Check your feminism at the door

A couple months ago I was having a conversation with two of Kyle’s friends from undergraduate about sexual harassment in India. Amidst all of the coverage of sexual assault in the international media, we were discussing whether or not claims of women being afraid to travel around India, unaccompanied or not, were warranted. We recounted various experiences that we had had, some of us having much more experience in country than others, and came to a few conclusions. One, culturally speaking, ideas of personal space vary. In the states, staring is mostly considered rude and makes people feel uncomfortable, especially if it is sexually motivated; whereas in India, particularly in urban areas, staring (by men) is commonplace. Two, being an outsider, however one chooses to define that, makes you susceptible to unwarranted attention. The more time you spend in a community, the more your novelty wears off and your presence is replaced with normalcy or accepted oddity. However, this is only the case for those who have regular routines, meaning they are likely to be exposed to the same people, multiple times, instead of a constant flux of strangers.

“Okay,” I agreed, tentatively, but I had to draw the line at blatant sexual harassment--heckling, staring at breasts/buttock/other sexual organs (regardless of how exposed or unexposed they are), and of course, unwanted groping. Each of us had experienced some form of sexual harassment on more than one occasion/location while traveling in India. I drew comparisons to my time spent in rural and urban areas in East Africa, and I expressed that I never felt as sexually threatened than when I was traveling in India (again, especially in urban areas). My overall conclusion was that if a woman was afraid of being sexually harassed or sexually assaulted while traveling around India her claim was justified; not recognizing these claims, blames the individual who feels fear.

I only bring up this conversation, because when I arrived to Sierra Leone, I assumed that my experience in Freetown would be akin to my experience in East Africa more so than India, but I was wrong. Of course, since you all know me, you know that this assumption was not rooted in the idea that East Africa and West Africa are the same, but rather that the difference of differences between the three places would make East and West Africa more similar to one another than India. On my first night in Freetown, I went out with a couple of people I had met on the speedboat from the airport to the mainland. While walking around, young men were hissing and smooching at Fay and I. She asked me if I thought that was sexual harassment. I responded quickly, “No.” My response shocked me.

I moved into the heart of Freetown the next day, because I figured it would be easier to find an apartment in a busier area. The area where the hotel was located was along the beach, a somewhat quiet and deserted area, except for tourists. Once in town, the hissing, smooching, and shouting only intensified. A man who was staying at my guesthouse, for example, approached me with general small talk. After confessing to him that I needed to go to find something to eat because I was ravenous, he offered to show me a place that had “good African eats.” I accepted, and I was grateful for his kindness. At dinner we made more small talk, and before leaving the restaurant he asked if I would marry him. Not shocked by the question, I told him I was already married (standard response), and that he was out of luck. On the one-block walk back to the guesthouse, he proceeded to inform me that it would be okay for me “to take an African husband” as well. I insisted that my husband would not allow it, and denied to give him my room number. I found myself in a familiar, uncomfortable place. I recalled my stay in Uganda when a colleague of mine made similar and multiple aggressive advances at me, claiming that I needed an African boyfriend, in addition to my American boyfriend.

I tried to forget about the encounter, but was reminded each time I met a young man on the street. The encounter would typically begin with, “Hey sexy! White lady!” Any recognition of the comment, in an expression of distaste or making eye contact, would result in asking for my number and a marriage proposal. I was told Sierra Leoneans were friendly, but wow, I didn’t expect this. After leaving the archives, I decided to walk down the hill where Fourah Bay College is located so I could take some photos, because the view of the city is absolutely spectacular. In the course of twenty minutes, I caught two young men making a video of me walking, as if to suggest I was walking towards them, wanting them, and also had another young man ask me for my phone number repeatedly. Each time he asked, I responded, “No, I only want female friends.” or “No, my husband does not like me to have male friends.” After ten minutes of pestering, I finally stopped in the street and told him that only one of us was walking and the other one staying. I think he finally understood, “No, I do not want to give you my number.” Mind you, these are only a handful of comparable experiences that I have had in the last couple weeks, and if I had given them my number (which, unfortunately, I did in a couple of cases), I could expect dozens of daily calls and texts.

I decided that I had two choices: become a sexual harassment apologist, or completely desensitize myself. If I chose the former, I would basically be saying that there is a misunderstanding between the young men’s intentions and my perceptions. I would be saying, “No, it is not sexual harassment,” like I did my first night out. If I chose the latter, I would be accepting the fact that there would be continuous sexual harassment and the only way to deter it would be to not acknowledge any men I saw on the street, and when this failed, to retreat to a defensive post that relies on ideas of marriage and spousal protection. Responding no, without explaining that I am married and that my husband does not want me to talk to men, would not be sufficient enough.

Either way, I have to check my feminism at the door ...