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A woman walks into town.
And with each step, her skirt got longer, trousers less fitting, top more baggy. With each step, she did all she could to make it stop.
With each step, wrote her anguish, anger and fear onto the temporary marks her feet left in the ground.
With each step, took the lies seriously.
With each step, wrote her anguish, anger and fear onto the temporary marks her feet left in the ground.
With each step, took the lies seriously.
The first: "be respectable, and be spared."
And heard, with each step, the discomfort and panic of Egyptian women - fully veiled - being groped in the streets outside their homes.
Respectable: and the more they covered, the worse it got.
And heard, with each step, the discomfort and panic of Egyptian women - fully veiled - being groped in the streets outside their homes.
Respectable: and the more they covered, the worse it got.
The second: "they are just idle, unemployed men."
And noted, since everyone seems to forget, the fools making unwelcome advances towards her at the construction site were all at work.
And noted, since everyone seems to forget, the fools making unwelcome advances towards her at the construction site were all at work.
So were the conductors and drivers at the bus. So was her boss: so employed he employed others.
And the men at the building site continued to make it bigger: the town. Continued to make the streets more narrow. Continued to make alleys where foul, unforgivable things happened.
And the men at the building site continued to make it bigger: the town. Continued to make the streets more narrow. Continued to make alleys where foul, unforgivable things happened.
The third: "that& #39;s just how men are."
And knew this to be the biggest lie of them all: this idea that the groping, whistling and catcalling were unfiltered parts of nature.
And knew this to be the biggest lie of them all: this idea that the groping, whistling and catcalling were unfiltered parts of nature.
That they were somehow doing something "right" by stripping her of her dignity. By reducing her to an object they announce things to. By making her think of statistics, and news reports, each time she walks down the same street.
1 in 5, or 10. She counts the other women and girls in the street and panics. There are only four.
Last week there were dozens. Before that: hundreds.
Tomorrow...will she be alone?
Last week there were dozens. Before that: hundreds.
Tomorrow...will she be alone?
Will she be..."it"? The one they decide to enact their machismo upon? Will they get too close? Will they follow her? Will they...will they....
The earth remembers things.
The very minerals we use to make recordings are around us every day. The earth remembers things and sometimes...sometimes it holds onto a memory for one person and "gives" it to someone who might need it.
The very minerals we use to make recordings are around us every day. The earth remembers things and sometimes...sometimes it holds onto a memory for one person and "gives" it to someone who might need it.
The first time she sensed these unbidden memories was during a flash riot. Everything had been relatively calm in the middle of the day, and then there was mayhem.
Guns, feet, clubs, fists. Anyone not in uniform was either choking on teargas or bleeding.
Guns, feet, clubs, fists. Anyone not in uniform was either choking on teargas or bleeding.
Something had told her not to turn around and run, like her instincts had said.
"Step into the side street, hold onto the lamp post, wait."
A voice as clear and stern as her grandmother& #39;s.
"Step into the side street, hold onto the lamp post, wait."
A voice as clear and stern as her grandmother& #39;s.
She& #39;d done as it said, and been spared.
The second time was a list of warnings: not just from one voice. The sleazy boss had kept her in the office too long and the nearest ride home was several streets away.
And, just as luck would have it: the moment she set foot outside her office, the power in the entire city center left too.
And the voices had guided her. Giving her the first REAL map of the city: telling her where NOT to go. Telling her what had happened here, and there.
And the voices had guided her. Giving her the first REAL map of the city: telling her where NOT to go. Telling her what had happened here, and there.
She& #39;s breathing blood by the time she gets home. The blood from memories of all those harmed.
Statistics running through her head all the time. Unable to function, unable to leave her home. She calls in sick, for the first time ever...and is fired on the spot.
Statistics running through her head all the time. Unable to function, unable to leave her home. She calls in sick, for the first time ever...and is fired on the spot.
Rage shakes her. Rage - it seems - shakes EVERYONE on the planet at that very moment. Because the earth has had enough. And so have the voices that made her taste blood.
The earth has decided there will be a reckoning. City by city, town by town, village by village.
The earth has decided there will be a reckoning. City by city, town by town, village by village.
One among them shall be chosen: and the one chosen, is her.
The next day, the same woman walks into town. It& #39;s 32 Degrees Celsius and she& #39;s in a trench coat and thick leather boots.
She& #39;s also walking weird: like the hump on her back grew that very morning and she& #39;s not yet used to it.
She& #39;s also walking weird: like the hump on her back grew that very morning and she& #39;s not yet used to it.
Into town she walks, to the gasps of many a fool wondering just what the hell she has under there.
And this time, she listens to the voices giving her the "map" of safe spots, and sets out purposefully to ignore them.
Walking "towards" danger, until she stops.
And this time, she listens to the voices giving her the "map" of safe spots, and sets out purposefully to ignore them.
Walking "towards" danger, until she stops.
He& #39;s standing behind her: the man who tries to strip the coat off her back. She slaps him. Six more appear.
They surround her, menacing, and don& #39;t notice both nozzles that shoot out of her sleeves.
They surround her, menacing, and don& #39;t notice both nozzles that shoot out of her sleeves.
Don& #39;t notice the lava-like swirls of "Hasira" emanating from every wronged woman or girl, collecting into the backpack she& #39;s slung over the trench coat, showing the hump.
Don& #39;t notice the flames - propelled and energized - by the "Hasira" until the first among them screams.
Don& #39;t notice the flames - propelled and energized - by the "Hasira" until the first among them screams.
The flame shoots like a tidal wave and incinerates the men. And then bounces off into tiny balls, hovering in the air, waiting for the voices to tell them what to do next.
"That one over there touched my daughter."
"That one exposes himself for fun."
"That one, that one!"
"That one over there touched my daughter."
"That one exposes himself for fun."
"That one, that one!"
The earth gets her reckoning: a tiny dose of it, anyway.
Because if the solution was to burn every last one of them, and the places their crimes were committed...there& #39;d be nothing left.
The "Hasira", in its streams, returns slightly cooled down to the billions who sent it.
Because if the solution was to burn every last one of them, and the places their crimes were committed...there& #39;d be nothing left.
The "Hasira", in its streams, returns slightly cooled down to the billions who sent it.
And Nare, in her newfound role as "Griller of the Psspsspss", goes to sleep until "Hasira" calls her out again.
[The end.]
