Women Are Not Afraid: Feminist Resilience

I’m 11 years old. I start middle school. The first feelings of freedom come with my first trips alone—on public transport, in the streets.

Around me, protective women—from my family, my circle—warn me: in the street, strangers will try to approach me, talk to me, hurt me.

They don’t say exactly what. I imagine they’ll want to take me away, kidnap me. That I’ll have to resist.

I don’t really know who I’m supposed to be afraid of.

I think they meant men. I don’t know which ones, where, or how they might be dangerous to me.

But I take note.

At home, I know. In my family, I know. They scare me. They’re violent.Some threaten to kill me, like the first man in my life: the father.

At school, I know too. Since kindergarten, they’ve been lifting girls’ skirts.In elementary school, I saw them gang up to grab certain girls and put their hands inside their underwear. They did it right in the middle of the schoolyard, in front of everyone.I managed to escape it. But I’m afraid.

I know fear from the inside. I know the fear of those you know, your loved ones. I know what it feels like to be broken on the inside.

But outside, I discover the rules. Still and always, men’s rules. I’m 11, I’m a child. They are men. They approach me in the metro, in the street, when I cross in front of the tobacco shop at Porte de Choisy, in my bus—the 183—that drops me off in front of my building. I see them. I hear them. I tremble. I run. I’m afraid.

And I wrap myself in an invisible coat that will never leave me: hypervigilance. Hypervigilance is a heavy burden to carry, exhausting, but it’s also a precious tool that keeps me from freezing in shock. Thanks to it, I see, I anticipate, I’m ready. I scan every man, every look, every gesture. Always ready to run.Living in fear.

Then I become a teenager.

I go out—not just to school. I taste freedom. Stolen hours, Wednesday afternoons, weekends.

My parents, too busy getting divorced. Me, too busy living. Experimenting. Taming the fear.

Every outing is strategically planned.I pay attention to rumors. To what will be said about me. Who I talk to. Who I walk with. Who I say hello to.I must keep my distance from men. I must look tough, unapproachable. Like a boy.

I think about my outfits, my posture, my stride. I hate my changing body. I don’t understand it all. Inside, it’s a storm. Too much violence.

So I go out. But I don’t control the street yet. And still, I love it. I love walking, laughing loud, being with my friends. I love hanging out at the bottom of our buildings, near that ping-pong table, our headquarters. We secretly smoke cigarettes, talk, laugh, we’re together. Just meters from home, miles away from our family violence.

Together, we’re not afraid. We’re so strong, like warrior sisters.

But the boys chase us away.

They say we don’t belong there. They threaten to tell our parents we’re smoking if we don’t give them our spot. Their spot—for their dealing, their threats. We try to resist, we argue, insult, then we give up the space. Because we, unlike them, have curfews. We have to go home.

Because apparently, bad things can happen to girls at night. They tell us we should be afraid of being out. But we’re more afraid of going home.

EAnd then one day, I’m 17.

The news spreads: a girl our age has been burned alive in a garbage room, in the Balzac housing project.

I see her face on the news. I learn her name: Sohane. And I discover the horror.

She was 17. Like me. Like my friends.

She was going out to meet her friends. Like me, like us.

A man decided she wasn’t allowed to be there. That he had the power of life and death over her.

So every day, I think of her. Of her fear. Of her pain. Of those who loved her free, and now must live without her.

Then one winter day, I’m waiting for the 183 bus in Vitry. I see a group of women. They take up all the space. They speak loudly. They laugh. They’re angry. They’re together.

They’re powerful.

They wear a slogan on their t-shirts: Ni putes ni soumises (trad Neither Whores nor Submissive)

I understand.

And it reminds me of those stories, those legends, of women burning their bras so we could have abortions, so we could have a choice. They called them feminists, I think.

That’s when Women Are Not Afraid was born. In my heart, on that sidewalk in Vitry-sur-Seine, winter 2003.

First inspiration. First breath. First awakening.

With these women who had nothing to envy in Simone de Beauvoir.

And it’s there too, 18 years later, that I will exhibit Women Are Not Afraid—thinking of Sohane Benziane.

To be continued —