I weaved
nervously through the dusty streets of Cairo.
I was an American university student, traveling to study abroad in India
for the summer. My two hour layover
evolved into a two day layover as the city was fraught with dust storms. Left with nothing to do for two days, I
decided to venture out of my stuffy motel and wander the bustling streets of
Cairo. Wandering eyes and aggressive men
catcalling quickly reminded me that Cairo was not nearly as safe as the streets
of suburban Michigan that I was used to navigating.
I stopped in my tracks when I heard
American voices nearby. I saw two women,
completely cloaked in niqabs, whispering in English. I felt an instant sense of relief in the
familiarity of their voices. I struck up
a conversation. One of them was a yoga
instructor from California and the other was a journalist visiting for a
month. What I was most curious about was
why they were wearing niqabs. They soon
revealed that they felt more comfortable, more anonymous cloaked in the
niqabs. Although the niqabs did not
prevent catcalling and groping, they did prevent the women from being visible
foreigners. I wanted one. I wanted to experience that anonymity, that
security that comes with the ability to not be immediately pegged as a
foreigner, a confused and vulnerable American woman. Tori, the yoga instructor, directed me to the
store where they purchased theirs.
Within fifteen minutes, I was
cloaked in the niqab, weaving through Cairo’s outdoor market silently, calmly,
empowered by my new anonymity.
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