Secret aid worker.
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The continual stares expressing disdain, meat, and entitlement wear me down.
It is relentless.
Women are taught that we cause and invite revolting and socially accepted harassment.
The blatant shamelessness of the leering, catcalling, feral cat noises, creepy guttural sounds, following, curb-crawling in rickshaws or cars, groping and general vileness horrifies me.
Men and boys from all facets of society practice this loathsome national sport. Not all men do this: most will pass by with a curious glance. But enough do it for this to occur over and over during a day.
The man in the lift today: staring, staring, staring, up and down.
The teenager who turns around on the escalator to leer and stare at my shrouded chest for the entire ride. Angrily I make eye contact. He continues to ogle. My anger, my violation, means nothing to him.
The man on the street who pulls his lungi up when he sees me, and masturbates. Vigorously.
Why should I feel pathetically grateful when the occasional stranger steps in to shield me from the horror of being a woman in Bangladesh? Why should I have to ask a male friend to wait with me for the car? Why do I need to wear these clothes, wrapped up in the heat? Read More … [/su_column] [/su_row]