I’ve ridden the subway in New York with my parents, so I have no trouble with the idea of taking public transportation, but I am a little nervous about being packed in a train with a bunch of Egyptian men, a fear I share out loud.
“So the first two cars on the metro are only for women,” he says as the elevator descends. “I will not allow anyone to harass you, but you may feel more comfortable riding in the women’s car.”
“Where are we going?”
“Tahrir Square,” he says. “It is the place where the Egyptian revolution overthrew the government. In the time since, graffiti artists have made artwork on some of the buildings that is very good and I thought perhaps you might like to see it.”
Sometimes, when we were bored, Owen and I drove out Old Railroad to the Miller Road viaduct, where decades of graffiti was layered on the abutment. Hearts. Stars. Words of insult. Words of love. And a lot of overlapping school colors. I took a picture every time we went and every picture was different from the last.
“Yeah, definitely.”
“The thing you must know . . . do you remember last night how your mother said Americans cannot follow all the players in the political game?”
“Yes.”
“Ever since the revolution, our government has changed, but the game has not,” he says. “Wages have improved, but not enough that we do not struggle. We hoped our country would follow in the footsteps of Tunisia toward a more democratic government, but that has not happened.”
We pause at an intersection for the traffic to pass, then dash across in a gap. A truck driver blares his horn at us.
“The criticism that began a revolution has become unwelcome,” Adam continues. “Homes are raided and Egyptians have been detained by the police—some for years—accused of supporting the opposition. So what I am telling you is that while we are in the square, we must be careful of what we say.”
“Is this—” I lower my voice. “Is this going to be dangerous?”
“I do not think so,” he says. “People will know you are a foreigner by your hair, but we will attract attention by being together in public and using English. Speaking too loudly about the revolution might raise suspicion.”
“So why go?”
“Cairo is my home and now it is yours,” he says. “Should we not be free to go wherever we want?”
There isn’t much comfort in the idea that we simply have a right to visit Tahrir Square, especially not if there’s a chance Adam might be arrested. I don’t want to be responsible for that. And I’m kind of scared. “Maybe—um, maybe we should go somewhere else.”
“I would like you to see this.”
Swallowing my hesitation, I nod. “Okay.”
Crossing the El-Rawda bridge on foot is no different from walking through the airport, shopping at al-Gomaa, or trying to go to McDonald’s—almost every man who passes feels the need to lay eyes on me. Some glance. Some blatantly stare. One runs a slow tongue across his lower lip. Having Adam with me makes me feel a little less helpless, but I can’t imagine being an Egyptian woman trying to live a normal life. Do they get up in the morning and plan routes with the least amount of men? Do they wish themselves invisible? Because right now I wish I had that superpower.
Fifteen minutes later we reach the metro station.
As Adam teaches me how to buy a ticket from the automated kiosk, a man comes up and says something to him in a sly voice. Adam keeps his eyes trained on the machine as he responds, but his tone is cold and hard. The other man laughs and offers a parting shot before he melts into the crowd.
“What did he say?”
“Telling you will only make you angry.”
“Then I definitely need to know.”
Adam sighs and for a moment I fear he’s not going to tell me. His face colors when he says, “He called you my American whore. I told him . . . well, I told him what he could do to himself. And that is when he laughed and said I should save it for you.”
“You were right.” My hands tighten into fists and I want to charge into the station, find that guy, and punch him in the face. “And for a place that’s supposed to be so conservative about sex and dating, these guys sure think about it a whole lot. Meanwhile, the foreign whore hasn’t actually ever had sex.”
“You should perhaps lower your voice.”
“Why? Everyone else in Cairo seems perfectly comfortable talking about my sexual experience,” I say. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“It is just that—”
“No, I get it, Adam.” I shove my ticket into the turnstile and snatch it out from the other side. “Be quiet. Be invisible unless some man wants to look at you.”
“I was not going to say that,” he protests. “I was just going to say that with time it will not bother you so much.”
“Are you kidding me?” I say, whirling to face him. He winces, as if he’s embarrassed to be having this conversation in public, which only fuels my anger. “Do you think your sister has actually gotten used to boys whispering obscene things in her ear? Or that I will ever be able to ignore someone calling me a whore? No woman should have to get over it.”
His shoulders sag. “You are right.”
The thing is, I don’t know if he’s agreeing because he actually believes it or if he just wants me to stop talking about this on a subway platform thick with people who might overhear—until he reaches out and takes my hand, deliberately touching me for the first time. Adam’s palm is warm and a little rough as he guides me to a spot where a large clump of women wait for the train.
“This is where the women’s cars will be when the train arrives,” he says. “The third stop will be Sadat. Exit there and I will find you. Okay?”
“Sadat.” I repeat the name of the stop, even though I don’t want to get on the train without him, don’t want to let go. A hot wind rushes down the platform, announcing the oncoming train. Adam gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, then disappears into the crowd. A middle-aged lady beside me clicks her tongue in disapproval, but an ancient, tiny woman—her brown face carved deep with wrinkles and her uncovered hair the color of a thundercloud—tucks her hand beneath my arm. The train doors slide open and she ushers me into the subway car.
She sits, but I grab hold of the overhead handrail, letting the older ladies—even the tongue clicker—and young mothers have the available seats. The old woman takes a worn copy of the Quran from her bag and reads as the car sways along the track. The air is warm and thick, perfume-sweet and sweaty, and it gets harder to breathe the more crowded the car becomes.
One stop.
Some of the women watch me with curious eyes. Even though my clothes are pretty conservative, my hair is an attention magnet. I consider buying myself a scarf to make me less conspicuous, but my hair is part of who I am and my skin is still white. So I don’t know if that’s the answer at all.
Two stops.