Almost Hanged

I am 19 years old and on the trip of a lifetime to Tunisia. I know nothing about it before departure. I have signed up for this Spring Break excursion with my study abroad program in Spain. If I have been break dancer on a stage of ballerinas as an American in Spain, I am now about to break dance my way onto a stage of soldiers.

First stop: Tunis. There are a sea of colorful spices in large baskets everywhere I turn, each smelling like some sort of unfamiliar curry. There is bargaining in a language foreign to my ears, but with exchanges so predictable I can almost imagine what they say. There are men at the surrounding cafes smoking mint and apple hookahs and sipping mint tea. There are about the same number of llamas on the streets as their are mosques among the clay buildings.

I am in a suuq- a massive Tunisian street market filled with what appears to be magic lanterns and magic carpets. “Two llamas for the lady!” shouts a Tunisian vendor at the market to my male friend walking beside me. “Karl,” I say, “Don’t you dare take any less than three for me,” I joke. The offers increase and the vendors get more serious. I am a young blonde girl wearing shorts and a tank top in a bustling Tunisian market where Muslim men surround me shoulder to shoulder staring at me from all directions. It is all men. Hundreds of locals here and not a single woman to be found. We later learn that the women are not permitted in public, but stay in their small clay homes grinding grain and taking care of children, covered in hijabs- headscarfs, with only their eyes peering out.

I am cursing my tour guide in my head that he has not warned us of this or even encouraged us girls to dress modestly on this scalding hot desert day when I see the hands of two men reach down the white pants of a female classmate in front of me. Her reaction? Nothing! I feel my blood boiling now, beyond even the heat of the day. Three minutes later, a man grabs her breast, to which she also does absolutely nothing. Perhaps she was afraid as we were in their land under their Muslim rules. Perhaps she was smart. Perhaps she was in “freeze” mode like a deer in headlights.

My mamilliian brain however fires a different signal to the amygdala when it happens to me. I am generally a prarie dog, bopping into my hole when danger approaches. But as it turns out, my prarie dog is a shape-shifter. I can become a tiger. When a local man at the market grabs my rear, a volcano of rage erupts inside me. I spin around in a half second and begin pounding the first man I see with the bottle in my hand. I am yelling profanities at him in English and can only hear my friend from Boston’s encouragement, “Tell him, Heatha! Get em! Don’t put up wit dat!” So I continue the battering. Bam! This hit is for myself and the autonomy I, and only I, have over my body. Whack! This is for Melissa, my classmate in front of me who did not react out of fear or shame or conditioned lack of self respect. Pow! All of this is for the suffering women who have few rights or self autonomy and are powerless to react. And so it continued. It may have lasted three minutes or thirteen. I was so caught in the moment, I do not remember.

And then it hits me. There are literally hundreds of dark, still, shocked Muslim male faces staring back at me within reach like a bunch of sardines packed in this saffron curried spiced market. I feel as if they are in a freeze frame and I am watching myself pound this man with my empty soda bottle, thanking God it is only plastic as they are also watching me. It occurs to me, I can’t even be sure who the perpetrator was; this man may have no idea whatsoever why he is my punching bag. It also occurs to me, with a jolt of terror that they probably hang women for this sort of assault.

In fact, I think I have heard that women are blamed for sexual assault here. I am in their country, not mine. And when in Rome.....

So I flee the scene in complete indignation and watch over my shoulder every minute to make sure soldiers or policemen are not in my tail. I catch my breath as I replay the event and thank God I do not up in jail. Did this really just happen? Will I make it home alive? In a place where I already screamed, “foreigner!,” I waved a big bold flag to the masses that read, “Crazy foreigner!”

I have much to reflect on now. Perhaps I should have kept my head down and continued walking out of respect. Their norms and laws are different than those I am used to and perhaps allow for this type of behavior. After all, I have always been a rule follower and never wanted to offend. No. The wild tiger inside knows that this was a deep violation of the right to self autonomy, no matter where on Earth I am wandering. So breakdance I will. To my own music. With my own beat that sounds a lot like the song of freedom.