Living a stereotype

Before I came to Egypt, I never understood what it’s like to be stereotyped based on your skin color.

I knew such profiling existed. We all know that.

But it’s different to know it rather than live it.

After having lived it for only two months, I cannot fathom what it’s like to live it every day.

I do know that after only two months, I snapped to the point of slapping someone.
I’m a white female. I’m short. I have brown hair.

In America, I blend.

Here, in Egypt, my skin tone and facial features make me a walking target.
 
Bear in mind that I’m talking about generalities. The feelings vary from Egyptian to Egyptian, but, in general, the standard Egyptian man sees American women as three things.

Hot, easy and always ready to go.

Because we look different, the harassment we endure is worse than that of an Egyptian woman on an average day.

In Alexandria, a father harassed my friend and I in front of his own children, who laughed when he did so.

Alexandria was bad, but it was in Cairo that I slapped someone.

When I was trying to hail a taxi one evening, a group of boys swarmed me. They all started trying to touch my skin and ask my name.

I ignored them, but, at one point, one of the guys grabbed me and tried to force me to kiss him.

I didn’t even think about it. I just reached up and slapped him.

In hindsight, that was not the best choice. But it worked at the time, and they
scattered.

Street harassment is an issue for all women here. But for Western women, stereotypes in place convince some men we are willing to have sex with whomever,
wherever.

That’s something no one should assume under any circumstances in any culture. It absolutely disgusts me.

The stereotyping extends beyond sexual harassment in less dire ways.

People also assume that because we’re Western, we speak no Arabic.

Egyptians will openly talk about us in Arabic while we’re there.
The looks on their faces are priceless when we respond in Arabic.

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to not be stared at.

When I went to Greece for the holiday, one of the most disconcerting aspects was how people didn’t notice me, didn’t take pictures or make comments.

It was disconcerting in a good way. I hadn’t noticed until then how accustomed I’ve become to being the outlier. We all have.

As I said, I’ve only lived it for two months. I keep imagining growing up like this or having to constantly combat peoples’ preconceived notions of who you are and where you come from based on the one thing you can’t help: your genetics.

I can barely begin to imagine, because at the end of the day, I do get to go home and blend in.

But I know I’ll never forget what that profiling feels like.