interest in the every day life of street children. I would have justifiably concluded they have become avid observers who have taken to the street to highlight the prevalence and normality of sexual violence in street culture that very little children live every night. But no, I have read the title; the words indicate this is about other girls; younger and older women, “welaad naas”, of the working and middle class (because remember street kids are the “excluded” class, second class citizens if that!). These articles are written because “citizens” have been struck, “citizens” honour has been violated; “citizens” human rights have been wronged. But street children? They aren’t citizens – they don’t even hold ID. When they come raped, shot, dead, and left in front of shelter doors, there’s not been a crime, because a citizen hasn’t been involved. So no, this flood of articles about harassment, sexual attacks and gang rape on the street, are not about the street kids.

But because this is the every day reality for those children, I have come to know the streets as what they have been recently discovered by others. So I thought that maybe by writing this, I could shed a different light, a look from a different angle on a phenomenon that many are so horrified by, so unfamiliar with.

I am arguing here that this is one of the ugly faces of the street. And, just as each human, each friend, has an ugly face, you only get to see it, know it, get scorned by it, once you have spent long enough with it. It’s reality and it’s crudeness cannot hide forever and the euphoria of the imagined utopia of solidarity that the street brings during revolutionary times, begins to crack and the street and all it’s non-citizen inhabitants become a reality that you cannot escape and one whose reality you have shared, one which has scarred you, too.

Talking of scarring, a lot of attention and horror has been expressed following the attack where a blade was used on one victim to these assaults. I wondered about the irony of the timing of this. Just last month I took one of my street girls to a generous plastic surgeon who had offered my girls free reconstructive surgery for the scars they suffered during such attacks on the street. The scarring is part of the street rape culture – any boy or girl who has been raped on the street, will be “marked”. This mark, usually a curve under the eye of the victim, will mean they are no longer virgins. Subsequent sexual attacks, and there will be many, will lead to smaller marks anywhere else on the body. One girl, none of us at the shelter forget, was lucky. She escaped the scarring on the face, but needed 16 stitches on her lower back where she was knifed as she escaped her rapists.

I am not an expert in conspiracy theories, but I am a consultant on street kids and the risks of the street. And so, when I read the musings that the NDP, the MB, the who ever else is organizing these mob sex attacks, my better judgment makes me tentative. I remember that no one paid the four men in their thirties and forties to gang rape seven-year-old Maya who had been living on the street just four days. The younger the child, the attackers think, the smaller the risk of contracting HIV.

Being on the street brings with it much risk, the longer you stay on it, the more likely you will be exposed to that risk. Does it make it ok? Of course not! But what it does, is highlight the plight of the children who do not conjure up the same attention and horror when these attacks happen to them, daily. What it does do is emphasize the terror that the streets have become because we have allowed them not to be safe. How the law and it’s enforcement is,  and always has been neglectful of the sphere, that in our country, is home to many. Does it deserve to be treated with less fury because it’s an every day reality? No, but the anger, the support, the reform that needs to come after it, has to be extended to those who are not on the official count of these attacks – because there has not just been 25 attacks on the street since the start of the year.

As street kids will tell you; gang rape is just the start for them – prostitution, trafficking and pornography come shortly afterwards. What the revolutionary class are experiencing now is only the initiation of what thousands of children on our streets, boys and girls experience. Imagine that?

The dysfunctional compass of blame is at work. Just as people point a finger of reprimand at the street kids for being on the street and not at home, ignoring all the reasons that have pushed them on it, now the same fingers point at the females getting attacked in Tahrir and elsewhere suggesting it’s their fault for not staying safe at home. Accountability. Once we learn the meaning of this word, perhaps the streets might be a little safer for all.

This is a girl trying her hardest to appear like a boy to stay safer on the street…this article was originally posted in Al Shorouk Newspaper here

girls

أهدي هذا التدوينة إلى الدكتور هاني حمام، شاكرة له أن اراني الجانب الأفضل من الحياة، وتقديرًا لمعاملته لإحدى “فتياتي” من بنات الشوارع، بأمانة ورقة

خلال الساعات الثلاث التى تستغرقها المسافة حتى وصولنا، تخبرنى تغريد عن المرات التى كانت تنظر فيها إلى المرآة، وتتذكر كيفية حدوث هذه الندبة. وبدلا من أن تنفق وقتا طويلا فى الحديث عن هذه الكيفية، تحكى لى بحماس كيف تعامل معها الطبيب بلطف. وكان الدكتور هانى كتب على تويتر يبلغنى انه يريد مساعدة الفتيات اللاتى يعانين من ندبات الاغتصاب، وعرض إجراء هذه العمليات مجانا. ولم أكن فى مصر فى ذلك الوقت؛ وعدت لأجد تغريدا أجرت الجراحة وهى ذاهبة اليوم لفك الغرز. وحكت لى عن نظافة العيادة، وأن الدكتور كان يعاملها كما لو كانت «السيدة تغريد» وعندما سألها عن اسمها، أجابت «اسمى الحقيقى أم اسم الشهرة»؟ وعندما سألها عن اسمها الحقيقى مازحته قائلة «أبو لهب» وضحكت.

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وقد لا يبدو الأمر لافتا لك عزيزى القارئ أن يعامل الطبيب تغريدا باللطف والاحترام. فإذا كان كذلك، دعنى أوضح: أثناء الرحلة، كانت تروى تجربة ولادة طفلها على سبيل المقارنة؛ وتحكى أنها بمجرد دخولها إلى العيادة وهى تتألم، سألوها عن زوجها، وعن الندبة التى على وجهها، ومن الذى سيضمنها. ونظرا لأنه لم يكن معها رجل، استخدمها الأطباء من أجل تعليم صغار الأطباء من دون موافقتها؛ وبمجرد أن فحصها الطبيب، امتدت 20 يدا داخلها. وكانت تروى لى هذه القصة وهى تهز رأسها مع ابتسامة خفيفة، وتقول إنها واثقة من أنه إذا كان الدكتور هانى شاهد كيف تعاملوا معها، لكانوا جميعا فى مشكلة! وحكت لى تغريد أثناء رحلتنا قصصا أخرى، وقالت لى إنها لا ترغب فى تناول الطعام حتى تعود لينا. وتحدثت عن المرة التى أخذت أم لينا ابنتها لمدة أسبوعين، ثم أعادتها إلى الملجأ عارية تعانى من الجديرى المائى، وفى رأسها قمل أكثر من كل القمل الذى شاهدته طوال حياتها. ولاشك أنه من المؤثر أن تستمع إلى تغريد وهى تتحدث بتلك الطريقة. ودهشت لأننى كنت مخطئة عندما شاهدتها للمرة الأولى؛ فقد حكمت عليها بأنها قاسية. ومن المؤلم أن ترى حنوها وهى تحتضن طفلها، وتتحدث بهذا القلق والإحساس بالعجز، عن طفل لأم أخرى. وكانت تقفز من موضوع لآخر: من قصص تعرضها للضرب على أيدى أهلها، إلى تقييدها وضربها فى مؤسسات الأحداث، إلى الحرية فى الشوارع، والأصدقاء الذين نامت معهم بجوار السكك الحديدية، إلى الإخصائيين الاجتماعيين الذين أخذوها إلى مطعم كنتاكى. أما القصتان اللتان تعود إليهما دائما، فعن أصدقائها الذين لا تستطيع العثور عليهم، وعن قلقها من اليوم الذى لاتستطيع فيه الإنفاق على تعليم ابنها!

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كانت تغريد تتوقف عن الحديث أثناء مرور السيارة عبر مدينة السادس من أكتوبر، لتشير إلى المبانى وتتساءل، كيف يتسنى أن يكون هناك العديد من المبانى الخالية، بينما ينام العديد من الناس فى الشوارع. وتقول إنها لم تكن تفكر فى أول رحلة لها إلى هنا، إلا فى العيش فى إحدى تلك الغرف مع ابنها. وكانت تفكر فى أنها تود لو تزرع التفاح، مثل التفاحات الست التى سرقتها ذات يوم من أجل أصدقائها، الذين لم يكونوا قد تناولوا الطعام لثلاثة أيام، وعندما حصلوا على بعض المال، عادوا ليدفعوا الثمن إلى بائع الفاكهة (الذى رفض تناول النقود، وأعطاهم ست تفاحات أخرى لقاء أمانتهم). وقبلت طفلها قائلة له إنه سوف يتعلم، ويكسب مائتى أو ثلاثمائة جنيه شهريا، ولن يجوع أبدا.

ونصل إلى مستشفى الجراحة، لتقودنا تغريد. ونصعد الطوابق الثلاث، وهى تحمل طفلها بيد وفى اليد الأخرى هدية للطبيب شمعة مما تنتجه الفتيات فى ورشتهن تم لفها بشكل خاص من أجل هذه المناسبة. وقوبلنا بحفاوة فى المستشفى كما لو كنا أصدقاء قدامى، وقدمت تغريد هديتها بفخر. وأحسست بدهشة فى حضور الرجل الذى التقيناه فى الداخل مع تواضعه الذى لا يمكن وصفه.

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ودخلت إلى حجرة العمليات، معتقدة أننى يمكن أن أقدم لها دعما. ولكن مرة أخرى، أدهشتنى بمرونتها وقوتها. فلم تجفل مرة واحدة، عندما كان يتم إزالة الغرز، على الرغم من الدم الذى كان ينز من الجرح، والدموع التى تجمعت فى ركنى عينيها. حاولت أن أمسك بيدها، لكنها سحبتها لأنها كانت تعد الغرز. كان التغيير مذهلا فى وجهها؛ فقطعة اللحم التى كانت تتدلى سابقا، تذكرها دائما بصدمتها، وضعفها، وقوتها، وتاريخها، لم تعد موجودة. وعلى الرغم من الصدمة النفسية التى تمثل ندوبا أعمق، لا ترى بالعين والمسئولية فى صورة ابنها، لم يعد التذكير اليومى بالنظر فى المرآه قائما. تركنا العيادة بعبء أخف، وتذكير أقل بحياة ملآى بالتحدى، والعنف والمعارك.

وبينما ندلف إلى السيارة، التفتت تغريد، وطلبت منى أن أحضر الكاميرا معى إلى الملجأ غدا، لأنها الآن لم تعد تخجل من التقاط صور لها مع ابنها.

Girl Trying to Sleep – فتاة تحاول النوم

Girl Trying to Sleep

One of our street girls, in her own words:

“This is a picture of a girl sleeping in the street. The girl is cold and no one feels for her and no one helps her. No one even thinks to give her something to cover her at all. The only reason people look at her is to try and find out if she is a girl or boy. No one in these buildings took notice of her. And when they saw her, they got very scared of her and didn’t notice the man that was around her, putting his hands on her. They didn’t notice that she couldn’t sleep because the man wouldn’t leave her alone.”

واحدة من فتيات الشوارع، بكلماتها الخاصة:

“ده صورة بنت نايمه فى الشارع ساقعانه محدش حاسس بيها ولا بيساعدها ولا حتى بيفكروا يدويها حاجه تستغطى بيها خالص محدش فالح يبص عليها غير عشلت يشوف هى ولد ولا بنت محدش فى العمارات ده بيفكر فيها ولا حتى خد باله منها وبص عليها ولما لاقوها خافوا منها اوى ومخدوش بالهم ان فى راجل عاملى يحوم حولها ويحط ايديه عليها وان هى كل ما تيجى تنام مش عارفه عشان الراجل مش سايبها فى حالها”.

(Thank you to the psychologist Shayma2 for sharing the story.)